LITMIR.BIZ

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nodded, waved and offered up his megawatt smile to the fans and photographers shouting his name. Designer shades covered deep hazel eyes, hiding the merest hint of a longtime hurt that never quite went away. Eyes continually surveying, searching, slightly saddened... His sister, Lisette, would meet him at the restaurant. She’d be the only family member on hand to celebrate the big occasion. The other woman who was once in his life, the one that for years he’d searched for online and in the faces of every crowd, had been achingly absent during more than a decade of his life experiences and achieved milestones. His mother, Alana. The woman who’d put her fifteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter on a bus bound for Houston, Texas, promised to meet them there in a week, and disappeared.

      The two-car caravan, followed by a small but energetic brass band, reached the restaurant. It was a totally renovated and hugely transformed building originally erected in 1879. The word Easy was scrawled across the side and continued upward into the sky in big cursive letters that would light up at night, with the rest of the name, Creole Cuisine, in block letters beneath. That sign and the group of people standing beneath it brought out Pierre’s first genuine smile all morning. Hard to believe that the dream he’d held since becoming a line cook and peeling more shrimp than he thought the ocean could hold had finally come true. And that the people who mattered most, well, almost all of them, were here to cheer him on.

      Pierre swung a pair of long, lean legs over the side of the car, slid down and waded through a sea of people to hug Lisette, his mentor, Marc Fisher, his second mom, Miss Pat, his network publicist and his newly-hired manager, who’d flown down from New York. Then he walked over to greet the mayor and other city officials standing near the front entrance, just beyond the red ribbon and large bow stretched and waiting to be cut, a symbolic gesture signaling the official opening of Pierre’s dream.

      “This is a happy day for our city,” the mayor said, each word from his booming voice absorbed by the attentive, enamored crowd. “Pierre could have chosen any major city in the country to open his restaurant. We are happy and proud that he has chosen the Big Easy to open Easy Creole Cuisine.”

      With elaborate fanfare, the mayor was handed a framed proclamation that he read aloud. For the last line, he turned and spoke to Pierre directly. “By the powers vested in me as mayor of New Orleans, I declare this day to be Pierre ‘Easy’ LeBlanc Day in the city of New Orleans!”

      The crowd cheered and began to chant. “Easy! Easy!” And then, “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

      Pierre strolled to the microphone and held up his hand to silence the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Thanks to all of the city officials and other public servants who have come out today to lend me your support. I really appreciate it.”

      Some city officials nodded. Others clapped. The mayor bowed as if to say it was his pleasure as Pierre turned to the crowd.

      “And you, the beautiful people of New Orleans! I...” His words were drowned out by the cheering crowd. Pierre waited, then motioned awkwardly for them to calm back down. “This is really incredible. Even though some consider me a celebrity because I’m on the Chow Channel and a product spokesperson for Intensity Energy drinks, I’m still pretty much a regular guy, not much for the spotlight. I usually let my food do the talking, if you know what I’m saying.”

      Pierre chuckled, a shy, almost self-depreciating sound that came off as especially sexy to the mostly female crowd. They hung on his every word. Smiled when he smiled. Joined him in laughter. If he were the band leader, they were his orchestra. If he were the quarterback, they were his team. Clearly, he had those around him in the palm of his hand. Several people noticed and weren’t surprised. Marc, for instance. His sister, Lisette. Miss Pat. Groupies familiar with his television charisma, who’d helped launch him to superstardom, were even more impressed with his in-person charm. And one woman, a television reporter, seemed prepared to do anything to get the story...and the man.

      “I guess the only thing left for me to say is thank you,” Pierre finished, his voice soft and sincere. “The next time you’re hungry, come on over and get something to eat.”

      Amid the laughter and applause, Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, a smart, capable young woman working in one of New York’s top-notch firms, stepped forward. “We have time for a few questions.”

      Several reporters asked relevant questions, eliciting sometimes serious, sometimes entertaining answers.

      “Eating good food has always been one of my favorite pastimes. But working in a restaurant, New Orleans in Houston, was the first time I considered cooking as a career.

      “My inspiration? Definitely my mentor, Marc Fisher, the executive chef at New Orleans. A culinary school and drill sergeant rolled into one. He took me under his wing and encouraged, motivated and threatened my ass into being the best possible chef I could be.

      “Other than a chef? I grew up wanting to be an athlete, basketball. And a superhero, when I was five.”

      The crowd loved listening to Pierre speak from the heart. Clearly, they could have stayed there all day. Just as Cathy walked over to end the questions, a vivacious redhead emerged out of the crowd with microphone in hand.

      “Tell me, Pierre,” she drawled with an accent that was part Southern and part seduction. “Is there anything on the menu that is as tasty looking as you?”

      “A perfect segue into what’s next,” Cathy glibly countered, as the crowd reacted, letting Pierre off the hook. “Mayor, if you’ll do the honors.”

      The mayor cut the ribbon. Shortly afterward, eighty lucky diners and eighteen VIP guests sauntered into Easy to put the redhead’s unanswered question to the test.

      * * *

      “Oh my God, could she be any more blatant and unprofessional?”

      “You act surprised.” Rosalyn “Roz” Arnaud didn’t look away from her computer screen as she answered Ginny, her coworker at NO Beat, a small yet notable New Orleans weekly newspaper.

      “Not really. The whole town knows that girl loves men and money.”

      “That girl” was Roz’s former colleague and nemesis, a woman named Brooke who’d worked for years at the city’s biggest newspaper. She covered everything from entertainment to sports and considered herself the company’s “it” girl. When Roz landed a job there fresh out of college, quickly impressing the higher-ups with her knack for putting an interesting spin on ordinary stories, Brooke had viewed her as competition and tried to make her life there a living hell.

      A year into the madness an article Roz had written caught the eye of a guy starting a weekly publication with a focus on local news. He’d offered her a job as senior writer, and the freedom to cover topics she felt passionate about. Roz quit the more established, popular paper, took a salary cut and attached her star to the start-up. A year and a few awards later, NO Beat had a small but dedicated staff, national recognition, major advertisers and a solid core of dedicated readers. Turned out Brooke did Roz a favor. Working at NO Beat was the best professional decision she could have made.

      “Look at him, though,” Ginny said dreamily, chin in hand as she gazed at the television. “That bod, those eyes.”

      Roz gave the screen a cursory glance. Pierre stood at the entrance to his new restaurant, looking the way he had the first time she saw him on an energy drink commercial. Six feet plus of raw sexuality, muscles rippling beneath a tight white shirt as he wrestled a steak off a fiery grill, then reached for a bottle of Intense Energy to refresh him. She remembered being annoyed at how good he looked, and that her body had reacted as though she was a love-starved teen. Truth of the matter was she could use a round of horizontal aerobics, but why tempt fate? It had taken almost a year to get over Delano, her last heartbreak. Today she was in a really good space. She had a job that she loved, covering topics that mattered, a restored twentieth century bungalow, and a terrier named Banner who every day welcomed her home more enthusiastically than any lover ever could. The last thing Roz needed was a pretty boy problem. Especially one that would cause a ten-year journalism vet who knew

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