Hurricanes and Handcuffs: A Red Hot Cajun Nights Story (2 page)

“Gabbi—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She slashed a hand through the air like a furious punctuation mark. “Get out of my kitchen and take your freakin’ bimbo with you.”

A gasp popped from Whitney. “Are you going to let her talk that way to me?”

“Got news for ya, Barbie. This is a free country and I can talk to you however I want.”

Whitney veered her furious gaze to Jax. “Why do you put up with such a horrible person? You should fire her.”

“I should be so lucky,” Gabbi muttered darkly as she turned her back on both of them and snatched the check-off list for the party menu. She could hear Jax’s under-his-breath grumble as he stalked to Whitney and ushered her down the hall.

The pain welling within Gabbi threatened to consume her alive. Her heart was a big, aching void of bitter emptiness.

It would never get any better. Jax would never change. The day wouldn’t come when he’d look at her and realize that his revolving line of bimbettes was a poor substitute for a woman who loved
him
, not his money. He wouldn’t miraculously wake up with the startling newsflash that he wanted and needed her beyond her position as his personal chef and bitchy roommate. She had to stop fooling herself and move on.

She stared at the list until the words became blurry. Blinking back the tears, she sucked in a deep, shuddery breath and closed her eyes.

Her sole hope for exorcising Jax from her heart would be getting him out of her system. Once and for all. As reality was wont to do, it tended to pale in comparison to fantasy. Surely that would apply, even to him.

It wasn’t the first time she’d contemplated the unthinkable. Only now the beckoning promise of the forbidden offered her only way out.

One hot night of sin. Then she’d let him go. Completely.

CHAPTER TWO

This is what he fucking got for leaving Whitney to her own devices for two minutes. With a calmness that was in direct opposition to the irritation buzzing in his cells, Jax stooped and picked up the dress discarded at the foot of his bed. He passed the garment to her. Batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she let it fall back to the floor. He ground his teeth. “Unless you’d like to be chauffeured back home in your underwear, I suggest putting that on.”

“But I’m not ready to leave,” she said with a pout.

“Tough shit.” He pointed to the dress. “On. Now.”

A scowl etching her gaunt features, she dutifully complied with the command, nearly losing her balance in her sky-high heels as she struggled into her skin-tight dress. Flicking her long platinum locks over her shoulder, she jutted her chin upward in a slant that managed to be both stubborn and haughty. “You’re going to regret the day you turned me down. Do you have any idea how many men would kill to be with me?”

His head throbbed at the prospect of having to listen to this nonsense for however long it’d take to cart her ass back to her place. It was damn tempting to have his driver do the dirty work for him, but the last thing he needed was Whitney stirring up shit for him. Particularly when it came to Olivia. Right now she was one of the few relatives—or females in general—who didn’t have a major bug up her behind where he was concerned. He didn’t dare press his luck.

Grinding his thumb into his pounding temple, he led the way downstairs. Commotion in the kitchen drew his focus as they passed the archway. Gabbi was whipping items from the cupboard and cursing a blue streak. He didn’t doubt that she was mentally stabbing a voodoo doll that bore his likeness.

Exhaling heavily, he rushed Whitney out the door. More than anything, he regretted that she’d interrupted his moment with Gabbi. There weren’t many times these days that he got to bask in the pleasure of touching her. Amazing how the simple act of caressing her cheek felt infinitely more intimate than even the raunchiest of sex with any other woman.

The smooth, velvety softness of her skin was a temptation like no other. How many damn times did he lay awake in bed, hungering for a taste of her? Too many to count.

He’d been plenty aware of the self-inflicted torture he’d be putting himself through when he offered her the position of his live-in chef, but no amount of sense had talked him out of it. At first he’d convinced himself that an endless string of meaningless sex with able and willing bed partners would squelch his cravings for Gabbi. He’d been dead wrong. They only grew more and more uncontrollable with each passing day.

It’d taken everything inside him not to kiss her back there in the kitchen. God knows if she’d given him the slightest encouragement he would have hiked her up onto the counter and explored every inch of her with his mouth and hands. He would have taken his sweet time, slowly stripping her from her flour-coated jeans and light blue turtleneck sweater. He had no idea if she was a fan of skimpy, sexy lingerie like Whitney, but no matter what she wore underneath her clothes, Gabbi would be a far more mouthwatering sight than the rail-thin Whitney.

He’d take the entire afternoon to properly discover Gabbi’s erogenous zones, lingering on the ones that made her sigh and whimper, before he removed the encumbrance of his own clothes and finally sank his cock inside her.

“Hello? Are you going to open the door for me or not?”

Whitney’s imperious demand snapped him from his vibrant fantasies and he blinked at her. Tapping her foot, she gestured to the handle of his Bugatti Vitesse. Good manners had been drummed into him from the second he popped from his mother’s womb, but Whitney was getting on his last damn nerve. He was half tempted to leave her standing there while he got behind the wheel.

Then again, he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t turn her butt around and sashay back into his house. And that was something he definitely didn’t need. Biting the bullet
and
his tongue, he yanked the door open and waited for her to climb in before he stalked to the driver’s side.

Usually a cruise around town in his favorite sports car provided the perfect balm for the stress and loneliness that plagued him on any given day. But the confined quarters of his vehicle felt more claustrophobic than a prison cell as he endured Whitney’s endless litany of complaints. Apt analogy, considering he couldn’t wait to be released from the hellish sentence of listening one more second to this woman.

Finally they arrived at her posh townhouse in downtown Birmingham. Not bothering to hide his eagerness to get rid of her, he jumped out and opened her door before she even got her seatbelt undone. Glaring at him, she moved slower than a sloth as she exited the car and clutched her handbag against her belly. “I guess what they say about you is true.”

He flicked back the cuff of his suit jacket and checked his watch. “Yeah, and what would that be?” he asked distractedly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Can’t disagree with you there.” He snapped his cuff back in place and spared her the briefest glance. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but I’m not that good of a liar.”

Her outraged rebuttal ringing in his ears, he returned to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. He peeled out of the complex and booked it for the highway. His cellphone chirped before he reached the on ramp. Pressure pounding in his temples again, he scanned the caller ID, and groaned. “Well that didn’t take long.”

Resignation settling over him like a smothering blanket, he clicked the Bluetooth button to answer the call through the Bugatti’s speaker system. “Hello Olivia.”

“Did you seriously leave Whitney shivering outside in the cold?”

He scanned the temperature gauge on the control panel. “It’s forty-eight degrees. Shit, that’s practically a heat wave by Michigan standards.”

“You realize it’s statements like that which make it exceedingly difficult for me to argue the case that you’re
not
a raging prick, right?”

“I thought the rumor was just about me being an asshole.” Clearly Whitney was left out of the loop on that one. Or not talking to the right people.

“Oh no, cousin dear. There’s a mile-long list of
charming
attributes attached to your name. Most of them aren’t suitable to utter in polite company.”

He grunted. “Let them say whatever they want. No skin off my back.” That wasn’t merely bravado on his part. With the exception of Gabbi and Olivia, there were very few people whose opinions meant anything to him. He could thank his parents for that. He’d spent half of his life trying to win their attention and affection. Not much he could do about the later part, but he’d learned that getting their attention was definitely doable. Of course, he didn’t exactly go about it the right way. Not that he gave a flying fuck. He’d stopped caring what they thought a long time ago.

“I’ll do my best to calm Whitney down, but maybe you could help smooth her ruffled feathers by calling and apologizing to her,” Olivia cajoled.

“Like hell I will. She ditched her dress and walked into the kitchen, all but implying that we’d been fucking upstairs.”

A brief silence stretched on the other line. “She, uh, didn’t mention that part.”

He white-knuckled the steering wheel. “Can’t imagine why,” he replied dryly.

“Was Gabbi there?”

“Of course. She’s busy getting everything in order for tomorrow night.”

“Oh lord. No wonder you’re so pissed.”

“Yes. Call me an asshole, but I don’t appreciate that little twit giving my chef the impression that I’ll bang any boney-assed broad who’s willing to flash her titties at me.” No, he did a fine enough job of that on his own. No need for Whitney’s unwelcome help in that arena.

“I’m sorry, Jax. That was completely uncalled for on Whitney’s part. Trust me, I’ll sit down and have a chat with her about it.”

“No, the damage is already done, and I don’t want it causing a rift between you and whatshisname.”

Her sigh drifted through the speaker. “Cal.”

“Oh yeah.” He exited the freeway and turned left at Mack Avenue, heading into the Grosse Pointes. “I’ll try to not forget his name again tomorrow night.”

“You better not.”

They chatted for another few minutes before saying their goodbyes. He clicked the Bluetooth, disconnecting the call. He took the turn at Lakeshore and dropped his visor to block the blinding glare of sun sparkling off the frigid waves of Lake St Clair. As he stared at the alternating shades of blue bleeding into the horizon a memory drifted to the edges of his conscious. He’d been about fourteen, Gabbi thirteen. They’d snuck down here while her mother was preoccupied with some task back at his parent’s mausoleum of a mansion. It was the first summer his hormones started to give him grief, and he’d had a hard time—pun intended—concentrating on her fishing lesson. Learning how to properly bait a hook with the wiggling night crawlers had taken backseat to his obsession with the budding changes in his best friend’s body. Particularly the abundance of boobs that’d strained the front of her swim suit. How the hell someone went from flat chested to
BOOM! There it is
over the course of a few months had been a fascinating mystery to his horny, adolescent mind.

Hell, it was still a mystery to him. And his fingers were just as itchy to touch those wonderful breasts of hers now as they’d been back then.

There were moments, like this afternoon, when he suspected she felt the charged chemistry between them. The way she looked at him when she thought he didn’t notice. But he did. And his brain would start wandering down intriguing avenues. Like what sort of sounds she made when she came, and if she liked to cuddle afterwards. Which was an entirely bizarre thought on his part. He didn’t even particularly care for spooning. Except apparently in his head. With Gabbi.

Any other woman, he’d already have her in bed.
He
didn’t even know why he was biding his time this way with her.

No, not entirely true. She wasn’t just any woman. Gabbi had occupied his thoughts and fantasies for longer than he could remember. She made him feel things that were both wonderful and uncomfortable. Because he knew more than anyone the danger in letting someone in, and needing their love and acceptance. He couldn’t afford that kind of vulnerability. Not when he’d fought so hard to build this impermeable shield of indifference.

He pulled into the massive carriage house that’d been converted into his custom garage and killed the engine. After leaving the keys for Malcom so he could take the Bugatti in for a detailing in the morning, Jax ventured inside the main house. He ventured to the kitchen and stalled in the entryway, an odd pinch gripping his heart as he watched Gabbi pacing in front of the island.

Chewing her bottom lip, she swiped a hand across her brow, brushing aside an auburn curl that’d escaped her hair clip. She was so damn beautiful, she literally stole his breath. Her features set in fierce concentration, she tapped her nail against the side of the phone held to her ear. “No, I can’t wait for the flowers to arrive on Wednesday. The party is tomorrow night. Yes, I know it’s last minute. Believe me, I know.”

He didn’t miss the grumpy sarcasm in her tone. Oh yeah. She was definitely getting those pins ready for his voodoo doll.

Wisely deciding to leave her alone for the time being, he made tracks for his office. Aside from his bedroom, this space was his most prized place of solitude. In here he could tune everyone out and just allow his body and mind to relax. Shrugging from his jacket, he strode to the carved mahogany bar in the corner. He threw the suit coat onto the nearby chair before selecting one of the crystal tumblers and topping it off with the aged whiskey in the coordinating Baccarat decanter. He tossed the liquor back, groaning in appreciation at the warm, numbing buzz that spread behind his sternum. Probably getting hammered the night before the party wasn’t the brightest idea ever, but fuck it. He needed it after the day he’d had.

Loosening the top button on his shirt, he crossed to the leather couch situated in front of the bay window overlooking the outdoor pool. He stretched out on the cushions. Stacking one arm behind his head, he gazed at the gilt-framed Picasso hanging behind his desk.

His entire life he’d been surrounded by beautiful things. If he saw something he wanted, he bought it, plain and simple. He knew damn well he was compensating for the emptiness in his existence by cramming his living spaces with objects to fill the void. Did it make him feel better? Jury was still out on that one.

Maybe once upon a time he’d found pleasure in priceless art and other luxuries. But lately all he felt was an unrelenting agitation. Disconnected and discontent. He hated this restless stirring inside him. This unwavering conviction that no matter how many millions of dollars he spent on things that meant nothing, he’d never be satisfied. Never fully happy.

He didn’t want to be like his parents. But when he looked around at all of this stuff, and what he saw was a mirrored reflection of his childhood, he knew he was doomed.

Queasiness sloshing in his gut, he dragged a hand across his face and straightened. The whiskey beckoning a siren’s call of blissful oblivion, he returned to the bar and poured another shot. By the time he finished the dregs of number four, a warm glow dulled the edges of his unease. Sleepiness getting the better of him, he slumped on the couch and fell into a fitful snooze.