Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  My whole body was shaking. Water pooled in my eyes. I couldn’t catch my breath. I said, “So does this mean she’s going to be okay?”

  Doc Halloran flipped the folder shut, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands over his belly. “It means the treatment is working. Which is excellent, mind you. Many times we have to try several different drugs before we see a result. But I don’t want to sugarcoat anything. After we remove the tumor, we’re looking at an additional five to fifteen weeks of chemo to get any stray cancer cells that might have been left behind in the lung or chest wall. We also need to consider radiation, depending on the outcome of the surgery. The lymph nodes are only marginally involved, which is good, but we won’t really know if the cancer has been contained, or eradicated, for several months.”

  He kept speaking, but all I could hear were the words five to fifteen weeks of chemo. My heart beat fast and furious as a hummingbird’s inside my chest.

  We didn’t have the money for that. We didn’t have the money for surgery or radiation, either. I’d already applied for assistance from the local social services department and been told it could take months to get a response, and even if we were approved it wouldn’t cover much. I’d applied for online grants but knew those were a shot in the dark. I’d done everything I could think of to search for financial help and was amazed to discover that if you had lung cancer and no health insurance, you were basically up shit’s creek without a paddle.

  “I’d like to schedule the surgery for the week after next,” said Doc Halloran, looking at me.

  What could I say? No? It’s too expensive? I don’t have the cash to save my mother’s life?

  Suddenly all my self-righteous arguments about why I couldn’t marry Jackson Boudreaux for money seemed as flimsy as a fart in the wind.

  So I squeezed my mother’s hand and forced a smile. “Do it.”

  When I got home that afternoon, I picked up the phone, called Jackson, and asked him if his offer was still on the table.

  EIGHTEEN

  JACKSON

  “Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.”

  “I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping.

  The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown.

  I was going to get married.

  Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife.

  At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further.

  I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the possibility that Rayford would open the door and I’d drop dead of a massive heart attack the moment I spotted her was pretty solid.

  I hadn’t been this nervous in . . . ever.

  “Maybe you should have a drink,” Rayford suggested, watching me pace. “So you don’t scare the poor girl off with all this”—he waved a disapproving hand in the air—“energy.”

  “My energy’s fine,” I snapped, flexing my hands.

  Rayford snorted. “Sure, if you’re gearin’ up to ride into battle on your war horse and lop off some heads with an axe.”

  I shot him a murderous glare, which made him smile.

  He said, “Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when I open the door and Miss Bianca sees the state you’re in and turns around and runs off.”

  “She’s not the running-off type,” I said. “She’s more the light-you-on-fire-and-walk-calmly-away-while-you-burn-to-ashes type.”

  Rayford chuckled. “This is gonna be fun.”

  I stopped pacing and stared at him. “Fun? This is the most bizarre and unbelievably serious thing I’ve done in my life, and you’re talking about it being fun?”

  He smiled. “I meant for me, sir.”

  Before I could reply, the doorbell rang.

  Rayford said brightly, “And here’s the fire starter now!” and opened the door.

  Bianca stood on the marble front step of my home wearing a red dress and a grim, resolute expression like she was arriving for an audit with the IRS. In spite of her obvious discomfort, she was breathtaking.

  This was the first time I’d seen her out of her chef’s clothes, and my eyes greedily drank her in. The term hourglass figure was invented for women like her. Her waist was narrow, her hips were generous, and her legs were long and bare. And her breasts . . . I almost groaned out loud.

  The dress had a neckline obviously designed to devastate men. It was cut low enough to give a glimpse of cleavage while still being classy, wide enough to reveal the upper swell of a pair of breasts that appeared to have been molded by God himself.

  If she wore that with a mind to negotiate for more money, she’d won. I’d willingly hand over my entire trust if I’d be allowed to look at her wearing that dress for more than five minutes.

  My God, her skin was flawless. Fucking flawless, like—

  “Are you going to invite me in, or would you prefer we talked in the front yard?” asked Bianca tartly.

  My gaze snapped up to her face.

  Rayford coughed into his fist to hide his laugh.

  And I went red to the roots of my hair.

  “Yes,” I said too loudly, flustered. “Come in.” Then I turned around and stalked toward the library, mortified I’d been caught ogling her chest like the enamored, sexually frustrated Neanderthal that I was.

  Over the roar in my ears, I heard her sigh, heard Rayford’s murmured words of hello, heard the front door close. I decided to take Rayford’s advice and pour myself a drink to take the edge off, so as soon as I entered the library I made a beeline for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured myself a glass.

  Rayford ushered Bianca into the library and asked her if he could get her anything.

  “A three-legged stool and a whip,” she said.

  When I turned to look at her, she sent me a tight smile. “Isn’t that what every lion tamer needs?”

  Rayford snorted. He was enjoying this way too much.

  “Thank you, Rayford,” I said, gripping my glass so hard it was in danger of shattering in my hand. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said pleasantly, and soundlessly slid the library doors shut, leaving Bianca and me alone.

  Unless he was standing outside with his ear pressed to the wood, which was definitely possible.

  Bianca looked at me. “So, Mr. Boudreaux, are you ready for a Mrs.?”

  I downed the entire glass of scotch in one gulp.

  Her laugh was as grim as her expression. “That makes two of us. And if you don’t mind, I’ll have whatever it is you’re having. My stomach is pitching the kind of dying duck fit only hard liquor can help.” She crossed to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, knees together, back ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly around the small white handbag she carried.

  So she was nervous, too. That eased some of the tension between my shoulders. I didn’t like the idea of her feeling uncomfortable, but knowing she took this as seriously as I did was heartening.

  I poured her a scotch and gave it to her. She took it, avoiding my eyes, and tossed it back like I had. Then she blew out a hard breath and looked up at me.

  “Please sit down,” she said. “You’re intimidating when you hover.”

  “I can’t believe you’d find anything intimidating,” I said, but did as she asked and sat opposite her in a chair, the coffee table between us.

  “I suppose you’ll soon be finding out all kinds of things about me,” she
murmured, looking at her glass.

  A painful silence followed. I decided to break it with an admission of truth. “I’m worried.”

  Surprised, she blinked up at me. “Worried?”

  I nodded.

  “About what?”

  My voice came out rougher than I intended. “About this. About what we’re about to do, if we agree to do it. But mostly . . . about fucking things up and making you hate me.”

  One of her hands trembled around the purse. She clenched it even tighter to stop it. “Thank you. I don’t know why, but that makes me feel better.”

  I sat slowly back in the chair and gazed down at my empty glass, giving her space. I wanted her to start when she was ready, to ask whatever questions she wanted to ask, to feel that she was in control of this exercise in insanity. I might not know much, but I knew that any small chance of success we had at even being friendly in the future hinged on her, and her alone.

  I was already all in. It was Bianca who still hadn’t placed a bet or shown me her hand.

  Finally she said, “You shaved.”

  I glanced up and met her gaze. “I know you prefer it.”

  She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed it. I’d never seen her do that before, and found it devastatingly sexy.

  She said, “And you’re wearing a suit. With a tie.”

  My smile was faint. “I never said I didn’t own any suits. I just said I hate them.”

  “But you’re wearing one.”

  “The occasion seemed to call for it.”

  We stared at each other for a while, until Bianca tossed aside her handbag and leapt to her feet. “Oh God this is weird!” she said, and started to pace.

  “I know.”

  She dragged her hands through her hair. It was down, falling in gentle waves around her shoulders, a dark mass of soft curls made for running through my fingers.

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Jackson, shut the fuck up.

  “My mother has lung cancer. Stage three.”

  Startled, I opened my eyes. Bianca was still pacing restlessly, her arms now folded over her chest.

  Without stopping, she said, “We’re broke. She doesn’t have insurance. Her doctor wants to do surgery. Chemo has shrunk her tumor, but she needs surgery and possibly radiation, and definitely more chemo after the surgery. All that stuff costs money. A lot of money. I’ve already burned through the twenty grand you gave me for the charity event, and that was only for the initial rounds of chemo and some prescriptions.”

  She turned back and paced the other way, the hem of her dress flaring out around her knees. “There’s no guarantee the surgery will work, of course, but without the surgery she’s dead. That’s it. Finito. Over. Done. Sixty-four years of running a business and raising a child and being a wonderful wife and mother and friend and good citizen and God-fearing churchgoer and taking care of everyone else without a thought to her own needs, and this is what she gets in repayment. Cancer. Like that’s fair? Like that’s how it should be?”

  When she turned around to face me, I saw how upset she was. The color was high in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Not knowing what else to do, I set my empty glass on the coffee table and stood.

  Bianca said, “My mother is my closest friend. She’s the best person I’ve ever known. I’d do anything for her, you understand?” She looked at me with wild eyes.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “I understand. You’ll marry a man you don’t love and give up five years of your own life so you can have the money to save hers.”

  She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with tears.

  I said, “That doesn’t make you a whore, forgive me for saying that word. It makes you selfless.”

  She quickly swiped at her eyes, then turned around and started pacing again. “I don’t know what it makes me, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  As I watched her move across my floor, spilling her heart, fighting tears, sacrificing herself for someone she loved, I was gripped by an almost overpowering urge to take her in my arms. I wanted to kiss her and comfort her and tell her I was going to make it all right, that I’d take care of everything.

  Instead I said gruffly, “Tell me what will make this easier for you.”

  Her steps faltered. She looked over her shoulder at me, chewing her lip again, her brows pulled together in a frown. Then she came back to the sofa and sat down, so I sat down, too.

  Looking at the floor, she said, “Knowing what to expect will help.” Then she lifted her chin and met my stare with a direct, unwavering gaze. I knew exactly what she meant.

  I said, “Sex isn’t part of the contract.”

  Faint color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t back down from her frank stare. She said, “So we’ll have a contract?”

  I nodded. “My attorney will draw it up based on whatever agreement we make, and you can have your attorney review it. The only nonnegotiables are the five-year time period prior to a divorce, a nondisclosure, and that you have to live here for the entirety of the marriage.”

  Her brows lifted.

  “Married people live together,” I said gently, leaving out that my father’s attorney had told me in no uncertain terms that was part of the bargain.

  She turned her gaze to the rows of books lining the library walls. When she didn’t say anything for a while, I added, “There are eight guest bedrooms here, besides the master bedroom and Cody’s room. You can have your pick.”

  She flattened her hands over her lap and moistened her lips. The pulse was going gangbusters in the hollow of her throat. I wanted to gently press my finger to it, to whisper something reassuring in her ear, but I kept my ass parked firmly in the chair and waited.

  Later on I’d deal with the question of how I was going to live with her under the same roof as me for the next five years without my balls exploding, but right now wasn’t the time for that.

  She said, “I don’t want a million dollars,” and my heart skipped a beat.

  Here came the negotiation. Damn that red dress of hers, because I already knew I was going to say yes to whatever she wanted.

  I sat back, crossed my legs, and kept my expression neutral.

  “What I want,” she said, “is for you to pay for all my mother’s medical bills, prescriptions, any hospitalizations and surgeries, and whatever other necessary care she needs, until she beats the cancer or . . .”

  She paused and looked at me, leaving the word dies unspoken.

  I said, “Keep talking.”

  She shook her head. “That’s it.”

  After staring at her in silence for what was probably much too long, I said slowly, “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  She made a face. “Anything else and I’ll feel dirty. This isn’t about greed or getting rich. I love my life, if you want to know the truth. And if I’m being perfectly honest, all your money doesn’t seem to have made you very happy.”

  She had me there.

  “The only problem I have is that I can’t pay for my mother’s cancer treatments. We could run up a huge bill and let the hospital come after us, but then we’re looking at bankruptcy court and debt collectors and maybe even having what few assets she owns being seized. And my mama is too proud to even tell her friends she’s sick—she’d rather die than go bankrupt or be a burden on anyone. If she lost her house and had to move in with me, she’d stick her head in the oven the first chance she got.”

  I was beginning to see where Bianca got her moxie, as Rayford called it. I said, “There must be something you want for yourself. Something for the restaurant, or your future—”

  “My future is my concern,” she said softly but with steel beneath it. “You’re buying a five-year pretend wife, and I’m buying a chance for my mother to live. That’s it. That’s the deal, or we don’t have one.”

  My chest ached. This woman was in a position to get almost anything she wanted from me, and
all she wanted was for her mother to be well.

  For the first time in years, I had hope for humanity.

  “How about this,” I said. “I’ll put the money in a trust and name you the sole trustee. That way it will be protected, and you can have access to the money whenever you need it, instead of having to rely on me. I think it would be . . . awkward for you to have to come to me with every bill. Then whatever is left over when your mother gets better, you can do with as you choose. Buy your mother a bigger house, give it to charity, whatever you want.”

  When she opened her mouth to protest, I said firmly, “That’s the deal, or we don’t have one.”

  She pressed her lips together. We looked at each other in silence as the clock ticked on the wall and my heart pounded like a jungle drum.

  She said quietly, “All right, Mr. Boudreaux. You have a deal.”

  She stood and held out her hand. I rose, crossed to her, and took it. Staring down into her beautiful brown eyes, I said, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jackson.”

  Holding my hand and gazing up at me, she sighed. “I suppose if I’m going to be your wife, I ought to have a nickname for you. Does anyone call you Jax?”

  Oh God, she moaned. God, yes. Please—Jax—

  With a gargantuan effort of will, I pushed aside the memory of the intensely sexual dream I’d had about her after the first time we met.

  “No,” I said, my voice rough. “No one calls me Jax. No one but you.”

  When her lips curved up at the corners, I felt like I’d been living my life up to then at the bottom of a dark well filled with trash and slimy water, and someone had just lifted the lid and lowered me a ladder.

  FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS

  Makes about 3 dozen

  1½ cups warm water

  ½ cup white sugar

  1 envelope active dry yeast

  2 eggs

  1¼ teaspoon salt

  1 cup evaporated milk

  7 cups all-purpose flour