Black Magnolia (An Opposites Attract Novel) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Stalk Lena

  Lena’s Books

  Black Magnolia

  by

  Lena Black

  Copyright © 2018 Lena Black

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing: Joshua Minette & Julie Cameron

  Cover design: Lena Black

  Cover image: www.stock.adobe.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1986013819

  ISBN-10: 1986013812

  To anyone who ever broke free

  Content

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Stalk Lena

  Lena’s Books

  This isn’t a wedding, it’s a merger between two powerful families, coming together to form an unstoppable empire. This isn’t love, it’s business.

  When I was informed I would marry Shaw, I didn’t bat an eyelash. We’d been ‘dating’ for over a year. Plus, I’d been raised with the understanding I was bred for ‘a greater purpose’. I was educated at the best private schools and learned about wifely behavior from my mother, all with the goal of being the perfect trophy wife. I’ve always done what my parents asked of me, without hesitation or question, and to the best of my abilities. Their happiness is important to me, even if it means mine isn’t. I’m willing to sacrifice it for the betterment of our family.

  I’m a good daughter, a doting daughter, an obedient daughter.

  My entire path has been paved and laid out before me. I’m sitting in the backseat of my own life, my parents at the wheel, while I watch the world flash past my window.

  My father, a politician from Pennsylvania with his eye on the White House, made the arrangement with Shaw’s father, Louis LeBlanc, a wealthy businessman from New Orleans who wants a hand in the political game.

  The first time I met him, he insisted I call him Papa Lou—right before he pinched my backside.

  My father wants his money. LeBlanc wants my father’s influence. Shaw wants me.

  This marriage will be one of convenience and breeding, carrying on the name and bloodline, rather than about needing to spend our lives together, not being able to live our lives without the other by our side. It’s all very technical, mechanical, methodical.

  I’m in front of the vanity, in the bridal suite of an opulent manor in the heart of the Garden District. My hair is done and impeccable, not a strand out of place. Like my life seems to be. My makeup is camera ready, a mask to hide my pain. My dress is elegant, expensive, designer, of course, like my husband-to-be.

  Over the past year and a half, I convinced my heart I love Shaw because I had to. In some faint way, I do. Or I’ve fooled myself into believing I do.

  It doesn’t matter though. Minutes from now, I’ll be his wife…whether I want it or not.

  Once the last drink is drunk, I see my staff off before starting my nightly routine. I enjoy my late-night wrap-up when the bar is vacant. Just me, some Anarchy Reigns on the jukebox, and my thoughts. I reflect on whatever my current issue is, and I’m never lacking in that department. This week, it’s my ex (girlfriend and waitress). Left me high and dry before the busiest time of year, Carnival. My place is in the center of the excitement, corner lot on Bourbon Street. She knew we were going to be slammed, but she bailed anyway. I’m stupid for thinking she wouldn’t. She always fucking does. But this time, I’m not taking her back, no matter how much she begs—even if she gets on her knees. She’s good at it.

  “Whore,” I mutter under the music, arranging the bottles of booze displayed behind the bar label out, my back to the room.

  “Are you open?” a frail voice asks.

  “We closed about…” My words disintegrate on my tongue when my overworked eyes settle on an attractive woman—in her wedding dress. Black makeup streaks her pale cheeks. Hair droops from her bun, lifeless streamers of black around her face. The hem of her tattered dress blackened with the filth of New Orleans.

  For a second, I thought she was the restless spirit of a heartbroken bride. You hear enough stories. NOLA isn’t lacking for ghosts, voodoo, or the mystical. Fortunately, I’m not the superstitious type. My fears are based in reality, like the levees rupturing again, the economy collapsing, or men who wear Hawaiian shirts and socks with sandals.

  How can I turn her away? She just survived the streets of New Orleans, a beautiful yet deadly place if you find yourself in the wrong area at the wrong time. Where the Big Easy ain’t always so easy. What the fuck is she doing out this late anyway? Apparently, NOLA’s reputation precedes her.

  Whatever reason she entered my restaurant at three in the morning, this should be interesting.

  “We’re open.”

  Limping over to the bar, she grimaces. Appears Cinderella left behind both shoes. Her feet are dirty, visibly raw, and in pain. She scoops the never-ending train of her dress out of the way, parking herself on a stool.

  I scratch the back of my head, like I usually do when I’m stumped, and then shrug. I walk around the counter, over to the door she came through and bolt it tight. Wouldn’t want any more unusual guests popping in.

  Once I’m behind the bar again, I ask, “What can I do for you, miss?”

  “A drink, please.” Her voice is void of emotion.

  Normally, I wouldn’t serve anyone alcohol after we’ve closed, but if anyone has ever needed a drink, it’s this woman.

  “What would you like?”

  “Anything as long as it’s strong.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I make the house specialty, a Black Magnolia. My own personal concoction and our most popular drink, named after the restaurant. The Magnolia used to be a dive before I turned it into a thriving restaurant and bar. It’s my pride and joy.

  I set the drink in front of her…along with a bottle of water. She ignores it, going straight for the booze. She downs it like a shot and sets the glass back down on the rich wood counter.

  “Hope your boss doesn’t fire you over this,” she says, wiping rogue drops from her chin with a swipe of her fingertips.

  “He won’t mind.”

  I figure my owning the place doesn’t need to be common knowledge. But a sliver of me is insulted she thinks I’m incapable of owning an establishment li
ke this.

  Why do I give two shits?

  “May I have another?” She slides her emptied glass at me across the counter.

  I mix another and place it between her flattened hands on the counter. No ring. But there’s a line across the base of her ring finger.

  I push the water closer. She twists her mouth at it before chugging her second drink in less than three minutes.

  “Another,” she orders, her voice louder, bossier, somewhat garbled.

  She’s tipsy after two drinks.

  “Not a big drinker, are you?”

  “Nope,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, emphasizing the ‘p’ with a pop.

  That was rhetorical. I know my drinkers. And this girl is not. She’s the kind of woman who never had more than a glass of wine with dinner, maybe a celebratory sip of champagne during a toast, but hard liquor is not her drug of choice.

  I make her one more, resigned to cut her off after.

  “Sip this one.” Her hand moves toward it without care, and I pull it back. “It’s not a suggestion.”

  She nods, and I release it into her custody and leave her to sit in sorrowful silence. She nurses her drink and stares into the mirror behind the bottles of booze, her eyes devoid of any emotion, any sign as to what she might be thinking. She lifts the glass to her mouth every now and again, robotic, her focus nailed to the back wall. She isn’t seeing what’s in front of her face. She’s somewhere else right now.

  I wipe the already clean bar, making myself scarce while keeping an eye on her. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll evaporate into thin air if I turn my attention from her. Or maybe it’s the fact she’s the most stunning woman I’ve seen in a long, long while…my ex included.

  Once she drains her glass, I clear her mess.

  “Can I call someone for you?”

  I wipe away the ring of condensation on the counter in front of her.

  “There is no one,” she answers, her head dipping.

  Okay.

  It’s obvious she isn’t from here by her absence of a drawl. But she must have a place to stay while she’s here.

  “How about a taxi to your hotel?”

  “I have nowhere to go.”

  A single tear emerges from under the fringe of black lashes on her right eye. She turns her head from me and swipes it away. I feel my barrier crack under the weight of a lonely teardrop.

  Judging her getup, I doubt she has any money for these drinks, let alone a place to sleep. She’s worn down, dirty, and very hungry. It’s in her eyes and colorless skin. Likely why she’s swaying in her seat. No food and hard liquor don’t mix. She has nowhere to go and no one to take care of her. I’d be an asshole to send her back out into the streets at this time of night, especially inebriated. She’d be prey for the slaughter.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  She shakes her head, hanging down around her silk-clad chest.

  “Come with me.”

  I walk out from behind the counter, toward the back of the restaurant. When I realize she isn’t following me, I turn back to her. She’s still on the stool, her eyes on me. I crook my finger, summoning her to me. Not even a muscle moves.

  I wish I could explain I have no desire to harm her, but my appearance might contradict it. Most people aren’t comfortable around me. I’m tall, dark, and imposing. She’s slender, alone, and defenseless. If I weren’t a nice guy, I could easily overpower her, without exerting any real force. She’s right to be wary. But she also has no other option but to trust me.

  “You have somewhere better to be?”

  She slides from her stool, and I lead her to the door marked private, before the hallway leading to my office. I take the keys out of my pocket, unlock it, and open the door. I gesture for her to enter ahead of me. This way, I’m there to catch her in case she’s too tipsy for stairs. I wouldn’t want a lawsuit on my hands if she bumped her gorgeous head. She wavers a bit, keeping her eyes glued down to her drunken footing, but manages well enough.

  Not someone to normally bring strangers into my home, I’m strangely drawn to this woman. Beyond being a goddamn mystery, I sense a common hurt. I’ve experienced my share of weird shit, but this is by far the oddest fucking thing that ever happened to me. Like any man, I presumed the only woman I brought home—in a wedding dress—would be my wife.

  We enter the front room, the stairs opening directly into my apartment. I throw my keys on the table lining the wrought iron railing of the banister. They make contact with a metallic clatter. She studies the room and kitchen to the right of it, quiet and observant, her bourbon eyes wearily drinking in my apartment.

  “You live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your place downstairs, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Her face reddens. It could be from embarrassment—or the three drinks she downed like water.

  “Why did you lie about it?”

  “You assumed something. And I didn’t correct it.” I give more attitude than necessary. For some inexplicable reason, I’m still raw about this woman seeing me as nothing more than a drink-slinger.

  She bobbles her head from side to side.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Currently.” I glance at her bare feet, filthy with New Orleans’ grime. “Where are your shoes?”

  “I took them off somewhere,” she breathes out and then glances down, wiggling her toes. “They hurt my feet.”

  Right. Totally logical.

  Speaking of logic. It slaps me on the back of my head. I’ve invited this woman into my home without even asking her name.

  “Greier,” I offer, holding my hand out to her. Her mouth does a lousy imitation of a smile, and she takes it, giving it the weakest shake.

  “Reagan.”

  Reagan. I like it. It suits her.

  She stares at me, and I stare back at her, our hands remaining clasped like links in a chain.

  “So,” I mumble, pulling mine back and wiping my clammy palm on the back of my jeans, “if you want to shower or bathe, the bathroom is connected to my room.” I point toward the front of the apartment. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom and a lock on the door if you’re worried about me trying anything.”

  I laugh at the awkwardness between us. As any normal person would, she questions me with suspicious eyes.

  Psycho.

  “That didn’t come out how I meant it.”

  “I understand,” she assures me.

  She continues to stare at me. For longer than a stranger should. It’s too intimate, too revealing. Then I realize I’m staring back. And I can’t stop. Even through the smudged makeup and messy hair, her beauty is irrefutable. It’s regal. Like an old Hollywood starlet.

  I need to stop gawking at her.

  Food, I remind myself. I brought her up here for food.

  “You’re hungry,” I confirm, “right?”

  “Starved.” She places her hand over her stomach. “You sure I wouldn’t be putting you out?”

  “Haven’t had the chance to eat today, so it’s no trouble. I’m going to warm something while you freshen up. My ex left clothes behind if you want to wear them. She bought so much shit most of it was never worn. Or feel free to any of the stuff in my drawers. Whatever you want.”

  “Thanks,” she whispers, weary, before edging toward my room.

  I make myself useful in the kitchen and take some to-go containers from the restaurant out of my fridge. It’s Cajun and Creole fare. Some of the finest in the whole city. I heat up the gumbo and red beans and rice on the stove. It’s better fresh. But even reheated, this stuff is the shit.

  “Um, Greg,” my unexpected houseguest beckons from my bedroom, her head poking out of the cracked door. I walk over even though she got my goddamn name wrong.

  “Greier,” I remind her.

  “Oh,” her face twists apologetically, “sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” I wave it off. “What’s up?”

  “This
is embarrassing.” She hides her face behind her hand. When she removes it, her cheeks are even rosier than they were earlier. “Can you help me out of my dress?”

  I pause at her request. I’ve undressed enough women in my day. Why does the idea of undressing her throw me off?

  She turns her back to the slim opening between door and frame so I can see her dilemma. A million buttons trace the elegant line of her spine.

  My pants tighten.

  I raise my hands to the top of her dress, pausing when I notice the way her alabaster neck contrasts the pure black of her upswept hair. My fingers refuse to function as a heavy dose of epinephrine electrifies my veins at the idea of touching the velvet perfection of her skin. It’s immaculate. It was the first thing I noticed about her—besides the wedding dress. Her amber eyes lock with mine from over her milky, lace-covered shoulder, her pearly front teeth sinking into her red-rose-petal lip. Her lipstick is smudged.

  I’d love to see it like that after her mouth’s been wrapped around my—Get ahold of yourself Grey.

  Her eyes fall away from mine, as if she can see the corrupt image play across my gaze.

  I force a silent breath, shaking the nerves out my hands. I go to work at the base of her neck, snapping them apart. I assume she won’t be using this dress again. It’s wrecked. So, it doesn’t matter if I tear the delicate loops wound about the satin buttons. With each one freed, the creamy white of her back peeks through the sliver widening between the fabric. When I free the final button, the capped sleeves peel away from her shoulders and slide down her arms, exposing her back, her shoulder blades, her elongated spine, the curve before her rounded, heart-shaped butt.

  I’ve imagined what it would be like to take off my wife’s wedding dress, not a total stranger’s. It’s been a night of unexpected firsts for me. And I’m not hating it.

  My knuckles accidentally caress her satin skin, and it gives me a rock-hard, shameful stiffy. I’m a pig. I’m noticing these things when this woman is trusting me with her safety and well-being. She needs me, and I’m taking pleasure in her body.

  I’m foul.

  “Thanks,” she says with a whisper of a voice, clutching her dress to her torso.