Wild Child

by A. S. Green

  I stare into those beautiful gray eyes for what feels like an eternity, then I boogie down the hallway, thinking this can’t be real life. At least, not my life. But it is! I’m going to New Orleans. With Jax. And by the end of this trip…if he’s still looking at me like he just was…then maybe…after a couple tequilas…I’ll remind him of who I am.

  When I open my door, I see the fox and now both hounds shattered on the hearth. Not a dream. Definitely not a dream. When Jax comes in a few minutes later and sees them, he mutters, “Holy shit.”

  I smile, a bit smugly if I’m being honest, because now he knows it wasn’t a ruse just to jump in his bed. “Don’t ever doubt me, Mr. Sparke.”

  He glances up, lips parted, then back down at the ceramic carnage. “Noted.”

  Not even Johan Lenz could upset me now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Natalie

  It’s a long fourteen hours with three rest stops, a losing argument about rolling up Jax’s window, lunch at a Waffle House in St. Louis, and a jerk-the-wheel roadside stop in Memphis for BBQ sandwiches served out of the back of some random guy’s truck. This already weird day also includes a three-way call with both my parents where my dad asks me to cough twice if I need to signal that I’ve been taken against my will.

  Billboard signs pop up in both English and French as we close in on our destination, and tropical air fills the cab of Jax’s Escalade when we near Lake Pontchartrain.

  When we arrive in the French Quarter, it’s late. The owner of our cute B&B greets us and leads us upstairs to our rooms. There’s a shared bathroom at the end of the hall, and Jax and I are the only guests.

  “Feel free to sleep in tomorrow morning,” Jax says as he quickly heads into his room. “We won’t leave until noon. Good night.”

  Which means the sun is high in the sky the next day when I find myself standing alongside Jax under an archway of ancient live oaks that are dripping with moss. I’m in my yellow maxidress with strappy sandals. He’s sheer perfection in a tan linen suit and sky-blue shirt, unbuttoned at the top. The shadow of a beard has already grown back, and he’s trimmed the edges in a sharp line.

  Before us looms a large white plantation house with glossy black shutters, six fluted columns, and wrought iron balusters. It’s like being on the set of a Civil War movie, and I halfway expect to see cameras and people walking around in period costume, maybe even Brad Pitt from Interview With the Vampire. The mansion looks like his house in the movie. That is, right before it goes up in flames and everyone runs for their lives.

  My feet are rooted. After Chicago, I don’t think I want to go in there.

  “Relax,” Jax says, as if he can read my thoughts.

  “Who, me?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the house. “I’m so relaxed, I’m like a human hammock.”

  “What?”

  I exhale. “I’m like Frankie Goes to Hollywood relaxed.”

  He laughs a little at that. “Then why do you look like you’re getting ready to bolt?”

  “Ever see Interview With the Vampire?”

  He squeezes my hand, then lets it go. “I promise. Nothing paranormal this time, only politicians and debutantes. No succubuses.”

  “Succubi,” I say. “And don’t worry about me.”

  “I don’t. You’ve got this.”

  His confidence in me means everything.

  We start walking again, but we’ve only gone a few feet before a security guard passes in front of the house and Jax suddenly pulls me behind a tree.

  Once the man turns a corner, Jax quickly leads me toward a gate at the opposite side of the house.

  “You didn’t tell me,” I say. “Who are we today? What’s our backstory?”

  “We don’t need one this time.”

  “Well, how did we get invited to this party?”

  “We didn’t.”

  Jax removes a rectangular black object from his pocket and holds it against the security panel on the gate. There’s a whirring sound, followed by a click, then the gate falls open, slightly ajar.

  “We’re gate-crashing,” he says. “Literally.”

  He directs me through, and it closes behind us. There’s another whirr and click.

  “No! She’s a senator, for cripes’ sake. What about the security guards? What if we get caught? That’s got to be, like, a federal crime or something.”

  He doesn’t respond to any of my concerns.

  We enter the house through a small side door that leads into an enormous commercial kitchen. The cooking staff barely glance up as Jax leads me through the aluminum workstations and rows of hanging pots, toward the far end of the room where there’s a set of swinging doors with porthole windows.

  “Oh my God…”

  “Shh.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then lets it go. He rolls his shoulders forward, then back. When he opens his eyes, he gives me a half smile. He’s put on a mask again. Not the same one he wore at the Lenz mansion, but it’s definitely some kind of character.

  Then he puts one palm against the door. “Just smile.”

  I do as he says, and we exit the kitchen. A few of the dozen or so people in the spacious living room turn to look. They were probably expecting waitstaff with trays of hors d’oeuvres. Instead they get a redhead in a long, bright-yellow dress…and Jax. A few women’s eyes focus hungrily on him. I understand why.

  I suspect his professional success has as much to do with his physical strength as with his handsome face.

  He leans in close and whispers, “Don’t worry. They won’t bite.” He gives my hand an unexpected squeeze. The physical contact both surprises and relaxes me. We pass through the guests on our way to the french doors that exit onto the back garden and step outside.

  “Isn’t someone going to eventually want to check us off a guest list?” I ask.

  He takes two glasses of champagne from a tray that’s being passed, then hands one to me.

  “Since we’ve made it this far, they’re going to assume we’ve already been checked off. It’s all good so long as you look like you belong.”

  That’s exactly my concern. “Don’t you think I look too Yankee to pull off the Southern belle? I bet half these women were in pageants. There are probably at least a half dozen Miss Crawfish Pies walking across the lawn as we speak.”

  He appraises me, his eyes going over my bare shoulders, down the full length of my body, then back to my hair, which is arranged in another loose updo. He looks around before drawing in close and snaking his hand around my waist. A shudder of pleasure runs through me.

  Jax adopts a Rhett Butler Southern accent and says, “Miss O’Brien, you’ve just earned your first professional alias. Feel free to introduce yourself today as the former Miss Pecan Pie of St. Tammany Parish.”

  “I do declay-uh,” I say, pretending to fan myself. “With my luck, I’d run into the real Miss Pecan Pie with a lie as dreadful as that.”

  Jax gives me a closed-lipped smile, then narrows his eyes as he glances around the garden. The fun is over. It’s time to get to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Natalie

  Later That Evening

  Jax and I are seated on a restaurant patio. It’s pretty touristy, but he insists I celebrate my amazing success in finding the Rodin by ordering a hurricane, the city’s specialty drink. He says, “Not having a hurricane in New Orleans is like not having pizza in New York.”

  Once again, he looks totally swoon-worthy. He’s dressed in a gray-and-white-striped buttoned shirt that brings out his eyes, and his beard is on its way back. I’m glad New Orleans has given me reason to wear my black leather minidress and knee-high boots. The outfit stands out on Little Bear. Here, not as much. Still, it’s pretty rock-and-roll.

  “Can I say it one more time?” Jax asks. I know what he’s going to say. He’s been repeating himself ever since I made a daring search of the senator’s private second floor, found the Rodin, and snagged a photo of it alongside a magazine bea
ring the senator’s address and current date.

  He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. It’s not brief. In fact, he actually holds it, and for one blissful second the last six years are magically swept away. I have to tell him. I have to tell him the truth. “Jax, I—”

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “Don’t downplay what you did today. You were amazing. You’re the most amazing amateur sleuth of all time. Your instincts… Your quick thinking with the magazine… Natalie, you’re incredible.”

  I give a little smirk that says it was no big deal, but I’m a liar because it was totally a big deal. In fact, it was terrifying. My heart might still be racing this time next week. Longer, if he keeps holding my hand. “Well…I did watch a lot of Veronica Mars back in the day.”

  When our waitress comes over and hands us menus, Jax stops me from opening mine. “Do you trust me?”

  “Wow me,” I say, because why should he stop now?

  Jax orders, secretly pointing to things then, once the waitress leaves, I lean into the table toward him. “Okay, I have to ask you something.”

  He sits back against his chair and grins. “Go for it.”

  “How did you get here?”

  My question makes his forehead crease. He glances around the restaurant, then looks at me like he suspects me of hitting the mini-bar in my room before we left. “We walked here from our B&B.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not here, here. How did you build your company in…” I almost say six years. “Well, exactly how long have you had your company?”

  “I started it three years ago.”

  I slap my hands down on the table and the silverware jumps. Okay, maybe I did take a predate nip or two to calm my nerves. “Three years? What are you, some kind of entrepreneurial savant?”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners, and it looks like he wants to laugh. “I made an important contact during my time in the navy. Stateside, he gave me my first break. After that, it was word of mouth, and word traveled fast.”

  “Because you’re that good at what you do.” I feel a sense of pride in him.

  “I am,” he says, and the weight of that statement hits me somewhere deep. I’ve always known that, and I’m not talking only about sex. His quiet confidence was one of the first things that attracted me to him.

  “Plus,” he adds, “I’ve surrounded myself with a good team who make me look even better.”

  Humility. I like that, too. “What’s the most dangerous job you’ve ever had?”

  He smiles broadly, and my chest warms to see him so relaxed.

  “That’s confidential,” he says, raising one eyebrow.

  “Sounds like you were a spy.” I don’t doubt it for a second. The way he got us into the senator’s party, the way he so effortlessly worked the crowd. He could make anyone trust him. I certainly do.

  “If that were true, it would also be confidential.” He reaches across the table toward my hand so just our fingertips touch. “I could tell you, but…”

  “Then you’d have to kill me.”

  “Something like that. And Natalie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I like having you around.”

  He’s staring into my eyes, and something important is passing between us. Whatever it is, it’s hypnotic. I can’t look away. I might be stuck in this moment forever—and gladly—except the waitress chooses that exact moment to return with our drinks.

  She places a short glass with clear liquid and a lime in front of Jax and a tall bell-shaped glass full of something very red in front of me.

  “Your hurricane,” Jax announces, then clears his throat. “So what’s next for you? Are you going to travel more now that you’ve seen some new places?”

  His question makes me pause. I hadn’t really thought about it. “Maybe.” I take a sip, and then another. Delicious. “But I suspect I’ll be an islander for life.”

  He frowns. “You sound like you have regrets about that.”

  I take another big gulp of my hurricane, desperate to avoid the feeling that he’s disappointed in me. “Life just gets rolling in one direction, and it’s hard to stop the boulder. You know what I mean.”

  “No,” he says. “I don’t.”

  I exhale and come back on offense. “Don’t tell me you don’t have any regrets.”

  “Only one,” he says, and the intensity of his stare is back. His words sit heavily between us.

  I’d ask, but the waitress returns with her uncanny timing and a large plate piled high with something resembling chicken strips and lumpy golden golf balls.

  I order another hurricane before I’ve finished the first.

  “Alligator,” Jax says, as I poke at the unfamiliar food with a fork, “and fried oysters.”

  “Oysters?” I cock my head to the side. “Are you sure you want to be feeding me aphrodisiacs after I jumped into bed with you in Chicago?”

  He shakes his head, and his cheeks get the tiniest bit of color. “I’ll take my chances.”

  I cut off a little bit of alligator and dip it in the sauce. As I chew, I close my eyes, inhale through my nose, then release a long, drawn-out moan of satisfied pleasure. I can’t hold it back.

  When I open my eyes, Jax is staring at me like he’s suddenly hungry, too. But not for alligator.

  A roll of excitement tumbles through me, though I’m a little embarrassed by how that must have sounded. “Um…tastes like chicken?”

  That snaps him out of his trance, and he laughs loudly—at me, at himself, I don’t know. What I do know is that I would move mountains to make him laugh like that every day.

  We continue talking as we devour what’s on the plates. Even the oysters, which I didn’t think I was going to like.

  I also finish my second hurricane (and maybe a little too quickly). My half of the conversation is starting to go a bit wonky.

  “You have sleepy eyes,” I say, and that’s not the only random thought I’ve verbalized in the last few minutes.

  Jax signals for the bill. “You’re drunk.”

  I wave my hand in dismissal. He’s ruining my train of thought. “I think they call them bedroom eyes. But since people can sleep anywhere, I don’t know why they call them that. You could call them hammock eyes, or airplane eyes, or lying-on-the-beach eyes. But I guess none of that sounds as nice.”

  “Whatever you say,” Jax says, shaking his head in amusement. “But if we’re making observations, I’ll add that you can really put it away.”

  “What?”

  “Food. You like to eat. That’s good.”

  “Well, this ass doesn’t come cheap.” I lift one cheek and slap it.

  “Okay, then.” He pushes his chair back and slips some cash into the leather folder with our bill. “I think it’s time for Miss Pecan Pie to get some sleep.”

  “Roger that. Let’s motor.” I rise in my chair a little, and the restaurant suddenly spins like a Tilt-o-Whirl. My weight falls back onto the chair, and I put my hand to my head. “Whoa. What do they put in these things?”

  “Easy,” Jax says, coming around the table and crouching beside my chair. “You okay?”

  I groan. “I think I’m done drinking.”

  “Mmm-hmm. That’s what I thought.” He stands behind my chair and pulls it out. “The walk back will burn off your buzz.”

  When I stand, my head goes one way and my body goes another, which is the funniest thing ever. “Oops!”

  Jax’s arm quickly slides around my waist. I think he makes some apology to the table behind me, then he pulls me tight against his side. His body is hard and warm, and it feels so safe. Like nothing could touch me.

  As I stumble-walk out of the restaurant, occasionally pulling Jax off balance, he mutters, “Fuck. I should have made you stop at one.”

  “Don’t worry, cowboy. This isn’t my first rodeo.” I catch myself on a signpost.

  Jax pulls me across a busy street, then tightens his arm around my waist. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was
enjoying this, that he actually wants to hold me close. Or is that all the rum talking?

  I nestle into his side, and I think I hear him groan.

  After a few blocks of this, Jax presses his lips against the top of my head. “Almost there. You seem steadier. Doing okay, babe?”

  I nod, and he takes his arm from around my waist to hold my hand. Eventually we turn a corner onto a quieter stretch that looks familiar from earlier in the evening. We follow the river several blocks. The water is dark, but it brings with it the familiar sounds of home: waves lapping at timbers, big boat engines churning.

  I melt into Jax’s side again, not because I need to but because I know he’ll let me. I’m still buzzing, but the night air is doing wonders for my head.

  When we finally get to our B&B, we stop on the sidewalk while Jax fishes the key out of his pocket. That’s when I see the cutest black dog on the sidewalk across the street. It looks just like Delilah, only bigger. “Aw. Puppy!”

  Jax looks up just as I step into the street, and I think he yells my name, but his voice is drowned out by the clanging of a streetcar bell.

  One second the dog is there, across the way, waiting for me to scratch his ears. The next, there is a blur of red, and Jax is yanking me out of the street and spinning me into the alleyway between our B&B and the building next to it.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” His voice is barely restrained.

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure the puppy is all right, but of course he’s fine. He was never in the street. I turn to face Jax. Right now, those usually sleepy eyes of his are burning right through my skull.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Jax makes a sound that’s practically a growl.

  “What were you thinking?” He grabs my shoulders and gives me a shake. A vein pulses down the middle of his forehead. “You stepped right into traffic without even looking.”

  I put my hands on his chest and push him off. “I wanted to see the dog.”

  “Try again.”

  Try what again? That was a perfectly reasonable response. “I miss Delilah, Kate’s puppy.”

  “Well, I’d miss you. You could have been killed.”