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Refusing to watch a second longer, Luc cursed and swallowed a bitter truth. He’d been suckered. The night he’d spent with Alyssa, she’d sworn she hadn’t let a man in her bed or her pussy for nearly two years. At the time, he’d believed her. She had been incredibly tight.

Faced with this foaming-at-the-mouth crowd, he didn’t see how it was possible that her bed had been empty for even two days.

It didn’t matter if she slept with her bouncer, all of her customers, and most of Louisiana’s male population. He had made an agreement with her, and he would honor it. Furthermore, he’d keep his hands off of her for the week, no matter how alluring she was. He had a future—God willing, a wife and a child someday soon—to think about.

THREE in the morning. With the doors to the club shut and the dancers and waitstaff cleared out, she and Luc were alone. Finally.

She took a moment to savor the fact that, if all went well, she’d performed her last pole dance. Never again would she fill her belly by exposing her body. She’d done it to survive for the past fourteen years. The restaurant represented her future, her path to a better life. She’d work hard for a successful opening just to avoid showing complete strangers her tits again. Luc was a big part of her recipe for success. Thank God she’d convinced him to stay.

For her restaurant’s sake—and her own.

Beside her, he stood tall, and so tense she could have bounced a quarter off him. Alyssa smiled. The scrumptious, skittish chef had no idea what was about to hit him.

“You sure you want to tour the restaurant now?” she asked.

He nodded. “Seeing your setup will allow me to plan stations, feel the flow of the food. Tomorrow I need to meet your staff. I’ve spoken on the phone with your sous and pastry chefs, as well as your assistant manager. They’ve all completed the training I sent along. We have the week’s menu set. You said someone purchased the quantities of supplies I requested?”

Alyssa nodded and cast him a saucy glance. “You have expensive taste, Mr. Traverson.”

“You’ll make your money back, Ms. Devereaux.”

Of course he’d make that promise. He wanted to be sure he didn’t owe her a damn thing when he walked out that door. And she was dead determined otherwise. At the end of a week, Alyssa swore she’d own him, body, heart, and soul.

In separate cars, they drove the few blocks to her new endeavor. She refused to look at the fact that he’d declined to ride with her as a setback.

Once they arrived, Alyssa took the keys from her purse and unlocked the door. Just inside, she walked around the corner and flipped on the lowlights overhead. There was a brighter set . . . but why kill the mood?

Alyssa looked out over
her
creation. Simple elegance. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Dark wood accented by walls of taupe and earthy gold, splashed with accents of burgundy and chocolate. The open space held an expectant air, as if waiting for guests. Chairs and crisply draped tables abounded, a few outfitted with china, linen napkins, and crystal so she could see the effect. The understated lettering on the foyer wall read BONHEUR, and the sight filled her with anxious pride every time she came here.

Out of the corner of her eye, she cast a glance Luc’s way. Arms crossed over his chest, he scanned the restaurant, his gaze assessing. Her heart beat faster as she waited for his response. It made no sense, wanting his approval so badly . . . but that didn’t stop her anxiety.

“Well?” she breathed.

“Bonheur,” he murmured. “That’s French for ‘happiness.’ ”

“I thought it was fitting. Patrons should be happy here.”
And I pray owning makes
me
happy, too
.

“I like it. Fine dining for large parties? Couples?”

“Either. Both.”

He glanced out across the tables again. “If you’re hoping to be a hot spot for romantic dining, you have too many tables for parties of four to eight, particularly in your cozy corners. The partition between the bar and the dining room . . .” He pointed halfway across the room to the half wall that separated the eating patrons from the merely drinking ones. “It’s too short and too close to the bar. It will be hard to get any ambiance if people laughing, smoking, and drinking a lot are visible from the dining room. Raise that to the ceiling. Do you have vents to push the smoke back to the bar?”

She’d debated that, hating to close off the room. But he was right. “There’s no smoking at all.”

He hesitated. “Even in the bar? That will cost you money.”

“It’s worth it. I want to make my money from the bar because people are ordering drinks with their food or while waiting for their table, not because they’re skipping dinner and loitering over a scotch, hoping to find a date for the night. I’ve got one bar; I don’t need another.”

Luc nodded, but didn’t react otherwise. She made a mental note to drag more of the smaller tables out of storage and call her contractor to fix the wall in the morning.

“Where’s the kitchen?” he asked.

Biting her lip, she led the way around a corner, flipping on more lights. Teasing and seduction, she understood. The restaurant business . . . That was his area of expertise, and now he was all button-down assurance. Alyssa was grateful for it. She’d tried hard to make Bonheur’s kitchen optimal, a place a chef of Luc’s caliber would be proud to cook in.

Winding down the hall, she was conscious of Luc’s eyes on her. His gaze brushed her shoulders, hugged the curve of her waist, lingered on her ass. She could feel the burn.

“The kitchen isn’t visible from the dining room. Good layout.”

When they reached the large, mostly stainless steel room, she flipped on the lights. “I’ve heard people don’t like seeing the kitchen when they eat.”

Again, Luc crossed his arms over his chest, looking from one end of the room to the other, nodding slowly. “Very nice. Butcher-block prep area is well placed and large. Twelve-burner stove. Gas?”

“Of course.”

His approval showed on his face, warming her. “A fair number of industrial ovens. Four sinks. Good placement of utensils along the walls. Warmers?”

Alyssa pointed to shelved space under the counters and another at the pass, where plates would be assembled.

“Good. You’ve got plenty of refrigeration space.” He glanced around another corner and opened the door. “Great freezer. Ample storage.”

“You can never have too much.” She smiled.

“Hmm.” He looked as if he was fighting the urge to smile back. “What sort of flooring is this?” He stomped a boot on the surface.

“Cork. Never slippery, easy to sweep or replace, and provides natural cushion for everyone’s feet.”

He finally turned to stare at her, the fact that he was impressed warming his features. “You planned all this by yourself ?”

“Mostly. A bit of help from my contractor. Sexy Sirens has a few customers in the restaurant business, and I asked their advice. The rest . . . I did my homework. I wanted everything to be right.”

Something on his face changed, closed. His body tensed as his dark gaze skittered away. “You succeeded.”

Damn!
What had caused the warmth on his face to chill? The mention of Sexy Sirens? Deke had told her once that she wasn’t Luc’s type because he was looking for a
lady
. Did his avoidance mean he saw her as one small step up from a whore?

She raised her chin. Alyssa knew men. Even if Luc was loath to admit that she was his type, she knew she made his dick twitch. It was a start.

Now he was all business again. “What time can you have the staff here tomorrow?”

“Noon work for you?”

“Perfect.” He turned away.

“You’ve already approved the menus. Anything else you need to see tonight?” She gripped the keys in her hand, wondering how to recover the mood they’d shared just minutes ago.

Patience,
she warned herself.
Stick to the plan
. The night was still young.

LUC followed Alyssa to the restaurant’s empty parking lot. The ample lighting would make patrons feel secure. However, the illumination pissed him off because he could see every sway of her enticing hips as she sashayed to her car. It made him hard. Again.

He’d driven his SUV from the strip club, mostly so he didn’t have to shut himself in a confined space with her, even for three blocks. He didn’t think he could be responsible for his actions for even that long. In Bonheur’s kitchen, the thought of laying her across one of those gleaming stainless steel counters and fucking her senseless gripped him by the throat. He should thank her for bringing up Sexy Sirens and the favors she’d likely had to give her loyal customers to obtain their advice. The thought made him grit his teeth and his dinner churn. His temper soar.

Alyssa was a stripper, for fuck’s sake. Not the sort of woman who went without sex for two years. He’d been an idiot to believe that when she’d whispered the trembling lie as he’d tumbled her into bed three months ago. She was in the business of leading men around by their dicks. And she was good at it. He couldn’t be angry with her for being herself; she’d never pretended to be anything different. But he could—and should—be furious with himself for caring.

Despite the lot being completely empty, he’d parked three spots from her. As he pressed his key fob to unlock the driver’s door, he watched her do the same with her black sports car. Luc fisted his hands. She’d go home now, lose that little black skirt, white tank, red bra, and fuck-me shoes. Even though she played no part in the future he craved, he itched to follow her home . . . help her out of every garment, sink down into that perfect, tight body.

He swallowed.
Keep your dick in your pants. Cook, shut up, and get the hell out of Lafayette. Seven days. Think you can find some self-control?

A feminine shriek zipped across the lot, shattering his thoughts. Alyssa.

Luc’s heart stuttered, and he nearly leapt over his car as he rushed across the asphalt. She backed away—right into his chest. He steadied her, palms cupping her bare shoulders.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Alyssa drew in a shuddering breath. “Bastards!”

Before he could ask her who or what she meant, she reached into the interior and yanked on something. A moment later, she produced a long, serrated knife with a piece of paper attached. Under the streetlamps, it gleamed the word WHORE in bright red lipstick.

Shock crested, then quickly morphed into molten fury. It was ironic; he’d been thinking something similar only moments ago. But he would never have said it aloud, much less stabbed it to the front seat of her convertible.

“Who would do this to you?” His voice vibrated with rage.

She tossed the knife into her front seat and cast him a wary stare over her shoulder. “Who knows?”

Luc turned her to face him and clenched his jaw. “Who. Did. This. To. You?”

His tone took her aback. “Look, it’s not new. Shit happens all the time.”

All the time?
That only infuriated him more. Luc drew her closer as a thunderous frown stole across his face. She wasn’t afraid, and he was scared as hell for her. “What have the police said in the past?”

“Police?” She shook her head. “This is just . . . a prank or a pissed-off customer who thought I didn’t pay enough attention to him, most likely.”

And whoever did this could also be dead serious. That blade was no laughing matter. “What if someone really sick wants to hurt you? How long has it been going on?”

“Like I said, it happens. It’s been a while but—”

“Get in my car.” He was done allowing her to stand like a convenient target in a shadowy parking lot. He didn’t provide personal security detail like his cousin Deke, but he’d spent enough time with the man and his business partner, Jack Cole, to know that remaining out in the open could be deadly.

“What?” She looked incredulous. “I’m not leaving my car here.”

“I’m driving you home. You’re calling the police and reporting the crime so they can investigate.”