Cajun Hot (17 page)

"I don't understand. You don't want me to work? Other than to take care of you? Is that the problem?"

He glanced at the bus, which was still leisurely loading its few passengers, then leaned against the fender of the black car and rifled a hand through his long hair. “No, that's not it. I jus’ ... Hell, I don’ know.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at her. “I don’ blame you, you leave me. I love you, an’ I want you to stay. But you leave, I understand. You got a lot of talent,
fille
. You want to get on that bus, I don’ stop you."

She observed his face, its sharp angles and slashes and dark, brooding visage all drawn up in a defiant pose, and she wondered idly if he'd really let her go if she that's what she chose.

For a moment, she was tempted to try, just to see what would happen. And she might have, if she hadn't known for certain it would color the rest of their lives together. He'd never believe she hadn't intended to leave him if she hesitated now.

In her heart, she shut the door on one dream and opened it to another. “No, Jacque. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But you're more important to me than taking pictures. I love you. I want to stay.” She carefully folded the e-mail and the travel documents and handed them to him without allowing herself to think about what she was giving up.

His lips parted and he looked truly astonished as he accepted the papers. His mouth quivered, slowly creasing in a smile. “
C'est vrai?
You'd do this for me? You'd give up this chance for a career, your life, your house on the water? All for love?” His fingers fumbled with the papers, and a small rectangular one sifted out from between the others and fluttered to the ground.

She smiled. “Tell me, what part of ‘yes’ don't you get? Can we have our beignets now?” She stooped to pick up the paper, which turned out to be a check.

Her own name caught her eye, written in black ink on the ‘Payee’ line. It was a check made out to her. For five thousand dollars.

She gaped. “What's this?"

Jacque licked his lips, an anxious look suddenly coming over him. “I thought you could use it for a dress or something. To wear to the interview.” He lifted a shoulder nervously, his eyes on her. “Or maybe a proper wedding dress and—"

He halted when he realized she was staring at the name printed on the check.

"Jack Kershaw?” She looked up. A terrible, horrible, sick feeling oozed over her whole body. “Who's Jack Kershaw?"

As if she didn't know.
All Louisiana knew who Wild Jack Kershaw of
Cajun Hot
was. Crazy rich, crazy handsome, and crazy about women.
Jack Kershaw ... Jacque Cherchat.
Or maybe just plain crazy. Crazy enough to think he could get away with kidnapping and seducing an innocent woman, keeping her as his sex slave, then turning her loose with a first-class ticket and five thousand bucks to smooth over her ruffled feathers.

Capturing women for your depraved use ... for your depraved use...

She took a step backward. Another. And another. He'd never intended for her to stay. He'd always planned on her saying no to his proposal.

"
Chère—
"

"No!” Tears stung her eyes. “You lied to me! How could you?"

"Sahara—” He reached for her, but she jumped away.

"Don't touch me!"

"Please, let me explain—"

"This is you, isn't it? Fuck Jacque Cherchat! You're Jack Kershaw! Aren't you?” she demanded.

"Yeah,
mais chérie, ça fait pas rien.
It don’ matter what my name is. I love you."

"Liar!” She slapped him. “Liar!” The crack from her hand echoed like a shot between the buildings, stinging like a nest of red ants, and shocking them both speechless.

"
Arrète!
” He grabbed her wrist before she could do it again. She swung with the other, and he grabbed that one also, holding her firmly as she struggled to free herself.

"Why would you love me?” she cried. “You're rich as Satan. You could have your pick of any woman in the world. Gorgeous, successful women. Don't insult my intelligence!” She fought him like a wildcat. “All this time you've just been laughing at me.. Big joke. Ha-ha-ha. Listen to the poor little girl spin her dreams, all the while knowing you could make them all come true if you wanted to. But it was more fun to watch me give them up, wasn't it? A great lark having me fall so much in love with you, I'd—"

"Stop it! Now! I won’ listen to this."

"Let me go,” she whispered hoarsely, battling hard not to burst into tears. When he dropped her wrists, she furiously tore the check into small pieces and flung them at him. “Keep your fucking guilt money. I don't want anything to do with it. Or you!"

She ripped her bag from his shoulder, spun, and ran headlong for the bus. He chased her, tried to climb in after her. But the bus driver was from Lafayette and didn't know him from Adam, and he was a big man who didn't take crap from anyone, including Mr. Jacque Cherchat, or Jack-fucking-Kershaw, or whoever the hell the devil was. The driver took one look at her tear-swollen eyes and slammed the door in Jacque's face.

Grateful for the driver's kindness, she fell into a seat, then broke down and sobbed. By the time her tears stopped flowing, they were halfway to Lafayette.

Stunned, Jacque watched the bus carrying Sahara Jensen away from him roll down the street and out of town.

Bon Dieu.
What the hell had just happened?

She'd forgiven him without reservation for kidnapping her, holding her against her will, marrying her under duress, stripping her naked in front of two hundred witnesses, using her body unmercifully for all manner of sexual gratification, stealing her film and processing it without her knowledge, giving her photos on the sly to her prospective employer—a man whose acquaintance he'd neglected to mention—and, in general, disrupting every aspect of her life.

But, because he was rich and famous, she'd spurned him? Slapped him in the face and called him a liar? Had unfairly accused him of mistreatment and the worst kind of violation?

Mais, ça c'est fou!
Insane!

How had it gone so wrong so quickly? One minute she'd been in love with him, vowing to give up her own ambitions to be with him, and the next she couldn't stand to look at him. All because of a name and a bank account?

How could this have happened? She'd passed his impossible test with flying colors, willing to give up everything for his love, only for him to fail hers; rejected because of something most women would give their right arm to possess.

He couldn't understand it. He loved her, she loved him, what did it matter if he had a bit more money than he'd let on? Was that so bad? After all, that's exactly what she'd wanted for herself with her photography career. Nice clothes, a beautiful home—everything he could gladly give her. Longed to give her.

What had she said, he had his pick of any woman, gorgeous and successful? Didn't she know
she
was gorgeous and successful, worth much more than all the other women he'd ever known put together, famous or not? How could she possibly believe he'd ever laugh at her? Or deliberately hurt her?

He had to go after her. Make her listen. Somehow show her how much he loved her. How much he wanted her in his life.
Needed
her in his life.

And somehow, this time, he feared tying her to the bed wasn't going to convince her.

The way Sahara saw it, she had two choices. She could either let the events of the past week defeat her, or she could get past them, try to forget Jacque and his colossal betrayal and move on with her life.

It was a no-brainer. She kept the appointment with Miles on her own dime. After all, it was her talent which had impressed him, not the name Jack Kershaw on the outside of the overnight package.

She got the job. Her orchid photos were a hit, and Miles quickly gave her another assignment. She signed with an agent and her career as a free-lance photographer took off. For the next month, she worked day and night, photographing everything from make-up to fire trucks for a dozen new clients. She was ecstatic.

So why was it the only time she ever smiled was when she caught herself in some forbidden memory of Jacque? She'd find herself staring at the blow-up of the one picture of him taped to her wall, twisting the tattered paper wedding ring she still perversely wore on her finger.

In the meantime, he pursued her relentlessly. Every day he called, sent flowers, stood outside pounding on her door, shouting that he loved her, until she put a pillow over her head and a corner of the sheet in her mouth to keep from crying out that she loved him, too.

He was killing her.

She was also beginning to believe him. That he truly did love her and it had all been some stupid test to be sure she wasn't after his money. Why else would he continue to insist she was still his wife and that she belonged with him?

Then one day he didn't call or send flowers, and, instead of him at the door, it was a messenger who handed her a parchment envelope containing an engraved invitation to the banquet unveiling of
Cajun Hot'
s newest launch—a kebab sauce. The sauce he'd been working on while she'd been chained to his bed.

She wouldn't go, of course.

How could she? She'd be forced to meet him face to face, survive whatever stratagem he'd throw at her in front of dozens of reporters.

Unless she was one of them.

When her agent called and asked if she'd cover the event for the
Daily Currier
, her witless curiosity won over reason and she reluctantly agreed. Maybe, if she was hiding behind a camera and a press pass, Jacque wouldn't notice her.

Of course he noticed her.

He was at the door to the hotel ballroom, which had been converted to a sumptuous Middle-Eastern fantasy, complete with low brass tables and silk cushions to recline on while eating. He took one look at the camera around her neck and signaled the two Turkish eunuchs guarding the door to take it from her. She couldn't find the words to protest. She had been robbed of her voice by the sight of him.

Resplendent in ruby red silk trousers and a gold silk vest, he stood regally, his broad chest gloriously bare, his midnight black hair loose and wild under an elaborate, bejeweled turban. His mustache twitched mischievously above decadently sensual lips as he drew his thumb along her jaw in a discreet, but indecently erotic greeting. Her nipples hardened instantly at his touch and between her legs she felt a deep stirring of moist recognition.

She almost melted on the spot. This was the man her body belonged to. Would always belong to, regardless of what her woefully misguided mind might try to tell it.

Her heart joined the formless puddle of willpower at his feet when his gaze catalogued every inch of her and the expensive designer dress she'd spent her last penny on that afternoon. “You look beautiful,
chérie
. I've missed you so much."

She summoned her lost voice and answered shakily, “You look beautiful, too, Jacque. Being a sultan suits you."

"Have you missed me?” His black eyes burned in question, pinioning her with their directness.

How could she lie? “Desperately."

"Good.” He seemed to relax, as if her admission had settled something between them, pulled them together onto some invisible common path which pleased him. Suddenly, she noticed the walls were covered by poster-sized photos of orchids.
Her
photos of a certain swamp orchid she refused to pronounce.

His eyes followed the direction of her gaze. “Your agent's mean as a damn ‘gator, woman,” he grumbled lightly as he pinned a small bunch of orchids onto the thin strap of her gown. “You're makin’ a friggin’ fortune on royalties off me tonight."

"But—"

"
Vien
. I have someone I want you to meet."

He slipped his arm around her waist and, before she could balk, turned her to a man standing on the other side of the door, also dressed in Middle Eastern costume. “Sahara, this is Etienne Guillaume, Vice President of
Cajun Hot
, my right-hand man. Etienne, I'd like to present my wife, Sahara Jensen Cherchat."

The blood drained from her face and she looked at Jacque in utter shock. He was perfectly calm, smiling as though he hadn't just blown her world to smithereens.

"Nice to meet you, Madame Cherchat,” Etienne said pleasantly, unfazed, shaking her slack hand. “Shall we join the receivin’ line?"

Jacque's arm remained firmly around her waist as she was placed in line with several other men and women at the door. She found herself being introduced as Jack Kershaw's wife to a throng of astonished guests and gleeful reporters, who immediately pulled out pads and pencils and inundated them with a thousand questions.

All of which Jacque nimbly ducked. “You'll find out everythin’ you need to know later tonight,” he told them with a secretive smile.

She just wished the hell he'd tell
her
everything she needed to know. “Jacque,” she whispered hotly beneath a gritted smile at another effusive congratulation, “you're doing it again."

"What's that,
chère
?” he asked solicitously.

"Hijacking me. I told you I didn't want anything to do with you."

"We both know you didn’ mean it."

"I did,” she insisted, but the conviction behind her words wavered just enough to prove he was right.

"Uh-huh,” he merely said, and slid his hand over her bottom in an intimate caress.

She sagged against him, helpless to stop her body's instinctive reaction to his subtle demonstration of ownership. But her mind rebelled and she jerked away. “You lied to me."

He turned to capture her eyes with his. “And for that I am truly sorry. Forgive me?” he whispered plaintively.

Her mouth trembled mutinously. “No."

But she didn't try to escape his arm's embrace, and went back to greeting the dwindling stream of arriving guests. She was getting used to being introduced as his wife. Starting to like it, in fact.

And his public claim wiped away her worst fear, the one that had driven her from him on that horrible morning last month.