Page 2 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
EIGHTEEN JACKSON “Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.” “I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping. The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown. I was going to get married. Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife. At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further. I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the
FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS Makes about 3 dozen 1½ cups warm water ½ cup white sugar 1 envelope active dry yeast 2 eggs 1¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup evaporated milk 7 cups all-purpose flour ¼ cup shortening 1 quart vegetable oil 3 cups confectioners’ sugar Preparation Mix water, sugar, and yeast in large bowl and let sit for 10 minutes. In another bowl, beat the eggs, salt, and evaporated milk together. Stir egg mixture into yeast mixture. Add 3 cups of the flour to the egg/yeast mixture. Stir to combine. Add the shortening and mix. Continue to stir while slowly adding the remaining flour until all ingredients are well combined. Place dough on lightly floured surface and knead until smooth. Cover dough with plastic wrap or towel. Let rise at room temperature for 2–3 hours. Preheat oil in a deep fryer to 350 degrees. Roll the dough out to ¼² thickness and cut into 2² squares. Deep fry in batches, flipping constantly, until golden. (If beignets don’t pop up, oil isn’t hot enough.) Drain on paper t
NINETEEN BIANCA I left the same way I arrived: in a cab, by myself, fraught with anxiety. If my mother knew what I’d just agreed to, she’d slap me silly. She knew I’d gotten the twenty thousand from Jackson for the catering event, but admitting I’d be getting a million for marrying myself off to him so I could try to save her life was another situation altogether. Knowing there would be a nondisclosure in our contract was actually a relief. It meant I had a legal obligation to keep my mouth shut about my real reason for marrying the Beast. Now I just had to figure out what fake reason I was going to try to sell. “He’s so charming I couldn’t help but fall in love with him, Mama!” I muttered sarcastically to myself. The cabbie shot me a strange look in the rearview mirror, but I had more important things to worry about than his opinion. Before I left, Jackson told me that we had to be married and living together by his birthday, which was in just over two weeks. Two weeks. I had to think
TWENTY BIANCA The next afternoon, Jackson kept to his usual MO and arrived unannounced at the restaurant. It was five o’clock, an hour before the first reservations, five hours after the meat delivery was supposed to have arrived. The staff was eating their preservice meal together at the long table in the glassed-in private dining room. Meanwhile I was pacing, my new favorite form of exercise. When the door opened and I saw the long shadow fall across the dining room floor, I knew who it was without even turning around. Pepper’s excited squeal only confirmed it. I turned and found Jackson standing inside the door, staring at me. He was wearing faded jeans and his battered motorcycle jacket, with a white cotton shirt molded to his body so his abdomen muscles were on display like an ad for stacked bricks. He was not altogether unfortunate looking. I said, “Oh. Hello.” His brows quirked. He glanced at the gathering in the private dining room, fifteen people staring at us in open curiosit
TWENTY-ONE BIANCA This time it was me who froze in shock when our lips came together. It took him several long moments of gentle coercion with his tongue before I finally opened my mouth. When I did, it was on a soft groan that he stole when he inhaled. He was so big, and warm, and hard everywhere, except for his mouth, which was like cotton candy. I melted into it. He slid his thumb under my ear, and I shivered. His fingers pressed into my scalp. When he sank his teeth gently into my lower lip, lightning flashed through me. I fisted my hand into the scruff of his neck and pulled him closer. Suck, slide, nip, repeat, feel your pulse in all the hidden places in your body. This kiss was cashmere. It was luxuriant. It was decadent, unhurried, sweetly delicious, like stretching out on warm sand and drinking a mai tai. His scent was in my nose: pine and musk and something earthy and fresh, the way the woods smell after it rains. He made that masculine sound deep in his throat that I found w
DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA Makes 8 servings ½ pound raw bacon, diced ½ pound fresh pork sausage, casings removed ½ pound andouille sausage, sliced 3 tablespoons butter 4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes 1 large yellow onion, diced 1 green bell pepper, diced 3 celery ribs, diced 3 garlic cloves, minced 2 cups long-grain white rice 1 teaspoon dried thyme 2 bay leaves ½ tablespoon chili powder 1½ tablespoons paprika 1 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon celery salt 1 can diced tomatoes 2 cups homemade (or organic) chicken stock 1 cup good-quality red wine 1½ pounds wild-caught raw shrimp, peeled and deveined 8 scallions, chopped fresh parsley Preparation In a large Dutch
oven or high-sided pot, melt butter. Cook bacon and sausages for three to five minutes or until lightly browned, stirring frequently. Season chicken breasts with salt and pepper, add to pot, and cook additional 5 minutes or until browned. Add onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and cook until
TWENTY-TWO BIANCA After I hung up with Jackson, it took a solid fifteen minutes of dithering before I worked up the nerve to call my mother. She answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mama. How are you?” The gentle laugh that came over the line was reassuring. “I told you this morning I’m feeling good today, chère. You worry about me too much.” “That’s good.” After listening to the cavernous silence that followed, her mother-bear instincts kicked in. She said sharply, “Bianca? What’s the matter?” I stared at the kitten poster on the wall of my office until it blurred. “Uh . . .” Be brave. You’ve got this. Terrified, I cleared my throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She didn’t even miss a beat. “Who, Jackson Boudreaux?” My jaw hit the desk. When I recovered my wits, I said, “How did you know?” “Sweetheart, I’ve known Eeny for going on fifty years. Did you think she wouldn’t call me when a man barged into your kitchen and announced you were getting married like you’d just won the Pu
TWENTY-THREE JACKSON Though she only lived a few blocks away from her mother, Bianca was in no shape to walk home. I wouldn’t have let her walk anyway, not when I had a car, but she had a blank, stunned look when she came out of the house that made me think she’d stumble aimlessly around the neighborhood for hours before finally realizing she was lost and lying down in the gutter for a nap. I’ve seen someone hit in the head with a shovel who had more presence of mind than she was displaying. I held the car door open for her. She inserted herself into the seat with the grace of a zombie, all jerking legs and stiff arms, the opposite of the way she normally moved. “I didn’t think having me meet your mother would be so traumatizing for you,” I said once I was seated behind the wheel. Bianca laughed. It was the noise a dog made when you stepped on its tail. “You asked my mother for permission to marry me,” she said. “I did.” She looked at me with eyes so wide the whites showed all around h
TWENTY-FOUR BIANCA I chose a corner bedroom that had windows on two walls and a built-in bookcase on a third that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The room was about the same size as my entire house. “If you need to change the temperature, close the drapes, or turn the lights on and off, everything is operated from this screen.” Jackson made spokesmodel hands at a square touch screen on the wall by the door. “And if you’re not near the door, you can just speak your command aloud and Alexa will execute it.” “Who’s Alexa?” I asked, worried someone was about to burst out from under the bed. He pointed to a small black cylinder lurking on the bedside table. “It’s a voice assistant. It can also read your audiobooks, check the weather, and let you buy things online just by using your voice. The whole house is wired.” Rayford wasn’t kidding about Jackson’s technology obsession. I looked at the black cylinder with trepidation. “Will it watch me sleep?” Jackson chuckled. “No. But the
TWENTY-FIVE BIANCA At the airport we drove directly out to the jet waiting on the tarmac. While Rayford unloaded the luggage, we went through “security,” which consisted of a cheerful woman in a sweater vest and a badge glancing at our IDs. We were seated on the plane in less time than it usually takes to find parking for a commercial flight. This being rich business was certainly convenient. Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?” Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.” “Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.” “Wait until you go to the bathroom.” I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.” “No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled,
TWENTY-SIX BIANCA Picture a castle—the biggest and most elaborate castle you’ve seen in a movie. But not a forbidding, fortress-type castle with dungeons and moats and weird smells. Something elegant and romantic. Something with crenellated towers and cascading fountains and flocks of doves soaring through misty vales. Or any castle from any fairy tale where a princess waits for Prince Charming to ride up on his trusty white steed. Then triple the size, add in a herd of white-tailed deer prancing across a lush wilderness backdrop, a glittering lake filled with colored fountains and peacefully drifting swans, and an enormous orange moon cresting over the horizon in the distance, bathing everything in a warm amber glow, and you’ll have a small glimpse of the magic, majesty, and soul-piercing beauty of the place called Moonstar Ranch. I exhaled an awed breath that contained a lot of vowels. Then, panicked, I gripped Jackson’s arm. “Okay,” I said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’ve respec
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 m
CREOLE OKRA GUMBO Makes 6 servings 4 tablespoons butter kosher salt 1 tablespoon cayenne pepper 1½ pounds boneless chicken thighs, skin removed, cut into pieces 4 ounces tasso ham, cut into 1² cubes 3 cloves garlic, minced 2 teaspoons thyme, minced 1 bay leaf 1 yellow onion, minced 1 red bell pepper, minced 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced 6 large fresh tomatoes, skin, core, and seeds removed 2 tablespoons tomato paste 6 cups chicken stock 1 pound okra, trimmed, sliced ½ inch thick 6 cups cooked white rice Preparation Melt butter in Dutch oven. Season chicken with salt and cayenne on both sides, cook for 10 minutes or until browned. Add tasso and garlic, cook for 5 minutes. Add thyme, bay leaf, onion, and bell pepper. Cook until browned, 5–10 minutes. Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened. Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour. Melt remaining butter in
TWENTY-EIGHT BIANCA When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left. A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk. Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband. Husband. My nerves went all catawampus. “Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well. My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color fl
TWENTY-NINE BIANCA While Brig and I enjoyed a friendly chat about nothing of importance, Jackson spent the meal staring morosely down at his plate and guzzling goblet after bloody goblet of wine. I’d never seen him so miserable, which was saying something. His parents were seated at opposite ends of the long dining table. Jackson
and I sat across from each other, separated by a forest of food platters, wine carafes, and fruit bowls. The candelabra flickered and dripped wax. The servants stood vigilant guard against the walls. It was like something straight out of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation. Not once did Jackson meet my eyes. “So you two met at your restaurant?” Brig said as a footman or whatever he was called leaned over me with a platter of fish. It oozed a creamy yellow sauce that had a disturbing resemblance to phlegm. I politely declined. “Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig lo
THIRTY BIANCA A few minutes passed before Jackson spoke again, minutes in which my heart ached and I fought back tears, thinking how it must have been for him all those years growing up, and ever since. How lonely he must’ve been. I thought now I understood why he was the way he was, so surly and standoffish, but I hadn’t heard the rest of his story. “Her name was Cricket.” That’s all he got out before he had to take another swallow of booze. He sank onto the sofa and stared blankly at the coffee table, his face white, his hands trembling, like a man suffering from shell shock. “Cricket Montgomery. The most beautiful girl in Kentucky, by anyone’s standards. We were in grade school together before I went away, so I’d known her for years. Known of her, I should say. Like everyone else, she adored my brother but never paid much attention to me, but a few years after I came back I ran into her at the public library in Louisville. I used to go there all the time to read and escape all the a
THIRTY-ONE JACKSON I knew I was dreaming because the warm, soft, unmistakable curve under my left palm was a woman’s hip. Dream woman had an incredibly sexy hip. She also smelled delicious and was warm as a little furnace against my chest. All of that helped to distract from the odd fact that I had a headache and my mouth tasted like bourbon. This was a really vivid dream. At least I was lying down comfortably, my head resting on a nice, fluffy pillow, my legs curled up behind dream woman’s legs. She sighed in sleepy pleasure when I pulled her tighter against me and nuzzled my face into her hair. When I slid my hand over her hip and gently cupped her ass, she sighed again, arching her back and rubbing against my crotch. This was a fucking awesome dream. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and sunshine. Like goodness. Like something I wanted to soak in . . . or taste. I found the nape of her neck with my lips and stroked my tongue over the delicate bump of her spine. She breathed the so
THIRTY-TWO BIANCA I’d seen Jackson’s scary side. I’d seen his hidden sweet side, too, and his suave side, and a dozen others. But I’d never seen him dirty. “Off!” he snarled, impatiently pulling my T-shirt over my head. He tossed it aside and it sailed across the room. He took a moment to stare down at me, his eyes black with lust, then he grabbed my sleep shorts and yanked them down my hips. Away they went, flung over to the dresser along with my panties. Kneeling between my spread legs, he made an animal noise as his gaze raked over me. Then his mouth was on my flesh. There. I cried out in shock. His mouth was so hot and wet, so unexpected. He dug his fingers into my hips and thrust his tongue deep inside me. I almost died from pleasure. “So fucking sweet. I’d knew you’d taste sweet.” He took a moment to growl, his breath fanning over my spread thighs. Then he went right back to business. I threaded my shaking fingers into the thick, soft mess of his hair because I needed to feel it.
THIRTY-THREE JACKSON We lay stunned and speechless, tangled in each other’s arms on the demolished bed like victims of a bombing. After a while, Bianca said in a tremulous voice, “Oh. My. That was . . .” “Perfect.” I stared at her in awe. “Incredible. Mind-blowing. We should get a trophy.” Blinking slowly, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, a thing of such soul-lifting and astonishing beauty I felt like a man who’d just discovered religion. She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in my life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the universe, finally understanding their place. I surrendered to the feeling completely and without hesitation, knowing that most people would never experience this. This blinding joy. This transcendent bliss. This seismic shift of focus from themselves to someone else that strangely and simultaneously gave b
BLOODY DIXIE Makes 4 servings 1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice 2 ounces vodka 1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared) 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1 tablespoon hot sauce 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce dash of celery salt dash of pepper 4 slices cooked bacon 4 ribs celery Preparation Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle. Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously. Add ice to 4 highball glasses. Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste). Add tomato juice mix to fill. Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.
THIRTY-FOUR BIANCA I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in. “Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.” He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him. Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest. Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind? Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I
THIRTY-FIVE JACKSON I’ve suffered through my share of painful moments. Before now, I thought I knew all pain’s ugly faces, all the ways it can cripple and scar. But with one phone call I discovered that there’s no worse pain in the world than watching someone you love suffer and being powerless to make the suffering stop. I kissed her and held her and rocked her, I promised I’d do everything I could to help. Words. All of them useless. None of them changed a thing or broke through the new encasing of ice swiftly crystallizing around her. From the moment Bianca took that phone call, she went cold. All the life was sucked out of her. All the fire was extinguished. What was left was a shell-shocked husk. She didn’t even cry, which somehow made everything worse. “I need to get back as soon as possible,” she said hollowly, sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. I crouched beside her, holding her clammy, limp hand, fighting a terrible slipping feeling inside me, like
THIRTY-SIX BIANCA It was raining when we touched down in New Orleans, the sky the same ugly lead gray as my soul. I didn’t know why I felt so numb. Shock, I suppose. In any case, I was grateful for the way all my senses were dulled, because I knew there were a thousand invisible knives of anguish hovering all around me, hungry for their moment to slash and draw blood. They’d get their moment, of that I was sure. But for now I was safe in a cocoon of soft white noise where nothing could reach me. Not even the torment in Jackson’s eyes. His engagement ring was a cold, heavy weight on my finger, a constant reminder of the bargain we’d made, and why. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t face any more harsh realities today. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep breathing. When we arrived at Mama’s house, I could barely even do that. “I’ve got you,” said Jackson when I stepped out of the car and almost fell. He put his arm around my waist and half dragged, half carr
THIRTY-SEVEN BIANCA It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart. The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell. Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done. Back at the house, the wake lasted for an eternity. Finally, well after nightfall, the house emptied, and I was left alone with my grief and a grim fia
THIRTY-EIGHT JACKSON Rayford quietly hung up the library phone. I didn’t look up from the paperwork I’d been perusing when I asked, “Who was that?” “Telemarketer,” he said. “Annual fund-raising for the local police.” Now I did look up, surprised. “I wonder why the chief didn’t call me himself? He knows I don’t like to talk to telemarketers.” I thought for a moment. “Didn’t they just have the police fund-raiser a few months ago?” Rayford’s expression was bland. “You write so many checks for fund-raisers, sir, I can never remember which one’s which.” From the corner of my desk he picked up my crystal decanter, tilted it over my empty glass, and smiled. “Refill?” I sighed heavily. I knew I’d been drinking too much lately, but it was the only thing getting me through the nights. “Yes. Thanks.” He poured me a generous measure, then turned to the young woman in a navy pantsuit and sensible shoes seated across the desk from me. “Miss Taylor, would you care for a drop?” Her mouth pinched. Whic
SL
AP, SLAP, KISS COCKTAIL Makes 2 servings 1 ounce cognac 3 ounces vodka 2 ounces absinthe 1½ ounces gin 1 ounce blackberry liqueur Preparation Put all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake vigorously. Strain into two chilled cocktail glasses. Down the hatch, kiss your beloved, enjoy a very potent happily ever after.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is the fourteenth novel I’ve published in five years. For some writers that number isn’t so remarkable, but for me it’s staggering because I’ve never sustained that kind of interest in anything except reading, napping, and a bath before bed. There are many people who have helped this slothful writer produce fourteen books in five years, and they deserve more than just a few flowery words in the back matter, but this is all you’re getting, guys. Maybe when I hit twenty I’ll send you a plaque or something, but probably not. (You could always frame this page and hang it on the wall?) In no particular order, here are the people who’ve helped me birth fourteen novels, and to whom I’d like to say THANK YOU: Jeff Bezos Amazon Publishing/Montlake Romance Maria Gomez, my current editor at Montlake Kelli Martin, my editor-between-editors at Montlake Eleni Caminis, my first editor at Montlake Melody Guy, my developmental editor who I would literally die without, who flagged t
