Page 62 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
“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.?”
