Burn for You

He looked at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, like he was asking for divine intervention in dealing with me. “No, Bianca. I am not. Trying. To butter you. Up.”

So creamy, leggy blondes weren’t his thing. Interesting.

“Well,” I said, flustered. “Thank you. You’re not half bad yourself.”

I knew as soon as I uttered those words I was in for it. He leaned forward like a predator leaning over a fresh kill.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” I said, aiming for disinterested cool. I lifted my hand and inspected my manicure. “I was just thinking the other day that you aren’t entirely unfortunate looking.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but Malibu Barbie was back with my water.

“Here you are, miss.” Her smile almost blinded me.

“Thank you.”

The stewardess retreated with a lingering glance sent Jackson’s way. That apparently reminded him of something, because he didn’t press me for more details about our interrupted conversation and instead started patting his jacket.

I uncapped the plastic bottle of water and took a big swig.

“Before I forget,” he said, “I have something for you.” He pulled a black velvet ring box from his pocket and set it on my knee.

I spit out the water in my mouth in a spray that went halfway down the aisle. I started to cough, my eyes watering.

He said drily, “Remind me in the future that you don’t react well to surprises.”

I fanned a hand in front of my face, trying to catch my breath. “What’s this?” I wheezed.

His expression was cloaked, revealing nothing. “Did you think I’d let my fiancée walk around without an engagement ring?”

I stared at the box like it was filled with anthrax or might burst into flames. “But . . . you . . . we . . .”

“Just open the damn box, Bianca.”

Moving at the speed of a herd of turtles, I capped the water bottle and set it in the recessed cubby in the wall beside my seat. Then I picked up the box—holding it gingerly with both pinkies out—and opened it.

And immediately had a massive heart attack.

Through my choked gasps and garbled attempts at language, Jackson said calmly, “And I’m quoting, ‘A five-carat flawless Tiffany brilliant-cut center stone with a pair of flawless one-carat stones flanking it, set in a platinum band.’ No woman is that specific about the ring she wants unless she’s spent a lot of time researching it.”

I made a sound that was like, “Grglefarbluhh.”

When it became apparent to him that I was in no state to govern my own bodily functions, he leaned over, took the box from my hands, removed the ring, and slipped it on my left ring finger, where it sparkled with the brilliance of a thousand suns.

Smiling, he snapped the ring box shut and leaned back in his chair.

The captain came over the intercom and advised us we’d be taking off shortly. I hoped they had a stretcher on board, because they’d need it to get me off this plane when we landed.

“Jax,” I breathed. “Holy shit.”

He threw his head back and laughed, deep, loud belly laughs that shook his chair and echoed through the cabin. “God, that right there made it worth the price! I made you curse!”

“Please don’t talk to me about price.” I groaned, still holding my hand out at arm’s length and staring at the huge, glittering bauble. “Sweet baby Jesus. I’ll get mugged wearing this thing. Some robber will cut off my hand with a machete. I can’t cook without my left hand, Jax!”

“Ha ha ha!” he boomed, thoroughly enjoying my distress.

“Oh, I see,” I said sourly. “Now I’ve discovered the secret. The way to make you happy is to freak out and swear like a sailor.”

He stopped laughing and grinned at me. He was breathtakingly handsome when he smiled. How had I not noticed that before?

“You make me happy all the time,” he blurted, then froze, a look of horror replacing his grin.

I think that was too much honesty for both of us, because I froze, too.

I made him happy? How was that possible? He spent most of the time we were together glaring at me and snapping like a crocodile. Except when we kissed. He definitely looked happy then.

Or something.

To cover for both our palpable discomfort, I said lightly, “That’s because I’m so charming and sociable.” I made a queenly hand wave like I was passing by in a royal carriage, greeting my subjects. “And have such good taste in jewelry.”

He relaxed, though his grin was gone for good. He cleared his throat. “Obviously,” he growled, and stared out the window, his arms folded over his chest.

The Beast was back. This man was going to give me whiplash.

The plane began to taxi away from the hangar and down the runway. We lapsed into silence as we prepared for takeoff, avoiding each other’s eyes. By the time we were in the air, I’d managed to gain the upper hand over my pounding heart and fluttering nerves. I took a book from my handbag and settled in to read, knowing Jackson wouldn’t soon be in the mood to talk.

The ring was heavy and cool on my finger, snickering at me that I was an impostor.

“Shakespeare?” murmured Jackson.

I glanced up. He was eyeing the title of the book in my hands. I said, “Much Ado About Nothing. Someone recently recommended it to me.”

His blue eyes held mine in a grip that felt inescapable. Finally he released me, directing his gaze back out the window to watch the earth recede.

We spent the rest of the flight in silence. Because I was attuned to his moods now, I felt the tension grow in his body with each mile we flew nearer to Kentucky. By the time we began our descent, he was so taut I thought he might snap.

A limousine awaited us at the airport. A uniformed driver with a face like a slab of granite took our bags. It was close to sunset, the sky a spectacular orange and purple-blue. From the airport it was a short drive through the bustling city of Louisville to the countryside, where the houses kept getting larger and farther and farther apart. Finally we pulled up in front of a majestic stone gate, and the driver punched a code into a small silver box mounted on a pole beside the driveway.

Beside me, Jackson said, “Breathe, Bianca.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. I released it in one big rush, smoothing my hands over my hair.

We pulled past the stone gate and started down a long, winding lane, shaded on both sides by enormous oak trees. Around a bend I spotted the house in the distance. It was beautiful, but nowhere near as large as I’d expected—maybe half the size of Jackson’s home.

Jackson must have been watching my face. He said, “It’s the guest house.”

“Oh.” Okay, that made sense. They were rich, of course they had a guest house.

He added, “There are seventeen on the property.”

My mouth dropped open. I stared at him in disbelief. “Seventeen guest houses. Like that?”

“No. That’s the small one.”

When I made an inarticulate noise of shock, he smiled, only it was a dark smile, totally devoid of humor.

He said, “The estate comprises two hundred sixty acres, five lakes, seventeen guest cottages, botanical gardens, a deer park, a stable yard and coach house, and its own church. The main residence has thirty-seven bedrooms—by some counts it’s thirty-nine, no one’s really sure—thirty-two bathrooms, an entire wing dedicated to servants’ quarters, a bowling alley, basketball and tennis courts, a fifty-seat theatre, a replica of an English pub, a thirty-thousand-bottle wine cellar, and a full arcade. And a bunch of other shit I’m forgetting.”