LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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