Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Eeny and I shared a look. This man could charm the birds right out of the trees. What on God’s green earth he was doing working for the Beast was anyone’s guess.

  “Thank you, that’s a lovely thing to say. Mr. . . . ?”

  “Where are my manners! I’m Rayford Hayes, Mr. Boudreaux’s majordomo.” He gave a short bow. “At your service.”

  He must be a new hire. No way someone this pleasant could work with Beastie for more than a week without losing his mind.

  Wanting to get this meeting over with as quickly as possible so I could get back to the restaurant and prep for dinner, I said, “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Eeny.” He turned his warm gaze to her and lifted two curved fingers to his forehead in a little salute. “Have yourself a wonderful day.”

  Her soft sigh and furiously batting lashes had me pulling my lips between my teeth so I didn’t smile.

  “You do the same, Mr. Hayes,” she said, waving at him with her fingertips. “Toodle-oo!”

  Shaking my head, I followed Rayford out the door. He opened the car door for me. When I hesitated, he asked, “Everything all right, Miss Bianca?”

  “Yes, but . . . would it be all right if I rode up front with you?”

  He looked surprised. “With me?”

  I was beginning to feel a little silly for having asked. “It’s just that I’m not accustomed to being chauffeured. It seems a little . . . well, let’s just say it’s not my style.”

  Rayford’s dimples flashed in his cheeks again. “Why of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable.” He closed the rear door, opened the passenger door, and held out his hand. “Right this way.”

  Smiling gratefully at Rayford, I settled myself into the passenger seat. He closed the door, rounded the car, and got in on the driver’s side. He started the engine, and we pulled away from the curb.

  “This is a very nice car,” I said, looking around at miles of supple leather and acres of gleaming wood. There was enough technology on the dashboard to make an astronaut dizzy.

  Rayford chuckled. “You don’t sound too impressed.”

  I wasn’t impressed, but I did feel a bit embarrassed. “I don’t even own a car. I live six blocks from the restaurant and walk to work every day. I couldn’t tell you what kind of car this is if you held a gun to my head.”

  Rayford’s chuckle was louder this time. “I’ll be sure not to tell that to Mr. Boudreaux. It might break his heart.”

  He has a heart? Who knew?

  “Have you worked for him long?” I was trying to make casual conversation, but I was curious, too.

  “I’ve worked for his family for most of my life. Known Jackson since he was born.”

  Startled by that, I glanced at Rayford’s handsome profile. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Went to work for Clemmy and Brig before I even had hair on my chin. Started out in the stables, muckin’ stalls, worked my way into the laundry, eventually got promoted to the kitchens.”

  Stables? Laundry? Kitchens, plural? Sounded like he’d been working at a castle. Fascinated, I listened as he continued.

  “From there I learned everything there was to know about runnin’ a grand house. Though Jackson’s estate is much smaller than his parents’, it’s still an awful lot of work.”

  I bet. Just trying to keep your sanity living with him must be murder.

  “So how did you come to be with him in New Orleans?”

  A pause followed in which Rayford thoughtfully looked out the windshield before saying gently, “That’s not my story to tell, Miss.”

  Oh boy. I just stepped in a big, steaming pile of none-of-your-damn-business.

  “Got it. Sorry. My mama’s always telling me I talk too much. Says my gift of the gab is a shade closer to a curse.”

  He sent me a smile and smoothly changed the subject. “How is your mama, anyway? I didn’t know her well, just an occasional customer like I said, but I was real sorry to hear about what happened to her restaurant during Katrina.”

  My stomach did a slow roll. I glanced out the window and watched the road speeding by. “She’s fine, thank you for asking. I just saw her this morning. We only live a few blocks apart so I like to stop by on my way to the restaurant.”

  I felt his look and wondered if he heard the change in my voice. If he did, he was too well mannered to mention it.

  The rest of the drive was spent in pleasant chitchat. By the time we pulled up to an elaborate scrolled iron gate surrounded by a high stone wall, I’d almost forgotten to worry about my mother.

  “Here we are,” said Rayford. Like magic, the iron gates parted and swung slowly open, and I got my first look at the Beast’s home.

  I’m ashamed to admit I actually gasped.

  Rayford chuckled. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  I stared in awe at the palatial estate at the end of a long gravel driveway. Flanked by ancient weeping willows and set against the glittering backdrop of Lake Pontchartrain, it looked like something a president might use on his weekends away from the White House.

  Rayford said with pride, “Rivendell’s got ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, and over fifteen thousand square feet on a five-acre lot. Jackson bought up the property on both sides and tore down the houses so he could have more privacy.”

  I looked at Rayford in surprise. “Rivendell? The house is named after the elven realm in The Hobbit?”

  Rayford’s brows climbed his forehead. “You a Tolkien fan?”

  I shrugged. “A book fan in general. I’m a little obsessed, really. I read everything.”

  “Do you now,” Rayford mused, sliding me a glance.

  He wore a secret smile I found a little odd.

  “My father used to always read to me before bed when I was little. I guess I fell in love with books way back then, and it’s been an ongoing affair ever since.”

  “You’ll be wantin’ to see the library, then,” Rayford said. “I swear we’ve got more books than the Library of Congress.”

  That gave me pause. The Beast loves books, too?

  I decided he’d probably instructed his interior designer to buy a bunch of first editions so he could show off to his rich friends. Odds were he had an expensive wine collection he knew nothing about, too. A man who devoured food as joylessly as Jackson Boudreaux did wouldn’t have the soul to appreciate literature or fine wine, either.

  As we drove closer to the house, I grew more nervous. The scope of what I’d gotten myself into was starting to hit me. If the event didn’t go off without a hitch, I suspected I’d be blamed for it. And I had no doubt Jackson wouldn’t hesitate to give me a piece of his mind in front of three hundred guests if he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the food.

  “You’re lookin’ a little spooked over there, Miss Bianca.” Rayford smiled at me. “You okay?”

  “Fine as frog’s hair!” I answered brightly. I’d rather chew off my own arm than admit I was feeling intimidated.

  Rayford chuckled. “Good. He’s lookin’ forward to seein’ you, too.”

  Wait. What?

  Before I could gather my wits enough to respond, Rayford said, “Ah! Speak of the devil!”

  When I followed his gaze, my heart sank.

  Standing in front of the massive front door with his legs braced wide and his arms crossed over his chest stood Jackson, in regulation black everything, wearing an expression like he was about to launch a nuclear war.

  The devil indeed, I thought, stifling a sigh. I’d assumed I’d be getting a tour of the house and kitchen from Rayford, but apparently the Beast had other ideas.

  He probably thought I’d try to steal something.

  As soon as we pulled to a stop, Jackson yanked my door open. He stood peering in at me with narrowed eyes, his head cocked. He snapped, “Why are you sitting in front?”

  Right. I shouldn’t be bucking protocol because I’m the help.

  Heat crawled up my neck and suffused my cheeks. Lord, grant me the serenity not to take
off my shoe and hurl it at his balls.

  “And a fine good morning to you, too, Mr. Boudreaux,” I said sweetly. “I see you’re in your usual sunshine-and-rainbows mood. Did you misplace your human pills again?”

  His lips tightened.

  On my other side, I felt Rayford trying to stifle a laugh.

  Jackson stepped back and swung the door wide, a silent command to exit.

  I kept my expression neutral when he surprised me by offering me his hand. I grasped it gingerly, half expecting him to crush my fingers in his giant fist. His grip was firm and steadying, not crushing at all, though my fingers were swallowed by the sheer size of his rough paw.

  As soon as I’d gotten on my feet, he dropped my hand like it had burned him. Then he turned and disappeared into the house without a word.

  Exasperated, I said to Rayford, “Is he always this charming?”

  Rayford smiled at me. He looked a little sad. “Not everyone has the gift of the gab, Miss.” Looking at the empty doorway, he added, “And if you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one.”

  With that mysterious statement, he turned and followed his employer into the house, leaving me standing in the driveway wondering exactly what I’d gotten myself into.

  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 Christmas!” I said, stopping short to stare.

  Rayford chuckled. “Told you we had a lot of books.”

  A lot didn’t even begin to cover it. The library was three stories tall, capped with a vaulted ceiling painted with reproductions of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Chandeliers sparkled overhead. A huge marble fireplace yawned wide at one end of the room. A comfy-looking overstuffed sofa and chairs beckoned from a corner. And everywhere I looked, there were books. Stuffed into cases that scaled the walls, stacked in piles on enormous coffee tables, leather-bound spines glinting with gold script. Every one looked like a first edition. My fingers itched to touch them all.

  From behind me a voice said, “Do you read?”

  Of course it was Jackson. No one else could make that sound as if my literacy were in question.

  “I’ve been known to,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from all the treats calling me so bewitchingly. Distracted and in awe, I added, “Just before he died, my father asked me what I thought heaven was like. I told him heaven was a library that had a lot of comfortable chairs, good lighting, and every book ever written. If I lived here, I’d spend all my time in this room.”

  There was a short pause, then Jackson slowly moved into my peripheral vision. Thick scruff on his jaw, thick hair in need of a barber, thick head probably full of the howls of his woodland kin.

  “That explains your interesting cocktail menu,” he said, his voice gruff.

  I turned my head to look at him. “Interesting? Not pretentious?”

  He met my gaze. His blue eyes didn’t look quite as steely as usual. In fact, they could almost be described as warm.

  He said, “It’s only pretentious if you’re faking it.” He considered me in silence for a moment, his gaze piercing. “So the classics are your favorite?”

  He was referring to my cocktail menu again, which, in addition to Romeo and Julep and The Last of the Mojitos, included other literary-inspired libations like Tequila Mockingbird and Huckleberry Sin. And yes, they were all inspired by classic books.

  “The classics were my father’s favorites,” I said quietly. “I created the cocktail menu in honor of him.”

  Because I was looking right into his eyes, I saw the brief flicker of regret there.

  “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s because you didn’t bother to ask.”

  Jackson and I stared at each other in silence until Rayford discreetly cleared his throat. “Ahem. Should we proceed to the kitchen, sir?”

  Jackson gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, giving me a view of his broad back again. He strode away down the echoing hallway, turned a corner, and went out of sight.

  “Well,” said Rayford, sounding a little dazed. “I think you’d best go buy yourself a lottery ticket, Miss Bianca.”

  When I looked at him with my brows raised, he chuckled.

  “Mr. Boudreaux hasn’t apologized to anyone in as long as I can remember. Today must be your lucky day.”

  “Rayford,” I said, taking his arm. “Please don’t make me curse. My mama doesn’t like it.”

  His chuckles echoing off the marble, he led me away from the library and down the hall.

  “. . . and all the pans are in these drawers,” said Jackson, opening yet another enormous drawer to reveal an array of expensive pots and pans, neatly arranged.

  He’d shown me through the entire kitchen, stalking from the pantry to the professional-grade range to the cabinets above the sink, and finally the wall of pullout drawers below the row of ovens. The kitchen was almost as big as the library, with its own fireplace at one end and a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. Everything was gleaming, top-of-the-line perfection.

  And Rayford had been right. The kitchen was far warmer than the rest of the house. With the fire snapping and popping in the hearth and the television tuned to a morning news show, it was almost cozy.

  “The side patio will be used for a staging area,” Jackson continued, pointing to the French doors that opened onto a wide brick patio shaded by an arbor of wisteria vine. “The south lawn will be tented and set up with the dining tables. The silent auction is scheduled to begin at four with cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres, and the dinner seating begins at six.”

  “Which event coordinator are you working with?”

  Jackson mentioned the name of a well-known local coordinator who specialized in large events. I nodded, pleased by the choice.

  He said, “She’s got all the rentals already covered, including china, glassware, linens, tables, all of it. Everything will be set the day before, so there should be no one in your way when you get started.”

  That sounded good. Things were looking more together than I’d dared hope.

  “I’ll need to talk to her about the buffet setup—”

  “It’s not a buffet,” he interrupted. “Dinner will be served.”

  Starting to sweat, I repeated, “Served?”

  One side of Jackson’s mouth tilted up. “I’ve hired waitstaff. And bartenders. All you have to worry about is making the food.”

  Oh sure. What a cinch. Easy peasy. Making enough food for three hundred people, keeping it hot without drying it out, and coordinating the simultaneous service of three hundred appetizers, entrees, and desserts—all while managing and directing a large waitstaff I’d only meet a few hours in advance—was absolutely no problemo.

  Easiest twenty grand I’d ever earned.

  My smile was much more confident than I felt. “Great. I’d like to talk to the coordinator today, if possible.”

  “I’ll have Rayfor
d give you her contact information before you leave. And the coordinator from the Wounded Warrior Project wants to speak with you, too.”

  So the charity gala was to raise money for wounded veterans. I was surprised it wasn’t for something more superficial, like Billionaires Without Trophy Wives or the Southern Selfish Jerk Fund.

  My ex would’ve been a founding member of that last one.

  I said, “Oh, you were in the military?”

  Jackson ambled over to the big marble island in the center of the kitchen, pulled out a stool, and sat down. He folded his hands and looked at me with his brows pulled together. “About the menu.”

  I’d obviously stepped in another steaming pile of none-of-your-damn-business.

  Determined not to make the mistake of asking any more personal questions, I joined him at the island, taking a stool on the opposite side. From my pocketbook I removed the menu I’d been working on until two o’clock this morning. I handed him the pages and watched, chewing my lip, as he began to read.

  After a few nerve-wracking minutes of silence, he said, “This will do. Wine pairings?”

  I said, “No.”

  Jackson’s head snapped up. Unblinking, he glared at me. “No?”

  “Bourbon pairings. Specifically, Boudreaux Bourbon pairings.”

  He stared at me for a long time, his eyes hard. I had the feeling he was about to start growling again, but all he said was a curt, “Explain.”

  My heart picking up tempo, I said, “When I told you I loved your family’s bourbon, it was the truth. There’s a good reason it’s the world’s bestselling spirit—”

  “Yes. Millions of dollars of marketing,” Jackson said.

  I was taken aback by the bitterness in his tone. “No. It’s because it’s the best bourbon money can buy.”

  Grinding his teeth together, he looked away. “You already have the job, Miss Hardwick. You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass.”

  Face flaming, I retorted, “I never blow smoke into anyone’s orifices, Mr. Boudreaux. Your bourbon is the best, or I wouldn’t put it in my food and serve it to my blasted customers!”