BornontheBayou Read online

  Born on the Bayou

  Lynne Connolly

  Book 2 in the Nightstar series

  When Jace Beauchene, guitarist for Murder City Ravens, goes home to confront his unhappy childhood, he finds instead the sexiest woman in the world. Seeing the broken-down old plantation house all gussied up and new makes him realize he can’t go back, and Beverley Christmas makes him want more for his future. She lights up his nights, dazzles his days, makes him want more than he has a right to. But he’ll take it.

  Beverley didn’t realize men like Jace existed. Rampantly, unashamedly sexy, he shows her how to live, how to open up to new experiences. She’s spent most of her life learning her trade in the great kitchens of the world; now Jace shows her what bedrooms are for. And every other room in the house. But their paths lie in different directions. Unless they can find a way to combine what they both want, their red-hot affair will leave them both burned.

  Born on the Bayou

  Lynne Connolly

  Chapter One

  As Beverley walked across the huge entrance hall at Great Oaks, a wave of heat swept over her, bringing instant perspiration to parts of her body she preferred to keep cool. Scowling in disapproval, she detoured to the door and closed it. As usual, the workmen were distributing the house’s expensive air-conditioning to half Louisiana. She’d never get used to the heat, she knew that for sure. After the chilly and damp atmosphere of London, Louisiana’s weather had come as a shock, even in spring.

  She turned to leave but froze when she realized she wasn’t alone. A man sprawled with magnificent carelessness over one of the long Chesterfield sofas set against the far wall. This visitor didn’t seem at all intimidated by the place, and that was how she knew who he was.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs. It wasn’t every day she managed to make this kind of coup, grab a star chef that everyone in the world wanted a piece of.

  She spoke in classical French. The patois people used around here was very different from the French she’d learned as part of her training, and she’d relish the chance to use it again. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Beverley Christmas. You’re here to see me?”

  He raised a black brow, his startlingly blue eyes sparkling with amusement. He acknowledged the connection between them with a sharp nod. “Oui, bien sûr.” That low purr went straight to her sex, waking it from its usual state of hibernation, asking her questions she’d not considered for a long time. It was the heat, she reasoned. It had to be.

  Flawless French growled in a sexy-as-hell voice. He knew it too, which spoke to type. The chef she was expecting would never understate his talents. She checked her electronic tablet, although she didn’t need to, but at least it kept her gaze away from him and gave her a chance to recover her sangfroid. She’d worked hard enough to get him here, she’d booked his plane ticket, sent him the invitation. “Welcome, Monsieur Chaballet. If you’ll come this way?” She kept to French. “How’s your English?” Not that it mattered. He’d got the job anyway.

  He gave a Gallic shrug. “Très bon.”

  She was surprised to see him alone. Chefs of his status often traveled with entourages. Once he’d earned his second Michelin star, he could just about do what he wanted, and now he had three he’d risen to godlike status. But in his correspondence, he’d seemed very down to earth, if reticent and possessing the egotism common to so many chefs. Marc Chaballet preferred to keep out of the camera’s eye, and although she’d googled him, she couldn’t get a decent photo of him. Only rave reviews about his food, which critics spoke about in terms usually reserved for fine art. He didn’t cook, he created.

  Now she watched the powerful man unfolding himself from the sofa to stand before her. Tall, with shoulders like a rower, but even more, the eyes of a god. The epitome of the star chef, to which he added the insouciant, insolent air of command. And the sex appeal of an Apollo. A small tremor made its way through her body to the heart of her and her panties dampened as he stood and surveyed her, his hot gaze sweeping down her body then returning up until he met her eyes.

  Not now, not that. She’d have laughed at the incongruity. Despite the way he assessed her, he’d think her completely crazy if she took it as an invitation. Women threw themselves at Marc Chaballet when they could track the reclusive chef down, and now she understood why. This man had a magnetic presence she wouldn’t hesitate to label charisma.

  Despite not finding any up-to-date images, she felt she’d seen him somewhere before. Maybe someone had caught him in a candid shot, something like that. He affected her more powerfully than anyone else she’d ever met, and she’d met some charismatic people in her time. She forced herself back into business mode. “Will you come this way?”

  She led the way along the hallway to her office, her heels clicking busily on the restored tiles. She was proud of those tiles. She’d fought for their preservation and proved herself right once the guys had swabbed the place and unstuck the dirt of what seemed like centuries. Mrs. Austin, the previous owner of the place, had let it fall to pieces around her and they’d had to renovate pretty much everything.

  He didn’t seem to notice the pretty cream and terracotta pattern, but then, why would he? Like most chefs she’d known, he probably retained all his concentration for his kitchen and the food. The sacred food.

  She’d felt like that once. Ah fuck, who was she kidding, she still felt like that.

  When she opened the door to her office, she took the second she always did to savor the sunshine pouring into the room. She’d chosen to use this office because at the corner of the house she got the light from two sides. She pulled the door wide and switched on her professional smile before she turned to face him, bracing herself for the sheer impact of the man.

  Light streamed around his dark form, making him seem almost otherworldly. It limned his outline and turned his form into a silhouette, black against shining gold. She stared until her eyes burned, then she blinked and turned away. A trick of the light, was all. Nothing.

  “Please, take a seat.” She took her time crossing the room and sitting behind her desk, grabbing a chance to breathe steadily and get back on track. He stood with an innate grace she only wished she possessed and suspected he was unaware of.

  Or maybe not, because when he tilted his head and allowed his mouth to curl into a gentle smile, she got the feeling that this man knew exactly what he was doing, was perfectly aware of the effect that smile had on people. But she couldn’t be absolutely sure and she didn’t know what to make of him. Yet.

  She reverted to English to see if he responded well. “Would you like some refreshment? I’m surprised the receptionist left you alone, and I have to apologize for that.”

  His smile broadened just a little, enhancing a shallow dimple at the left corner of his mouth. “No problem. I’d just arrived.” His English was as good as his French, if not better. His accent sounded almost like some of the people here, but she knew he’d worked in the USA for a year, so maybe he’d picked it up then. The little hesitations before a couple of the words just added to the appeal.

  He closed the door and strolled across the room to sit in the hard chair in front of her desk. She’d thought the desk imposing before but now it seemed to shrink, every chip and dent on the surface appearing shabby instead of picturesque.

  Dressed in all black, with the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under one short sleeve, he seemed all man, despite the hair worn tousled and just a little too long. And she was paying far too much attention to him. What was worse, he knew it, if she could trust her interpretation of that crooked smile.

  Now he’d arrived, Beverley didn’t know where to start. Usually she’d go through an interviewee’s résumé, but along with the rest of the catering world, she kn
ew Monsieur Chaballet’s achievements and he was hardly an interviewee.

  She had to be so, so careful not to upset him. He was famous for his tempers, although she wondered how much of that was to control the kitchen staff and how much genuine. As well as making the man…interesting. But he had to have discipline. Nobody got three Michelin stars by bumbling their way through life.

  She smiled. “Monsieur, welcome. I regret the necessity for a formal interview, but the company demands it. I just need to take a few details for their records.”

  He interrupted her. “You’re English?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You like Louisiana?”

  She didn’t want to put this man off by outlining her own misgivings about the sultry weather. “It’s fascinating. I love the history of an old house like this.”

  He nodded. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Where you fit in.”

  She folded her hands together on the desk surface. “I’m overseeing the restoration and preparing the house for its new function as hotel and conference center,” she said. “We are, however, keeping a portion of the house back for the Plantation Experience.” She still thought of it in capital letters. “Guests are invited to dress in clothes provided by the wardrobe here or their own costumes, and they may choose to live in the special guest rooms and immerse themselves into the life of the 1860’s plantation owner.

  “Or they may choose to tour the rooms set aside and stay in regular guest rooms. I don’t run that part, we have specialist staff, but I oversee it.” She smiled, hoping her professional veneer was holding. “We would require local food for visitors, so I wondered if you had any experience of cooking any Louisiana specialties?”

  He spread his hands expressively. “I cook it very well. I love regional food, and it is the kind of food I cook best.” He shot a sly grin in her direction. “Apart from the preparation of excellent breakfasts.” He’d switched to French again. She had no objection to that. She’d heard enough of his English to know he could manage with non-French speakers in the kitchen.

  Her only problem was that he sounded even more seductive in his native language. His reference to breakfasts sent her mind in the direction of cool sheets and hot bodies and from the expression on his face, he knew it, was teasing her. As if he were playing a game. It annoyed her that it was working. She shifted in her chair. A pity her libido chose now to wake up, after she’d successfully put it to sleep for the last six months, but it had definitely emerged to growl lustfully at the man sitting opposite her.

  He smiled and his attention lingered on her face as if he were caressing it. “Do you know the previous owner?”

  She hadn’t thought about him much. She doubted she’d see him, he was far too busy. “He is remaining in the background. I believe he is following another career.”

  “I know who he is,” he said. “Maybe he will return one day.”

  “If he does, that is his concern.” What business was it of his? She knew some chefs had a propensity to gossip, but she wouldn’t allow it out of the kitchen. In the kitchen, he would have complete dominion, but outside, she could claim sovereignty.

  She didn’t know the previous owner, who had retained a small stake in what was once his family home. From what she’d heard of him, she didn’t want to know him, but she didn’t want to traduce him either, or hear it done in her presence. But maybe she’d make that clear later. Once she’d made sure she had Chaballet, after the chef had signed the contract she had ready.

  When she’d looked Chaballet up online she’d found a succession of images of a wild man, almost always wearing sunglasses, very few of the images clear.

  He shrugged and got to his feet. “I would appreciate a tour of the premises.”

  She glanced down at the forms Bell’s wanted and put them aside. Better to keep him sweet right now, then she’d get him to sign. “Of course.”

  Also better to get away from the suddenly close confines of this usually airy room. She led the way out and as she passed him to reach the door, a breath of awareness swept through her, sending goose bumps coursing over her body. With a sinking inevitability, she realized that she’d have to get closer to him for the tour. She couldn’t conduct it at arm’s length, otherwise he’d think there was something wrong with her. Shit, shit, shit.

  He courteously opened the door and allowed her to pass through before falling in just behind her. A breath behind and to one side, as if at any moment he’d slip his arm around her waist and pull her close. Drat the man!

  No, she couldn’t put her reaction to him at his door. He had flirted but it was mild for a Frenchman, or at least, some of the Frenchmen she’d met in the past. She’d just have to get over her inconveniently powerful reaction to him, that was all.

  Jace hadn’t meant to distract this woman, but it seemed only fair. Because sure as fuck she distracted him. The moment he’d seen her buttoned-up, curvy shape, he’d wanted to ruffle her a bit. She presented a challenge. Especially when he took a closer look and nearly swallowed his tongue.

  Her neat white blouse tucked into an equally neat black pinstripe skirt revealed a glorious figure, one he wanted to see more of and was, he suspected, more than she planned to display.

  The fine cotton top and lacy bra did very little to conceal the shape or size of her rosy-colored nipples, something she was probably blissfully unaware of. The lack of awareness added to his appreciation in a twisted way. He wanted to explore her more and oddly, cover her up so he could keep the delicious sight to himself. The unconscious way she displayed her body and her fresh scent as she walked past him went straight to his groin.

  He forced himself to think of something else before he had to conceal his boner from her all the way around the house. Her crisp loyalty and refusal to gossip impressed the fuck out of him. In his experience, that quality was so rare it was worth paying big bucks for.

  Since all he cooked with any ease was toast, it was a bit of a stretch pretending to be a chef, but he’d eaten gourmet, so he hoped he’d manage to fool her for a little while longer. He couldn’t keep this up for long though. Even though only a skeleton staff was keeping the place going right now, someone was bound to recognize him sooner or later.

  As she led him along the hallway and through to the lower drawing room, as his mother had grandly called it, he paid more attention to her than to his surroundings. After all, he knew the house well enough but he had yet to get to know her. Nobody else was around, but they hadn’t opened the hotel yet. He had her to himself.

  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.”