Table of Contents
Unnamed
Also by J.T. Geissinger Bad Habit Series Sweet as Sin Make Me Sin Sin with Me Wicked Games Series Wicked Beautiful Wicked Sexy Wicked Intentions Night Prowler Series Shadow’s Edge Edge of Oblivion Rapture’s Edge Edge of Darkness Darkness Bound Into Darkness
Unnamed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2017 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542047456 ISBN-10: 1542047455 Cover design by Letitia Hasser
For Jay, and twenty years of happily ever after.
CONTENTS ONE BIANCA TWO BIANCA THREE JACKSON FOUR BIANCA CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS FIVE JACKSON SIX BIANCA SEVEN BIANCA EIGHT BIANCA BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN NINE JACKSON TEN BIANCA ELEVEN BIANCA GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE TWELVE BIANCA THIRTEEN JACKSON FOURTEEN BIANCA BIANCA’S BLACKBERRY & BOURBON COBBLER FIFTEEN JACKSON SIXTEEN BIANCA SEVENTEEN BIANCA EIGHTEEN JACKSON FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS NINETEEN BIANCA TWENTY BIANCA TWENTY-ONE BIANCA DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA TWENTY-TWO BIANCA TWENTY-THREE JACKSON TWENTY-FOUR BIANCA TWENTY-FIVE BIANCA TWENTY-SIX BIANCA TWENTY-SEVEN JACKSON CREOLE OKRA GUMBO TWENTY-EIGHT BIANCA TWENTY-NINE BIANCA THIRTY BIANCA THIRTY-ONE JACKSON THIRTY-TWO BIANCA THIRTY-THREE JACKSON BLOODY DIXIE THIRTY-FOUR BIANCA THIRTY-FIVE JACKSON THIRTY-SIX BIANCA THIRTY-SEVEN BIANCA THIRTY-EIGHT JACKSON SLAP, SLAP, KISS COCKTAIL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE BIANCA The first time I laid eyes on the man known throughout the state of Louisiana as “the Beast,” I thought he couldn’t possibly be as bad as his reputation. As it turned out, I was wrong. He was worse. Dressed all in black, standing a head taller than everyone else, his shoulders so broad they cast an ominous shadow over the polished wood floor, Jackson Boudreaux surveyed the bustling dining room of my restaurant with the expression of a king who’d stumbled upon a village of peasants infected with the plague. His lip was curled. His eyes were narrowed. His nose was stuck so far up in the air, I wondered if he’d come in from the rain to avoid drowning. “Hoo Lawd ! We got ourselves a loup-garou! Get the garlic!” Standing beside me at the stove in the kitchen, my sous chef, Ambrosine, made the sign of the cross over her ample chest as she peered through the glass wall at the man in black. Eeny, as she was affectionately called by everyone who knew her, was a retired voodoo prieste
TWO BIANCA Jackson stayed for four hours, straight through the third seating, sampling almost every damn dish on the menu, right down to two servings of blackberry-and-bourbon cobbler for dessert. He ate the same way he talked. Mechanically, as if he took no pleasure in it, like it was a nuisance, one more thing to endure in the long, joyless span of his day. Still aggravated by our interaction, I watched from the kitchen as he sat alone and wolfed down plate after plate of food, eyes lowered, ignoring all the curious looks sent his way. Stopping beside me to follow my gaze, Eeny exclaimed, “Looks like that boy hasn’t eaten in a year!” I sourly harrumphed. “Only the souls of all who’ve displeased him.” She chuckled. “I see LaDonna Quinn would like to give him somethin’ else to chew on besides your spicy baby back ribs. Lawd, that dress she’s wearin’ is so tight you can almost see her religion.” For the third time, the newly divorced brunette sashayed by Jackson’s table, hips swaying, t
THREE JACKSON Rayford was already waiting at the curb with the car door open when I left the restaurant. That was a good thing, because in my current mood I might have torn the fucking door right off its hinges. Seething, I climbed into the back of the Bentley. Rayford shut the door behind me without a word. When he started the car and we drove away, I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed. I’d never met such an irritating woman in my entire life. The mouth on her! The attitude! The incredible heart-shaped ass. I clenched my teeth and stared out into the rainy night. I hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time. Cricket had seen to that. After that disaster, all I could see when a woman looked at me were the dollar signs in her eyes. But this firecracker Bianca Hardwick. Christ. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss that smart mouth or put a gag in it. “How was the food, sir?” asked Rayford, peering at me in the rearview mirror. Still boiling with anger, I snapped, “Adequate.” Well acc
FOUR BIANCA Whoever coined the phrase beauty sleep had obviously never seen me in the morning. “Damn, girl,” I said to my haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Those aren’t bags under your eyes, that’s a full set of luggage.” I splashed cold water on my face, pressed a wet washcloth to my lids, and held it there for a minute, to no effect. When I opened my eyes, I looked just as bad as I did before. Serves me right for staying up into the wee hours of the morning working on a new menu. But if Jackson Boudreaux was serious about his threat to sue, I’d have to revamp everything, fast. Then I supposed I’d have to hire myself a lawyer. Stuck-up son of a lazy-eyed catfish! What little sleep I’d had was filled with nightmares about being chased from the restaurant by a pack of wolves, led by one particularly large and nasty specimen that was all sharp teeth and vicious growls, his black fur bristling as he snapped at my heels. I woke with my heart pounding, the sheets drenched in sweat
CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS Makes 4 servings 4 cups water 1 cup stone-ground grits 3 tablespoons butter 2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese 1 pound raw shrimp, peeled and deveined 6 slices bacon, chopped 4 teaspoons lemon juice 2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped 1 cup scallions, sliced 1 clove garlic, minced kosher salt freshly ground pepper Preparation In stockpot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, add grits, salt, and pepper, and cook until water is absorbed, about 20 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in butter and cheese. Fry the bacon in a large skillet until browned. Remove to paper towels, drain well, and chop. Rinse shrimp and pat dry. Add into bacon grease and cook until shrimp turn pink. Do not overcook. Add lemon juice, chopped bacon, parsley, scallions, and garlic, and sauté for 3 minutes. Spoon cooked grits into serving bowls. Add shrimp mixture on top. Serve immediately.
FIVE JACKSON The feel of her warm, full lips around the head of my cock made me moan. “Fuck yes,” I whispered, looking down at her. “Don’t stop.” Beautiful, dark eyes stared up at me as she opened her lips wider and took me down her throat. My pelvis flexed of its own will, sending my hard cock even deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. So fucking good. Christ. So good. Naked, on her knees between my legs on the bed, she wrapped one hand around my shaft while the other gently fondled my balls. I was out of my mind with pleasure. Moaning again, I cupped her head in my hands and started to slowly fuck her mouth, careful not to go too fast, timing my thrusts with the stroke of her hand, the bob of her head. When she squeezed just under the engorged crown and lingered there, sucking and licking like a kitten with a bowl of cream, a shudder ran through my body. “Oh, you like that,” she whispered playfully. “Let’s find out what else you like.” Releasing my cock, she rose and straddled my hi
SIX BIANCA The rest of the day passed with all my senses dulled like I was underwater. Shock, I suppose. And denial. I just couldn’t believe things were as bad as they apparently were. Stage three. It sounded more like a movie set than a diagnosis. “You all right, boo?” asked Eeny with concern when she caught me staring into space over a big pot bubbling with jambalaya at the stove. It was my mother’s recipe, the comfort food I always turned to in times of
stress. The waitstaff had just eaten, as usual before the restaurant opened for dinner, and first service would soon begin, but I had no idea how I was going to make it through tonight. “I’m . . .” What? What was I? There wasn’t a word. Finally I settled on, “Fine. Just tired is all. Couldn’t sleep last night.” Chuckling, Eeny patted me on the shoulder. “That explains those bags under your eyes.” From across the kitchen, Hoyt called, “Looks like you been et by a wolf and shit over a cliff, dawlin’.” When I turned to glare at him, Een
SEVEN BIANCA At promptly ten o’clock the next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of my restaurant and glided to a stop at the curb. I had no idea what kind of car it was, but I knew it was fancy-schmancy. Only really expensive, snobby-rich-people show-off cars had those stupid silver ornaments sticking out of the front of the hood like a middle finger to everyone who looked at them as they drove down the street. Standing next to me at the window, Eeny said, “Your chariot awaits, boo.” Then she burst into hysterical cackles. I sighed. At Mama’s insistence, I’d told no one about her illness. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to publicly admit she was sick. Or maybe it was vanity. Either way, I’d been sworn to silence. She hadn’t even told the Colonel. So no one at the restaurant knew the real reason I accepted a job from the Beast, but they were all getting a kick out of it. Hoyt had told me yesterday that one of the line cooks had started a pool to see how long it took before I
EIGHT BIANCA If I thought the exterior of Rivendell was something, the interior literally had me gaping. Huge marble sculptures scattered everywhere: check. Priceless oil paintings from French and Italian masters: check. Ballroom, billiard room, indoor theatre: check, check, and check. I’d never seen anything like it. Or been inside a house so bone-chillingly cold. “I should’ve brought a sweater,” I said to Rayford as I walked beside him, shivering. Our every footstep echoed off the walls before dying into ghostly silence. I had the oddest feeling of being inside a crypt. “You get used to it,” said Rayford. “The heat’s always on, but marble’s real stubborn about warmin’ up, and this time of year we get a cold breeze comin’ off the water, which doesn’t help. The kitchen’s better.” We passed another enormous room that appeared to be a formal dining room, with a polished oak table the length of a landing strip. Then we arrived at the library, and I almost wet myself in excitement. “Holy C
BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN Makes 1 serving 2 ounces prosecco 1½ ounces bourbon 1 ounce simple syrup ¾ ounce fresh lime juice 2 dashes Angostura bitters fresh mint leaves to garnish Preparation Combine all ingredients except prosecco in a shaker and fill with ice. Shake vigorously to chill. Strain into a chilled coupe glass. Top with prosecco and garnish with mint. Simple Syrup Preparation Combine 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water in saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat. Store leftovers in airtight container in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.
NINE JACKSON My father once told me the only difference between a woman and a man-eating shark was the size of their teeth. At the time I’d agreed with him. I’d had good reason to. But watching Bianca Hardwick move gracefully around my kitchen, making us lunch while chatting animatedly with Charlie and interacting with Cody as if she’d known him since birth, made me think that might have been too harsh a judgment. And no shark on earth had an ass like Bianca’s. Besides being a fucking masterpiece of design, the damn thing was an eyeball magnet. I’d already caught myself half a dozen times ogling it, my dick twitching under my zipper like some horny teenager’s. Even those hideous brown work pants she favored that looked like they were made from old potato sacks couldn’t diminish its appeal. It was so round, like an apple. So taut and smooth. I wanted to bend her over the stool, yank those pants down her hips, and sink my teeth into it. I wanted to squeeze it and kiss it and stroke it an
TEN BIANCA The first thing I did after Rayford dropped me off at the restaurant was hustle over to the bank to deposit Jackson’s check into my mama’s account. We’d scheduled her initial round of chemo for a few days away, and I didn’t want to take any chances that Jackson, in one of his inexplicable beastie moods, would put a stop payment on the check. With that done, I felt better. Until I ran smack into my ex in the bank’s parking lot. Literally into him. The noise I made when I collided with his chest was something so unladylike my mama would’ve pitched a hissy fit if she’d heard it. It was part grunt, part groan, and part something that sounded like it shot out of my butthole on a hot burst of air, excuse my French. Hands flailing, I dropped my pocketbook on the ground and stumbled back in surprise. “Whoa!” A pair of strong hands gripped my upper arms to steady me. “Easy, girl. I know I’m handsome as sin, but there’s no need to throw yourself at me.” I looked up—and there he was. T
ELEVEN BIANCA By the time Jackson’s charity benefit rolled around, I was jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. Doc Halloran had told us what to expect in the way of side effects of the chemo, but neither Mama nor I was prepared for the reality of it. She felt fine for the first few days, and then everything kicked in with one big wallop. The nausea and vomiting were the least of it. She also had massive headaches, frightful mouth sores, and fatigue so bad she could hardly get out of bed. I went with her every day to the hospital for the first week, then helped out at the house during the second, trying to get her to eat and fielding all her callers, turning them away with excuses that she had the flu. Even the poor Colonel wasn’t allowed inside. Mama didn’t have the energy to put on her face and pretend, so away he went, shoulders slumped. I didn’t think it was right she didn’t tell him what was really going on, but it wasn’t my place to make that decision. But most of all, I dreaded what
GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE Makes 8 servings 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs ⅓ cup butter, melted ⅓ cup white sugar 32 ounces cream cheese, softened ⅔ cup white sugar, plus 2 tablespoons 1 cup sour cream, divided 1 tablespoon grated orange peel 4 eggs 2 cups clementine wedges ½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger Preparation Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix graham cracker crumbs, butter, and ⅓ cup sugar together. Press on bottom of 9² x 3² springform pan and just enough up sides to seal bottom. Place cream cheese, ⅔ cup sugar, ½ cup sour cream, and orange peel in food processor. Cover and process about 3 minutes or until smooth. Add eggs. Cover and process until well blended. Spread over crust. Bake 1 hour 20 minutes, or until center is set. Cool on wire rack for 15 minutes. Using spatula around edges to loosen, remove side of pan. Refrigerate uncovered 3 hours or until chilled, then cover and continue refrigerating at least 4 hours, but not longer than 48 hours. Mix ½ cup sour cream and
TWELVE BIANCA Though I wanted to turn and bolt, I didn’t. The man had paid me an obscene amount of money for this job, after all. And I was a professional. I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of all his guests by refusing his request. Also, I was intrigued by this new Jackson, this well-dressed stranger who spoke so eloquently about honor and selflessness and used words like please. I didn’t think that word was in his vocabulary. So it was with curiosity—and a healthy dose of embarrassment—that I walked around the perimeter of the tables and climbed the few stairs to the stage. Then shock took over as Jackson wound his arm around my shoulders, pulled me against his side, and smiled down at me. I was too busy trying not to keel over in surprise to pay much attention to how perfectly I fit under his arm, how snugly I nestled against the solid bulk of his body. How hard he was, all over. I’m definitely hallucinating. Or Jackson Boudreaux has a twin no one knows about. A twin that had three
THIRTEEN JACKSON “I should be going,” Bianca said abruptly, sounding like she just remembered she’d left the stove on at home. I stopped dead in my tracks, disappointment cutting through me like knives. I’d mistaken her look for one of lust. I’d obviously been projecting my own feelings onto her, because judging by her wide-eyed, panicked look at my approach, I’d seriously miscalculated what was happening here. She was just being nice, while I was being a creepy, pervy, wildly inappropriate douchebag who couldn’t keep his bo
ner in his pants. What a fucking idiot. “Of course,” I said, mortified. “It’s late. I won’t keep you.” Blood pounded in my temples. I stepped back quickly, dragged a hand through my hair, and took a steadying breath. Bianca said, “Rayford was supposed to drive me home, but I haven’t—” “I’ll take you!” It was out before I could stop it, a barked declaration that made her blink in surprise at its force. “Oh,” she said. “Um . . . I don’t want to bother you.” “It’s not
FOURTEEN BIANCA Before you judge me, let me just say in my defense that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders on account of the sexual tension between Jackson and me in the kitchen, fright over how erratically he’d been driving, making him laugh (a beautiful, unexpected sound), having his big, warm hand settle on my shoulder in a gentle yet distinctly possessive grip, and seeing Trace standing on my front porch in the middle of the night. So yes. I kissed Jackson. Hard. That wasn’t the bad part. His lips were soft, his face was smooth, and he smelled even better up close. The bad part was that he didn’t kiss me back. When it became clear after several long moments that he wasn’t opening his mouth, and had in fact frozen stiff as a corpse left out in the snow, I withdrew a few inches and sheepishly looked at him. He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?” I said, “Um.” We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid
BIANCA’S BLACKBERRY & BOURBON COBBLER Makes 8–10 servings 12 cups fresh blackberries ¾ cup raw sugar ¼ cup high-quality bourbon cooking spray ½ vanilla bean 1 cup granulated sugar 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon table salt 1 teaspoon lemon zest 1½ cups milk 1 egg ¾ teaspoon vanilla extract 6 tablespoons butter, melted Preparation Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine blackberries, raw sugar, and bourbon in a large bowl. Transfer mixture to a 13² x 9² baking dish lightly greased with cooking spray. Split vanilla bean, and scrape seeds into granulated sugar, making sure vanilla bean seeds are distributed evenly. Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and granulated sugar mixture into a large bowl. Stir in lemon zest. Whisk together milk, egg, and vanilla extract, and then stir into dry ingredients. Add melted butter and stir. Pour batter evenly over fruit. Place dish on a baking sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour and 10 minutes or unti
Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1) Page 1
