Burn for You

Bianca said, “Rayford was supposed to drive me home, but I haven’t—”

“I’ll take you!”

It was out before I could stop it, a barked declaration that made her blink in surprise at its force.

“Oh,” she said. “Um . . . I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother,” I answered through gritted teeth, gutted by her obvious dismay at the thought of sharing a car ride with me. But I couldn’t let her leave like this, with all this tension and awkwardness. I’d have to make it up to her on the ride somehow, say something suave or charming that would bring on that laugh of hers and ease the steel band tightening around my chest.

Yeah, good luck with that, dickhead.

“This way,” I snapped, and turned on my heel and left the kitchen.

I didn’t look back to see if she was following me as I made my way to the garage, partly because I could hear her footsteps echoing on the marble and partly because I was too busy beating myself up for acting like such a fool. Also, my face was flaming red in embarrassment. I didn’t want her to see how horrified I was by my own stupidity.

I should’ve known that a woman like Bianca Hardwick would never be interested in a man like me. The only women who wanted me were mercenaries.

I’d been alone so long I’d forgotten.

You’re only worth the balance in your checking account! Cricket had screamed at me all those years ago, yanking her engagement ring off and throwing it at my chest. Did you really think I could love you? That anyone could love you?

Then she’d made a few choice comments about my prowess in bed, and that was the last time I trusted another human being.

I slammed the door of the garage open, flicked on the light switch, grabbed a set of keys from the hook on the wall, and stalked over to the Porsche. Rounding the passenger side, I yanked open the door and stood in seething silence, watching as Bianca hesitantly approached.

Avoiding my eyes, she slid into the passenger seat and folded her hands in her lap.

I growled, “Seatbelt.”

Without glancing at me, she slid the safety belt across her body and clicked it into place. Then she sat looking straight ahead, with an expression on her face like she was going to a funeral.

I closed the door and tried not to pound my fists on the roof of the car.

I got in, started the engine, pulled up to the garage door, and waited for it to open.

Bianca said politely, “That’s quite a car collection you’ve got. I counted twelve?”

“I have to spend my money on something,” I said bitterly.

She glanced at me. When the garage door was up, I gunned the Porsche. The car leapt forward, slamming us both back against our seats.

We drove in silence until we’d passed the gate of my property. Then Bianca said, “Why are you mad right now?”

It startled me. I didn’t know how to answer, so I stayed silent, concentrating on the road.

She said, “You’re driving like a crazy person, and I’m not ready to die yet, so maybe if you told me why you’re so angry, we could talk about it and you’d slow down.”

I snapped, “I’m not angry!” but eased my foot off the gas pedal so the car immediately dropped speed. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel unsafe with me.

After a long moment, she sighed. “Okay.”

I muttered, “Fuck.” Then I cleared my throat and looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

She turned her head and met my gaze. In the dark interior of the car she had an otherworldly look, like something out of a dream, all glittering eyes and burnished skin, electrifying beauty.

I admitted, “I’m not very good with people.”

Her lips curved up. “You are when you want to be.”

Again she’d surprised me. Was that a compliment?

I turned my attention back to the road, because looking at her was dangerous. I couldn’t trust myself not to say something stupid when our eyes held.

I asked, “Where am I going?”

“Tremé. Saint Ann Street.”

We drove in silence for several minutes, long enough for it to be uncomfortable, almost long enough for it to be weird. Then she broke the silence with another surprise.

“I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For overpaying me. It came at exactly the right time.”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked at her again. “You weren’t overpaid. You saved my ass. No one else could’ve pulled tonight off on such short notice. And the food was incredible. You were right, people opened their wallets. It looks like the auction will be the most successful the Project has had.”

She looked out the window at the passing night and slowly shook her head. “Well, anyway. Thank you.”

She sounded so melancholy. It brought me out of the pity party I was throwing for myself, and suddenly all I could focus on was her. I said, “What do you mean it came at the right time?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing, just . . . it’s appreciated. You were very generous. It really helped.”

My mind went a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what she could mean. She’d mentioned her mother before . . .

“Is this about your mother?”

Her head snapped around. She stared at me with big, shocked eyes. “How did you know about my mother?”

So my guess was correct. “You mentioned her earlier. You said it had been a rough few weeks.”

Bianca turned stiffly away.

I asked gently, “Is she sick?”

She inhaled a slow breath, then blew it out silently. “She would literally kill me if she knew I told you, so I’m not telling you. But yes. But you didn’t hear that from me, and please don’t share it with anyone.”

She looked over at me again, her eyes pleading, and I nearly drove off the road from the explosion of emotion in my chest.

I said gruffly, “You have my word I won’t tell a soul.”

She nodded, swallowing hard, then whispered, “Thank you. It’s been really hard not having anyone to talk to about it.”

I stared at her, my heart starting to pound, amazed how easily she could make me feel like I was melting and flying and having a heart attack, all at once.

Holy fucking yellow submarines, this woman is my kryptonite.

I looked back at the road, gripped my hands around the steering wheel, and tried to breathe. I said, “My mother’s been sick for a long time.”

Bianca sucked in a breath. “Really? Oh, no! Is it . . . is it bad?”

Why yes it is, I didn’t say, and it’s all my fault. “She had a stroke several years ago. She mainly stays in bed now. Has trouble speaking, needs constant care.”

That’s pretty much all I got out before my throat closed and I stopped talking.

“Oh, Jackson,” said Bianca. “I’m so sorry to hear that. How hard it must be for you!”

When I didn’t respond to that, she said hesitantly, “Or are you two not close?”

I briefly closed my eyes. This was something I hadn’t spoken about to anyone, ever, but Bianca had just shared something very personal with me, and it felt like the right thing to do to share in kind.

“We used to be. But that was before I became such a disappointment.”

“A disappointment? You? But you’re so . . .”

Expecting a nasty joke about my character, I looked over sharply. But Bianca was looking back at me seriously with her brows pulled together, searching for a word.