Page 22 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Unnerved, I asked, “Am I going to have to call the police to get you to leave?”
“The chief of police and I serve together on the board of the Peace Officers Association. I’m sure Gavin would be happy to take your call.”
At my sides, my hands curled to fists. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Throwing your weight around.”
He took several slow steps toward me. I stood my ground as he approached, even when he got so close I could smell that masculine scent of his again, the hint of warm musk my traitorous nose found so intriguing.
Looking down at me, he said roughly, “About as much as you enjoy being told what to do, I think.”
“I don’t take orders.”
“Neither do I. And for the record, I don’t enjoy throwing my weight around, but every once in a while it’s the most convenient way to get what I want. And I want you.” His pause burned, and so did his eyes. “To come to work for me.”
I found it impossible to speak for a moment. His closeness was disorienting, and that look in his eyes . . .
“I don’t want to work for you. I don’t need to work for you. And even if I did, I couldn’t. Look around—I’m busy.”
He ignored that and started explaining in a patronizing, irritated voice, like he was a judge and I’d just violated my parole.
“It’s a catering job. A onetime thing. I’m having a benefit dinner and auction at my home for a charity, and I need someone to create the menu and oversee the food and wine for the event. And cook, of course. You’d be in charge of the entire thing. You can bring in whatever staff you need to assist you. There will be press. A lot of press. I’d give you and your restaurant full credit in the event materials.”
Oh. Well then.
Catering was an area I wanted to get into, not only because the money was good, but because it was fun. At a restaurant, the menu stayed fairly static, usually changing only with the seasons or the arrival of a new chef, but catering opened up a whole new world of creative possibilities. Each event was unique, an opportunity for a chef to stretch himself. To show off his skills, really.
And an event at Jackson Boudreaux’s home would no doubt be filled with the crème de la crème of Louisiana society. I could reach a whole new clientele, one that didn’t come to dine in the touristy French Quarter. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I found that appealing.
My brain started impatiently tapping its foot.
I was forgetting who I was dealing with. If he aggravated me as much as he had over the course of one day, I couldn’t imagine how bad it’d be through the time it would take to plan an entire event. I could end up with a stroke.
I said, “I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the answer is no.”
Without missing a beat he replied, “Your fee would be twenty thousand dollars.”
I almost dropped the spoon in my hand. I slow blinked more times than was probably necessary. “Tw . . . twenty . . .”
“Thousand dollars,” he finished, carefully watching my face.
Though he was standing right in front of me, I wasn’t even seeing him anymore. I was seeing my mother getting the chemotherapy she desperately needed. I was seeing her at the best hospital in the state, getting the highest level of care, being tended to by the best doctors.
I was picturing her surviving, when only this morning I’d been convinced she already had one foot in the grave.
When I didn’t say anything, Jackson condescendingly added, “I’m sure you can find a use for that kind of money. Right?”
Think of Mama. Think of Mama and not how much you’d enjoy driving a stake through his cold, black heart.
I closed my eyes, drew in a slow breath, and grimly nodded.
As if he’d just won a bet with himself, the Beast said, “Right. The event’s in two weeks. I’m having three hundred guests. I need a full menu with wine pairings by this time tomorrow.”
My eyes flew open. “Three hundred people? Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That’s impossible!”
The smirk I was beginning to hate appeared again. “No, it’s twenty thousand dollars.”
