BornontheBayou

Born on the Bayou

Lynne Connolly

Book 2 in the Nightstar series

When Jace Beauchene, guitarist for
Murder City Ravens, goes home to confront his unhappy childhood, he finds
instead the sexiest woman in the world. Seeing the broken-down old plantation
house all gussied up and new makes him realize he can’t go back, and Beverley
Christmas makes him want more for his future. She lights up his nights, dazzles
his days, makes him want more than he has a right to. But he’ll take it.

Beverley didn’t realize men like
Jace existed. Rampantly, unashamedly sexy, he shows her how to live, how to
open up to new experiences. She’s spent most of her life learning her trade in
the great kitchens of the world; now Jace shows her what bedrooms are for. And
every other room in the house. But their paths lie in different directions.
Unless they can find a way to combine what they both want, their red-hot affair
will leave them both burned.

Born on the Bayou

Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

As Beverley walked across the huge entrance hall at Great
Oaks, a wave of heat swept over her, bringing instant perspiration to parts of
her body she preferred to keep cool. Scowling in disapproval, she detoured to
the door and closed it. As usual, the workmen were distributing the house’s
expensive air-conditioning to half Louisiana. She’d never get used to the heat,
she knew that for sure. After the chilly and damp atmosphere of London,
Louisiana’s weather had come as a shock, even in spring.

She turned to leave but froze when she realized she wasn’t
alone. A man sprawled with magnificent carelessness over one of the long
Chesterfield sofas set against the far wall. This visitor didn’t seem at all
intimidated by the place, and
that
was how she knew who he was.

Her heart thumped against her ribs. It wasn’t every day she
managed to make this kind of coup, grab a star chef that everyone in the world
wanted a piece of.

She spoke in classical French. The patois people used around
here was very different from the French she’d learned as part of her training,
and she’d relish the chance to use it again. “
Bonjour. Je m’appelle
Beverley Christmas. You’re here to see me?”

He raised a black brow, his startlingly blue eyes sparkling
with amusement. He acknowledged the connection between them with a sharp nod. “
Oui,
bien sûr.
” That low purr went straight to her sex, waking it from its usual
state of hibernation, asking her questions she’d not considered for a long
time. It was the heat, she reasoned. It had to be.

Flawless French growled in a sexy-as-hell voice. He knew it
too, which spoke to type. The chef she was expecting would never understate his
talents. She checked her electronic tablet, although she didn’t need to, but at
least it kept her gaze away from him and gave her a chance to recover her
sangfroid. She’d worked hard enough to get him here, she’d booked his plane
ticket, sent him the invitation. “Welcome, Monsieur Chaballet. If you’ll come
this way?” She kept to French. “How’s your English?” Not that it mattered. He’d
got the job anyway.

He gave a Gallic shrug. “
Très bon.
”

She was surprised to see him alone. Chefs of his status
often traveled with entourages. Once he’d earned his second Michelin star, he
could just about do what he wanted, and now he had three he’d risen to godlike
status. But in his correspondence, he’d seemed very down to earth, if reticent
and possessing the egotism common to so many chefs. Marc Chaballet preferred to
keep out of the camera’s eye, and although she’d googled him, she couldn’t get
a decent photo of him. Only rave reviews about his food, which critics spoke
about in terms usually reserved for fine art. He didn’t cook, he created.

Now she watched the powerful man unfolding himself from the
sofa to stand before her. Tall, with shoulders like a rower, but even more, the
eyes of a god. The epitome of the star chef, to which he added the insouciant,
insolent air of command. And the sex appeal of an Apollo. A small tremor made
its way through her body to the heart of her and her panties dampened as he
stood and surveyed her, his hot gaze sweeping down her body then returning up
until he met her eyes.

Not now, not that.
She’d have laughed at the
incongruity. Despite the way he assessed her, he’d think her completely crazy
if she took it as an invitation. Women threw themselves at Marc Chaballet when
they could track the reclusive chef down, and now she understood why. This man
had a magnetic presence she wouldn’t hesitate to label charisma.

Despite not finding any up-to-date images, she felt she’d
seen him somewhere before. Maybe someone had caught him in a candid shot,
something like that. He affected her more powerfully than anyone else she’d
ever met, and she’d met some charismatic people in her time. She forced herself
back into business mode. “Will you come this way?”

She led the way along the hallway to her office, her heels
clicking busily on the restored tiles. She was proud of those tiles. She’d
fought for their preservation and proved herself right once the guys had
swabbed the place and unstuck the dirt of what seemed like centuries. Mrs.
Austin, the previous owner of the place, had let it fall to pieces around her
and they’d had to renovate pretty much everything.

He didn’t seem to notice the pretty cream and terracotta
pattern, but then, why would he? Like most chefs she’d known, he probably
retained all his concentration for his kitchen and the food. The sacred food.

She’d felt like that once. Ah fuck, who was she kidding, she
still felt like that.

When she opened the door to her office, she took the second
she always did to savor the sunshine pouring into the room. She’d chosen to use
this office because at the corner of the house she got the light from two
sides. She pulled the door wide and switched on her professional smile before
she turned to face him, bracing herself for the sheer impact of the man.

Light streamed around his dark form, making him seem almost
otherworldly. It limned his outline and turned his form into a silhouette,
black against shining gold. She stared until her eyes burned, then she blinked
and turned away. A trick of the light, was all. Nothing.

“Please, take a seat.” She took her time crossing the room
and sitting behind her desk, grabbing a chance to breathe steadily and get back
on track. He stood with an innate grace she only wished she possessed and
suspected he was unaware of.

Or maybe not, because when he tilted his head and allowed
his mouth to curl into a gentle smile, she got the feeling that this man knew
exactly what he was doing, was perfectly aware of the effect that smile had on
people. But she couldn’t be absolutely sure and she didn’t know what to make of
him. Yet.

She reverted to English to see if he responded well. “Would
you like some refreshment? I’m surprised the receptionist left you alone, and I
have to apologize for that.”

His smile broadened just a little, enhancing a shallow
dimple at the left corner of his mouth. “No problem. I’d just arrived.” His
English was as good as his French, if not better. His accent sounded almost
like some of the people here, but she knew he’d worked in the USA for a year,
so maybe he’d picked it up then. The little hesitations before a couple of the
words just added to the appeal.

He closed the door and strolled across the room to sit in
the hard chair in front of her desk. She’d thought the desk imposing before but
now it seemed to shrink, every chip and dent on the surface appearing shabby
instead of picturesque.

Dressed in all black, with the hint of a tattoo peeking out from
under one short sleeve, he seemed all man, despite the hair worn tousled and
just a little too long. And she was paying far too much attention to him. What
was worse, he knew it, if she could trust her interpretation of that crooked
smile.

Now he’d arrived, Beverley didn’t know where to start.
Usually she’d go through an interviewee’s résumé, but along with the rest of
the catering world, she knew Monsieur Chaballet’s achievements and he was
hardly an interviewee.

She had to be so, so careful not to upset him. He was famous
for his tempers, although she wondered how much of that was to control the
kitchen staff and how much genuine. As well as making the man…interesting. But
he had to have discipline. Nobody got three Michelin stars by bumbling their way
through life.

She smiled. “Monsieur, welcome. I regret the necessity for a
formal interview, but the company demands it. I just need to take a few details
for their records.”

He interrupted her. “You’re English?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You like Louisiana?”

She didn’t want to put this man off by outlining her own
misgivings about the sultry weather. “It’s fascinating. I love the history of
an old house like this.”

He nodded. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Where you fit
in.”

She folded her hands together on the desk surface. “I’m
overseeing the restoration and preparing the house for its new function as
hotel and conference center,” she said. “We are, however, keeping a portion of
the house back for the Plantation Experience.” She still thought of it in
capital letters. “Guests are invited to dress in clothes provided by the
wardrobe here or their own costumes, and they may choose to live in the special
guest rooms and immerse themselves into the life of the 1860’s plantation
owner.

“Or they may choose to tour the rooms set aside and stay in
regular guest rooms. I don’t run that part, we have specialist staff, but I
oversee it.” She smiled, hoping her professional veneer was holding. “We would
require local food for visitors, so I wondered if you had any experience of
cooking any Louisiana specialties?”

He spread his hands expressively. “I cook it very well. I
love regional food, and it is the kind of food I cook best.” He shot a sly grin
in her direction. “Apart from the preparation of excellent breakfasts.” He’d
switched to French again. She had no objection to that. She’d heard enough of
his English to know he could manage with non-French speakers in the kitchen.

Her only problem was that he sounded even more seductive in
his native language. His reference to breakfasts sent her mind in the direction
of cool sheets and hot bodies and from the expression on his face, he knew it,
was teasing her. As if he were playing a game. It annoyed her that it was
working. She shifted in her chair. A pity her libido chose now to wake up,
after she’d successfully put it to sleep for the last six months, but it had
definitely emerged to growl lustfully at the man sitting opposite her.

He smiled and his attention lingered on her face as if he
were caressing it. “Do you know the previous owner?”

She hadn’t thought about him much. She doubted she’d see
him, he was far too busy. “He is remaining in the background. I believe he is
following another career.”

“I know who he is,” he said. “Maybe he will return one day.”

“If he does, that is his concern.” What business was it of
his? She knew some chefs had a propensity to gossip, but she wouldn’t allow it
out of the kitchen. In the kitchen, he would have complete dominion, but
outside, she could claim sovereignty.

She didn’t know the previous owner, who had retained a small
stake in what was once his family home. From what she’d heard of him, she
didn’t want to know him, but she didn’t want to traduce him either, or hear it
done in her presence. But maybe she’d make that clear later. Once she’d made
sure she had Chaballet, after the chef had signed the contract she had ready.

When she’d looked Chaballet up online she’d found a
succession of images of a wild man, almost always wearing sunglasses, very few
of the images clear.

He shrugged and got to his feet. “I would appreciate a tour
of the premises.”

She glanced down at the forms Bell’s wanted and put them
aside. Better to keep him sweet right now, then she’d get him to sign. “Of
course.”

Also better to get away from the suddenly close confines of
this usually airy room. She led the way out and as she passed him to reach the
door, a breath of awareness swept through her, sending goose bumps coursing
over her body. With a sinking inevitability, she realized that she’d have to
get closer to him for the tour. She couldn’t conduct it at arm’s length,
otherwise he’d think there was something wrong with her. Shit, shit, shit.

He courteously opened the door and allowed her to pass
through before falling in just behind her. A breath behind and to one side, as
if at any moment he’d slip his arm around her waist and pull her close. Drat
the man!

No, she couldn’t put her reaction to him at his door. He had
flirted but it was mild for a Frenchman, or at least, some of the Frenchmen
she’d met in the past. She’d just have to get over her inconveniently powerful
reaction to him, that was all.

Jace hadn’t meant to distract this woman, but it seemed only
fair. Because sure as fuck she distracted him. The moment he’d seen her
buttoned-up, curvy shape, he’d wanted to ruffle her a bit. She presented a
challenge. Especially when he took a closer look and nearly swallowed his
tongue.

Her neat white blouse tucked into an equally neat black
pinstripe skirt revealed a glorious figure, one he wanted to see more of and
was, he suspected, more than she planned to display.

The fine cotton top and lacy bra did very little to conceal
the shape or size of her rosy-colored nipples, something she was probably
blissfully unaware of. The lack of awareness added to his appreciation in a
twisted way. He wanted to explore her more and oddly, cover her up so he could
keep the delicious sight to himself. The unconscious way she displayed her body
and her fresh scent as she walked past him went straight to his groin.

He forced himself to think of something else before he had
to conceal his boner from her all the way around the house. Her crisp loyalty
and refusal to gossip impressed the fuck out of him. In his experience, that
quality was so rare it was worth paying big bucks for.

Since all he cooked with any ease was toast, it was a bit of
a stretch pretending to be a chef, but he’d eaten gourmet, so he hoped he’d
manage to fool her for a little while longer. He couldn’t keep this up for long
though. Even though only a skeleton staff was keeping the place going right
now, someone was bound to recognize him sooner or later.

As she led him along the hallway and through to the lower
drawing room, as his mother had grandly called it, he paid more attention to
her than to his surroundings. After all, he knew the house well enough but he
had yet to get to know her. Nobody else was around, but they hadn’t opened the
hotel yet. He had her to himself.