Burn for You

“Eeny,” I said firmly, pointing to the cobblers I was plating, “make sure these get out to table six. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

“Uh-oh,” she said, warily eying my expression. “Somebody get the fire extinguisher. I think poor Mr. Boudreaux is about to go up in flames.”

I muttered, “Poor my patootie,” and pushed through the kitchen doors.

I made a beeline to his table, stopped beside it, and didn’t smile when he looked up. Cool as an iceberg, I said, “You asked to see me?”

I’d be professional, but I wasn’t going to kiss his uppity butt, even if he could sue me and get me bad reviews. I didn’t like being disrespected and spoken down to, and liked being threatened even less. Had he simply been polite, this evening would have gone differently, but here we were.

Staring with open hostility at each other.

Neither of us said anything. The moment stretched out until it became uncomfortable, and then intolerable. Staring into his eyes was like being physically attacked.

Finally he broke the awful silence by saying, “There’s an error on my check.”

“No there isn’t.”

His brows, thick and black, badly in need of manscaping, lifted. “There must be. It shows nothing due.”

“Correct.”

His cold blue gaze burned into mine. “I’ve been sitting here eating for hours—”

“Believe me, I’m perfectly aware how long you’ve been here and how much you’ve eaten.”

He leaned back against the leather booth, spread his hands flat against the tabletop, and examined me the way a scientist might examine a germ under a microscope. It was horrible, but I gave no outward indication how much it rattled me.

I wondered if that muscle jumping in his jaw was a sign of an oncoming murder spree.

Then he had the audacity to say—with dripping condescension—“My opinion of you and your restaurant can’t be swayed with freebies, Miss Hardwick.”

Sweet baby Jesus, I wanted to pick up the steak knife on the table next to his empty plate and stab him in the eye with it.

Instead I said, “I’m not interested in your opinion, Mr. Boudreaux. Your meal is on the house because I love your family’s bourbon and it inspired me to create this menu, which I happen to be very proud of, and which has made a lot of people happy. I would’ve comped you even if you didn’t act like the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”

For the first time I saw something other than steel in his eyes. It was only a moment, a flash of emotion that warmed his gaze, and then it was gone.

He said stiffly, “I insist on paying—”

“I’m not taking your money.”

A flush of color crept over his cheeks. I supposed he wasn’t used to hearing no. That gave me an enormous sense of satisfaction, even if I did just give away four hundred bucks’ worth of food and couldn’t afford to.

Then he stood. It was abrupt and startlingly smooth for a man so large—one swift unbending of limbs that had him on his feet and looming over me.

Again.

Looking up at him, I swallowed. It wasn’t fear I felt, but he was definitely unnerving. And hot damn, why did this crabby, beastly bastard have to smell so good? If I didn’t know better that my mouth was watering from the scent of bourbon-spiced gumbo wafting through the air, I might have almost thought it was because of him.

“Miss Hardwick,” he said, the edge in his voice rougher, his eyes burning blue fire, “You. Are being. Unreasonable.”

Boy, did he like to punctuate his words with a hammer! A laugh escaped me.

“And you, Mr. Boudreaux, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard. Have yourself a nice evening.”

For the second time tonight, I turned my back on Jackson Boudreaux and walked away. Only this time I was painfully aware he might be staring at my ass.

Thanks a million, Eeny.

THREE

JACKSON

Rayford was already waiting at the curb with the car door open when I left the restaurant. That was a good thing, because in my current mood I might have torn the fucking door right off its hinges.

Seething, I climbed into the back of the Bentley. Rayford shut the door behind me without a word. When he started the car and we drove away, I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed.

I’d never met such an irritating woman in my entire life. The mouth on her! The attitude!

The incredible heart-shaped ass.

I clenched my teeth and stared out into the rainy night. I hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time. Cricket had seen to that. After that disaster, all I could see when a woman looked at me were the dollar signs in her eyes.

But this firecracker Bianca Hardwick. Christ. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss that smart mouth or put a gag in it.

“How was the food, sir?” asked Rayford, peering at me in the rearview mirror.

Still boiling with anger, I snapped, “Adequate.”

Well accustomed to my moods and knowing that was the highest praise I’d ever give anything, Rayford nodded. “Her mama was a great cook, too. Davina’s restaurant was around for, oh, twenty years I think before Hurricane Katrina blew through and wiped it out.” He chuckled. “I had many a meal there back in the day. Every time I came to visit my baby brother, I made sure to stop by. Never forgot Davina’s jambalaya. It was like havin’ a mouthful of heaven. And it wasn’t only the food that kept me comin’ back. Miss Davina Hardwick was one of the finest-lookin’ women I ever seen.”

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Even with no makeup, her dark hair scraped back into a severe bun, wearing a pair of hideous clogs, a stained apron, and a sexless white chef’s coat that covered her from neck to wrists, Bianca Hardwick was stunning. All flashing black eyes and glowing brown skin and ferocious self-confidence, she was a dead ringer for a young Halle Berry.

A young, aggravating Halle Berry.

I dragged a hand through my hair and exhaled.

It wasn’t all her fault I was on edge. I’d been on edge before I even set foot in the place. My personal chef—the fourth in six months—had left in a snit after I’d said the eggs were runny at breakfast, I was hosting a charity benefit for three hundred people in two weeks and would have to try to find a caterer since I didn’t have a chef, and Cody’s good-for-nothing junkie mother had just gotten thrown in jail on possession charges.

Again.

But it was the phone call from my father that had really put the cherry on top. The same phone call I’d been getting every week for going on four years.

When are you coming back to Kentucky? When are you going to stop this foolishness and take over your responsibilities? Boudreaux Bourbon hasn’t had a Master Distiller who wasn’t a family member in over two hundred years! You’re breaking your mother’s heart!

And on and on, until my fucking ears bled. It didn’t matter how much he begged, though. I was never going back.

Returning to Kentucky meant returning to that world of privilege and power I wanted nothing to do with, that viper’s den of genteel, well-mannered people who smiled and shook your hand, then started sharpening the knives as soon as your back was turned. There wasn’t a single person in my social circle aside from my parents I could trust.

Money makes people greedy. A lot of money makes them ruthless. I’d learned that the hard way.

Liars, schemers, and snakes, all of them. It was safer in New Orleans. I didn’t have to fend off as many bullshitters trying to befriend me so they could get their hands on my bank account.