Knight in Tattooed Armor: International Billionaires XII: The Latinos Page 5

  “You should care about finding a girl,” his grandmother tutted at his side. “Un hombre necesita a una mujer.”

  A man needed a woman in some ways, but not in the ways his yaya meant. Riq met her gaze and grinned. “Are you sure? I seem to be doing fine without a woman.”

  Snorting, she dug a fork into the pile of rice and black beans. “Are you, Enrique? Are you sure?”

  He was positively sure. When he’d first started to make money hand over fist, he’d let it slip to some of his SEAL buddies. Who’d told their wives and girlfriends. The next time he’d attended a wedding for one of his SEALs, the women had been all over him. Not for him. Not for his mind, or his principles, or his heart. No, they’d wanted his money. And maybe a taste of the bad boy that still appeared whenever he became provoked.

  He’d had enough of that for a lifetime.

  Nowadays, he kept his success to himself. If a woman fell for him, it wouldn’t be for his money, not if he could help it.

  “A man needs a job and money to attract a woman.” Jorge eased back in his chair, loosening his tie. Which he always did when he was about to launch a lecture at his youngest brother. “It would be a miracle if Enrique could attract someone in his circumstances.”

  Riq felt his grandmother stiffen beside him. His parents rarely interfered when their sons squabbled or took shots at each other. As a kid, he’d been expected to take the heat and fight back. His yaya was another matter. He’d told her time and time again, he no longer needed her protection. He was a grown man, who towered over his two brothers both physically and mentally, as well. He might not have a degree, yet he could survive in the wild for months, and invest millions to make more.

  But Yaya Tibby did things her way.

  “Even miracles take a little time,” she huffed. “Cállate.”

  Sì, big brother, Riq thought, suppressing a grin.

  Shut up.

  Chapter 5

  “Who’s coming to our dinner party tonight?” Risa slid onto a stool and put her chin in her hands. Her parents were avid entertainers, and she hadn’t been surprised when she arrived home from her pointless job to find her mother bustling between the kitchen and the dining room.

  Usually, though, these dinners were planned weeks in advance.

  Since leaving the Beachers last weekend, she’d watched her parents closely. And all her fears and worries had been confirmed. Her mom’s usual bubbly, low-key personality had morphed into an uptight, tense presence in their home. Her daddy was even worse. At work, he kept himself holed up in his corner office diametrically across from hers on the top floor of their building. Instead of talking with his employees and chatting up the newest sales numbers, he seemed to have retreated into a funk. He tried to cheer up when they arrived home, but often, her parents went into the library and closed the door.

  Something bad was going on.

  Something about the perfumery.

  She was almost sure. Not having much to do at work, she’d spent the last few days poking around. Her father had monitored her once she started working, except not in a heavy, overbearing way. That wasn’t her daddy. Yet, he had effectively boxed her in with his love, giving her very little to do. But since he was hiding, she took advantage of her status as the owner’s daughter and sniffed around, asked some questions, looked at some reports her father hadn’t shared with her.

  Chemistry might not be a business degree, still, it did indicate she was smart. For the first time in her life, she focused on being smart instead of pretty.

  The picture emerging wasn’t pretty.

  “Several people you know.” Her mom’s smile was pure plaster. “The Burnetts from across the street.”

  “Uh-huh.” She didn’t mind Mrs. Burnett, though the woman’s high-pitched laugh made her cringe. Mr. Burnett was another thing. He always tried to snatch a grab—her arm, her ass…it didn’t seem to matter. “Who else?”

  For a moment, her mother’s expression turned frantic. But then, it was gone in a flash, and her smile returned. “The Carters and the Maddens.”

  More neighbors. No one who would cause her mom to look like she was about to be run over by a truck. “That’s all?” she asked, pretending not to care.

  Her nonchalance seemed to calm her mother. “Mr. Terriblier from work, and his wife.”

  She grimaced. The Nose? Her daddy had never invited Ivan the Terrible before. “Oh, great.”

  “I know you don’t like him, but he’s a central part of the company.” Her mom made herself busy by arranging the flowers for the table.

  Straightening on the stool, Risa narrowed her eyes. Her parents tended to throw parties for friends, not employees. Why would the Nose suddenly be included in one of their intimate gatherings, if it wasn’t something about the company?

  Her intuition whirred. “Who else?”

  Because there had to be someone else. Someone her daddy and the Nose needed to impress.

  “A last-minute addition,” her mom gushed, her eyes alive with dazed hope.

  “Really? Who?”

  Candice Migneault paused, her fingers tightening on the stems of the flowers. “Risa.”

  “Yes?” A weird mix of anxiety and hope surged inside. Anxiety that something awful was happening and she was finally going to find out. Hope that perhaps one of her parents trusted her intelligence and maturity enough to confide something important.

  “Your daddy needs some help with Migneault Perfumery.” Her mom’s expression turned grim. “Quite a lot of help.”

  “Help? What kind of help?” The mix of emotions clogged her throat. She’d been right. Their company was in trouble.

  Their company.

  Migneault Perfumery wasn’t just a place to get a job after she graduated because she wasn’t going to be Mrs. Spencer Talbot Dodge. The perfumery had been as much a part of her life as her mom and daddy. She still remembered Grand-père Migneault holding her hand, as they toured the labs where the perfume was tested. Grand-père had immigrated from Grasse, France, where perfume wasn’t a science, it was an art. Her daddy had taken over the company after Grand-père had died when she’d been fifteen. Not until this moment, had she ever questioned the reality of her father running Migneault Perfumery and the company always being there.

  Her mom began fiddling with the flowers again, and didn’t meet Risa’s narrowed gaze. “Anyway, we just got word two potential investors have accepted invitations for tonight’s dinner.”

  “Investors.” Her heart sank. “That means the company needs money.”

  “I’m sure everything will be fine.” Finishing with the flowers, her mom flashed her a quick look. “Just put on your prettiest dress, and be on your best behavior.”

  She slid off the stool and scowled. “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  Which was true. Except for that one night at the Beachers. That one night where she’d been a tad bit arrogant and a tad bit aggressive. She brushed the thought aside, continuing to frown at her mother.

  “Yes, dear heart.” A smile creased her mom’s cheeks. “And that’s why we love you.”

  A niggle of dissatisfaction followed her, as she grabbed her empty briefcase and trudged out past the pool and into her bedroom. She knew her mom hadn’t meant they only loved her because she behaved. She knew they loved her for a whole variety of reasons: she was happy and joyful, pretty and popular. She’d never embarrassed them publicly, even as a little girl. She instinctively knew how to charm people, and she did well enough in school that no teacher had ever had to call with a complaint.

  She was their princess.

  But…

  Dropping her briefcase on the bed, she slumped down beside it.

  But did her parents only love her because she always performed in her role?

  She made a face at the mirror hanging above the dresser where she stored her makeup. It was a stupid thought not worthy of her parents. Probably the depression she kept struggling with was at fault. What she needed to do was
put on a fancy dress, put her hair up in a fancy ’do, and plan on charming these investors into agreeing to whatever her poor daddy asked for.

  It would be her contribution.

  It was what she did best.

  By the time Risa arrived in the kitchen to help with the final preparations, her parents’ usual caterer had commandeered the place. Knowing from long experience she was only in the way, she wandered into the white-and-black living room.

  Just last year, she and her mom had gone on a redecorating spree and had so much fun.

  The black Steinway stood in the circular window overlooking the ocean. Although neither her parents nor she played piano, the piece had been so beautiful, both her mom and she had agreed—they had to have it. The white leather couches were deep and plush, and highlighted the dramatic black curtains and gold embossed lamps.

  She stared at it all and wondered—

  How much of this spending had contributed to their financial problems? Why hadn’t her daddy said something? She hadn’t ever had to think about money, other than to get more from her parents.

  Now? Now it hit her that perhaps she’d been part of the problem.

  Trying to distract herself from the dismal thought, she smoothed her hands down her bright-red linen dress with its delicate cream lace at the top. She’d paired it with tan pumps and lots of red lipstick. Whatever happened tonight, she felt ready to impress.

  “Baby girl.” Her father strolled into the room, a tight smile plastered on his face. He had on his favorite Armani suit, which told her he wanted to impress their dinner guests as well. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” She pecked him on the cheek, before wiping her lipstick off his skin. “Tell me who the important guests are.”

  “Why?” His smile finally reached his eyes. “Are you going to awe them with your glamour?”

  Maybe she’d awe them with her mental ability. Or her brilliant strategy for fixing whatever needed fixing at Migneault Perfumery. Maybe she could use her brain instead of her body. An anger, much like the anger she’d experienced with that caveman at the Beachers, whispered its rage into her gut.

  But this was her daddy. He loved her.

  She fastened on her best smile. “Anything I can do.”

  Her father patted her on the shoulder, the gesture as familiar to her as his love. “I’ll take care of it, Maurisa.”

  I’ll take care of you.

  The message was clear and not unusual. The rage battered at her control, yet she wasn’t about throwing a fit or making things hard. Her parents were worried enough. The doorbell rang before she could put together her thoughts well enough to understand what she wanted to say.

  “Come on.” Her father took her hand. “Let’s greet the guests while your mother finishes getting ready.”

  First came the neighbors, and then the Nose and his placid wife. She ignored the man, instead paying plenty of glowing attention to his wife. She’d learned as a child if she couldn’t charm one person, she needed to try another. His wife bloomed into an instant friend, and it irritated the Nose.

  Good.

  She didn’t like the Nose.

  Her mom sailed into the living room, a genuine smile on her face, and the tight knot of worry in Risa’s stomach eased. Guests continued to flow into their house until all of them had arrived.

  Except for the most important guests. The investors.

  Tension flittered across her mom’s expression, and her daddy looked pained. The knot returned to twist inside, making her grumpy at whoever was upsetting her parents.

  A roar came from outside the front door. A mechanical roar.

  She frowned. That was a motorcycle. She’d never understood the appeal of a motorcycle. Star Island Drive was a circular street in the center of the island, and rarely did she hear anything more than the hum of a Rolls Royce, or the purr of a Mercedes-Benz.

  The roar came again.

  Her daddy coughed. “That’s him and his friend.”

  “Him? And his friend?” Risa’s frown turned to a scowl. Some atavistic instinct caused the hair to rise on her neck.

  “The investors, darling.” Candice Migneault glided toward the front door, a look of faint alarm on her face. “Let’s greet them.”

  She took her father’s outstretched hand with reluctance and walked forward. Whatever or whoever this was, nothing was going to intimidate the Migneaults. The double doors swung open. Although it was past seven p.m., the summer sun still shone brightly, blasting light onto chrome and metal. The two men straddling the beasts had taken off their helmets and were grinning at each other.

  That was…

  That couldn’t be…

  He didn’t wear his customary T-shirt and gym shorts and flip-flops. He wore a tuxedo jacket she was almost sure was Ralph Lauren, and had paired it with sleek linen pants that fit him like they were custom-made. The only hint of the caveman was the lack of a tie. Instead, his white silk shirt fell open to reveal tanned skin and a trace of chest hair.

  He swung his gaze away from his friend and stared at her.

  Unlike Risa, he didn’t seem surprised.

  “Daddy?” She clutched her gold necklace, wobbling on her high heels. “Who is that?”

  “The blond man is Charles Woodstone, the heir to the Woodstone fortune.” Her father tightened his hand on hers. “He’s a millionaire in his own right as well.”

  Charlie. His friend from the Beachers who’d fit in to the place with his logos. She’d heard of the Woodstones too. They were part of the same scene as Spencer’s family. Rich and connected.

  “Is he the investor you need to talk to?” Her question wavered, the hair on her back bristling with intense foreboding.

  “No, Princess.” Maurice Migneault’s mustache bristled, too. “It’s the other man.”

  Shit. She managed to quench the swearword in a gulp. The last thing her mom needed was her precious daughter being unladylike. But oh, shit. This guy? This caveman she’d insulted and ordered around?

  And kissed.

  His gaze narrowed, and a smirk tilted those full, rose lips up. The tip of his leather shoe, which she was pretty sure was from Givenchy’s newest season, tapped the motorcycle’s kickstand, and he eased back in the seat. She had no clue about motorcycles. But something told her the caveman and his friend, Charlie, weren’t riding a cheap version. The bikes looked brutal and breathtaking.

  As a matter of fact, she found it hard to draw in a deep breath of her own.

  Holy shit! her mind screamed at her. If this was her parents’ best hope to save the family company, then she’d already ruined their chance. By the look in the caveman’s eyes, he wasn’t here to listen to her poor daddy’s pitch.

  He was here to exact his revenge.

  On her.

  Chapter 6

  Riq couldn’t help the gruff bark of a laugh at the expression on the princesa’s face.

  “Now I get it.” Charlie swung his long leg over the bike’s seat, before straightening his suit coat. “I was beginning to think you might be ill, choosing to attend a pretentious dinner party instead of going to the club for our bi-weekly swim. But I see why we’re here.”

  Did he? Then Riq would appreciate his friend telling him. Because he still had no clue why he’d said yes to Maurice Migneault’s whiny plea rather than blowing him off. He threw a glance at Charlie, arching his brow.

  “She’s that girl you were talking to at the Beachers last weekend.” His friend grinned at him. “She’s a looker.”

  He glanced back at her. Maybe he did know why he’d said yes. Sì, the princesa was a looker. Like Angelica, though, she was also clearly a pain in the ass. And instead of teaching her a lesson last Friday, he’d allowed her to gain the upper hand and chase him off.

  No self-respecting SEAL would let that stand.

  So, he’d go with that for his reason to be here.

  “You’re staring hard at her, dude.” Charlie chuckled.

  He was. It
was impossible not to. She shimmered in the sun, like a sweet surge of electric energy. Feminine energy. She wore a red dress, but unlike his yaya’s favorite, this one was pure class and pure provocation. It fit her tight, turning her into a flaming gauntlet of challenge. The expression on her face did nothing to stop the surging determination inside him. The big O her mouth made when she first saw him had changed to a scowl of disgust.

  “Might want to play it a bit cooler,” Charlie advised. “She looks like the type who needs to be impressed before giving the goodies.”

  He didn’t want the princesa’s goodies. Not at all. What he wanted was to teach her a lesson.

  “That’s not a look to attract a woman.” His best friend’s voice turned wry. “What’s with you?”

  He’d met Charlie during the first week of BUD/S training. At first, he’d taken the man as a lightweight, a guy who’d drop out within hours of Hell Week starting. But he’d surprised Riq, and also the rest of the class and the instructors. He’d dug in, done the work, and became a SEAL.

  He also became Riq’s closest buddy in the eight-man squad.

  Yet, unlike his other SEAL buddies, Charles Woodstone wasn’t about sweat and blood and guts. Rather, the man shrugged away any hard truths, preferring to live free of obligations. He still didn’t really understand why his best friend had signed up for the Navy. He also didn’t understand why Charlie had quit after only one contract term. There was the additional fact that the man had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and hadn’t needed the money nor the danger of joining the Marines. Not that Riq had known this until after they’d both left the SEALs for civilian life.

  Only when he’d visited him at the rehab center and told him his plans for the future, had Riq realized good old Charlie was hard and focused about one thing in his life.

  Money.

  Money was an area his friend excelled in. And money was what had lifted Riq’s spirits and given him a purpose—something Charlie had been intent on giving him.

  “Are you planning on sitting on your bike for the rest of the night and exchanging glares with the pretty one, or are we going in?” Charlie shifted on his feet, an impatient cough adding to the message. His friend wasn’t much for standing around.