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.”
“They’re sweethearts.” He stood. The top of the dogs’ heads came up to his waist, which almost put them at eye level with me. He said, “Hold out your hand and let them sniff you.”
Or eat me, I thought, but decided this was my first test at Moonstar Ranch, and I wasn’t going to fail it. I gingerly stuck out my hand, then held perfectly still as two enormous heads swung around to inspect it.
“Nice doggies,” I whispered, terrified. “Good doggies.”
The dogs nosed my hand, then started to happily pant at me. Apparently I’d passed the smell test.
“You’re early,” said a deep male voice from across the room. Jackson went stiff.
In the arched doorway that led to the great room beyond the foyer stood a man. I’d never seen anyone in real life wearing an ascot with a smoking jacket, but now I had. He was Jackson’s twin, except older and grayer, with laugh lines around his blue eyes.
“Father,” said Jackson, confirming my guess.
They stared at each other. It wasn’t unfriendly—more assessing than anything—but if I hadn’t seen my mother in four years, you can bet our reunion would look nothing like this.
The elder Mr. Boudreaux turned his gaze to me. “And you must be Bianca,” he said with much more robust enthusiasm than he’d addressed his son. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His gaze flashed to my left hand. A faint smile lifted his lips.
Oh my stars. This was gonna get messy.
I mentally put my big girl panties on and sent my future father-in-law a smile that was so sweet it practically dripped honey. “Mr. Boudreaux. I’m so happy to meet you.”
Then, just to shake off the general sense of doom, I went over and gave the man a hug.
Imagine throwing your arms around a marble statue, and you’ll get the idea of how my friendly overture was met. Red-faced, I stepped back and tried to ignore the way Jackson’s jaw was hanging all the way to the floor.
Mr. Boudreaux was red in the face, too. He said, “Oh. Dear. You’ll have to excuse me, Bianca, I don’t think I’ve been hugged by anyone in about fifty years.”
But he kind of liked it, I could tell. Encouraged, I smiled at him again. “Sorry to be so forward, but we’re big huggers in my family, Mr. Boudreaux. My mama always told me there are few things a good hug can’t cure, and those things are what bourbon’s for.”
Mr. Boudreaux stared at me for a moment, then his face broke into a grin. “Call me Brig, Bianca. If you’re gonna be family, we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
Jackson made a soft choking noise that sounded like maybe he was going to faint.
And we’re off to a rip-roaring start.
I said, “Thank you, Brig. That’s awfully nice of you.”
Brig looked back at his son. His grin faltered. “Well. You must be tired after your journey. I’ll let you freshen up before dinner. It’s at eight.” With a nod in my direction, he turned and left. The dogs followed at his heels.
When he was gone, my relief was overwhelming. I said, “Whew! I think that went pretty well, don’t you?” I turned to find Jackson staring at me like I was a stranger. “What?” I said, instantly worried I’d made some terrible gaffe.
But he only shook his head in wonder. “You hugged my father,” he said softly, his eyes shining. “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or totally insane.”
I beamed at him. “That’s easy. I’m a genius.”
“Yes,” he murmured, “I’m beginning to think so.”
Then, still shaking his head, he took my arm and led me away.
There wasn’t enough time for a tour of the “house” before dinner, so we went straight up to Jackson’s room via one of the elevators he informed me were scattered all over the place like gopher holes. Once inside the door, I stopped dead.
“I can see why you’d hate it so much here,” I said, gazing around. “This is really beyond the limits of human tolerance.”
More oil paintings, more soaring ceilings, more priceless antiques. But the thing that truly made this room so beautiful was the massive wall of windows that gave way to the view of the gardens and lake, and woodlands beyond. A fire crackled in the huge stone hearth on one end of the room. On the other end a door stood slightly open, giving a peek of what looked to be an Olympic-size bathtub in the en suite bathroom.
Jackson went straight to the enormous bed centered under the windows and flopped facedown onto the silk duvet cover, where he remained unmoving.
Which is when I realized we’d never had a talk about the sleeping arrangements for this weekend.
Big sofa over there, I thought, eyeing a tufted, peacock-blue couch in the corner, opposite a pair of straight-backed chairs. Or whatever that thing is, I thought, catching sight of a long piece of furniture against the wall. It had no back, only cigar-shaped pillows at each end, but was obviously designed for seating. A divan or some such that garnished wealthy people’s homes. The pillows looked wicked uncomfortable, but Jackson would probably let me steal one from the bed—
“You’re thinking again.” Jackson’s voice was muffled in the comforter. He raised his head and glared at me. “Stop it.”
“Is this . . . are we . . .”
His glare intensified.
I sighed and spit it out. “Where will I be sleeping?”
Jackson rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head. That made his T-shirt ride up his abdomen a few inches, exposing a hard expanse of golden skin and a fine trail of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his jeans.
I hoped my gulp wasn’t audible.
“Here,” he said, looking at me with half-lidded eyes.
“You mean . . . on that bed?”
He nodded.
My pulse ticked up a notch. “As in . . . with you?”
When a corner of his mouth quirked, I blew out an irritated breath. He’d been baiting me.
“I’ll take the sofa, you can have the bed,” he said, muted laughter in his voice.
I tossed my handbag onto a chair by the door and wandered into the room. Ignoring him, I roamed around for a few minutes, touching things, being nosy. I poked my head into the bathroom and wondered how many people would fit into the tub. At least ten was my guess.
I knew he was watching me the way I always knew he was watching me, by the sense of having two hot irons poking into my back.
Finally, when I was done with my inspection, I turned to him and demanded, “Tell me about your mother.”
He closed his eyes. “Christ, you’re like a honey badger,” he muttered.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds extremely cute, so thank you.”
His sigh was a tremendous gust of air. “It’s like a large, ferocious weasel with impenetrable skin.”
That was so ridiculous I wasn’t even insulted. “Just give me a little something to prepare for. I assume I’ll meet her at dinner?”
A long silence followed. Then a curt, “Yes. Unless she decides not to come down.”
That sounded bad. “Are you on speaking terms with her?”
His jaw worked. He was silent for a long time before saying, “I haven’t spoken to her since I left.”
Well pick my peas. Dinner should be delightful.
I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and looked down at him. He stubbornly refused to open his eyes, so I allowed my attention to wander to that exposed strip of skin above his waistband. My finger itched to reach out and lightly stroke that pretty trail of hair. It looked so soft and fine, like down. So inviting.
I bit my lip.
Jackson said softly, “What are you looking at, Bianca?”
My gaze flashed up to his. He was staring at me with so much heat in his eyes I was momentarily speechless. I ripped my gaze away and stared down at the ring on my hand, letting it blind me. “Nothing.”
“Then why is your face the color of that chair in the corner?”
The scarlet chair, he meant. I closed my eyes. “Now who’s the honey badger?” I muttered.
After a long, tense moment of silence, Jackson slowly reached out and took my hand. He gently placed it on his stomach, then flattened his hand over it so my palm rested against his warm, bare skin.
His voice a low, sandpaper rasp, he said, “Were you looking at this?”
I said, “Don’t be silly,” but we both knew I was lying.
He grasped my forefinger, touched the tip of it to the fine down of hair beneath his belly button, and whispered, “This?” Using my finger like a paintbrush, he traced it slowly downward until it hit the top button of his jeans.
A violent tremor rocked me, but I didn’t open my eyes.
I didn’t move my hand, either.
Jackson lay very still beside me, except for his breathing, which was rough. Radiating heat, his stomach rose and fell under my hand. My heart was like a pealing bell.
He whispered my name. It was so sweet on his lips, such a tender sound. I made a noise deep in my throat, a retort or a plea, I didn’t know which. Big and slightly trembling, Jackson’s other hand stroked up the inside of my wrist.
A loud throat clearing from the doorway, and I jumped from the bed like my butt had pneumatic springs.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a uniformed male servant with a bland face and droopy hound dog eyes. He bowed. “Madam. Do you need anything before supper?”
Jackson sat up, rubbed his forehead, and growled, “No. And in the future your presence isn’t required unless I ring for you.”
The servant bowed again. “Very good, sir.” He disappeared as quickly as he arrived, leaving Jackson and me alone in excruciating silence.
I said, “I’ll just be hiding in the bathroom until dinner if you need me,” and bolted, slamming the door shut behind me. I collapsed against it, fighting for air, wondering how far that little dalliance on the bed would have gone if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Wondering how far I wanted it to go.
From behind the closed door, there might have been a muffled groan.