Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) (11 page)

Letting his fingers go slack in her hair, he lowered his hand, holding her tightly against his body as her forehead dropped to the crook of his neck and rested there. It felt good—so good to hold her, to feel the warmth of her body against his and the whisper of her sweet, soft breath dusting his skin. It had been so long…so long…

“Gardener?”

Her voice was breathless and soft, a reminder that she was vulnerable and lonely, and a sudden wave of guilt washed over him as his body tensed. What the
hell
was he doing? Was this okay with her? Was this what
she
wanted? Fuck, they barely knew each other and he was kissing her like he had a right, like she’d given him permission…and she hadn’t.

He cleared his throat. “Jax…I didn’t mean to—”

She jerked her head back to look up at him, her eyes severe. “
Don’t
apologize. Don’t be sorry.”

Her reaction surprised him, but in an instant he realized that apologizing to her would read the same way to her as her pity would read to him.

“I’m not sorry,” he said quietly.

He hoped that he was convincing. He hoped she didn’t hear the lie in his voice. Because he
was
sorry. He was sorry he knew what it was like to hold her, to kiss her. He was very sorry because the real thing was so much better than his fantasies, and his fantasies had been enough to keep him awake two nights in a row. Yes, he was sorry.

“Good,” she said, her face still worried as he released his grip on her. “Because we can still be friends. It’s still—I mean…it was just a kiss, right? A blip. No big deal.”

Just a kiss?
A blip?
No big deal?
He concealed a flinch by rubbing the back of his hand over his lips. It hurt a little that she said that, because, surprisingly, it had felt like a bigger deal to him. He hadn’t kissed someone in a long time, and kissing her had felt so…right.

She was still staring up at him, waiting for him to answer. He folded his arms across his chest and forced an expression of boredom, like he kissed gorgeous neighbors every day.

“Sure. Sometimes friends kiss each other,” he said, unable to keep a bite out of his tone.

Still watching him, she opened the door and took a step back onto his porch. “There’s still some light. You don’t need to walk me home.”

“Whatever you want,” he said, hating his weakness when his glance slipped to her still-slick lips. He looked away quickly.

“So, um, good night?” she whispered, her voice ending on a little squeak.

He looked up at her, catching the uncertainty in her eyes, the way she searched his face like she was looking for something. And damned if he knew what it was. She didn’t want an apology, and hell, he’d wanted to kiss her from the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her, dressed like a duchess in the moonlight. So fine, he’d gotten his kiss and he wouldn’t apologize for it. But clearly, kissing him hadn’t meant anything to her. Which was fine. She was probably one of those rich chicks who kissed guys for sport. It didn’t matter that it was the sweetest kiss he’d ever had. She wasn’t into it being anything more than a blip. Good. Fine. It would be that much easier for him to be sure it didn’t happen again.

“’Night, Duchess.”

She paused, looking like she wanted to say something else, but when she finally did, it was just to confirm her next self-defense lesson. “See you Wednesday? At three?”

He nodded curtly in response.

Then she turned, stepped down the porch steps, and disappeared into the dying light.

***

Jax dreamt of Gardener.

His hands on her skin.

His tongue in her mouth.

The hardness of his erection pressed against her jeans.

She woke up in the half-light of early dawn, her fingers already under her panties, sliding into her soaked folds, her breathing shallow and quick. She could still feel the heat of his lips on hers, the hot skin of his neck under her fingertips, the strength of his arms around her. It didn’t take long for her to orgasm, her head sinking into the pillow and hips bucking off the bed as she came. She licked her dry lips as her breathing slowed to normal, listening to the rain outside and wondering when it had started.

Her walk back to Le Chateau last night had been cool but dry, her mind whirling as she’d walked alone in the twilight reliving every second of their kiss. She’d wanted him to kiss her since Saturday, and now he had, but it hadn’t quenched her thirst for him. All she wanted was more.

She was lying through her teeth when she said that it was no big deal. But she couldn’t bear his apology, and even though he’d said he wasn’t sorry, his eyes had said otherwise. He
was
sorry. She could tell. All she’d wanted to do was take the pressure out of the situation and let him know she was cool enough to kiss a man and not expect anything else. Better to beat him to the punch and let him know it didn’t mean anything rather than bear the humiliation of his regret.

But it
had
meant something. A lot of something. In fact, it was by far the best kiss she’d ever had.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and sighed, remembering her surprise when he’d suddenly bent his head and captured her lip between his, gently tugging and pulling before letting it go and loving the other. And when his tongue had slipped between her lips?
Ah, merde.
She’d wanted it to go on forever. If he hadn’t stopped, she might have stayed all night long, a thought that made her shiver with longing.

After their workout, when his body had—
ah-hem
—showcased his attraction to her, she thought that maybe they were both interested in something more…but no. It had just been biology, not a specific interest in her. He was just a big flirt, and he probably had that reaction whenever he worked out with a woman. If she’d been the lady her mother had raised, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Frowning, she rolled to her side and beat her pillow into submission with her fist before laying her head back down.

She’d practically thrown herself at him since the moment she’d stumbled into his stupid garden, but no more. He was her neighbor and her trainer and that was all.

Well, not all
, she thought, her lips twitching with irritation. He’d actually been a pretty decent friend tonight when she was telling him about her life.

…move to the suburbs, stop partyin’, find some solid friendships, buy a few horses, and make time for your family…since you loved makin’ a movie…make another.

With an annoyed huff, she sat up in bed and looked over at her desk, which was surrounded by UPS and FedEx boxes that had been forwarded to Le Chateau from her apartment building in LA.

Purposely ignoring them, she slipped out from under her duvet and walked to the French doors that led to a balcony. She opened the doors to the cool, damp early-morning air, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.

…
you loved makin’ a movie…make another…

“You don’t have all the answers,” she said aloud, her eyes popping open. “You don’t even know me!”

…make another…

She stepped back onto the plush cream-colored carpet she’d chosen in high school and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the pile of boxes.

…buildin’ a life is about takin’ the pieces that matter and figurin’ out how to fit them together.

She padded across the room and knelt down on the floor next to the boxes, picking up the first one, ripping the tear strip, and flipping the box over so that a bound script fell into her lap. She pushed the cover letter aside to see the title:

The Sultan’s Surrender.

“Ugh,” she groaned, reaching for another box.

Give It to Me One More Time.

“C’mon!” she muttered.

Another.

Lady and the Trump.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed another, ripping the strip open.

Shipwrecked.

Another.

Forever My Girl.

“
C’est des conneries
!
” she cursed, looking through the pile for something that looked different, that looked real, that looked interesting and provocative, not just sensational drivel.

And then she saw it: a plain, white, unassuming envelope with local postage and a Philadelphia postmark. Pushing two other boxes aside, she pulled the white package from the pile and opened the envelope, flipping over the script and reading the title:

Philadelphia Vice.

Hm.

Scooting away from the pile of hopefuls and rejects, Jax leaned her back against the leg of her desk and opened the script.

Three hours later, she was breathless with excitement, jerking her head up with surprise when Mrs. Jefferson, her mother’s housekeeper, entered her room with a pot of coffee, fried eggs, and toast on a breakfast tray.

“Morning, Ms. Rousseau,” she said, heading for the balcony, where Jax preferred to take her breakfast. “Looks like someone’s been up for a while.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Jefferson!” said Jax, realizing for the first time that her room was bright with morning sun. “What time is it?”

“Breakfast time. Eight thirty,” she said, setting up Jax’s breakfast on the small two-person bistro table outside. She’d brought a towel to dry off the tabletop and one chair. “Rain stopped an hour ago. It’s a beautiful morning!”

Still gripping the script, Jax stood up and stretched, leaning her neck from side to side to get the kinks out. “I’ve been reading.”

Mrs. Jefferson nodded, surveying the mess of tear strips, open boxes, and discarded scripts strewn on the floor around Jax’s desk. “I see.”

She shrugged sheepishly, holding
Philadelphia Vice
against her chest. “Might have found a winner.”

“A new movie?” asked the older woman with a surprised smile.

Jax shook her head. “No. TV.”

“Well, now. I didn’t know you produced TV shows,” said Mrs. Jefferson, heading back toward Jax’s bedroom door.

“I’ve never tried,” said Jax. “But…”

“There’s a first for everything,” said Mrs. Jefferson, giving Jax a kind smile before she slipped from her bedroom.

“Yes,” said Jax, placing the script on the table across from her like a dining companion and picking up her coffee cup with a bemused grin. “Yes, there is.”

Gardener’s walk to Le Chateau was much faster on Wednesday afternoon, partly because he knew the way through the hedgerow and partly because he was irritatingly eager to get there. He hadn’t seen Jax since their kiss on Monday night and—fuck
him
—it had felt like a long time. He’d pathetically hoped she’d show up on Tuesday night with another six-pack of Abita and that they’d both admit that the kiss they’d shared was a lot more than a blip, but no such luck. The rain showers from Tuesday morning had returned by dusk, and he’d spent the evening alone and ornery, missing her company and hating himself for it.

Without much else in the way of distraction, he’d had plenty of time to think about her over the last couple of days—Jacqueline Rousseau. Jax. The duchess. She was something, all right, with her black hair and green eyes, her tight little body and endless questions. He’d never met anyone quite like her.

He hadn’t dated much in high school, finding himself stuck in no man’s land between two distinct classes of Southern society that didn’t mix it up much. And for the first two years of college, he’d been quietly fascinated with Northern girls. Not that he didn’t know half a dozen Southern girls who could shotgun beers on the backs of their boyfriends’ tractors while mudding on a sunny afternoon, but Northern girls were different in their version of brashness. There was something he liked about their interrogation-style conversation, even though he was still getting used to it ten years later. The way Northern girls volunteered so much information about themselves took away a certain amount of feminine mystique and leveled the playing field between men and women in a way he liked, in a way that felt equitable to him. He also liked it that Northern girls seemed more comfortable in their own skin—unlike his mother and sisters, for example, who hit the beauty salon and nail place every Saturday morning like clockwork. In all the time he and Tiff were together, he only remembered her getting her nails done once in a while for special occasions.

Tiffany.

He’d been thinking about her a bit over the past two days too.

Paired up as lab partners junior year at St. Joe’s with a scorching personal chemistry that was immediately apparent, they’d wasted no time “getting to know each other,” making out the first day they met and essentially spending every waking moment together thereafter. It had been good too—for a while. He’d loved having someone to spend time with, someone to fall asleep next to him and wake up beside him in the morning. The summer break between junior and senior years was interminable, but their relationship was as strong as ever when they returned to SJU in the fall, picking up exactly where they’d left off in June. It was like he was built to be half of a couple, and he reveled in having her by his side.

After graduating, they’d both found jobs in Philly—Tiff as a paralegal at a law office, while Gard had applied to the Philadelphia Police Department. After passing several tests and examinations, he’d attended the training program and become a police officer 1.

During Gard’s year of probation, he’d been paired up with a seasoned cop, Brad Bender, who’d been on the force for eight years and had a wife and two kids. Little did Gard know that when Brad asked Gard to “man the grill” at weekend BBQs that included lots of guys from the force, Brad and Tiffany were meeting up inside the house for a quick fuck. Essentially, while Gard manned the grill, Brad manned Tiffany.

They eventually got so comfortable,
and sloppy
, they moved their extracurricular activities to Tiffany and Gard’s apartment and met there during their lunch breaks because it was closer to the precinct. One day, when Gard took an elbow to the face and was sent home early with a broken nose, he’d gotten a broken heart in the bargain too. He found Brad—his mentor, his partner, his friend, his brother—balls deep in Tiffany.

Crossing in front of Westerly, Gard ran a hand through his hair. That was six years ago, and in the time since, he’d fucked some but loved none. His one big foray into love had sucked, and whether it was a conscious decision or not, he’d steered clear of it since.

Which is why he’d decided that it was also better to steer clear of Jax Rousseau. Because that rush of intense feeling he’d felt for Tiffany in junior chemistry had come back in spades since he met Jax. She was beautiful and smart, and Lord but it felt good to be needed. He’d known in his gut—the first time he laid eyes on her—that the duchess could be no passing fancy used to scratch an itch or spice up the dog days of summer. Gard knew his heart. And with Jax Rousseau, it would eventually come down to all or nothing. And he’d just as soon avoid the all to sidestep the inevitable nothing.

Cruising through the hedgerow with ease, he turned left and followed the flagstone path to the front of Le Chateau, bypassing the small set of steps that led to the study and climbing up the wide marble steps just beyond that led to a set of three French doors. Pressing the doorbell, he straightened his spine and crossed his arms over his chest.

To his surprise, the door wasn’t opened by Jax. He was greeted by a middle-aged woman wearing black pants and a crisp white shirt.

“Mr. Thibodeaux?”

He nodded.

“Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Jefferson, Madame Rousseau’s housekeeper.”

Oh-kay.

“Hi,” he said.

“
Ms
. Rousseau—Jacqueline, that is—is in the gym. She asked that you meet her there.”

Gardener took a deep breath, squinting around the entry hall that spanned twelve to fifteen feet in each direction. Cream blobs of wall bled into cream blobs of marble floor, and other than a blob of red in front of him, which he assumed from its shape was a staircase, he could barely make out anything else.

“Could you tell me where—”

“And she asked me to give you this,” said Mrs. Jefferson, handing Gard an envelope.

He felt the telltale ridges of dollar bills inside, and his lips turned down. Wow. She was a piece of work, and he got the message loud and clear: she wouldn’t be paying in Abita and kisses this time. Well, fine. Perfect. Better for everyone.

When he looked up, Mrs. Jefferson was gone, her footsteps far away.

Still holding the envelope, he stood in the large entryway, trying to get a bead on which direction Jax had gone last time, but he’d been so distracted by her getup, he’d followed her to the gym—ogling her ass—without keeping track of how she got there. Damn it. There were probably a hundred different doors in this massive atrium of an entryway—rooms, closets—and Lord only knew where he’d find the one that led downstairs. And shit, if he started opening random doors to find his way, he’d look like an idiot, not to mention he’d probably get lost.

“
Merde
,” he muttered, taking several steps forward toward the red blob, finding that he was correct in assuming it was a grand staircase with red carpeting.

Grateful to discover he was right, he sat down on the steps, trying to figure out what to do. The front door was directly in front of him—he could tell by the bright light streaming in through the windows, even if he’d somehow gotten disoriented. He could start at the door, find the perimeter of the room and follow it around, opening every door as quietly as possible until he found the right one…or he could sit here on the steps and wait. Certainly Mrs. Jefferson would eventually walk by, or Jax, the duchess herself, would come looking for him.
After all
, he thought with a sneer,
she paid for my time
. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let the envelope fall from his fingers to the red-carpeted step beside him and let out a deep breath, thinking about his old life and missing it desperately.

This life, where he couldn’t make his way through hedgerows or find his way downstairs in a house he’d already visited once before, made him feel like half a man, like a babe in the woods, when once upon a time, he’d been a protector. It was frustrating and humiliating, but the reality was that he was lucky to have the limited sight he had. He knew that. Some days he even tried to be grateful for it. It’s just that he didn’t know how to be both himself and also this—this shadow of who he used to be. But he had to figure it out or he’d go crazy, he’d—

“Gard?
Bon jour
!”

He hadn’t heard her walk into the hallway, likely because she was barefoot, and her tan feet with chipped polish on the nails suddenly appeared directly in front of his sneakers, tiny in contrast.

“Here you are! I was wondering what—”

“I’m blind,” he said softly, still staring at their feet.

“Wait. What?”

“I’m blind,” he said again, looking up at her from where he sat on the steps, his heart thumping wildly behind his ribs as his pathetic truth tumbled from his lips. “I have no long distance vision and very little peripheral. The scars around my eyes…”

His voice trailed off and he sat in misery, letting his head fall forward with the shame of it. He should leave now. He should stand up and leave. She wouldn’t stop him. She wouldn’t come around anymore. She’d see how absurd it was for him to be teaching her self-defense, and he himself knew how absurd it was for him to be wanting things from her that she should only give to a man who could protect her and keep her safe. That’s what she wanted, right? Right. And how could a blind man do any of that? He couldn’t.

“I didn’t know,” she said, sitting down beside him.

“I’ll go,” he said, putting his hands flat on the step to stand up, but she stopped him, covering his hand with hers and pressing down.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you going?”

He turned to face her, and because she was so close, he could see her clearly—her sweeping black lashes, gentle green eyes, and rosebud lips that he’d tasted over and over again in his daydreams since Monday. Her skin glistened with sweat and her cheeks were flushed from exercise.

“I just said I’m blind, Jax. Practically, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, slipping her fingers through his to anchor him beside her, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with you teaching me some self-defense moves today like you promised.”

He searched her eyes. “Why would you want a blind self-defense instructor?”

“First of all, you’re not totally blind. I don’t know how much of your eyesight is compromised, but it’s definitely not all, because you make your way around. I’ve seen it. Second of all, you were a cop, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Which means you were trained to defend yourself.”

“Duchess—”

“And you promised to teach me.”

His face contorted with anger and frustration. “I couldn’t even figure out how to get to your fuckin’ basement! I’m as helpless as a goddamned kitten!”

She lifted her chin and took a deep breath, looking out at the hallway for several minutes before turning back to him and nailing him with a stern look, only tempered by a gentle tone.

“When you walk into this house through the middle set of doors, there is a another set to your left. Then a floor-to-ceiling window. Then a corner. A short bit of wall, then a door. That’s the study we came through last time. Another bit of wall, then another door. That’s a powder room, if you should ever need it. Another bit of wall, then a double opening. That leads to the formal living room, but skip it. It’s dull as beige with lots of stupid Parisian knickknacks my mother kept from her ballerina days. After the double opening, there’s a very small bit of wall and another door. Open it. Walk down the stairs. At the bottom, turn right. Walk down the hall. If you keep your hand on the wall to your right, you’ll pass a screening room, then a studio. The third door on your right is the gym.” She unlaced her fingers from his, though her smile was as sweet and warm as ever. “If you still want to train me today, I’ll see you down there in ten minutes. If not, leave the envelope on the stairs, and I promise not to bother you ever again.”

She stood up and stared down at him, and though he could make out her hands on her hips, from a distance of several feet above him, her features were a little hazier now.

“Someone recently told me,” she said, “that building a life is about taking the pieces that matter and figuring out how to fit them together.” She paused, her voice an emotional whisper when she added, “I hope I see you again.”

His eyes burned and he blinked them rapidly, lowering his head as he listened to her retreating steps on the marble floor.

That’s when he knew—as certainly as he’d ever known anything—that he was about to fall in love for the second time in his life. It didn’t matter if they were ill suited to one another, and it didn’t matter in what condition they’d found each other. It didn’t matter that he’d only known her for a handful of days or that she was rich and he was the neighbor’s part-time gardener. It didn’t matter that her French was Parisian and his was Cajun or that she was twenty-seven to his thirty-two. It didn’t even matter that he had no plans for this love that had already started to take root inside of him. All that mattered was that in a moment when she could have done or said a million different things, Jacqueline Rousseau had somehow managed to choose a response that allowed him to keep his pride, his dignity, and his hope.

Oh Lord, he was going to fall.