Cry Wolf (3 page)

Making music this way looked to be hard work physically and emotionally. As if he were in the throes of exorcism, the notes tore out of him, elemental, rough, sexy, almost frightening in intensity. He dragged his thumb up and down the keyboard, stroking out the final long, frenzied glissando, and fell forward, panting, exhausted as the crowd whistled and howled and screamed for more.

“Whoa—” Jack gulped a breath and forced a grin. “
Bon Dieu
. It's Miller time, folks. Y'all go sit down while I recuperate.”

As a jukebox kicked in, the rest of the band instantly dispersed, abandoning the stage in favor of a table that was holding up gamely under the weight of more than a dozen long-necked beer bottles and an assortment of glasses.

Leonce clapped Jack's shoulder as he passed. “You're gettin' old, Jack,” he teased. “
Sa c'est honteu, mon ami
.”

Jack sucked another lungful of hot, smoky air and swatted at his friend. “Fuck you,
'tit boule
.”

“No need.” Leonce grinned, hooking a thumb in the direction of the dance floor. “You got one waitin' on you.”

Jack raised his head and shot a sideways look at the edge of the stage. She was still standing there, his little lawyer pest, looking expectant and unimpressed with him. Trouble—that's what she looked like. And not the kind he usually dove into headfirst, either. A lawyer.
Bon Dieu
, he thought he'd seen the last of that lot.

“You want a drink, sugar?” he asked as he hopped down off the stage.

“No,” Laurel said, automatically taking a half step back and chastising herself for it. This man was the kind who would sense a weakness and exploit it. She could feel it, could see it in the way his dark gaze seemed to catch everything despite the fact that he had been drinking. She drew deep of the stale, hot air and squared her shoulders. “What I want is to speak with you privately about the damage done by your dog.”

His mouth curved. “I don't have a dog.”

He turned and sauntered away from her, his walk naturally cocky. Laurel watched him, astounded by his lack of manners, infuriated by his dismissal of her.

He didn't glance back at her, but continued on his merry way, winding gracefully through the throng, stealing a bottle of beer off Annie's serving tray as he went. The waitress gave an indignant shout, saw it was Jack, and melted as he treated her to a wicked grin. Laurel shook her head in a combination of amazement and disbelief and wondered how many times he had gotten away with raiding the cookie jar as a boy. Probably more times than his poor mother could count. He stepped through a side door, and she followed him out.

Night had fallen completely, bringing on the mercury vapor lights that loomed over the parking lot and cloaking the bayou beyond in shades of black. The noise of the bar faded, competing out here with a chorus of frog song and the hum of traffic rolling past out on the street. The air was fresh with the scents of spring in bloom—jasmine and wisteria and honeysuckle and the ripe, vaguely rank aroma of the bayou. Somewhere down the way, where shabby little houses with thin lawns lined the bank, a woman called for Paulie to come in. A screen door slammed. A dog barked.

The hound leaped out at Laurel from between a pair of parked pickup trucks and howled at her, startling her to a skidding halt on the crushed shell of the parking lot. She slammed a hand to her heart and bit back a curse as the big dog bounded away, tail wagging.

“That dog is an absolute menace,” she complained.

“Don' look at me, sugar.”

He was leaning back against the fender of a disreputable-looking Jeep, elbows on the hood, bottle of Dixie dangling from the fingers of his left hand.

Laurel planted herself in front of him and crossed her arms, holding her silence as if it might force a confession out of him. He simply stared back, his eyes glittering in the eerie silvery light that fell down on him from above. It cast his features in stark relief—a high, wide forehead, sardonically arched brows, an aquiline nose that looked as if it might have been broken once or twice in his thirty-some years.

His mouth was set in sterner lines again above a strong, stubborn-looking chin that sported an inch-long diagonal scar. He looked tough and dangerous suddenly, and the transformation from the laughing, affable, wicked-grinned devil he'd been inside sent a shiver of apprehension down Laurel's back. He looked like a streetwise, predatory male, and she couldn't help second-guessing her judgment in following him out here. Then he smiled, teeth flashing bright in the gloom, dimples cutting into his cheeks, and the world tilted yet again beneath her feet.

“I have it on good authority that hound belongs to you, Mr. Boudreaux.” She dove into the argument, eager for the familiar ground of a good fight. She didn't like being caught off balance, and Jack Boudreaux seemed to be a master at throwing her.

He wagged a finger at her, tilting his head, a grin still teasing the corners of his mouth. “Jack. Call me Jack.”

“Mr.—”

“Jack.” His gaze held hers fast. He looked lazy and apathetic leaning back against the Jeep, but a thread of insistence had woven its way into the hoarse, smoky texture of his voice.

He was distracting her, but more than that, he was trying to do something she didn't want—put the conversation on a more personal level.

He shifted his weight forward, suddenly invading her personal space, and she had to fight to keep from jumping back as her tension level rose into the red zone. She gulped down her instinctive fear and tilted her chin up to look him in the eye.

“I don't even know your name, '
tite ange
,” he murmured.

“Laurel Chandler,” she answered, breathless and hating it. Her nerves gave a warning tremor as control of the situation seemed to slip a little further out of her grasp.

“Laurel,” he said softly, trying out the sound of it, the feel of it on his tongue. “Pretty name. Pretty lady.” He grinned as something like apprehension flashed in her wide eyes. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?”

She swallowed hard, leaning all her weight back on her heels. “I—I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Liar,” he charged mildly.

With his free hand he reached up and slid her glasses off, dragging them down her nose an inch at a time. When they were free, he turned them over and nibbled on the earpiece absently as he studied her in the pale white light.

Her bone structure was lovely, delicate, feminine, her features equally so, her skin as flawless as fresh cream. But she wore no makeup, no jewelry, nothing to enhance or draw the eye. Her thick, dark hair had been shorn just above her shoulders and looked as though she gave no thought to it at all, tucking it behind her ears, sweeping it carelessly back from her face.

Laurel Chandler. The name stirred around through the soft haze of liquor in his brain, sparking recognition. Chandler. Lawyer. The light bulb clicked on. Local deb. Daughter of a good family. Had been a prosecuting attorney up in Georgia someplace until her career went ballistic. Rumors had abounded around Bayou Breaux. She'd blown a case. There'd been a scandal. Jack had listened with one ear, automatically eavesdropping the way every writer did, always on the alert for a snatch of dialogue or a juicy tidbit that could work itself into a plot.

“What are you wearing these for?” he asked, lifting the glasses.

“To see with,” Laurel snapped, snatching them out of his hand. She really needed them only to read, but he didn't have to know that.

“So you can see, or so the rest of us can't see you?”

She gave a half laugh of impatience, shifting position in a way that put another inch of space between them. “This conversation is pointless,” she declared as her nerves stretched a little tighter.

He had struck far too close to the truth with his seemingly offhand remark. He appeared to be half drunk and completely self-absorbed, but Laurel had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that there might be more to Jack Boudreaux than met the eye. A cunning intelligence beneath the lazy facade. A sharp mind behind the satyr's grin.

“Oh, I agree. Absolutely,” he drawled, shuffling his feet, inching his way into her space again. His voice dropped a husky, seductive note as he leaned down close enough so his breath caressed her cheek. “So let's go to my place and do something more . . . satisfying.”

“What about the band?” Laurel asked inanely, trembling slightly as the heat from his body drifted over her skin. She held her ground and caught a breath in her throat as he lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

He chuckled low in his throat. “I'm not into sharing.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“They can play just fine without me.”

“I hope the same can be said for you,” Laurel said dryly. She crossed her arms again, drawing her composure around her like a queen's cloak. “I'm not going anywhere with you, and the only satisfaction I intend to get is restitution for the damage your dog caused.”

He dropped back against the Jeep in a negligent pose once more and took a long pull on his beer, his eyes never leaving hers. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don't have a dog.”

As if on cue, the hound jumped up into the driver's seat of the open Jeep and looked at them both, ears perked with interest as he listened to them argue culpability for his crimes.

“A number of people have identified this as your hound,” Laurel said, swinging an arm in the direction of the culprit.

“That don' make him mine, sugar,” Jack countered.

“No less than four people have named you as the owner.”

He arched a brow. “Do I have a license for this dog? Can you produce ownership papers?”

“Of course not—”

“Then all you have are unsubstantiated rumors, Miz Chandler. Hearsay. You and I both know that'll stand up in a court of law about as good as a dead man's dick.”

Laurel drew in a deep breath through her nostrils, trying in vain to stem the rising tide of frustration. She should have been able to cut this man off at the knees and send him crawling to Aunt Caroline's house to apologize. He was nothing but a liquored-up piano player at Frenchie's Landing, for Christ's sake, and she couldn't manage to best him. The anger she had been directing at Jack started turning back her way.

“What'd ol' Huey do, anyhow, that's got you so worked up, angel?”

“Huey?” She pounced on the opening with the ferocity of a starving cat on a mouse. “You called him by name!” she charged, pointing an accusatory finger at Jack, taking an aggressive step forward. “You named him!”

He scowled. “It's short for Hey You.”

“But the fact remains—”

“Fact my ass,” Jack returned. “I can call you by name too,
'tite chatte
. That don' make you mine.” Grinning again, he leaned ahead and caught her chin in his right hand, boldly stroking the pad of his thumb across the lush swell of her lower lip. “Does it, Laurel?” he murmured suggestively, dipping his head down, his mouth homing in on hers.

Laurel jerked back from him, batting his hand away. Her hold on her control, slippery and tenuous at best these days, slipped a little further. She felt as if she were hanging on to it by the ragged, bitten-down remains of her fingernails and it was still pulling away. She had come here for justice, but she wasn't getting any. Jack Boudreaux was jerking her around effortlessly. Playing with her, mocking her, propositioning her. God, was she so ineffectual, such a failure—

“You didn't do your job, Ms. Chandler. . . . You blew it. . . . Charges will be
dismissed. . . .”

“Come on, sugar, prove your case,” Jack challenged. He took another pull on his beer.
Dieu
, he was actually enjoying this little sparring match. He was rusty, out of practice. How long had it been since he had argued a case? Two years? Three? His time away from corporate law ran together in a blur of months. It seemed like a lifetime. He would have thought he had lost his taste for it, but the old skills were still there.

Sharks don't lose their instincts, he reminded himself, bitterness creeping in to taint his enjoyment of the fight.

“It—it's common knowledge that's your dog, Mr. Boudreaux,” Laurel stammered, fighting to talk around the knot hardening in her throat. She didn't hold eye contact with him, but tried to focus instead on the hound, which was tilting his head and staring at her quizzically with his mismatched eyes. “Y-You should be man enough to t-take responsibility for it.”

“Ah, me,” Jack said, chuckling cynically. “I don' take responsibility, angel. Ask anyone.”

Laurel barely heard him, her attention focusing almost completely inward, everything else becoming vague and peripheral. A shudder of tension rattled through her, stronger than its precursor. She tried to steel herself against it and failed.

Failed.

“You didn't do your job, Ms. Chandler . . . Charges will be dismissed. . . .”

She hadn't proven her case. Couldn't make the charges stick on something so simple and stupid as a case of canine vandalism. Failed. Again.
Worthless, weak. . . .
She spat the words at herself as a wave of helplessness surged through her.

Her lungs seemed suddenly incapable of taking in air. She tried to swallow a mouthful of oxygen and then another as her legs began to shake. Panic clawed its way up the back of her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth and blinked furiously at the tears that pooled and swirled in her eyes, blurring her view of the hound.

Jack started to say something, but cut himself off, beer bottle halfway to his lips. He stared at Laurel as she transformed before his eyes. The bright-eyed tigress on a mission was gone as abruptly as if she had never existed, leaving instead a woman on the verge of tears, on the brink of some horrible inner precipice.

“Hey, sugar,” he said gently, straightening away from the Jeep. “Hey, don' cry,” he murmured, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, casting anxious glances around the parking lot.

Rumor had it she'd been in some posh clinic in North Carolina. The word “breakdown” had been bandied all over town. Jesus, he didn't need this, didn't want this. He'd already proven once in his life that he couldn't handle it, was the last person anyone should count on to handle it.
I don' take responsibility
. . . . That truth hung on him like chain mail. He leaned toward Frenchie's, wanting to bolt, but his feet stayed rooted to the spot, nailed down by guilt.