BornontheBayou (7 page)

She wriggled against him and he moaned, let her hear what
she did to him, though if she didn’t feel it she’d lost sensation in her lower
back. Widening his stance, he bent his knees in a pose reminiscent of one that
he used onstage. That gave him an idea that heated his blood.

“What if I took you onstage with me? We played Madison
Square Garden a few weeks ago. Imagine going naked onto that stage and, instead
of a guitar, I’ll play you.” Growling, he bit the edge of her ear. She
squeaked. “Keep watching,” he told her. “Or we’ll move straight to the meal.”

He could just about reach the lever that switched off the
water. The bathroom was warm now he’d worked out how to turn the air-conditioning
down. They were going to get plenty wet enough. “Lean forward a little.”

She did so and he anchored her with a hand around her waist.
Her bottom pressed against his abdomen and he took a moment to glance down and
take in the creamy curves. Shit, any more of this and he’d come before he got
inside her. He hadn’t done that since his teenage years. Well, except for one
or two times when he’d gotten too drunk or stoned and that was a while back
now. Certainly not like this. Stone-cold sober and as excited as he’d been
before his first public performance.

What had made him talk about taking her onstage and fucking
her in front of thousands? He wanted to keep her to himself. But there was no
harm in a bit of fantasy, and that particular thought had him straining.

Silence in the bathroom now, except for their breathing and
the gentle
whirr
of the fan. He found the condom, tore it open with his
teeth and put it on one-handed, keeping his other arm around her waist so she
didn’t overbalance.

He needed to make sure she was ready but he wanted to see
her too. He opened her pussy lips, lifting her a little so they could see her
clit peek through. “Do you think it wants me to touch it? Suck it? Would you
like that, honey, for me to suck all the juice off your pretty clit? You taste
good, I already know that.” He let his fingers slip through her folds until it
reached her channel, slick and open and all too ready for him.

His cock wouldn’t behave; he couldn’t get it into the right
position to push inside her body, so he had to take his hand away from her.
Before he took his dick in hand, he sucked his fingers and watched her eyes
widen as he savored the feast. He winked. “Real good.”

One finger, two, taking his time, then he gripped his cock
and held it steady so he could breach her pussy. His eyes slid closed. It felt
so fucking good, that moment of entry. Every nerve ending in his cock, and
fuck, there had to be a million of them, went on full alert, all sighing in
ecstasy as they entered the best place in the world. Thrills chased up his
spine, heading for his brain, but with an effort, he cut them off at the pass
and kept his wits. “Hands on either side of the door.”

The clear shower panels were held in place by rigid aluminum
structures, firmly bolted to the floor and ceiling. They should help her keep
her balance. Just in case, he kept his arm around her waist. He didn’t want her
going anywhere.

She did as he told her but her head sank forward. He tugged
on her hair, pulling back her head. “Up. Keep looking. Now open your legs on
either side of mine.”

Watching as if hypnotized, she glanced away only long enough
to see where to put her hands, then back to the mirror again. “Surprised?” he
murmured silkily.

“Yes,” she whispered, so softly he could hardly hear her.

He thrust. Hard, making sure he had her safe. She cried out
and it sounded as good as any B note he’d ever heard. Not pure, simply perfect.
He loved the moment his balls impacted against her, the sharp slap adding extra
stimulation—as if he needed it. His involuntary grunt made her sigh, her breath
frosting against the glass before it evaporated into thin air.

He had her now. If he took a small step back and lifted her,
he could find purchase against the tiles at the back of the shower stall, and
that would give them a better view. He wanted to watch and he wanted to watch
her watching.

Fuck, what a turn-on. He had to fight to keep his semen
where it belonged for now—inside him.

After leaning against the narrow ledge of tiles, he had her
straddling his thighs. She’d let go of the supports but he had her around the
waist again. “Now look. See us? Me inside you? I’m moving now, but you’ll have
to move too if you want to feel me hard inside you, shoving you closer.” She
moved and thrills went down his cock to travel up his spine where a very happy
dragon waited to absorb the sensation. “Oh yeah, that’s it.”

He bent his legs a little more, letting her plant her feet
on the nubbed floor tiles. She slid up and then down, and his avid stare met
hers in the mirror. “You go, honey. Nobody but us here and I ain’t telling
anyone what we’re doing. Feel free to do whatever you want. What turns you on?”

“You do.”

The simple response sent shivers through his cock and balls,
tracking around his body, kittens chasing balls of yarn turning to electric
currents short-circuiting. The outrageous images raced around his head and he
knew he’d make use of them later.

He thrust up, meeting her movements, which were tentative at
first, as if she were feeling her way, then stronger as she felt safer. “I got
you. You’re not going anywhere. Go for it, Beverley.”

“I love the way you use all my name instead of Bev,” she
said, surprising him by the sudden clarity. But she was moving now, leaning
forward a tiny bit, and when she cried out, he knew she’d found her sweet spot.
All on her own. Every hard drive hit it now. He could almost feel it, the silky
skin braced by firm muscle now working around him, small quivers warning him
that she’d come before too long. So would he if he wasn’t careful. He wanted
more, wanted this to last. Wanted memories.

She found a rhythm and he followed it, maintaining the angle
she’d discovered, willing her on, mind and body. Pressing his back against the
wall, he firmed his stance. She was soaked now, and he reached around to open
her up again, to see that magnificent pussy, wet with her arousal. Her scent,
essentially female, wreathed around him, providing extra stimulus, as if he
needed it.

She looked so good, the inside of an oyster flushed pink, a
rare orchid. His cock rammed inside her, taking her with a force he couldn’t
stop now. But he wouldn’t come, not yet. He gritted his teeth and slammed his
head against the tiles to give him a shot of pain, trying to stop the
inevitable for a few minutes longer.

The ripples around his cock grew in intensity and her mouth
opened, as if she couldn’t get enough air any other way. Her little cries
mingled with his lower but just as heartfelt sounds. He used her name again,
the sound sweet on his tongue, but not as sweet as her juices.

She screamed his name and tried to move off him, but he held
her down, the quivers becoming hard, brutal contractions, milking him so he
couldn’t hold back any longer. He cried out as he came, beyond words now.

He used the strength he had left to switch on the shower
again, in case she got cold.

* * * * *

Wrapped in bathrobes, they shared the meal a waiter had
brought up about five minutes after they’d exited the shower. He kept her
cinched to his side while the man laid out the meal. He wouldn’t give her a
chance to feel ashamed or back off. He wanted more of the dangerous intimacy he
felt around her. He had to watch that, it might get addictive, and then fuck
knew what he might do.

He’d ordered a light prawn salad, steaks for two and a good
pinot noir. She seemed to approve, because she set to as if she hadn’t eaten
for a week. He grinned and offered her the breadbasket. She took a roll and
broke into it, looking around for the butter.

“I like a woman who doesn’t starve herself.”

She grinned. “I’ll have to run this off, but I can’t resist.
For some reason I’m famished.” She shot him a sly look and he laughed. He liked
this Beverley, mischievous and teasing. Remembering what she’d said earlier, he
decided she was definitely a Beverley, not a Bev.

“I can help you work off the extra calories. Not that you
need to.”

“I always ate well but worked hard. I started to put weight
on when I began the manager’s job. Too many hours behind a desk.” She put down
the roll and cut into her steak, frowning a little.

“Let me guess. You like your steak still mooing.”

“No, just a little rarer than this. But it’s fine.”

“Mooing.” He poured her a glass of wine. “This should help.”

“Thanks.” She took a healthy sip and shot him a grin. “Much
better.”

His steak was underdone for his taste, if anything, so he
guessed she’d want it rare. It seemed she wanted it rarer. It didn’t bother
him. He’d eaten burgers that had probably never seen a chicken or a cow,
snacked from roadside diners that gave roaches a reason to live. He ate his way
through it, getting more pleasure from seeing Beverley enjoying her meal, which
she did, with relish. “Keep eating.”

“I suppose you’re used to the model type,” she said.
Something in her eyes dimmed. He wanted that light back.

“Some. Not many, but you can’t categorize them like that.
Models are people too.” He paused. “I can’t think who said that.”

“I thought you just did.”

He grinned. “So I did. Anyhow, there’s the drug addict-thin
type as well. Drugs change your personality, make you into somebody else. You
end up hating yourself.”

She put down her knife and fork and touched her napkin to
her lips. He saw her hesitation but knew she’d speak. Already he knew she faced
things head-on. “Did that happen to you?”

“Oh yeah. Those marks on my arms cost far more than the
tattoo. I gave up when I discovered that I didn’t like the person I was turning
into. And the songs were getting tired and stupid. Just as well I did, because
I found myself in time to stop my best friend killing himself.”

She stared at him in shock. “Oh my God. Who?”

Chapter Six

Guess she hadn’t heard that one, the story that the media
had relished. “Maxx Syccoraxx, the vocalist with Murder City Ravens, aka Matt
Scott. He was lost. We were all finding out what we could do and learning
different things, but Matt only sang. Didn’t write much, could play a guitar a
little, sang like a fucking angel. A dark angel. He took the junk to pass the
time at first. It became his art and like a lot of art, it nearly killed him.
Eventually we had to fire him. I spent a weekend talking and talking with him.
I wouldn’t give him up.”

“But he was still taking drugs?”

Would this kill what they had started today? Better sooner
than later. If she stayed with him any longer, she’d hear the stories anyway,
and none of what he was telling her was secret. “People were taking an interest
in us and everything looked good. We could have played medium and smaller
venues, support at festivals, and made a good living. The drugs nearly
destroyed all that. Did for a time. Instead of a real second album with new
material, we released a live one.”

It had all happened in the full light of publicity. The band
had nearly crashed and burned. Now they were climbing back up.

“Matt shot up all one weekend, but not to excess. Or so I
thought. I found him in the bathroom. Got him to the hospital and they pumped
him out, got him back. I told him then that it was the shit or our friendship.
You can’t stick around an addict if you want to survive. I’d already decided to
stop because the stuff bored me. He was in deeper.”

“But I thought he was your friend!” she said, as if that
meant everything. In her world it probably did.

“He wasn’t the person I knew. He’d changed, and I knew this
was his last chance. He had to get himself back and find his direction. So he
made his choice and went into rehab. Not for me, but for himself. You can’t
give up for anybody else, it has to be for you.”

She stared at him, those beautiful blues wide and full of
pain. “What happened to him?”

He grinned. “He produces our albums. After he came out of
rehab, he opened a recording studio in Chicago and found his true calling. The
new album is amazing, not least due to Matt. He also found a woman to love, and
she’s our new sax player, V. It worked out for Matt. It doesn’t work for
everybody.”

Somberly he remembered people he’d known, watched become
addicted to their drug of choice. They’d turned into shadows of themselves and
then into shambling wrecks, losing direction and the joy of life. When that
spark left them, that was the end. Nothing left. They existed until they died.

Some people resisted for years, kept going, learned how to
keep their habit on the edge so they could still function, but sooner or later
it got to them all. He’d learned that people could walk and talk and still be
dead.

Shit, how had he got on to that subject? He’d never told
anyone so many details about that lost weekend with Matt. There was much more,
but that remained between him and his best friend, things Matt had told him,
things he’d told Matt. He doubted Matt remembered half of it. Convinced their
friendship would end with either Matt’s death or his anger when he discovered
Jace had signed him into rehab, he shared stuff he’d have kept for another day
if he’d thought there’d be one.

Now he was telling a woman he’d met for the first time that
day and fucked twice. He had no idea why. He needed to make one thing clear
though. “Listen, as far as the public is concerned, we didn’t fire Matt, he
chose to leave the band in order to go into rehab, then decided to follow a new
career.”

“Oh, I see. No, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I know.” And fuck, he did. They had something here. It
could fade out or it could be the start of something important, but they both
needed the time to find out. He wanted to keep this thing going a while longer,
not wave her off on a flight to London and go on to Atlanta. “Stay with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Stay with me for a while longer. Come back to Great Oaks
with me tomorrow. As my guest. You have unfinished business there, don’t you?”

He saw the realization hit her when her eyes widened a
little. “Yes I do. I have to fire Gaston Rebennac and find out what really
happened to drive the chef away. It doesn’t make sense for him to leave just
after he arrived, even somebody as temperamental as him. He’d have retreated to
a hotel and waited for me to come crawling to him. It’s part of his game, and
yes, I would have played it. But he left, actually left.”

He knew that part, but if he told her, she might not stay
and he wanted her to. “So that’s settled. We go back tomorrow.” He sent her a
wicked grin. “I guarantee I’m going to get you screaming again. That’s too good
a sound to waste.”

* * * * *

They arrived back the next morning in the Ferrari, with her
new wardrobe packed into a top-of-the-line lightweight suitcase, delivered
separately. The first thing Beverley saw when she walked into the reception
area was her old case, familiar, battered, friendly, standing on its wonky
wheels next to the gleaming reception desk. “Oh, Ms. Christmas.” The
immaculately attired receptionist, every glossy hair in place, seemed surprised
to see her. “Gaston delivered this. Said it was yours and he didn’t know where
to send it.”

“Right here is fine.” She’d insisted on wheeling the bigger
case herself, but Jace wrenched it away from her and made a joke about his
reputation. He’d promised not to make their affair overt, but he’d said he
wouldn’t keep away from her either. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or
a worried, but decided flattered was less stressful.

“I persuaded Ms. Christmas to return,” Jace said. “I’ll need
a room of my own—I’m staying for a while. That okay?”

“Yes,” the woman said without looking down. Then she blinked
and hit a few keys to bring up the screen. Beverley knew what it said, and
smiled when the woman named a room as far away from hers as the receptionist
could manage. Using their prearranged code, something that had amused Jace a
great deal, she told him no, extending one finger below the desk where the
woman couldn’t see.

“Do you have anything else?” Jace said. “No, wait. I
probably know this house better than you do. There aren’t any guests here, are
there? I’ll choose my own room and let you know.”

“You can’t do that!”

He leaned across the desk, got in her face. “I can. I’m here
to see what Bell’s has done with my childhood home and to see if I like it. So
you’ll be seeing me around for the next few days.”

Beverley would have loved to take a photo then, to record
the expression on the supercilious woman’s face. It sure wasn’t supercilious
now. Beverley had just seen the side of Jace she hadn’t realized he owned. The
dead serious, mess-with-me-at-your-peril side. It sobered her too. She wouldn’t
like to cross him in that mood.

Ignoring the receptionist, now silently watching them, he
smiled at her and put his hand lightly on the small of her back to guide her to
the stairs. Before she could do it, he grabbed her new case and lifted it
without seeming effort. “We will have an elevator by opening day, yes?”

“Of course.” She felt almost back to her efficient self
until she realized that was why he asked. He was keeping his promise. Small
talk until they got somewhere private. And he was easing her back. When she’d
thought she was done with Great Oaks, she’d begun to shed the persona she’d
assumed for this job. He was showing her the way back, whether he realized it
or not.

She led the way up the elegant, sweeping staircase that
could have been the set for any number of old Hollywood movies, chattering
about the new elevator, the pathways between the old building and the new, and
the new kitchens.

They reached the upper landing. The conference rooms would
be here, but a few rooms had been set aside for the Plantation Experience.
Bell’s had employed two historians to dig up what they could about this
building in particular, and the whole experience, so people signing up for it
could have an immersive experience or a tour.

“What’s the difference? What happens during the Plantation
Experience?” he asked.

Shit, she found it so easy to talk to him, she’d not
realized she was talking aloud. “They get to dress up and live for up to three
days as someone who lived here in the nineteenth century. Most people want to
play lord and lady of the manor, but there’s also the slave experience.”

He shuddered. “Even the word makes me ashamed.”

“Why? It’s not like you had anything to do with it. From all
accounts, your family didn’t have many slaves, and they treated them well.”

“As far as that goes.” He put down the case and stared at
the elegant arched windows, at them and not the view outside. “It was still
wrong, and I’m related to the people who did it. My mother’s family came over
in the late seventeenth century and dug right in. They were connected to
families in England. That made getting the slaves easier.”

“So shouldn’t I feel ashamed too?” she demanded. “I’m
British. I come from London, so maybe my family was involved. Maybe they manned
the ships, handled the accounts, bought the cotton.”

“Rice,” he said, smiling.

“Rice?”

“My family farmed rice. Or rather, the slaves did.” He still
stared. She didn’t like it, didn’t like the sudden melancholy. It wouldn’t do
him any good. He couldn’t change anything now.

“You didn’t answer my question. We’re all complicit. It’s
nobody’s fault and it’s everybody’s fault. All we can do is make amends.”

He turned to her then, his ready smile back, but she didn’t
believe it this time. He was putting it on for her. At least he was until he
lost the smile and reached for her. Already it felt natural to go.

Something lurked at the back of her mind, doubt or fear, a
niggling worry that after only a day this shouldn’t come to her so easily, but
it did. She kissed him because she sensed he needed it, and then because she
needed it too.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, but when they
broke apart she gasped for air. He chuckled and rubbed his thumb over her lower
lip. “I never thought of it like that before. You’re good for me, Ms.
Christmas. Take me to the bedrooms, wench.”

She was using a small room on the next floor, the main
bedroom floor, so she led him there and let him wheel her case in. “Does this
have any memories for you?”

“This?” He shook his head. “This was a guest room.” He
paused and frowned. “No, that’s wrong. In my time it was a storeroom. The rain
had gotten in and you couldn’t have slept here.” He walked to the window.

“The only place I can get my bearings is to look out the
window and see where I am. Bell’s has done a helluva lot of work.” He turned
back, leaned against the wide sill and regarded her. “You know why I’m really
here?”

That didn’t sound good. She gave him the story he’d given
everyone, including her. “To see what Bell’s has done to your ancestral home.”

He laughed shortly. “Yeah, some of it.” He shoved his hands
in his pockets. “You’ve probably guessed my life here wasn’t a bundle of
laughs. My mother worshipped the god of keeping up appearances, but the place
rotted around us. When my father saw the state of the place, he refused to let
me stay here after I’d finished school. I used to visit him on vacations but I
went to university in France and lived with him. After that I only visited
here, but I thought I’d never get the stink of rotting wood out of my nostrils.
I couldn’t wait to get rid of this place.” He glanced out the window, then back
at her.

“Murder City Ravens has only hit the big-time with
Nightstar
.
Before that, I got along, made some, sent my mother a little, but she never
spent it on the house. Then she died and left the place to me. I sold the house
before I got rich, but I had an attack of guilt.

“James Bell thought he was being clever. When I got cold
feet, he suggested an option clause. If I paid for the improvements, I could
buy the house back. We had a date put on it, the end of this month.” He
laughed. “Now he’s shit scared because I can afford it. We both saw the clause
as a way for me to say goodbye slowly. He never dreamed I’d actually do it, or
have the money to buy him out.

“Murder City Ravens had a stroke of luck. Well, a few. Three
new members who’ve brought the magic with them, made us more than we were
before. A manager who doesn’t want to rob us blind, and a hit single. The album
will do as well, I’m sure of it, and we’re on a world tour. That’s big money,
Beverley. I could come back, take over and run the place as an independent
concern. Or buy into a hotel franchise.”

She knew about those, luxury hotels that promised a
consistent level of service but had individual identities. It would work well
for Great Oaks.

“When I was a kid,” he went on, “that was my dream. To
restore the house and then run it at a profit. When I sold the house I needed
the money for the band.” He paused. “And fuck, I was sick of being poor. Sick
of pretending all the time. That’s how my mother managed. Bought white gloves
and closed rooms when they became inhabitable instead of spending the glove
money on roof tiles.”

“I worked that one out.” He quirked a brow so she told him.
“When you said your mother shopped at that department store. It’s not cheap.
You can get white gloves cheaper mail order, or somewhere else.”

He bowed his head. “Clever woman.”

“Not really. Not when I saw the house. By the time I arrived
they’d finished most of the exterior work, but Bell’s took photos and videos
before they started. You can see them if you like.”

He shrugged. “My memory’s not that bad. I know what it was
like and I don’t want to revisit it in a hurry. One day. But you see what I
mean?”