Hurricanes and Handcuffs: A Red Hot Cajun Nights Story

Hurricanes and Handcuffs

By

Jodi Redford

“Hurricanes and Handcuffs”

Copyright 2014 Jodi Redford

Edited by JL Stalker

Published by Jodi Redford

Cover by Becky McGraw

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web-without permission in writing from the author.

CHAPTER ONE

Gabrielle Scott dumped the ball of bread dough onto the floured counter top and began pounding it to within an inch of its life. Well, technically she was mentally pummeling Jaxon Noble, but the dough provided a convenient proxy for her infuriating employer. It was just like him to spring this Mardi Gras event on her last minute. He had no clue of all of the work that went into his spur of the moment parties because he had
her
to take care of everything for him.

How one man could be the source of every frustrated, horny, and pathetically lovelorn thought in her head was beyond her. She should have listened to her mother’s advice about not courting the massive headaches that accompanied being a Noble employee.  With her mom’s thirty plus years as their family’s nanny and then later their head housekeeper, she was clearly the reigning authority on the matter. At least Sophia Scott never made the boneheaded mistake of falling for one of the Nobles. Smart woman. Apparently the apple fell several hundred yards from the tree in Gabbi’s case.

Blowing a loose strand of hair away from her eye, she sprinkled another handful of flour and continued taking her grievances out on the pliant lump of sourdough.

“Damn, Gabbi. No wonder you have some serious guns. Would hate to be on the receiving end of your left hook, Killer.”

She stiffened at the infuriating whiskey-smooth baritone behind her. Did the sonofabitch instinctively know every time he was camped out in her brain? He always magically appeared to taunt and entice her that extra mile. Seriously, maybe he was a genie. Or a maniacal leprechaun hell bent on driving her insane. That last option sounded most likely.

A high-pitched girlish laugh capable of shattering glass piggybacked Jax’s observation. Gabbi clenched her teeth.
Oh hell no.
Bad enough she was forced to feed these brainless gold digger twats. Now Jax was parading them under her nose?

She was going to fucking kill him. That’s all there was to it.

“It’s so unfeminine having too much muscle,” the bimbette said with a catty snicker. “Not to mention how horrible it looks when it eventually turns to fat when you get old and wrinkled.”

Her fingers cramping, Gabbi glanced at the wood block crammed with razor-sharp Wusthof knives across the way. Tempting. The
click-click-click
of heels on the marble floor announced the steady approach of her unwanted company, and she reluctantly shifted her focus toward them.

The female was Jax’s usual type—blonde, leggy, and barely legal
or
dressed. Seriously, considering he was wealthier than Croesus, it wasn’t like Jax couldn’t buy these chicks some duds that’d actually cover their asses. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she transferred her irritated stare to her boss.

From the tips of his expensive Italian leather wingtips to the platinum and onyx cufflinks adorning his impeccably tailored gray Armani suit, Jax was the epitome of sex-on-a-stick. And the damnable man knew it. It was as if God had decided that it wouldn’t be enough to make Jax sole heir to one of the biggest media conglomerates in North America, why not go completely overboard with blessings and grace him with a gorgeous face and body that made normally sane women consider pitching their panties for one hot night of sin with him. And that’s precisely all it would amount to. Jax replaced his women more frequently than most folks switched out a roll of toilet paper.

The bimbette rubbed against Jax’s side, her full lips pouty and no doubt injected with more collagen than Gabbi’s favorite moisturizer. “I thought you were going to show me the rest of the mansion.”

“But this is the best room in the entire place.” Jax tossed Gabbi a wink that made her long to either lob the bread dough at his head or tackle him to the ground and ride him until they were both yippee-ki-yayed out. Both sounded far too appealing at the moment.

“It smells funny in here.” Ms. Flavor of the Week scrunched her perfect little nose and made a face.

Gabbi grunted. “What? You mean like food? Imagine that craziness.”

Death rays shot from the woman’s eyes, but the second Jax glanced her way she plastered on a phony-baloney smile. “I was really hoping you’d show me your bedroom.”

Subtle. Then again, at least she didn’t hike up her Band-Aid of a skirt and beg Jax to fuck her right there on the kitchen island. Despite her inner bitchiness, Gabbi’s stomach churned when Jax led his guest out of the room.

She wasn’t clueless about what went on after he seduced his lady friends with
her
culinary confections. And it absolutely tore her up inside. These money grubbing bimbos didn’t love him. Yes, there were a million and one reasons for why she’d be wise to kill her own feelings where Jax was concerned. But it was impossible to stop loving someone you’d ached for the better part of your entire life.

The insanity topping her massive foolishness? She wasn’t blind to his countless flaws. Hell, she probably knew him better than he knew himself. She had over twenty-five years of history with Jax prior to accepting the position as his live-in personal chef. It seemed like it was only yesterday that she first stepped through the doorway of his parent’s house. Shit, if you could even call it that. Their twenty-four thousand square foot summer residence made this mansion look like a freakin’ shack. To a bedazzled six year old, it’d seemed like Cinderella’s Castle on steroids. And the analogy was perfect, because Jax had been her dashing prince and playmate. 

Back then she’d had no concept of the vast chasm of money and social standing that separated them. No, that epiphany didn’t come until much later, when she was suddenly excluded from the lavish birthday parties his parents threw to make up for neglecting him the rest of the year. Ironic that she was now the one catering Jax’s shindigs.

It’d be easy to fall for the convenient excuse that what she felt was the lingering byproduct of her youthful infatuation with the lonely boy who’d been willing to play Barbie dolls with her. And maybe it was a little of that. But as the years passed and Jax came out of his shell in a big way by seeking every scandalous misadventure he could, Gabbi’s love for him didn’t die. Only she did. A little more each day as her heart yearned for what it could never have.

Done mentally pulverizing herself as well as the bread dough, she plopped the mound of yeasty goodness into a bowl and draped a cloth over it before leaving it to rise in the oven. She dampened a sponge and cleaned up the mess she’d made on the counter. The task gave her something to concentrate on. God knows she needed to chase her agonized thoughts away from the spacious master suite in the far upstairs wing of the house.

He probably already had her dress off. Not that it’d take much effort. Shit, if the chick sneezed hard enough it’d blow off of her. Rubbing the back of her sore neck, Gabbi stared glumly at the stove’s timer.

She couldn’t keep doing this to herself. If she stayed in Jax’s employ and continued living under the same roof with him she’d lose what was left of her sanity as well as the tiny corner of her heart that remained unscarred. Yes, she loved her job with nearly as much passion as she clung to her tumultuous relationship with Jax. But was it worth this slow spiral into misery? It wasn’t as if she couldn’t find another position elsewhere. She was a damn good chef, and her references were top notch.

Assuming Jax wouldn’t be a butthead about it. If he refused to give her the glowing recommendation she deserved it’d show just how little she meant to him. Her stomach roiling at that gloomy possibility, she untied her apron and pulled the neck strap over her head. She hooked the flour-dusted garment on the peg in the pantry and fingered the brightly hued letters spelling out her name on the apron’s front. Jax had surprised her with it on her first day on the job three years ago. She’d added a few more aprons to her collection since then but this one would always be her favorite.

Her vision growing suspiciously blurry, she swiped at her eyes, banishing the tears before they could get out of hand. She stepped from the pantry just as Jax strode into the kitchen. They both stared at each other stupidly for a long moment.

Finally Jax broke the awkward silence. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Your eyes are puffy.”

“My allergies are acting up.” She slid her gaze over his shoulder. “Where’s Bulimic Barbie? Unconscious on the bed?”

Amusement tipped the corner of Jax’s mouth. “Her name is Whitney, and she’s hardly my type.” He returned her squint with a chuffing laugh. “What? She’s not. I only invited her over because she’s the baby sister of Olivia’s newest boy toy. I’m doing my familial duty by putting in a good word for my cousin.”

She snorted. “The only part I believe in all of that is her being a baby. Freakin’ jailbait.”

He leaned against the corner of the marble-topped island, a broad grin lighting his sun-kissed features. “Someone sounds a little jealous.”

“Me? Of her? If you believe that, then
someone’s
been smoking crack.”

Her vehement denial only earned a chuckle from Jax. “I’m really going to miss your sassy mouth next month.”

Safe to say not as much as she was going to miss him. Yes, it was utterly ridiculous. She should look forward to having a week-long vacation and a welcome reprieve from the constant parade of women. Instead she dreaded the thought of being all alone in this big house with no one for company.

“You could always come with me, you know.”

She gaped at him, his unexpected offer filling her with a giddy rush of happiness. “You...want me to come to Paris with you?”

“Why not? Might save me from overdoing it on all of the French pastries. Got to watch my figure.” His gaze sparkling, he patted his washboard belly.

It took a moment to tear her focus from the lazy drift of his hand and her tormenting mental musings of the rock-solid six pack beneath his snowy white button-down shirt. Once his words penetrated her brain she veered her attention back to his grinning mug. “You’re inviting me so I’ll cook for you?”

“Well...” His expression grew wary. “Yeah?”

The spark of joy extinguished in her heart. “I can’t believe you!”

“I thought you’d like the idea. You’ve never been to Paris before, and it’s a great opportunity for you to learn some new techniques. My friend at L'Espérance has an intensive two day course that I think you’d really enjoy.”

Under different circumstances she would. Studying under Michelin star chefs and visiting Parisian farmers markets and cozy sidewalk cafes sounded like every wistful dream she’d longed for. But what Jax was suggesting had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with convenience on his end. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about spending time with her. All he wanted was someone to fix him his damn breakfast every morning. “So in other words, a working vacation for me. Wow, how generous.”

He frowned. “Why are you being so pissy?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She tossed up her hands. “Maybe because I haven’t had a day off in over a week, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had an actual vacation.”
And you’re breaking my fucking heart.
She kept the admission locked inside her even though it was screaming to be released from the prison of her tongue.

“Gabbi, I swear to you that after the party is done with I’ll give you a whole week off.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

He pushed away from the counter and tipped a knuckle underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. The hypnotic quality of those midnight blue irises reeling her in, she stared hopelessly at him. With his free hand, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and brushed her cheek. He smiled. “You have flour all over you.”

“Hazard of the job.” Just one of many. The most dangerous being her standing too close for comfort with the man who made her crave sinful, impossible things like being tied up to that huge king-sized bed upstairs.

The warm buzz of liquid encouragement had fueled her courage and recklessness a year or so ago, and she’d bravely wandered into his room while he was off on one of his numerous business trips. She’d only felt the tiniest twinge of shame at invading his privacy as she’d sprawled on the fluffy silk comforter and imagined his hands caressing her all over. With that enticing image planted in her alcohol-hazed brain, she’d slipped her fingers beneath the elastic of her lace boy shorts and rubbed her clit to a fast, guilt-ridden orgasm. For days afterward she’d avoided direct eye contact with Jax, certain that he’d somehow known the lengths of loser depravity she’d sunk to.

“I know I can be a royal pain in the ass to work for sometimes, but I appreciate everything you do for me, Gabbi. Don’t think otherwise.” He grazed his fingertips along her jaw. “So please come to Paris with me.”

A pointed cough intruded on the moment. Gabbi broke their linked gazes and glanced toward the columned entry leading into the kitchen. Whitney drummed her nails on her cocked hip. “Hate to be rude, but I’m getting cold here.”

Easy to see why. Even the radiant floor heating wouldn’t be enough to make up for the absence of Whitney’s Band-Aid dress. And the demi bra and itsy bitsy panties she wore didn’t offer much in the way of warmth, much less coverage.

Feeling like she’d been gut-punched, Gabbi jerked away from Jax. Anger, hurt, and bone-crushing betrayal shaking her limbs, she glared at him. “Not your type, huh?”