Lucky's Lady (23 page)

Eyes wild, nostrils flaring, he stalked to the bed in a half crouch, meeting Serena at eye level. “You wanna have a peek inside the man you think you love, Doc?” he whispered. “You wanna know what makes me run?

“I spent a year in a private prison in Central America. My commanding officer arranged it because he was dirty and I was on to him. Our mission down there was one of those little soirées our government doesn't own up to. They told my family I was killed in a training accident. And for a year I sat in a filthy, rat-infested cell in total darkness. The only time they took me out was to torture me.

“Do you know what that does to a man's mind, Dr. Sheridan? Do you know what that leaves him with?” He straightened and slowly backed away. “Nothing. Nothing. I don't have anything to give you. I live for myself, by myself, and that's the way I like it. I don't want your help and I don't want your love. The only thing I ever wanted from you was your body.”

He turned away from her and went back to the window, feeling bleak and empty.

Serena sat there for a long moment, absorbing his words, aching—not for herself, but for Lucky, for the sensitive young man who loved his family, the scholar, the artist who had had his life systematically destroyed. She hurt for the man he was now, tormented, frightened, alone. She wanted so badly to reach out to him, but she knew he would only push her away.

“If you wanted me to believe you were nothing but a heartless bastard, you should have left me at Gifford's that first night,” she said, a part of her wishing he had done just that.

“You got that right,” he answered derisively. “I should have left you. But don't tell me I led you on, sugar. I told you from the first what this would be.”

“Yes, you did.” And from the first it had been a lie. They had come together in passion and anger and need, but it had never been as simple as “just sex.” Never.

“Then keep your pretty words to yourself,” he muttered. “I don't want to hear them. I have no need of your love.”

Serena wanted to cry. She'd never seen a man more in need of love. He pulled himself away from people, hid from the world. He had retreated to the solace of his swamp to heal his own wounds, but they weren't healing. They lay open and raw, and he retreated further still to some desolate place within himself. Her foolish heart ached to help him. The woman in her yearned to be the one to make a difference. But the psychologist knew it wouldn't happen and she knew why, small consolation though that was.

She didn't have the strength to fight the inevitable. All things considered, it seemed best to make the break there and then. Going on would be an exercise in futility, like beating her head against a brick wall. She had lost any kind of perspective that could have maintained a sexual relationship between them even if she had been able to stomach that kind of affair. And God knew she had other problems to take care of. She would chalk this up to being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong man.

As she moved to gather her clothes, she studied Lucky, still standing framed by the curtainless window, and wondered bleakly how the wrong man could seem so right.

He turned and watched her, cast in a mix of silver light and black shadow that made a perfect portrait of him. “Where do we go from here?”

Serena paused as she buttoned her blouse, considering options and answers, and decided to take his question at face value. “Chanson du Terre.”

CHAPTER
                        

15

IT WAS A LONG RIDE BACK. AS LUCKY STOOD SILENTLY
behind her, Serena sat in the pirogue taking in the sights and sounds of the swamp. This would be her last trip through this wilderness that had haunted her for so many years. She had no intention of coming back for Gifford again. He had pushed things too far. Next time he would have to come to her. And as for any other reason she might venture out here, there wasn't any, she told herself, refusing the urge to turn around and look up at Lucky.

She focused instead on the swamp, looking past her instinctive fear at the primitive beauty, the delicacy, the place that Lucky loved. The rain had passed and the sun had returned with a vengeance, turning the place into a natural sauna. Moisture rose like steam from the surface of the water and dripped from the lacy festoons of Spanish moss. Wildflowers glistened, brilliant spots of color among the drab grays and browns. Serena wondered if Lucky had ever painted it this way.

They held their silence by tacit agreement until the landing at Chanson du Terre came into sight.

“What are you gonna do?” he asked quietly as he steered the boat in an arch for the dock.

“End it,” Serena said, still facing forward, her eyes on the big house. “Send Burke packing. See that the matter of the fire and insurance claim are settled.”

“And then?”

She didn't answer him for a long moment. The pirogue snuggled in along the dock and settled. Finally she turned and looked up at him as she rose to her feet. “Why should you care, Lucky? You got what you wanted.”

Lucky said nothing, but he stood wrestling with the emotions twisting inside him. He didn't care, he told himself. She could go back to Charleston, where she belonged. It didn't matter to him. He would have his swamp and his peace and no Sheridans to upset the placid surface of his life. He ignored the pain in his chest as Serena stepped from the boat and walked away without looking back. He didn't need her, couldn't need her, and that was the end of it.

With strong strokes of the push-pole he moved his pirogue away from the dock and turned south for Mouton's. It was going to be a good night for getting drunk and raising hell.

Serena crossed the yard slowly, her attention on the white Cadillac parked beside Shelby's BMW. Burke's, no doubt. As Giff had said, the man was as tenacious as a pit bull. And as charming. She wondered how he would take the news of her decision. Not well. He didn't strike her as a graceful loser.

Shelby was liable to take it badly too. She didn't like having her plans interfered with, particularly when personal glorification was at stake. She saw selling the plantation as the one and only means to achieve her goal of putting Mason in the legislature and putting herself on a public pedestal all in one fell swoop. She wouldn't be happy about having that means taken away from her. Added to that frustration would be the old feelings of competition between them. Gifford had played favorites, giving Serena the one tool that would have made all of Shelby's dreams come true.

Serena cursed Gifford for putting the land above all else. She cursed herself for coming back. But the die was cast now. The hand had been dealt and there was nothing to do but play it out.

They were gathered in the front parlor. Shelby was resplendent in a sleeveless red silk dress with a snug bodice and full skirt. Her hair was curled back neatly in a style that made her look like a movie star from the Carole Lombard era. Mason was in another one of his junior-senator outfits, charcoal slacks and an ivory shirt with the tie of some illustrious British regiment slightly askew at his throat. Burke wore the same western-cut suit he'd worn the previous night, but had opted to forgo the bolo tie. They turned as one toward Serena as she entered the room, their faces registering various expressions of surprise.

Shelby frowned. “My word, Serena, is this how people dress for dinner in Charleston? You look a mess!”

Serena glanced down at her rumpled cotton blouse and black walking shorts that were creased and wrinkled. A quick peek in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall showed her hair escaping the bonds of its clip.

“Yes, I do look a mess. I'm sorry, but I just now got back from Gifford's,” she said, trying to mentally dismiss the afternoon spent with Lucky as easily as she omitted it from the conversation. “You'll forgive me, Mr. Burke, for not being more presentable,” she said coolly. “I'm tired and I'd rather not take the time to freshen up.”

“Gifford didn't return with you?” Mason asked, his brows lifting above the frame of his glasses.

“No.”

“What did he have to say about the fire?”

“Suffice it to say, he was upset.”

“But he didn't come back here to deal with it?” Burke said gruffly. He chewed on the end of his cigar and made a face like a bulldog. “Damned strange, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask you,” Serena said, too exhausted to adhere to the code of southern hospitality.

She watched his reaction with clinical interest. His jaw hardened. His eyes narrowed. She got the strong impression he didn't like taking guff from women.

Mason looked scandalized at her lack of manners. “Serena! Mr. Burke is concerned with Gifford's mental state, as are we all.”

“I'm well aware of what Mr. Burke is concerned with. As to Gifford's mental state, I can assure you all he is as shrewd as ever.”

“He's behaving like a madman,” Shelby muttered, pouting. She lifted one bejeweled hand to play with the diamond pendant that hung from a gold chain around her neck. “Stringing us all along, delaying the business proceedings. Mr. Burke is a busy man. He can't wait forever.”

“He doesn't have to wait at all,” Serena said, lifting the envelope she held so that everyone focused on it. “Gifford has granted me power of attorney. I am to act on this matter as I see fit.”

Shelby gave a dramatic gasp, hand to her heart, but Serena pushed on, eager to get it over with and in no mood for her twin's theatrics. “I don't see fit to sell this property to Tristar Chemical. Mr. Burke, I'm sorry your time here has been wasted.”

Burke turned scarlet. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Serena's face. “Now, wait just a goddamn minute. You can't do that.”

“The courts would beg to differ. I didn't want the responsibility of this decision, but I have it and I've made up my mind.”

“I don't believe this,” Burke muttered. He wheeled on Mason. “This deal was as good as done, Talbot. You talk some sense into her or you can kiss your trip to Baton Rouge good-bye.”

Mason looked nervous. He turned toward Serena, his affable smile contorting a little with uncertainty. “Serena, let's not be hasty. I don't believe you've had time to take all the factors into consideration. There's a great deal at stake here.”

Serena gave him a level look. “I know what's at stake, Mason. I think I see it more clearly than you do.”

“You!” Shelby snapped suddenly, drawing everyone's immediate attention. She glared at Serena, her knuckles turning white as she clutched a tumbler of scotch. She took a step forward. “What do you know about anything? What do you know about having to live here? We're trying to do what's best for everybody.”

“You're trying to line your pockets and buy Mason a seat in the legislature,” Serena said succinctly. “I have the power to stop you from sacrificing our heritage for your greed, and I'm using it. It's as simple as that, Shelby. I didn't want it to come to this, but I don't have any choice.”

Shelby advanced another step. Her perfect complexion was turning red in splotches that rose from the collar of her expensive dress to her hairline. “You self-righteous little bitch,” she spat out. “How dare you come waltzing back here, waving your morals like a banner, telling us what to do! We never asked for your interference.”

“No, you didn't,” Serena said, wondering if Lucky hadn't been right about them trying to get the deal through without her finding out about it until it was too late.

“Then why didn't you just stay out of it? Why didn't you just stay in your neat, clean little world in Charleston, ignoring us the way you always have?”

“I'm sorry,” Serena whispered, feeling her connection to her sister growing thinner and more brittle by the second. All she could think of was that it shouldn't have come to this.

“Sorry?” Shelby sneered, taking another step closer. “Sorry!”

She flung her glass to the floor, heedless of the scotch that soaked into the rug in a dark stain. Stepping forward, she struck out with both hands, giving Serena a shove that sent her stumbling backward. Serena didn't try to defend herself physically or verbally. Words would do her no good; Shelby was well beyond seeing reason. Her rage was a tangible feeling in the air, like electricity building before an explosive storm. Serena watched in fascinated horror as the storm was unleashed.

“You don't see anything!” Shelby said, her voice rising in pitch and volume with each word as her control slipped further and further through her grasp. “You don't care about this place. You never have. All you're doing is playing up to Gifford so he'll give you everything that ought to be mine!” She gulped a breath, half crying, her mouth twisting grotesquely as her fury built uncontrollably. “You're trying to ruin everything for me just like you always have! God damn you! I wish you'd never been born!”

Serena stood motionless, not even trying to block the stinging slap her sister delivered. Shelby turned and fled the room, choking and sobbing. Serena didn't move. She stood in the electrified silence, struggling with her feelings, knowing at that moment that any slim hope she had held out for closeness with her twin had just been shattered.

Burke and Mason looked on, both men looking distinctly uncomfortable in the wake of female wrath. Mason recovered first, coming forward to gallantly offer his immaculate linen handkerchief. Serena took it, staring at it stupidly.

“There's blood,” he said, eyes downcast. “The corner of your mouth.”

She dabbed it, but refused to look at the stain on the handkerchief. It was bad enough to know it was there. She focused instead on the envelope she still held and wondered if Gifford had any idea what he'd done.

“Serena,” Mason said softly. “I realize you have a certain sentimental attachment to Chanson du Terre, but I've heard you say on more than one occasion that you wouldn't change your life because of it. We've discussed the practicality of selling, particularly now, when the plantation isn't doing well to begin with and the market is so bleak. And now there's the fire damage to consider—”

“Yes, what about that fire damage?” Burke interrupted. “Can Gifford afford to cover the loss himself?”

Serena lifted her eyes and fixed them on the Texan. “I think, Mr. Burke, the only aspect of the fire you need to concern yourself with is whether or not your name can be attached to it.”

He didn't appear the least bit shocked by her accusation, which was as good as an admission of guilt to Serena.

“I wasn't anywhere near here when the fire started,” he said, glancing idly at the end of his cigar. It had gone out. He frowned and went on calmly. “I've got witnesses. It won't do you any good to try to prove otherwise.” His eyes hardened to stone as he stared down at her and repeated with emphasis, “It won't do you any good at all.”

Serena arched a brow. “Is that a threat, Mr. Burke?”

“It's a fact, sweetheart.”

She gave him her coolest look, not letting him see her questions about how far he might be compelled to go to get what he wanted. After a moment she stepped back from him and said, “I believe I've had enough of your company to last me, Mr. Burke. It's been a very long and trying day. I'm going to call it an evening. Mason will show you out. And since your business here is finished, I won't expect to see you back again. Good night.” She nodded to her brother-in-law. “Mason.”

She felt their eyes on her back even after she'd slipped out the door.

“What do you propose to do about this, Talbot?” Burke demanded in a low, rough voice, his glare bearing down on Mason like a spotlight. “You blow this deal and you can just bend over and kiss your political ass good-bye.”

“Now, Len,” Mason said in his most soothing tones. He gamely resurrected his smile and turned toward the sideboard to pour his guest a drink. “I'm sure I can get Serena to see reason. She just needs a little time, that's all. She's allowed Gifford to manipulate her. Once she realizes that and looks at the situation from a fresh perspective, I'm confident she'll see things our way.”

Burke gave him a long cold look. “She'd better.”

Shelby paced the bedroom, her agitation showing in every step. The room was a shambles. At the peak of her rage she had tipped over every chair, torn the coverlet from the bed, pulled every article of clothing from the closet and dresser and flung them everywhere. Her path was now littered with designer-label suits and dresses that had been worn no more than twice. She ground the delicate fabrics beneath the heels of her pumps as she stalked the floor.

“Damn her. Damn her. I hate her!” she ranted, snatching a bottle of Chanel from the dresser and hurling it against the wall. It shattered, immediately engulfing the room in a sickening cloud of fragrance as the perfume soaked into the wallpaper in an oily stain.

Mason sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped lightly between his knees. He watched his wife's awesome display of temper with a properly concerned look knitting his brows and curling down the corners of his mouth. She whirled toward him, her eyes wild, her face contorted in a mask of rage.

“
Do something!
” she screamed, then lowered her voice to a hissing whisper. “Do something, damn you! Don't just sit there looking pretty while Serena ruins everything I ever wanted!”

“Now, Shelby sweetheart, calm yourself—”

“Don't tell me to calm myself. If everyone calmed themselves as often as you said, we'd all be catatonic. This isn't the time to be calm! This is the time for action. We have to do something. Our future is riding on this.”

“I know that, peach,” Mason said, his gaze drifting wistfully over the expensive wardrobe Shelby had trampled into the floor.