Creed (The Marquette Family Book One) Page 2

  He left the two alone and started along the hallway toward the front of the hotel. When he turned a corner, he expected to end up at the bank of elevators, but somehow he’d gotten turned around. Grumbling, he retraced his steps, and his cell phone rang.

  Creed stabbed the connect button. “Jeff, what is it?”

  “I’ve found your brothers. They’re in New Orleans.”

  “Why the hell would they be there?” He tried to recall if Damen or Stefan had said anything about where they were headed. Not that he kept tabs on them, but they did have responsibilities in the parent company.

  “Um.” Jeff hesitated. “Maybe you should talk to them about it?”

  Creed clenched his jaw. He knew what that meant. His brothers had done something he wouldn’t like. “Fine. Do you have a number? Because neither of them is answering their cell.”

  Jeff passed on the information and rang off. Creed continued down the hall and turned right. He still thought he headed in the wrong direction, because the passages were stark and boring here, while the area near the front lobby was more stylish, with landscapes on textured walls.

  The next intersection emptied out into a locker room. A security guard stood with arms folded, watching Shada clearing her locker. Guilt stirred in Creed, but he assured himself she would find something else soon enough. He started to turn the way he came when he heard her speak.

  “No, sis, it’s okay,” she said. “I’ve been through this before. Not a big deal.” She tried to laugh, and Creed heard tears in her voice. He spun back to look at her, and she shifted the cell phone from one ear to the other. “I’ve got Lurch right here watching me. Like they have anything I want. Gotta go. I’ll be home soon.”

  She disconnected the call and spun around at that moment. Her gaze lit on Creed, and she scrubbed an arm over her face. He found himself at a loss for words. He had made her cry.

  Shada struck a saucy pose. “Come back to gloat?”

  “Let’s hurry up there,” the guard said.

  Creed silenced him with a glare and moved on impulse. He took his wallet out and removed a business card. “Call me. I’ll help you find something else.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

  “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Or were you trying to kill me?”

  A flash of guilt. “Of course not. Death isn’t funny.”

  He wondered at the seriousness of her tone now and when she had mentioned sickness in the interview. He wondered, as he did then, if she knew firsthand what it was like, especially since she’d been so quick to respond and knew what to do when he had the reaction.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll expect to hear from you.”

  With that, he left her and found his way to the lobby and up to his room. Sleep called his name, and he intended to answer the summons until the next day.

  Chapter Two

  “Damen, you’ve been avoiding me.” Creed felt his nostrils flare in his anger. “What are you and Stefan up to?”

  “Hey, bro,” Damen said, and Creed winced.

  “Don’t.”

  Damen chuckled and sobered. “I’m here with Stefan, taking care of a little business.”

  “Here, as in New Orleans.” The words weren’t a question. Creed already knew from his assistant where his brothers had gotten off to. “I know Stefan likes to pretend I’m the sole owner of our company, but you at least I thought would be responsible. Damn it, Damen, when are you going to stop trying to be like him and accept that you’re…” He found himself at a loss for words.

  “A nerd?” his brother supplied.

  “Don’t be stereotypical.”

  “My IQ is one fifty-eight. I have a PhD I got for the hell of it, which I’m doing nothing with, by the way, and you’re saying I should what exactly?”

  Creed pinched the bridge of his nose. His head no longer hurt now that he had rested, but Damen’s issues weren’t what he wanted to deal with at this time of morning. Why did he always feed into it anyway? “I’m saying you’re trying to break out of one stereotype into another.”

  “Now you’re insulting our baby brother.”

  “Just tell me what the hell you’re doing in New Orleans.”

  Damen hesitated, and Creed knew he wouldn’t like it when he heard. That’s why Jeff refused to give him the details and left it up to Creed to get it straight from his brothers. Noise from the background said Damen was in a crowded place, maybe a restaurant, as Creed could hear the clink of silver on plates and people laughing.

  “Spill it, Damen. You know you always tell me anyway, and I end up having to wipe your asses.”

  “Fuck you, Creed,” was the response.

  “Well?” he insisted.

  “We bought a restaurant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Stefan and I bought a restaurant here in New Orleans. It’s pretty cool, but it’s not going so well.”

  Creed thought again of the background noise. His brother raised his voice at times to be heard over it. “Sounds pretty popular, from what I can hear.”

  “I’m not at Marquette’s.”

  Creed froze. “You didn’t just say…”

  “Yeah, we named it Marquette’s. There’s a sign and everything. Stylish and classy, you know?”

  Creed stood up and paced his office. He walked over to the door and glanced at Jeff with a look his assistant understood to mean he was not to be disturbed. Then he shut the door. When he returned to the conversation with his brother, he felt like he had better control of his temper. “We know nothing of running a restaurant, yet you two decided to give the place our name?”

  “Jeez, Creed, get off it, will you? Listen, this is a great opportunity. It will be fun, something different than the corporate BS we’ve been dealing with for a while now. Think of it as an adventure.”

  Creed knew everything that Damen was saying was just a repeat of what he had heard from Stefan. Not that Damen didn’t have his own thoughts. Damen was intelligent—the smartest out of the three of them. However, after Damen’s wife left him, Creed had noticed a change in his brother. Damen had loved a woman who wasn’t worthy of his time, let alone the Marquette name, and she tore him apart by walking out. She’d told him he was boring, and she couldn’t stand another day in his presence. On top of it all, she had also left behind their daughter, Nita. Nita had been two at the time. As far as Creed was concerned, good riddance. Neither of them needed that woman. Damen seemed to feel differently, and when she showed up a few years later wanting visitation rights, Damen had given in to her.

  Creed returned to his desk and dropped into his chair. He used a pen to tap the desk as a way to keep his temperament even. Placing his brother on speaker, he set down his cell phone and spun to the side to look out on the city of New York. This was another tactic to ease his mind. Sometimes the tricks worked, and sometimes nothing helped. Sometimes, he let loose a barrage of words he regretted later. At those times, he hated himself, because he never wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps. Not for any reason.

  At last he spoke. “So I’m assuming you’ve purchased this restaurant for yourselves, just as a hobby?” He forced a smile even though his brother couldn’t see it. “That shouldn’t be a big deal. I mean we’ve got excess now, so much we don’t know what to do with it. We busted our balls to get to this place, so why not? Right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Damen sounded more excited. “You’re getting where we’re coming from. I’m glad you understand. Oh, but it’s not exactly a hobby. Stefan and I are serious about it. We want to do what we can to get it off the ground, but well, I guess we need your help. No matter how I crunch the numbers, I’m not seeing a way up.”

  Creed knew Damen. When he rambled, that meant he left out facts, and already Creed didn’t like the “it’s not exactly a hobby” part of his brother’s speech.

  “And since you’re part owner,” Damen went on, “
I figure we need your input.”

  “Part owner?” Creed ground his teeth. “Tell me you didn’t purchase this restaurant through the parent company.”

  “Why not? We need two signatures to buy. We had them.”

  “And you named it Marquette’s?”

  “I said I did. Creed, have you been sleeping enough?”

  “Give me the numbers, Damen.”

  “I—”

  “The numbers.”

  Damen ran down the profits and losses for the restaurant in the last quarter. The red staggered Creed, especially with Stefan, a man born for marketing, supposedly in charge.

  “You’re telling me you two have been at this for the last few months, and I never knew?”

  “No way. We wouldn’t do that, Creed, but we know how much of a stickler you can be sometimes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The numbers are from the previous owner. The growth in the last month was some of what we did with Stefan’s ideas. The reopening was great, but, well, now it’s dying fast.”

  “You’d do better to sell.”

  “No!”

  “Damen, don’t be stubborn.”

  “No, Creed. We’re not selling. Remember, we need two signatures.”

  Creed’s temper flew out the window. He slammed a fist on his desk and heard the wood creak at the joints. “So you’re saying you two are standing against me on this?”

  “Come to New Orleans, Creed. I promise you. You won’t regret it.”

  “I already do.”

  “Well, get the stick out of your ass and get down here.”

  Creed ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Tell me something, Damen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you own a restaurant—”

  “We own it.”

  With his brother’s words, he pictured the family name on a poor, dilapidated excuse for a restaurant, or worse, a diner. “If we own this place—”

  “Marquette’s.”

  Creed repeated the word with a sour taste in his mouth, hating that it was the same as their surname, which he protected like a beast because it was the only thing they could call their own growing up. “Sounds like you’re at a pretty popular place. Why aren’t you at the restaurant, having lunch?”

  Damen uttered a shaky laugh. “Funny you should ask. We can talk about it later. I have to go. Later, bro.”

  Before Creed could say anything else, Damen disconnected the call. Creed was left to wonder just what his brothers had gotten him into. He stabbed the button on the desk phone that would connect him to Jeff and waited for his assistant to answer.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “Jeff, find out the going rate for restaurants in New Orleans. There should be paperwork filed here for one called Marquette’s. I want it on my desk, ASAP, and get me a flight for…let’s say Thursday.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, and Jeff?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Coffee, black and strong.”

  “On my way.”

  Creed turned to his computer and did a quick Internet search for local news in New Orleans. After a few clicks, he found what he was looking for. A food critic had written up a restaurant reopening not far from Bourbon and Royal Streets in the French Quarter. “Charming ambience, amazing food, and a relaxing setting were the promised experience at Marquette’s grand reopening, but did the eatery, originally established in the 1800s, live up to its vow?” the article read. “Ambience, yes, setting, meh, but food? Well, all this reporter can say is YAWN...”

  Creed read on to learn that, while supposedly skilled, the chef, a man who studied in the great Paris, had failed to please the eye—let alone the palette—with his creations. The critic questioned whether Marquette’s chef had ever been outside of Louisiana and denounced the owners for forming such an obvious fabricated background for him.

  Why should Creed be surprised? They had skimped on the chef, the most important element for a restaurant’s success. Up until now, he had been the one to screen staff. His brothers gave their input, but their strengths lay elsewhere. Damen built the original website that brought them success, and he couldn’t be bothered with anything that didn’t have wires. That is, until he turned over a new leaf and became more social. Stefan had an artist’s eye, which should have meant he insisted on the best presentation for the food. Whatever was happening down there, Creed needed to investigate.

  He considered his contacts for replacing staff in a hurry and then thought of Shada. What was her full name? He didn’t know if he had ever found out. Yet he had a clear picture of big brown eyes in his mind, and a curvy figure. He had failed to get the woman her job back, a fact he needed to remedy. She was a chef, he recalled, but he didn’t know the particulars. That could be corrected quickly, and if she wasn’t right for what he needed, well, he would think of something else on her behalf. A favor didn’t amount to him inconveniencing himself or risking his business.

  As he scrolled through the contact list on his phone, a sense of excitement came over him. What if he forgot about selling and helped his brothers make the restaurant a success? Could he do it? That aside, what would it be like to see Shada again when he wasn’t naked and passing out? Now that the experience had passed, he could see the humor in it—and appreciate the view she presented. Yes, he definitely needed to see her again. Just to look. And then, after everything settled down, he would search around him for the perfect woman to have his heir.

  * * * *

  Creed stepped from the taxi onto the very narrow Saint Louis Street and surveyed the property before him. The name “Marquette’s Restaurant” was emblazoned in bold forest-green over the first-floor windows and door. On the second story were balconies protected by wrought-iron railings and accented with large hanging ferns. He appreciated in particular the old-fashioned street lamps at intervals and the signpost that displayed the menu. So far so good, he supposed.

  “Creed, you’re here!”

  He glanced up to see his youngest brother in the doorway, a ready smile on his face. Creed’s gaze ventured up to his brother’s hair, and he smirked. The three of them were so alike in coloring and build, people often mistook them for triplets. Stefan managed to set himself apart with frosted tips at the top his of hair and by spiking it with gel or mousse.

  “Hey,” Creed said and shook his brother’s hand.

  Stefan drew him closer and slapped him on the back. “Come in. You’ll love it.”

  Creed followed his brother. “Have you seen or heard from someone named Shada Howard?”

  Stefan frowned in concentration. “I don’t think so, but there’s this new chef. He got here this morning, and, well, the other guy was pissed.”

  “I can’t help that. I looked into his background and found he’d embellished his resume. That’s putting it mildly. You know you two could have done that for yourselves.”

  Stefan charged ahead. “This is the main dining room. Would you get a load of the piano? A baby grand, and it’s tuned. The music we send out of here brings them.”

  “But you can’t keep them,” Creed countered.

  He glanced around, taking in the large room, and he had to admit his brothers had done a good job. The place had a certain elegance. But as he inspected the building, going from room to room, he also spotted some problems, places where it looked like they had rushed repairs to get to opening. He imagined all Stefan had dreamed of was the entertainment portion.

  “This isn’t ready for opening, Stefan.”

  His brother gaped at him. “But we’ve been open for a month.”

  He shook his head. “You called me down here for a reason, didn’t you?”

  The sheepish look he expected surfaced. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, bud, but you don’t open a restaurant in a month or even three. I did some reading on the plane, and I’m far from an expert, but I got a little idea. We need to get someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “No wa
y.”

  “Stefan.”

  His youngest brother stood firm, and Creed tried to recall when Stefan and Damen stopped listening to him. Maybe back in high school, a long time ago.

  “It’s not that I want this to fail, Creed, but I think we’re forgetting where we came from.”

  Creed frowned. “I know where we started.”

  “This is going to be hands-on, not delegated.”

  “We don’t know—”

  “We’re going to learn.”

  Creed ground his teeth, but Stefan smiled, the grin lighting his emerald gaze. While Creed knew they all had those same eyes, he had always thought his youngest brother’s were different. He had done everything in his power to make sure Stefan was happy. Both he and Damen did, all during their childhood.

  “And if it crumbles around our ears?” Creed grumbled.

  “Then we’ll deal with it.”

  “I’m not going to allow anything to sully our name.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Damen announced as he entered the second-floor room where they stood. Creed’s middle brother shook his hand and left it at that. He didn’t hug him as Stefan had. Creed took in the pressed dark slacks and the wrinkle-free sky-blue button-down shirt. Damen shoved black-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, his green eyes sparkling with suppressed excitement. Yeah, he’s not a nerd at all.

  They moved to the office, which would be shared among the three of them. This wasn’t a problem, since the property was generous in all respects. Next, Creed inspected the kitchen. He sighed in relief to find it to be in the best shape of the entire restaurant. Updated appliances, new tile, ample storage, and best of all, a larder full of food greeted him.

  Creed met the small staff in person for the first time, and the head chef. He shook the man’s hand and noted the arrogant attitude. Maybe it came with the territory, but at least this one had potential. He had already met with him and even sampled a few of his creations. Creed still felt there was some dynamic he missed, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “So what do you think, Creed?” Damen joined him as he reentered the office, and Stefan brought up the rear. “It’s going to be good, isn’t it? Now that we have your new chef?”