Oh shit. He took the phone away from his ear and looked at it. He and Beverley had the same model phone, but that wasn’t surprising, since it was the most popular phone on the market right now. So how to explain this one without admitting that their phones had lain together on the bedside table last night? “I’m Jace Beauchene.”
“Ah. The owner of Great Oaks?”
Not the way people usually referred to him these days, but he was game. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Beverley’s boss?”
“Not exactly. James Bell is her boss.”
The voice softened an infinitesimal amount. “And you have her phone?”
He thought rapidly. “I was in her office this morning and I have the same model. I’m not in the house right now, but I’ll return it to her as soon as I get in. Nice speaking to you.” He was about to thumb the off button when she spoke again.
“No, wait. I want to speak to you. Those pictures are all over the papers. You know the ones, I’m sure.”
He sighed. The Baton Rouge photos had been syndicated. “I know. Why? What is it to you?”
“I’m her mother.”
He rolled his eyes. It had been years since he’d had to face an irate mother. The experience took him back to an unfortunate incident in high school, when he’d taken a girl home later than he should. They’d made him pay for that one, but as he recalled it, she’d led him on. Not that he hadn’t been willing for her to do the leading.
But this time he was older, nearly thirty, and he’d never met this woman. He was just fucking her daughter, that was all. But from what he knew of her, she wouldn’t care that much.
Now at least he could discover some of the things bothering him. While a guilty pang assaulted him, he ignored it for now. He’d stop her if she told him too much. “What can I do for you, Ms. Christmas?”
“Are the photos true?”
When so many pictures were manipulated electronically, that was a savvy question. He gave her a straight answer. “Yes, they are.”
“My daughter isn’t used to the kind of press attention being with someone like you will bring her.”
Concern for Beverley? Or keen for publicity? “I know. I won’t let her suffer for it.”
“She already has, or so I understand. James Bell has contacted me. He doesn’t want her staying at Great Oaks.”
He gave a tight grin. “I know.”
“He says you want her to stay on.”
“And he told you?” So much for company confidentiality.
“We go back a long way.” Interesting. If she asked any personal questions, he’d ask her a few in return. She sounded crisp, efficient, not a loving mother but that could be deceptive. He wished he could see her face. So much easier to assess her true meaning.
“She got the job here because of you?” He recalled Beverley telling him something to that effect.
“Partly.” A pause, as if she were thinking of what to say. After all, she’d be feeling her way with him too. Presumably she’d investigated him on the internet, so she knew some of the stories about him, even though not all of them were true. “But she’s good at it. When she was cooking, organization was always her strong point. She could arrange a kitchen and a table like an expert, right from childhood. When you’re creating complex dishes, organization is vital. So I thought she’d appreciate something that demanded that side of her.”
Interesting. “You make it sound as if she was better at organization than cooking.” For someone who loved it as much as Beverley seemed to, it would be strange if she didn’t have any skill.
Another pause, then she spoke with considered precision. “My husband has three Michelin stars. That’s the best of the best, you understand? Beverley loved spending time with him in the kitchen, which is a good thing, otherwise she wouldn’t have seen much of him at all while she was growing up. He’s a genius, and they tend to be selfish about their talent. You asked about Beverley’s prowess as a cook? She was good, and she loved it. You know why she doesn’t do it anymore?”
“Yes. She told me she’s developed an allergy.”
“That’s right. It’s best she doesn’t set foot in a professional kitchen while it’s being used. She has an Epi pen, which she has to carry at all times. As long as she stays away from raw flour, she’ll be fine. It happens to some chefs. She’s not the first one I’ve known it to happen to. Beverley had a promising career ahead of her.”
He sensed something unsaid. She seemed hesitant. “With three precious stars?”
The pause was longer this time. He was about to prompt her when she said, “Probably not. One, I’d imagine. A chef is most valued when he or she has created a kitchen and earned the stars, rather than moving into a kitchen that already has the honor. The most innovative chefs create something nobody has imagined before. They are rare.”
So no. Beverley would have made herself a great career. One star wasn’t paltry, after all. But not hit the heights, been the best. She had the potential to be the best at something, he knew it. She had the drive, the passion and the single-mindedness.
“Was Chaballet one of those rare geniuses?”
“Yes. He was more temperamental than usual because he’s had a hard time recently. A bad divorce, pressures of work, and he wanted to experience something new. The move would have been good for him. A shame he didn’t take the opportunity but he won’t come back.”
“I guessed. I don’t care. I don’t think Great Oaks needs that kind of chef. I want somebody who is expert at local cookery and good at international cuisine.”
I wanted to tell you something else. My husband is taking a few TV spots, so he’s likely to become more high profile. Beverley will come under pressure of her own soon.”
“Have you told her?”
“She knows her father was considering it. If the series is a success, it’ll be syndicated to the USA, and that will bring even more attention. I want this series to work.” That was more like it. She sounded more concerned for her husband and his success than her daughter. But her next words dispelled that thought. “If this causes my daughter any distress, I will pull her back. We have the resources to protect her. So the first thing I want from you is an assurance that Beverley will be protected from unwanted attention, if you continue to—date her.”
“You didn’t need to ask.”
“I didn’t know that, did I?”
After that, he let her chat and learned a few more interesting things. Like Beverley’s mother did care, but seemed undemonstrative. She didn’t ask once after Beverley’s welfare, but she could ask her that herself. Except that Jace had her phone. And the information about Beverley’s potential was interesting too. He doubted Beverley had realized that and he could think of no reason to tell her now. Her mother had the experience, so he had to trust her. For now.
Until she brought him right back with a casual statement. “We wanted her to get some experience of management outside the business, but we always intended to bring her back in. Either as a maître d’ or a manager of the restaurants. That’s what she’s best at, but we needed her to see how it was done in other setups.”
“She doesn’t know that, does she?” He knew how bad she felt, how much a failure. “If you tell her, she’ll feel better.”
“It’s a hard business. She’s got to learn to be tough.” Her mother didn’t sound like a mother now. No loving tones, no care, but a tough outer shell. While he’d thought he’d detected traces of parental pride or caring, he wasn’t sure now. This woman was driven. Had she always been this way or had she once been like her daughter—loving, caring, but still efficient?
He would hate to see Beverley going that way, and now he’d talked with her mother, he had doubts she should ever go home. But he had no right to order her. Nobody did.
That was one reason why he disliked the conversation he’d just had so much. Her mother took it for granted that Beverley would do as she was told. Ms. Christmas had laid her daughter’s futur
e out for her, planned it in detail and hadn’t even bothered to share her plans.
Jace stopped abruptly when he’d realized where his feet had led him.
Beverley glanced at the clock at the bottom of her screen. As usual, she’d lost track of time, although not of anything else. And nobody had rung her while she’d been busy? Usually she had several calls a day, but this afternoon, not a one. She picked up her phone and realized why. It wasn’t her phone. It looked like her phone, but once she’d got past the opening screen, the contacts made it clear she didn’t know anybody there. People called Zazz and Spiv didn’t feature in her address book. But they did in Jace’s.
She glanced out the window. Another hot day, but today she wore something more appropriate than she had the day he’d arrived. Giving up the suits, she’d settled on a black-and-white skirt that flared out to the knee and a white short-sleeved shirt in a fabric she’d viewed in several lights and under blinding sunlight, just to make sure of its opacity. Comfortable, and the flared skirt gave her some welcome air, instead of the tight pencil skirts.
She’d gone through her luggage and packed away the stuff she wouldn’t wear again. She should give it away, but not yet. She hated waste. The clothes Jace had bought her more than made up for it. She’d told him to give her the bill, but she doubted he ever would.
She got to her feet and grabbed the phone before heading for reception. “Have you seen Jace?”
The girl brightened. She was lucky to keep her job, but with Jaime gone, Beverley had decided to see how she behaved. She’d colluded with Jaime the day the chef had arrived, Beverley was sure, but she had no concrete proof. “He went out. Headed south, past the oaks.”
Great Oaks had more than one oak, and the grove at the front of the building gave the house its name. Now beautifully matured, but not as big as some of the examples she’d seen back home, they must have provided welcome shelter in the days of crinolines and bustles. Come to that, they gave welcome shelter now.
She couldn’t see him, and since he’d come this way, she didn’t know where to go once she got to the other side of the oaks. But she did see a gardener, who directed her toward the old graveyard.
She hesitated. It was his ancestral place not hers, and he might want some solitude. She’d just look, just see. Once she’d emerged from the backlog of work that had absorbed her for most of the afternoon, she realized she missed him. It felt as though something was missing, but maybe she was just tired. Right now, curling up in bed next to a strong body sounded good to her. The trouble was, she doubted she could do much. The events of the last few days were catching up with her and she felt dog-tired.
The graveyard lay on the edge of the property, out of the way of the planned visitor trails. In the contract he made with Bell’s, Jace insisted on basic maintenance only, so this was the only place in the whole property that nobody had altered in any significant way. Even the grass grew longer here, reaching for the rusted railings, now treated and painted black but still rusted, some of the spokes still loose.
The gate was padlocked, but that hardly seemed to matter, since several spokes had leaned sideways, so she could slip through without much effort. She couldn’t see Jace until she moved along the railings a little, because he was kneeling. Not in obvious prayer, but he knelt before one of the newer graves, gleaming white marble with gold and black lettering. His mother’s grave. This was a private graveyard, and the vast majority of gravestones here bore the name Austin.
Embarrassed at interrupting what was obviously a private moment, she turned away, but the movement must have caught his eye because he looked up and saw her.
For a frozen moment neither moved. He seemed—right in this place, and she felt even worse. He’d shoved his hair back behind his shoulders and his dark blue jeans and short-sleeved T-shirt blended with the muted colors here. Muted, that was, apart from the tombstone.
He got to his feet and held out one hand. Not beckoning, but inviting. She would have squeezed her way through one of the slanted rails, but he pointed to the end, and there she found a spoke missing, so getting inside was easy. The grass rustled around her legs as she walked toward him.
“You should have taken the path,” he said when she reached him. “We’re near swampland here, and there are biters in the grass.”
“The gardeners treat the place.” She smiled up at him. “What a romantic thing to say!”
“I don’t want you hurt. I caught a chigger once. I still have the scar on my leg where my mother got the maid to dig it out.”
She couldn’t even do that much for her son. “No worries now.”
“Good.” She saw the shadow of sorrow in his eyes, even though he was smiling at her.
“Are you okay?” She grimaced. “Stupid question, I’m sorry. Do you miss her?”
His smile was slow and devastatingly sexy, and warmth entered the brilliance of his eyes. “Nobody else would have asked me that. But you know me better than most. In a weird way, yes I do. I guess you know what it was like here. Mother was gentry, shopped at the best stores, entertained sometimes.
“At the end, everybody knew she owed money everywhere. When she died, I was tempted to leave the house to disintegrate, but this place means something to other people too.” He caught her hand and squeezed it. “You might not understand.”
“Slaves,” she guessed.
“Yep. Some of the descendants still live nearby. This place has graves of some of the domestics. You might not realize, because they were called Austin too.”
Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.” She glanced around. “I thought they were all family.”
“They were. I have some diaries from the nineteenth century. I’m loaning them to the Plantation Experience, but they’ve made copies of them for me. I should get transcripts too.” He glanced around. “House slaves were usually treated better, though they could expect some sex to go with the tradeoff.”
“Is that what I am? A house slave?”
“Fuck, no.”
She’d thought to instigate some harmless role-play but in a second realized how crass she’d been, especially in this place. “I-I’m sorry. It was stupid to say that.”
“Yes, it was.” But his words were gentle. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“Not precisely.” She bit her lip. “In a way.” Desperate would describe her better. He’d have to leave soon, far too soon, when she’d only just begun to explore him, and herself too. He’d introduced her to something she’d never experienced before and he’d made her feel safe, safe enough to tell him what she wanted in bed. But master and slave—yeah, a step too far.
“I came here to say goodbye. Just in case I don’t get a chance later.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed the back with a kiss in the old-fashioned way, the way his ancestors might have done. “I have another few weeks to make up my mind about the house. If I say nothing, my option lapses. The deal’s done. I guess I thought I’d take a few days to think it over, but I’ve been thinking about you. I still haven’t made up my mind.”
“About me or the house?” She tried to ask it lightly, keep her tone indifferent, but inside she wanted to know his answer. Really wanted to know.
“Both of you. The house? It’s a blow to leave it behind. I don’t think I ever will, but I should. Maybe I should try to forget. You? No, I’m not ready to forget you.”
Rock star,she reminded herself. World tour. Something she couldn’t contemplate, even if he asked.
Then he did. Ask, that was. “Come with me.”
When she would have pulled her hands away, he wouldn’t let her, gripping her tighter and making her look at him. He’d missed her today, but he’d left her alone because he figured she’d want to have things straight. But he’d decided to call Chick and tell him there’d be two of them arriving. The manager was already grumbling about him not showing up when he’d said he would.
She stared at him, eyes wide and panicked. “I can’t.”
&nb
sp; “Why not? You’re entitled to some downtime. Take a break, give yourself time to think.”
“With you?” A breeze ruffled her hair and she brushed a strand back. He loved the way the gold strands glinted in the sun. Old gold, he’d call it, fall leaves, the color of rich old velvet. Already lyrics were forming in his mind, but in patches. He usually wrote the music, but shit, even Ringo wrote songs occasionally. He wanted it to be a happy song, not a melancholy one.
“Yes, with me. We have a gig in Atlanta early next week. I have to leave, probably tomorrow. This tour’s crucial to us.”
“So you’re thinking as a band still?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Habit.” Or a reluctance to let go. He knew what his mother would want. She’d want him in charge of operations here, making sure the house was properly cared for, that they didn’t do anything uncouth, a word she was fond of using, and put a Ferris wheel in the front yard or something equally inappropriate. That was another of her favorite words.
But it wasn’t just her. It was the tradition, the reminder that there’d always been an Austin at Great Oaks. Bell’s had just begun to unlock the potential of this place. The idea of uncovering the history and making it come to life excited him.
He hadn’t picked up his guitar in days, and that wasn’t usual for him. Perhaps that explained the threads of songs running through his head. His musical instinct needed an outlet. But he wouldn’t have to give his music up if he gave up the band. Just put it into the background.
He frowned. “There’s the music as well. They’re taking a new path, and although it’s exciting, I’m not sure I can go all the way with them. I come from rock and blues, and they’re bringing new influences into the mix.”
“You can do it.”
“You sound so sure.”
Her chin firmed. “I am. You can do it.”
He smiled. “You haven’t even heard me play.”
“Not personally. But I downloaded your album, the new one, Nightstar.”
“And?” He hated to admit how much her opinion meant to him anticipation coursing through him as though he were a kid waiting for the approval of his teacher. Her approval meant that much to him. What if she turned out a country girl? He’d known Brits who fell under the spell of country and never came out. One of his idols came from that field, but he achieved more, transcended his genre.
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