The Latino Bundle (EBOOK)

Lucas Miró Porras gritted his teeth.

It was something he did a lot lately.

“Stop doing that. It makes you look like a freaky bear,” his sous-chef said, in her usual mild tone. 

Eulalie Vincent majored on mild, so he could major on mad. 

He grunted, keeping his focus on the fetid, lewd piece of crap that had invaded his neighborhood. The youngest girl was talking to that hippie boyfriend of hers. The one who wore a scarf in the middle of a New Orleans summer and drove a mini-motorbike he thought made him look cool. 

Jackass.

“No amount of growling or grinding your teeth changes the facts.” Lali pointed out something she’d been pointing out for the last two months. “The fact is your father—”

“I know.” Swinging around from the piece of crap and the jackass, he strode away from the full-length window he’d installed in his restaurant only two weeks before the crap ruined the view out onto his street.

His street.

Del Bosque Street lay in the center of New Orleans’ French Quarter. The entire street, both sides, had been owned by either the Miró family or the Porras family since the city was founded three hundred years ago. His popa’s ancestors had arrived with its first French governor and his mami’s Spanish forbearers came soon after. Smartly, both families gobbled up large tracts of land on the Mississippi river, as well as in the burgeoning city itself. When his mami and popa married and were blessed with only one child, all that property passed down and down and down to him.

All of it. Every last piece of it was deeded to him on his thirtieth birthday. 

As it should have been.

Except for one slice of Del Bosque Street.

One piece of the Miró Porras kingdom his popa stupidly let go of in a fit of friendship. It was bad enough when he was told about the sale to some con artist Cajun. His popa assured him, though, that Mr. Blanchard would keep leasing to the regular tenants. Plus, Luc didn’t like fighting with his father. That never went well. So, he’d gritted his teeth and made semi-peace with the whole situation for the last five years.

However, his dear, deluded popa had been wrong.

As soon as Karl Beuze, a man who’d been a family friend and a tenant in good standing for thirty years, decided to close his bookstore across the street, Mr. Cajun-ass Blanchard leased the store to—

His three crazy granddaughters.

Trois Sœurs, announced the ugly sign above their new shop. A shop that sported crap like herbal lotions and voodoo dolls and other assorted atrocities. Strange lights blasted from the display in the front window, crossing his street to muck up his sophisticated restaurant storefront. 

Trois Sœurs.

Three sisters straight from hell. 

“They aren’t that bad, Luc,” his perpetually cheerful sous-chef said from behind him. Although she was at least a half a foot shorter than him, she still managed to follow right on his footsteps as they entered the center of his kingdom.

The kitchen at El Porras was his masterpiece. 

It was also the one place he felt at home. 

His mami said it was his cave. And the way she said it made it clear she didn’t think that was a positive thing. However, he’d become good at ignoring his worried mother for years.

“They seem nice, actually,” Lali suggested, from the swinging doors leading out of the dining area. “Especially the youngest one.”

He grunted his disgust before disappearing into the large walk-in cooler. 

Steel racks lined both walls, filled with King Snapper, Crevalle Jack, marbled grouper, Coho salmon—all delivered this morning from the fish market. Tonight, he planned on an all-fish menu in honor of the hundredth anniversary of his gra-mère’s birth. The woman wasn’t here on earth anymore, but since this restaurant wouldn’t exist without her influence on him, he figured it was appropriate to remember. Gra-mère always enjoyed her fish.

The door popped open, just as he began to inspect the various cuts. 

“Luc.” His sous- chef’s voice was pitched high. Which meant that she was excited about something.

He grunted.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

The mullet didn’t look fresh. That pissed him off, because he insisted on getting only fresh. He needed to call his supplier. The man should know better after ten years.

“Luc.” 

“Tell them to go away.”

“It’s your new neighbor.”

At that announcement, his head swung up in surprise. After the first and only confrontation two months ago, he assumed the three crazy sisters got the message. 

Stay away.

He wouldn’t have to deal with any of them until he figured out a way to get their lease broken, or buy the entire property. Returning it to the true owner—himself. His lawyers hadn’t achieved much success so far in negotiating with the cussed Cajun grandfather, but Lucas wasn’t worried. Everyone had a price. 

“The youngest one.” Her white teeth contrasting with her dark skin, Lali beamed. As if this was a good thing.

“Tell her to leave.” He turned his attention to the fish once more, yet a niggle of curiosity wormed its way into his brain. That made him frown. 

“She looks pretty determined, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask.” Brushing away the curiosity, he noted the oysters looked fantastic. Perhaps he’d start tonight’s special with his cornbread and red onion recipe, fried with these.

“Your mami is going to be so disappointed.” 

He glanced at his friend. Wearing her typical garb of airy cotton shirt, khaki cargo pants, and clogs, Lali oozed lazy ease. Although she was six years younger than he, Luc had pegged her as an old soul the moment she stepped into his office to apply for a job. 

She lounged in the cooler’s doorway, her expression wry, her gaze wise. 

Like his mami, Eulalie Vincent witnessed the debacle five years ago, and the aftermath as well. Like his mami, she’d seen him fall apart and then, slowly piece himself back together. And like his mami, she still insisted he needed to go farther, push himself out of his cave.

He liked his cave. “I don’t know why my mother should care if I talk to a crazy woman.”

“I’m not crazy.” A light, amused voice wafted from the kitchen.

Luc went taut. “You let her in?”

“She knocked on the back door. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell her to leave?” He could see, though, he’d lost the battle by the look in Lali’s eyes. She wasn’t going to throw the woman out, so he needed to. The thought made him growl.

“Don’t do that. It makes you sound like a nasty bear.”

Sweeping past her, he strode into his kingdom with a scowl, ready to dismiss this intruder with several sharp words.

He came to an abrupt stop.

In the last two months, from his restaurant’s front windows, he’d observed all three sisters. The tallest one must be married, because she often had a blond kid in tow, she wore a flashy diamond on her left hand, and she wore comfortable clothes designed to dash after a child. The second one tended toward the pearls-and-linen type of wear, the kind of dress his Aunt Marli favored. 

Yet, his gaze, much to his disgust, mostly landed on the youngest. 

He knew she was the youngest because Lali told him so, and also because she chose the typical clothing of a college student. Tight jeans or baggy sweat pants. Hoodies combined with a T-shirt or tank top. Ragged-looking tennis shoes, with not a high heel in sight.

Right now, though, she wore high heels. 

In the few short minutes since he saw her outside, she’d changed. Everything.

“Hi,” she piped.

The shoes were bright pink, like the salmon he planned on cooking tonight. The shoes matched the cardigan she’d put on over the dress. A dress. This girl never wore dresses. Not in the entire two months he’d observed her. 

“What’s the occasion?” Folding his arms, he leaned against the granite counter. “Finally got a date worth dressing up for?”

She made a low sound in her throat. It was a mix of merriment and sex. A combination and a noise he’d never heard. To his utter exasperation and complete disbelief, his cock stirred.

That hadn’t happened in front of a woman in years.

The realization turned his irritation at this girl and her sisters and her shop into pure anger. “This kitchen isn’t open to outsiders. You need to leave.”

At his bark, her eyes widened. During their first altercation, he noticed they were an odd color, but he’d been too busy yelling to care. Now, he grudgingly identified them as a blue-gray. Striking against the pearly cream of her skin. 

Pearly. He sounded like some adolescent writing dreadful poetry.

Mierda.

“Get out,” he grumbled. “The door’s right behind you.”

* * *

Nina Blanchard believed most people were wonderful. Almost all. They might have their bad moments and their quirky ways, yet at the core, most people had good hearts.

Except for this guy standing before her. 

Jeanie said it must be something he was eating to make him so disagreeable, and he needed to change his diet. Heni thought he might have psycho tendencies, and needed a psychiatrist. Paw-Paw said the man was aggressively nasty because his father sold the property to him instead of giving it to his son. The man had a right to his feelings, her grandfather added, and he just needed some time to get over it.

They were all wrong. 

What this man needed was his very own voodoo doll that she’d cheerfully stick pins in. 

“We need to talk.” She clenched her teeth in a smile because she was desperate enough to play nice.

“Nothing to talk about.” 

His lounging body told a story of supreme indifference. But the expression on his face told her he hadn’t changed his opinion of her since they met that fateful day two months ago. He hated them and their shop with a passion because they carried dirty, disgusting wares. She remembered the words he’d thrown. 

Dirty, disgusting. Fetid crap.

As if he had standing to talk.

Such a saleau, this man. Such a sloppy, surly beast of a man.

His black hair hung around his face in loops of curls that could be deliciously sexy if combed. Except they weren’t, so he looked like he’d just climbed out of bed. His jaw was covered in whiskers that again, had potential. Still, he hadn’t trimmed them, and so they were wasted. Those dark-brown eyes could dazzle if they didn’t constantly glare. His height and heft were a pleasure to gaze at and, she had to admit, she’d caught herself spying on him a time or two. Still, the way he held himself, so tight and angry…the body, too, was a waste on this man.

Such a waste.

A saleau. Definitely.

Straightening, Nina reminded herself about why she was here. She wasn’t here to judge this man. She was here to charm him into agreement. Her sisters had chided and scolded and teased her as she dressed at the shop. But a proper pouponer was needed and she’d learned from her mama how to look nice. 

Heels. Powder on the face. An appropriate dress.

All for this saleau.

Who didn’t appreciate it, apparently. Yet.

Widening her smile, she smoothly eased onto one hip and tilted her breasts his way. These were skills she’d absorbed from a very young age. Skills her mama insisted every woman needed. Skills she discarded when she went to Tulane and realized they didn’t work when a girl wanted to be taken seriously. But she never forgot a lesson.

A short gust of a laugh came from his assistant. 

She liked the woman. They’d run into each other on the street several times and Lali was always pleasant. Why she would work for a man like this—a peunez, a porro, a stinkbug wart of a man—Nina had no idea. 

The scowl on his face turned into an expression of utter evil. His dark brows fell into a glower, and his mouth went grim and tight. Then, the porro growled. 

At her. At her Sunday best dress and powdered face. 

Truly, she needed a voodoo doll.

“You need to leave, right now.” He growled again.

Nina could see this was a hopeless cause, but she was the queen of hopeless causes, and never gave up. “I think we should have a street festival.”

Her words bounded into the room like little fawns, ready to be gobbled up by a big, bad wolf. 

Which is exactly what he did. His mouth opened and he chewed her idea to pieces. “Del Bosque Street is mine. There is no way I'll allow you to dirty it up with your profane wares.”

“Profane wares?” Dirty and disgusting she could handle—perhaps the man needed only to learn. Except profane was an entirely different accusation. Profane meant he’d made a harsh judgment, something no fair person would do without a hearing. Her temper, something she rarely experienced, rose. “What does that mean?”

He tensed and took a step toward her. Since he possessed extra-long legs, something she’d noticed with reluctance, he entered her personal space with the one stride. Nina wasn’t terribly short, though she wasn’t terribly tall, either. Consequently, he overshadowed her, his broad shoulders cutting off the light. His chest, covered in a simple, navy-blue T-shirt that emphasized his pectorals, loomed in front of her, making her catch her breath.

The saleau smelled good. Like sweet custard and toasted pecans.

At the thought, she reared back.

“Excellent,” he snarled. “Keep going.”

Her temper simmered to the boiling point. Not only because he was a jerk, but because she suddenly realized she was attracted to said jerk. “You are a horrible man.”

“Yes, I am.” Taking another step toward her, his lips turned into a grimace, as if the man were attempting to smile and couldn’t because she was in his kitchen. “You’d be wise to stay away from me and mine.”

“I can have a street festival without your permission.” She gulped in a breath, this time from her mouth, not her nose, to avoid his scent, and stood her ground. As her Maw-Maw often said, it was always a good idea to give a person more than one chance. “On the other hand, I thought if all the shops participated, it would be better.”

“Better for whom?” he said, the brown of his eyes glittering with irritation. “For you and your lewd shop?”

“Lewd?” The shop’s stock might be avant-garde, but so what? It didn’t mean she was out to offend. In one second, she lost a temper she’d never lost before. Stepping into his space, she jabbed an unpainted finger into his chest.

It was quite hard. 

Distracted for a moment, she stared at her finger pressed into the soft cotton of the T-shirt, and his solid wall of muscles. 

“Lewd,” he muttered above her.

Thankfully, that brought her brain back to reality. She poked him again. “Are you claiming my store is lewd?”

“I’m not claiming.” His words were rough and tough, yet he retreated from her poke. “I’m telling you it is.”

“How would you know, capon? You’ve never entered the place.”

His brows rose. “What did you call me?”

“Like you don’t know, you coward,” she spat at him, all thoughts of making nice gone. 

“Let’s calm down, shall we?” Lali counseled.

“I am calm.” Swiveling, he showed Nina his big, broad back. “I’m also done with this conversation. Get her out of here.”

With that grand announcement, he disappeared into the kitchen’s cooler once more.

His assistant eyed her, her mouth in a moue. “Maybe try later. I think it’s a good idea.”

“He is une bête puante, a saleau,” she grumbled under her breath. “I hate him.”

“He can be difficult, but he’s not hopeless.”

Nina harrumphed, crossing her arms and trying to think of a Plan B. Plan A had been a desperate gamble, she knew that coming here. She should have also known a pretty dress wasn’t going to impress Del Bosque Street’s resident grouch. Everyone along the street seemed resigned to his endless grumbles and growls. They accepted him as is. 

Why? 

Mrs. Williams had advised offering him one of the oil paintings from her art gallery as a gift to soothe him. Mr. Touslare, who owned the bakery next to her shop, agreed that Luc was a man to stay clear of, although it was understandable why he acted the way he did. Ms. Faulkner, hunkered on the stool in her coffee café, mumbled darkly about cruel happenings and bitter realizations. The vague curiosity she’d felt at the time of these conversations now returned with a vengeance. 

“Why is he so angry? Why can’t he get along with people?”

Lali gazed at her, her brown eyes solemn. “It’s a long story, and he’d kill me if I told you.”

Frustration ran through her, and with it, her belief in people. Most people were good at heart. Why wasn’t Luc Miró Porras? “Something needs to be done.”

“Correct.” The other woman grinned, a quick flash of glee. “And I believe you’re exactly the woman to do it.”

 

Once upon a time, Maurisa Margot Migneault was the luckiest girl in the world. 

She had the best parents ever. She had the best friends ever. And she had the bestest best boyfriend, soon to be her loving husband.

Until Spencer Talbot Dodge split with her the day after their college graduation.

Risa slumped into the finest office chair money could buy, or that’s what her daddy said, and stared at the framed photograph of the love of her life. And her. Spencer smiled at her from his towering height, his beautiful brown eyes filled with devotion. She’d been wearing his favorite dress—the Chanel with the red and pink and purple flowers sprinkled across the entire length—and her Kate Spade sunglasses sparkling with white gems. If she did say so herself, she looked dazzling. 

Except, apparently, not dazzling enough.

A sniff echoed in the large corner office.

When she arrived here for her first job ever, two months ago, she brought this photo because she was positive she’d get Spencer back. Along with the photo, she’d carried in the two ferns Grandma Olsen gave her on her birthday, a set of personalized pens her sorority sisters surprised her with at graduation, and her three favorite paintings of flowers by Cézanne, Renoir, and Monet.

The flowers and the ferns appeared to droop. Exactly like her spirits.

Spencer hadn’t come back.

In fact, quite the opposite.

She stared at the West Palm Beach Society Magazine sitting in her lap. Ever since meeting Spencer, she’d known this was the paper to be in. All the best parties and the best people appeared on its pages.

There was her boyfriend.

On the eighth page—the page highlighting the weekend’s charity gala held at the Dodge compound where she’d only been invited to once.

A second sniff echoed.

Spencer had his arm around another girl. A girl Risa met when she attended the one family dinner. A girl his mother loved and gushed over the entire night. A recent graduate of Harvard. A great-great-granddaughter of one of West Palm Beach’s founders. A girl who belonged to the elite.

Missy Flagler.

The bitch.

She yanked on another tissue and dabbed it on her eyes, careful to not ruin her makeup. If her mascara got smudged, her daddy would notice and he’d worry. The parents were worried about her a lot lately, and she didn’t want to create any further concern. 

Her hand tightened on the tissue. 

There must be something she could do, something she could think of to let Spencer know she was the one. The emails hadn’t worked. Her Facebook messages were ignored. Even the delightful video she’d sent him, starring her in a bathing suit, received no response.

But there must be something she could do to gain his attention once more.

The double doors to her office inched open. Her father’s worried face poked around the edge. “Princess?”

Sticking the damp tissue under the steel and glass desk, she plastered on a smile. “Hi, Daddy.”

“What are you doing?” He eased into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thud.

Nothing. Like she’d been doing for the last two months. A bubble of irritation floated into her gut, something she never felt with her dad. Which surprised her.

Why?

It wasn’t as if she wanted to work here. She didn’t want to be sitting in the Migneault Perfumery offices. She hadn’t planned on a job using her chemistry degree. Being Mrs. Spencer Talbot Dodge was going to be her job.

“Oh, this and that.” Risa kept her smile by clenching her teeth. 

Maurice Migneault’s dark brows furrowed. “Now, Princess—”

She stood, teetering for a moment on her Christian Louboutin slingback pumps. “There’s nothing to worry—”

The magazine fell from her lap in a splat on the cream carpet.

Her daddy glanced down.

Crouching, she plucked the offending item up before stuffing it in the wicker wastebasket, along with the tissue. She took in a deep breath, before popping to her feet again to smile. “There. All cleaned up.”

“I saw the magazine, too.” He grimaced, his hand smoothing across his mustache in a habitual gesture. “I know you’re hurting.”

“I’m not. Not in the least.” The grind of her teeth in her mouth made her think of dusty sand. “It’s been two months since we split.”

Her daddy paced to the pink leather couch her mother gave her when she started the new job. Sagging into the soft seat, he sighed. “I wonder if you’d enjoy taking a trip to Paris.”

She loved Paris. She loved France. The homeland of her grandparents on her father’s side. The narrow lanes of the City of Lights, and the rolling hills of Provence and Grasse, were as much a part of her childhood as the sunny beaches of Star Island, and the humid, bustling streets of Miami. 

“Your mother thought it might do the trick.” Her father gave her a tentative smile. “Shopping always makes you happy.”

A restlessness rustled inside, a feeling she’d never experienced and didn’t appreciate. “I do enjoy shopping.”

“Then, it’s settled.” He clapped his hands together, his smile growing wide. “I’ll let your mother know.”

“But my job.” Her hand waved at the room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the courtyard that was the center of the Migneault perfume factory and office complex. “I just started, so I should probably—”

“No, no.” He gave her his own wave. One of casual indifference. “The job will keep.”

She knew why it would keep. Because she really had done nothing of consequence since she arrived. Nothing more than go through a few reports about the factory’s operations, and looking over the human-resource manual a time or two. Her daddy had been as surprised as she was about the breakup. The only reason this job and this corner office appeared was to help recover her spirits. Doing actual work wasn’t something his princess needed to be concerned with. She only needed to wait until the next prince came around for her hand.

Except she didn’t want any old prince. She wanted Spencer.

Her father slid to a stand, his signature black silk shirt and linen pants as immaculate as ever. “I’ll book the flight for both of you.”

“Didn’t you have an important meeting to attend this afternoon?” 

Memory returned. 

Her dad fussing on the phone to his PA as they drove into work in their family limo. The care he’d taken to stop at the conference room and inspect it to make sure everything was ready. The whispers and murmurs of the staff about a bigwig coming to review a proposal.

Her daddy’s smile fell. His mustache sagged. “It ended early.”

And not well, obviously. She hadn’t spent much time on the job thinking about the company. There’d been too much to think about regarding her lost love and how she was going to get him back. Yet, it hit her that perhaps she should be thinking about something more than herself.

For a change.

“Is there something wrong?” She tried for a compassionate, caring gaze. 

“Not a thing you need to worry your little head about, Princess.” His smile returned, and he ran a hand over the mustache, as if trying to prop it up. “Just think about going to Paris and shopping with your mother.”

After her dad left, Risa drifted to the window to stare at the typical sunshiny day. Even in the rainy season, Florida couldn’t help bringing on the sun. The bright light made her gloom grow darker. Since she’d never experienced anything other than happy and wonderful, she didn’t know what to do about this depression.

Depressed.

She was depressed.

How horrible, and not fair.

Clunking her forehead on the warm glass, she closed her eyes to the light. Her daddy was right. All she needed was a spot of Paris shopping, and some time with her mom. She’d find the perfect outfit and perfect shoes and perfect lingerie, and find a way to win Spencer back when she returned. 

She opened her eyes and stared down at the Migneault courtyard.

Several workers were repairing the walled garden in the center, their hard hats glinting in the sunlight. One worker didn’t wear anything on his head, and his dark hair waved in the soft breeze.

Risa frowned.

Weren’t there rules about construction? She didn’t care about this job. However, she did care about her daddy’s company. If that guy got hurt, he could file a lawsuit. Another worker approached, a hard hat in hand. With a laugh, the disobedient construction guy took it and slapped it on his head.

He was tall. Taller than the others.

And instead of wearing the uniform of a yellow-and-orange vest, jeans, and heavy boots, he had on a simple T-shirt, gym shorts, and flip-flops.

Still, he wore a hat now, and that’s what counted. Giving the guy one last scowl, she turned and surveyed her empty desk. Her dad had some appointment he needed to go to in town this evening, so she might as well leave for home. Mommy would be there, and they could start to plan their trip.

Calling the limo, she picked up her empty briefcase—another present from the parents to honor her new job—and left her office.

The clack clack of computer keys coming from the cubicles lining one wall mixed with the whirr of the espresso machine and chatter from the break room. Migneault Perfumery stood on this spot of Florida coast since her grandfather landed here in his twenties. At the time, the outskirts of Miami hadn’t been developed, and Marcel Migneault got an excellent deal. A deal he’d parlayed into a thriving perfume business that survived his death.

“Ms. Migneault.” A stiff smile accompanied the nod from her father’s chief financial officer as she passed his office. She knew his position, yet couldn’t recall his name. “Have a good night.”

A trickle of guilt centered somewhere in the middle of her chest. It was only a little after three, and the rest of the staff had another two hours or more of work. What was the point though? It wasn’t like her daddy had given her anything to do.

Her jaw tightened, and she kept heading toward the bank of elevators.

Another employee came toward her. This one’s name she remembered. Only because it was ridiculous. She’d called her best sorority buddies, Tina and Sissie, and laughed with them at the absurdity. 

“Ms. Migneault.” Ivan Terriblier looked down his nose at her. “Leaving so soon?”

Sissie and Tina and she took Russian history together, and if she had to cast a modern man into a Russian ruler’s role, this guy would be perfect. Except he wasn’t Russian. He was French. A true Frenchman, hired by her daddy to fulfill the role every perfume company needed.

The nose.

“Are you sick?” said Ivan the Terrible.

“Yes, I am.” Why not? In truth, she was sick. Sick of not having Spencer. Sick of this non-existent job. Sick of her life in general. 

Good grief. How depressing she was.

She sucked in a breath. Going to Paris sounded better and better.

The elevator doors opened. A string of employees, some she barely knew, some she acknowledged with a vague nod, streamed out. 

“After you.” Ivan waved an imperious hand.

Risa stomped in.

All right. She knew what everyone thought of her. She was the spoiled princess who’d snagged a coveted corner office and didn’t do much. For the first month she was on the job, she hadn’t cared, because she was sure Spencer would ride in and save the day. 

During the second month, she hadn’t cared, because she hadn’t cared about much of anything.

Ivan the Terrible stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. His bald head glistened like he’d oiled it, making her want to roll her eyes. His stiff posture stated his opinion of her dereliction of duty. His grim gaze landed on her again. 

She ignored him, instead, focusing on Paris.

They rode the ten flights down in complete silence.

“Have fun,” he muttered as she paced out of the elevator.

“I will,” she muttered back, not caring that he didn’t hear her retort.

As she strode through the plate-glass front door, into the courtyard, she promised herself. When she returned from Paris, she was getting away from this job as soon as possible. 

Paris. Then, Spencer.

Those were her goals.

* * *

His drive outside of downtown wasn’t a complete waste.

“If you aren’t careful, amigo, you’re going to have a sore foot.” Miguel, a long-time friend of his grandmother’s, grinned. “Watch yourself.”

Hefting a cinder block on his shoulder, Enrique de Molina gave the man a finger. “You’re lucky I came along.”

The crew of three chuckled around them before responding with catcalls.

“Are you saying we couldn’t do this ourselves?” 

“Such a big man, eh, Riq?”

“Only a job for a SEAL, chico?”

Giving them all another finger, he headed for the wall being repaired. After the worthless meeting with Migneault, it was a relief to walk out and find a way to work off his disappointment. He’d hoped for a new project, since the last investment he put together was completed more than a month ago. Perfume sounded intriguing, or so he’d thought until he listened to the presentation, and watched the eyes of the owner and his senior staff. Sì, he was an angel investor, yet that didn’t make him a crazed devotee of any scheme presented to him. 

Quite the opposite.

“Make sure the block is lined up correctly, Riq.” Miguel’s amused voice followed him across the courtyard. “You might be a big guy now, but I remember having to help you all the time when you were younger.”

That got the man another finger. 

Still, in this case, he was correct. At sixteen, Riq had been mean, stupid, and careless. Also skinny and short. Only his grandmother’s influence convinced Miguel to take him on for the summer. Once he caught on, though, he’d become one of the best workers on the crew. The experience prepared him for the most important years of his life.

Years that were over. 

He missed physical labor. He missed putting his body to work and making things happen.

Laying the block on the top of the wall, he stopped to yank off the stupid hard hat Miguel gave him as a tease. Why the hell would a guy need to protect his head when doing such a simple job? He’d worn less on numerous SEAL assignments, which were a whole lot more dangerous.

He shook his hair out, stringing his fingers through the sweaty strands.

“You really need to keep your hat on.”

The female voice came from right behind him, a scolding tone in it that reminded him of his yaya. Riq suppressed a grin, something he did often with his grandmother, and turned.

She was petite.

His gaze dropped. And also stacked.

An irritated, female huff drew his attention back up.

She wore sunglasses, covered with what appeared to be weird symbols. The same shapes and patterns he saw when he and several SEAL buddies went to New Orleans several years ago on a lark and he poked his head into a voodoo shop. Those lark trips were the only time he felt like he belonged anymore and he made sure to schedule at least two a year. He paid the bills for all the guys and, in return, got the feeling of being part of the team once more. 

If only for a few short days.  

Her lips tightened at his continued silence. They were painted so they glimmered in the sunlight, as if asking to be kissed clean. Her blond hair was natural, he took that in with one glance, and her skin, although covered in the gook women tended to like, was fresh and young.

He didn’t glance farther down again, because he’d rather not have to deal with another huff. When Yaya Tibby started huffing it usually led to nagging. He’d learned a lot about women from his grandmother.

“Put the hat back on.” 

He arched his brow at the dictatorial edge in her voice. On a bet, he’d guess her age to be around ten years younger than him, and he rarely listened to anyone’s directions, much less a youngster’s, no matter how stacked they were. “Who says?”

“I’ve read the HR manual and I know the work codes.” She gave him a sniff from her diminutive, upturned nose. “You’re out of compliance.” 

“Am I?” Reluctant amusement bloomed. “Sorry.”

“You need to wear the hat at all times.” 

“Thanks for letting me know.” He lounged on the wall, twirling the hat on one finger.

With another huff, she threw the leather strap of her oh-so-important briefcase over a delicate shoulder. “Fine. Be that way.”

She flounced off.

Now that she wasn’t looking, he could finish his surveillance. She wore a black pencil skirt he figured she thought made her appear important, and classy high heels that made her legs look long. Above, she wore a wispy white cotton shirt that destroyed any attempt at professionalism, since it didn’t conceal the camisole beneath. 

She had a great ass.

Riq grunted in male appreciation.

“Not for you, amigo.” Manuel shuffled to his side, his grin still wide. “That’s prime property.”

Before joining the Marines and turning his life around, he would have taken extreme offense to the suggestion that he wasn’t worthy of something. Anything. Anyone. 

Now? 

Now, he couldn’t care less.

Shrugging, he glanced at the older man. “Just looking. Not interested.”

“That’s good.” 

He focused on the woman once more. A limo eased to a stop at the sidewalk and an eager driver jumped out to open her door.

A sneer slid onto his face.

“Yeah,” Manuel continued. “Like I said, not for you.”

With a flip of her long, blond curls, she wiggled into the car, leaving little to his imagination as far as legs, ass, and tits. 

“Little rich girl, huh?” No way she earned enough money for those clothes and that limo at her age. She either had a wealthy idiot on the leash, or came from money. Both of which deserved only disgust in his book.

“Migneault’s girl. She works here.” The older man gestured toward the squat office building behind them.

Riq turned to look up at the conference room he just left. Maurice Migneault was not what he’d hoped for, or expected. In fairness, he hadn’t fit what the man wanted, either. He’d asked tough questions, hadn’t accepted the cagey answers, and eventually ruffled feathers. The meeting had been short, pointed, and gave him his answer before he strolled out the door. 

A flat no to being an angel for Migneault Perfumery. 

His friend glanced at him, his gaze curious. “Apple of her papa’s eye.”

Having never been the apple of anyone’s eyes, other than maybe his yaya, used to make Riq angry. Now, like so much of life, it rolled right off his back. “Not surprised in the slightest. She must be wearing a thousand dollars worth of clothes and other female crap.”

Which told him where part of Migneault’s overall problem was. The man had other problems on his hands too, but since Riq refused his offer, he didn’t have to worry about it.

The older man chuckled. “How do you know that?”

He knew because he lived in the world of luxury. Lived a life where money was no longer an issue and he could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers. Yet, his grandmother didn’t know that. Neither did his family. It wasn’t surprising this man, their friend, knew nothing of what he really was, either.

He shrugged again. “Just keeping up with what the ladies like.”

“You’re good at that, huh, Riq?” He got a slap on his shoulder and another chuckle. “Your grandmother always tells me about your exploits.”

She knew so little of his exploits it was laughable—though if she ever found out, Yaya Tibby would not be laughing. But the likelihood of that was zero. He’d made sure of that. 

“Come on,” he said, turning to the load of cinder blocks. “Let’s finish this job.”

 

Kendall Ryan, Ana Huang, and Christina Lauren, these are the stories for you! Includes: grumpy/sunshine, Ugly Duckling, Cinderella with a twist, enemies to lovers, forced proximity

Chef Luc Miró has perfected every recipe except the one for happiness, until a spirited shopkeeper with a gift for chaos serves him a second chance at love he never thought he'd taste again.

Angel investor Enrique "Riq" de Molina hides his wealth from everyone, and his heart from himself—until a hurricane strands him on his private island with the one woman stubborn enough to break through his barriers.

Spirited Nina Blanchard believes in fate and second chances, but when she spills the carefully guarded secrets of the grumpy chef across the street, she'll need more than her usual charm to convince him their undeniable chemistry is worth risking his heart for.

When her family's perfumery faces ruin, spoiled but determined Maurisa "Risa" Migneault tracks down a stubborn billionaire to his private island, only to be caught in a hurricane that sweeps away her princess persona and reveals the woman she was always meant to be.

This Knights trilogy represents a journey through different worlds and fairy tale inspirations, each with its own vibrant setting and unique twist on the classic knight-in-shining-armor trope.

When creating the glittering world of Nick and Jessie's romance in Knight in Cowboy Boots, I drew inspiration from many places, though I must confess I've only experienced Las Vegas by driving through it, stopping for breakfast, and continuing on my way. One day, I'd love to stay and properly explore the neon wonderland that captured Nick's ambitious spirit! Some of my own favorite indulgences made their way into this story—I cherish those precious weekends at luxury hotels where I can write undisturbed and treat myself to room service. There's something magical about creating worlds while nestled in crisp hotel sheets with a steaming cup of hot chocolate delivered right to the door.

For Knight in Black Leather, I delved into my love for New Orleans. The steamy streets that hum with music at all hours, the weight of centuries layered into every crumbling brick, and that seductive sense of promise hiding around each wrought-iron corner. When I imagined Luc's restaurant, I could practically taste the crawfish étouffée and hear the sizzle of his famous BBQ ribs. If El Porras were real, I'd be first in line for a reservation! This story takes inspiration from the Mexican fairy tale "E Principe Os" (The Bear Prince), continuing my fascination with reimagining classic tales.

When I created Risa and Riq's story in Knight in Tattooed Armor, I was in the middle of launching myself into the indie author world for the first time—a totally amazing and terrifying adventure that mirrored Risa's own journey of self-discovery! I love taking fairy tales like Cinderella and turning them upside down, which is exactly what I did with our pampered princess and seemingly down-and-out Cinderfella. While writing their island romance, I couldn't help but dream of future Caribbean cruises (still on my wish list!). Like Risa finding her courage to face a hurricane and a surly SEAL, I found mine in hitting publish—and I've never looked back.

As I typed the final words of this trilogy, I found myself unexpectedly emotional. After spending so many months with these characters—witnessing their struggles, their growth, their love—saying goodbye felt like watching dear friends move away. Their stories of finding home in each other's hearts will always hold a special place in mine, and I hope in yours too. I invite you to join me on these adventures across vibrant settings where our modern knights and determined heroines learn that sometimes the greatest treasure isn't found in glittering casinos, steamy restaurants, or private islands, but in the most unexpected of hearts.

1. Knight in Cowboy Boots*

2. Knight in Black Leather*

3. Knight in Tattooed Armor*

*all stories are standalone and can be read in any order

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