Cry Wolf (24 page)

He didn't give her a chance to say no, but closed the distance between them and stole a kiss, slipping his arms quickly around her. Laurel reacted with an unfamiliar mix of desire and pique. Temper overruled temptation, and she started to bring her knee up to teach him the wisdom of asking for permission. Jack reacted instantly, twisting out of harm's way, throwing Laurel off balance. Before she could realize what he was doing, she was sprawled on top of him on the stone bench, her chin on his chest, eyes round with astonishment.

He sat with his back propped against the wall, one foot planted on the bench, one on the ground. He grinned at her. “All right, sugar, have your way with me.”

“I'll thank you to let me up,” Laurel said primly, shoving against his chest.

“No,” Jack murmured, holding her, pulling her back down when she would have shot to her feet and stormed away. He wanted to hold her, needed to feel her softness against him. He pulled her close and nuzzled her ear while he rubbed a hand gently over her back. “Stay,” he whispered. “Don't go, angel. It's late, and I don' wanna be alone with myself.”

His strength wouldn't have kept her there, but the need in his voice was another matter altogether. It was subtle, couched in threads of humor, but there nevertheless. Laurel stilled against him, her eyes finding his in the moonlight, searching, wondering, a little wary.

“I never know who you are, Jack,” she said softly.

She wouldn't want to know who he really was, he thought. If she knew everything about him, she wouldn't stay. If she knew anything about him, she would steer clear, and he would never have the chance to hold her, to take some solace in the feel of her against him—never have the chance to lose himself, however briefly, in the sweet bliss of kissing her.

He couldn't run that risk tonight. He had spent too much time tearing up what was left of his conscience and flogging what was left of his soul. He felt too beaten, too battered, and she was too pretty and too good.

Too good for the like of you, Jack . . .

She stared at him, her eyes as dark as midnight, as uncertain as a child's. In spite of all she'd been through, an aura of innocence still clung about her like a fading perfume. Like Evie. God, what pain that thought brought with it! If he touched her, he would sully her innocence, destroy it as he had destroyed Evie. But he wasn't strong enough to be noble, wasn't good enough to do the right thing. He was a bastard and a user and worse, a man caught between what he was and what he wanted. And he was so damn tired of being alone. . . .

“You don' trust me,” he whispered, tenderly brushing her hair from her eyes. He grazed his fingertips along the delicate line of her cheekbone. “You shouldn't. I'm bad for you.”

The warning was diluted to nothing by the sadness in his face. His mouth twisted into a half smile that was cynical and weary. His dark eyes looked a hundred years old. Bad Jack Boudreaux. The devil in blue jeans. Self-professed cad. Warning her away. He didn't see the paradox, but Laurel did. He was nobody's hero, but he would save her from himself.

She had spent too much of her life with people who claimed to be good and weren't. Jack claimed to be bad, but if he were truly bad, she would have known, would have sensed, wouldn't have wanted him to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her while the night lay warm and fragrant around them.

He's dangerous. . . .

Yes, she had thought that. And if Jack himself wasn't dangerous, then what she felt when he was this near surely was. She couldn't fall for him, not for his body or his tarnished soul or his allure of the forbidden. There was no room in her life for a rogue. She couldn't have her heart broken again; she was still trying to glue the pieces back together from the last time she had come apart.

She could feel it beating, thumping against Jack's chest through the thin fabric of her white T-shirt and his black one. She held her breath and counted the beats, her eyes on his, wondering why she didn't take her own advice and walk away.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, pulling her closer, “you don' wanna believe me, I might as well prove it.”

The kiss was carnal from the first. Burning hot. Frankly sexual. He traced his tongue slowly around the inner edge of her lips, then slipped deeper, probing, exploring. Laurel tried to catch her breath and caught his instead, hot and flavored with the taste of whiskey.

He ran his hands over her back, chasing shivers, setting off new ones, sliding lower. Desire swelled inside her, pushing aside sanity, blazing a trail for more instinctive responses. She arched against him, losing herself in the kiss, in the moment. She tangled her hands in his hair. His hands slid over her buttocks, kneading, stroking. He caught the hem of her T-shirt and dragged it up, his knuckles skimming over the taut muscles of her back, skating along the sides of her rib cage.

Laurel felt as if she were tumbling through space, dizzy, hanging on tight to her only anchor. Then suddenly she was on her back with no roof but a sky full of diamond lights and branches strung with lacy moss, and Jack was at her breast, his tongue rasping against her nipple, his lips tugging gently. The sensation was incredible, setting off a flutter of something wild inside her, tearing away her self-control—

Control. Panic rose inside her. She never lost control.
Couldn't
lose control. She was no creature of passion like Savannah.

“No.” The word came out as a puff of nothing. She swallowed hard and tried again, pushing at Jack's broad shoulders as guilt and fear and a dozen other emotions twisted in her chest and tightened like vines around her lungs and throat. “Jack, no.”

His hand stilled as his fingertips were sneaking under the waistband of her panties. He raised his dark, glittering eyes to meet hers, his mouth poised just above the taut, swollen bud of her nipple. Laurel tightened her every muscle against the desire to just let go. She brought a chilling dose of shame down on her own head to cool the fire.

What the hell was the matter with her, succumbing to the charms of a rake like Jack Boudreaux? On a stone bench in her aunt's courtyard, no less. She barely knew him, didn't trust him, wasn't even sure she liked him.

Jack watched her, watched the flash of panic, the wash of guilt. “You want me, angel. I want you.” He shifted his weight, pressing his erection against her hip as proof of his statement.

“I . . . I don't.” Laurel bit down hard on the urge to panic. She kept her eyes locked on his, as if that contact somehow gave her a measure of control. Foolish. He outweighed her by eighty pounds. He could take what he wanted, as men had been doing since the dawn of time.

“Tu menti, mon ange,”
he murmured, shaking his head. “You lie to yourself, not me.”

His eyes held fast on hers as he touched the warm, dewy cleft of her womanhood.

“I think you proved your point,” she said bitterly.

“You're a bastard, and I want you anyway. You've made that fact very clear.”

That age-old weariness crept into his expression again, seeped outward from some deep, dark well inside him.
“Oui,”
he said. He slid his hand back up over her belly and pulled her T-shirt down, covering her. He smoothed the fabric gently, regretfully, his mouth twisting. “And now I have the whole long night to wonder why I made it at all.”

Chapter
Thirteen

Laurel checked her reflection in the hall mirror, frowning. She hadn't brought a suit home with her. The best she could do was a loose-fitting navy linen blazer over a white silk tank and a pair of taupe trousers. The outfit was more formal than she had ever planned to look during her stay here, less formal than she would ever have allowed herself on the job. No win.

It seemed she was stuck in a groove of no-win situations. She didn't want to tackle anything more mentally and emotionally taxing than gardening, but had given her pledge to T-Grace and Ovide. She had no intention of getting involved with a man, but had tossed and turned until dawn thinking about Jack, dreaming about Jack. Jack, with his devil's grin. Jack, with his brooding intensity. Jack, with weary dark eyes that had seen too much.

What if she hadn't said no?

“You look very lawyerlike.”

Laurel glanced around to find Caroline on her way out for the day. “I don't want to do this,” she admitted glumly.

Caroline put her arm around Laurel's waist to give her a reassuring squeeze. “You don't feel ready?”

“No.”

She reached up to tuck an errant strand of ash brown hair behind Laurel's ear, her heart aching a little. Beneath the discreet makeup, behind the lenses of her oversize spectacles, Laurel had the look of a child braced for the first day of school—trying to be brave, wanting to stay safe at home.

“I think maybe you're more ready than you know, darlin',” Caroline said gently. “More time isn't going to change what happened. You'll never be able to get justice for those children. I think the best thing you can do is go and get justice for somebody else, then.”

Laurel heaved a sigh and nibbled her lower lip, chewing off the soft coral lipstick she had just applied. She couldn't think of a thing to say. The feelings were too jumbled. She wanted to stand there forever with Caroline's arm around her, with her aunt's love supporting her. This was what she had come home for, not to jump into trouble with a religious charlatan, not to fend off Vivian's machinations, not to be tempted by Jack Boudreaux. For love, for someone who would judge her far less harshly than she judged herself. For the first time in a long while she felt an acute stab of longing for her father, who had solved all her childish problems with a hug and a kiss and a stick of Juicy Fruit gum. But all she had left of him were a few old snapshots, his crawfish tie pin, and his sister—Caroline.

She drew in a slow, deep breath, tamping down the emotions, drawing up some strength, focusing on the few items scattered on the Chippendale hall table, and cataloging them to give her mind something to do besides wallow in sad memories—an ivory French-style telephone, a blue willow vase holding a spray of fresh-cut flowers, a pewter dish holding an assortment of car keys and a lone earring.

“I'll be all right,” she said, her gaze fastening on the earring. It was heart-shaped, large, tarnished silver studded with rhinestones and bits of colored glass. She fished it out of the dish as an excuse to change the topic. “Is this yours?”

Caroline frowned at the gaudy bauble. “Lord, no. It must be Savannah's.” She took a step back and gave her niece one last, long look in the eye, not in the least bit fooled by the diversion. “You come down to the store and see me later if you need to talk, you hear?”

Laurel nodded. Caroline reached up and stroked her niece's cheek gently, her thumb just grazing one of the dark shadows of fatigue that arched beneath her eyes. “I know how strong you really are, sweetheart,” she said softly, “and I know you'll be all right. You're a Chandler, after all, and we're made of stern stuff. But don't expect to climb back all in one day, and don't forget that I'm here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Aunt Caroline,” Laurel murmured.

Caroline straightened her dainty shoulders, a gleam in her dark eyes and a wry smile curling her mouth. “Thanks, nothing. You go kick the figurative shit out of that television preacher.”

A chuckle bubbled up inside Laurel, and she smiled. “I'll do my best.”

As Caroline went out, Savannah came down the stairs, wearing a plum silk kimono trimmed with a band of ivory satin and wide ivory satin cuffs that fell past her wrists. Laurel watched her descent by way of the mirror as she repaired her lipstick, trying to assess her sister's mood. It had been near dawn before Savannah had come in, and she was obviously trying to fight off the aftereffects of her late night. She wore a blue gel eye mask to combat puffiness and took the stairs one careful step at a time. Her lips were swollen and red, and her hair was as wild as a witch's mane around her shoulders.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Laurel bit down on the questions that sprang instantly to mind and the re-criminations that came hard on their heels.

“Is this your earring?” She held up the heart-shaped bob as she turned away from the mirror.

Savannah said nothing as she padded barefoot down the hall. She stared blankly at the earring for a moment, flicked at it with a finger to set it swinging. “It was in your car,” she said flatly. “Where are you going?”

“Down to the courthouse to see about stopping Baldwin from harassing the Delahoussayes.”

“Christ, Baby, you barely know them.”

“I know all I need to know.”

“You're not supposed to be upsetting yourself with other people's problems.”
You're supposed to be letting me take care of you
.

Laurel opened her pocketbook and dropped in her lipstick and car keys. “So,” she said with a shrug, “I'll solve this one and go back to laying low. How's that sound?”

“Like a load of bullshit,” Savannah snapped. “Let the Delahoussayes take care of themselves. They can damn well fight their own fights.” Her mouth bent into something like a smile. “You saw that for yourself yesterday. That bitch Annie damn near gave me a bald spot.”

She lifted a hand to rub at her scalp, the sleeve of her kimono falling to her elbow. Laurel's eyes went round at the sight of her wrist. The delicate, porcelain skin was bruised and raw in spots.

“My God, Sister! What happened to you?” she demanded, snatching at Savannah's arm so she could get a better look.

Savannah bared her teeth, an expression made eerier by the blue mask she wore across her eyes like something left over from Mardi Gras. “You don't want to know.”

“Yes, I do! What the hell—”

“No,” she said coolly. “I distinctly remember you telling me you didn't want to hear about my sex life. You didn't want to hear that Ronnie Peltier has a cock like a jackhammer or that the Revver likes to play whip-me, whip-me games or that I like to do it with—”

“Stop it!” Laurel yelled. Flinging her sister's arm away, she stepped back, as if Savannah's admission was so repulsive, she couldn't stand the idea of touching her or breathing the same air. “Dammit, Savannah, why do you have to do that? Why do you have to degrade yourself that way?”

“Because I'm a
slut
.” Savannah threw the word like a dagger, her temper tearing through what little self-control she had left. She stalked toward Laurel, eyes narrowed behind her mask, lips pulled back. “I'm not a shining little bright-eyed heroine. I'm what Ross Leighton turned me into.”

“You're what you want to be,” Laurel fired back. “Ross hasn't laid a hand on you in fifteen years—”

“How do you know?” Savannah sneered, backing her into the hall table. “Maybe I still fuck him twice a week for old time's sake.”

“Shut up!”

“What's the matter, Baby? Don't you want to hear about how I spread my legs for our dear old stepdaddy so you wouldn't have to?”

The words stung like nettles in Laurel's heart. “I didn't have any control over what Ross did to you,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “You can't blame me, and you can't blame yourself. It's stupid to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for something that was beyond your control.”

Savannah stepped back, her expression beneath her mask a combination of cynicism and incredulity. “My God, aren't you the little hypocrite?” she said softly. “What the hell have you been doing with your whole damn life?”

Laurel stared at her, stunned, weak. Her knees felt like water, and her stomach tightened like a fist.

Mama Pearl rumbled into the hall, wringing her plump hands in a red checked dish towel, a scowl folding her forehead into burls of flesh. “What the world goin' on out here?” she demanded. “All I hear is yellin' an' cursin' like to burn the Almighty's ears! What goin' on?”

Savannah pulled her temper in and wrapped it tight around her as she adjusted the sash on her kimono. “Nothing, Mama Pearl,” she said calmly. She picked a piece of dead leaf out of her hair and crumbled it between her fingers. “I just came down to get a pot of tea.”

Mama Pearl looked to Laurel for corroboration. Laurel straightened her glasses and picked up her purse, her hand trembling visibly. “I have to go,” she mumbled, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, focusing on maintaining some semblance of control.

She walked out of the house and into the sauna heat of midmorning on wobbly legs, thinking that after what she had just been through, a trip to the courthouse was going to be a piece of cake.

The air-conditioning in the sheriff's office was fighting a losing battle against the afternoon sun that came glaring in through the window. Sheriff Duwayne Kenner stood behind his desk with his hands on his slim hips, overseeing the futile attempts of two maintenance men who were trying to install a new venetian blind.

“Get the goddamn bracket straight,” he growled. “And the left one's half an inch higher than the right. What the hell you boys thinkin'—that y'all can tip the whole goddamn courthouse so the shade'll hang straight?”

The maintenance man on the right shot a glance over his meaty shoulder, blinking at the sweat that dribbled down his shining dark forehead and into his eyes. His blue shirt was soaked down the back and sides, the tails crawling up out of the low-riding waistband of his pants, giving glimpses of a generous tube of fat around his middle. He gulped a breath and mumbled the expected, “No, sir.”

The other man—younger, thinner, harder, darker—set his jaw at the word “boy” and dropped his end of the blind so that the blazing sun struck Kenner full in the face.

“Jesus Christ!” The sheriff took a quick step back, snapping his head to the side and squeezing his eyes shut. The badge pinned to the chest of his sweat-stained khaki uniform shirt glinted like gold.

The younger man's mouth flicked up on the corners. “I's sorry, Sheriff Kenner,” he said in an exaggerated drawl.

“Your sorry black ass,” Kenner grumbled under his breath. He jerked around, muttering about the squandering of tax dollars on equal opportunity programs, and faced the young woman who had come into his office a full five minutes ago to speak with him.

Laurel Chandler. Ross Leighton's stepdaughter. While Kenner curried favor with Leighton, he was in no particular hurry to listen to the girl. Everyone in town had heard about her—making wild accusations up in Georgia, blowing the case, losing her marbles over it. She was trouble. He could smell trouble a mile off—even when it was wearing perfume.

Laurel sat in the visitor's chair, sweat trickling down her sides and between her shoulder blades. Her linen jacket was wilted, her temper frayed down to the nub. While her morning's efforts had gone smoothly, she had a feeling Kenner was going to be a whole different story. He had the unmistakable aura of a redneck about him. He looked fifty, tough and sinewy, with the lean build of a cowboy. His steel gray hair was thinning fast on top, but she doubted anyone ribbed him about it. If Kenner had a sense of humor, the Klan backed the NAACP.

He regarded her with hard, dark eyes, his impatience charging the air around him, his mouth set in a grim line that would have done Clint Eastwood proud. “What can I do for you, Miz Chandler?” he asked in a flat tone that indicated both his level of interest and his lack of willingness to do anything at all for her.

Laurel took a deep breath of stifling, sweat-tinged air and shifted on her seat. “I wanted to make you aware of the situation between the Delahoussayes of Frenchie's Landing and Reverend Jimmy Lee Baldwin. He's been harassing them and disrupting their business. I've spoken with Judge Monahan on their behalf.”

Kenner perched a skinny buttock on one corner of his desk, picked up a pack of unfiltered Camels, and shook one out just long enough to hook his lip over. “Seems a might drastic,” he said, cigarette bobbing as he tore a match from a book and struck it.

“Baldwin is not only making a nuisance of himself, he's defaming the Delahoussayes and inhibiting their right to free trade.”

He took a deep pull on the cigarette, pretending to consider the facts as she had presented them. “He hadn't hurt anybody, has he?”

“Is that your criterion for action?” Laurel asked coolly. “You wait until someone has resorted to physical violence?”

Eyes narrowing to slits, Kenner blew twin streams of smoke out his slim nose and pointed a finger at her, shaking ash down on the cheap linoleum floor. “I do a damn good job in this parish, Missy. Everywhere around us they got dead girls stacked up like cordwood and drug dealers crawling around thick as copperheads in canebreaks. You don't see that here, and I'll tell you why—'cause I know damn well whose ass to kick.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“You're goddamn right I do.” He took a quick drag on his smoke and shot a glare over his shoulder at the maintenance men, who were making an unholy racket with the blind. “And I'll tell you this—I got better things to do with my time than chase around after that television preacher, tellin' him where he can piss and where he can't.”

Laurel rose gracefully, smoothing the wrinkles from her trousers, schooling her temper. Kenner was hardly the first jerk she'd ever come up against. “I don't care where he pisses, Sheriff,” she said smoothly. “I don't care where he does anything, as long as he doesn't do it at Frenchie's Landing. Judge Monahan has granted a temporary injunction until the formalities can be taken care of. Diligent as you are, I expect you'll do everything in your power to see that Reverend Baldwin respects it.”