He leaned back against the leather booth, spread his hands flat against the tabletop, and examined me the way a scientist might examine a germ under a microscope. It was horrible, but I gave no outward indication how much it rattled me.
I wondered if that muscle jumping in his jaw was a sign of an oncoming murder spree.
Then he had the audacity to say—with dripping condescension—“My opinion of you and your restaurant can’t be swayed with freebies, Miss Hardwick.”
Sweet baby Jesus, I wanted to pick up the steak knife on the table next to his empty plate and stab him in the eye with it.
Instead I said, “I’m not interested in your opinion, Mr. Boudreaux. Your meal is on the house because I love your family’s bourbon and it inspired me to create this menu, which I happen to be very proud of, and which has made a lot of people happy. I would’ve comped you even if you didn’t act like the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”
For the first time I saw something other than steel in his eyes. It was only a moment, a flash of emotion that warmed his gaze, and then it was gone.
He said stiffly, “I insist on paying—”
“I’m not taking your money.”
A flush of color crept over his cheeks. I supposed he wasn’t used to hearing no. That gave me an enormous sense of satisfaction, even if I did just give away four hundred bucks’ worth of food and couldn’t afford to.
Then he stood. It was abrupt and startlingly smooth for a man so large—one swift unbending of limbs that had him on his feet and looming over me.
Again.
Looking up at him, I swallowed. It wasn’t fear I felt, but he was definitely unnerving. And hot damn, why did this crabby, beastly bastard have to smell so good? If I didn’t know better that my mouth was watering from the scent of bourbon-spiced gumbo wafting through the air, I might have almost thought it was because of him.
“Miss Hardwick,” he said, the edge in his voice rougher, his eyes burning blue fire, “You. Are being. Unreasonable.”
Boy, did he like to punctuate his words with a hammer! A laugh escaped me.
“And you, Mr. Boudreaux, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard. Have yourself a nice evening.”
For the second time tonight, I turned my back on Jackson Boudreaux and walked away. Only this time I was painfully aware he might be staring at my ass.
Thanks a million, Eeny.
THREE
JACKSON
Rayford was already waiting at the curb with the car door open when I left the restaurant. That was a good thing, because in my current mood I might have torn the fucking door right off its hinges.
Seething, I climbed into the back of the Bentley. Rayford shut the door behind me without a word. When he started the car and we drove away, I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed.
I’d never met such an irritating woman in my entire life. The mouth on her! The attitude!
The incredible heart-shaped ass.
I clenched my teeth and stared out into the rainy night. I hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time. Cricket had seen to that. After that disaster, all I could see when a woman looked at me were the dollar signs in her eyes.
But this firecracker Bianca Hardwick. Christ. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss that smart mouth or put a gag in it.
“How was the food, sir?” asked Rayford, peering at me in the rearview mirror.
Still boiling with anger, I snapped, “Adequate.”
Well accustomed to my moods and knowing that was the highest praise I’d ever give anything, Rayford nodded. “Her mama was a great cook, too. Davina’s restaurant was around for, oh, twenty years I think before Hurricane Katrina blew through and wiped it out.” He chuckled. “I had many a meal there back in the day. Every time I came to visit my baby brother, I made sure to stop by. Never forgot Davina’s jambalaya. It was like havin’ a mouthful of heaven. And it wasn’t only the food that kept me comin’ back. Miss Davina Hardwick was one of the finest-lookin’ women I ever seen.”
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Even with no makeup, her dark hair scraped back into a severe bun, wearing a pair of hideous clogs, a stained apron, and a sexless white chef’s coat that covered her from neck to wrists, Bianca Hardwick was stunning. All flashing black eyes and glowing brown skin and ferocious self-confidence, she was a dead ringer for a young Halle Berry.
A young, aggravating Halle Berry.
I dragged a hand through my hair and exhaled.
It wasn’t all her fault I was on edge. I’d been on edge before I even set foot in the place. My personal chef—the fourth in six months—had left in a snit after I’d said the eggs were runny at breakfast, I was hosting a charity benefit for three hundred people in two weeks and would have to try to find a caterer since I didn’t have a chef, and Cody’s good-for-nothing junkie mother had just gotten thrown in jail on possession charges.