Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(80)

He moved out of view. A moment later he returned holding one of the bags the driver had placed to the side of the wardrobe. He flipped it onto the bed, unzipped it, and rummaged around for a shirt, while I stared helplessly at all those spectacular muscles of his going to work.

Seriously, was it necessary to have so many hard, bulging places on a body?

Yes! roared my ovaries. Yes, it absolutely is!

“What was that great big sigh for?” Jackson looked over his shoulder, caught me ogling him, and smirked.

“Just a little gas,” I said, and smirked back.

The smug bastard. He knew exactly what was going on. I bet my ovaries were on speed dial to his brain.

Jackson chuckled. He pulled a dark-blue dress shirt from the bag, tossed it over his shoulders, and turned to face me as he slowly buttoned it up, staring at me with bedroom eyes the whole time, like a striptease in reverse.

“Better,” I said once the last button had been done. “Now tuck.”

“You sound like a wife already,” he protested mildly, but did as I said and tucked the ends of his shirt into his jeans. Of course this necessitated an unbuttoning of his fly, which revealed he was wearing white cotton briefs whose front seams were being tested by a muscle of a different kind, which looked huge and ready for business.

I made a peep like a startled baby bird and whipped my head around so fast I nearly broke my own neck. Confronted with my reflection in the mirror, there was no denying the obvious: I was turned on as all get-out. My pupils were huge, my color was high, and my bosom was heaving like a bodice-ripper cover model’s.

Dear Lord. I was sexually attracted to my fake fiancé.

“Everything all right in there, Bianca?”

I heard the laughter in his tone and wondered where in the room that heavy bronze obelisk was. I kept my voice even by a miracle of self-control. “Peachy keen.”

He rapped on the doorframe. I glanced over to find him leaning against it with one shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest, his shirt buttoned and tucked in, the picture of casual confidence. “Ready?” he said, his voice husky.

“For dinner,” I clarified.

“Of course. What else would I be talking about?”

He blinked at me, innocent as a lamb, and I knew I was in serious trouble.

It’s only a business deal, I told myself as he held out his hand in invitation. Only a business deal, I kept repeating as we walked hand in hand from the room. Business, business, business.

My lady bits were chiming in with some ideas of their own that were decidedly unbusinesslike, but after two years of practice it was easy to ignore them.



By the time we entered the dining room, Jackson’s mood had gone from light to black as the bottom of the ocean during a hurricane.

The room was dominated by a double-sided fireplace and a chandelier so large it had its own atmosphere. The table looked exactly like what I imagined Count Dracula’s dining table would be like. A long, coffin-black slab of wood dotted with silver candelabras, surrounded by black, elaborately carved chairs. Blood-red wine goblets lurked beside bone china place settings rimmed in gold. It was oddly terrifying.

The grandfather clock on the wall gonged solemnly eight times, and the haunted castle vibe was complete.

Maybe growing up here wasn’t all sunshine and roses after all.

“Madam,” said the droopy-eyed manservant, materializing from nowhere so soundlessly I jumped. At my startled little exclamation, he bowed. “Aperitif?” he inquired with a flourish.

My “Yes!” was so forceful he was taken aback. He blinked at me for a moment, then snapped his gloved fingers. Another servant glided soundlessly forward with a glass of champagne, which is when I realized the room was lined with uniformed servants, standing straight-backed and silent against the walls, gazing with blank expressions into space.

It was the creepiest thing I’d ever seen in my life.

“Sir?” said the head manservant to Jackson, who only scowled at him in response. The manservant bowed away and went to skulk in the corner.

Under my breath I said to Jackson, “What the unholy Christmas miracle is this?”

“My parents like to keep a full staff,” he said, looking around in distaste.

I shrank a little closer to him. “I bet they’re single-handedly propping up the state’s unemployment rate.”

“Bianca!”

At the sound of my name booming through the room, I nearly screamed. But it was only Jackson’s father, appearing from the adjacent hallway with a big grin and his arms open wide like he was an emcee at a nightclub introducing the next act.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Boudreaux. I mean Brig.”

He stood in front of me and clasped my shoulders. Still grinning, he gave me a friendly little shake. “You look wonderful. Wonderful!”