BornontheBayou

by Lynne Connolly

  Despite those thoughts and her fierce denial, when they connected, she shivered.

  “Everything okay?” He sounded as if he actually cared.

  Of course he did. He’d seen her nipples, as had all the workers at Great Oaks that day. But at least he’d shown her his in return.

  Nobody questioned the sight of a man with a naked chest and leather jacket towing a woman in a see-through white blouse and a shirt three sizes too big for her walking through one of the swankiest stores in the city. In a moment she realized why. Women stared at him, eyebrows rising, but with smiles curving their lips, mascaraed eyes fluttering.

  That was another thing she’d lost. Her makeup. The rain must have washed it away. She hadn’t dared use one of the tissues from her bag because her mirror had shattered when Gaston had pulled the bag off her and tossed it aside. Little shards of glass were everywhere, but she’d wiped the black away from her eyes with her fingers and hoped for the best. Her hairstyle had long gone too, and her hair straggled around her in damp tails.

  In any case, nobody was staring at her. They gazed at him with unabashed curiosity. A local celebrity. Looking as he had before, he might have gotten away with strolling through the store, but not now, when he’d chosen to dress so outrageously, displaying those gorgeous nipple rings. Or so it must seem. Nobody could say the look didn’t suit him either. Close up, his heat and sheer vitality overwhelmed her.

  He didn’t hesitate but took her into the nearest elevator. Three women already occupied it and they showed every indication of moving in on Jace. One took a step forward and in this cramped space that meant she was as close as Beverley to him.

  Jace’s dark eyes widened and before the woman could speak, he dragged Beverley close. She landed heavily against his chest and he brought his mouth down on hers.

  He destroyed her. First her analytical faculties stuttered to a halt, then her sense of place followed it into oblivion. Her gasp when he’d pulled her so hard meant her mouth fell open when he kissed her and he took full advantage. His big hand spread over her bottom, cinching her close against an impressive erection that pushed at his fly.

  When he pushed his tongue into her mouth, she purred low in her throat and caressed his tongue. She wanted him with a joy and willingness she’d never known before. Fuck, what she’d been missing.

  He drew back and smiled, his lips still damp. “Good?”

  She nodded, unable to deny it.

  Only one woman remained in the car. Just one. They must have hit the fashion floor and gone past it. He loosed his hold on her. “We took the scenic route.” He leaned forward and pressed the button for the second floor as if they’d just been chatting. If he hadn’t kept her in front of him she’d have doubted it happened. Except it had, and he was still erect.

  She wanted him so, so much, for once in her life her body taking the driver’s seat. He leaned closer. “Beverley, you’re a firecracker.”

  Using all the discipline she’d acquired over the years, Beverley walked out of the lift on the fashion floor with reasonable sangfroid, glad she’d put on relatively low heels that morning. Chefs rarely admired ultra-high heels, especially in industry professionals. Most insisted on special shoes for the kitchen, and fined staff who failed to obey the edict. After she’d left the kitchens, she’d bought one pair of high heels and loved them. She didn’t have them now. Gaston Rebennac did. She hoped they’d suit him.

  Remembering her resolve, she heard Jace talking to the personal shopper who hurried forward to greet them. “My friend here lost her luggage. Airlines are a bitch, aren’t they?” The woman agreed without a qualm. It seemed unfair to blame an airline, however imaginary, but it was as good an excuse as any. She readily agreed to outfit Beverley with anything she wanted and took her into a lush suite of changing rooms.

  The woman, “Call me Lucy,” turned out to be good at her job, that job being to outfit Beverley in the way she thought Jace would like. Jace turned down all attempts to send him away for an hour and said he’d wait to see what she chose.

  Lucy tutted at her bra, but left her underwear, giving Beverley a cute T-shirt with “Rock me baby” emblazoned on it in bright pink and a pair of jeans so tight that if they hadn’t had stretch built in, she’d never have fitted into them. As it was, she had to suck her breath in to fasten the button.

  The assistant gave Beverley a faux leather jacket with long fringes and slogans scrawled over the back and sleeves, a parody of Jace’s. Then a pair of high-heeled ankle boots with chains draped around them. Kind of rock-chick lite.

  He was reading the financial pages of the paper when she left the dressing room. She swaggered over to him and posed, one hand on hip, the way she thought models did. “Like it?”

  “Fuck.” He tossed aside the paper and leaped to his feet. “Come on.”

  He dragged the jacket off her shoulders and tossed it to the floor. “Charge the rest,” he said to the woman and dragged Beverley toward the elevators.

  Once inside, he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close, but he didn’t kiss her and when she ventured a glance down, his jeans, unlike hers, built with room to breathe, didn’t have a telltale bulge.

  If he liked this outfit, she’d lose all the respect she had left for him. It was tacky, an imitation of a lifestyle by someone who didn’t understand it. This outfit didn’t feel right, and what should have been gained through the passage of time, like worn spots and colorful patches, were there from new.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do you like it?” Just for kicks, she gave a little shimmy, teasing him. He deserved to suffer.

  He glanced down at her dispassionately. “I hate it. You look like the fifteen-year-olds who cluster around the stage entrance and say they’re twenty.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to someone who knows what she’s doing. It’ll take longer, but it will just fucking have to.”

  The doors to the elevator pinged. He took her hand and towed her out. People watched them and she remembered something. “My bag!” The only thing she had left. He held it up and she grabbed it off him. “Thanks. It suits me better than it does you.”

  He gave her one of his devastating grins but didn’t stop moving. He glanced at her. “How come you didn’t notice what that blouse and bra combination did to you?”

  She swallowed. “I don’t have much experience at picking clothes out for myself. When I was a chef, I spent most of the day in my whites. I thought the blouse was neat and businesslike, and I tried it on in a changing room with artificial light. And I was wearing a different bra.”

  He nodded. “Makes a kind of weird sense, I guess.”

  It had stopped raining. At least that was a blessing, and this T-shirt, although thin, wasn’t as transparent as that fucking blouse. That was one thing she was glad of losing, although she’d left her own clothes behind in the store. When she reminded him, he shrugged. “I liked you in that skirt. I’ll call them and remind them to put your stuff in the car. I’ll call for it when we’re ready.”

  Already the heat was climbing, heading toward its noon zenith. He set a brisk pace. “I called my manager while you were in the changing room,” he said. “He’s going to see what he can do to get your chef back.”

  “No!”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, cher. He’s a great manager. He knows about your guy and he swore a lot when I told him what I’d done.”

  He stopped abruptly and she cannoned into him. He caught her chin as he curled his arm around her again. Already it felt right, and it shouldn’t. “He said leave it with him and he’d see what he can do. He’s an oddball. He only takes on people who interest him. He has a boxer on his books, one of the best, said the guy needed protection. And a couple of wrestlers too. What I’m trying to say is he has fingers in a lot of pies, so if he reaches out, he can usually find somebody to help.”

  She didn’t want it, and yet she could see he was doing his best to help. “It�
�s a weird world, haute cuisine. You get chefs who are all about the bottom line and chefs that only care that they use a truffle from a particular part of the forest, unearthed by a particular dog, whatever the cost. They’ll both turn out individual dishes that are as near works of art as food gets. Food that makes you cry.”

  He stared at her, his eyes grave, his mouth set in somber lines and they shared a moment of recognition. Something unspoken, something she wasn’t sure she could articulate if she tried. “Then he’ll sort it out. I gave my manager your number.”

  “How did you…?” She glanced at her purse. “Oh yes.”

  “Yeah, but I promise I didn’t pry. I just took one of your business cards.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I’m truly sorry. You’d do me a favor if you let me make amends.” Before she could comment, he released her and started walking again.

  Her anger had subsided but her attraction to him had not. That kiss tingled on her mouth.

  Five minutes later they’d reached a small boutique in a side street. In the window stood a mannequin in a dress that was so perfect it took her breath away.

  They entered the shop while she was still registering the elegance. Their feet sank into soft carpet. Music played quietly in the background, something classical, Mozart she thought.

  A woman came to greet them, smiling. She was almost ageless, no lines registering on her face, but that might have been because of the carefully applied makeup. If she’d had work done, it was discreet and clever.

  Her brows were plucked into beautiful lines that complemented her rich dark eyes and she was so slender, Beverley thought she might make two of her. She wore a flared skirt, almost but not quite peasant style, and a blouse that had to be silk, in soft browns and fawns that suited her light coloring and smooth blonde hair.

  “Hello, Jace,” she said, as if he dropped around every day. “How are you?”

  Undeterred by her perfection, he swept her into a hug. “Hi, Penny. You look terrific.” He took a noisy sniff. “Smell good, too.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped back and swept an assessing gaze over Beverley, but unlike when the woman at the department store had looked at her, she didn’t make Beverley feel self-conscious or dowdy. “You’re a friend of Jace’s?”

  Beverley sensed no innuendo in her question. “Kind of. I’m the manager at Great Oaks.” She paused. “I was until this morning, anyway.”

  Penny glanced at Jace, brow raised. “Was that your fault?”

  She’d never have thought that this man, so sure of himself, could have looked so embarrassed, but he did everything but shuffle his feet and go, “Aw shucks.”

  Instead, a flush spread along his cheekbones and he looked away before looking back and meeting her gaze. “Yes it was, but I’m going to make it right. Starting here. Someone drove off with Beverley’s luggage and I promised to replace what she lost. Can you do that?”

  “Oh I think so. Go away and come back in an hour.” She exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Beverley. “Make it two hours.”

  Jace found a hideaway, a café he’d frequented since he was a boy dodging classes. That was where Penny had found him, but she’d been Mrs. Thompson in those days, and taught him at high school. She hadn’t yelled or turned her back, she’d talked to him. Penny was the first adult to treat him as though he had a brain and he wasn’t rebelling from simple perversity or a desire for attention. Although he realized that was exactly what he’d been doing at the time.

  Penny had left the school, following her dream of opening a boutique for women who needed to look their best for specific occasions, and she didn’t just mean weddings. From that, she’d developed her business. She worked with local artists on exclusive creations, as well as the lines that earned her the money she needed to follow her dream.

  Sometimes if people followed their real desires it worked out, although they needed a lot of courage to do it. And the support of a good husband. That was something Penny hadn’t had, but she’d loved him and stayed with him until he died. It wasn’t his fault he’d spent most of his life so ill he couldn’t help. He’d drained what she earned, and if he hadn’t died when he had, she’d still be paying his hospital bills.

  Jace had learned he couldn’t have everything he wanted without consequences a few years back when his best friend had nearly died from drug addiction. That had sobered him up.

  But Matt had come back, better than he’d started, and discovered his dream. Leaving the past behind. Jace still didn’t know if he’d achieved what he wanted to do. The notion made him restless, always looking for something else to do, something else to make him happy and fulfilled. That was the main reason he’d gone back to his childhood home instead of relegating it to his past life and just letting Bell’s take over. He’d had a weird feeling that something waited for him there.

  Sitting at the back of the café with a coffee and a beignet, Jace made a few phone calls. The regulars here wouldn’t betray him to the media. Most of the people sitting here had been dropping in at this place all their lives. The well-worn appearance tended to put off tourists, but the regulars knew the quality of the food here. It made up for the old tablecloths and the dusty windows.

  Right now he needed the peace of this place while he tried to put his inadvertent but terrible mistake right. He consulted the list of contacts on his phone and hit a number. His call was answered promptly with a curt, “Bell’s Hotels, may I help you?”

  “Put me through to James Bell, please.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Jace Austin Beauchene.” He dropped his accent and switched to the crisp French-accented English that was as natural to him as the Southern drawl.

  The tone changed and the man at the other end became less mechanical, more human. “Just putting you through, Mr. Beauchene.”

  In a moment he heard the voice he knew, raspy with too many cigars, irritated. “What can I do for you, Beauchene?”

  He was tempted to switch to French. Bell knew it, but not as a second language. Jace would have the advantage. But it was a double bluff, because Bell was savvy enough to work out what he was doing. No, stick to English, but keep the accent. “I made a mistake this morning, James. I insisted on Ms. Christmas showing me around Great Oaks when I arrived and in doing so, she missed the appointment with the chef she’d hired. The guy didn’t have the decency to wait and he walked.”

  Bell’s sigh made it sound as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Yes, I heard. Ms. Christmas’ PA called me, and then Monsieur Chaballet called from the hotel. He said he refused to stay in a place that treated him with such discourtesy. As far as I’m concerned, that closes the matter.”

  “You fired her?”

  “Her job was ending anyhow. Not fired. Merely confirmed the termination of her contract. She did a good job renovating the hotel, but she’s not ready for full hotel management yet.”

  Should he pull out his big guns? Instinct told him to wait. Bell knew as well as he did what he could do, and he’d bet it stuck in the man’s craw. Two months ago, Jace was doing okay. Now, along with the other members of Murder City Ravens, he was doing better. Much, much better.

  “What if I found you someone else to fill the chef’s position? Someone better?”

  “Listen, Beauchene.” Jace wished the man would stop using his name so much. Either that or use his first name. “Chaballet is the best available. The very best. We did a lot of research, and he is the only three-star Michelin chef available.”

  “This one walked after half an hour. Doesn’t look great for a kitchen. Besides, who comes half way across the world and then walks?” He’d had a sense of something not quite right ever since he’d heard that the chef had left after twenty minutes. What person in their right mind did that? Either Chaballet had changed his mind or something else had changed it for him.

  A heavy sigh gusted down the other end of the line. “You could be right. So who do you have in mind?”


  He didn’t have anyone in mind. “I have my manager working on it.”

  “What can a rock band manager do to get a chef?”

  Jace chortled and let Bell hear his glee. “Do you know how much hospitality a band on the road needs? All those media people to keep happy, all the special fads of the crew? We don’t live on burgers and beer. Not if we want any arteries left in our old age. Some bands travel with their own chefs. Besides, my manager’s Chick Fontaine. He doesn’t just look after rock bands.”

  He liked the short pause. It meant he’d made Bell think, probably meant he’d heard of Chick, who wasn’t exactly a shy violet and had fingers in a bunch of pies. “We’re putting Great Oaks in our luxury band, so we want at least one Michelin star.”

  “And you want someone who can do local cuisine. You love the Plantation Experience idea, and cooking goes along with that. What does a chef from France know about Cajun cuisine?”

  This time there was no pause. “You have a point.” So Bell knew something that Jace didn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed so promptly.

  “I’m not sure I would have approved Chaballet’s appointment.”

  He listened with glee as James Bell exploded. So much for efficient. After about a minute, the man calmed down. “You don’t own the house anymore.”

  “But I could. How about that?”

  Another pause and he could imagine Bell holding his breath, waiting for the fury to pass. He loved getting to this man. He went for another jab. “I liked Ms. Christmas; I thought she was good for the place.”

  “She’s history. Jaime tells me she’s left the house. I was thinking of appointing Jaime in her place as assistant manager.”

  A suspicion crossed Jace’s mind, coalescing into near certainty. Had Jaime contrived to make this happen, at least just a little bit? She could have done something to set off the chef. If she had a suspicion she was in line for the manager’s job, getting rid of the chef would be the perfect way to get rid of Beverley. He wished he’d paid more attention to the résumés he’d glanced through now.