BornontheBayou (10 page)

Embarrassed at interrupting what was obviously a private
moment, she turned away, but the movement must have caught his eye because he
looked up and saw her.

For a frozen moment neither moved. He seemed—right in this
place, and she felt even worse. He’d shoved his hair back behind his shoulders
and his dark blue jeans and short-sleeved T-shirt blended with the muted colors
here. Muted, that was, apart from the tombstone.

He got to his feet and held out one hand. Not beckoning, but
inviting. She would have squeezed her way through one of the slanted rails, but
he pointed to the end, and there she found a spoke missing, so getting inside
was easy. The grass rustled around her legs as she walked toward him.

“You should have taken the path,” he said when she reached
him. “We’re near swampland here, and there are biters in the grass.”

“The gardeners treat the place.” She smiled up at him. “What
a romantic thing to say!”

“I don’t want you hurt. I caught a chigger once. I still
have the scar on my leg where my mother got the maid to dig it out.”

She couldn’t even do that much for her son. “No worries
now.”

“Good.” She saw the shadow of sorrow in his eyes, even
though he was smiling at her.

“Are you okay?” She grimaced. “Stupid question, I’m sorry.
Do you miss her?”

His smile was slow and devastatingly sexy, and warmth
entered the brilliance of his eyes. “Nobody else would have asked me that. But
you know me better than most. In a weird way, yes I do. I guess you know what
it was like here. Mother was gentry, shopped at the best stores, entertained
sometimes.

“At the end, everybody knew she owed money everywhere. When
she died, I was tempted to leave the house to disintegrate, but this place
means something to other people too.” He caught her hand and squeezed it. “You
might not understand.”

“Slaves,” she guessed.

“Yep. Some of the descendants still live nearby. This place
has graves of some of the domestics. You might not realize, because they were
called Austin too.”

Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.” She glanced around. “I
thought they were all family.”

“They were. I have some diaries from the nineteenth century.
I’m loaning them to the Plantation Experience, but they’ve made copies of them
for me. I should get transcripts too.” He glanced around. “House slaves were
usually treated better, though they could expect some sex to go with the
tradeoff.”

“Is that what I am? A house slave?”

“Fuck, no.”

She’d thought to instigate some harmless role-play but in a
second realized how crass she’d been, especially in this place. “I-I’m sorry.
It was stupid to say that.”

“Yes, it was.” But his words were gentle. “You’re nervous,
aren’t you?”

“Not precisely.” She bit her lip. “In a way.” Desperate
would describe her better. He’d have to leave soon, far too soon, when she’d
only just begun to explore him, and herself too. He’d introduced her to
something she’d never experienced before and he’d made her feel safe, safe
enough to tell him what she wanted in bed. But master and slave—yeah, a step
too far.

“I came here to say goodbye. Just in case I don’t get a
chance later.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed the back with a kiss
in the old-fashioned way, the way his ancestors might have done. “I have
another few weeks to make up my mind about the house. If I say nothing, my
option lapses. The deal’s done. I guess I thought I’d take a few days to think
it over, but I’ve been thinking about you. I still haven’t made up my mind.”

“About me or the house?” She tried to ask it lightly, keep
her tone indifferent, but inside she wanted to know his answer. Really wanted
to know.

“Both of you. The house? It’s a blow to leave it behind. I
don’t think I ever will, but I should. Maybe I should try to forget. You? No,
I’m not ready to forget you.”

Rock star
,she reminded herself.
World
tour.
Something she couldn’t contemplate, even if he asked.

Then he did. Ask, that was. “Come with me.”

When she would have pulled her hands away, he wouldn’t let
her, gripping her tighter and making her look at him. He’d missed her today,
but he’d left her alone because he figured she’d want to have things straight.
But he’d decided to call Chick and tell him there’d be two of them arriving.
The manager was already grumbling about him not showing up when he’d said he
would.

She stared at him, eyes wide and panicked. “I can’t.”

“Why not? You’re entitled to some downtime. Take a break,
give yourself time to think.”

“With you?” A breeze ruffled her hair and she brushed a
strand back. He loved the way the gold strands glinted in the sun. Old gold,
he’d call it, fall leaves, the color of rich old velvet. Already lyrics were
forming in his mind, but in patches. He usually wrote the music, but shit, even
Ringo wrote songs occasionally. He wanted it to be a happy song, not a
melancholy one.

“Yes, with me. We have a gig in Atlanta early next week. I
have to leave, probably tomorrow. This tour’s crucial to us.”

“So you’re thinking as a band still?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Habit.” Or a reluctance to let go. He
knew what his mother would want. She’d want him in charge of operations here,
making sure the house was properly cared for, that they didn’t do anything
uncouth, a word she was fond of using, and put a Ferris wheel in the front yard
or something equally inappropriate. That was another of her favorite words.

But it wasn’t just her. It was the tradition, the reminder
that there’d always been an Austin at Great Oaks. Bell’s had just begun to
unlock the potential of this place. The idea of uncovering the history and
making it come to life excited him.

He hadn’t picked up his guitar in days, and that wasn’t
usual for him. Perhaps that explained the threads of songs running through his
head. His musical instinct needed an outlet. But he wouldn’t have to give his
music up if he gave up the band. Just put it into the background.

He frowned. “There’s the music as well. They’re taking a new
path, and although it’s exciting, I’m not sure I can go all the way with them.
I come from rock and blues, and they’re bringing new influences into the mix.”

“You can do it.”

“You sound so sure.”

Her chin firmed. “I am. You can do it.”

He smiled. “You haven’t even heard me play.”

“Not personally. But I downloaded your album, the new one,
Nightstar
.”

“And?” He hated to admit how much her opinion meant to him
anticipation coursing through him as though he were a kid waiting for the
approval of his teacher. Her approval meant that much to him. What if she
turned out a country girl? He’d known Brits who fell under the spell of country
and never came out. One of his idols came from that field, but he achieved
more, transcended his genre.

“I loved it. I’ve never heard anything like it before,
Jace.”

He saw the truth in her eyes. “Thanks. I’m glad.”

A smile flickered across her lips, then was gone. She took a
deep breath. “Yes, I’ll go with you. On one condition.”

“Anything. But tell me anyway.”

“I get to see the gig.”

This wasn’t the place for kissing, but he dared to bend and
just touch her lips with his. “Anyway you want. Best seat in the house or from
the wings. Whatever you like.” And maybe he could persuade her to stay on a
while longer.

Her inexperience might have persuaded her that this was
normal, but in his experience that was far from the truth. He still wanted her
with the frantic need of their first time, but more than that, he wanted to
talk to her, be with her, have her close where he could make sure she was safe
and happy.

That wasn’t normal at all. Not for him. It worried him and
intrigued him at the same time. He wanted to find out which would win out.

Chapter Eight

Packing and setting out for the airport passed in a flash
for Beverley. Bell’s sent a competent temporary manager, a middle-aged man who
took control with coolness and efficiency. He even had an interest in the
Plantation Experience. Beverley liked him, but she had no idea Jace had
selected him from a list until he let the information drop almost casually in
the car on the way to the airport. “James Bell said he was putting a new
permanent manager in right away.”

Jace stared out the car window, his lips thin. “I didn’t
like him. I said no.”

“Oh.”

She could do nothing. Since she’d said she’d go with him,
she hadn’t found time to think straight. Someone met them at the airport and
took them through the VIP lounge to the plane.

They traveled first class, of course, and when she’d said,
“What, not a luxury private jet?” Jace had laughed and told her sometimes it
was more economical to hire a plane of their own, but not today. She scoffed
and got him to admit that a private plane was also good for publicity.

When she contrasted her journey across the Atlantic, treated
more like a lifeless piece of baggage than a person, with this trip, it was
like joining another world. The attendants greeted her by name, offered her a
drink and a newspaper, and she had room to stretch out in the VIP lounge before
they embarked.

A couple of the people who saw to their needs, male and
female, flirted with Jace, who deflected their attempts with smiling humor. She
didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry, and when she quietly confided in
him, he said, “I feel the same way. I never know if they want Jace the guitarist
or Jace the man, and all they ever want is the body.”

“I want that too,” she murmured and, heedless of anyone who
might be watching them, he gave her a kiss for that. Not a peck either, but he
stopped, right in the middle of the glass-sided hallway leading to the plane
and took her in his arms. As if they hadn’t spent the previous night fucking
each other stupid until they’d fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Almost as
if they were avoiding saying anything else.

They ate, watched a few cartoons on the TV, avoided talking
about anything more personal.

Then they reached Atlanta. Beverley looked forward to seeing
something of the city, a place she knew only by reputation and the old stories.
The clearest image she had was the burning of Atlanta in
Gone with the Wind
,
but that had been a backlot in Hollywood, not the place itself. She saw
something of the city as the plane landed, the high-rises and the freeways, but
nothing historical, nothing that indicated its importance in American history.

They disembarked, but instead of dragging her carry-on down
from the overhead bin and hauling it out, someone did it for her. She carried
nothing but her purse when Jace grabbed her hand and headed out. He paused just
as they left the plane. “Do you have sunglasses?”

“Yes. Is it that bright out there?”

“It will be.”

She followed his advice and fished out the sunglasses that
were part of her new luggage. More from Jace. Once they’d cleared security,
something that happened much faster than she’d ever known it to happen before,
she realized why he’d stopped her.

Flashes exploded in their faces and voices came from all
directions.

“Looking forward to the gig, Jace?”

“Enjoying your break?”

“What’s the next album called?”

And finally, “Who’s the female?”

They fucking knew who she was. She’d seen herself in the
media. “Daughter of top London chef,” as if she didn’t have an identity of her
own.

Jace answered a couple of questions but kept going, so
Beverley kept walking by his side. At one point her hand slipped from his and she
thought that she could drop back, but he halted and reached for her again. This
time he slung his arm around her shoulders and murmured to her, “We’ll be out
of this soon.”

“You shouldn’t have to face it.”

“It can get worse. They lie in wait along the VIP route just
to see who’s coming in, and they bribe the airline officials to tell them.
Sometimes I’ve disembarked on the other side to avoid them, but then you have
security and that can take hours.” He grinned and dropped a kiss on her lips.
“Welcome to the world of the rock musician.”

They walked through the crowd of photographers and
journalists until they reached the VIP lounge. The attendant let Jace and
Beverley inside, then moved to block the mob accompanying them. Jace slid his
sunglasses up his forehead and looked around, but not for long.

A bear engulfed him in a hug Beverley thought he’d never
escape from. The bear smelled good, but he had shaggy brown, curly hair and a
beard to match. He was simply enormous, but Beverley couldn’t decide if the
sweatshirt and jeans contained primarily muscle or fat.

The slap the bear gave Jace on the back made her wince, but
her lover didn’t show any discomfort when he emerged from the hug. He was
grinning. “Beverley, meet Chick.”

Chick?
Her disbelief must have shown in her face
because Chick gave a hearty laugh. “Sure I am. I got that name years ago on the
wrestling circuit. I was Grizzly McAdams years ago, but I’m Chick Fontaine now.
One of my opponents kept calling me chicken until I made him swallow it. And a
rubber chicken.”

He swallowed her hand in his for a moment, but his handshake
was unexpectedly gentle. “They thought it was funny. Until I made them use it.
I don’t answer to Marcellus, the name my mama gave me. It’s like somebody else
had that name.”

Marcellus. “Cool, though.” She flushed, her cheeks heating.
“Sorry.”

He laughed. Guffawed would have been more like it. “No
problem. But call me Chick.”

“Okay. Chick.”

With a friendly smile, he turned back to Jace, who asked,
“Who were the photographers waiting for? A film star arriving? I expected half
a dozen photographers maybe, but not twenty.”

“They were waiting for you.” Chick raised a brow. “You
haven’t been watching the music press?”

“Been a bit busy. I heard the new single on the radio a few
days ago and I know it’s doing okay.”

“The second number one single from Murder City Ravens this
year?”

A significant silence followed. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. And the album’s number one too.”

Jace reached for her hand. His was shaking. She gripped it
tight. “Fuck. When?”

“Single? This week. Album yesterday.” A wide grin split his
features. “So you’d better start thinking about the next one, huh?”

“Sure.” Jace dragged Beverley close and planted a kiss on
her lips. “Number one!”

She had to share in his joy. Such a great thing to happen to
a great guy, and she honestly loved the album. She’d never heard anything else
like it, nothing came close, and she found the more she listened to it, the
more she discovered to listen to. Nuances, textures, she didn’t know the right
words, but it relieved her to know that she could genuinely enthuse about it.
“You deserve it, Jace, you really do.”

“Thanks.” He kept smiling as if he couldn’t stop. “You mean
it, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” He understood what she was
saying, she could tell. Warmth arced between them, a special place of their
own.

No, she couldn’t think like that. This was a holiday, not
real life at all. She’d vicariously live the life of a rock star for a short
time, then go home. Wherever that was.

“I need you around me, to tell me the truth.” Before she
could answer, he looped an arm around her waist and headed for the exit. “Let’s
get back to the hotel. Where are we?”

“I’ve booked us at the same chain for the whole tour.
Consistency.”

Beverley shot Chick a disbelieving glance but he didn’t
notice. She kept quiet, although she thought he’d made a mistake. Different
hotels, even from the same chain, varied hugely in quality and service. She’d
have researched each hotel separately.

But perhaps he didn’t have the time, and the chain he’d
chosen was fairly reliable. Mostly four star, so they should offer reasonable
comfort. Although now the band had moved up a notch, maybe five star would look
better, and it would have the media facilities and security they’d need to
supplement their own.

A limo, naturally, took them to the hotel, but at least it
wasn’t a stretch limo with a full-size double bed inside. When she mentioned it
to Jace, he laughed. “Maybe we should think about it.”

“You don’t have that image,” Chick said. “Although I could
get it for you if you wanted. I did it on the wrestling circuit.”

Beverley recalled the glimpses of wrestling that she’d seen
since she arrived in the USA and shuddered. Jace chuckled. “When you put it
like that, I don’t think so. We need comfort, security and decent food.”

That gave Chick his opening, Beverley saw as the big man
turned to her with a smile. “You’re a chef.”

“You’ve been talking to Jace. Didn’t he tell you I’m not a
chef anymore?”

“You got sick of it?”

“I just got sick. I developed an allergy to raw flour.”

Chick opened his mouth for the inevitable condolences, but
Jace interrupted him. She loved him for that. Cookery was something she had to
leave behind, and she had to choose to do it, at least in her mind. “That
reminds me,” Jace said, “shouldn’t you have one of those injection doohickeys?
I don’t recall seeing one.”

He’d been doing his research. “An Epi pen? I usually carry
one in my purse. But I’m fine as long as I don’t touch raw flour or breathe it
in. Even then it’s more likely to be an asthma attack than full-scale
anaphylactic shock. I’ve only ever had one of those.” She stopped suddenly.

Chick was staring at her in complete horror. She forced a
smile. “It’s okay, really.”

It wasn’t. They knew it, she knew it. Forced to give up the
only thing she knew, she had no choice. She needed to make the best of what was
left. And today there seemed a lot more left than a couple of weeks ago. All
because of the man sitting next to her.

They’d reached the hotel. Staff were waiting for them, but
they drew up outside the main entrance and a single doorman stepped forward and
opened the door.

Considering what had happened at the airport, Beverley
though they were treating Jace casually, but either he was right about the
airport and the photographers were waiting for someone else when he happened to
fly in or they got lucky here, because they made it across the lobby without
incident.

True, Jace was looking almost respectable, his hair tied
back and his beautiful tattoo and nipple rings covered by a faded university
T-shirt. Still gorgeous, though. They entered a public lift, and there Jace’s
luck temporarily gave, because two girls, mid-teens, Beverley thought, entered
with them. After nudging each other, one snapped her gum and said, “Hey, Jace.
Are you staying here?”

Ah shit. Beverley and Chick exchanged a glance and Chick
moved closer to them. Jace shrugged. “Yeah. Are you coming to see us?”

The girl who hadn’t spoken, the one with masses of dark hair
instead of a huge bouffant of blonde, said, “Sure, we booked in the hotel for
the gig. What floor are you on?”

Jace grinned. “I can’t tell you.”

“Oh yeah.”

They rode up to the top and stayed put until the girls
reluctantly pressed the button for the tenth floor and got off after getting
Jace’s autograph. Then they rode back up. No key, Beverley noticed.

Chick didn’t miss a thing. “So what were you going to say?”
he demanded when the elevator had gone back down. “You don’t like it, do you?
You have experience with handling bands?”

Ah, right. Chick was top dog here and he wouldn’t take
criticism. But she wouldn’t have Jace’s safety put at risk. “My parents own
restaurants in England and I’ve worked in the kitchens of some of the best
hotels in London and Paris. When we have visitors likely to attract media
attention, we employ extra staff and open the back of the restaurant so they
can arrive and leave safer.

“At the country restaurants we have helipads. We would never
meet them with one doorman and expect them to find their own way to the
restaurant. They need that special treatment. And to let people see them here
is asking for trouble.”

Chick shrugged and indicated a man in a blue uniform sitting
in an uncomfortable-looking chair by the elevators. “That’s why he’s there. Okay,
Rube?”

Rube nodded. “Fine, boss.”

Chick turned back to Beverley. “See? I’ve got it all under
control. Now go have fun and don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

That was stupid, facing down the man the band liked. She
should have held her tongue. Now he wouldn’t listen to her, even though she
knew she was in the right. They got away with it here, but they might not be so
lucky at the next place.

A number-one single was pretty big, but to have a two number
one-singles in a row and a top album at the same time in the main charts
rocketed a band to another level. A rock band had a certain audience. A fucking
big one sometimes, but the average citizen wouldn’t know them, would hardly
have heard of them, couldn’t identify them. Their sudden success made the whole
situation very different.

She’d seen it before, in one of the London restaurant’s
regulars, a man who’d appeared in starring roles in the West End for years.
Then he landed a role on TV that crossed the Atlantic and sent his fame
soaring. Before, he could stroll into the place with maybe a driver to take
care of his security. After, he’d have a phalanx of guards, and he needed them.
Mobs were scary, whether paparazzi or rabid fans.

She knew better than to carry on with her argument and put
everybody against her from the start. If she was right, she’d cope with it. If
wrong, then she didn’t have to do anything. But it rankled to be told to go and
have fun, as if she were some airhead groupie. Chick had treated her with
politeness, sure, but that last offhand remark brushed her off as though she
didn’t know what she was talking about. And she did.