French Quarter Kisses
Zuri Day
Can this celebrity chef keep his past hidden?Not with a beautiful society reporter uncovering his secret desires!Pierre LeBlanc is a triple threat: celebrated chef, food-network star and owner of the Big Easy’s hottest restaurant. Journalist Rosalyn Arnaud sees only a spoiled playboy not worthy of front-page news. Their sizzling attraction tells another story. But when she uncovers his secret, their love affair could end in shattering betrayal…
Can this celebrity chef keep his past hidden?
Not with a beautiful society reporter uncovering his secret desires!
Pierre LeBlanc is a triple threat: celebrated chef, food-network star and owner of the Big Easy’s hottest restaurant. Journalist Rosalyn Arnaud sees only a spoiled playboy not worthy of front-page news. Their sizzling attraction tells another story. But when she uncovers his secret, their love affair could end in shattering betrayal...
ZURI DAY is the national bestselling author of almost two dozen novels, including the popular Drakes of California series. Her books have earned her a coveted Publishers Weekly starred review and a Top Ten Pick out of all the romances featured in Publishers Weekly Spring 2014. Day is a winner of the Romance Slam Jam Emma Award and the AALAS (African American Literary Award Show) best romance award, among others, and was a finalist for multiple RT Book Reviews Best Book Awards in Multicultural Fiction. Book six in the Drakes of California series, Crystal Caress, was voted Book of the Year and garnered her yet another Emma Award in 2016. Her work has been featured in several national publications, including RT Book Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Sheen, Juicy and USA TODAY. Find out more at zuriday.com (http://www.zuriday.com).
Also By Zuri Day (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
Champagne Kisses
Platinum Promises
Solid Gold Seduction
Secret Silver Nights
Crystal Caress
Silken Embrace
Sapphire Attraction
Lavish Loving
Decadent Desire
French Quarter Kisses
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
French Quarter Kisses
Zuri Day
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08486-4
FRENCH QUARTER KISSES
© 2018 Zuri Day
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Roz found herself studying his face, his profile.
His hair wasn’t all black, she discovered, but was more a deep brown with errant gold highlights here and there. Was that natural? She thought so, and felt the same about the perfectly arched brows above those gorgeous hazel eyes, now hidden by lids sporting ridiculously long eyelashes that curled at the ends. His nose, thin and aquiline, was perfectly proportioned. For the first time, she noticed the merest hint of a mustache and a tiny mole just above and to the right side of pinkish-tan tinted lips.
You are one fine brother.
Pierre opened his eyes. Suddenly, unexpected. Roz was busted.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s what we journalists do, always examining, looking, probing...”
Pierre eased off the wall and took a step toward Roz. Then another. Roz’s heartbeat increased as she watched his gaze take in her face, then move lower to her lips as he licked his own.
He stopped in front of her, separated by inches.
“What are you doing?”
“Examining, searching.” He leaned forward, brushed his lips across hers. “Probing...”
Dear Reader (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d),
In 2014, there were back-to-back romance conferences in New Orleans—the perfect excuse to spend almost two weeks in one of the world’s liveliest cities. Most activities happened in the fun, famous French Quarter. But what I found even more interesting, and disturbing, was the city that lay outside of those seventy-five square blocks.
Five minutes from the state’s biggest tourist attraction and I was quickly reminded of 2005’s Hurricane Katrina, the fifth deadliest in our country’s history. Ten minutes away and blocks looked much as they did days after the storm. The cameras are gone. The
world has forgotten. But many natives, like this book’s Pierre LeBlanc, cannot forget because they are still recovering from what happened when the levees broke. Trying to repair their lives. Homes. Hearts. That’s where love, and heroine Rosalyn, enter the story. Love can rebuild it all.
Have a zuriday.com (http://www.zuriday.com)!
Zuri Day
If you have faced storms and survived.
Came back stronger and better and thrived.
It was life’s catalyst, like a lover’s first kiss,
That helped you move past fear and fly!
Acknowledgments (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
A huge thank-you to my fans, the beautiful Daydreamers, who read and support my work. I appreciate you!
Contents
Cover (#u0a233145-fa53-5e31-b294-04c94d34ed43)
Back Cover Text (#ua0f22fd3-bcb5-5bb1-8b7d-a69c9b8272b0)
About the Author (#u4c80b4f1-b1fd-5bae-b1d4-2cb757676408)
Booklist (#ue62e5a1a-0d5b-536b-be85-8d08a81cb2f3)
Title Page (#u567f97cf-3d05-5768-aed8-367afd5d47dd)
Copyright (#u7d0c3d94-036f-5b7c-afbc-1ef2b1bafcf3)
Introduction (#uc808b945-7938-5de3-b17c-9464d1d54c87)
Dear Reader (#u7a284cd7-2f14-5d59-8794-f6a710806131)
Dedication (#u5739c12f-8735-5c72-8586-dafcb3ec1d61)
Acknowledgments (#uc34981ef-fe4d-5b5b-9464-b55ee12ec3f8)
Chapter 1 (#u1e99c2d9-3cfd-5e23-87fc-291933a32099)
Chapter 2 (#u6ab37ee8-5911-5d3c-8b66-72bec007311d)
Chapter 3 (#ua12ad920-aa9e-58b4-b4dc-98b8313f1c59)
Chapter 4 (#ufb6d9bee-8b38-50d6-af20-92ad742b2047)
Chapter 5 (#u59239fc4-aed1-55de-948d-a4cc31bd3023)
Chapter 6 (#u136451cb-f7c9-52c3-8c4c-c6c4db4cc564)
Chapter 7 (#ue0efa448-f80c-54e0-a4d6-ed13b65acf31)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
Few knew this, but on August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina swept Pierre LeBlanc away from New Orleans on a wave of destruction and despair. Today, more than a decade later, the entire city and, via television sometime later, the entire country, would witness his hometown return amid a flood of bayou-styled fanfare, good wishes and well-deserved praise. It was the Fourth of July weekend, but the festivities felt more like February’s Mardi Gras. Drinks steadily flowed. Good times rolled. After experiencing unprecedented success at a Houston-based restaurant called New Orleans, Pierre had finally followed his mentor’s advice and opened up his own space. With its innovative take on traditional cuisine, his restaurant, Easy Creole Cuisine, was poised to become the new jewel in the crown of New Orleans’s famed French Quarter district. Along with being a new restaurant owner, the onetime shy, almost invisible outcast was now an internationally recognized Chow Channel star and a popular energy drink spokesperson who at the moment was seated on the back of a Rolls-Royce convertible offering slow, easy waves to the throngs of zealous fans welcoming him home.
“Pierre! Over here!”
“Hey, Easy!”
The nickname was one of only a few items that had followed him to Houston. The hometown crowd instantly matched Pierre’s laid-back demeanor with the word that appeared on his restaurant’s marquee.
“Glad you’re back, Easy!”
“Welcome home, Pierre!”
Pierre nodded, waved and offered up his megawatt smile to the fans and photographers shouting his name. Designer shades covered deep hazel eyes, hiding the merest hint of a longtime hurt that never quite went away. Eyes continually surveying, searching, slightly saddened... His sister, Lisette, would meet him at the restaurant. She’d be the only family member on hand to celebrate the big occasion. The other woman who was once in his life, the one that for years he’d searched for online and in the faces of every crowd, had been achingly absent during more than a decade of his life experiences and achieved milestones. His mother, Alana. The woman who’d put her fifteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter on a bus bound for Houston, Texas, promised to meet them there in a week, and disappeared.
The two-car caravan, followed by a small but energetic brass band, reached the restaurant. It was a totally renovated and hugely transformed building originally erected in 1879. The word Easy was scrawled across the side and continued upward into the sky in big cursive letters that would light up at night, with the rest of the name, Creole Cuisine, in block letters beneath. That sign and the group of people standing beneath it brought out Pierre’s first genuine smile all morning. Hard to believe that the dream he’d held since becoming a line cook and peeling more shrimp than he thought the ocean could hold had finally come true. And that the people who mattered most, well, almost all of them, were here to cheer him on.
Pierre swung a pair of long, lean legs over the side of the car, slid down and waded through a sea of people to hug Lisette, his mentor, Marc Fisher, his second mom, Miss Pat, his network publicist and his newly-hired manager, who’d flown down from New York. Then he walked over to greet the mayor and other city officials standing near the front entrance, just beyond the red ribbon and large bow stretched and waiting to be cut, a symbolic gesture signaling the official opening of Pierre’s dream.
“This is a happy day for our city,” the mayor said, each word from his booming voice absorbed by the attentive, enamored crowd. “Pierre could have chosen any major city in the country to open his restaurant. We are happy and proud that he has chosen the Big Easy to open Easy Creole Cuisine.”
With elaborate fanfare, the mayor was handed a framed proclamation that he read aloud. For the last line, he turned and spoke to Pierre directly. “By the powers vested in me as mayor of New Orleans, I declare this day to be Pierre ‘Easy’ LeBlanc Day in the city of New Orleans!”
The crowd cheered and began to chant. “Easy! Easy!” And then, “Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Pierre strolled to the microphone and held up his hand to silence the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Thanks to all of the city officials and other public servants who have come out today to lend me your support. I really appreciate it.”
Some city officials nodded. Others clapped. The mayor bowed as if to say it was his pleasure as Pierre turned to the crowd.
“And you, the beautiful people of New Orleans! I...” His words were drowned out by the cheering crowd. Pierre waited, then motioned awkwardly for them to calm back down. “This is really incredible. Even though some consider me a celebrity because I’m on the Chow Channel and a product spokesperson for Intensity Energy drinks, I’m still pretty much a regular guy, not much for the spotlight. I usually let my food do the talking, if you know what I’m saying.”
Pierre chuckled, a shy, almost self-depreciating sound that came off as especially sexy to the mostly female crowd. They hung on his every word. Smiled when he smiled. Joined him in laughter. If he were the band leader, they were his orchestra. If he were the quarterback, they were his team. Clearly, he had those around him in the palm of his hand. Several people noticed and weren’t surprised. Marc, for instance. His sister, Lisette. Miss Pat. Groupies familiar with his television charisma, who’d helped launch him to superstardom, were even more impressed with his in-person charm. And one woman, a television reporter, seemed prepared to do anything to get the story...and the man.
“I guess the only thing left for me to say is thank you,” Pierre finished, his voice soft and sincere. “The next time you’re hungry, come on over and get something to eat.”
Amid the laughter and applause, Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, a smart, capable young woman working in one of New York’s top-notch firms, stepped forward. “We have time for a few questions.”
Several reporters asked relevant questions, eliciting sometimes serious, sometimes entertaining answers.
“Eating good food has always been one of my favorite pastimes. But working in a restaurant, New Orleans in Houston, was the first time I considered cooking as a career.
“My inspiration? Definitely my mentor, Marc Fisher, the executive chef at New Orleans. A culinary school and drill sergeant rolled into one. He took me under his wing and encouraged, motivated and threatened my ass into being the best possible chef I could be.
“Other than a chef? I grew up wanting to be an athlete, basketball. And a superhero, when I was five.”
The crowd loved listening to Pierre speak from the heart. Clearly, they could have stayed there all day. Just as Cathy walked over to end the questions, a vivacious redhead emerged out of the crowd with microphone in hand.
“Tell me, Pierre,” she drawled with an accent that was part Southern and part seduction. “Is there anything on the menu that is as tasty looking as you?”
“A perfect segue into what’s next,” Cathy glibly countered, as the crowd reacted, letting Pierre off the hook. “Mayor, if you’ll do the honors.”
The mayor cut the ribbon. Shortly afterward, eighty lucky diners and eighteen VIP guests sauntered into Easy to put the redhead’s unanswered question to the test.
* * *
“Oh my God, could she be any more blatant and unprofessional?”
“You act surprised.” Rosalyn “Roz” Arnaud didn’t look away from her computer screen as she answered Ginny, her coworker at NO Beat, a small yet notable New Orleans weekly newspaper.
“Not really. The whole town knows that girl loves men and money.”
“That girl” was Roz’s former colleague and nemesis, a woman named Brooke who’d worked for years at the city’s biggest newspaper. She covered everything from entertainment to sports and considered herself the company’s “it” girl. When Roz landed a job there fresh out of college, quickly impressing the higher-ups with her knack for putting an interesting spin on ordinary stories, Brooke had viewed her as competition and tried to make her life there a living hell.
A year into the madness an article Roz had written caught the eye of a guy starting a weekly publication with a focus on local news. He’d offered her a job as senior writer, and the freedom to cover topics she felt passionate about. Roz quit the more established, popular paper, took a salary cut and attached her star to the start-up. A year and a few awards later, NO Beat had a small but dedicated staff, national recognition, major advertisers and a solid core of dedicated readers. Turned out Brooke did Roz a favor. Working at NO Beat was the best professional decision she could have made.
“Look at him, though,” Ginny said dreamily, chin in hand as she gazed at the television. “That bod, those eyes.”
Roz gave the screen a cursory glance. Pierre stood at the entrance to his new restaurant, looking the way he had the first time she saw him on an energy drink commercial. Six feet plus of raw sexuality, muscles rippling beneath a tight white shirt as he wrestled a steak off a fiery grill, then reached for a bottle of Intense Energy to refresh him. She remembered being annoyed at how good he looked, and that her body had reacted as though she was a love-starved teen. Truth of the matter was she could use a round of horizontal aerobics, but why tempt fate? It had taken almost a year to get over Delano, her last heartbreak. Today she was in a really good space. She had a job that she loved, covering topics that mattered, a restored twentieth century bungalow, and a terrier named Banner who every day welcomed her home more enthusiastically than any lover ever could. The last thing Roz needed was a pretty boy problem. Especially one that would cause a ten-year journalism vet who knew better to make a comment that bordered on harassment, and reduce sensible women like her coworker Ginny to fantastical would-be nymphs.
“Don’t you binge watch him on the Chow Channel?”
Ginny nodded.
“Then why are you acting like you’re seeing him for the first time?”
“This is different. He isn’t at a television studio in New York. He’s here, in our city. Almost close enough for me to touch. Which I would if there was any chance that I could snag a reservation.”
“I read where there’s a huge waiting list, so good luck with that.”
“Yeah, I saw it posted on their website. But there’s got to be a way to not have to wait three months for a table.”
“Probably, if you have the right connections.”
Roz turned back to her computer and the internet research she’d conducted for a month-long series, “Hurricane Katrina Survivors: Where Are They Now?” Solid, serious journalism about a local catastrophe from which even now, more than a dozen years later, the city was still recovering. Amid recent devastating hurricanes like Sandy, Maria and Harvey, Katrina remained the deadliest and costliest one in America’s history.
“Do you think Brooke got one?”
“Of course.”
“If I know her MO, they’ll be dating within the month.”
“At least in her mind. Everyone watching TV knows she wants to taste him.” Roz delivered the line in Brooke’s signature drawl, causing Ginny to break out laughing.
“Can’t say I blame her. He could cook for me anytime. And not just in the kitchen. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“Who?”
“Mickey Mouse, Roz. Who do you think?”
Again Roz glanced at the mounted TV screen as a handsome, smiling Pierre accepted a key to the city before walking into his restaurant with a sold-out crowd of hungry-looking patrons in tow.
“He’s very handsome, I’ll give him that. Probably has several girlfriends.”
Ginny’s look turned wistful as she rested her chin in her palm. “I’d love to be one of them.”
“Along with...her?”
“Who?”
Both women turned around as their editor-in-chief entered the room. A visionary with a Mohawk haircut and a penchant for tattoos, Andy O’Connor had relocated to the Big Easy ten years prior, but his East Coast accent wasn’t the only reminder of his New York birthplace. He preferred chowder to gumbo, soft rock to cool jazz, and when cut, his blood ran Yankee blue. Everyone adored him.
“Who?” he asked again, reaching for a chip from Roz’s bag and munching loudly.
Roz gave him a look. “Help yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” It was said with a wink as he grabbed a handful.
“We’re talking about Brooke Evans making an unprofessional public pass at Pierre LeBlanc,” Ginny said. “I think he should be a feature next week.”
“Should have been this week,” Andy replied. “Next week the restaurant opening will be old news.”
“True, but he won’t.”
“Can’t argue with that, Gin.” Andy swiveled a chair around and straddled it, facing its back. “What would be your angle?”
She shrugged. “The restaurant. His menu. How it feels to be a celebrity chef.”
Andy turned to Roz. “What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“What kinds of questions would you ask the city’s hometown golden boy?”
“So he’s from New Orleans, or just lived here before?”
“Born here,” Ginny said confidently. “I checked.”
“I’m sure you’ve Googled him from here to heaven,” Andy said to Ginny with a laugh.
“Absolutely. There’s a ton of stuff online about his professional life. But very little personal information.”
Roz picked up a pen and idly tapped it against the desk. “Since he’s from here, I’d ask why he moved to Houston to learn about New Orleans cuisine. And since I’m preparing the series for next month’s anniversary, I’d ask him about Katrina. How it affected him and his family. If that was the reason he moved to Houston. How does the New Orleans he returned to compare to the town he left? There’ll be enough stories on his culinary prowess and celebrity stats. My focus would be on the man behind the food.”
“That’s an excellent angle,” Andy said as he rose from the chair. “One I expect you to cover in the first series piece.”
Ginny’s jaw dropped. Roz’s, too.
“Wait! Doing a story on him was my idea.”
“It was Ginny’s idea,” Roz parroted. “She should do the story. She’s already done research. Religiously watched his TV show. Aside from him being a chef and spokesperson for the energy drink, I know nothing about the guy and could care even less.”
“Which is why you’re the perfect one to cover him. No bias. Besides, I’ve got something else for you, Gin.”
“What?” Ginny unashamedly crossed her arms and pouted as though she were two.
“Football.”
“The Saints?”
Andy nodded. “Preseason coverage. I’ve got tickets to the home games, but—”
“Who dat! What? I’m all in.”
“I thought you might be. You’re the only person I know who likes football more than food.”
“Wait a minute. I like football, too.” Roz looked at Ginny. “Sure you don’t want to switch?”
“Positive,” she replied, her voice filled with pure glee. “Pierre’s hot, but he’s not the breeze.”
“So...everybody’s happy?” Andy smiled as he eyed Roz’s not-so-happy frown on his way out of the room. “Everybody in the country is loving LeBlanc right now,” he told her. “Write something great.”
Chapter 2 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
Roz wasn’t pleased with her assignment, but after sending inquiries for information and an interview to Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, she spent the next couple weeks on the July articles that had been approved. Crime had increased with the heat index. City Hall was in the middle of another political scandal.
On a lighter note, the whole city united behind eight-year-old child prodigy Zach Johnson, whose keyboard mastery made him America’s New Star on the hit TV talent show, with a first prize of a recording contract and half a million dollars. The youngest of seven being raised by a single mother, who’d taken in four more children after her sister died, he and his life-changing win were front page news on NO Beat and some national papers, too. Roz met with the entire family for an interview and photo shoot. They were a joy. The kind of people she loved to meet, and the type of story she lived to write.
As August neared Roz switched her focus to the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the four-part “Where Are They Now?” series to mark the event. Wanting to start on a high note, she hoped LeBlanc’s story would fit the topic, was almost certain she could spin it so that it would. Actually got a little excited about meeting the chef. For business purposes only, she always reminded herself, when at the thought of an “up close and personal” her heart did a little step-ball-chage.
But after spending almost the entire month of July trying to contact him for an interview, she found herself stymied. Andy was totally unsympathetic, responding to her woes of the elusive celebrity with “get the story.” She scoured the internet for info, then called the restaurant, emailed his publicist, and finally texted a food critic with stellar connections, all several times, to no avail. The restaurant had flat out said he was too busy to be interviewed for at least three months. Cathy had sent a standard press packet and promised to get back to her with answers to the more personalized questions Roz had sent. So far, though? Nothing. The food critic hadn’t even bothered to respond. Roz didn’t blame him. He was a former associate, an acquaintance. Not a friend. Probably thought that she was like every other single woman in New Orleans angling for entry into the chef’s private kitchen. Or his bedroom. And not necessarily in that order.
She was frustrated, so after securing the subjects for August’s week two and three, and leaving a message for the best friend whose family’s story would close out the series, Roz headed over to the other office, where she did her best thinking. Guido’s was a bare-bones boxing and workout center that relied on old-school iron rather than modern-day machines to achieve one’s desired physique. Roz had discovered it a year ago, when a nasty breakup left her needing something to punch. Hard. Repeatedly. Ginny had suggested the place where her boyfriend sparred thrice weekly with an aggressive punching bag that bobbed and wove but never hit back. Perfect. Roz pounded, weight lifted and squatted out her anger. In the process, she got into the best shape of her life.
“Rozzo!”
“Hey, Gee.”
Everyone called the owner of Guido’s Gee, pronounced Ghee, short for Guido, even though he was neither vain, uncouth nor Italian. His real name was Gerald, but friends in his high school wrestling circle had dubbed him Guido and the name stuck. Roz surmised that he probably liked “Guido’s Gym” better than “Gerald’s Gym,” anyway.
She stopped at a short counter that served as the modest reception area, where Gee stood frowning at a laptop computer. “What’s happening?”
“Trying to figure out this lousy piece of equipment, that’s what. That new cook in town heard about my gym and wants to work out here, but his team wanted more info on the place. I’m trying to send it.”
“What about your website?”
Gee clicked on it, a basic one-page collection of a few pics, a couple links and not much else.
“You want help?” Roz eased her gym bag off her shoulder and walked around to Gee’s side of the counter. He turned the laptop toward her. “Can’t believe a pretty boy like him wants to work out in a place like this.”
“I think that was supposed to be a compliment so...thanks.”
Roz laughed. “It was totally a compliment.”
“So you think he’s a pretty boy, huh?”
“I think he thinks so. Now, what are we doing here?”
Gee explained what he was trying to send over to the same publicist who’d yet to reply to the questions Roz had sent her. She attached the pictures, included the link to an article ironically written by NO Beat, and helped him draft a quick email for the attached. Then she reached for her bag and headed to where three punching bags hung waiting for opponents. Perfect.
An hour later she felt better. Deciding a shower could wait until she got home, she turned to say goodbye to Gee, and walked straight into what felt like a wall.
Actually, it was Pierre LeBlanc.
“Whoa!”
Roz’s head snapped around. “I’m sor—gasp—Pierre LeBlanc!”
Pierre stepped back, frowning slightly, as two of the guys with him shared a knowing look. Another adoring fan, she imagined them thinking. They were no doubt mistaking her breathlessness at having just worked out for infatuation, her wide-eyed surprise as awe instead of shock at literally running into the guy she’d been chasing for almost a month.
“Hi, I’m Rosalyn Arnaud.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Said without an ounce of sincerity, as after a dismissive glance he brushed past her with what she belatedly recognized as a small entourage. Now hard to miss as she wove through five bodies headed toward the counter. She reached them just as Pierre shook hands with Gee.
A young Hispanic man in the group blocked her path. “He’s not interested, okay?”
Roz was not deterred or intimidated. “Neither am I, at least not how you’re thinking.”
She forced her way past the slight but surprisingly muscular frame and tapped Pierre on the shoulder. “Excuse my intrusion into your personal time, but I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. I’m with NO Beat and we’re doing a series next month to mark the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. I’d love to lead it off with your story.”
“She’s one of the best in the business.” Gee put an arm around Roz’s shoulders. “A straight shooter. Your story is safe with her.”
“No, thank you.”
“You are from here, right?”
“Yes.”
“Were you here for Hurricane Katrina?”
“I’m here now for my restaurant, Easy Creole Cuisine.”
Roz watched Pierre scribble his name across the sign-in sheet. Time was running out.
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions? It’ll only take a minute.”
“Talk to my publicist. Her contact info is on the website.”
“I tried,” Roz said to his retreating back.
“Try harder.” He threw the words over his shoulder without turning around.
“This will only...” The sentence faded as, seething at the rude way she’d been dismissed, Roz watched his long, sure strides widen the distance between them. “What a jerk.”
Gee chuckled.
“Wait, did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, he is.”
“Ah, don’t be so hard on the guy. He probably has women throwing themselves at him 24/7, eight days a week.”
“I wasn’t one of them,” she countered. “My reasons for talking to him were strictly professional.”
“If you say so,” Gee said. When Roz raised a fist to punch him, he quickly added, “Just playing. I’ve got to give it to him. Guy’s in great shape.”
Roz followed Gee’s gaze and immediately wished she hadn’t. The image would be hard to shake from her mind. Pierre, shirtless. Long black shorts covering a taut butt, hanging off lean hips. Chestnut-colored curls with natural blond highlights that looked so soft Roz’s fingers itched to touch them. He chatted with the Hispanic bodyguard who’d tried to block her, while effortlessly lifting a huge barbell up and over his head. His back muscles rippled beneath smooth caramel skin; his arm muscles bulged, then relaxed with each lift and flex. The bodyguard looked over, caught her staring and said something to Pierre, who glanced up. He smiled broadly, then broke out laughing.
Oh, I’m a joke now? “Do you see that, Gee? Is he actually laughing at me?”
The gym owner shook his head. “No, two seconds and you’ll see who has his attention.”
Just then a tall, busty woman who looked all of a size two breezed by her and headed straight toward Pierre. It was Roz’s cue. She turned to Gee. “I’m out.”
Roz headed toward the door, totally undeterred. She’d get the story. But now she’d have to go digging for what he could have easily provided. Search out classmates from the middle school he’d attended, the name of which was one of the few nuggets from his past that she’d gleaned online. Better yet, she had a couple contacts who’d grown up in the Ninth Ward, the area hardest hit by Hurricane Katrina and where many who ended up in Houston had lived. Perhaps one of them had known Pierre.
Plan in place, Roz headed toward the door, ready to put in a couple more hours before calling it a day. On the way out she passed a mirror, saw her reflection and did a double take. Sweaty curls bunched in a hasty ponytail. Mascara smudged beneath one eye. Torn T and oversize gray sweats. Unkempt would be a kind description of her appearance. Next to the beautiful woman who’d passed her, Roz looked more like a homeless beggar than a journalist. That still didn’t excuse his rudeness. Even the homeless deserved kindness and respect.
Halfway to the car, she heard her phone beep. Roz tapped the message indicator.
Don’t forget the ball! I know you’re excited. :) Biff
Roz mumbled an expletive as she opened the car door and slid inside. She was so not excited about the Bayou Ball, which was probably why she’d totally forgotten that it was next week. Why had she agreed to attend this prestigious gala and represent both NO Beat and her best friend Stefanie’s nonprofit organization, Shelter From The Storm? She’d rather get dropped in a war zone and report from the front line. But a promise was a promise. So instead of heading east toward the lower Ninth Ward, Roz whipped around and headed toward the nearest shopping mall.
* * *
“Hello, Easy. I’m Rachel. I own Crescent Moon, the bar around the corner from your restaurant.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He accepted the handshake she offered. “The name’s Pierre.”
“I thought it was Easy?”
“That, too, I guess.”
“It fits you to a T.” She stepped closer. “You are definitely easy on the eyes.”
Inwardly, Pierre cringed at the unimaginative line and purposely avoided her flirting. “Describes the restaurant’s decor even better. A very relaxing atmosphere.”
“So I’ve heard. Looks like it will be a couple months before I can find out for myself, though. Can’t believe you’re that booked up.”
“Me either. It’s crazy.”
Rachel took a step closer, her barely covered breast brushing Pierre’s upper arm. “Are you sure there isn’t a way I can...try it out any sooner? Like, as soon as possible?”
Pierre didn’t think Rachel was talking about food. He deftly shifted away from the touch as he took in the large breasts spilling over a tight tank top, wondering how she could be so top-heavy and still manage to walk.
“There’s a waiting list on our website if you’d like to add your name. So far there have been no cancellations, but it could happen.”
“What about a late-night snack after hours? You could join me in the private room at my bar. Drinks on me.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I can’t accept. After putting in eighteen-hour days six or seven days a week, the only place I want to go after locking up is home. And since this is my first day off in almost a month, I’d better get back to this workout.”
“Sure thing, gorgeous. Just remember, you always have a free drink waiting at Crescent Moon. Not that you couldn’t afford to buy one. Just showing you some neighborly love.”
It soon became clear that neighborly love wasn’t the only thing Rachel wanted to show. After smiling at Pierre, she walked over to the horizontal crunch bench and lay down. The thong-like leotard she wore left little to the imagination.
Pierre focused on his friends. He deposited the weight back into its holder and strolled over to where his sous chef, Riviera, was doing push-ups on a mat. He dropped down beside him, determined to shake off the constant self-imposed pressure of making his business a success. For him it was not enough to have a great restaurant; Easy Creole Cuisine had to be the best restaurant of its type anywhere. Period. Ensuring that, while juggling other contractual commitments, had sent him to the gym. Misery loves company, so he’d brought along some of the staff, including his out-of-shape manager, Ed, who looked clearly out of place as he held up a wall.
“Come on, Ed!” Pierre aligned his body with Riviera’s and matched his quick rhythm. “I want every member on the Easy team to be in shape.”
“Yes, Chef, but one day at a time, okay?” Ed palmed both hand weights he’d been pumping, then used a towel to mop up the sweat that ran down his face. “The last time I saw a gym was in high school.”
“Remember the prize,” Riviera panted, still doing push-ups, but more slowly.
“An all-expense-paid trip to Vegas,” Pierre reminded them.
Ed ambled across the floor. “If I keep my knees down, am I a punk?”
“Folks might laugh at you,” Riviera warned.
“Let them.” Pierre moved next to Ed and placed his own knees on the floor. “When you’re fit and healthy, you’ll have the last laugh. Twenty-five. Let’s go. No excuses.”
They finished working out. Pierre endured the guys’ ribbing when Rachel insisted on giving him her card before he left the gym. He could appreciate a confident, assertive woman, one who knew what she wanted and went after it. Rachel seemed up for a good time, which right now was all he could give a woman. Unlike the disheveled one who’d claimed to be a reporter, Rachel sent a message that was abundantly clear.
Pierre’s current schedule left little room for anything happening in a bed besides sleep. But in a month or so, when the Chow Channel tapings ended and he was confident the kitchen could run smoothly without him, then he’d see.
Chapter 3 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
An hour before the Bayou Ball was set to begin Roz was no closer to being ready than she’d been two hours ago. She loved red and black, except when red went with carpet, black preceded tie, or like tonight, the colors were part of the requested dress code. Heels. Makeup. Social small talk. Who needed that when life was happening all around you?
More importantly, who needed to chance seeing the guy who’d broken your heart barely one year ago? In going to the Bayou Ball being held at the Ritz Carlton hotel, running into her ex, Delano Richard, was inevitable. He never missed a moment to be the center of attention, the city’s mover and shaker with all the answers, whose business savvy had made him a multimillionaire. When they first met, Roz was a new edition to the city’s number one newspaper. Just beginning her journalism career. Eager to impress. She’d been relentless in her pursuit of the businessman and the story. Transplanted resident promising to restore the famous Ninth Ward, the neighborhood most negatively impacted after Hurricane Katrina. She’d covered him off and on for a year. Developed a friendship that continued past that. And then it went further, to a relationship that Roz thought could go all the way to the altar.
Until she learned that Delano wasn’t the man she thought he was, but was using her position and the glowing articles she wrote to enhance his reputation and advance his agenda. He’d counted on love to keep her blinded to his true social-climbing motives until it was too late. Until he hooked his star to a beautiful socialite, broke up with Roz and broke her heart.
After a six-week whirlwind courtship, the spoiled rich girl had tossed him to the curb. He’d tried to come back to Roz, but that wouldn’t happen. Delano had taught her to never, ever mix business with pleasure. And to not trust pretty boys with her heart.
Roz straightened her shoulders. Melancholy morphed into resolve. She’d sworn the last tears over this breakup had been shed long ago. She wasn’t going to dredge up more of those emotions. In fact, she was going to cover them up with a sexy dress, some killer heels and a change up from her curly do. Ugly memories of the ex added to frustration at the hard-to-reach celebrity chef she hadn’t even wanted to cover. She practically flung the stylish, yet safe, pantsuit she’d planned to wear off her bed and stepped into the walk-in closet. Once there, she released the towel from around her freshly showered bod and reached beyond her normal casual fare for a dress she’d bought on a dare and never worn. It wasn’t her style, which, according to the cousin who’d bet money she wouldn’t buy it, was the point. Roz pulled it out, turned to the mirror and held the silky, silver maxi with the thigh-high split against herself. She swallowed a lump of shyness, beat back insecurities left over from a childhood of being teased, and took the look even further with a pair of designer stilettos she’d worn only once. The strappy sandals beaded with Swarovski crystals matched the dress perfectly, added just the right amount of bling to the diamond teardrop necklace and matching earrings that she donned for every fancy occasion.
Next she marched into the bathroom and grabbed her curl conqueror from the cabinets below the sink, a gift from the same cousin who’d lost twenty dollars on the dress bet. Roz could count the times she’d used the deluxe flat iron on the fingers of one hand. But she handled the tool and her curls like a pro. Thirty minutes later her hair was straight and long, curled only on the ends, cascading over her shoulders and down her back. When she took a final look in the mirror, all toned and sleek and sexified, she hardly recognized herself. After reaching for her crystal clutch, she flung locks of hair behind her as she headed for the door. Feeling confident and looking the part, she now felt ready to step into society and hold her own against anyone in the room.
Five minutes inside the hotel’s ballroom and Roz thanked the gods that she’d changed outfits. All New Orleans’s who’s who were present. She quickly recognized people she’d grown up with, knew socially or had met in a professional capacity. Unfortunately, one of the first to approach her as she sipped a sparkling water was just about the last person in the room with whom she wanted to converse.
“Hello, Rosalyn.”
“Delano.”
“You’re looking quite beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She watched his eyes sweep the area around her. “Rolling solo tonight?”
What’s it to you? “Hardly. I know just about everyone in this room.”
Delano flashed the dashing smile that used to turn Roz’s legs to jelly. Her first victory of the night was that she was truly not moved. “Several of whom would have been happy to be your date. Including me.”
“Please.”
“What? I’m only stating how I feel.”
“Just stop, okay. What we had is long over, never to be revived.”
“I messed up, royally. How long are you going to punish me for that?”
“Where is your date?”
“I’m looking at her.”
“Bye, Delano.”
He caught her arm. “Roz, wait.”
She pointedly looked down, then up. He immediately released her. “I’m sorry. Listen, can we at least be friends?”
“Let’s be friendly, how about that? Cordial while keeping our distance.”
“Fair enough.” He held out his hand. “To cordiality.”
She hesitantly placed her palm in his. Covering her hand with his other one, he looked beyond her and smiled. “Rosalyn, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Maybe later.”
He tightened his grip. “He’s coming right now.”
Roz took a deep breath, bracing herself for a hasty hello and an even faster exit.
“There’s the man!” Delano released Roz’s hand to greet the person walking up.
“I heard you owned it.”
Roz recognized the voice and barely suppressed a groan. The same one that had dismissed her a few days ago, though tonight the tone was friendly, laid-back. She took a deep, calming breath and turned. Good thing, too. Roz wouldn’t have thought it possible for the toned, ripped body she saw in the gym to look even better in a tux. But Pierre did.
“Not since you came to town,” Delano responded. “Baby...” Roz cut him a look. “I mean, Rosalyn, have you had the pleasure of meeting the city’s newest superstar?”
Roz held her poise and a neutral expression as she answered. “We’ve met.”
“I don’t think so,” Pierre said, an admiring gaze sweeping her from head to toe and back. “There’s no way I’d forget meeting someone as lovely as you.” He held out his hand. “Pierre LeBlanc.”
She placed her hand in his, watched as he lifted it toward his mouth. “Roz Arnaud.”
The slightest hesitation before kissing her hand told Roz that he remembered. The evening had just gotten more interesting.
“Rosalyn is a very talented journalist. She works for a newspaper called the New Orleans Beat, NO Beat for short. It’s a smaller, independent publication, but several of their articles have been picked up by the Associated Press, Rosalyn’s among them.”
“Impressive,” Pierre said.
Roz thought so, too. If Delano had paid half as much attention to her while they were dating as he’d obviously done lately, their romance may have had a different ending.
“I’ll have to, um, go online and...check out some of your work.”
“Have you been to his place?” Delano asked Roz. “Easy Creole Cuisine? Of course you know the name. There’s not a person in town who doesn’t know who he is.”
“Yes, I know about the restaurant, and no, I haven’t been there. From what I’ve heard that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.”
“You should hook her up, man,” Delano said. “Cook a few dishes for her to try out. Get another article for the PR files. There’s no such thing as too much publicity.”
“I’m sure Pierre is much too busy cooking to speak with a lowly newspaper reporter.” Said with a voice of innocence and eyes that feigned understanding.
“No, well, I...”
“Don’t worry about it.” Roz hated to cut his squirming short, but the one person she wanted to talk with even less than Delano was headed in their direction. “Nice meeting you. Excuse me.”
As Roz walked away, Brooke’s drawl wafted over the din of noise. “There he is, our hometown hero!”
There she goes, Brooke Evans, the groveler, Roz thought as she continued through the crowd.
Which is why she’ll get the interview and the story, said the devil on her shoulder.
If that was the price for keeping her dignity, Roz would pay it. She might regret her actions later, but right now, she just didn’t care.
Chapter 4 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
Newcomers to the Bayou Ball would see a room full of beautiful people, but their eyes would be drawn to a group of distinguished-looking men and one beautiful woman conversing around a highboy table, making an especially impressive tableau. In particular, they’d notice Pierre. The black tux he wore matched close-cropped soft curls and complimented flawless tanned skin. The eyes he normally hid behind shades except when on air or in the kitchen were on full display in all their golden glory.
While the other men hung on every word that Brooke delivered, Pierre subtly scanned the crowd, looking for her. Roz Arnaud, NO Beat reporter. Was that really the same women who’d approached him at the gym? Unlikely, he thought, that the woman from Guido’s, whose face he could barely remember, was the same beauty who just moments ago had taken his breath away.
“Hey, handsome. Looking for me?”
Pierre felt Brooke’s body press up against him. He turned to see that Delano and the other men had left, leaving only him and Brooke at the table. “It’s quite a crowd.”
“Everyone you need to know is in this room and I know them all. Just say the word and I’ll make the proper introductions.”
Pierre spotted Roz across the room. “What about her?”
Brooke followed his gaze. “Who, the guy in the white tux?”
“No, the woman he’s talking to.”
Brooke’s smile slipped, but her voice remained chipper. “Roz Arnaud?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Not a part of high society. She tried to be. Snagged a job with my paper right out of college, but couldn’t hang in the big leagues. Left and took a job with a small, regional paper, pretty local, actually. Now, the woman behind her is a major socialite whose husband owns—”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to cut you off,” Pierre said as he watched Roz head toward an exit. “But successful people like that don’t need me. I’d rather give those small, local businesses my support.”
Pierre left a sputtering, confused and chagrined Brooke trying to pick her face up off the floor. He wasn’t aware, so mesmerized was he by Roz’s natural beauty. She reached the door and was stopped by an older, distinguished-looking couple, which gave Pierre the time he needed to cross the room and catch her arm before she left the room.
“Leaving so soon?”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’m glad that I was able to stop you before you got away.” Pierre looked up and saw two women walking toward him with purpose. “Look, can we go somewhere private?”
Without waiting for an answer, he slid his hand from Roz’s arm to her hand and gently steered her down the hall to the first opening, a short hallway leading to a set of restrooms. No doubt they wouldn’t be alone long.
Roz withdrew her hand from his, but not before Pierre noted her silky, soft skin.
“Okay, Pierre, what is this about?”
“The other day at the gym. That’s where we met.”
“That’s right.”
“Wow. You look...totally different.”
“I clean up alright.”
“More than alright. You’re beautiful. I can’t believe who I saw the other day is really you.”
“Are you saying at the gym you thought I was butt ugly?”
“No!” This wasn’t going the way Pierre planned. A small bead of perspiration formed on his neck and rolled down his back. “You were... If I’d known that... I mean...”
“Go ahead. Keep digging.”
He pushed sweaty hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. “I wasn’t very nice to you.”
“You were rude.”
“I didn’t think you were really a reporter.”
“What then, a troll?”
“No!”
Roz held the frown for a second longer before a chuckle escaped her lips. Pierre exhaled. “Girl, quit teasing. I haven’t felt this nervous since high school.”
“You thought I was making up being a reporter as a way to spend time with you?”
“Stranger things have happened. You also look very different tonight from...the other day.”
“Well, I wasn’t faking it. I’m a reporter, one who has called several times to arrange an interview. Did no one give you the message?”
“They may have, but...”
“I also reached out to your publicist, Cathy Weiss?” He nodded. “Before you suggested it, by the way. She told me you were busy, which considering that you’re opening a restaurant, I understand. But good publicity never hurt a new business, so I thought at the very least you’d find time to answer the list of questions I sent over.”
“I don’t remember getting any questions, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t sent. My emails are overflowing and voice mail stays full. If you really need to reach me Don is your best bet. He’s my personal manager and the only one who can reach me 24/7. I can give you his contact info.”
“I guess I can send him the questions I sent Cathy, since a personal interview is out of the question.”
“Why do you want me so badly? Wait, that came out wrong.”
“Ha-ha. It sure did. To be clear, the editor and another writer are the ones who feel you’re too relevant not to cover. I can think of half a dozen subjects more worthy of the space.”
“Damn, beautiful, why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
“I just did.” She smiled, drawing Pierre’s eyes to her lips. Lips that were full and moist and ready to be kissed, making him wonder if that fiery personality transferred to the bedroom, and how that looked up close. An errant tendril fell across Roz’s eyebrow. Instinctively, he reached up and gently placed it behind her ear. Their eyes met. Was that a flash of desire he saw in the chocolate orbs watching him intently?
She broke the connection, reached into a jeweled clutch and pulled out her cell. “Don...what’s his last name?”
“Sanders.”
Roz’s thumbs flew across the keys. “Number?”
“You haven’t been to the restaurant, right?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Tell you what. We’re closed today, but why don’t I make an exception for you and have you come by around...eight or nine, and I’ll make a few dishes?”
“Why?”
“How are you going to write about my restaurant if you haven’t tasted the food?”
“The food is what everyone is writing about. That’s the obvious angle. I want our focus to be on the man behind the menu.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re turning down a private dinner at the hottest restaurant in New Orleans?”
“I guess so.”
“Come on, now. I’m trying to redeem myself.”
“That’s admirable, but you know what they say.”
“No, what do they say, whoever ‘they’ are?”
“That you never get a second chance to make a first impression.”
“Then will you give me the chance to make an excellent second impression?”
“While conducting an interview?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, I’ll give you that chance. And I have the perfect place to meet. It’s not well-known or highbrow, but they make the best local cuisine anywhere.”
“You mean besides mine.”
“I mean better than anyone, anywhere. Period.”
“You want to bet on that?”
“I’d have no problem taking your money if you want to go that route.”
“Watch yourself now. Remember, you haven’t tried my food. Not a good idea to place a bet that you’re guaranteed to lose.”
“I’m confident enough to call you on it.”
“Okay. What are the stakes?”
He watched Roz ponder the question. “If I win, dinner for my parents at your restaurant. Next week. On the house.”
“Done. And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
“Yes, but just in case I do. What can I have?”
A devilish glint showed in Roz’s eye just before she answered with a question of her own. “What do you want?” And then, as if words had rushed out before she could catch them, much as had happened to him earlier when his thoughts of her beauty were voiced out loud, she rushed on. “Wait. Don’t answer that. The question came out totally wrong.”
“Ha! Too late to back out now.” He watched her catch and nibble a portion of her lovely lower lip. “Nervous?”
“No.”
She warmed him like sunshine. Pierre wanted more of her heat. He pulled out his phone. “What’s the name of this place?”
“It’s called Ma’s. I don’t have the address, but I can text it to you.”
They exchanged numbers. A group of women rounded the corner, headed toward the ladies’ room. Once they saw Pierre he knew privacy was over. “I look forward to our date,” he mumbled as they neared them.
“It’s not a date.” Roz began walking away. Pierre’s touch was tender as he grabbed her arm. She turned around.
“Call it whatever you want to call it, but just remember that when it comes to all things culinary...I usually win.”
Chapter 5 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
“How stupid are you?”
That’s what Roz’s BFF Stefanie asked when told that Roz had turned down Pierre’s invitation for a private dinner after hours in the most sought-after space in town. Roz understood. Stefanie didn’t. She hadn’t met Pierre up close and personal, felt the animal magnetism that kept Roz tossing and turning all night after the ball, and thinking about him for the rest of the weekend. If Stefanie knew all that, then she’d know that meeting Pierre on neutral territory with people around would keep Roz from doing something she’d later regret.
She arrived early and waited in her car, determined to not make a repeat of their past interactions. Placing bets and blurting out leading questions in a direction she totally intended not to go. It wasn’t like her to flip out over a handsome guy. She was neither a starstruck fan nor a bumbling idiot with no command of the English language. She was a serious journalist who knew the price that could be paid for turning a business opportunity into potential pleasure. Embarrassment. Heartbreak. Delano had taught her that.
That the two men knew each other was yet another reason to keep things strictly professional between her and the chef. No telling what her ex had told Pierre about them. Knowing Delano, he wouldn’t have kept quiet about their past relationship or been hesitant to throw her under the bus with why it ended.
Roz thought these things and ignored the flutter in her stomach when an image of how Pierre had looked that night swam before her eyes. Ignored how she’d thought of him all day and anticipated this meeting. Told herself she’d gotten there early because she wanted to be there when Pierre arrived, lest he take one look at the humble abode that served as a public eatery and keep on driving.
On one matter, however, she allowed herself to face the truth. When it came to Louisiana cooking, nobody could outdo Manette Lafeyette, whom everyone called Ma. Roz’s bestie, Stefanie, had dragged her there the day Roz decided to leave the city’s biggest newspaper for the job at NO Beat. While she’d been excited about the possibilities attached to the start-up, feeling she’d been forced from the job she’d snagged right after college had left her down in the dumps. That day Roz had learned that anything going wrong in life could be cured with Ma’s gumbo. And her crawfish? Lord have mercy. Roz couldn’t wait to see Pierre’s face when he entered Ma’s and was assailed by the aromas that wrapped themselves around you as soon as you walked through the door. Smells that effortlessly pulled you farther into the room. Just thinking of the bucket of crawfish and buttered bread loaf served free with every meal made her mouth water.
Roz got out of her car and checked her watch, anxious now to assuage her grumbling stomach. It had been months since she’d eaten at Ma’s. She’d purposely skipped lunch today to enjoy the meal. She checked her watch again, frowned as she looked up...and into Pierre’s eyes.
“Am I late?” He’d lowered his window to ask the question before pulling to the curb and parking. He turned off the engine and hopped out of his car.
Those eyes. That smile again. Damn, he was gorgeous. Don’t be affected, she warned her body. Don’t let it matter, she told her head.
“Right on time, actually. Hope you’re hungry.”
“If the food inside looks as good as you do...”
“Don’t be average,” Roz said, as she rolled her eyes and began walking up the sidewalk toward the house. “Save that for your groupies,” she added over her shoulder.
“Groupies? I don’t have groupies. And that wasn’t a line. You look very nice.”
“Then perhaps that’s what you should have said.”
A smile softened the caustic words as Roz waited until Pierre caught up with her before she opened the small home’s screen door and the thick wooden one behind it. She wanted to see the look on his face that she’d seen on so many other Ma first-timers.
“Ready?”
His glance was skeptical. “I guess.”
Her smile widened. She opened the inner door. A cacophony of odors rose up like instruments in an orchestra. Oregano harmonizing with garlic and onion. Thyme keeping time with dry mustard and dill seed. Cayenne, smoked paprika and bay leaves adding oomph to the melody. Pierre took two steps. Stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled. Roz laughed.
He opened eyes filled with wonder. “Whose place is this?”
“Mine, and y’all need to get on in here and close the door. I’m not trying to cool off the whole neighborhood.”
A petite woman with long white hair and an ageless face that could have been sixty or ninety-six walked toward them. Mouth frowning, eyes beaming.
She reached up to give Roz a hug, all the while looking at the man standing beside her. “Took long enough for you to get back here. Where have you been?”
“Way too long, I know. I’ve been really busy lately, but I’m so glad I’m here. Just thinking about your food makes my mouth water.”
“Hmm.” Ma looked at Pierre. “Who is this handsome young man you’ve brought to my house?” Her eyes slid back over to Roz. “Is he why you’ve been busy?”
“What? Oh, no, Ma. This isn’t... We’re not...”
“Pierre LeBlanc, ma’am.” Pierre leaned down to hug Ma, then raised her soft and slightly wrinkled hand to his lips and kissed it. “It smells like I just walked into crayfish heaven, and a whole lot more.”
Ma stepped back to look up at him. “What would you know about it? You look way too fancy to know about mudbugs.”
“I know a little something about them. Grew up in New Orleans.”
“He’s a chef, Ma,” Roz explained. “Just opened a restaurant in the Quarters, called Easy Creole Cuisine.”
“So you think you can cook, huh?” Ma asked.
“I do alright.”
“If I ever get to taste something you fix, I’ll be the judge of that.”
Roz raised her hand to cover a chuckle. Pierre’s eyes gleamed as he smiled. “Alright, then.”
He took a couple steps and looked around him. “Never would have guessed all of what was going on in this little house.” He tipped his head. “Behind that door we just entered.”
“That’s the way I like it,” Ma said, giving him a little shove as she pointed to one of four tables, all unoccupied, in what had originally been a living room. “Don’t want the city coming in here bothering me, telling me what to use and how to use it.”
“How do you get your customers?”
“How’d you come here?”
“Word of mouth.” He nodded, looking paradoxically comfortable as he sat in a plastic chair that might have been around at least half as long as Ma. “Well, if the food tastes half as good as it smells...”
“It tastes even better.” Roz took a chair to his right, facing the door. She placed her purse on one of two empty chairs at their table and pulled out a small recorder. “Do you mind?”
“What’s that for?”
“With the smells assaulting your senses I can understand you forgetting what brought us here. Our interview.”
“Oh, right. That.” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t mind. Depends on what you ask me.”
“Fair enough. If you want to share something off the record just let me know.”
“Does that really work?”
“What?”
“Sharing something off the record.” He used air quotes to underscore his distrust.
“Depends on the reporter. There is a code of ethics that most professional journalists follow. I’m a member of the Society of Professional Journalists, the organization that established the code in 1909.”
“Then how do magazines get away with printing any and everything about celebrities and people they don’t even know?”
“Clearly, everyone who writes and prints a story does not follow that code. But don’t worry. Given you’re already the city’s golden boy, I’d imagine this chat will be pretty painless.”
“Y’all go wash your hands!” The command yelled from the kitchen caused a raised brow.
“You don’t want to disobey her,” Roz whispered, scooting back her chair to comply. When the two returned, Ma had set two lemon waters on a table now covered with newspaper. She came up behind them swinging a small bucket in one hand, holding a small loaf of buttered French bread in the other.
“Bone appetite,” she said, purposely mispronouncing the famous French phrase as she set down the fare, along with two large “napkins,” otherwise called hand towels.
Pierre leaned into the steam rising from the bucket and inhaled. “Wow.” He positioned the towel over his lap and prepared to dig in.
Roz made a sound that stopped him. “Um, ladies first?”
“Ladies better hurry.”
“Ha!” Roz reached into the bucket and pulled out what was alternately called a crawfish, crawdad, crayfish or baby lobster, depending on who you asked. She felt Pierre’s eyes on her as, with a quick twist of the wrist, she separated the body from the crawfish head. With unabashed pleasure she placed the latter in her mouth and sucked out the juicy meatiness inside. After tossing the shell on the newspaper, she made quick work of slurping the remaining meat from the tail while reaching for her next one.
“Obviously not your first bucket,” Pierre quipped as he picked up one of the Louisiana delicacies and devoured it the same as Roz.
“Nope.”
“You from here?”
“Born and bred. Only recently developed a love for crawfish, though. My mom hates them and refused their presence in our home.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Eastover.”
“Ah, one of those.”
Roz frowned as she shamelessly licked juice from her fingers. “What do you mean by that?”
“Girls from your part of town had nothing to do with us boys in the Ninth Ward.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Spent a lot of time there” was Pierre’s vague answer.
“Well, I can’t speak for the girls you met back then, but I was not a part of the popular girl crowd.”
Pierre eyed her as he twisted the head from another crawfish. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, believe it. I was tall, skinny, with a head too big for the slender neck beneath it. I was too light in some places and too dark in others. In other words, I often didn’t fit in anywhere.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed seductively. “Clearly all of that’s changed. You are...lovely.”
“When I look in the mirror I still see the socially awkward bookworm.”
“Everyone else sees someone beautiful, educated, successful. Someone with the world in the palm of her hand.”
“I guess you’d know.”
“Me?”
“Of course. Superstar chef with the world as your oyster, probably with a trail of broken hearts scattered down Interstate 10.”
“Not even close. What you see of my life now looks nothing like it did growing up.”
“In this area?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where else?”
“Didn’t matter where. The results were the same.”
“According to what I’ve read, being here mattered in 2005. You were here when Katrina hit.”
“Until the water pushed us out and I landed in Houston.”
“Tell me about that. It’s the angle for my story. New Orleanians who experienced Katrina to survive and thrive.”
Pierre nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. “What would you like to know?”
Roz wiped her hands on the towel and reached for her water. “Everything.”
Chapter 6 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
So easy to talk to, Pierre thought, as he considered her question. He, too, wiped his hands and sat back in the hard plastic chair. When he did his eyes dropped to the recorder. Sure, she was beautiful, and dismantled one of his favorite crustaceans like a pro, but she was a reporter. Of course talking to her would be easy. Maybe too easy. She’d been taught how to coax information from individuals, make them feel comfortable. Catch them off guard. If this was what her schooling, training and experience had taught her, Pierre thought, she must have graduated at the top of her class. She was very good at her job.
So good that Pierre had almost forgotten some very important rules. He didn’t talk about his past, especially Katrina. Because to talk about Katrina, he’d have to talk about family. To talk about family, he’d have to talk about his mom, and Grand-Mère Juliette. Pull the scab off the wound left by his grandmother’s and mom’s disappearance during the storm. He still called it that, a disappearance, even though with all the time passed he was sure that they’d met the same fate as thousands of others whose lives had ended in a watery grave. The mom whose last words had been “Take care of your sister. I’ll see y’all soon. Promise.”
Only she hadn’t arrived in Houston. She’d broken her promise. Which was why to this day there wasn’t a woman he could trust.
Especially one who’d set a recorder between them. He shifted in his seat, saw Ma carrying a heavily laden tray out of the kitchen, and was thankful for her timing.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
“I’ve carried heavier burdens in my lifetime,” Ma insisted, though she readily allowed Pierre to take the tray of steamy goodness and place it on the table beside them, while Roz, knowing the drill, carefully bunched up the newspaper and placed it in the now empty red bucket.
“What all do we have here?” Pierre removed two small bowls from the tray, lifting one to his nostrils before setting it down. “Red beans and rice with, what’s that, andouille or boudin?”
“Neither. That’s Ma’s sausage. None else like it nowhere.”
He stepped back so Ma could set down piping-hot plates of jambalaya being transferred from the tray to the table.
“Ma, this all looks amazing,” Roz said.
“Smells even better than it looks,” Pierre added.
Ma replied in her traditional fashion. “Bone appetite.”
He’d barely sat down before picking up his fork to spear a chunk of sausage swimming in the bowl of beans and rice. He placed the nugget in his mouth and closed his eyes as he began to chew.
“The usual suspects,” he began, still chewing. “Thyme, paprika, bay leaf, sage...” Swallowing, he turned admiring eyes toward Ma. “But what’s that sweet undertone? Nutmeg? Ginger?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out. Knowing that here is the only place you can get it will keep you coming back.”
“No doubt, I’ll be back.” Pierre tested the jambalaya. “Ma, this is divine. I need to spend some time in your kitchen.”
“I guess I could use a dishwasher from time to time.” She winked at Roz while Pierre laughed, and walked back into the kitchen, a smile clearly showing that his compliments were appreciated.
For the next few minutes, the deliciousness of Ma’s food dominated the conversation. But midway through the jambalaya, Roz repeated her earlier question to Pierre.
“You were telling me about your experience during Hurricane Katrina. What was that like?”
“You first. Where were you when it hit?”
“Out of state, Columbia, Missouri, preparing to enter my first year at Mizzou.” At Pierre’s raised brows she added, “University of Missouri.”
“Why didn’t you attend college here?”
“I wanted to. My mom wanted me to go to Southern, or Tulane. But my dad is a Midwesterner and felt that spending time outside my home state would broaden my cultural horizons. Plus, the University of Missouri has one of the best journalism programs in the country. So it wasn’t a long argument. Dad won.
“Watching that storm on TV, and the events that unfolded afterward, was surreal. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the videos I saw and the town I knew. I wanted to come back and cover it, write an article for the school paper. Of course, my parents forbade it. Too dangerous. I was livid, sure I could cover the events in a way foreigners couldn’t. Foreigners being anyone not from New Orleans.
“Looking back, I know they were right. I may have been ready to write a story, but I wouldn’t have been ready to see in person the aftermath we all witnessed on TV, or handle the emotional and psychological aftereffects.”
Having dealt with those aftereffects for more than a decade, Pierre understood.
Both became quiet—somber, reflective, remembering a moment in history that few who witnessed it could ever forget. Pierre wanted to, wished he could, and continued to steer the focus away from those painful memories.
“They made it out, your family?”
“Yes,” Roz answered. “Our home wasn’t in the major flood area, but my parents didn’t want to take any chances. One of my uncles lives in Atlanta. They left before the storm hit. What about you? Where were you when it happened?”
“A few blocks over.”
“From where we are now?”
He nodded.
“In one of the areas hardest hit. That had to have been a painfully frightening experience.”
“It was.”
“Did you have to be rescued?”
“Almost. We were able to get on one of the buses headed to Houston where...we have family.”
“So your whole family was displaced. Mom, dad...”
“My sister and I.”
“And your parents stayed here?”
“My mother raised us. She stayed behind to help my grandmother. It was a traumatizing experience that’s hard to talk about. I survived it by focusing on what was ahead of me, not by looking back.”
“Yet while living in Houston you ended up at a restaurant called New Orleans.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“How did it happen, you working at a restaurant that bears your hometown’s name?”
Pierre shrugged. “Needed money.”
“McDonald’s wasn’t hiring?”
“I’ll admit that the name of the place drew me in. I missed the food we’re known for and wondered if the place lived up to it name. Of course, I couldn’t afford to order a meal. So I asked for a job instead.”
“Ingenuity in action.”
“More like desperation, but whatever, it worked.”
“They hired you as...”
Pierre smiled and looked toward the kitchen. “A dishwasher. And to my great surprise the food was delicious, just like back home. I was there for about a month, glad to be eating good and earning a steady paycheck, when one of the prep cooks quit unexpectedly and I volunteered to take over. The work was tedious, but the kitchen atmosphere—infectious. The workers loved and often fought like family. But during service all hostilities were dropped for the sake of synchronicity. That’s when I discovered the mechanical and scientific aspects of cooking, the work that went into each perfect plate. Marc orchestrated each player’s movements like a conductor leading an orchestra. Everyone’s role was important, from dishwasher to head chef. Don’t get me wrong. The work is hard, the hours long. And if you’re running the kitchen, it can consume your life. But I found it fascinating, began staying late and coming in early, learning how the kitchen ran, how things got done. Marc noticed my interest and took me under his wing. My culinary journey continued from there.”
“Your ability to adapt is impressive, especially after such a horrific experience. And you were how old? Nineteen, twenty?”
Pierre looked sheepish as he answered, “Fifteen.”
“Didn’t that go against child labor laws?”
“It may have, had they known it. But I could easily pass for seventeen at that point and that is what I put on the application.”
“Did your boss ever find out?”
“When he took me in and I had to change high schools, I also had to come clean about my real age.”
“So you went to live with your mentor? Why?”
“Wasn’t working out where I was.”
“With your mom and sister?”
“Things always remained cool with my sister. It was me and the rest of the household that didn’t see eye to eye. Marc saw I was troubled and wanted to know why. When I told him, he offered me his spare bedroom. Taking him up on that offer was the best decision I could have made. Undoubtedly changed my life.”
“Katrina, though devastating, led you to your destiny.”
“I guess so.”
“So you believe you survived because the restaurant gave you focus.”
“Focus. Family. Goals. Motivation. Marc was like a father figure to me. Still is.”
“Did you know your father?”
Pierre shook his head.
“Did your family situation ever smooth out in Houston?”
After a long pause, he nodded. “Yes.”
“Does your mom still live there?”
“No.”
He hadn’t meant for the word to come out so harshly, but he didn’t want to discuss his mother.
“Where do you think you’d be had Katrina not happened and you’d stayed here in New Orleans?”
“That’s a good question,” he replied. One that Pierre had never asked himself. When the answer floated into his mind it surprised him, but he looked at Roz and answered truthfully. “Probably dead.”
Instinctively, she reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. “The streets can be dangerous. I’m glad you escaped them.”
“Me, too. I plan to pay it forward by doing for others here what Marc did for me in Houston. By teaching some of this city’s young men the joy of cooking, a lesson that teaches many other skills, as well.”
“What are you going to call it?”
“I don’t know yet. The idea is just a dream right now. I have my hands full getting this new business up and running.”
“Well, whenever it happens, the program sounds wonderful. Tell me more about it.”
Pierre did, becoming more talkative and animated as he expounded on his passion for cooking and for mentoring young men. Aside from Marc and Lisette, he hadn’t mentioned his dream to anyone, not even his sous chef, Riviera, who he planned to recruit to be a part of his mentoring team. It also helped that talking about the program took them away from speaking about floods and family.
They talked for two hours, leaving only when Ma threatened to make them help her clean up. Once outside, the two became quiet. Surprising, but Pierre knew what was on his mind. He wanted more conversations with this probing reporter, ones when she was not on the clock. Did she feel the same way?
“So, Mr. LeBlanc, was that as painful as you thought it would be?”
“Not at all. For a supposedly socially awkward sister, you’re not so bad.”
Roz gave him a look. “You’re not what I expected either.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone more shallow and self-absorbed. I mean, you may very well possess those traits, but I thank you that tonight at least you’ve kept them to yourself.”
“Ha!”
Roz held out her hand. “Seriously, it was a good interview. When it’s up online, I’ll send you a link.”
“You can do me one better,” Pierre replied, returning Roz’s handshake and once again noticing her soft skin. “You can bring a copy over to the restaurant and then stay for lunch or dinner, whichever works, on the house.”
“I thought you were sold out.”
“We are. But I’m the boss. I can make exceptions.”
“Thank you, but...I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What, eating?”
“Accepting your invitation for a free meal. There may be strings attached.”
“Will you feel better paying for it? Seems rather disingenuous to write about a restaurant you’ve not even visited.”
“I thought that was settled. The article will be about you, not the food. But put that way, I guess it would be advantageous to come to your establishment and find out what all the hype is about, a visit that could lead to a follow-up story.”
“What about Wednesday evening, around nine?”
“This Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t nine o’clock rather late?”
“Yes, but the kitchen isn’t as slammed at that hour. I could put all my focus on tantalizing your taste buds.”
Pierre watched Roz nibble the side of her lip as she thought. “Okay, Wednesday at Easy Creole Cuisine.”
“Cool. See you then.”
She reached her car, opened the door and then turned around. “Oh, and Pierre?”
“Yes.”
“I won, so thanks for my parent’s reservation, as well.”
Roz’s smile was mischievous, smug even. Pierre started toward her but she slid behind the wheel, started the car and sped away. Clearly, she wanted to have the last word.
Pulling away from the curb, he played back those last few minutes. The devilish glint in Roz’s eye as she boldly proclaimed victory regarding the bet. How her brow scrunched each time she nibbled her lip. How before saying yes to his invitation she’d darted her tongue out to moisten those tempting, cushy lips. He wondered how soft they were, and how long he’d have to wait to find out. A kiss was definitely in their future. That and much more. Roz may have won the food bet but after tonight Pierre was clear about the next thing he wanted to win. Her.
Chapter 7 (#ubd496860-ec69-5cb5-b326-89ea54463c0d)
There was more to Pierre’s story. Roz saw it in his eyes, could feel it in her gut. What he’d shared was interesting and would make a great piece. She had a feeling that what he didn’t say would make an even better one. Avoiding questions about his mom. Reluctance to talk about his family at all. Vague answers when asked about his early life in New Orleans... Those gorgeous green-flecked copper eyes tinged with a type of sadness that made her want to wipe it away. That fleeting look of vulnerability that, dammit, slipped past the armor around her heart and touched her soul. That made her want to tell him everything was going to turn out fine. Hadn’t that happened already?
It was as though she could still see that teenager inside him. The one uprooted by a storm, forced to navigate a new city and move in with a stranger. What had happened in his home life to cause that drastic action? Roz realized she’d ended the evening with more questions than answers. She wanted the rest of the story, had an opportunity to get it on Wednesday night. Dinner at Easy Creole Cuisine. He said there were no strings, but was there more to that, too? Another question popped up as Roz stopped for a red light. Did she want there to be?
Her phone rang. As the light turned green and she eased through the intersection, Roz tapped the car’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, Biff!”
“What’s happening, Biff?”
It’s what Roz and childhood pal Stefanie Powell had called each other since their preteen years, after hearing the term “BFF” in an episode of Friends
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