The Beau & the Belle
Page 24

“Sir? May I have your name?” the attendant at the door asks, her iPad armed and ready.
“Beau Fortier.”
I don’t miss the subtle shift of her smile—the recognition I’m still getting used to.
“Of course! The mask threw me off. Go right on in. There’s dancing and hors d’oeuvres on the first floor and a lounge on the second floor.”
I nod and brush past her, stepping inside. It’s crowded, the front foyer of the restaurant packed with bustling bodies. Women slip out of coats and scarves, checking them with attendants before stepping into the receiving line to greet our hosts.
The line moves quickly and before I know it, I’m in front of Mr. LeBlanc, extending my hand like everyone before me. He gets one good look at me behind the mask and tugs me into a hug.
“Beau,” he says, his voice booming over the crowd. “Good to see you, son.”
It’s been 10 years since I rented their apartment, but I’ve seen him and Mrs. LeBlanc around town every so often. We’re invited to many of the same events, though I don’t usually attend. I haven’t had the time, but tonight, I cleared my schedule.
Mrs. LeBlanc smiles and when I pull back, she wraps me in a hug of her own. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! Lauren will be so happy you’re here!”
I mold my features into a simple smile—anything more and Mrs. LeBlanc will catch it.
“Lauren is here?”
Of course she is. I knew she’d be at the masked ball. After all, it’s being thrown in her honor, in addition to celebrating the start of Carnival season. The 12th night marks the end of Christmas and the beginning of Carnival. From now until Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday), New Orleanians will do their damnedest to stuff themselves with rich foods and stiff drinks in anticipation of Lent. I, for one, plan on indulging in a different guilty pleasure.
Mrs. LeBlanc grins. “She is. I saw her just a minute ago—she’s supposed to be up here greeting everyone with us, but I think Rose stole her away.”
I smile, promise to catch up with them later, and head to the bar, suddenly anxious to see her.
Don’t be confused: I haven’t been pining for Lauren for 10 years—I’ve been too busy. Those first few months after Audrey, I thought about her a lot. I’d wonder what she was doing, where she was. I saw online that McGehee had temporarily shut down for repairs, just like Tulane. I knew she probably hadn’t stayed in New Orleans. I could have asked her parents for updates when I saw them over the years, but I purposely held off. The last decade has been about business—specifically, growing Crescent Capital.
“I’d recognize that ugly mug anywhere, mask or no mask.”
I chuckle and turn to find Russ, my business partner, with a drink in each hand. He clinks them together before holding one out for me. It’s dark—rum and coke. “Aren’t we a little old for drinks like this? And is that new?”
He downs three-fourths of the glass with one sip in answer to the first question before brushing his hand down his tuxedo jacket for the second. “It is. Tom Ford.”
“You look like a prick.”
“A rich prick.” He smirks and holds up his drink like he’s making a toast. “And that’s fine by me. Here’s to one night of behaving badly.”
“One night?”
Russ doesn’t need an excuse.
“One night tonight, then one night tomorrow, and so on—it’s called living in the moment. It is Carnival season after all.”
I shake my head and tip back a sip of my drink. Russ draws out extremes in people: enthusiastic love or severe hate. He’s the wealthy son of a real estate developer. A northerner by birth, southerner by choice. Handsome, smooth, kind of an asshole. We met in Austin when I was finishing up my last semester of law school. Given the choice, I would have preferred to start out on my own, but Russ had something I needed: cash—lots of it.
It hasn’t been easy working with him though. We might be like brothers, but like brothers, we’re usually close to blows. Russ had a markedly different upbringing than I did and he wears that privilege like a gaudy beaded necklace, testing my patience on a daily basis. I’m the one in the office Monday through Friday (and often weekends). Russ comes in when he feels like it, more for show than anything else. I swear half the time it’s just so he can steal the alcohol from my minibar. Now, I hide the good shit.
I’m okay with his absence though; I like running the show, and I’m not good at sharing. Having to deal with the board is bad enough. Russ is easy to control. He cares about profit and I’m happy to make that for him because the richer he gets, the richer I get.
I finish my drink and pass it off to a waiter making the rounds.
“Cassie’s here.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The girl you dated for a little while last year. You liked her, I thought?”
“Yeah, sure,” I offer, placating him. I don’t remember a Cassie.
Then it clicks.
“Do you mean Cathy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
I snort under my breath. I’m not sure what I expect—he can barely remember the names of the women in his life, much less mine.
“You should try to talk to her,” he says while scanning the room. “She looked pretty good for someone named Cathy.”
“I’m not interested.”
He hums. “That’s too bad.”
“What do you mean?”
He turns and I see that gleam in his eye—the one that scares me a little. It’s the same look he had right before he dropped half a million dollars at auction on a canary yellow Porsche 918.
“It means you’re finally going to get out there tonight, bud.” He claps his hand on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to punch his smug smile. Thanks to my newfound boxing hobby, I could knock out every one of those pretty teeth with one blow. “No more holing yourself up in that office.”
Russ isn’t one for empty words. I narrow my eyes.
“What’d you do?”
He uses the hand on my shoulder to twist me toward the crowded room. “Do you see those little cards the women are holding?”
I hadn’t until he mentioned it. They’re small, delicate, and gold-leafed, no bigger than a business card. Some of them are wearing them tied around their wrist with a ribbon.
“Those are dance cards,” he explains, and I frown. What is this, the 1800s? “And let’s just say that for the rest of the evening, Beau Fortier is spoken for.”
“Funny.”
“You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. The first dance is going to start soon and look here, I think it’s your first partner.”
A pretty brunette strolls up to us with a tentative pink-lipped smile. Behind her small black mask, her gaze sweeps from Russ to me.
“Beau Fortier?” she asks shyly. “Umm, I think I’m supposed to dance with you first?”
She holds up her card like it’s a subpoena. In slot number one, I see my name written in Russ’s coarse scrawl. I want to protest. I want to drag Russ outside by the scruff of his neck and teach him not to fuck with people’s lives. I want to tell this nice woman the truth and turn her away, but my manners are ingrained in my DNA. There are people watching us, and I won’t embarrass her in front of her friends.
I turn and clap a hand on Russ’s shoulders, feel his knees buckle under the weight. His dark eyes flare with fear just before he’s smart enough to mask it.
“Don’t go far, buddy. I’d like to have a word with you after this dance is over.”
He blinks. Swallows. The fear is already gone. It’s that privilege sinking in again—Russ creates consequences, but he never suffers them. To him, people are playthings.
“I’ll be right here,” he promises with an amused grin, but we both know it’s a lie. He’ll stay in hiding until my annoyance has lessened to a low simmer, until I’m ready to joke about this. He knows I’ve never been good at holding grudges. Besides, he probably thinks he’s doing me a favor. There are worse pranks to play on someone.