Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  THIRTY-ONE JACKSON I knew I was dreaming because the warm, soft, unmistakable curve under my left palm was a woman’s hip. Dream woman had an incredibly sexy hip. She also smelled delicious and was warm as a little furnace against my chest. All of that helped to distract from the odd fact that I had a headache and my mouth tasted like bourbon. This was a really vivid dream. At least I was lying down comfortably, my head resting on a nice, fluffy pillow, my legs curled up behind dream woman’s legs. She sighed in sleepy pleasure when I pulled her tighter against me and nuzzled my face into her hair. When I slid my hand over her hip and gently cupped her ass, she sighed again, arching her back and rubbing against my crotch. This was a fucking awesome dream. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and sunshine. Like goodness. Like something I wanted to soak in . . . or taste. I found the nape of her neck with my lips and stroked my tongue over the delicate bump of her spine. She breathed the so

  THIRTY-TWO BIANCA I’d seen Jackson’s scary side. I’d seen his hidden sweet side, too, and his suave side, and a dozen others. But I’d never seen him dirty. “Off!” he snarled, impatiently pulling my T-shirt over my head. He tossed it aside and it sailed across the room. He took a moment to stare down at me, his eyes black with lust, then he grabbed my sleep shorts and yanked them down my hips. Away they went, flung over to the dresser along with my panties. Kneeling between my spread legs, he made an animal noise as his gaze raked over me. Then his mouth was on my flesh. There. I cried out in shock. His mouth was so hot and wet, so unexpected. He dug his fingers into my hips and thrust his tongue deep inside me. I almost died from pleasure. “So fucking sweet. I’d knew you’d taste sweet.” He took a moment to growl, his breath fanning over my spread thighs. Then he went right back to business. I threaded my shaking fingers into the thick, soft mess of his hair because I needed to feel it.

  THIRTY-THREE JACKSON We lay stunned and speechless, tangled in each other’s arms on the demolished bed like victims of a bombing. After a while, Bianca said in a tremulous voice, “Oh. My. That was . . .” “Perfect.” I stared at her in awe. “Incredible. Mind-blowing. We should get a trophy.” Blinking slowly, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, a thing of such soul-lifting and astonishing beauty I felt like a man who’d just discovered religion. She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in my life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the universe, finally understanding their place. I surrendered to the feeling completely and without hesitation, knowing that most people would never experience this. This blinding joy. This transcendent bliss. This seismic shift of focus from themselves to someone else that strangely and simultaneously gave b

  BLOODY DIXIE Makes 4 servings 1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice 2 ounces vodka 1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared) 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1 tablespoon hot sauce 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce dash of celery salt dash of pepper 4 slices cooked bacon 4 ribs celery Preparation Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle. Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously. Add ice to 4 highball glasses. Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste). Add tomato juice mix to fill. Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.

  THIRTY-FOUR BIANCA I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in. “Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.” He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him. Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest. Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind? Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I

  THIRTY-FIVE JACKSON I’ve suffered through my share of painful moments. Before now, I thought I knew all pain’s ugly faces, all the ways it can cripple and scar. But with one phone call I discovered that there’s no worse pain in the world than watching someone you love suffer and being powerless to make the suffering stop. I kissed her and held her and rocked her, I promised I’d do everything I could to help. Words. All of them useless. None of them changed a thing or broke through the new encasing of ice swiftly crystallizing around her. From the moment Bianca took that phone call, she went cold. All the life was sucked out of her. All the fire was extinguished. What was left was a shell-shocked husk. She didn’t even cry, which somehow made everything worse. “I need to get back as soon as possible,” she said hollowly, sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. I crouched beside her, holding her clammy, limp hand, fighting a terrible slipping feeling inside me, like

  THIRTY-SIX BIANCA It was raining when we touched down in New Orleans, the sky the same ugly lead gray as my soul. I didn’t know why I felt so numb. Shock, I suppose. In any case, I was grateful for the way all my senses were dulled, because I knew there were a thousand invisible knives of anguish hovering all around me, hungry for their moment to slash and draw blood. They’d get their moment, of that I was sure. But for now I was safe in a cocoon of soft white noise where nothing could reach me. Not even the torment in Jackson’s eyes. His engagement ring was a cold, heavy weight on my finger, a constant reminder of the bargain we’d made, and why. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t face any more harsh realities today. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep breathing. When we arrived at Mama’s house, I could barely even do that. “I’ve got you,” said Jackson when I stepped out of the car and almost fell. He put his arm around my waist and half dragged, half carr

  THIRTY-SEVEN BIANCA It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart. The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell. Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done. Back at the house, the wake lasted for an eternity. Finally, well after nightfall, the house emptied, and I was left alone with my grief and a grim fia

  THIRTY-EIGHT JACKSON Rayford quietly hung up the library phone. I didn’t look up from the paperwork I’d been perusing when I asked, “Who was that?” “Telemarketer,” he said. “Annual fund-raising for the local police.” Now I did look up, surprised. “I wonder why the chief didn’t call me himself? He knows I don’t like to talk to telemarketers.” I thought for a moment. “Didn’t they just have the police fund-raiser a few months ago?” Rayford’s expression was bland. “You write so many checks for fund-raisers, sir, I can never remember which one’s which.” From the corner of my desk he picked up my crystal decanter, tilted it over my empty glass, and smiled. “Refill?” I sighed heavily. I knew I’d been drinking too much lately, but it was the only thing getting me through the nights. “Yes. Thanks.” He poured me a generous measure, then turned to the young woman in a navy pantsuit and sensible shoes seated across the desk from me. “Miss Taylor, would you care for a drop?” Her mouth pinched. Whic

  SL
AP, SLAP, KISS COCKTAIL Makes 2 servings 1 ounce cognac 3 ounces vodka 2 ounces absinthe 1½ ounces gin 1 ounce blackberry liqueur Preparation Put all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake vigorously. Strain into two chilled cocktail glasses. Down the hatch, kiss your beloved, enjoy a very potent happily ever after.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is the fourteenth novel I’ve published in five years. For some writers that number isn’t so remarkable, but for me it’s staggering because I’ve never sustained that kind of interest in anything except reading, napping, and a bath before bed. There are many people who have helped this slothful writer produce fourteen books in five years, and they deserve more than just a few flowery words in the back matter, but this is all you’re getting, guys. Maybe when I hit twenty I’ll send you a plaque or something, but probably not. (You could always frame this page and hang it on the wall?) In no particular order, here are the people who’ve helped me birth fourteen novels, and to whom I’d like to say THANK YOU: Jeff Bezos Amazon Publishing/Montlake Romance Maria Gomez, my current editor at Montlake Kelli Martin, my editor-between-editors at Montlake Eleni Caminis, my first editor at Montlake Melody Guy, my developmental editor who I would literally die without, who flagged t

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR J.T. Geissinger is the author of more than a dozen novels of contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense. She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book and the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy. She’s a two-time finalist for the RITA Award from the Romance Writers of America, and her works have been finalists in the Booksellers’ Best, National Readers’ Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards. Join her Facebook reader’s group—Geissinger’s Gang—to take part in weekly live chats and giveaways, find out more information about works in progress, get access to exclusive excerpts and contests, and receive advance reader copies of her upcoming releases. You can also check out her website, www.jtgeissinger.com, or follow her on Instagram @JTGeissingerauthor and on Twitter @JTGeissinger.

  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

  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 priestess with a collection of superstitions almost as elaborate as her African tribal-print caftans.

  “Garlic is for vampires, not werewolves, Eeny,” I said, gazing past the tables of diners to the hostess stand at the front of the restaurant, where the man with the presence of thunderclouds stood glowering at the hostess, Pepper. The poor girl was visibly shrinking under the weight of his stare.

  A flash of irritation made me frown.

  It was the first, and mildest, of many such flashes I’d have tonight.

  “That ain’t no werewolf, or no vampire,” grumbled a voice to my right.

  I glanced at my pastry chef. Hoyt was a seventysomething Cajun with an accent thicker than bayou sludge, a grizzled white beard, and arthritic hands that still managed to make the best beignets in New Orleans. He jerked his chin toward the newcomer, then turned his attention back to the giant ball of dough on the floured wood board on the counter in front of him.

  “I recognize his face from the papers,” said Hoyt. “That there is the boodoo tête de cabri, Mr. Boudreaux Bourbon Jr. himself.”

  “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” I said, panicking.

  My panic wasn’t because Hoyt had called the mysterious new arrival a goat-headed bully. Hoyt had a way of describing people that was as colorful as the Mardi Gras parade. It was because that particular goat-headed bully was heir to the world’s number one best-selling bourbon empire.

  A bourbon I had created my entire spring menu around.

  It was a menu that had been extremely well received by my guests and the cause for a surge in reservations. It was getting fantastic reviews from local food critics and had even just this month received a glowing mention in Gourmet magazine.

  It was a menu, in all honesty, packed so full of love and soul and hope and sweat that it was like it was my own baby. I’d spent months preparing it, testing it, and fine-tuning it until it was perfect.

  But having Jackson Boudreaux
himself come in to dine was an event I was completely unprepared for.

  I knew he lived in New Orleans—I read the papers, too, after all—but had heard so much talk of him being unsociable and hermitlike, I thought it unlikely he’d ever show up at my door, even if his family bourbon had inspired the menu.

  Now here he was.

  All six-foot-scowling-three of him.

  Scaring the wits out of my hostess and sending an eerie hush through my dining room.

  “How did I miss his name on the reservations list?” I cried. “If I’d known he was coming, I’d have made sure to give him the best table!”

  Eeny said, “Pepper just seated a family of eight at the best table. It’s an anniversary party, boo. They’ll probably be there for hours.”

  I groaned. I was tempted to go out and find a table for him myself, but we were swamped in the kitchen. I’d just have to trust Pepper to do her best to fit him in somewhere as fast as she could.

  “Y’all get back to work!” I instructed the rest of the kitchen staff, who had stopped what they were doing to stare at Jackson Boudreaux like everyone else in the place.

  When no one moved, I clapped my hands. The staff jumped back into action, knowing that a clap meant business. I never raised my voice with them, even when I was angry, which was rare. I had a naturally sunny disposition.

  It was about to be put to the test.

  “Henri, I need more pepper jelly!” I called to one of my line cooks as I turned my attention back to the ramekins of duck étouffée I was plating. Every dish that left the kitchen did so only after a final inspection from me. As Henri rushed over with a container of the homemade spicy jelly, I pushed all thoughts of Jackson Boudreaux aside to concentrate on my task.

  When finished, I quickly handed the plates off to a waiting server. Two more dishes needing final inspection instantly took their place from a server on my other side. The restaurant was filled to capacity, and at only six o’clock I knew I was in for a long night. I couldn’t have been happier.