Burn for You

That growl of his came on, low and dangerous. Even Eeny started to look nervous.

Deadly quiet, he said, “Everyone. Out. Now. If she fires you, I’ll pay you each a year’s salary and find you other jobs.”

That offer proved to be too much for my employees to resist. I watched in red-faced fury as one by one they silently filed out in a single line, avoiding my gaze. At the end of the line, Eeny shrugged and mouthed, Sorry, boo. Hoyt sent me a wink.

I’d just gotten a painful lesson in the power of men with money, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Swallowing back the string of vile curses boiling on my tongue, I folded my arms over my chest and stared at him.

He stared right back at me. Boy, did he ever. The Beast had a Look of his own. Truth be told, it would give mine a run for its money.

I said, “We open in ten minutes. I have two hundred reservations tonight.”

He said, “You look tired.”

I had to close my eyes and count to ten again. When I opened them, I hoped death rays were shooting out of my head. If I’d had a machete handy, I couldn’t say for sure that I wouldn’t lunge at him with it.

“And you look like you were raised in the woods by a tribe of cannibals. All you’re missing is a bone in your beard.”

That smirk appeared briefly again, there then gone. He ran a hand over his face, staring at me with such sudden strange intensity I thought I might spontaneously combust.

Unnerved, I asked, “Am I going to have to call the police to get you to leave?”

“The chief of police and I serve together on the board of the Peace Officers Association. I’m sure Gavin would be happy to take your call.”

At my sides, my hands curled to fists. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Throwing your weight around.”

He took several slow steps toward me. I stood my ground as he approached, even when he got so close I could smell that masculine scent of his again, the hint of warm musk my traitorous nose found so intriguing.

Looking down at me, he said roughly, “About as much as you enjoy being told what to do, I think.”

“I don’t take orders.”

“Neither do I. And for the record, I don’t enjoy throwing my weight around, but every once in a while it’s the most convenient way to get what I want. And I want you.” His pause burned, and so did his eyes. “To come to work for me.”

I found it impossible to speak for a moment. His closeness was disorienting, and that look in his eyes . . .

“I don’t want to work for you. I don’t need to work for you. And even if I did, I couldn’t. Look around—I’m busy.”

He ignored that and started explaining in a patronizing, irritated voice, like he was a judge and I’d just violated my parole.

“It’s a catering job. A onetime thing. I’m having a benefit dinner and auction at my home for a charity, and I need someone to create the menu and oversee the food and wine for the event. And cook, of course. You’d be in charge of the entire thing. You can bring in whatever staff you need to assist you. There will be press. A lot of press. I’d give you and your restaurant full credit in the event materials.”

Oh. Well then.

Catering was an area I wanted to get into, not only because the money was good, but because it was fun. At a restaurant, the menu stayed fairly static, usually changing only with the seasons or the arrival of a new chef, but catering opened up a whole new world of creative possibilities. Each event was unique, an opportunity for a chef to stretch himself. To show off his skills, really.

And an event at Jackson Boudreaux’s home would no doubt be filled with the crème de la crème of Louisiana society. I could reach a whole new clientele, one that didn’t come to dine in the touristy French Quarter. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I found that appealing.

My brain started impatiently tapping its foot.

I was forgetting who I was dealing with. If he aggravated me as much as he had over the course of one day, I couldn’t imagine how bad it’d be through the time it would take to plan an entire event. I could end up with a stroke.

I said, “I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the answer is no.”

Without missing a beat he replied, “Your fee would be twenty thousand dollars.”

I almost dropped the spoon in my hand. I slow blinked more times than was probably necessary. “Tw . . . twenty . . .”

“Thousand dollars,” he finished, carefully watching my face.

Though he was standing right in front of me, I wasn’t even seeing him anymore. I was seeing my mother getting the chemotherapy she desperately needed. I was seeing her at the best hospital in the state, getting the highest level of care, being tended to by the best doctors.

I was picturing her surviving, when only this morning I’d been convinced she already had one foot in the grave.

When I didn’t say anything, Jackson condescendingly added, “I’m sure you can find a use for that kind of money. Right?”

Think of Mama. Think of Mama and not how much you’d enjoy driving a stake through his cold, black heart.

I closed my eyes, drew in a slow breath, and grimly nodded.

As if he’d just won a bet with himself, the Beast said, “Right. The event’s in two weeks. I’m having three hundred guests. I need a full menu with wine pairings by this time tomorrow.”

My eyes flew open. “Three hundred people? Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That’s impossible!”

The smirk I was beginning to hate appeared again. “No, it’s twenty thousand dollars.”

“Wait a minute—”

“I’ll pay you up front.”

Fresh out of arguments, I stood staring up at him with my mouth open like I was trying to catch fireflies.

His gaze dropped to my lips. The smirk disappeared. A muscle flexed in his jaw. With a sudden gruffness, like I’d done something to make him mad, he snapped, “I’ll send a car for you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning so you can familiarize yourself with the kitchen.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked out the door.

SEVEN

BIANCA

At promptly ten o’clock the next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of my restaurant and glided to a stop at the curb.

I had no idea what kind of car it was, but I knew it was fancy-schmancy. Only really expensive, snobby-rich-people show-off cars had those stupid silver ornaments sticking out of the front of the hood like a middle finger to everyone who looked at them as they drove down the street.

Standing next to me at the window, Eeny said, “Your chariot awaits, boo.” Then she burst into hysterical cackles.

I sighed. At Mama’s insistence, I’d told no one about her illness. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to publicly admit she was sick. Or maybe it was vanity. Either way, I’d been sworn to silence. She hadn’t even told the Colonel. So no one at the restaurant knew the real reason I accepted a job from the Beast, but they were all getting a kick out of it. Hoyt had told me yesterday that one of the line cooks had started a pool to see how long it took before I quit.

But I couldn’t quit, no matter how bad it got. Mama’s life depended on that money.

I said, “Please don’t forget to process the shellfish and get it on ice. And the Nieman Ranch delivery should be here no later than noon.”

Eeny snorted. “Expectin’ Carl to be on time with the meat is like expectin’ to see a gorilla ridin’ a tricycle down the sidewalk. That boy is slower than a Sunday afternoon.”