Jonquils for Jax (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #1) - Katy Regnery Page 0,60
trouble. She needs me.
“Can you get the doctor? I think he’s waking up,” she said. Then softly, close to his ear, “Gard? Tu m’entends? Mon coeur, c’est moi. Jax. La duchesse.”
He knew exactly who she was. And whatever else she said didn’t matter. She’d just called him her “heart” in her perfect, pristine Parisian French, and it was by far the sweetest thing he’d ever heard in all his life.
He opened his eyes again, focusing on her face, which was hovering close to his.
“Mon coeur?” he asked.
“Gard,” she whispered.
“Mon coeur?” he asked again, searching her eyes, needing to be sure she’d said it, needing to know if she meant it.
“Oui.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she nodded her head. “Mon coeur.”
“Don’t cry, Duchess,” he rasped, closing his eyes again, his hand sliding over the bed sheets in her general direction, stopping when she clasped it, threading her fingers between his and raising his hand to her lips. She pressed her lips lovingly to his skin, then rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand.
“I was scared.”
“I’m…I’m sorry,” he mumbled, trying to remember what had happened, what had scared her.
“I was scared for you.”
He cracked his eyes open and sighed. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He paused. “Why did I—I can’t remember…?”
And then, suddenly, he did.
He winced, groaning as the memories came rushing back. He’d been running in the general direction of the photographer’s voice only to bang his knees on something hard and—and, oh, merde!—face plant on her pool deck. Christ, he’d been useless to her. Less than useless. An embarrassment to her and himself.
“Fuuuuck,” he muttered.
“Watch your mouth,” she said gently, squeezing his fingers and giving him a little smile. “There’s a lady here.”
“Jax,” he groaned, wishing he could crawl into a hole and hide. Not only had he let her down; he’d left her totally unprotected while some piece-of-shit paparazzo trash was hunting her. He winced, closing his eyes. Glory Lord, he could die of shame.
“No!” she said, her tone fierce. Her fingers abandoned his to reach up and clutch his chin. She forced him to face her. “Don’t you dare do that!”
“Do what, cher?” he asked, opening his eyes but keeping them averted as best he could. He couldn’t bear to look at her after failing her so completely.
“Look away from me. Be embarrassed. You were trying to protect me.”
Her words only served to make him feel more ashamed. It was the bottom of the bell jar, the lowest low. He’d acted on instincts from an old life of serving and protecting, only to discover—to finally, finally be forced to accept—that that life was long gone. And he was joke for trying to hold onto it.
“Did quite a job of it too,” he said softly, still unwilling to look at her.
“Gard,” she said, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath, and when she exhaled, it was jagged and soft. “You don’t understand.”
He glanced at her. “Understand what?”
“Seeing you…lying there…with blood coming out of your—” She touched her own forehead lightly and took another shaking breath. “It put everything in perspective. I’ve been…feeling sorry for myself. Hiding. More scared than angry. But in that moment? With you lying there bleeding? I thought, The rest be damned! I got angry. I finally. Got. Furious.”
He stared at her, waiting for her to continue.
“No one has a right to hunt me like that, to trespass on private property, to intimidate me, to make me feel unsafe, to invade my personal space. No one. And I won’t stand for it.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, her posture straighter and stronger. “I’ve already spoken to a lawyer. I’m pressing charges. Le Chateau is private property, so if those pictures show up anywhere, I’ll sue whoever took them and whoever buys and prints them.”
He nodded, wincing from a fresh stab of pain. “Good for you, Jax.”
She took a deep breath and sighed, cocking her head to the side.
“You got eleven stitches,” she said, her voice wavering again as she reached for his hand. “Oh, Gard. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Duchess,” he said, looking at her red-rimmed eyes and feeling them like a punch to the gut.
“If something had happened to you…”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I already told the hospital that you’d be coming home with me. I’ll take care of you until you feel—”
“No, cher,” he said gently, squeezing her hand before untangling their fingers. “No.”