Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  I said, “What a dump.”

  Standing beside me in the octagonal-shaped foyer, Jackson snorted. I took it as a win.

  The limo driver followed us in with the luggage. “To your rooms, sir?” he said.

  Jackson nodded, and the driver disappeared down a corridor to our right.

  “You know that guy?” I asked, surprised.

  “He’s been on staff since I was . . . ten, I think. Charles.”

  “I thought he was a driver from a service. The two of you acted like you’d never met before!”

  Jackson looked around with his mouth pinched. “Did you expect he’d throw his arms around me and give me a big hug?”

  “But there wasn’t even a ‘nice to see you.’ There wasn’t even a hint he recognized you at all.”

  Jackson jabbed both hands through his hair and said roughly, “Rayford was the only one who ever liked me.”

  Oh boy. Minefield. I had a bad feeling the entire weekend would be filled with them. I quickly changed the subject. “So where’s the lineup of servants?”

  Jackson sent me a strange look.

  “Just kidding. But . . .” I gazed around the empty room. “Um. Shouldn’t there be someone here to meet us?”

  At that moment, a sharp bark echoed off the walls. I turned to my left and froze in horror. Two enormous, muscular black dogs stood in the passageway, stock-still, staring at us.

  My horror turned to relief when Jackson sank to his knees and opened his arms. “Zeus! Apollo! Come here, boys!”

  The dogs leapt forward and crashed into Jackson’s arms, a whirlwind of barking, licking, tail-wagging joy.

  I took a step back, not completely convinced they wouldn’t turn and rip me to shreds. They were bigger than a pair of wolves and had an equally formidable appearance.

  “Don’t worry, Bianca,” said Jackson, roughhousing with the dogs, “wolfhounds aren’t usually aggressive to strangers.”

  “Usually doesn’t give me the greatest feeling of confidence, Jax.”

  “They’re sweethearts.” He stood. The top of the dogs’ heads came up to his waist, which almost put them at eye level with me. He said, “Hold out your hand and let them sniff you.”

  Or eat me, I thought, but decided this was my first test at Moonstar Ranch, and I wasn’t going to fail it. I gingerly stuck out my hand, then held perfectly still as two enormous heads swung around to inspect it.

  “Nice doggies,” I whispered, terrified. “Good doggies.”

  The dogs nosed my hand, then started to happily pant at me. Apparently I’d passed the smell test.

  “You’re early,” said a deep male voice from across the room. Jackson went stiff.

  In the arched doorway that led to the great room beyond the foyer stood a man. I’d never seen anyone in real life wearing an ascot with a smoking jacket, but now I had. He was Jackson’s twin, except older and grayer, with laugh lines around his blue eyes.

  “Father,” said Jackson, confirming my guess.

  They stared at each other. It wasn’t unfriendly—more assessing than anything—but if I hadn’t seen my mother in four years, you can bet our reunion would look nothing like this.

  The elder Mr. Boudreaux turned his gaze to me. “And you must be Bianca,” he said with much more robust enthusiasm than he’d addressed his son. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His gaze flashed to my left hand. A faint smile lifted his lips.

  Oh my stars. This was gonna get messy.

  I mentally put my big girl panties on and sent my future father-in-law a smile that was so sweet it practically dripped honey. “Mr. Boudreaux. I’m so happy to meet you.”

  Then, just to shake off the general sense of doom, I went over and gave the man a hug.

  Imagine throwing your arms around a marble statue, and you’ll get the idea of how my friendly overture was met. Red-faced, I stepped back and tried to ignore the way Jackson’s jaw was hanging all the way to the floor.

  Mr. Boudreaux was red in the face, too. He said, “Oh. Dear. You’ll have to excuse me, Bianca, I don’t think I’ve been hugged by anyone in about fifty years.”

  But he kind of liked it, I could tell. Encouraged, I smiled at him again. “Sorry to be so forward, but we’re big huggers in my family, Mr. Boudreaux. My mama always told me there are few things a good hug can’t cure, and those things are what bourbon’s for.”

  Mr. Boudreaux stared at me for a moment, then his face broke into a grin. “Call me Brig, Bianca. If you’re gonna be family, we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

  Jackson made a soft choking noise that sounded like maybe he was going to faint.

  And we’re off to a rip-roaring start.

  I said, “Thank you, Brig. That’s awfully nice of you.”

  Brig looked back at his son. His grin faltered. “Well. You must be tired after your journey. I’ll let you freshen up before dinner. It’s at eight.” With a nod in my direction, he turned and left. The dogs followed at his heels.

  When he was gone, my relief was overwhelming. I said, “Whew! I think that went pretty well, don’t you?” I turned to find Jackson staring at me like I was a stranger. “What?” I said, instantly worried I’d made some terrible gaffe.

  But he only shook his head in wonder. “You hugged my father,” he said softly, his eyes shining. “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or totally insane.”

  I beamed at him. “That’s easy. I’m a genius.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, “I’m beginning to think so.”

  Then, still shaking his head, he took my arm and led me away.

  There wasn’t enough time for a tour of the “house” before dinner, so we went straight up to Jackson’s room via one of the elevators he informed me were scattered all over the place like gopher holes. Once inside the door, I stopped dead.

  “I can see why you’d hate it so much here,” I said, gazing around. “This is really beyond the limits of human tolerance.”

  More oil paintings, more soaring ceilings, more priceless antiques. But the thing that truly made this room so beautiful was the massive wall of windows that gave way to the view of the gardens and lake, and woodlands beyond. A fire crackled in the huge stone hearth on one end of the room. On the other end a door stood slightly open, giving a peek of what looked to be an Olympic-size bathtub in the en suite bathroom.

  Jackson went straight to the enormous bed centered under the windows and flopped facedown onto the silk duvet cover, where he remained unmoving.

  Which is when I realized we’d never had a talk about the sleeping arrangements for this weekend.

  Big sofa over there, I thought, eyeing a tufted, peacock-blue couch in the corner, opposite a pair of straight-backed chairs. Or whatever that thing is, I thought, catching sight of a long piece of furniture against the wall. It had no back, only cigar-shaped pillows at each end, but was obviously designed for seating. A divan or some such that garnished wealthy people’s homes. The pillows looked wicked uncomfortable, but Jackson would probably let me steal one from the bed—

  “You’re thinking again.” Jackson’s voice was muffled in the comforter. He raised his head and glared at me. “Stop it.”

  “Is this . . . are we . . .”

  His glare intensified.

  I sighed and spit it out. “Where will I be sleeping?”

  Jackson rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head. That made his T-shirt ride up his abdomen a few inches, exposing a hard expanse of golden skin and a fine trail of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his jeans.

  I hoped my gulp wasn’t audible.

  “Here,” he said, looking at me with half-lidded eyes.

  “You mean . . . on that bed?”

  He nodded.

  My pulse ticked up a notch. “As in . . . with you?”

  When a corner of his mouth quirked, I blew out an irritated breath. He’d been baiting me.

  “I’ll take the sofa, you can have the bed,” he said, muted la
ughter in his voice.

  I tossed my handbag onto a chair by the door and wandered into the room. Ignoring him, I roamed around for a few minutes, touching things, being nosy. I poked my head into the bathroom and wondered how many people would fit into the tub. At least ten was my guess.

  I knew he was watching me the way I always knew he was watching me, by the sense of having two hot irons poking into my back.

  Finally, when I was done with my inspection, I turned to him and demanded, “Tell me about your mother.”

  He closed his eyes. “Christ, you’re like a honey badger,” he muttered.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds extremely cute, so thank you.”

  His sigh was a tremendous gust of air. “It’s like a large, ferocious weasel with impenetrable skin.”

  That was so ridiculous I wasn’t even insulted. “Just give me a little something to prepare for. I assume I’ll meet her at dinner?”

  A long silence followed. Then a curt, “Yes. Unless she decides not to come down.”

  That sounded bad. “Are you on speaking terms with her?”

  His jaw worked. He was silent for a long time before saying, “I haven’t spoken to her since I left.”

  Well pick my peas. Dinner should be delightful.

  I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and looked down at him. He stubbornly refused to open his eyes, so I allowed my attention to wander to that exposed strip of skin above his waistband. My finger itched to reach out and lightly stroke that pretty trail of hair. It looked so soft and fine, like down. So inviting.

  I bit my lip.

  Jackson said softly, “What are you looking at, Bianca?”

  My gaze flashed up to his. He was staring at me with so much heat in his eyes I was momentarily speechless. I ripped my gaze away and stared down at the ring on my hand, letting it blind me. “Nothing.”

  “Then why is your face the color of that chair in the corner?”

  The scarlet chair, he meant. I closed my eyes. “Now who’s the honey badger?” I muttered.

  After a long, tense moment of silence, Jackson slowly reached out and took my hand. He gently placed it on his stomach, then flattened his hand over it so my palm rested against his warm, bare skin.

  His voice a low, sandpaper rasp, he said, “Were you looking at this?”

  I said, “Don’t be silly,” but we both knew I was lying.

  He grasped my forefinger, touched the tip of it to the fine down of hair beneath his belly button, and whispered, “This?” Using my finger like a paintbrush, he traced it slowly downward until it hit the top button of his jeans.

  A violent tremor rocked me, but I didn’t open my eyes.

  I didn’t move my hand, either.

  Jackson lay very still beside me, except for his breathing, which was rough. Radiating heat, his stomach rose and fell under my hand. My heart was like a pealing bell.

  He whispered my name. It was so sweet on his lips, such a tender sound. I made a noise deep in my throat, a retort or a plea, I didn’t know which. Big and slightly trembling, Jackson’s other hand stroked up the inside of my wrist.

  A loud throat clearing from the doorway, and I jumped from the bed like my butt had pneumatic springs.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a uniformed male servant with a bland face and droopy hound dog eyes. He bowed. “Madam. Do you need anything before supper?”

  Jackson sat up, rubbed his forehead, and growled, “No. And in the future your presence isn’t required unless I ring for you.”

  The servant bowed again. “Very good, sir.” He disappeared as quickly as he arrived, leaving Jackson and me alone in excruciating silence.

  I said, “I’ll just be hiding in the bathroom until dinner if you need me,” and bolted, slamming the door shut behind me. I collapsed against it, fighting for air, wondering how far that little dalliance on the bed would have gone if we hadn’t been interrupted.

  Wondering how far I wanted it to go.

  From behind the closed door, there might have been a muffled groan.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JACKSON

  My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot.

  Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake.

  “You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.”

  I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual.

  Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss me in either instance. And now here I was again, mistaking what was probably a look of worry or concentration or something else altogether for a look of lust.

  Could I be any more of a cliché? If a woman like Cricket couldn’t love me, Bianca Hardwick was the last woman on earth who would.

  My brain was scrambled eggs. I wasn’t thinking straight. Bianca had told me not fifteen minutes ago that she was my friend. My friend. Not the girl who’d think it was a super great idea to play handsy with the aching, throbbing, twitching monster between my legs right before we went down to dinner with my estranged parents.

  This was a disaster.

  The water went on behind the bathroom door, followed by some faint gasping noises. That was probably Bianca puking into the sink. I had to make this right. I had to apologize.

  I lumbered to my feet and went to the bathroom door. I rested my forehead against it and closed my eyes. When the sound of running water stopped, I said, “If you want to hit me with something, there’s a very heavy bronze reproduction of the obelisk in Saint Peter’s Square on the credenza. I can bring it to you. It has a conveniently pointy tip.”

  Her response was muffled by the door. “I don’t want to hit you.”

  I didn’t dare hope that meant anything other than she’d rather shoot me than clobber me over the head. I waited, my hands pressed flat against the wood, my heart pounding.

  She moved closer to her side of the door, because her voice was clearer when she said, “Maybe we could just . . . forget that happened.”

  I was swamped by relief. Until she added softly, “For now.”

  I bolted upright and stared at the door. For now? For now? What the hell did that mean? Was she going to wait until after dinner to yell at me, or . . .

  Or what?

  Holy fuck. I was having a heart attack. No, I was letting my imagination run away with me again.

  No. I was having a heart attack.

  The doorknob turned. She cracked open the door and peeked out at me through a two-inch sliver. Only the left side of her face was visible, and all of it was flushed.

  “You mentioned something about clothes,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Is the dress I’m wearing appropriate for dinner?”

  “Yes. But there are things in the closet you can look through if you’d like to wear something else.”

  Her left eyebrow arched.

  I said, “I had a few things brought in for you.”

  She swung the door open wide. “You shopped for me?”

  I couldn’t tell from her expression if she was pleased or thought that was creepy, so I just nodded again.

  “How did you know my size?”

  Now I knew it would be creepy if I said I’ve spent a lot of time staring at your body, so I went with, “I guessed.”

  Her expression soured. “Please tell me you didn’t guess I’m a
size two, because if you did, I’ll be wearing this dress for the rest of the weekend.”

  Pressing the smile from my lips, I turned and went to the wardrobe. I opened the doors and stepped aside.

  Bianca poked her head out the bathroom door and gazed at the wardrobe. It was a big hunk of carved oak, an antique from Italy, I think, and had enough drawers and hanging space for even the most dedicated clothes horse. Intrigued, she walked over and stopped by my side. She stared into the wardrobe for a while, then looked up at me, her face serious.

  “There are a lot of clothes in there, Jax.”

  “They don’t belong to someone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just wanted you to have choices.”

  She looked back at the wardrobe and kept looking at it without saying anything.

  I wasn’t sure what this reaction meant, but I was getting a little desperate. “You don’t have to wear anything you don’t like, of course. But anything you do like we’ll take home . . . I mean, assuming you want to. Or we can leave it all,” I finished lamely, looking at my shoes.

  “This is all for me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said gruffly, trying not to vibrate with excitement because if I wasn’t reading her tone wrong, she was happy.

  Then I tried not to groan out loud because she turned to me, stood on her toes, put her arms around my shoulders, and hugged me.

  “Thank you,” she murmured against my neck.

  Oh God. Sweet holy mother of God. I was going to buy her clothes every single day for the rest of her life. I wound my arms around her waist, pulled her closer against me, and closed my eyes. Breathing in the sweet scent of her skin, I whispered, “You’re welcome.”

  A delicate shudder ran through her chest. I resisted the violent urge to run my hands all over her body, to take big, squeezing handfuls of her glorious ass, and stood there breathing raggedly, knowing nothing else except I wasn’t going to be the first one to let go.