Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “No. I have. Not.” He punctuated his words with a hammer like he did when especially miffed, but I sensed something more behind this denial than his usual pissiness, so I decided to poke the bear.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Over the phone came a bristling animal noise which, had I heard it while walking outdoors in the dark, would have made me wet myself.

  “I. Will. Never. Lie to you. Never. Do you understand?”

  Oh dear. Poking the bear produced unpleasant results. “Sorry. It just sounded like there was more to what you said.”

  I don’t know how silence can vibrate with emotion, but his did. Finally after a few incoherent growls and grumbles, he muttered, “I was engaged once.”

  That was like dangling a brand-new, catnip-filled feather toy in front of a cat. My ears perked up, my eyes narrowed, my tail started twitching. “What happened?”

  “She didn’t love me is what happened,” he thundered. “She was only after my money!”

  After a few moments I realized that sound in my ears was the pounding of my pulse. I breathed out slowly, feeling sick.

  “It’s different with us,” he said more gently, guessing why I couldn’t speak.

  “How, exactly?”

  His voice turned vulnerable, almost boyish. “This time I know.”

  Shot through the heart. Bullet to the brain. Fall from a forty-story building. With that one sentence, he killed me in a dozen different ways.

  “Jax,” I breathed, trembling. “Oh God.”

  “It’s ancient history, Bianca. I’m over it. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it if you hadn’t asked.” His voice took on a brisk, brittle quality. “And I’m the one who offered this deal, remember? This was my idea. So don’t blame yourself for anything.”

  Oh, but I could. And I did. I blamed myself for ever thinking this would work, and for being a cold-hearted, cash-hungry mercenary.

  For a moment I hated myself with the blinding fury I usually reserved for people who walk too slow and block the sidewalk.

  “This is crazy,” I whispered, so full of guilt that if someone falsely accused me of murder, I’d confess and demand the electric chair. “We can’t do this.”

  “Is that what you’re going to tell your mother? That you can’t get the money for her surgery?”

  I went from anguished guilty person to outraged shouty person in two seconds flat. “That is so not fair!” I hollered, slamming my hand on the desk.

  “Life isn’t fair,” he countered bitingly. “This is a business deal, Bianca. A good one for both of us. We’re not doing favors for each other. No one is getting taken advantage of here. We’re going into it with our eyes open, fully informed and consenting, with an exit strategy that’s painless and precise. Which is a hell of a lot more than most people can say about their marriages.”

  God, the bleakness of that. Whoever she was, the woman he’d been engaged to had certainly done a number on him. That . . . man-eater.

  It dawned on me that those scars on his jaw he said had been caused by a man-eating shark were from his ex-fiancée. What did she do, hit him with a pitchfork?

  Pushing aside the knowledge that I myself had wanted to do that very thing to him when we first met, I threw myself headfirst back onto the desk.

  Sounding worried, Jackson said, “What was that noise?”

  “My head and the desk getting better acquainted.”

  A low chuckle, and he’d officially cycled through every emotion a human can have in the course of a three-minute phone conversation. “Funny, I never pictured you as a drama queen.”

  I never pictured myself as the bride of hot Frankenstein, either, but here we were. “So what’s the next step?” I said, recovering enough to attempt rational conversation.

  “Do you own or rent your home?”

  I wrinkled my nose at the phone. Now he was a Realtor? “Rent.”

  “Give notice. We need to have you transferred to Rivendell by my birthday on the sixteenth.”

  He made it sound like a women’s prison. “What about my things? Furniture, clothes, books?”

  “Pack what you want to keep, and leave the rest. I’ll send over moving boxes and arrange for a storage unit. If your landlord charges removal fees for anything you leave behind, I’ll take care of it.”

  My lip chewing must have been audible, because Jackson prompted, “Spit it out, Bianca.”

  “And the wedding itself? When will that happen?”

  “As soon as you meet my parents. Ideally we’ll go this weekend, but if you need to arrange—”

  “Wait. Meet your parents? Go?”

  His voice turned dark. “We need to make a quick trip to Kentucky before we get married.”

  The realization of what he meant made me suck in a horrified breath. “Oh Lord. Your parents have to approve me, don’t they?”

  His silence was my answer. I hollered, “I have to audition for the role of your fake wife?”

  “It’s just a formality. They’re going to love you.”

  I groaned and covered my eyes with my hand. I could picture it now: Jackson pulling up to his boyhood home—in my mind it looked like the plantation Tara from Gone With the Wind—and introducing me to his rich, conservative, and very white parents.

  His mother would get a pinched look. His father would turn purple with anger. All the servants who’d lined up to greet us like they did on Downton Abbey would titter behind their hands at Jackson’s audacity for bringing home a colored girl.

  Mercy! Is that his maid?

  “I know you’re thinking again because I can smell something burning,” said Jackson drily.

  Think of Mama. Think of Mama. Think of Mama.

  “I can have Eeny cover for me for a few days,” I said weakly. She’d have to cover for me forever after I died of humiliation when Jackson’s parents had their dogs chase us off the plantation, anyway; might as well get her up to speed.

  “Good. We’ll leave Friday, then. When can I meet your mother?”

  Feeling like I was in a dream, I said, “I’ll find out.”

  DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA

  Makes 8 servings

  ½ pound raw bacon, diced

  ½ pound fresh pork sausage, casings removed

  ½ pound andouille sausage, sliced

  3 tablespoons butter

  4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes

  1 large yellow onion, diced

  1 green bell pepper, diced

  3 celery ribs, diced

  3 garlic cloves, minced

  2 cups long-grain white rice

  1 teaspoon dried thyme

  2 bay leaves

  ½ tablespoon chili powder

  1½ tablespoons paprika

  1 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

  1 teaspoon celery salt

  1 can diced tomatoes

  2 cups homemade (or organic) chicken stock

  1 cup good-quality red wine

  1½ pounds wild-caught raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

  8 scallions, chopped

  fresh parsley

  Preparation

  In a large Dutch oven or high-sided pot, melt butter. Cook bacon and sausages for three to five minutes or until lightly browned, stirring frequently. Season chicken breasts with salt and pepper, add to pot, and cook additional 5 minutes or until browned.

  Add onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and cook until soft and fragrant, about 10 minutes. If pot seems dry, drizzle lightly with olive oil.

  Add rice, thyme, bay leaves, paprika, cayenne pepper, and celery salt and stir to mix. Increase heat to high. Add tomatoes, red wine, and chicken stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium/low, cover pot, and simmer for 15 minutes or until rice is tender.

  When rice is done, add shrimp and green onions. Cook on low for additional 10 minutes or until shrimp is pink and cooked through. Remove bay leaves, fluff jambalaya, and serve, garnishing with fresh parsley.

  TWENTY-TWO
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br />   BIANCA

  After I hung up with Jackson, it took a solid fifteen minutes of dithering before I worked up the nerve to call my mother. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Mama. How are you?”

  The gentle laugh that came over the line was reassuring. “I told you this morning I’m feeling good today, chère. You worry about me too much.”

  “That’s good.”

  After listening to the cavernous silence that followed, her mother-bear instincts kicked in. She said sharply, “Bianca? What’s the matter?”

  I stared at the kitten poster on the wall of my office until it blurred. “Uh . . .” Be brave. You’ve got this. Terrified, I cleared my throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  She didn’t even miss a beat. “Who, Jackson Boudreaux?”

  My jaw hit the desk. When I recovered my wits, I said, “How did you know?”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve known Eeny for going on fifty years. Did you think she wouldn’t call me when a man barged into your kitchen and announced you were getting married like you’d just won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes?”

  Eeny! I should’ve known she’d blab! The air leaked from my lungs like a punctured balloon.

  Mama said, “Well, he might have a reputation for being too big for his britches, but the man must have some sense in his head to fall in love with you.”

  Love? I almost slipped into a coma. But what could I say? No, actually we’re only getting married to save his inheritance and your life?

  That would so not go over.

  Her tone became businesslike. “Bring him by tomorrow at ten o’clock. And be prepared to leave for a few minutes so I can give him the business. He doesn’t get to marry into this family unless he’s good enough for you.”

  She hung up, leaving me staring in bewilderment at the phone. The dreamlike feeling intensified.

  Body snatchers, I thought. That was the only rational explanation for her nonchalance. Aliens had stolen my mother and replaced her with a robot look-alike. Right now the robot was sitting blank eyed in Mama’s armchair downloading instructions from the mother ship.

  Or maybe the chemo had unraveled something inside her brain.

  Or I’d been involved in a serious car accident and was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, doped up to the gills, my opiate-soaked brain manufacturing this whole thing.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said aloud to the empty room and then cackled like a lunatic.

  I was taking the Beast home to meet my mother. The world had officially come to an end.

  At five minutes to ten o’clock the next morning, I sat on the edge of the sofa in Mama’s living room, pretending I wasn’t having a brain embolism while I waited for Jackson Boudreaux to knock on the front door.

  Regal in purple, Mama sat in her big white armchair, openly studying me. “Doc Halloran’s office called yesterday to confirm the surgery,” she said suddenly.

  “Next Wednesday at nine,” I said, nodding. “I remember.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. Four minutes to ten. T minus four minutes. Three. Two. My knee started to bounce.

  “In case anything goes wrong—”

  My head snapped around. “Nothing will go wrong!” I said too loudly.

  She smiled at me, amused. “As I was saying. In case anything goes wrong, I’ve gathered all my important documents and put them in a binder. It’s blue. I’ll leave it on the kitchen table before we go to the hospital.”

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Documents?”

  “My will. The title to the house. Copies of insurance policies and bank statements. You know, documents.”

  I pressed my cold fingertips to my closed eyelids and breathed deeply.

  “Oh, chère,” said Mama softly. “Dying isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s just the only thing I won’t live through.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re not dying!”

  She waved a hand impatiently as if to swat away a fly.

  A knock like a boom of thunder on the front door made me leap from my seat. “It’s him!” I cried, then stuffed my knuckles into my mouth and stared at the door as if the boogeyman were about to burst through it.

  “Well go answer it, child,” Mama chided, shaking her head.

  I smoothed my trembling hands down the waist of my dress and gulped in a few brimming lungfuls of air. Then I wobbled to the front door and gracelessly yanked it open.

  Jackson stood on my mother’s front porch in a beautiful navy-blue suit and an ice-blue tie that exactly matched the color of his eyes. His dark hair was tamed. There wasn’t a whisper of stubble on his square jaw. In his hands he held a tiny, perfect African violet plant, the pot wrapped in cellophane and lilac tissue paper.

  He said solemnly, “Bianca. Good morning.”

  I wasn’t sure if the house was sinking or I was floating, but somehow my feet had left the ground. “Jax,” I whispered, completely out of breath.

  His eyes flashed with warmth, there then gone. “May I come in?”

  I realized I was standing there staring at him stupidly, my mouth hanging open in what was most likely a highly unattractive way. I snapped my jaw shut and nodded. “Of course. Please enter.”

  Dear Lord. I sounded like an uptight butler.

  Then Jackson was standing in Mama’s living room, a burst of living color and electricity, taking up all the space as he always did.

  “Mrs. Hardwick,” he said to my mother. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

  Mama flicked me a look. It said: He’s got manners. She held out her hands to him. “Forgive me for not standing, Mr. Boudreaux, but I’ve recently been ill and I’m a little loosey-goosey on my feet, if you know what I mean.”

  Jackson crossed to Mama and extended his hand. She clasped it in both of hers, like she was praying. She looked up at him—all the way up—and said, “Goodness! The air must be thin up there, son. Please, take a seat.”

  Son? I sank into the nearest chair and concentrated hard on staying upright.

  “This is for you, ma’am,” said Jackson politely, parking himself next to Mama in a chair that was woefully undersized for his sprawl. He held out the plant.

  The flowers Trace brought the other day had mysteriously vanished.

  “Oh.” Mama touched a hand to her throat. She stared at the violets in amazement. “Why, African violets are my favorite! I haven’t seen these in years!” She turned her gaze to me. It was glittering. “Bianca, did you think of this?”

  Before I could answer, Jackson said smoothly, “Your daughter is always thinking of you, ma’am.” When his gaze slid to mine, I wanted to cry.

  Why was he doing this, coming here to meet my mother? He didn’t have to do this. I’d already agreed to sign the contract. This was unnecessary.

  Mama held the plant in her hands and beamed at it. “What a lovely surprise. You’ve just made my day.” Cradling the violets in her lap like a small, treasured dog, she turned her beam onto Jackson. “What can I offer you to drink, Mr. Boudreaux? Coffee? Water? Something stronger, maybe, an Absinthe Suissesse?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, ma’am. And please, call me Jackson.”

  The two of them grinned at each other while I looked on, utterly confused.

  Jackson said, “I understand Bianca gets her talent in the kitchen from you, Mrs. Hardwick.”

  Mama batted her eyes, coy as sin. “Oh, I taught her a thing or two, but she’s got talents I never had. Creativity, that’s the mark of a true artist! Like the spring menu she put together for her restaurant, for example.” She shot me a proud glance. “Wouldn’t you say that was a stroke of genius, Jackson, all those recipes featuring Boudreaux Bourbon?”

  Very gravely, Jackson replied, “The menu is incredible, but I think her true genius is actually with people.” His eyes found mine. His voice changed. “She knows how
to make them feel like they matter.”

  With his intense gaze burning into mine, I lost the power of language. My tongue sat in my mouth like a lump of soft cheese. I was going to have to take sign language classes to communicate from here on out.

  Mama looked back and forth between us for a moment, then sighed.

  It was a satisfied sound, filled with relief and pleasure, like when you find something precious you’ve been searching all over for that you thought you’d lost.

  Flustered, I looked down at my hands twisting together in my lap.

  “Bianca,” said Mama. I looked up to find her giving me make yourself scarce eyes. “Would you mind putting these in my bathroom and giving them a drink?” She held out the violets. “And see if you can find that old photo album from your school days; I want to show Jackson those pictures from when you won the spelling bee in the fifth grade.” Her smile was conspiratorial. “You might have to rummage around in those bookcases in the office for a while, I can’t remember exactly where I put it.”

  Stifling the groan that I knew would gain me nothing but a rebuke, I stood and dutifully took the violets. I left them chatting, their voices becoming indistinct as I made my way down the hall into Mama’s bedroom.

  I dribbled water into the plant from the bathroom faucet. I set it on the sink and fussed with the tissue paper, smoothing out any stray wrinkles, pursing my lips in consternation. I’d grill Jackson later about how he’d known these were Mama’s favorite flowers, but for now I was still in a mild state of shock that he was even here.

  I’d been dreading this. I didn’t want to tell Mama I really was getting married, it wasn’t just some bad joke Eeny had witnessed. Mama’s nose was sharper than a bloodhound’s. She’d guess right away something smelled funny.