BornontheBayou (4 page)

The assistant gave Beverley a faux leather jacket with long
fringes and slogans scrawled over the back and sleeves, a parody of Jace’s.
Then a pair of high-heeled ankle boots with chains draped around them. Kind of
rock-chick lite.

He was reading the financial pages of the paper when she
left the dressing room. She swaggered over to him and posed, one hand on hip,
the way she thought models did. “Like it?”

“Fuck.” He tossed aside the paper and leaped to his feet.
“Come on.”

He dragged the jacket off her shoulders and tossed it to the
floor. “Charge the rest,” he said to the woman and dragged Beverley toward the
elevators.

Once inside, he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled
her close, but he didn’t kiss her and when she ventured a glance down, his
jeans, unlike hers, built with room to breathe, didn’t have a telltale bulge.

If he liked this outfit, she’d lose all the respect she had
left for him. It was tacky, an imitation of a lifestyle by someone who didn’t
understand it. This outfit didn’t feel right, and what should have been gained
through the passage of time, like worn spots and colorful patches, were there
from new.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you like it?” Just for
kicks, she gave a little shimmy, teasing him. He deserved to suffer.

He glanced down at her dispassionately. “I hate it. You look
like the fifteen-year-olds who cluster around the stage entrance and say
they’re twenty.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to someone who knows what she’s doing. It’ll
take longer, but it will just fucking have to.”

The doors to the elevator pinged. He took her hand and towed
her out. People watched them and she remembered something. “My bag!” The only
thing she had left. He held it up and she grabbed it off him. “Thanks. It suits
me better than it does you.”

He gave her one of his devastating grins but didn’t stop
moving. He glanced at her. “How come you didn’t notice what that blouse and bra
combination did to you?”

She swallowed. “I don’t have much experience at picking
clothes out for myself. When I was a chef, I spent most of the day in my
whites. I thought the blouse was neat and businesslike, and I tried it on in a
changing room with artificial light. And I was wearing a different bra.”

He nodded. “Makes a kind of weird sense, I guess.”

It had stopped raining. At least that was a blessing, and
this T-shirt, although thin, wasn’t as transparent as that fucking blouse. That
was one thing she was glad of losing, although she’d left her own clothes
behind in the store. When she reminded him, he shrugged. “I liked you in that
skirt. I’ll call them and remind them to put your stuff in the car. I’ll call
for it when we’re ready.”

Already the heat was climbing, heading toward its noon
zenith. He set a brisk pace. “I called my manager while you were in the
changing room,” he said. “He’s going to see what he can do to get your chef
back.”

“No!”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, cher. He’s a great manager. He
knows about your guy and he swore a lot when I told him what I’d done.”

He stopped abruptly and she cannoned into him. He caught her
chin as he curled his arm around her again. Already it felt right, and it
shouldn’t. “He said leave it with him and he’d see what he can do. He’s an
oddball. He only takes on people who interest him. He has a boxer on his books,
one of the best, said the guy needed protection. And a couple of wrestlers too.
What I’m trying to say is he has fingers in a lot of pies, so if he reaches
out, he can usually find somebody to help.”

She didn’t want it, and yet she could see he was doing his
best to help. “It’s a weird world, haute cuisine. You get chefs who are all
about the bottom line and chefs that only care that they use a truffle from a
particular part of the forest, unearthed by a particular dog, whatever the
cost. They’ll both turn out individual dishes that are as near works of art as
food gets. Food that makes you cry.”

He stared at her, his eyes grave, his mouth set in somber
lines and they shared a moment of recognition. Something unspoken, something
she wasn’t sure she could articulate if she tried. “Then he’ll sort it out. I
gave my manager your number.”

“How did you…?” She glanced at her purse. “Oh yes.”

“Yeah, but I promise I didn’t pry. I just took one of your
business cards.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I’m truly sorry. You’d
do me a favor if you let me make amends.” Before she could comment, he released
her and started walking again.

Her anger had subsided but her attraction to him had not.
That kiss tingled on her mouth.

Five minutes later they’d reached a small boutique in a side
street. In the window stood a mannequin in a dress that was so perfect it took
her breath away.

They entered the shop while she was still registering the
elegance. Their feet sank into soft carpet. Music played quietly in the
background, something classical, Mozart she thought.

A woman came to greet them, smiling. She was almost ageless,
no lines registering on her face, but that might have been because of the
carefully applied makeup. If she’d had work done, it was discreet and clever.

Her brows were plucked into beautiful lines that complemented
her rich dark eyes and she was so slender, Beverley thought she might make two
of her. She wore a flared skirt, almost but not quite peasant style, and a
blouse that had to be silk, in soft browns and fawns that suited her light
coloring and smooth blonde hair.

“Hello, Jace,” she said, as if he dropped around every day.
“How are you?”

Undeterred by her perfection, he swept her into a hug. “Hi,
Penny. You look terrific.” He took a noisy sniff. “Smell good, too.”

“Thank you.” She stepped back and swept an assessing gaze
over Beverley, but unlike when the woman at the department store had looked at
her, she didn’t make Beverley feel self-conscious or dowdy. “You’re a friend of
Jace’s?”

Beverley sensed no innuendo in her question. “Kind of. I’m
the manager at Great Oaks.” She paused. “I was until this morning, anyway.”

Penny glanced at Jace, brow raised. “Was that your fault?”

She’d never have thought that this man, so sure of himself,
could have looked so embarrassed, but he did everything but shuffle his feet
and go, “Aw shucks.”

Instead, a flush spread along his cheekbones and he looked
away before looking back and meeting her gaze. “Yes it was, but I’m going to
make it right. Starting here. Someone drove off with Beverley’s luggage and I
promised to replace what she lost. Can you do that?”

“Oh I think so. Go away and come back in an hour.” She
exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Beverley. “Make it two hours.”

Jace found a hideaway, a café he’d frequented since he was a
boy dodging classes. That was where Penny had found him, but she’d been Mrs.
Thompson in those days, and taught him at high school. She hadn’t yelled or
turned her back, she’d talked to him. Penny was the first adult to treat him as
though he had a brain and he wasn’t rebelling from simple perversity or a
desire for attention. Although he realized that was exactly what he’d been
doing at the time.

Penny had left the school, following her dream of opening a
boutique for women who needed to look their best for specific occasions, and
she didn’t just mean weddings. From that, she’d developed her business. She
worked with local artists on exclusive creations, as well as the lines that
earned her the money she needed to follow her dream.

Sometimes if people followed their real desires it worked
out, although they needed a lot of courage to do it. And the support of a good
husband. That was something Penny hadn’t had, but she’d loved him and stayed
with him until he died. It wasn’t his fault he’d spent most of his life so ill
he couldn’t help. He’d drained what she earned, and if he hadn’t died when he
had, she’d still be paying his hospital bills.

Jace had learned he couldn’t have everything he wanted
without consequences a few years back when his best friend had nearly died from
drug addiction. That had sobered him up.

But Matt had come back, better than he’d started, and
discovered his dream. Leaving the past behind. Jace still didn’t know if he’d
achieved what he wanted to do. The notion made him restless, always looking for
something else to do, something else to make him happy and fulfilled. That was
the main reason he’d gone back to his childhood home instead of relegating it
to his past life and just letting Bell’s take over. He’d had a weird feeling
that something waited for him there.

Sitting at the back of the café with a coffee and a beignet,
Jace made a few phone calls. The regulars here wouldn’t betray him to the
media. Most of the people sitting here had been dropping in at this place all
their lives. The well-worn appearance tended to put off tourists, but the
regulars knew the quality of the food here. It made up for the old tablecloths
and the dusty windows.

Right now he needed the peace of this place while he tried
to put his inadvertent but terrible mistake right. He consulted the list of
contacts on his phone and hit a number. His call was answered promptly with a
curt, “Bell’s Hotels, may I help you?”

“Put me through to James Bell, please.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Jace Austin Beauchene.” He dropped his accent and switched
to the crisp French-accented English that was as natural to him as the Southern
drawl.

The tone changed and the man at the other end became less
mechanical, more human. “Just putting you through, Mr. Beauchene.”

In a moment he heard the voice he knew, raspy with too many
cigars, irritated. “What can I do for you, Beauchene?”

He was tempted to switch to French. Bell knew it, but not as
a second language. Jace would have the advantage. But it was a double bluff,
because Bell was savvy enough to work out what he was doing. No, stick to
English, but keep the accent. “I made a mistake this morning, James. I insisted
on Ms. Christmas showing me around Great Oaks when I arrived and in doing so,
she missed the appointment with the chef she’d hired. The guy didn’t have the
decency to wait and he walked.”

Bell’s sigh made it sound as if he had the weight of the
world on his shoulders. “Yes, I heard. Ms. Christmas’ PA called me, and then
Monsieur Chaballet called from the hotel. He said he refused to stay in a place
that treated him with such discourtesy. As far as I’m concerned, that closes
the matter.”

“You fired her?”

“Her job was ending anyhow. Not fired. Merely confirmed the
termination of her contract. She did a good job renovating the hotel, but she’s
not ready for full hotel management yet.”

Should he pull out his big guns? Instinct told him to wait.
Bell knew as well as he did what he could do, and he’d bet it stuck in the
man’s craw. Two months ago, Jace was doing okay. Now, along with the other
members of Murder City Ravens, he was doing better. Much, much better.

“What if I found you someone else to fill the chef’s
position? Someone better?”

“Listen, Beauchene.” Jace wished the man would stop using
his name so much. Either that or use his first name. “Chaballet is the best
available. The very best. We did a lot of research, and he is the only
three-star Michelin chef available.”

“This one walked after half an hour. Doesn’t look great for
a kitchen. Besides, who comes half way across the world and then walks?” He’d
had a sense of something not quite right ever since he’d heard that the chef
had left after twenty minutes. What person in their right mind did that? Either
Chaballet had changed his mind or something else had changed it for him.

A heavy sigh gusted down the other end of the line. “You
could be right. So who do you have in mind?”

He didn’t have anyone in mind. “I have my manager working on
it.”

“What can a rock band manager do to get a chef?”

Jace chortled and let Bell hear his glee. “Do you know how
much hospitality a band on the road needs? All those media people to keep
happy, all the special fads of the crew? We don’t live on burgers and beer. Not
if we want any arteries left in our old age. Some bands travel with their own
chefs. Besides, my manager’s Chick Fontaine. He doesn’t just look after rock
bands.”

He liked the short pause. It meant he’d made Bell think,
probably meant he’d heard of Chick, who wasn’t exactly a shy violet and had
fingers in a bunch of pies. “We’re putting Great Oaks in our luxury band, so we
want at least one Michelin star.”

“And you want someone who can do local cuisine. You love the
Plantation Experience idea, and cooking goes along with that. What does a chef
from France know about Cajun cuisine?”

This time there was no pause. “You have a point.” So Bell
knew something that Jace didn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed so promptly.

“I’m not sure I would have approved Chaballet’s
appointment.”

He listened with glee as James Bell exploded. So much for
efficient. After about a minute, the man calmed down. “You don’t own the house
anymore.”

“But I could. How about that?”

Another pause and he could imagine Bell holding his breath,
waiting for the fury to pass. He loved getting to this man. He went for another
jab. “I liked Ms. Christmas; I thought she was good for the place.”

“She’s history. Jaime tells me she’s left the house. I was
thinking of appointing Jaime in her place as assistant manager.”

A suspicion crossed Jace’s mind, coalescing into near
certainty. Had Jaime contrived to make this happen, at least just a little bit?
She could have done something to set off the chef. If she had a suspicion she
was in line for the manager’s job, getting rid of the chef would be the perfect
way to get rid of Beverley. He wished he’d paid more attention to the résumés
he’d glanced through now.