Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  This being rich business was certainly convenient.

  Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?”

  Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.”

  “Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.”

  “Wait until you go to the bathroom.”

  I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.”

  “No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled, if you prefer your ass chilled while you take care of business. Then afterward, you have your choice of oscillating or pulsing spray wash, followed by a lovely air dry. It’s very civilized.”

  I had other words for getting your butt treated like it was enjoying a spa day, but declined to share. “So how long is this flight, anyway?”

  “Hour and forty-five, give or take.”

  “And are you going to spend it pretend sleeping, or are we going to talk?”

  One corner of Jackson’s mouth turned up. He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark shadow on his jaw was masculine and appealing. The scruff also served to partially hide his scars. I wondered if that was its purpose.

  “Are you going to be like this after we’re married?”

  “Like what?” I asked, the picture of innocence. “Charming and sociable? No, you’re right, I should be surly and taciturn; it makes everything so much more fun.”

  He was trying to scowl at me and doing a poor job of it.

  I sent him a coy smile, complete with batted lashes. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

  I decided to take a different tack. “You’re more prickly than a porcupine who wandered into barbed wire. Want to talk about it? Get it off your chest before you see mumsy and daddy?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  As if that wasn’t predictable.

  I pouted and kicked off my heels. I’d worn a dress, one of the few I owned, and fiddled with the little gold buttons on the bodice, hoping they didn’t look cheap.

  “I already told you you look beautiful,” said Jackson, still staring out the window. “Stop fussing.”

  I liked him telling me I looked beautiful. Every time he said it, I felt like a cat stroked down its back.

  “Yes, but do I look wifely?” I was still worried about making a good impression on his parents. I wasn’t thinking of me. I was thinking of him, and how he’d die of exposure from the elements within a week if he became homeless and had to live under a bridge.

  Jackson sent me a searing sideways glance. His voice came out rough. “I told you not to worry.”

  I sighed. “Yes, you did. So helpful, by the way. So informative. Really settles my nerves.” I sent him a pointed look.

  “All right, Bianca, since you asked—no, you don’t look wifely.”

  I stared at him, strangely hurt.

  His voice softer, he said, “I’ve never seen anyone’s wife who looks as good as you do. You’re a fucking wet dream. Now stop fishing for compliments and buckle your lap belt, we’re about to take off.”

  My heart was about to take off, too, blasting right out of my chest like a rocket. You’re a fucking wet dream.

  Dear Lord, I might have to take that pulsing spray-wash toilet for a spin.

  Hyperventilating, I fumbled with the lap belt for far longer than it should have taken, until my fingers regained the ability to complete simple tasks and the buckle snapped into place. Then I sat back and expended a lot of energy trying to appear like a normal human being and not the mental patient bouncing off padded walls that I felt like.

  A stewardess appeared from the front of the cabin. She looked like one of the girls who recited poetry to the cow my chair was made of. I’d never seen someone that pretty up close. She leaned over Jackson’s chair, exposing acres of creamy cleavage.

  “May I get you something to eat or drink, sir?”

  Her husky voice indicated she was on the menu, too.

  Without even looking in her direction, Jackson flicked his fingers dismissively at her. I wanted to punch the air and do a touchdown dance. Instead I smiled graciously when she turned to me, because it wasn’t polite to gloat.

  “Something for you, miss?”

  “Water, please,” I said.

  She floated away, hips swaying, Miss Disney Princess circa 1952. I sighed, watching her and her eighteen-inch waist go.

  “What was that wistful sigh for?” asked Jackson, glancing at the retreating stewardess.

  I waved a hand in the air to dismiss the subject, but he said, “Nice try. Answer the question.”

  “Why do I have to answer questions, and you don’t?”

  He just stared at me, waiting.

  “Ugh. Fine. I was just thinking that woman looks exactly how I’ve always wanted to look.”

  Jackson’s brows pulled together. “What?”

  “You know. All-American Malibu Barbie. Big boobs, blonde hair, lots of shiny teeth.”

  He looked at me like I was insane. “Why the fuck would you want to look like that when you look like this?” He waved an angry hand up and down, indicating my figure.

  After a long time, I said, “Are you deliberately trying to butter me up so I’ll feel more confident about meeting your parents?”

  He looked at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, like he was asking for divine intervention in dealing with me. “No, Bianca. I am not. Trying. To butter you. Up.”

  So creamy, leggy blondes weren’t his thing. Interesting.

  “Well,” I said, flustered. “Thank you. You’re not half bad yourself.”

  I knew as soon as I uttered those words I was in for it. He leaned forward like a predator leaning over a fresh kill.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” I said, aiming for disinterested cool. I lifted my hand and inspected my manicure. “I was just thinking the other day that you aren’t entirely unfortunate looking.”

  Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but Malibu Barbie was back with my water.

  “Here you are, miss.” Her smile almost blinded me.

  “Thank you.”

  The stewardess retreated with a lingering glance sent Jackson’s way. That apparently reminded him of something, because he didn’t press me for more details about our interrupted conversation and instead started patting his jacket.

  I uncapped the plastic bottle of water and took a big swig.

  “Before I forget,” he said, “I have something for you.” He pulled a black velvet ring box from his pocket and set it on my knee.

  I spit out the water in my mouth in a spray that went halfway down the aisle. I started to cough, my eyes watering.

  He said drily, “Remind me in the future that you don’t react well to surprises.”

  I fanned a hand in front of my face, trying to catch my breath. “What’s this?” I wheezed.

  His expression was cloaked, revealing nothing. “Did you think I’d let my fiancée walk around without an engagement ring?”

  I stared at the box like it was filled with anthrax or might burst into flames. “But . . . you . . . we . . .”

  “Just open the damn box, Bianca.”

  Moving at the speed of a herd of turtles, I capped the water bottle and set it in the recessed cubby in the wall beside my seat. Then I picked up the box—holding it gingerly with both pinkies out—and opened it.

  And immediately had a massive heart attack.

  Through my choked gasps and garbled attempts at language, Jackson said calmly, “And I’m quoting, ‘A five-carat flawless Tiffany brilliant-cut center stone with a pair of flawless one-carat stones flanking it, set in a platinum band.’ No woman is that specific about the ring she wants unless she’s spent a lot of time researching it.”

  I made a sound that was
like, “Grglefarbluhh.”

  When it became apparent to him that I was in no state to govern my own bodily functions, he leaned over, took the box from my hands, removed the ring, and slipped it on my left ring finger, where it sparkled with the brilliance of a thousand suns.

  Smiling, he snapped the ring box shut and leaned back in his chair.

  The captain came over the intercom and advised us we’d be taking off shortly. I hoped they had a stretcher on board, because they’d need it to get me off this plane when we landed.

  “Jax,” I breathed. “Holy shit.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, deep, loud belly laughs that shook his chair and echoed through the cabin. “God, that right there made it worth the price! I made you curse!”

  “Please don’t talk to me about price.” I groaned, still holding my hand out at arm’s length and staring at the huge, glittering bauble. “Sweet baby Jesus. I’ll get mugged wearing this thing. Some robber will cut off my hand with a machete. I can’t cook without my left hand, Jax!”

  “Ha ha ha!” he boomed, thoroughly enjoying my distress.

  “Oh, I see,” I said sourly. “Now I’ve discovered the secret. The way to make you happy is to freak out and swear like a sailor.”

  He stopped laughing and grinned at me. He was breathtakingly handsome when he smiled. How had I not noticed that before?

  “You make me happy all the time,” he blurted, then froze, a look of horror replacing his grin.

  I think that was too much honesty for both of us, because I froze, too.

  I made him happy? How was that possible? He spent most of the time we were together glaring at me and snapping like a crocodile. Except when we kissed. He definitely looked happy then.

  Or something.

  To cover for both our palpable discomfort, I said lightly, “That’s because I’m so charming and sociable.” I made a queenly hand wave like I was passing by in a royal carriage, greeting my subjects. “And have such good taste in jewelry.”

  He relaxed, though his grin was gone for good. He cleared his throat. “Obviously,” he growled, and stared out the window, his arms folded over his chest.

  The Beast was back. This man was going to give me whiplash.

  The plane began to taxi away from the hangar and down the runway. We lapsed into silence as we prepared for takeoff, avoiding each other’s eyes. By the time we were in the air, I’d managed to gain the upper hand over my pounding heart and fluttering nerves. I took a book from my handbag and settled in to read, knowing Jackson wouldn’t soon be in the mood to talk.

  The ring was heavy and cool on my finger, snickering at me that I was an impostor.

  “Shakespeare?” murmured Jackson.

  I glanced up. He was eyeing the title of the book in my hands. I said, “Much Ado About Nothing. Someone recently recommended it to me.”

  His blue eyes held mine in a grip that felt inescapable. Finally he released me, directing his gaze back out the window to watch the earth recede.

  We spent the rest of the flight in silence. Because I was attuned to his moods now, I felt the tension grow in his body with each mile we flew nearer to Kentucky. By the time we began our descent, he was so taut I thought he might snap.

  A limousine awaited us at the airport. A uniformed driver with a face like a slab of granite took our bags. It was close to sunset, the sky a spectacular orange and purple-blue. From the airport it was a short drive through the bustling city of Louisville to the countryside, where the houses kept getting larger and farther and farther apart. Finally we pulled up in front of a majestic stone gate, and the driver punched a code into a small silver box mounted on a pole beside the driveway.

  Beside me, Jackson said, “Breathe, Bianca.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. I released it in one big rush, smoothing my hands over my hair.

  We pulled past the stone gate and started down a long, winding lane, shaded on both sides by enormous oak trees. Around a bend I spotted the house in the distance. It was beautiful, but nowhere near as large as I’d expected—maybe half the size of Jackson’s home.

  Jackson must have been watching my face. He said, “It’s the guest house.”

  “Oh.” Okay, that made sense. They were rich, of course they had a guest house.

  He added, “There are seventeen on the property.”

  My mouth dropped open. I stared at him in disbelief. “Seventeen guest houses. Like that?”

  “No. That’s the small one.”

  When I made an inarticulate noise of shock, he smiled, only it was a dark smile, totally devoid of humor.

  He said, “The estate comprises two hundred sixty acres, five lakes, seventeen guest cottages, botanical gardens, a deer park, a stable yard and coach house, and its own church. The main residence has thirty-seven bedrooms—by some counts it’s thirty-nine, no one’s really sure—thirty-two bathrooms, an entire wing dedicated to servants’ quarters, a bowling alley, basketball and tennis courts, a fifty-seat theatre, a replica of an English pub, a thirty-thousand-bottle wine cellar, and a full arcade. And a bunch of other shit I’m forgetting.”

  We sped past more guest “cottages,” set far back from the road on either side, partly hidden behind stands of trees and lush gardens. Then we crested a low hill, and the main estate came into view.

  I gasped.

  Jackson muttered, “Welcome to Moonstar Ranch.”

  Then he leaned over, put his head in his hands, and cursed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  BIANCA

  Picture a castle—the biggest and most elaborate castle you’ve seen in a movie. But not a forbidding, fortress-type castle with dungeons and moats and weird smells. Something elegant and romantic. Something with crenellated towers and cascading fountains and flocks of doves soaring through misty vales. Or any castle from any fairy tale where a princess waits for Prince Charming to ride up on his trusty white steed.

  Then triple the size, add in a herd of white-tailed deer prancing across a lush wilderness backdrop, a glittering lake filled with colored fountains and peacefully drifting swans, and an enormous orange moon cresting over the horizon in the distance, bathing everything in a warm amber glow, and you’ll have a small glimpse of the magic, majesty, and soul-piercing beauty of the place called Moonstar Ranch.

  I exhaled an awed breath that contained a lot of vowels. Then, panicked, I gripped Jackson’s arm.

  “Okay,” I said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’ve respected your privacy. I haven’t pried into what happened that made you leave this place and never come back, but now you have to give me something. You can’t let me walk in there blind. Just give it to me straight—murder? Kidnapping? Sexual abuse? I swear I won’t judge or repeat a word to another living soul. Just tell me why you would ever want to leave somewhere so beautiful. And also why it’s called a ranch because that is like its own European country.”

  Jackson lifted his head and looked at me. He said cryptically, “Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.”

  I blinked. “That isn’t helpful. At all.”

  He blew out a hard breath and leaned back into the seat. “You’ll be happy to know that it’s nothing as dramatic as what your imagination is conjuring. You ever think about giving up the chef gig and writing fiction?”

  That made me feel a little better, though I still had nothing solid. I needed more. “So no sexual abuse? No bodies buried in the garden?”

  He groaned. “For Christ’s sake, Bianca!”

  “What am I supposed to think?”

  “Really? In a void of details, you go straight to murder and getting diddled by Daddy?”

  “Well it had to be something major!”

  He glowered at me. “It was. And no, it didn’t involve murder, kidnapping, or inappropriate fondling on the part of my parents.”

  When I narrowed my eyes, he thundered, “Or anyone else, either!”

  We glared at each other. Finally I thought of something. “
Does it have to do with the man-eating shark?”

  When he blanched, I thought, Bingo.

  The limousine passed through a brick carriage house, then pulled to a smooth stop at the crest of a circular drive. Through gritted teeth, Jackson said, “Enough questions. Let’s just get through this weekend, all right?”

  He didn’t wait for the limo driver to open his door. He burst from the car, rounded the rear, and yanked open my door. He stuck out his hand and impatiently wiggled his fingers.

  So conversation time was over. Now it was face the music time. Meet the parents time. Try to act sweet and charming so the scary rich people don’t hate me and set the dogs on me time.

  I cursed myself for not slipping a hip flask into my handbag.

  Jackson unloaded me from the car like a piece of luggage. When I was steady on my feet, I looked up into his grim face and poked him in the chest, which nearly broke my finger. Maybe he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

  “Hey. Boudreaux. Down here.”

  His lips pressed to a thin, pale line, he looked down at me.

  I said firmly, “I’m your friend. Don’t forget that. No matter what you’re dragging me into here, what psychotic ex-girlfriends or crazy relatives or dead bodies rotting under the rosebushes that you’re not admitting to, I’m on your side. Got it?”

  He swallowed. His eyes went all melty. He tried to cover up his emotion by scowling and looking away, but it was too late.

  Mama was right about him. The man was crème brûlée. Tough on the outside, but on the inside all soft and gooey sweet. It made me feel good to know that secret, and also surprisingly protective.

  These rich SOBs better watch out, because if one of them even looked at Jackson sideways, I’d go full Rambo mode and shoot their heads clean off. Only with my mouth.

  “All right, then,” I murmured, taking his arm. “Now pretend like you’re madly in love with me and introduce me to your parents.”

  The inside of the house—and I’m using that word loosely—was exactly what you’d expect a castle would be. Hanging tapestries, oil paintings of grim-faced ancestors, lots of elaborate stonework and beveled windows. The herringbone inlaid wood floor was polished to a mirror sheen. Bouquets of flowers were arranged in delicate Chinese porcelain vases that were probably three thousand years old. The ceilings were cathedral. There was an overabundance of carved mahogany paneling on the walls, and I’d never seen so many branched candelabra outside of church. The entire effect was one of stately, distinguished elegance.