BornontheBayou Read online

  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 s
hook 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 t
ook 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.