JACOB


“Thank you,” she mumbles a second later as I step aside, gesturing for her to come inside.

I follow her and watch as she takes in the interior, stopping at the massive solid oak-paneled fireplace on her left. I don’t tell her to sit, but she does so anyway, plopping down on the sofa next to the empty hearth. I watch as she takes in the sparsity of the furnishings and the heavy black-out curtains that keep the blazing sun out. Her eyes finally come to a halt at my walker sitting beside the door.

“Do you mind if I take my shoes off for a minute? My feet are killing me. I should have listened to my best friend when she told me to wear something comfortable. I just didn’t think anyone would live somewhere so remote and hard to get to.”

I watch intently as she takes off one short-heeled shoe, then the other. When she bends forward to rub her toes, I catch a glimpse of her ample breasts peeking from her flimsy blouse, and my mouth salivates.

“No offense, Mr. Broussard, but this place could use a woman's touch. Could I have that glass of water now, please?”

I pick up my cane and go to the kitchen, feeling her eyes on my back every step of the way.

A couple of minutes later, I hand her a tall glass and watch as she gulps the ice-cold water down in one go. She catches me staring at her chest again and chuckles.

“Clearly, you’ve not been around a woman lately,” she adds after wiping her lips.

I stare at her in awe, wondering if her sass is just an act to cover her fear or if she is genuinely unafraid of walking inside strangers’ homes all by herself.

“Oui,” I retort, refusing to remove my eyes from her delectable cleavage. “What gave me away?"

She offers me a sly, mischievous smile. “Everything.”

“Well, you guessed right, ma chérie. I’ve got an envie for some pockon, I won’t lie,” I murmur without an ounce of restraint. There’s nothing I’d like more at this moment than to be balls deep inside her warm little pussy.

Once more, she looks up to meet my heated gaze.

“I am here on business, Mr. Broussard. I have no idea what you just said to me, but judging from the tone of your voice alone, it wasn't pretty. I’d greatly appreciate it if we could keep things professional. I know that even a man like you must certainly be able to do that.”

Her cheeks flush, and I’d be lying if I said the brazen words coming out of that luscious mouth aren’t turning me on. Pity has already reared its ugly head, and it's staring me straight in the eyes.

“You know, on second thought, I think it's best you should leave, Miss. You have no place here.”

With that, the color creeps up even brighter on her face, making her gorgeous green eyes sparkle. “You mean here in Louisiana?”

“Don't play games with me, pichouette. You should leave.” I warn again, heading toward the door.

“I’m sorry if my last words offended you, Mr. Broussard. Can I please take my notebook out, and we can proceed with the interview? Please? It won’t take long, I promise.”

She looks up at me with those large, cat-like eyes of hers, and I can't decide which gets me harder. Her sassy mouth or her jiggly, delectable breasts.

Both have me salivating.

She slips back into her shoes and shuffles to the dining room table.

“Ouch!” she blurts out when she stumbles over the large bowl of kibble I leave lying around for the bayou strays that sometimes wander inside. “You could use a little more light in this place, you know. It’s the middle of the day, and it’s dark as night in here.”

“Tenacious and spunky, aren’t you, Miss…”

“It's Gemma. Gemma Stone.”

I use my cane to assist me as I walk back toward her, careful not to step on the spilled food, and watch as she pulls out a chair from the table, sits down, and waits for me to approach.

“Well, the clock’s ticking, Miss Stone. Go ahead and ask. I'll answer however I see fit,” I say, as I take the seat next to her.

Thunder echoes again, and I wish it would just pour down, trapping this ethereal creature here with me. I watch carefully as she takes out a small notebook and a bronze, quill-shaped pen and waits patiently for me to start talking.

“Perfect,” she purrs. “So, can you tell me a little more about the day of the accident? Police records say you were mildly intoxicated.”

I take in her gorgeous features and young, lush body, silently appraising her for the second time in a matter of minutes. When her bra strap slips from her shoulder, I wish it was my fingers on her soft skin readjusting it.

“That's right. I was,” I say, my gaze never leaving hers. “I’m about two steps away from becoming a full-blown alcoholic these days.”

She turns to meet my eyes, and a jolt of electricity passes through me as she accidentally rubs her thigh against my leg. “Jenni and I had fought the previous night. I might have had a couple of shots of tequila afterward. As it turns out, Marc had been suspecting his wife of cheating on him. He never confronted me with it, but Jenni was worried he’d find out soon enough.”

“Jenni, that was Marc’s wife, wasn’t it? So, you were sleeping with her?”

“That is none of your concern, Miss Stone. Leave that out of your story. Marc was my best friend. I had no reason to want him dead.”

She lifts her eyes from her notes and frowns. “Why do you want me to leave it out of the story? The world knows you two were having an affair. It was a part of your trial. Don’t you want to tell your side of the story? I mean, the jury found you guilty of involuntary manslaughter, Mr. Broussard. You spent seven out of ten years in a state prison.”

“Oui.”

“But why were you convicted if you claimed self-defense?”

It's clear to me now that she won't drop this unless I give her what she wants.

Sighing deeply, I decide to indulge her curiosity. “I don’t see the need to tell ‘my side of the story’ to anyone, Miss Stone. The jury thought I had probable cause. As you already know from the documents submitted to the court, Jenni was pregnant with my baby. You did do proper research right, little girl?”

I pause for a moment, arching an eyebrow at her. “The day of the accident, Jenni was feeling angry and frustrated, and she chose just before the race to confess her sins to her husband. As you can imagine, Marc was livid. He was cussing me out, saying all kinds of nasty things I may very well have deserved. It took three men to hold him back from jumping me, but the race went on as planned. We got into our cars, and Marc tried to maneuver me into the railings. I fought back, and he went spiraling into the barriers at 280 miles per hour. Both our cars caught fire. His exploded, killing him instantly. Mine didn’t.”

Pausing again, I watch as she scribbles furiously into her notepad.

“The medical crew pulled me out of the car half-dead. Is there any other particularly vulgar detail about that day you'd like me to reminisce about for your writing pleasure, Miss Stone?”

She looks up from her notes to meet my eyes.

“Far from it, Mr. Broussard. The way I see it, the accident wasn’t your fault. Apart from your intoxication, you were only trying to defend yourself.”

“Under Louisiana's criminal law, that's vehicular homicide, I’ll have you know. That’s serious enough to get a man behind bars for a quarter of his life, if not more. I was lucky to only get ten.”

“Seven, with parole,” she cheerfully corrects as I turn to look at the clock over the mantel.

“Your time’s up, Miss.” Finally.

She takes the hint, puts the notebook back in her bag, and stands.

“For the record, I think you deserved better than Jenni. She's known to have her sights on handsome, wealthy men.”

“And you would know this how? Don’t believe everything you read in sleazy tabloids like the one you probably work for.” I scrub my hand across my face before continuing.

“And maybe you need to take a long, hard look at me,” I add as I slowly stand. “It’s been a long fucking time since anyone called me handsome. And I was definitely not wealthy last time I checked.”

“I’ll have you know that Manhattan Express is one of the most respectable newspapers in NYC, Mr. Broussard,” she retorts, her voice now laced with resentment.

I shrug and attempt to escort her to the door, but naturally, she beats me to it. Fat raindrops are starting to splash against the windows, and I wonder if the heavens are going to grant me my wish.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” she adds, turning around to watch me make my way to her. “I thought you might be more forthcoming after all that time spent inside. The public isn't too fond of you as you may very well know. I thought you deserve a chance to tell things from your point of view instead of what the tabloids rehash since your release.”

I catch her staring at my legs for the briefest of moments, and it sends a chill down my spine. I force a smile, trying to hold my tongue, but it’s impossible with her rattling me this way.

“You think so, huh? Do you think I give a fuck what people or the Press think about me? Did it ever cross your mind I could be the monster everyone believes I am? Maybe everything I just told you is a lie. Maybe it was me who went after Marc. I had a motive. Hell, I even had the perfect opportunity.” My voice has lost any semblance of compassion or regret, bitterness and anger taking reign now.

She clears her throat, still holding my gaze. “You never struck me as the killing kind, Mr. Broussard. You are a man who’s had his fill of the world. I’ve heard the stories.”

“Well, don’t believe everything you hear, Miss Stone. The world is full of liars and cheats. Allons, chère, c’est tout.”

I open the door and wait until she steps out.

She hesitates for a few fleeting seconds, then looks me straight in the eye.

“Goodbye, Mr. Broussard. Thanks for the water. And your precious time.”

With her back facing me, I watch her hips sway as she heads toward the dock.

A few minutes later, I watch her bend down to pick up something, fumbling with it for the longest time before turning to stare at me incredulously.

What the hell is it now?