EIGHTEEN

JACKSON

“Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.”

“I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping.

The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown.

I was going to get married.

Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife.

At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further.

I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the possibility that Rayford would open the door and I’d drop dead of a massive heart attack the moment I spotted her was pretty solid.

I hadn’t been this nervous in . . . ever.

“Maybe you should have a drink,” Rayford suggested, watching me pace. “So you don’t scare the poor girl off with all this”—he waved a disapproving hand in the air—“energy.”

“My energy’s fine,” I snapped, flexing my hands.

Rayford snorted. “Sure, if you’re gearin’ up to ride into battle on your war horse and lop off some heads with an axe.”

I shot him a murderous glare, which made him smile.

He said, “Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when I open the door and Miss Bianca sees the state you’re in and turns around and runs off.”

“She’s not the running-off type,” I said. “She’s more the light-you-on-fire-and-walk-calmly-away-while-you-burn-to-ashes type.”

Rayford chuckled. “This is gonna be fun.”

I stopped pacing and stared at him. “Fun? This is the most bizarre and unbelievably serious thing I’ve done in my life, and you’re talking about it being fun?”

He smiled. “I meant for me, sir.”

Before I could reply, the doorbell rang.

Rayford said brightly, “And here’s the fire starter now!” and opened the door.

Bianca stood on the marble front step of my home wearing a red dress and a grim, resolute expression like she was arriving for an audit with the IRS. In spite of her obvious discomfort, she was breathtaking.

This was the first time I’d seen her out of her chef’s clothes, and my eyes greedily drank her in. The term hourglass figure was invented for women like her. Her waist was narrow, her hips were generous, and her legs were long and bare. And her breasts . . . I almost groaned out loud.

The dress had a neckline obviously designed to devastate men. It was cut low enough to give a glimpse of cleavage while still being classy, wide enough to reveal the upper swell of a pair of breasts that appeared to have been molded by God himself.

If she wore that with a mind to negotiate for more money, she’d won. I’d willingly hand over my entire trust if I’d be allowed to look at her wearing that dress for more than five minutes.

My God, her skin was flawless. Fucking flawless, like—

“Are you going to invite me in, or would you prefer we talked in the front yard?” asked Bianca tartly.

My gaze snapped up to her face.

Rayford coughed into his fist to hide his laugh.

And I went red to the roots of my hair.

“Yes,” I said too loudly, flustered. “Come in.” Then I turned around and stalked toward the library, mortified I’d been caught ogling her chest like the enamored, sexually frustrated Neanderthal that I was.

Over the roar in my ears, I heard her sigh, heard Rayford’s murmured words of hello, heard the front door close. I decided to take Rayford’s advice and pour myself a drink to take the edge off, so as soon as I entered the library I made a beeline for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured myself a glass.

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.”