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“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.”
