Rayford ushered Bianca into the library and asked her if he could get her anything.
“A three-legged stool and a whip,” she said.
When I turned to look at her, she sent me a tight smile. “Isn’t that what every lion tamer needs?”
Rayford snorted. He was enjoying this way too much.
“Thank you, Rayford,” I said, gripping my glass so hard it was in danger of shattering in my hand. “That will be all.”
“Yes, sir,” he said pleasantly, and soundlessly slid the library doors shut, leaving Bianca and me alone.
Unless he was standing outside with his ear pressed to the wood, which was definitely possible.
Bianca looked at me. “So, Mr. Boudreaux, are you ready for a Mrs.?”
I downed the entire glass of scotch in one gulp.
Her laugh was as grim as her expression. “That makes two of us. And if you don’t mind, I’ll have whatever it is you’re having. My stomach is pitching the kind of dying duck fit only hard liquor can help.” She crossed to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, knees together, back ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly around the small white handbag she carried.
So she was nervous, too. That eased some of the tension between my shoulders. I didn’t like the idea of her feeling uncomfortable, but knowing she took this as seriously as I did was heartening.
I poured her a scotch and gave it to her. She took it, avoiding my eyes, and tossed it back like I had. Then she blew out a hard breath and looked up at me.
“Please sit down,” she said. “You’re intimidating when you hover.”
“I can’t believe you’d find anything intimidating,” I said, but did as she asked and sat opposite her in a chair, the coffee table between us.
“I suppose you’ll soon be finding out all kinds of things about me,” she murmured, looking at her glass.
A painful silence followed. I decided to break it with an admission of truth. “I’m worried.”
Surprised, she blinked up at me. “Worried?”
I nodded.
“About what?”
My voice came out rougher than I intended. “About this. About what we’re about to do, if we agree to do it. But mostly . . . about fucking things up and making you hate me.”
One of her hands trembled around the purse. She clenched it even tighter to stop it. “Thank you. I don’t know why, but that makes me feel better.”
I sat slowly back in the chair and gazed down at my empty glass, giving her space. I wanted her to start when she was ready, to ask whatever questions she wanted to ask, to feel that she was in control of this exercise in insanity. I might not know much, but I knew that any small chance of success we had at even being friendly in the future hinged on her, and her alone.
I was already all in. It was Bianca who still hadn’t placed a bet or shown me her hand.
Finally she said, “You shaved.”
I glanced up and met her gaze. “I know you prefer it.”
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed it. I’d never seen her do that before, and found it devastatingly sexy.
She said, “And you’re wearing a suit. With a tie.”
My smile was faint. “I never said I didn’t own any suits. I just said I hate them.”
“But you’re wearing one.”
“The occasion seemed to call for it.”
We stared at each other for a while, until Bianca tossed aside her handbag and leapt to her feet. “Oh God this is weird!” she said, and started to pace.
“I know.”
She dragged her hands through her hair. It was down, falling in gentle waves around her shoulders, a dark mass of soft curls made for running through my fingers.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Jackson, shut the fuck up.
“My mother has lung cancer. Stage three.”
Startled, I opened my eyes. Bianca was still pacing restlessly, her arms now folded over her chest.
Without stopping, she said, “We’re broke. She doesn’t have insurance. Her doctor wants to do surgery. Chemo has shrunk her tumor, but she needs surgery and possibly radiation, and definitely more chemo after the surgery. All that stuff costs money. A lot of money. I’ve already burned through the twenty grand you gave me for the charity event, and that was only for the initial rounds of chemo and some prescriptions.”
She turned back and paced the other way, the hem of her dress flaring out around her knees. “There’s no guarantee the surgery will work, of course, but without the surgery she’s dead. That’s it. Finito. Over. Done. Sixty-four years of running a business and raising a child and being a wonderful wife and mother and friend and good citizen and God-fearing churchgoer and taking care of everyone else without a thought to her own needs, and this is what she gets in repayment. Cancer. Like that’s fair? Like that’s how it should be?”