Chapter 1
The morning air hung thick with humidity as Seraphina Dubois flipped the sign on her shop door from "Closed" to "Open." Outside, the French Quarter was already stirring to life. Street musicians tuned their instruments on corners, shopkeepers hosed down sidewalks, and early tourists wandered by with maps clutched in hand.
"Looks like another scorcher," she muttered, wiping her brow with her forearm as she headed back to the kitchen.
Sera’s Sweets had been in her family for three generations. The small beignet shop sat wedged between a jazz club and a fortune teller’s parlor on a side street just off Jackson Square. The blue-and-white awning had faded over the years, but the glass display cases inside gleamed, ready for the day’s fresh batch of beignets.
As Sera tied her dark, curly hair back with a bandana, she glanced at the stack of bills on her desk. The red "Final Notice" stamps seemed to glow ominously in the early morning light. Her fingers instinctively went to the locket around her neck, her mother’s, a habit whenever anxiety crept in.
"One day at a time," she reminded herself, echoing the phrase her grandmother had repeated like a mantra during hard times.
By six-thirty, the sweet scent of fried dough and powdered sugar filled the shop. Sera worked methodically, her hands moving with practiced precision as she rolled out dough, cut squares, and dropped them into hot oil. Each perfectly golden piece emerged from the fryer to be buried under an avalanche of powdered sugar, her secret recipe, with a touch of vanilla bean and cinnamon.
The bell above the door jingled as her first customer of the day entered. Louie, a saxophone player who performed in the square, had been coming in every morning for fifteen years.
"Morning, cher," he called, his voice as smooth as the notes from his saxophone. "Smells like heaven in here."
"Morning, Louie." Sera smiled, sliding his usual order across the counter, three beignets and black coffee. "How was last night’s crowd?"
"Good tippers," he replied, dropping a few extra dollars in her tip jar. "Unlike some folks around here."
She knew exactly who he meant, Mr. Beaumont’s latest offer, or rather, threat, delivered yesterday by his slick-haired assistant. The real estate developer had been trying to buy her building for months, with offers growing more aggressive as she kept refusing.
By mid-morning, the shop had settled into its usual rhythm. Tourists mingled with locals, everyone drawn by the smell of fresh beignets and Sera’s warm smile. She chatted with customers as she worked, asking about their plans or their families, remembering little details that made people feel special.
It was during a lull that she noticed him.
A man she’d never seen before stood by the powdered sugar station. Tall, with broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket despite the heat. His chestnut hair curled just past his collar, and stubble darkened his jaw. But it was his hands that caught her attention, quick, nimble fingers moving with practiced stealth.
He was pocketing her powdered sugar mix. Not the customer containers, but the large canister behind the counter that held her special blend.
Sera moved silently around the counter, years of navigating the narrow shop allowing her to approach unnoticed. When she was directly behind him, she cleared her throat.
"That’s $25 a pound," she said flatly.
The man turned, and Sera found herself staring into eyes the color of bourbon, warm amber flecked with gold. A slow smile spread across his face, revealing a dimple in one cheek.
"Worth every penny, I’m sure," he replied, his voice laced with a local drawl, yet something else beneath it. "But I was just curious about the secret to the best beignets in New Orleans."
"The secret," Sera said, holding out her hand, "isn’t for sale. Or for taking."
To her surprise, he laughed and pulled the small bag from his pocket, placing it in her palm with a theatrical bow.
"Remy LeBeau, at your service. Professional appreciator of fine things."
"Thief, you mean," Sera corrected, tucking the sugar back where it belonged.
"Such an ugly word for such a beautiful morning." Remy leaned against the counter. "I prefer opportunist."
Sera folded her arms. "Well, Mr. Opportunist, in my shop we pay for what we take."
"Fair enough." He pulled out a worn leather wallet and placed a twenty on the counter. "One order of your finest beignets, then. I hear they’re worth stealing for."
Despite herself, Sera felt the corners of her mouth twitch. There was something disarming about his brazen charm. She turned back to the kitchen, aware of his eyes following her.
As she arranged three perfect beignets on a plate, the bell above the door chimed again. Sera looked up to see a man in an expensive suit enter, Jordan, Mr. Beaumont’s right-hand man.
"Miss Dubois," he said, his tone clipped and formal. "Mr. Beaumont asked me to check if you’ve reconsidered his offer."
Sera’s smile vanished. "Nothing to reconsider. My answer’s the same as yesterday, and the day before."
Jordan sighed, theatrically. "He suspected as much. That’s why he asked me to give you this." He slid a manila envelope across the counter. "Notice of code violations from the city inspector. Apparently, this building needs significant updates to meet current regulations."
Sera’s stomach dropped as she opened the envelope. The list of violations, and their associated costs, was longer than her arm.
"This is ridiculous," she said, her voice tight. "This building was inspected six months ago."
Jordan shrugged. "Regulations change. Mr. Beaumont’s offer still stands, it would more than cover your debts and these repair costs."
"How convenient that the inspector found all these problems right when your boss wants my property," Sera snapped.
"Just delivering the message." Jordan adjusted his tie. "You have two weeks to address the issues, or Mr. Beaumont will be forced to report them to the city."
As Jordan turned to leave, Remy stepped directly into his path.
"Excuse me," Jordan said stiffly.
Remy didn’t move. Instead, he took a large bite of beignet, powdered sugar cascading down the front of Jordan’s immaculate suit.
"Oops," Remy said, clearly not sorry. "Clumsy me."
Jordan’s face flushed as he brushed frantically at the white powder. "You’ll be hearing from Mr. Beaumont," he spat at Sera before pushing past Remy and out the door.
When the bell stopped jingling, Sera realized she’d been holding her breath. She looked down at the violation notice, the numbers swimming before her eyes.
"Blackmail with a side of extortion," Remy remarked, peering over her shoulder. "This Beaumont fella doesn’t play nice, does he?"
"He wants to tear down half the block for some luxury hotel," Sera replied, unsure why she was confiding in this stranger. "My shop’s the last holdout."
Remy studied her face, thoughtful. "So what’s the plan, sugar?"
"Plan?" Sera laughed bitterly. "I don’t have the money for repairs, and the bank won’t extend my loan. There is no plan."
"There’s always a plan," Remy said, licking powdered sugar from his thumb. "Or there could be, if you’ve got the right partner."
"Partner?" Sera raised an eyebrow.
"I happen to have certain skills that might be useful against men like Beaumont." Remy leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Con men recognize their own kind. And that man..."he nodded toward the door,"works for a con man in an expensive suit."
"And why would you help me?" Sera asked, skeptical.
Remy held up his empty plate with a grin. "For starters, unlimited access to these heavenly creations. And your special sugar."
"You want to help me fight a millionaire developer in exchange for beignets?"
"I have my reasons," Remy replied, something flickering behind his eyes that suggested more than he was saying. "But yes, that’s the general idea. You feed me, I help you outsmart Beaumont."
Sera knew she should refuse. The man had literally been caught stealing from her minutes ago. But as she looked down at the violation notice again, desperation clawed at her chest.
"I must be crazy," she muttered. She extended her hand. "Deal."
Remy’s grip was warm and firm. "Deal."
As they shook hands, Sera couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just made either the best, or the worst, decision of her life.
"First things first," Remy said, suddenly all business. "Tell me everything you know about this Beaumont character."
Chapter 2
The afternoon rush had died down when Remy returned to Sera’s Sweets. He’d disappeared hours earlier with a promise to “gather intelligence”, whatever that meant. In the meantime, Sera had spent the lull between customers calling contractors about the supposed violations. Each quote was more disheartening than the last.
The bell above the door jingled as Remy swaggered in, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Learn anything useful?” Sera asked, wiping down the counter.
“Beaumont Development isn’t just eyeing your block,” Remy said, helping himself to a leftover beignet. “They’ve got projects all over the city. But this one, the Crescent Moon Hotel, is personal for the big man himself.”
“Personal how?”
“Word is, Beaumont grew up not far from here. Dirt poor. Now he’s buying up his old neighborhood to prove he’s made it.” Remy leaned casually against the counter. “Classic nouveau riche behavior.”
“How does that help me?”
“Know thy enemy.” Remy tapped his temple. “The more we understand what drives him, the better we can predict his next move.”
Sera sighed. “Knowing why he wants my shop doesn’t change the fact that he’s winning.”
“Not for long.” Remy pulled a business card from his pocket. “I paid a visit to the inspector who filed your violations.”
“You what?”
“Relax. I posed as a contractor looking for work. Turns out the man loves to talk, especially when bourbon’s involved.” His grin turned sly. “And guess what? He and Beaumont go way back. College roommates.”
“So it is rigged,” Sera muttered, a mix of vindication and fresh despair settling over her.
“Completely. But now we have proof.” Remy held up his phone. “Our friendly inspector had a lot to say about falsified reports and kickbacks, after his third drink.”
Sera listened to the recording, her eyes widening as the inspector slurred through damning admissions.
“This is great,” she said. “But will it be enough? Beaumont’s got money. Lawyers...”
“We’re just getting started,” Remy cut in. “Tomorrow night, Beaumont’s hosting a charity gala at his mansion. All of New Orleans’ elite will be there.”
“And?” she asked warily.
“And we’re going to crash it.” His eyes gleamed with mischief.
“We can’t just walk into a private event,” Sera protested.
“With the right clothes and the right attitude, you can walk in anywhere,” Remy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, I’ve arranged invitations.”
Before Sera could ask how, the shop door opened again. A tiny elderly woman entered, her arms laden with shopping bags. Despite the heat, she wore a vibrant headwrap and an impressive collection of beaded necklaces that clicked with every step.
“Aunt Mathilde!” Sera exclaimed, hurrying around the counter to relieve her great-aunt of the bags. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“The cards told me you needed help,” Mathilde said matter-of-factly, her voice surprisingly strong for her small frame. Her sharp eyes landed on Remy and narrowed slightly. “And I see they were right.”
“Aunt Mathilde, this is Remy LeBeau,” Sera said, watching as her great-aunt studied him with open curiosity. “He’s… helping me with the Beaumont situation.”
“LeBeau,” Mathilde repeated, rolling the name over her tongue. “I knew a LeBeau family once. Troublemakers, the lot of them.”
Remy grinned. “Some things never change, madame.”
Mathilde cackled, clearly delighted. “I like this one, Seraphina. He has honest eyes.”
“He tried to steal my sugar mix this morning,” Sera pointed out.
“I said honest, not saintly.” Mathilde patted Remy’s cheek. “Now, tell me about this plan to bring down the man threatening my niece’s legacy.”
As Remy outlined his scheme to infiltrate Beaumont’s gala, Mathilde listened intently, nodding in approval.
“Bold. Risky. But sometimes the direct approach is best.”
“We need to get close enough to plant a listening device in Beaumont’s office,” Remy explained. “If he’s pulling strings with the inspections, chances are he’s cutting corners elsewhere, too.”
“And how exactly do we get in? I don’t exactly have a ball gown lying around,” Sera said.
Mathilde’s eyes sparkled. “Leave that to me.” She rummaged through one of her bags and pulled out a worn deck of tarot cards. “But first, let’s see what we’re really up against.”
With practiced hands, she spread the cards across the counter. Sera watched, half amused, half anxious, as her aunt turned them over one by one.
“The Tower,” Mathilde murmured, tapping a card with a crumbling structure. “Sudden change. Upheaval.” She flipped another. “The Devil, someone is bound by their past.” And then, “The Two of Cups, a powerful partnership forming.”
Remy leaned in, surprisingly focused. “What else?”
Mathilde revealed the final card. “Justice, reversed. An imbalance that must be corrected. Someone has gone unpunished for too long.”
She gathered the cards, her expression thoughtful. “Be careful, both of you. There’s more at stake than just this shop.”
The weight in her voice sent a chill down Sera’s spine. Mathilde was known for her flair, but this didn’t feel like theatrics, it felt like a warning.
“We will be,” Sera promised.
Later, as they closed up the shop, Sera found herself watching Remy as he wiped down the tables. He moved with easy confidence, but always with an edge, like someone used to keeping one eye on the exit. When he caught her looking, he winked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What’s your real stake in this, Remy?” she asked quietly. “And don’t say beignets.”
Remy paused, dishcloth in hand. For a moment, the charm slipped. Something harder flickered behind his eyes.
“Let’s just say Beaumont and I have unfinished business,” he said. “And I believe in justice, even if it comes through unconventional channels.”
Before she could press him further, he shifted back into his usual grin. “Now, about tomorrow night. Can you dance, cher?”
“Dance?” Sera laughed. “I run a beignet shop. When would I have time to dance?”
“Then we’ve got work to do.” Remy extended his hand. “Every good con needs a convincing performance.”
As he pulled her into a basic waltz between the tables, Sera tried to ignore the warmth rising in her chest. This was business, she reminded herself. Nothing more.
But when Remy drew her closer to adjust her posture, his hands gentle but firm at her waist, business was the last thing on her mind.
Chapter 3
The Beaumont mansion sprawled across prime Garden District real estate, its white columns glowing under strategically placed lights. Luxury cars lined the circular driveway as valets rushed to accommodate arriving guests.
“Remember,” Remy murmured as they approached the entrance, “you’re Elise Fontaine, distant cousin of the Fontaine shipping family, recently returned from Paris.”
“And you’re my…” Sera trailed off, still uneasy with the lie.
“Business associate,” Remy supplied smoothly. “Here to help you explore investment opportunities in New Orleans.”
Sera nodded, adjusting the emerald-green gown Mathilde had somehow procured. The silk rustled as she moved, making her feel both elegant and entirely out of place.
“You look stunning,” Remy said, his gaze lingering appreciatively. He himself cut an impressive figure in his tuxedo, hair slicked back, every inch the polished businessman.
“Where did you even get these clothes?” Sera whispered as they joined the line of guests presenting invitations.
“Let’s just say I know people who know people,” Remy replied with a wink.
When they reached the front, Remy handed over their forged invitations with absolute confidence. The doorman barely glanced at them before waving them through.
Inside, the mansion was a shrine to wealth and ego. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, original artwork adorned the walls, and floral arrangements larger than Sera herself exploded from every corner.
“Subtle,” Remy muttered, snagging two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Drink this, It’ll help with the nerves.”
Sera took a sip, the bubbles dancing across her tongue. “So, now what?”
“Now we mingle. Get the lay of the land.” He nodded toward a cluster of well-dressed guests. “Beaumont will make a grand entrance later. When he does, I’ll slip away. You keep the attention on you.”
“Keep the attention on me? How am I supposed to do that?”
Remy grinned. “You’ll think of something.”
Before she could protest, he guided her into the main ballroom, where couples swirled across the polished floor to the music of a live orchestra.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine!” a voice rang out. Sera turned to see a woman in her sixties, dripping in diamonds, making a beeline for them.
“Mrs. Holloway,” Remy greeted her smoothly. “A pleasure. Though I should clarify, Ms. Fontaine and I are not married. Merely colleagues.”
“Oh!” The woman looked between them with renewed interest. “How modern. You must tell me all about Paris, my dear. We have a pied-à-terre in the 16th arrondissement.”
As Remy had predicted, Sera soon found herself surrounded by curious socialites, eager to hear about her fictional Parisian life. She drew on her limited college French and scraps of knowledge from travel shows, weaving a plausible narrative that seemed to satisfy her audience.
From across the room, she caught Remy’s approving nod just before he slipped through a side door. Now all she had to do was maintain the charade until he returned.
An hour later, her face ached from forced smiles, and Remy still hadn’t reappeared. Worse, she’d spotted Jordan, Beaumont’s assistant, watching her from across the room, his expression sharp and suspicious.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the speakers, “please welcome your host, Mr. Richard Beaumont.”
The crowd applauded as a distinguished man in his fifties took the stage. Richard Beaumont had silver hair, a deep tan, and the confident air of someone used to commanding a room. His smile was dazzlingly white as he launched into a speech about his charitable foundation.
Sera edged closer, studying the man who was threatening her livelihood. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“And now,” Beaumont concluded, “please enjoy the rest of your evening. The silent auction to benefit underprivileged youth closes at midnight.”
As he stepped down from the podium, guests swarmed him. Sera watched him work the room with practiced charm. Where was Remy? Had something gone wrong?
Her question was answered moments later when the lights suddenly dimmed, and spotlights swung toward the grand staircase. A murmur rippled through the crowd as Remy descended, microphone in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hush, “Mr. Beaumont has been far too modest. In addition to tonight’s charity auction, he’s generously arranged a special entertainment.”
Beaumont’s face shifted from confusion to alarm, but hemmed in by his guests’ expectant gazes, he could only smile tightly.
“That’s right,” Remy continued, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “I’m tonight’s special performer, and I need a volunteer.” His eyes found Sera across the room. “The beautiful woman in green, perhaps?”
Before she could react, the crowd had parted, clearing a path between them. Remy strode forward, extending his hand with theatrical flair.
“Trust me,” he whispered as he led her into the center of the ballroom. “Time for a distraction.”
To Sera’s horror, Remy announced they would perform a traditional tango. As the orchestra struck up a passionate melody, he pulled her close.
“I can’t dance like this,” she hissed.
“Sure you can,” he murmured against her ear. “Just follow my lead. And when I spin you toward Beaumont, act like you’re losing your balance.”
The next few minutes blurred into a whirlwind of motion. Remy was an exceptional dancer, guiding her through steps far more intricate than anything they’d practiced. The crowd watched, entranced, as he spun and dipped her across the polished floor.
Then came the moment he’d warned her about. As he twirled her directly toward Beaumont, Sera stumbled, deliberately, crashing into the developer.
“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, clutching his arm for balance. She felt Remy’s hand brush past her back, planting something on Beaumont, she realized with a jolt.
“No harm done,” Beaumont replied smoothly, steadying her. Up close, his cologne was cloying, and something in his gaze made her skin crawl.
“You dance beautifully, Ms…?”
“Fontaine,” she supplied. “Elise Fontaine.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Fontaine… Any relation to the shipping family?”
“Distant cousins,” she said quickly, recalling Remy’s script.
“We should discuss business sometime,” Beaumont said, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m always looking for investors in my latest project.”
“I’d like that,” Sera replied, injecting as much polite enthusiasm as she could muster.
Before Beaumont could respond, Remy reappeared at her side.
“Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Beaumont,” he said smoothly. “May I reclaim my partner?”
Beaumont’s eyes shifted to Remy, and the change was immediate. The warmth vanished, replaced by a flash of cold recognition.
“Of course,” he said, voice clipped. “Enjoy your evening.”
As Remy led her away, Sera whispered, “What was that? He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.”
“Maybe he has,” Remy said, his tone cryptic. “Mission accomplished, by the way. The bug’s planted, and I got photos of some very interesting documents in his study.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Sera muttered. “I think Jordan’s onto us.”
They were nearly to the exit when a firm hand clamped down on Remy’s shoulder. They turned to find Jordan, flanked by two security guards.
“Mr. Beaumont would like a word,” Jordan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Privately.”
Remy squeezed Sera’s hand. “Wait for me in the garden,” he said under his breath. “If I’m not there in ten minutes, take the car and go.”
Before she could protest, he was already being escorted away, his posture tense despite the easy smile on his face.
Jordan glanced back at Sera. His gaze lingered for a moment, his frown deepening with what looked like dawning recognition.
Sera stood frozen, heart pounding. That lingering look from Jordan terrified her. Though the dress and makeup had transformed her completely, she couldn’t shake the fear that he might recognize her.
She hovered on the edge of action, torn between obeying Remy’s command and chasing after him.
A commotion near the bar gave her the answer. Two rough-looking men had entered, scanning the crowd with predatory focus. When one of them caught her eye, he nudged his companion and started in her direction.
Heart pounding, Sera slipped through the nearest door and into a dimly lit garden. She hurried along the gravel path, breath clouding in the night air. Behind her, the door creaked open, followed by the crunch of approaching footsteps.
“Sera!” a voice hissed from the shadows.
Remy stepped out from behind a hedge, his bow tie hanging loose, a fresh cut above his brow.
“What happened?” she gasped.
“Change of plans,” he said, gripping her arm. “Beaumont recognized me. We need to go. Now.”
“Those men...” she began.
“Old associates,” Remy said grimly. “Also looking for me. This night just keeps getting better.”
They moved quickly through the garden toward a side gate. As Remy fiddled with the lock, Sera heard shouting back near the house.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
The lock finally clicked open just as flashlight beams swept across the hedges. Remy yanked the gate wide, and they slipped through into the night, running until the sounds of pursuit faded behind them.
Several blocks and a hasty cab ride later, they stumbled into Sera’s apartment above her shop, breathless, rumpled, and wide-eyed.
“What the hell just happened?” Sera demanded, kicking off her heels. “Who were those men? And how does Beaumont know you?”
Remy dropped onto her couch, all charm drained from his face. He looked pale, drawn, haunted.
“Remember when I said Beaumont and I had unfinished business?” he said finally, voice low. “It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it,” Sera said, arms crossed. “I deserve to know what I’m mixed up in.”
Remy exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, further mussing it. Then he looked up at her, expression raw.
“Richard Beaumont’s real name is Richard LeBeau,” he said. “He’s my father.”
To Be Continue Sweet Thief: Conclusion (Chapter4-6)
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