Burn for You

We sped past more guest “cottages,” set far back from the road on either side, partly hidden behind stands of trees and lush gardens. Then we crested a low hill, and the main estate came into view.

I gasped.

Jackson muttered, “Welcome to Moonstar Ranch.”

Then he leaned over, put his head in his hands, and cursed.

TWENTY-SIX

BIANCA

Picture a castle—the biggest and most elaborate castle you’ve seen in a movie. But not a forbidding, fortress-type castle with dungeons and moats and weird smells. Something elegant and romantic. Something with crenellated towers and cascading fountains and flocks of doves soaring through misty vales. Or any castle from any fairy tale where a princess waits for Prince Charming to ride up on his trusty white steed.

Then triple the size, add in a herd of white-tailed deer prancing across a lush wilderness backdrop, a glittering lake filled with colored fountains and peacefully drifting swans, and an enormous orange moon cresting over the horizon in the distance, bathing everything in a warm amber glow, and you’ll have a small glimpse of the magic, majesty, and soul-piercing beauty of the place called Moonstar Ranch.

I exhaled an awed breath that contained a lot of vowels. Then, panicked, I gripped Jackson’s arm.

“Okay,” I said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’ve respected your privacy. I haven’t pried into what happened that made you leave this place and never come back, but now you have to give me something. You can’t let me walk in there blind. Just give it to me straight—murder? Kidnapping? Sexual abuse? I swear I won’t judge or repeat a word to another living soul. Just tell me why you would ever want to leave somewhere so beautiful. And also why it’s called a ranch because that is like its own European country.”

Jackson lifted his head and looked at me. He said cryptically, “Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.”

I blinked. “That isn’t helpful. At all.”

He blew out a hard breath and leaned back into the seat. “You’ll be happy to know that it’s nothing as dramatic as what your imagination is conjuring. You ever think about giving up the chef gig and writing fiction?”

That made me feel a little better, though I still had nothing solid. I needed more. “So no sexual abuse? No bodies buried in the garden?”

He groaned. “For Christ’s sake, Bianca!”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“Really? In a void of details, you go straight to murder and getting diddled by Daddy?”

“Well it had to be something major!”

He glowered at me. “It was. And no, it didn’t involve murder, kidnapping, or inappropriate fondling on the part of my parents.”

When I narrowed my eyes, he thundered, “Or anyone else, either!”

We glared at each other. Finally I thought of something. “Does it have to do with the man-eating shark?”

When he blanched, I thought, Bingo.

The limousine passed through a brick carriage house, then pulled to a smooth stop at the crest of a circular drive. Through gritted teeth, Jackson said, “Enough questions. Let’s just get through this weekend, all right?”

He didn’t wait for the limo driver to open his door. He burst from the car, rounded the rear, and yanked open my door. He stuck out his hand and impatiently wiggled his fingers.

So conversation time was over. Now it was face the music time. Meet the parents time. Try to act sweet and charming so the scary rich people don’t hate me and set the dogs on me time.

I cursed myself for not slipping a hip flask into my handbag.

Jackson unloaded me from the car like a piece of luggage. When I was steady on my feet, I looked up into his grim face and poked him in the chest, which nearly broke my finger. Maybe he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

“Hey. Boudreaux. Down here.”

His lips pressed to a thin, pale line, he looked down at me.

I said firmly, “I’m your friend. Don’t forget that. No matter what you’re dragging me into here, what psychotic ex-girlfriends or crazy relatives or dead bodies rotting under the rosebushes that you’re not admitting to, I’m on your side. Got it?”

He swallowed. His eyes went all melty. He tried to cover up his emotion by scowling and looking away, but it was too late.

Mama was right about him. The man was crème brûlée. Tough on the outside, but on the inside all soft and gooey sweet. It made me feel good to know that secret, and also surprisingly protective.

These rich SOBs better watch out, because if one of them even looked at Jackson sideways, I’d go full Rambo mode and shoot their heads clean off. Only with my mouth.

“All right, then,” I murmured, taking his arm. “Now pretend like you’re madly in love with me and introduce me to your parents.”

The inside of the house—and I’m using that word loosely—was exactly what you’d expect a castle would be. Hanging tapestries, oil paintings of grim-faced ancestors, lots of elaborate stonework and beveled windows. The herringbone inlaid wood floor was polished to a mirror sheen. Bouquets of flowers were arranged in delicate Chinese porcelain vases that were probably three thousand years old. The ceilings were cathedral. There was an overabundance of carved mahogany paneling on the walls, and I’d never seen so many branched candelabra outside of church. The entire effect was one of stately, distinguished elegance.

I said, “What a dump.”

Standing beside me in the octagonal-shaped foyer, Jackson snorted. I took it as a win.

The limo driver followed us in with the luggage. “To your rooms, sir?” he said.

Jackson nodded, and the driver disappeared down a corridor to our right.

“You know that guy?” I asked, surprised.

“He’s been on staff since I was . . . ten, I think. Charles.”

“I thought he was a driver from a service. The two of you acted like you’d never met before!”

Jackson looked around with his mouth pinched. “Did you expect he’d throw his arms around me and give me a big hug?”

“But there wasn’t even a ‘nice to see you.’ There wasn’t even a hint he recognized you at all.”

Jackson jabbed both hands through his hair and said roughly, “Rayford was the only one who ever liked me.”

Oh boy. Minefield. I had a bad feeling the entire weekend would be filled with them. I quickly changed the subject. “So where’s the lineup of servants?”

Jackson sent me a strange look.

“Just kidding. But . . .” I gazed around the empty room. “Um. Shouldn’t there be someone here to meet us?”

At that moment, a sharp bark echoed off the walls. I turned to my left and froze in horror. Two enormous, muscular black dogs stood in the passageway, stock-still, staring at us.

My horror turned to relief when Jackson sank to his knees and opened his arms. “Zeus! Apollo! Come here, boys!”

The dogs leapt forward and crashed into Jackson’s arms, a whirlwind of barking, licking, tail-wagging joy.

I took a step back, not completely convinced they wouldn’t turn and rip me to shreds. They were bigger than a pair of wolves and had an equally formidable appearance.

“Don’t worry, Bianca,” said Jackson, roughhousing with the dogs, “wolfhounds aren’t usually aggressive to strangers.”

“Usually doesn’t give me the greatest feeling of confidence, Jax.”