Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) (3 page)

“I’ve never met a cop before, let alone an ex-cop.”

The hint of a smile softened his lips. “Not surprised, Duchess. I doubt we’re invited to the same soirees.”

“Why
ex
?”

He stared at her, then sighed. “None of your business.”

“Jax? Ja-a-a-a-a-x?
Où es-tu
?”

Her brother was calling from the front side of the cottage. She headed to the door, feeling out of sorts about the way she was leaving things with her unlikely hero…like there was more to be said and she was about to lose her chance to say it.

“Why do all the men in your life yell ‘Ja-a-a-a-a-x’ when they’re lookin’ for you?” he asked softly from behind.

She turned to meet his eyes over her shoulder and shrugged. “They can’t all call me duchess.”

His lips tilted up into a smile, and she felt such a rush of victory—it was a wonder she didn’t faint. God, he was beautiful. When he smiled, he was utterly and completely beautiful.

“
Bonne nuit, Jacqueline
,” he said in a low rumble. It made goose bumps rise on her skin, and she gasped softly.

“
Au revoir.
Merci.”

He nodded once, lifting his hand in farewell as she slipped out the door and ran barefoot around the cottage to meet her brother.

***

Gardener stared at the door for what felt like an hour before finally crossing the room and lowering himself to the sofa, where she’d been lying a few minutes ago. The spot was still warm, which made him flinch, made his nostrils flare in acknowledgment.
La duchesse
was gone, but something of her remained, and it was unsettling to him.

The initial adrenaline rush from hearing her scream and finding her injured had subsided now, but he still felt wired. He needed to
do
something.

He grabbed his gloves from the coffee table and pulled them on as he headed back outside into the darkness. Kneeling down in the grass by the border, he dug three new holes for the last three lavender seedlings, but his mind wandered endlessly as he worked. The peace he’d found working in the moonlight garden an hour ago, before meeting Jacqueline Rousseau, was elusive now.

A decent cover of
Fly Me to the Moon
by the wedding band floated over from Le Chateau on the breeze, accompanied by the clink of champagne glasses and the low hum of conversation, occasionally punctuated by a shot of high laughter.

He wondered if she was back at the party already. She didn’t seem like the cautious type, running around in the dark after midnight while strange men chased after her.
Probably popped a few Advil and headed back to the dance floor
, he thought, scowling as he picked up the trowel and circled the bench where she’d been sitting. He imagined her swaying to the music, some new asshole with his hands on her waist, pressing her too damned close to his body.

A girl like that is trouble
, he thought,
because every man who sees her wants her.

Except me,
he quickly amended.
I don’t want you, Duchess. All I want is peace. And quiet.

“
In other words, hold my hand
.” The words of the song popped into his head as he organized the empty plastic flats into a pile. “
In other words, baby, kiss me
.”

Kiss me.

He paused for a moment, one hand hovering distractedly over the tower of empty seedling flats, while he thought about Jacqueline Rousseau’s offer of a kiss and how her cheeks had colored as he’d refused. Her meaning had been unmistakable, the luminous green orbs of her eyes nailing him from a few feet away, waiting for him, or daring him, to take her up on it.

His body had recognized the offer for exactly what it was, his blood sluicing with precision from his head to his dick, making it twitch and swell…which is exactly what had also forced him to drop her eyes. Make out with a girl who had a possible concussion? No. Absolutely not. No way.

It had taken a lot of willpower to turn her down, because God only knew where a kiss could have led, and his mind had been full of dirty fantasies since she’d shown up unannounced in the garden like a golden wood nymph, like a displaced duchess. But Gardener Thibodeaux wasn’t in the habit of taking advantage of incapacitated women. Of
any
women, for that matter.

After a four-year career as a patrol officer and two years as a detective in the Special Victims’ Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department, he’d seen enough women taken advantage of—battered and bruised, and some left for dead—to last him a lifetime. If he lived to be a hundred and ten, he’d never consider making a move on a woman if there was even the slightest chance her wits were compromised, and the duchess, with that nasty gash on her head, might have regretted that kiss in the morning.

A quick vision of her luscious red lips flitted through his head, which annoyed him.
Stop thinking about her.

He picked up the pile of flats and walked them to the area behind the gardener’s cottage where Felix had instructed him to leave the empties until morning, when they could be taken to the dump. He opened the door of the nearby shed and put the trowel back on the magnetic strip over a wooden table that served as a workbench for plantings. He closed the door securely and locked it, walking the short distance from the shed to his apartment, mumbling the song lyrics
“…in other words, in other words…I love you…”
as
Fly Me to the Moon
came to its classic finale.

But despite his admonishment, he
couldn’t
stop thinking about her as he drank his nightly cup of tea and straightened up the little apartment that he temporarily called home.

Was she hot?

Yes.

Was she intriguing, despite her brassy, sassy ways?

Yes.

Was she the most improbable fucking choice for—for—for
anything
having to do with him?

Oui
, fucking
oui
.

He needed to forget about her curve-hugging gown, her perfect, highbrow Parisian French, and her stupid, sexy shoes. He needed to forget about her bright eyes and full lips, about the weight of her body in his arms and how it would feel beneath him. He needed to forget about the softness of her skin under the tips of his fingers and the way she said, “I believe you,” as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and trusting.

He plunked his empty mug in the sink, showered, and toweled off, slipping between his sheets naked and staring up at the vague shadows dancing on the ceiling.

She was too young, too rich, too uppity, and
way
too much trouble for someone like Gardener, who was supposed to be rebuilding his life into a calm, safe, and stable place, none of which would be easily achieved with a distraction like Jacqueline Rousseau.

Forget about her.

It’s for the best.

He closed his weary eyes and rolled to his side, facing the open window and letting another Frank Sinatra ballad lull him to sleep.

Once Jean-Christian had seen her head and heard what had happened, he’d pledged to kill Tripp Stanton at the earliest possible convenience, but Jax had talked him off the ledge, asking him to please just escort her to her room, where she could take a couple of Advil and go to bed. She didn’t want to waste any more brain power on Tripp.

Nor, she thought, as she lay her weary, aching head on her pillow, listening to the strains of
Fly Me to the Moon
, did she want to think about the gardener who’d simultaneously taken care of her and rejected her. Best intentions aside, however, she wasn’t able to think about anything
but
the gardener as she stared at the ceiling, listening to the ambient noise of the party below.

There was something strange, almost mystical, about finding him working in the garden—the way he’d materialized out of shadows and moonlight, the stark contrast between his huge, masculine body and the delicate flowers he was planting so carefully.

Who was he? Someone the Englishes had hired to do some additional landscaping? Why was he an
ex
-cop? Where did he learn French, and why did she get the feeling that he was as comfortable speaking it as she, though he said he didn’t
speak it much anymore? He had raced to her aid, then carried her body in his arms across Westerly, through the hedges, and into Haverford Park to care for her injury. It was so romantic, it made her sigh. Or, at least, she’d
thought
it was romantic.

But obviously it wasn’t to him. It was just an ex-cop’s instinct. Nothing more.

She punched her pillow twice, huffing softly before lying back down on her uninjured side and closing her eyes.

Her mind played a pre–dream sequence of the night like a movie: her brother’s storybook wedding to Kate, their beautiful reception under a tent with white twinkle lights and roses everywhere, the supertight security that had allowed Jax to actually enjoy herself until Tripp got annoying on the dance floor with his lewd, suggestive remarks…and then, running into the gardener and the moonlight garden. So ethereal. So unexpected. Followed, she grimaced, by her short confrontation with Tripp before she’d stumbled back and banged her head.

But opening her eyes to find herself being held by the gardener still felt like a sweet dream.
I wouldn’t have saved you if my intention was to hurt you, Jacqueline
—his dark eyes and thick lashes.
I do, actually…I do have one to give
—and his smile…his smile…his beaut…ti…ful…sm…

She drifted off to sleep, listening to another Frank Sinatra ballad, and when she woke up the next morning, sunlight streamed into her bedroom, making her head throb like hell. She sighed and rolled over to look at the clock, her eyes widening when she realized that the bridal brunch, hosted by the English family at Haverford Park, was starting in thirty minutes, and she needed to get her ass in gear if she was going to make it.

“Good morning,” called her twin sister, Madeleine, opening the door of Jax’s bedroom as though she’d somehow known her sister had just woken up. And she probably had. Like most twins, they shared an inexplicable bond—a closeness that couldn’t be quantified or explained and which Jax and Mad had pretty much always taken for granted.

“No, it’s not,” grumbled Jax, groaning as she sat up, making her head pound even worse.

Mad threw a bottle of Advil on the bed and put her hands on her hips. “J.C. told me what happened. How shall we kill him?”

Jax couldn’t help grinning at her little sister, who was almost a full twenty minutes younger than she. In a pink flowered sundress with a matching powder-pink cardigan and her long dark hair back in a pink gingham hairband, Mad was a vision of innocence and loveliness. She wasn’t killing anyone—unless it was with kindness—and they both knew it.

The Rousseau sisters had the same dark hair and green eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. They were fraternal twins who’d been blessed with very, very different personalities. Jax had always been the spitfire, the wild card, the sass, and her counterpart, Mad, was the sweet, the thoughtful, and—of all the Rousseau siblings—the most universally beloved.

“You? Hurt a fly?” Jax scoffed.

Mad sat down on the bed, placing a glass of water on her sister’s bedside table and reaching up to gingerly touch the Band-Aid on Jax’s temple.

“Bastard.”

Jax opened the bottle and poured two pills into her hand. “
Oui
.”

“Are you going to press charges?”

Jax sighed, shaking her head. “And draw attention to myself? No, thanks.”

Mad frowned. “So Tripp gets away with it.”

Jax looked down at the pills miserably, then reached for the glass of water. “They’ll splash it everywhere, Mad. Legal proceedings are public. It’s not worth it.”

“It makes me furious,” said Mad softly.

“Join the club.”

Mad sighed. “So…J.C. said that the Englishes’ gardener came to your rescue.”

Jax swallowed the pills before meeting her sister’s eyes. “Something like that.”

“But Felix was
here
all night…with Emily and Barrett English.”

“New gardener.”

“Ah-ha.” Mad raised an eyebrow, somehow able to sense something distinct in her sister’s otherwise truculent tone. “
Young
new gardener?”

Jax flushed. “Young-ish.”

“
Hot
new gardener?” asked Mad, enjoying herself.

Jax scowled. “Hot-ish.”

“So…?”

“So what, Mad?” asked Jax, getting out of bed and stalking across her plush bedroom carpeting to the massive closet that held her clothes. “He’s a gardener.”

“Hold up. Hold up,” said Mad from behind her. “What was
that
?”

Jax plucked a navy-blue silk tank top from a hanger and draped it over her arm, then turned and pulled some ivory-colored linen pants from the opposite side of the closet. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t care what someone does for a living! You’ve dated bankers and actors, students, lawyers, horse groomers, that guy you met at Cannes who made the pretty lines in the beach sand every morning, the one from Vail who ran the ski lift, the Italian count who liked sucking on your—”

“Okay! You made your point. I date all kinds.” Jax gave her sister a sour look as she threw the clothes on the bed. “But the neighbor’s gardener? Can you imagine what
Maman
would say?”

“Since when do you give a shit?”

“Madeleine!”

“Jacqueline!” said Mad, mocking her.

Jax stared at her sister from across the bed, finally taking a deep breath and shrugging. “He wasn’t interested.”

Mad’s eyes widened. “I must be going deaf because I’m sure you just said—”

“Don’t make it worse,” said Jax, looking down. “He wasn’t—”

“Impossible,” interrupted Mad, who crossed to her sister’s bureau and took out a navy-blue push-up bra and white lace panties, which she handed to Jax. “They’re
always
interested. You’re…
you
.”

“And apparently he’s immune,” said Jax, throwing her nightgown over her head and reaching for the bra.

“Again, I say…impossible.”

Jax fastened the bra, then took the panties and stepped into them, pulling them up her long legs. “I made a pass at him.”

“You what?” asked Mad, her eyes wide and surprised.

“I made a pass at him. I offered him a kiss and he…well, he didn’t take me up on it,” she said, buttoning the pants before zipping them. “Do you still have my navy Prada sandals? The patent-leather ones with the wedge?”

“I’ll grab them for you in a minute,” said Mad, still staring at her sister in awe. “You don’t make passes. You don’t need to. Ever.”

“The fact that I haven’t had much practice making the first move was more than obvious,” said Jax acidly, shrugging into the whisper-soft silk top and heading for her bathroom. After removing the velvet scrunchie, she brushed out her hair in front of the mirror. Checking her face, she noted some discoloration around the Band-Aid—lavender-and-yellow bruising—and Jax winced at the ugly swelling that spanned the space from her eye to her hairline. Damn Tripp anyway.

Suddenly Mad was beside her, dabbing concealer gently around the wound as she stared at her older sister in the mirror.

“
Chéri
,” said Mad, avoiding Jax’s eyes as she rubbed in the skin-colored liquid with a feather touch. “You need to be more careful. He could have really hurt you.”

…enroll yourself in a self-defense class if you’re goin’ to hang out with rapists…

“I know,” she said softly, shame coloring her cheeks.

“It must have been scary,” said Mad, knowing it was true but also knowing how much it would bother Jax to admit it out loud.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and a moment of perfect twin-communication passed between them:

I hate this
, thought Jax.
I hate feeling helpless.

Mad nodded, her face concerned.
I know. I’m sorry.
She put the cap back on the makeup, put the container on the counter, and then pressed her lips to Jax’s cheek. “
Je t’aime
.”

“I love you too.”

“I think…” said Mad, her voice brightening as she grinned at Jax in the mirror. “I think you should go thank the hot, new gardener for his help. You’ll feel better.” She patted Jax on the shoulder. “I’ll go find your sandals.”

Jax watched her go in the mirror, applying some mascara and lipstick before pulling her long hair into a sleek ponytail at the nape of her neck.

A self-defense class.

Go thank the gardener.

She pulled her jewelry box from the corner cabinet and sat down at the vanity table, choosing three gold bangles and some oversized gold hoop earrings.

Go thank the gardener.

A self-defense class.

The ideas rolled around in her head as she finished getting ready and went downstairs, grabbing her sandals from where they dangled on Mad’s fingers and following her sister out the front door to walk over to Haverford Park.

***

Gardener used to wake up at dawn, take a long jog around his South Philly neighborhood, shower, shave, dress, and head to work by eight, ready to take on the criminal element of Philadelphia and save the day. But since the accident and his forced retirement, he didn’t have a good reason to wake up early anymore. Jogging outdoors wasn’t an option with his compromised vision, and he couldn’t exactly save the day by planting flowers and mulching rose gardens. Plus, the morning and early-afternoon light was almost unbearably bright for his eyes. So he really didn’t wake up until after noon these days, and most of the time his day didn’t really begin until three.

Part of him was grateful that he’d learned the nitty-gritty of gardening from his father, owner of the most sought-after landscaping company in New Orleans, where Gard was born and raised. Without a secondary skillset, he’d have been fucked, because his career as a detective had ended in the blink of an eye, no pun intended. Not that he really needed to work for the money. He had savings, plus his retirement pay was more than comfortable, especially since he’d been injured in the line of duty and been awarded a settlement in a civil case as well. But not working, he’d quickly learned, made him feel like shit, and since his chosen career path was now impossible, it was up to him to figure out an alternative. And while working as a temporary live-in gardener for a fancy house like Haverford Park wasn’t where he’d envisioned his life at thirty-two years old, he also wasn’t interested in running home to New Orleans, where his mama would take over his life with gusto.
Merci, non.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and took it out on the tiny porch, resting one hand on the railing as he looked out over the hazy, fuzzy green of the estate lawn, which sprawled out in front of him and to his right. Nothing he saw had any definition. A watercolor-like puddle of blueish-white was the sky. Some undefined dark brown laying over the green could be tree trunks, he guessed. Something moved in the distance, and he cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. Dark on top. Light on the bottom. Getting larger. Coming closer.

This was the part he hated the most. He knew it was a person, and by now, they could see him. They might be smiling at him. They might be frowning. Hell, they might be holding a gun. He didn’t know. He’d
never
know. He was helpless without his eyes and he hated it. Turning to go inside, he stopped when he heard her voice.

“Gardener! Wait!”

He froze at her command.

Jacqueline Rousseau.

He’d recognize her voice till the day he died. His brain had already found a safe place for its keeping.

He turned slowly, bringing his cup to his lips, watching as the dark of her top and light of her pants got closer until he could make out the pink of her skin and the black of her hair. And finally, finally, those emerald-green eyes were only a foot or two away, and he could see them, almost clearly. And he sighed.