I bet. Just trying to keep your sanity living with him must be murder.
“So how did you come to be with him in New Orleans?”
A pause followed in which Rayford thoughtfully looked out the windshield before saying gently, “That’s not my story to tell, Miss.”
Oh boy. I just stepped in a big, steaming pile of none-of-your-damn-business.
“Got it. Sorry. My mama’s always telling me I talk too much. Says my gift of the gab is a shade closer to a curse.”
He sent me a smile and smoothly changed the subject. “How is your mama, anyway? I didn’t know her well, just an occasional customer like I said, but I was real sorry to hear about what happened to her restaurant during Katrina.”
My stomach did a slow roll. I glanced out the window and watched the road speeding by. “She’s fine, thank you for asking. I just saw her this morning. We only live a few blocks apart so I like to stop by on my way to the restaurant.”
I felt his look and wondered if he heard the change in my voice. If he did, he was too well mannered to mention it.
The rest of the drive was spent in pleasant chitchat. By the time we pulled up to an elaborate scrolled iron gate surrounded by a high stone wall, I’d almost forgotten to worry about my mother.
“Here we are,” said Rayford. Like magic, the iron gates parted and swung slowly open, and I got my first look at the Beast’s home.
I’m ashamed to admit I actually gasped.
Rayford chuckled. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I stared in awe at the palatial estate at the end of a long gravel driveway. Flanked by ancient weeping willows and set against the glittering backdrop of Lake Pontchartrain, it looked like something a president might use on his weekends away from the White House.
Rayford said with pride, “Rivendell’s got ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, and over fifteen thousand square feet on a five-acre lot. Jackson bought up the property on both sides and tore down the houses so he could have more privacy.”
I looked at Rayford in surprise. “Rivendell? The house is named after the elven realm in The Hobbit?”
Rayford’s brows climbed his forehead. “You a Tolkien fan?”
I shrugged. “A book fan in general. I’m a little obsessed, really. I read everything.”
“Do you now,” Rayford mused, sliding me a glance.
He wore a secret smile I found a little odd.
“My father used to always read to me before bed when I was little. I guess I fell in love with books way back then, and it’s been an ongoing affair ever since.”
“You’ll be wantin’ to see the library, then,” Rayford said. “I swear we’ve got more books than the Library of Congress.”
That gave me pause. The Beast loves books, too?
I decided he’d probably instructed his interior designer to buy a bunch of first editions so he could show off to his rich friends. Odds were he had an expensive wine collection he knew nothing about, too. A man who devoured food as joylessly as Jackson Boudreaux did wouldn’t have the soul to appreciate literature or fine wine, either.
As we drove closer to the house, I grew more nervous. The scope of what I’d gotten myself into was starting to hit me. If the event didn’t go off without a hitch, I suspected I’d be blamed for it. And I had no doubt Jackson wouldn’t hesitate to give me a piece of his mind in front of three hundred guests if he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the food.
“You’re lookin’ a little spooked over there, Miss Bianca.” Rayford smiled at me. “You okay?”
“Fine as frog’s hair!” I answered brightly. I’d rather chew off my own arm than admit I was feeling intimidated.
Rayford chuckled. “Good. He’s lookin’ forward to seein’ you, too.”
Wait. What?
Before I could gather my wits enough to respond, Rayford said, “Ah! Speak of the devil!”
When I followed his gaze, my heart sank.
Standing in front of the massive front door with his legs braced wide and his arms crossed over his chest stood Jackson, in regulation black everything, wearing an expression like he was about to launch a nuclear war.
The devil indeed, I thought, stifling a sigh. I’d assumed I’d be getting a tour of the house and kitchen from Rayford, but apparently the Beast had other ideas.
He probably thought I’d try to steal something.
As soon as we pulled to a stop, Jackson yanked my door open. He stood peering in at me with narrowed eyes, his head cocked. He snapped, “Why are you sitting in front?”
Right. I shouldn’t be bucking protocol because I’m the help.
Heat crawled up my neck and suffused my cheeks. Lord, grant me the serenity not to take off my shoe and hurl it at his balls.