I protested, “But the schedule—”

She turned and walked off before I could get anything more out of her. Then it didn’t matter if she’d left because at that moment Jackson walked out onto the stage and into the spotlight, and I was rendered speechless.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

Then he strolled up to the microphone and started to speak, and that smooth, rich-like-molasses voice proved that it was.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’m Jackson Boudreaux.”

The place went wild. Three hundred people jumped from their chairs and clapped and hollered and whistled, making such a racket it could probably be heard for miles.

I stared around at all the clamoring people, wondering if someone had spiked their drinks with cocaine. All this excitement for the Beast?

“Thank you so much for coming,” Jackson said over the noise. “I’m honored to welcome you to my home.”

Who is this person? I thought, stunned. This polite, charming person?

Standing there onstage, in a tuxedo that fit his large, muscular frame so perfectly it had to be custom-made, with his dark hair slicked back and his face freshly shaved, was a stranger. A smiling stranger who sounded like Jackson and called himself Jackson, but looked nothing like the man I knew.

The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made Chewbacca look well groomed.

The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made King Kong seem civilized.

The Jackson Boudreaux I knew didn’t look like Superman and dress like James Bond and have a crowd of three hundred people on their feet, showering him in adoration.

Maybe I was hallucinating. I put the back of my hand to my forehead, testing for fever, but it was cool and dry.

New and Improved Jackson said, “As you may know, I first became involved with the Wounded Warrior Project after my best friend, Christian LeFevre, was wounded while serving in the Marines in Afghanistan.”

So this is why Jackson’s involved with the charity. How tragic. I listened with my hand over my mouth as he went on.

“A roadside bomb took Christian’s legs but not his love of his country, his joy for life, or his dedication to serving others. Though complications from his amputations ultimately claimed his life, the Wounded Warrior Project was there for him in his final months the way no other organization could have been.”

Jackson’s voice broke. He stopped speaking abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, and drew a slow breath.

I watched, enthralled. He had feelings. The Beast had feelings.

I’d seen his irritation before, of course, and had also seen firsthand his devotion for Cody. But this was something else altogether. This was raw. This was powerful.

This was vulnerable.

If someone pointed a gun at my head and demanded I describe what I was feeling in this moment or get a bullet in my brain, they would’ve had to shoot me.

In a more subdued tone, Jackson continued. “In the four years since Christian’s death, I’ve witnessed firsthand how many lives this organization has touched. How many lives it has changed for the better. How many lives it has saved. This nation and all its citizens owe a great debt to the brave men and women who serve in our military. But the greatest debt of all is to those who are wounded or have fallen in combat. Those who so valiantly and selflessly volunteer to defend us and our allies around the world, and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, must never be forgotten.”

Jackson’s voice broke again, but this time he kept talking.

“It’s through the efforts of organizations like the Wounded Warrior Project that we ensure they never are.”

The crowd went ballistic. It sounded like a rock concert. I stared at Jackson on the stage, not realizing there were tears on my cheeks until I brushed my fingers across my face and they came away wet.

Jackson said, “Coming up next we’re going to start the auction. I’m sure you’ll all be very generous to help our wounded vets, right?”

More cheering.

Then he looked out across the heads of everyone in the room and spotted me standing in the doorway. Even through the distance that separated us, I saw how his eyes burned.

He said, “But before we get to that, I want to introduce you to the woman who made you all the delicious food you’ve been eating this evening. Chef, join me onstage.”

Jackson extended his hand. Three hundred heads turned to look at me.

Inconveniently, the ground didn’t open up and swallow me whole.

GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE

Makes 8 servings

1½ cups graham cracker crumbs

⅓ cup butter, melted

⅓ cup white sugar

32 ounces cream cheese, softened

⅔ cup white sugar, plus 2 tablespoons

1 cup sour cream, divided

1 tablespoon grated orange peel

4 eggs

2 cups clementine wedges

½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger

Preparation

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix graham cracker crumbs, butter, and ⅓ cup sugar together. Press on bottom of 9² x 3² springform pan and just enough up sides to seal bottom.

Place cream cheese, ⅔ cup sugar, ½ cup sour cream, and orange peel in food processor. Cover and process about 3 minutes or until smooth. Add eggs. Cover and process until well blended. Spread over crust.

Bake 1 hour 20 minutes, or until center is set. Cool on wire rack for 15 minutes. Using spatula around edges to loosen, remove side of pan.

Refrigerate uncovered 3 hours or until chilled, then cover and continue refrigerating at least 4 hours, but not longer than 48 hours.

Mix ½ cup sour cream and 2 tablespoons sugar and spread over top of cheesecake. Top with fresh fruit and crystallized ginger. Store uneaten portion covered with foil in fridge.

TWELVE

BIANCA

Though I wanted to turn and bolt, I didn’t. The man had paid me an obscene amount of money for this job, after all. And I was a professional. I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of all his guests by refusing his request.

Also, I was intrigued by this new Jackson, this well-dressed stranger who spoke so eloquently about honor and selflessness and used words like please.

I didn’t think that word was in his vocabulary.

So it was with curiosity—and a healthy dose of embarrassment—that I walked around the perimeter of the tables and climbed the few stairs to the stage.

Then shock took over as Jackson wound his arm around my shoulders, pulled me against his side, and smiled down at me. I was too busy trying not to keel over in surprise to pay much attention to how perfectly I fit under his arm, how snugly I nestled against the solid bulk of his body.

How hard he was, all over.

I’m definitely hallucinating. Or Jackson Boudreaux has a twin no one knows about.

A twin that had three long, thin, mysterious scars on the right side of his face that his beard had been hiding.

“Pretend like you don’t hate me, and smile,” he said, his jaw barely moving, his lips stretched tight over his teeth. “Please.”

There’s that word again. I’m as lost as last year’s Easter egg. Am I on camera?

Expecting to see myself on a prank video sometime in the near future, I smiled.

Satisfied, Jackson turned back to the audience. “I discovered the magic of Bianca Hardwick’s cuisine when I visited her restaurant in the French Quarter. The food was so good I stayed all night and tried everything on the menu—”

“Maybe it wasn’t the food you stayed for!” shouted someone from the audience, then whistled, one of those catcalls boys lean out of car windows to deliver as you walk down the street.