Forgiving Jackson (4 page)

The gates were up ahead. He’d have to deal with the man in the guardhouse and then he would, finally, be free of human contact at least for the night. Tomorrow, he would probably have to see Dirk because security was the one thing he couldn’t do without—not if he wanted to be left alone. Besides, he’d never fire Dirk. He’d left the military about the same time Jackson had gotten to be a household name and fans had started bothering Aunt Amelia.

Dirk also trained his road security crew—bodyguards, Ginger called them. Once in a while, when Jackson was on the road, Dirk would fly in and work a show or two if he was needed but he’d made clear from the beginning that he wanted to be home with his wife and kids.

A new thought washed over Jackson.
Gwen
. Not only was she Dirk’s wife, she was the catering manager for Around the Bend. They had hired her years ago. She’d been there even longer than Dirk, and now Jackson had had her fired. No matter. He’d give Dirk a raise to cover what Gwen had been making. Or maybe he’d hire her back to cook for him. Catering for one would be a whole lot easier than what she had been doing.

He pulled up to the gate and stopped. Within minutes he would be in his rooms in the family wing. Tomorrow, he’d walk through the main house and maybe the grounds, but for tonight he wanted a beer and bed.

He hit the button for the power window, pulled his cap off, and stuck his head out. For once, he wanted to be recognized.

He didn’t know the man in the guardhouse. He must be new.

“What can I do for you?” the guy said. Then he got a good look. “Oh, Mr. Beauford. Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said and the gates opened.

He’d driven a few hundred yards through the quarter-mile oak canopy that led to the house before realizing something was wrong. Why were the white lights in the oak trees on? They’d been a fixture there all his life, and before, ever since his mother and Aunt Amelia had opened Around the Bend to help pay the upkeep of the ancestral property. Damn he hated those little bastards. How many hours of his youth had he spent climbing, taking down dead strings, and replacing them? But the lights were only turned on during a nighttime event and at Christmastime. Oh, well. Maybe Dirk had turned them on for some reason.

Then he heard the music. Country swing. Second-rate. Good for dancing if you didn’t know better but not much else.

But never mind the critique. What the hell? Maybe Dirk and Gwen were having a party. Big parties weren’t really their style but maybe they were hosting a family reunion. Or could be one of the kids was having a birthday, though it didn’t seem like it had been a year since the younger one had been born. He put the brakes on his irritation and reminded himself that Beauford Bend was Dirk and Gwen’s home, too, and he hadn’t told them he was coming.

Then he came to the clearing. The main house was lit up like a homecoming bonfire. His stomach lunged. There was no reason for that. Dirk and Gwen had their own house on the property. Even if Gwen was using the commercial kitchen in the main house all the lights from ballroom to basement would not be on—unless …

He let his eyes travel to the wedding grove. The scene was familiar—all too familiar. More fairy lights. Portable bar and dance floor. He knew all about setting that up. He knew about passing trays and cleaning up, too.

This was no kid’s birthday party or family reunion. This was no shindig Dirk and Gwen would throw unless in the unlikely event they’d divorced and one of them was getting remarried—because there was a bride in a big puffy dress right in the middle of the whole business.

But how? These people couldn’t have broken in.

Then the truth settled on him. Emory had defied him! How was that possible? No one defied him!

He sped up.

• • •

Emory walked through the crowd. They were still going strong but everything seemed to be fine. They’d either gotten used to the heat or decided to ignore it. She ducked behind the gazebo where the catering tent was set up.

“How’s it going, Gwen?” she asked. Gwen was in charge of food for events, whether she prepared it herself or worked with the Eat Cake Pastry Shop and Beauford Catering from town. Tonight, Beauford Catering had provided the dinner but Gwen and her staff were handling the hors d’oeuvres the clients had insisted on having during the dancing. Gwen looked up from where she was arranging tomato tarts on a silver tray. “Going good! We’re out of bacon and grits fritters but everything else is holding out fine, even for this crowd. They can eat. We’ve never served this much food at one event before.”

“They’re high maintenance all right but we only have a couple more hours. I’m going to check on the bar. Want me to hand that tray off to one of the servers?”

“That’d be great. I need to slice this pork tenderloin.” As she held the tray out, Gwen’s eyes went to a place over Emory’s shoulder and her smile widened. “Well, look who’s come calling!” And Emory’s stomach bottomed out. She knew immediately, before he stepped closer, before she turned and looked, before Gwen said, “Hello there, guitar man. Are you hungry?”

He stepped into Emory’s field of vision and her breath caught like it did every time she saw him in person. On television and in YouTube videos, he always looked smaller and paler, less alive. Sometimes she even tried to convince herself he had shrunk and his eyes weren’t that amazing shade of sage washed around the edges with bright, silvery gray.

But no. Now the truth stood before her—nearly six and a half feet of rock-hard pure male. A man who was so lean and powerful at the same time was truly the eighth wonder of the world. Maybe the ninth, too. Though bandaged from the injury he’d gotten during the fire, the arm that snaked around to hug Gwen was muscular and strong. It was an arm that could make the guitar slung low on his hip laugh and cry all night long without ever getting tired. He’d cut his hair. Maybe it had gotten singed in the fire and he’d had to. Regardless, it suited him, made him look younger, more like he had that first summer she saw him—though his body had come into its own since then. The edge of the tattoo that barely peeped out of the left sleeve of his black t-shirt and the thin, braided leather bracelet on his left wrist were the only things that hinted that he didn’t make his living investing bonds in the most conservative bank in America.

An old feeling came over Emory. It had been so long she barely recognized it as desire. It didn’t surge and take hold like it had in more innocent, more ignorant days. Rather, it drifted in and settled in place like a cloud that wasn’t sure it was welcome. Small wonder; that feeling hadn’t been welcome in a long time. Could be it had settled in now only because the object of her desire was more likely to kill her than kiss her. A little excitement was fun when it was wrapped in safety.

He smiled as he and Gwen bantered in the way old friends did—though Emory couldn’t have reported what they said. She just stood there holding a tray of tomato tarts, wanting what she was never going to have.

Only she didn’t want him. She didn’t want
anyone.
She should take her tarts and go. She would drift into the crowd and then—

“Emory.” His voice was smooth whiskey and water but there was no warmth in it now and certainly no warmth in those silver-sage eyes. “A word, please.”

“Let me, Emory.” Gwen took the tray. “Go on and help Jackson settle in. I’ll radio you if anything happens.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, never doubting that she would follow. He pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket as he walked and jammed it on his head. She would probably have never looked at his butt if he hadn’t called attention to it that way—though it was a butt for the ages.

He stopped a distance away from the catering tent. “What in the hell is going on here?” he demanded, and not in a nice way.

Hmm. What to do, what to do? Lie? Stand up to him? Run? Running wouldn’t do. He’d take her down like some kind of a big jungle cat with babies who needed meat. Dead meat. Standing up to him wasn’t out of the question—it was just out of the question right now. That left lie.

“A wedding. A wedding is what is going on here. Or I guess I should say what
did
go on here. Now a reception is what’s going on. Would you like some cake? It’s white amaretto, with toffee crunch filling and Italian buttercream frosting. It might not be strictly traditional but it’s the best one June makes. You know June, from Eat Cake. I’ll go get you some.”

“Emory.” His jaw was clenched. Maybe she should run her hand over it to make sure he didn’t have lockjaw.

“You haven’t stepped on a rusty nail have you?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I do not want any cake. And I have not stepped on any nails, rusty or otherwise. But if I had one I might run it through your eye.”

“So I’m guessing you wouldn’t be willing to surprise these nice people with a song? They’d love that.”

Immediately, Emory regretted saying that. His eyes went so wide and his face turned so red, she feared his brain might blow up. Could that happen?

“No. I would not be willing to sing a song. Nor will I recite a poem, stand on my head, or read a passage from the Bible. Now, I repeat: why in the hell is there a wedding taking place on my property?”

She tried to look puzzled. “We are an events business, Jackson.
Events business
.” She enunciated the words the second time as if she were speaking to a not very bright toddler. “We sometimes have birthday parties, class reunions, anniversary parties, debutante dances. This time, it’s a wedding.”

“I’m tired of this. Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know very well I emailed you and told you to cancel events and vacate. Yet, here you are.”

“Maybe I didn’t get the email.” She was running out of time.

“Emory, you answered me! You agreed.” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet a little wider apart like a modern-day Paul Bunyan, only clean shaven and more athletic looking. He should get a blue ox. Or maybe one of those New Orleans blue dogs. That might be more in keeping with the updated look. As for the axe—it probably wouldn’t be in her best interest if he had one of those.

The crickets cried out. The giant fans whirled. The band played “How Do You Like Me Now?”

Clearly he wasn’t going to say anything else until she did. So this was what it felt like to stand in a corner with the floor all around you freshly painted. Okay, so lying hadn’t worked out.

“I shouldn’t have agreed and you shouldn’t have asked.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t ask. I directed. There was really only one answer you could give.”

“I know. That’s why I gave it.”

He shook his head like he was going to toss his hair but he didn’t have enough to toss. She laughed. He acted like a cat who’d fallen off the side of the bathtub and pretended like he’d meant to.

“Did you think I was never going to find out you didn’t do what I said?”

“That’s what I hoped.”

He closed his eyes and stood silent for a few seconds.

“I am having a conversation I don’t need to have. Get these people off my property, Emory. Do it now. And you had better not be far behind them.” He turned around like he was going to walk away from her. “For every hour you’re here starting right now, I’m taking a week off your severance pay.”

“Jackson!” she hissed. “You can’t do that.”

The look he gave her would have turned a less desperate woman to stone but she didn’t have time for that.

“Really, Emory, I can. Do you know why? I own this property. You work for me.”

“Not really.” Though she knew it wasn’t true. “I work for Around the Bend: Elegant Events, Inc.”

“Which I own.”

“Which you own with your brothers.”

“Do you see any of them here?” This time his voice came out in a shout—just as there was a lull in the music.

“Shh, Jackson. Keep your voice down! We have guests.”

“
You
have guests. I have trespassers, of which you are one. I’m warning you. I will call the police.”

“If you throw these people out of their wedding, they’ll sue you. I’m telling you, they’re mean. They’ve been mean to Christian and me all weekend.”

“Really? They were
nice people
when you tried to get me to sing for them.”

“I lied. They are Satan’s spawn, what with their wanting smoked salmon for breakfast and peonies in a color that doesn’t exist. This is the South. We don’t eat smoked salmon for breakfast. We eat country ham and fried pork tenderloin.”

“That I can believe—that you lied, I mean. I don’t care how mean they are. I’m meaner. And I’ve got more money. I’ll pay them back for the whole shindig if they will just go and take you back to hell with them.”

“That would be great. I can see the headlines now
. Grammy-Winning Country Music Superstar Ruins Dream Wedding
.”

“One month off your severance pay for threatening me.”

“I wasn’t threatening you. I was predicting what will happen if you end this party that’s going to be over in less than two hours anyway.”

“Another month for arguing. Keep it up and you’ll owe me money.”

Suddenly, he looked very tired and she remembered what he’d been through the last two weeks. And his stomach growled—audibly.

“Look, Jackson. You’re exhausted. That’s clear. I’m sorry about all this. I really am. And I’m sorry about what happened in California.”

He swiped his hand over his face. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Why don’t you just go to your rooms? There’s beer in your refrigerator. I saw it when I checked the family wing after the cleaning service was here last week. There’s filet mignon left from the wedding dinner. I’ll have you a plate sent up. These people will be out of here before midnight. We can settle this in the morning.”

He looked torn but worn out. Finally, he sighed. “All right. As long as you understand there’s nothing to settle and nothing is going to change.”

“Now go before someone catches sight of you. I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.”

“No. I don’t. Give me your key. I don’t have mine.”

“I can’t give you my key. It’s a master key and I need it to shut this party down. But come on. I’ll walk with you and let you in.”