Page 3 of A Caribbean Heiress in Paris
“What in the world does he think he’s doing?” she hissed under her breath as she glared at the large man who was now picking up the bottle of Dama Juana she’d strategically placed just behind her Gran Reserva. She’d meticulously angled it so the light coming in from the electric chandelier overhead highlighted the roots and spices in the bottle. She’d had everything ready for the evening’s judging, and now it was all ruined. Dozens of distilleries from around the world would compete for ribbons that could spark the interest of buyers. Luz was the only rum distiller in the mix, and she’d done everything she could to ensure her display was attractive to passersby, but now her table was in shambles.
The reception was the one event where she’d been able to pay an entrance fee without being required to offer an explanation as to why no man was accompanying her. The more fool her for thinking she’d get through a single day without losing her temper.
Luz was tired,exhausted, utterly done in by men. Long gone was the enthusiasm and optimism with which she’d boarded the train in Le Havre headed to Paris. Just that morning one more of her father’s associates had told her to her face he simply did not “deal with women” before walking out on her. Which left her with less than a handful of prospects for finding a shipping partner in Europe and not a single buyer secured after a month—and now she had to deal withthis.
“I’ve not seen him before. I would’ve noticed. He’s...hard to miss.” Aurora was rather breathless as she caught up to Luz.
“I would think not. He’s the size of a mountain.” Luz’s irritation made it challenging to keep her voice down, and the manwasstartlingly large. Just then the big sod moved her hand-painted signs with the seal of Caña Brava to the side and replaced them with what she could only assume were his own bottles.
God, she could slap him.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have a man to verbally eviscerate,” she said, lowering her voice to a barely audible, furious whisper. In any other circumstance she’d almost feel sorry for the man, because he was about to be the recipient of what amounted to thirty days and twelve hours of pent-up frustration.
She was armed for battle, wearing her favorite morning suit. The one luxury she’d allowed herself since she’d left Hispaniola. She knew she looked the part, a modern woman, a distiller, who had every right to be in this room. Feeling slightly less murderous, she tossed her head back and gripped the hard casing around her waist as she marched forward. If she was forced to wear all this armor for the sake of fashion, she would put it to good use.
The jacket was a blue-and-burgundy houndstooth and complemented her figure very well—with no bustle, because she had to move in these clothes and the corset was hard enough. She felt the hem of her long skirt flap against her ankles as she strode to confront the man, reciting in her head the words she’d volley at him. Though she did not reach the heights of the disrupter at her table, she was tall for a woman, and she liked that about herself. She stood at her full height in every situation, made her presence felt. Women had to fight for the very oxygen they breathed, and Luz purposefully claimed any space she entered. Leonas didn’t cower to anyone. They roared.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” she said in the most commanding tone she could manage with her ribs as constricted as they were.
“I don’t speak French, lass,” he said smoothly without turning to face her.
Charming.
The Scottish brogue made her stumble for a moment, not expecting to hear something so warmly familiar in that moment.
“I’m happy to communicate in English, sir.”Thisfinally made him stop. Luz was not prepared for what she was confronted with.
The man was irritatingly handsome. A face one could only call striking. It was the full kit. Red lips that curved into a perfect bow at the top. Thick sable hair was placated with some pomade, but for one errant curl which fell across his forehead, which she found oddly appealing. Then there was the beard paired with those dark eyebrows. They made him look a little dangerous, like a gentleman pirate. It was a most unsettling combination.
He kept his eyes on her face, his body tilting toward her, as if he wanted to inspect her more closely. She held herself tightly as he assessed her. His inquisitive eyes took their time exploring her, and she had to resist the urge to squirm. There was nothing she detested more than being looked at like an exotic animal. Although this was not the invasive, impolite examination she’d been subjected to more than once in the past few weeks. Instead of the familiar, uneasy prickle behind her neck, something much more distressing occurred. A warm and not entirely unpleasant sensation bloomed in every part of her body he focused his attention.
That was certainly not anything Luz could entertain at the moment.
“Has anyone told you gawking at women is extremely rude?” she asked peevishly.
“Where are you from?” he retorted, ignoring her comment.
She wasn’t in the mood to give the man a lesson in geography, so she followed his example and disregarded his question. Instead she pointed to the bottles of Caña Brava and silk flowers, which were now fully shoved under the table. “Those go on top of the table.My table.”
He arched a sable eyebrow at that and leaned on the edge of said table as if he was settling in for a lengthy conversation. “Yourtable?” He was taunting her.
“Yes, mine,” she practically spat. He just stood there impassively, like a gigantic, Scottish statue smiling at her as if she was the most entertaining thing he’d encountered all day. This—this—was the exact reason why she’d deferred dealings with other distillers to her father and she’d focused her energy in building relationships with women merchants. Men were impossible. Men wereinfuriating.
“I am an exhibitor at this event,” she said, waving a hand over the pin on her lapel, which she noticedhewas not wearing. “Or do you, like every other man in this building, have trouble grasping the concept of a woman owning a rum distillery?”
“I’m sure you’re very good at it too.”
Oh for... The man was scraping her nerves raw. She was feeling quite light-headed. Perhaps he’d brought on some type of rage-induced ailment.
“Although these don’t look like rum,” he observed as he picked up one of the bottles from the floor. That raspy growl of his wasunsettling. Luz’s heart raced as his massive hands engulfed the small squat bottle of Dama Juana. He turned it around, multiple times, holding it up so close to his face it almost brushed his perfectly trimmed beard. If she wasn’t so irritated she would’ve laughed; he clearly hadn’t the slightest idea what he had in his hands. He finally turned to look at her. Those amber eyes lit with curiosity, again she felt faint. It had to be the summer heat...yes, certainly the heat.
“What is this called?”
“It’s a bottle of Dama Juana,” she informed him curtly, and his nostrils flared.
“French, English and Spanish. Impressive,” he offered in answer, seemingly oblivious to her increasing irritation. She bit her tongue, unsure as to why she was entertaining the man’s questions. “What’s inside of it?”
“Rum,my rum, soaked in roots and spices from the island. Some for flavor, others for medicinal purposes.” She could just leave it at that, not give him what he wanted, but it was impossible for her to not explain the significance of that little bottle he was holding. “Every family back home has their own recipe for their Dama Juana, but my great-grandmother was a root worker, and her mixture was famous all over the island. I began to produce it and sell it in our local markets a few years ago.”
