by Dara Girard
As if to add credence to her claim, a young woman, dressed in an outfit that could afford Jessie the down payment on a new luxury car, came up to Kenneth and possessively grabbed his arm. “What happened to you?” she asked Jessie, her lovely brown eyes genuinely concerned. Her parents had taught her that “the help” were people too, and she wanted to be sympathetic. She glanced down at the glasses. “You know, you really should get this cleaned up before someone gets hurt.”
The woman had such a graceful, feminine manner that she made Jessie feel practically masculine. “That’s clever of you to notice,” she managed quietly.
She smiled, missing Jessie’s sarcasm, and leaned towards Kenneth, her face in a pout. “I want to go home.”
“In a minute,” he said absently, his amused expression gone. “Go get something to drink.”
“But—”
He stopped her with a hard look. She lowered her beautiful lashes and walked away.
“Looks like your date wants her nappy changed,” Jessie muttered.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. “Just for a minute, stop being a smartass and look at your left hand.”
She lifted her hand and saw a pencil-thin cut slashed through her palm; a stream of blood seeped through and dripped onto the floor. Pain suddenly registered, but it was quickly replaced with an odd sense of annoyance. “Damn.”
Kenneth handed her a crisp, white handkerchief, forcing her to apply pressure. Before she could argue, he turned away. “Clean up this mess, please,” he told a passing waiter.
The waiter stopped and stared at the mess as if he had come upon a car wreck and was being asked to provide emergency care. “But that’s not my job.”
Kenneth nodded and grinned. “Do you want to have a job?” His voice was soft; his threat was not.
The man swallowed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Kenneth pointed to a woman in a maid’s uniform, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Get me some bandages and antibiotic ointment, please,” he said, the hint of an island accent sweetening his words. The woman nodded and disappeared. He took hold of Jessie’s other arm. “Come with me.”
Trapped in his iron grip, she reluctantly followed him, inwardly groaning as she heard the crunch of broken glass under her feet.
In the powder room, he cleaned the cut, then had her press her hand against his in a fist.
“Does that hurt?”
She snatched her hand away. “Yes, of course!”
“Good. No nerve damage,” he explained when she stared at him, outraged. “You’ve hurt yourself enough times to know the procedure.”
“That’s not true.”
“You were the most reckless tomboy around. What do they call grown tomboys? ‘Tommen’?”
“I am not a tomboy.”
“Just afraid of being a woman, then?”
A timid knock interrupted her reply.
“Come in,” he said.
The maid entered, staring at Kenneth with eyes of worship. She held out the bandages, her hand trembling, as though offering a famous celebrity a handmade gift. “Here are the bandages you needed.”
“Thanks.” He flashed one of his hundred-watt smiles. The woman blushed and shut the door. He turned to Jessie, and the smile disappeared.
Jessie felt both sickened and mesmerized by how quickly he could turn on the charm. She had to admit it was a gift. His smile made every woman believe he thought she was special, that she was number one in his life. Jessie knew: she had once been on the receiving end of one of those deceptive smiles. “Doesn’t it get tiresome?”
He applied the ointment. “What?”
Jessie looked towards the ceiling, praying for patience. “The women.”
He sent her an intense look, then began to gently wrap her hand. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Jessie shrugged, indifferent. “You can wrap it tighter, you know,” she said, annoyed by his tenderness. She just wanted him to wrap her hand and leave.
“I know. However, I must try to resist stopping your blood flow.” He flashed a malicious grin. “The urge is tempting.”
She made a face and surveyed the small powder room. Her gaze fell on the hand-painted violet-blossom tiles shipped in from Spain and the cobalt-blue-on-white china basin. She wished the room were larger, since Kenneth seemed to take up most of the free space and air. She could feel the heat from his body reach out and embrace her; the musky scent of his cologne played havoc with her senses. She began to feel lightheaded, which she was certain was a direct result of lost blood and eating only toast for breakfast. The flowers on the walls suddenly seemed to sway from an unknown breeze, and Kenneth felt far away—just the way she liked it. Then he was gone.
* * *
“Drink it,” Kenneth demanded, shoving a glass of juice in her face.
“But I’m not—”
The glass was on her lips before she could finish her protest. She had the choice to either drink or choke. She chose the former. When she was through, she glanced around and realized she was sitting on a green camelback settee in the hallway, resting against Kenneth. She abruptly straightened.
“Put your head between your knees,” he said.
“I’m not going to faint.”
“You just did.”
“I felt a little weak, but I was fine.”
He folded his arms and rested back. “Hmm, I suppose admitting that you fainted would be too feminine for you.”
“I have nothing against femininity. I am a woman, after all.”
He measured her in one unflattering glance. “Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
He rubbed his chin, suddenly regretful. “Never mind.”
“Say it.”
He frowned, doubtful. “Do you really want me to explain?”
“If you can.”
“Just look at yourself. You’re not…” He didn’t know how to complete the statement. She wasn’t plain. Her skin was a rich dark brown, and her mouth was soft when she laughed, which she never did when he was around. But her eyes were killers, and whenever they flashed in his direction, a rush of heat would shoot through him. Why, he was never quite sure. Fortunately, he always managed to cool it.
No, she wasn’t plain, but she wasn’t pretty either. In a quick gesture, he lightly fingered the hair floating around her head. Even though she had attempted to pull her hair back in a braid, a few rebellious strands had broken free. He shook his head. “My belle laide,” he said in a half-whisper.
“What?”
“Are you still reading Madeline to practice French?”
“I graduated to Le Petit Prince. Now, are you going to explain yourself or not?”
“You don’t revel in being a woman. Your hair is always a mess, you hide your body in androgynous clothing—”
“This is a uniform, you idiot.”
It hung on her like a sack; the arms were too long, as were the trousers. “And only you can make it look bad. It’s like you don’t even know the power of a woman’s...attributes.”
“I don’t like fitted tuxes.”
“Aside from the way you dress, any man who might be interested in you has to deal with your sharp tongue and nasty temper. The thought makes most men shudder.”
“I see.” She blinked back stinging, hot tears. It was her own fault. She had asked for honesty and received it in full. “It’s nice to know what you really think of me. It explains everything.”
He softened his voice, seeing the floating tears. “Jasmine—”
Her voice hardened. “Don’t call me Jasmine.”
He cradled her injured hand in his—a warm, solid hand that managed to make hers look small, helpless, almost delicate. Oh God, he was touching her, and her traitorous body enjoyed it. “We need to talk,” he said.
She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to forgive him, like countless other brokenhearted females had. She hated how she
had been weakened into bringing up the past in the first place. She had given him permission to carelessly tear at her wounds.
She hated that he could tap her weaknesses, while he kept his well-hidden. He could taunt her or make her feel foolish, but he could never know or understand how it felt to be her—not when he’d been given everything and had taken even more. He was a cunning illusion, trying to make her forget who he truly was. But she never would. She would not be another silent conquest of his deception. Without warning, an overwhelming need to hurt him, as he had hurt her, rose inside her.
She slapped him across the face so hard that her hand stung from the impact. She felt a secret delight when she saw his face become a violent storm, his eyes flashing with uncontrolled rage.
“Go on. Hit me back,” she challenged. “I’m woman enough to take it. I know how much you want to. How much you truly despise me, because I know you’re a fraud. I can see that temper of yours burning in your eyes, ready for release. Go on and act on impulse and show the world who you really are.”
He grabbed her shoulders, lifting her off the settee, and she watched as he tried to keep himself from shaking her. He finally pushed her away from him. Jessie fell backwards, sitting down hard.
For a moment, Kenneth didn’t breathe. He wouldn’t allow his emotions to settle and take root. He knew the dangerous path down which untamed emotions could lead a man. He had perfected an iron will, which presently sought to douse the flames of his temper. He turned away. “I forgive you,” he whispered in a harsh, raw voice that shook from an anger he was unsuccessfully trying to control.
“Don’t you dare forgive me,” she said, ready to see him break free from his magnanimous armor.
He spun around and grinned wickedly. All signs of anger were now hidden behind devilish eyes. “I forgive you,” he said again, knowing this battle was his to win. “Do you want to try the other cheek?”
“You may be able to tame the savage beast, but I’ll release it one day.”
“Yes, but will you be able to deal with the consequences?”
A high-pitched shriek stopped her reply. “My beautiful glasses! Where is she? Where is that girl?”
Jessie leaped to her feet, alarmed. “Damn, that’s Montey,” she said in a panicked whisper. She looked around, desperate for a means of escape. She dashed behind a large plant. Kenneth rose to the occasion and moved in front of her and folded his arms, just in time to see Montey approach.
The guy is huge! Jessie thought, staring up at Kenneth’s broad frame. He had the body of a warrior: solid arms, legs, and shoulders that could haul weapons and women. Being a big girl herself—and believing him to be one of Earth’s lowest life-forms—she rarely noticed his size. No wonder the jerk is so arrogant.
Montey stopped in front of him. He was a bulky man with curly brown hair and a fussy mustache that bristled when he was agitated. It did so now. “Hello, Mr. Preston. Have you seen Jessie? I heard that she caused quite a disturbance. I’m glad that she didn’t ruin your suit.”
“No, she had a little accident.”
“That girl is an accident,” Montey said. “I never should have hired her. I was only doing her sister a favor.”
“I’m sure she’ll apologize.”
“No more apologies. She’s fired.”
Jessie rested her forehead against the wall and groaned.
“What was that?” Montey asked.
Kenneth kicked the pot. “Oh, nothing.”
“If you see Jessie, give her my message.”
“I’m sure you could work something out.”
Montey gave Kenneth a long, assessing look. “If you think she’s such a good worker, perhaps you could give her a job.” He spun on his heel and left.
Jessie sat and covered her face. Her shoulders shook. Kenneth reached for her, then thought better of it. “It will be okay.”
She looked up at him, with tears of laughter.
“Did you hear him shriek?” she asked between breaths. “He sounds just like my grandmother when she gets angry. I never knew a man’s voice could reach such a pitch.” She wiped her tears away and sobered. “Damn, Michelle is going to kill me.”
He sat down next to her. “Look, I can get you a job.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, shaking her head. She did not want to receive any of his charity. “You’ve done enough.” She shifted awkwardly. “Thanks for hiding me, though.”
He shrugged.
She lifted her hand. “And for the bandage. Though I could have taken care of it myself.”
He shrugged again.
Jessie looked at him, which was a mistake at so close a range. Up close, she noticed that his eyes were framed by curling black lashes that any woman would envy, and his full mouth entertained a shy smile. She also noticed an imprint forming on the side of his movie-star face: her handprint.
She swore. God had a nasty sense of humor. How could he make a man so beautiful and a woman so plain? “I am sorry about hitting you.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up in a quick grin. “No, you’re not.”
“My temper gets the best of me sometimes,” she continued, refusing to agree with him.
He raised an eyebrow.“Only sometimes?”
“I said I was sorry, but that’s all I’ll apologize for.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “I mean, I know that I asked for it, but knowing that someone thinks you’re a man doesn’t put a person in a good mood.”
“I’ve always thought of you as a woman, Jas. I’m just waiting for you to.”
It was a line of bull, and she was falling for it, diving into his delicious chocolate eyes and allowing his words to cascade over her like a waterfall. He was the most convincing sheep-clad wolf she had ever met.
“I still don’t like you,” she said.
His mouth spread to a full grin, the one he saved for special occasions. Her pulse quickened. She ignored it.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t like you either.”
For a moment they shared a gaze and a camaraderie that began to change into something more intimate as they stared at each other. He unexpectedly brushed a finger against her cheek, then put it in his mouth. “You had whipped cream on your face,” he whispered. “I’m hungry.”
She rubbed where his finger had been. “Then get something to eat. I don’t want you eating off of me.”
“Don’t worry. I realize poison is deadly.”
She sent him a rude glance, which she reluctantly softened with a smile. “Touché.” She turned away and stood, breaking the sudden awareness that had come between them. “Looks like your date wants you.”
Kenneth also stood, frowning. He watched his date approach. “You might have been right about the nappy thing. She does act like a baby.” He turned to see Jessie’s reaction, but she was gone.
Chapter 2
Jessie raced back to the servants’ hall, but the hostess, Mrs. Ashford, pounced on her before she could escape. Jessie knew that one of the biggest dangers in working in your hometown was that some people never saw you mature beyond a certain age. For Jessie, the age was thirteen—awkward, miserable thirteen. She had become acquainted with Mrs. Ashford when her mother and sisters would collect the leftover food from one of her many parties to feed the homeless.
“My dear girl, what a shame,” Mrs. Ashford said in a smooth Louisiana drawl. She grabbed Jessie’s arm in a grip as impressive as her tall frame. “You always were one for causing scenes. But I can’t have you leaving the house looking like that.” She shook her head at the stain on Jessie’s uniform. She called one of her servants—Ms. Frey, if Jessie remembered correctly. She was a petite woman who managed to look bored, in spite of all the festivities around her. “Take Jessie to the guest room and give her one of my charities.” She turned to Jessie and pinched her cheek. Her face, the color of espresso and just as warm, spread into a smile. “No need to thank me, honey.”
Jessie returned the smile. I wasn’t going to.
She reluctantly followed Ms. Frey’s leisurely pace up the steps. They walked down a long wood-paneled hallway lined with large gilt-framed portraits of family members. Jessie despaired of ever reaching the “charity” room when Ms. Frey opened a door. Not a woman of many words, she motioned Jessie to sit in one of the overstuffed couches in the room, situated under a large window. She opened a closet and searched until Jessie became impatient.
“I’m not picky,” she assured her.
“Just wait your turn.”
Jessie folded her arms and tapped her foot.
Ms. Frey pulled out a flowery two-piece outfit, shimmering with glitter and rhinestones.
Jessie grimaced. “Don’t you have anything less…colorful?”
Ms. Frey laid the outfit on the bed. “This here outfit cost her eighteen hundred dollars,” she said in a rough voice that seemed incongruous with her small frame.
It looked like something rejected from the disco era. “Can you imagine spending so much on something so ugly?” Jessie asked.
“Well, being rich doesn’t give you taste.” She stared at Jessie critically. “If you want, I can have your suit washed once you’re changed.”
“No, thanks. I’ll do that on my own. Besides, I no longer have a need for it.”
Ms. Frey nodded, handed her a plastic bag to put her clothes in, and shut the door behind her. Jessie stripped out of her clothes and began to dress. She hoped she would be able to reach her car without too many people seeing her. The trousers were a little too short, but otherwise the outfit worked. While rolling up her soiled clothes, she overheard the women in the adjoining room.
“Oh, that looks great on you, Deborah,” a voice cooed. “You’re so lucky to have such a kind aunt.”
Jessie rolled her eyes. The last person she wanted to bump into just then was Deborah Wester. Deborah prided herself on being part of one of the oldest black families in Randall County. Her immediate family was middle-class like Jessie’s, but a number of her relatives were wealthy…old-money wealthy. Jessie’s family, on the other hand, was part of the small immigrant community that began to grow during the seventies. So although they called the county their own, to some they were still outsiders.
