BornontheBayou (2 page)

Instead of the pervasive, sickly smell of damp and decay
that he associated with this house, he scented new carpet and fresh paint. It
seemed invasive, wrong, when combined with this room.

He caught his breath. His mother had dreamed of seeing this
room like this. If she’d taken this step, to invite investors in, or at least
opened part of the house to the public, she could have. The carpet was in fact
an Oriental rug, not one of the vastly expensive ones, but a good one
nevertheless. Its cool color palette worked with the pale-blue walls and the
light drapes, which were caught aside, high up, tassels tumbling from the
gathers.

“We’ve just finished in here,” the charmingly named Beverley
Christmas said. “The furniture hasn’t arrived yet, but the restoration staff
chose simple, Federal-style pieces.” Not the shabby, overused sofas in various
shades of mud and the rickety card table his mother had used for her afternoon
tea.

Even better, the air-conditioning actually worked. Worked
silently, come to that. In the past, they’d had only ancient fans, and the few
times he’d managed to coax them to do more than waft the hot air gently around
the rooms, they’d set up such a racket he’d wondered if it was worth it. They’d
clacked and rattled, the blades loose in their fittings, the mechanism
stuttering and old. The replacements looked as if they wouldn’t know a rattle if
he showed them one.

“This must be how it appeared when it was first built in the
1790s.” He’d never looked at the house like this before, as if it were a
history lesson. His life was bound up in this place. Half of it, anyway. His
mother’s half.

Beverley beamed, her smile brighter than the spring sunshine
streaming through the windows. “Something like it. I’ve ordered blinds to stop
the sunshine fading the furniture too quickly and to make this a more
comfortable room.” She shot him a sharp glance. “So you like it?”

“Oh yes.” It obliterated the dragging gentility, the awful
covering-up of poverty. “Did you not think of leaving it shabby-chic?” He had
to take care with his accent or he’d slip into his usual drawling tones. French
was safer for him, as he’d grown up speaking Parisian French, not the kind most
people around here used. That was from his other half, his father’s legacy.

“You know this place?”

He thought of the walls, covered in peeling green paint and
the brown window shutters, now crisply white. They still filled the window
embrasures, but he’d bet they’d repaired the one they couldn’t use because it
had hung from only one hinge.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen pictures.” Surely there must be
pictures on the internet of the house as it was? He hadn’t checked before he
came, but Great Oaks was a local landmark, a rare survivor from the Civil War
and the locals, even the ones whose ancestors had worked here as slaves, held
it up as a historical example. They probably had a website for it, conveniently
forgetting its recent dilapidated past in favor of the historical glory. Yeah,
he could see that, especially when they hadn’t fucking lived here and woken up
with spiders in their hair, fallen from the holes in the ceiling.

His eyes narrowed. She’d responded to that shrug, her eyes
opening ever so slightly, watching the movement of his shoulders under the thin
shirt. Oho. He knew he’d detected some interest in her. As far as he was
concerned, the game was on.

She looked away and nodded briskly. “Even taking into
account the relative poverty of the family who lived here, we found the house
in a severe state of decay when renovations began.”

Sexy body, smart mouth. He held his tongue, although he
longed to give her the sharp reply she deserved. In a place as sultry and damp
as this, containing so much timber, they couldn’t keep up with repairs.

Enough. Concentrate on the present.
The past had gone
and he couldn’t change it even if he wanted to. He wasn’t at all sure that he
did.

She took him through rooms he knew. He noted places where
he’d bumped his trike into the skirting boards and where he’d taken his first
trip on inline skates, wearing a groove in the floorboards of an upstairs
hallway. What modern realtors called “real wood floors” he’d taken for granted.
Even wished for wall-to-wall carpet once in a while, when winter winds came
screaming between the cracks. He’d pilfered blankets from other bedrooms to
keep warm.

The renovators had smoothed over his marks, and the ones his
ancestors had made. The bullet hole to the left of the fireplace in the master
bedroom, where his great-great-granddaddy had aimed at a bat and missed, the
stain by the window in the upper drawing room where his father had thrown a
decanter of good whiskey on his final visit, all gone now. Only his memories
remained, the pictures indelibly incised in his mind. He’d come to see what
they’d done and it sliced through him to see the way the company had
obliterated his memories.

No, only the evidence. He showed nothing outwardly. He’d
seen the house the way he wanted to, without anyone the wiser for his visit. It
had been too good an opportunity to waste when he’d found the hall with no one
behind the reception desk.

He’d been thinking about taking his own tour and risking
security before she’d come in. Not that he cared. Not that he
should
care.
After all, in four weeks’ time he’d have relinquished all but the slightest
connection with the house.

An emotion he didn’t feel comfortable with simmered inside
as he turned from the window in the empty main bedroom to face her. She looked
perfectly smooth, perfectly dressed, apart from the delectable shade of her
nipples against her easily visible white lace bra and thin cotton blouse. One
tendril of golden-brown hair tumbled from the painfully tight knot at the back
of her head to brush her shoulder.

It teased him, that tendril, had ever since she’d led him
from the office. That gleaming strand of hair trailed along her shoulder when
she turned her head, moved from her back to her front, and now it curled coyly
against the pure white cotton, tempting him to touch.

He refused to put up with it any longer. He reached out,
touched the thread of silk, twined it loosely between his fingers.

She gasped. He heard it over the muffled thuds and shouts
from the workmen busy on the new extension that would serve as the hotel, over
the wind hissing through the oaks that gave the house its name. It sounded
clearer than a hand through a Theremin, the rustling leaves the Aeolian harp
that echoed and mocked his childhood.

Something ended then, and something else began, though he
couldn’t say what it was. Not yet.

He stared at that strand of silk, the dark gold like a few
threads escaped from his mother’s embroidery box, and followed them up to her
face, then across the soft skin of her cheek to her eyes, stroking her with his
gaze, asking her permission and receiving it, all without words. Without spoken
words.

He moved closer, knowing he had all the time in the world,
life running on its appointed wheels outside this room, but here taking on a
pace of its own. She took a step toward him as if compelled to do it. She had
to know what he wanted now.

He snaked one arm around her waist, drew her closer until
their bodies came into gentle contact and her sweet breath stroked his cheek.
No need to rush, not for this. He smiled.

“Ms. Christmas!”

A rattle of high heels against the wood outside, then a
softer
thud
as they hit the runner down the center of the hallway.
Beverley jerked away, eyes widening, startled, though he couldn’t say whether
the interruption or an awareness of what they were about to do had caused that
shock.

The door opened as she stepped out of reach. Instead of
dragging her back, as his body urged him to do, he turned to face whoever had
the nerve to interrupt them.

A woman, younger than Beverley, shorter, dressed in a
similar power suit but with pants instead of a skirt. Her rich black hair swung
free but it didn’t tantalize him as that one slim golden strand had done.
“Beverley, he’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” She sounded a bit shaky, he noted with
satisfaction.

“Monsieur Chaballet, he’s gone! I took him to the men’s room
and then tried to get hold of you, but you’d turned your phone off.”

Chapter
Two

Beverley dipped her hand into her pocket. Of course she’d
switched her phone off, she didn’t want anyone to interrupt her interview with
Monsieur Chaballet. He’d have exploded if she’d answered a call in his
presence.

Except—

“Who are you?” She spun to face the interloper, who shrugged
and spread his hands in a very Gallic way.

“You never asked my name. You assumed.”

“And you let me,” she said in disgust. “Jaime, call
security.”

Her assistant’s gasp sounded loud in the room. “I don’t
think we need to do that.”

“Why not?”

She hated the easy smile the stranger displayed now. A
moment ago it had made her burn. Best she kept her mind away from that
regrettable slip in judgment. “Because she knows who I am. Don’t you like rock
music, cher?” His voice had changed, the soft Southern drawl infecting his
previously crisp tones.

“Sometimes.”

“You’ve heard of Murder City Ravens?”

She waved her hand irritably. “Yes, but what has that to do
with anything?” Then realization struck her with the power of a wrecking ball
and she closed her eyes against the enormity of the mistake she’d just made.
Fuck, oh fuck. The previous owner of Great Oaks was a member of the band. Since
Bell’s had become the major shareholder, leaving him with only a token
interest, she’d thought she’d never see him. “Jace Beauchene.”

“Jace
Austin
Beauchene. The current owner. Not yet
previous owner,” he said gently, watching her face. She wished he wouldn’t.
Even through the haze of anger she was fighting to control, she felt his
attention on her as though it were a living thing. “So no need to call
security.” He turned to Jaime, who was avidly watching the encounter.

“I wanted to see what my coinvestors are doing to the place,
and since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to drop around.”

It sounded so easy. Finally Beverley lost it. This bastard
had probably cost her her job. And he dared to be sexy as hell with it? “Do you
know what you’ve done?” She thought she made an admirable effort of controlling
her voice, especially when she wanted to scream and shout and cry. “He’s gone!
Monsieur Chaballet has gone!”

“Call the man back. Why such a fuss about a chef?”

“Do you not understand or are you just stupid?” Beverley
ignored Jaime’s horrified gasp. It didn’t matter what she said now, she’d
surely blown it. “I’ve spent months courting him, and it was only because his
previous employers wanted him to do TV that we got him. He doesn’t do TV.” Not
to mention her job depending on securing him. That was why James Bell had taken
a chance on her. She’d promised Chaballet. “Now we’ll never get him back. He’s
left the premises?” Grasping at straws, she turned pleading eyes to her
assistant, but Jaime shook her head.

“Sorry, Beverley. He said he wouldn’t stay here if you paid
him double. That your lack of respect didn’t deserve his genius. I did my best,
did everything except promise to sleep with him, but he just went.”

“I’d have offered him sex,” she said. She would have too.

Jaime regarded her doubtfully. “I don’t think so.”

After months of emails and even one brief phone
conversation, she knew the man wouldn’t come back. It didn’t surprise her.
She’d met a number of top chefs in her life and they defined ego-ridden or
single-minded. Chaballet was both. “I could go after him.”

Dejectedly, Jaime shook her head. “You won’t catch him. He
came in a sports car and he left the same way.”

A vision of a red Porsche came to her mind. She’d seen one
just that morning. “I have an idea. Hold the fort here, will you?”

She flew out the door, not hesitating when she heard
Beauchene’s yelled “Wait!” and hurtled downstairs, nearly tumbling down the steep
back stairs, which were the nearest to the door where the men were working.

She registered his call, but didn’t stop when the heat hit
her as she raced outside. “Gaston!” she cried.

A handsome Cajun poked his head out of an upper window. “Ah,
Beverley!” He blew her an extravagant kiss.

“Gaston, can you take me into town? Fast?”

The head disappeared, followed by the clatter of heavy boots
on uncarpeted stairs. She glanced up at the building, stark white outer walls
dazzling in the sunshine. She didn’t have much time, because Gaston headed out
of the building beaming, his teeth almost as blinding as the walls before her.
She hadn’t even stopped to grab her purse, where her sunglasses at present
resided. She’d found them a necessity in the blinding light that struck this
country sometimes.

Then her phone rang. She glanced at the number and her heart
beat faster. She answered instantly, holding out her hand to stop Gaston
approaching. “Monsieur Chaballet? I’m so sorry about the mix-up.”

“I do not want to be associated with a place where such
mix-ups occur and such rudeness ensues.”

“It was entirely my fault, Monsieur, I apologize so much for
my mistake.”

He shouted now. “Nothing will make it up to me, do you hear?
Nothing. I will go. I am determined on this. Nothing would make me stay in a
place where such ignorance exists, where I am expected to perform like a circus
dog. Do you hear me?”

“Monsieur—”

“I will stay in a hotel tonight and return to France first
thing in the morning. I will send you the bill.”

He cut the call. It was over, both the call and her new
career.

She didn’t have time to ring off when her phone rang again.
A number she didn’t recognize. “Hello.”

“Ms. Christmas.”

“Mr. Bell. Hello. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I just received a call about Monsieur
Chaballet. He’s left Great Oaks?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I was about to review the list of chefs
I have on file. It’s a shame it didn’t work out.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Christmas. Beverley. As you
know, we employed you to oversee the renovations. We always intended to put in
a more experienced manager when your job was done. On review, we’re happy with
the job you’ve done, but a new man has unexpectedly become available. One of
our best managers, and we cannot afford to let this opportunity slide. We would
like to thank you for your valuable input, and in lieu of the short notice
we’re forced to give you, we’d like to offer you a bonus.”

She bit back her instant response, to tell him what he could
do with his bonus. “And you’ll provide me with a reference?”

“Of course.”

No more to be said. She fought back her tears. They wouldn’t
do her any good now. All because of that fucking man. If he hadn’t led her on
to believe he was Chaballet, she could be sitting pretty.

If she’d secured Chaballet for the Bell Group, they’d have
given her the job of manager here, at the very least, assistant manager.

What a stupid end to her new life. Oh, she could appeal, but
word would get around that she was “awkward”. She’d never recover from that
kind of failure. She dropped her chin, breathed, worked out what to do.

She scrawled a note and left it on her desk. She’d send
something more formal later. Time to call it a day, time to leave this
exasperating, beautiful country and head home, where she had contacts, where she
knew people. Not all adventures ended well.

She raced upstairs to her bedroom and threw her things in
her suitcase. She never traveled with much—she didn’t have much. Her laptop,
jeans and the suits she’d bought for business, together with the one evening
dress she used for official occasions. After tossing in her lingerie and toilet
bag, she was more or less done.

Her purse contained her passport and money. Having an
e-reader meant she didn’t even have any books to pack. Sad, really, that she
had so little. Truth was, she hadn’t had time to accumulate much.

Picking up her briefcase, she glanced back at the room.
Almost as pristine as the day she’d arrived. She’d always promised herself a
shopping spree in nearby Baton Rouge, but she’d never found the time. Besides,
she had no idea about clothes, having spent most of her twenty-eight years in a
uniform of one kind or another.

She clattered down the stairs, carrying the wheeled case and
her briefcase, even now careful she didn’t knock the freshly painted walls.

Gaston raised his brows at the sight of the case, but he
stowed it in the back of the car and found a place for her briefcase. She kept
hold of her purse, as she always did, keeping the long strap across her body.
Long-distance travel made her nervous, so she always liked to keep her
essential documents close.

Not that her purse stopped Gaston brushing her thigh
occasionally as he drove down the road that led to the main highway, and then
nudging her as they turned the corner. She’d expected it. Gaston was a player,
or liked to think he was. “So did the new boss drive you out?” he asked,
sympathy dripping from every pore.

“No, I need to go home.” And see her parents again, confess
her failure and try to find something else to do with her life.

“Seems a shame. You’ve done a whole lot of alterations since
you came.”

She had, and she’d taken pleasure seeing the beauty hidden
behind the layers of decay and neglect, and the restoration revealing details
probably not seen for centuries. The restorers had done the research, but she’d
overseen it and made sure everything happened in order and when it was supposed
to happen. “I might come back and stay one day.”

“You should surely do that.” He glanced down at her, at the
blouse, still crisp, and the wrinkles in her skirt. She shivered.

“Cold?” He chuckled, as if joking to himself. “The
air-conditioning in this car can be fierce.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Rather this than the blazing heat.

She wouldn’t have to worry about that now because she’d be
back in London this summer. Fuck. Her first venture outside the nest and she’d
failed.

“You could stay in Baton Rouge a few days. Have a little
holiday. You ain’t seen much of the place. I could show you ’round, if you
want.”

All she wanted was to go home. “I need to get back.”

“No you don’t. You’re a real sweetheart. Damn, you could
have a good time here.
We
could have a good time here.”

To her alarm, he stopped the car. Even worse, he killed the
engine.

Jace hadn’t realized his prank would go so ridiculously
wrong. The sight of those sweet nipples had done something to him, even more
when he heard her soft voice and caught sight of the brilliance of her eyes,
and that strand of hair that had driven him crazy. Sex personified, only
emphasized when he realized she wasn’t aware of it.

In that tight skirt and with her breasts whispering against
the crisp fabric of her blouse, she’d driven him beautifully crazy. He’d hoped
to further their acquaintance over dinner but she’d rushed out. He’d thought he
could catch up with her, but once he’d questioned her assistant, who’d smugly
told him Beverley’s job had depended on the fucking chef, he understood. He’d
really screwed up this time and it was up to him to make it right.

When he went to hunt her down and apologize, offer to make
amends, she’d gone. Jaime had followed him and told him what happened. “I can’t
understand why the company wanted an English person to do the job. After all,
what does she know?” She smiled at him, Southerner to Southerner, except he
wasn’t. Not entirely, anyway.

“She doesn’t even have a car, but one of the workers was
going off shift.” Jaime sniffed. “He took her. I bet she’s getting more than
she wanted right now.”

“Who took her?” he asked, his stomach tightening.

“Gaston Rebennac.”

Shit, fuck.
“Rebennac?”

“Do you know him?”

He stared at her perky face, trying to quell his rising
fury. Jaime knew, he could see it in her eyes. She shrugged. “Beverley can take
care of herself.”

No, she couldn’t. If she fought, she’d only get it worse. He
knew, he’d seen Gaston Rebennac with a woman a time or two. If he’d known
Bell’s was employing him, he’d have vetoed it.

When Jaime had spoken the name, the memories came roaring
back, from boyhood bullying to youthful rivalry, and the remembrance of
discovering Rebennac with a naked, shivering girl under him. She’d been sobbing
her heart out because she didn’t want what he was forcing on her. That wouldn’t
happen to another woman if he could help it.

Urgency shook him into action. “Where did they go?”

Jaime shrugged. “She went out with her suitcase, so probably
the airport. No reason for her to stay, is there?”

The main highway. Had to be. Rebennac wouldn’t think crafty,
he never had. No back roads for that bastard.

Jace hurtled downstairs to where he’d left his rental car
arrogantly parked outside the main door. Nobody had moved it. It would have
served him right if they had, he supposed, but thank Christ they hadn’t.

With Jaime scurrying after him as fast as she could in her
spiked heels, he wrenched open the car door. “If she comes back, keep her
here.”

He’d do anything to get rid of the guilt currently eating
his stomach out. If he carried on like this, he’d get an ulcer.

Who fucking cared, so long as he caught her in time. Gunning
the engine, he set out as fast as he dared.

He sped up the road, glad of the recent rainfall that had
damped down the dust, and spun the car onto the highway. It started raining,
fine drizzle obscuring his view until he put the wipers on. How far had they
gone?

Not far. About five miles on, he saw a sports car nestled by
the side of the road as though it were a great red beetle, disfiguring the
fresh greens and sandy browns of nature. It didn’t look right there. Nor should
it. He passed it and pulled in, making the drive as smooth as he could,
considering the circumstances.

The circumstances being the Englishwoman sprawled across the
hood of the car, weighed down by the heavy body of Gaston Rebennac. He gripped
her forearms and his thighs were pressed hard against hers. She couldn’t move.