Burn for You

I’m ashamed to admit I actually gasped.

Rayford chuckled. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

I stared in awe at the palatial estate at the end of a long gravel driveway. Flanked by ancient weeping willows and set against the glittering backdrop of Lake Pontchartrain, it looked like something a president might use on his weekends away from the White House.

Rayford said with pride, “Rivendell’s got ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, and over fifteen thousand square feet on a five-acre lot. Jackson bought up the property on both sides and tore down the houses so he could have more privacy.”

I looked at Rayford in surprise. “Rivendell? The house is named after the elven realm in The Hobbit?”

Rayford’s brows climbed his forehead. “You a Tolkien fan?”

I shrugged. “A book fan in general. I’m a little obsessed, really. I read everything.”

“Do you now,” Rayford mused, sliding me a glance.

He wore a secret smile I found a little odd.

“My father used to always read to me before bed when I was little. I guess I fell in love with books way back then, and it’s been an ongoing affair ever since.”

“You’ll be wantin’ to see the library, then,” Rayford said. “I swear we’ve got more books than the Library of Congress.”

That gave me pause. The Beast loves books, too?

I decided he’d probably instructed his interior designer to buy a bunch of first editions so he could show off to his rich friends. Odds were he had an expensive wine collection he knew nothing about, too. A man who devoured food as joylessly as Jackson Boudreaux did wouldn’t have the soul to appreciate literature or fine wine, either.

As we drove closer to the house, I grew more nervous. The scope of what I’d gotten myself into was starting to hit me. If the event didn’t go off without a hitch, I suspected I’d be blamed for it. And I had no doubt Jackson wouldn’t hesitate to give me a piece of his mind in front of three hundred guests if he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the food.

“You’re lookin’ a little spooked over there, Miss Bianca.” Rayford smiled at me. “You okay?”

“Fine as frog’s hair!” I answered brightly. I’d rather chew off my own arm than admit I was feeling intimidated.

Rayford chuckled. “Good. He’s lookin’ forward to seein’ you, too.”

Wait. What?

Before I could gather my wits enough to respond, Rayford said, “Ah! Speak of the devil!”

When I followed his gaze, my heart sank.

Standing in front of the massive front door with his legs braced wide and his arms crossed over his chest stood Jackson, in regulation black everything, wearing an expression like he was about to launch a nuclear war.

The devil indeed, I thought, stifling a sigh. I’d assumed I’d be getting a tour of the house and kitchen from Rayford, but apparently the Beast had other ideas.

He probably thought I’d try to steal something.

As soon as we pulled to a stop, Jackson yanked my door open. He stood peering in at me with narrowed eyes, his head cocked. He snapped, “Why are you sitting in front?”

Right. I shouldn’t be bucking protocol because I’m the help.

Heat crawled up my neck and suffused my cheeks. Lord, grant me the serenity not to take off my shoe and hurl it at his balls.

“And a fine good morning to you, too, Mr. Boudreaux,” I said sweetly. “I see you’re in your usual sunshine-and-rainbows mood. Did you misplace your human pills again?”

His lips tightened.

On my other side, I felt Rayford trying to stifle a laugh.

Jackson stepped back and swung the door wide, a silent command to exit.

I kept my expression neutral when he surprised me by offering me his hand. I grasped it gingerly, half expecting him to crush my fingers in his giant fist. His grip was firm and steadying, not crushing at all, though my fingers were swallowed by the sheer size of his rough paw.

As soon as I’d gotten on my feet, he dropped my hand like it had burned him. Then he turned and disappeared into the house without a word.

Exasperated, I said to Rayford, “Is he always this charming?”

Rayford smiled at me. He looked a little sad. “Not everyone has the gift of the gab, Miss.” Looking at the empty doorway, he added, “And if you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one.”

With that mysterious statement, he turned and followed his employer into the house, leaving me standing in the driveway wondering exactly what I’d gotten myself into.

EIGHT

BIANCA

If I thought the exterior of Rivendell was something, the interior literally had me gaping.

Huge marble sculptures scattered everywhere: check.

Priceless oil paintings from French and Italian masters: check.

Ballroom, billiard room, indoor theatre: check, check, and check.

I’d never seen anything like it. Or been inside a house so bone-chillingly cold.

“I should’ve brought a sweater,” I said to Rayford as I walked beside him, shivering. Our every footstep echoed off the walls before dying into ghostly silence. I had the oddest feeling of being inside a crypt.

“You get used to it,” said Rayford. “The heat’s always on, but marble’s real stubborn about warmin’ up, and this time of year we get a cold breeze comin’ off the water, which doesn’t help. The kitchen’s better.”

We passed another enormous room that appeared to be a formal dining room, with a polished oak table the length of a landing strip. Then we arrived at the library, and I almost wet myself in excitement.

“Holy Christmas!” I said, stopping short to stare.

Rayford chuckled. “Told you we had a lot of books.”

A lot didn’t even begin to cover it. The library was three stories tall, capped with a vaulted ceiling painted with reproductions of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Chandeliers sparkled overhead. A huge marble fireplace yawned wide at one end of the room. A comfy-looking overstuffed sofa and chairs beckoned from a corner. And everywhere I looked, there were books. Stuffed into cases that scaled the walls, stacked in piles on enormous coffee tables, leather-bound spines glinting with gold script. Every one looked like a first edition. My fingers itched to touch them all.

From behind me a voice said, “Do you read?”

Of course it was Jackson. No one else could make that sound as if my literacy were in question.

“I’ve been known to,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from all the treats calling me so bewitchingly. Distracted and in awe, I added, “Just before he died, my father asked me what I thought heaven was like. I told him heaven was a library that had a lot of comfortable chairs, good lighting, and every book ever written. If I lived here, I’d spend all my time in this room.”

There was a short pause, then Jackson slowly moved into my peripheral vision. Thick scruff on his jaw, thick hair in need of a barber, thick head probably full of the howls of his woodland kin.

“That explains your interesting cocktail menu,” he said, his voice gruff.

I turned my head to look at him. “Interesting? Not pretentious?”

He met my gaze. His blue eyes didn’t look quite as steely as usual. In fact, they could almost be described as warm.

He said, “It’s only pretentious if you’re faking it.” He considered me in silence for a moment, his gaze piercing. “So the classics are your favorite?”