French Quarter Kisses

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

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

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.”