Luke (15 page)

This was the right thing he was doing; he knew it. April wasn't going to like it, but he'd deal with that when the time came. Meanwhile, he had a couple of peaceful hours, give or take, ahead of him. He'd make what he could of them.

A few minutes later, he left the channel, took a
few turns, and nosed into an old slough known by the unromantic name of Sand Dump. He chose the place, named for a peculiar mound of sand at the water's edge that might or might not be an old Indian mound, in part because of its distance off the main boat track but mainly for the deep shade cast by the cypress trees that enclosed it. The water was a dark brownish green from the tannic acid that dripped from the trees, and so still it appeared glassy in the still heat of the day. Turtles slid from a log at their approach. The fishy smell common to such places reached out to them.

Luke selected a small cypress, squinted at the branches for any roosting snakes, then headed toward it. He cut the engine and let the boat glide with its own momentum as he went forward with a rope. Snagging the tree trunk in an expert move, he tied up. One of the aluminum pontoons bumped their makeshift stanchion with a soft, hollow boom, then everything was quiet.

Actually, it seemed far too quiet to Luke. He moved back to the console and slid a George Winston tape into the player. As its mellow strains drifted on the air, he began setting up the outside table at the front of the boat where any stray breeze could reach them. Behind him, April rose and stretched, then lifted her seat cushion to take out the picnic basket he'd stowed underneath. He made an abortive move to stop her, but it was too late.

“Good grief,” she exclaimed as she hefted the basket. “You have enough food in here for an army.”

Improvising rapidly, he said, “Nothing like hav
ing a choice. Besides, I can leave the extra onboard for emergencies.”

“Such as when you get lost?” she inquired, her tone dry.

She had him there, since the last time he'd failed to find his way home was when he was eleven years old. Still, he didn't give up. “You never know when a motor will quit on you.”

“Or you'll run out of gas?”

The suggestion was saccharine sweet. He'd pulled that stunt on her back in the good old days. The slow paddle back to Chemin-a-Haut under a summer moon, with frequent pauses for kisses to keep his strength up, had been something else. It was one of his favorite memories, in spite of the mosquitoes that had nearly eaten the two of them alive.

He gave her a crooked grin as he answered, “That, too.”

She let it go, maybe because she didn't want to open that can of catfish bait. Regardless, the sharp glint of suspicion remained in her eyes.

Lunch wasn't fancy, but it was filling. It seemed a nervous truce had been declared between them. Though they weren't exactly at ease, they still talked in a desultory fashion. A major topic was the explosion. He grilled her about it in as offhand a manner as he could manage, trying to see if there was anything at all she'd heard or seen that rang any bells. So far as he could tell, there was nothing—no warning, no hint of trouble.

After they finished their sandwiches, he reached for a mango to peel for them both. He glanced at
her a couple of times as he wielded the knife, his gaze lingering on the almost transparent skin under her eyes. He said after a moment, “You aren't sleeping much, are you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Shadows,” he said, describing a small semicircle with his knife blade.

She lifted a brow, a challenge in the movement. “I do some of my best work at night.”

He considered giving that remark the salacious comment it deserved, but decided against it as he saw expectation flood her face. With supreme self-control, he settled for a disbelieving grunt.

“It's true!”

“And I suppose all the other junk that's been happening doesn't disturb your sleep at all.” His gaze was sardonic as he offered her a mango slice on the tip of his blade.

Her only answer was a moody shrug, but she didn't refuse the fruit.

“So, maybe you should take a little nap.”

“We don't have time.”

“We'll take time, if it's what you want.” He met her gaze, his own steady.

She seemed to consider it, then gave a quick shake of her head. “I don't think so.”

Luke didn't push the point, but neither did he forget it.

Yellow jackets and flies, attracted by mango nectar and other goodies, began to buzz around the table. He and April cleared things away and rinsed their sticky hands. Afterward, Luke sat in a comfortable sprawl on the bench across from April with
his long legs crossed at the ankles. He drank the last of his apple juice and flipped the bottle into the trash can, then stretched hugely. A trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades set off a round of itching in that area. He rubbed against the seat a little, but the smooth vinyl wasn't a lot of help. Turning a hopeful gaze on April, he said, “I don't suppose I could talk you into scratching my back?”

“You must be joking.”

The look she gave him was not only incredulous but also a potent reminder of the tasteless comment he'd made to her ex-husband in New Orleans. He ignored it as he said in plaintive explanation, “It's the scabs from the acid burns. They're driving me nuts.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, then she shook her head. “The deeper places must still be sore. I might hurt you.”

“I'll risk it,” he said as he rose to his feet and stripped his T-shirt off over his head. Crossing in a single stride to the bench where she sat, he lay down on his stomach and calmly settled his head in her lap with his cheek resting on her thigh.

She smelled of cotton and roses and clean woman, an aphrodisiac so heart-stoppingly potent that he closed his eyes to absorb it. At the same time, he draped a long arm across her knees. The swift rise of strained heat in his lower body was not exactly unexpected, but considerably more virulent than normal. He thought without humor that it was a good thing he was lying facedown.

He didn't relax, but kept his guard in place since he expected to be thrown off at any second. April
made no move in that direction, but only sat as if too surprised to react. Then she relaxed by hesitant degrees that he could feel under his head. Putting a tentative hand on his back, she smoothed up and down his spine, brushing away the perspiration so it evaporated. Then she began to rake gently with her nails at the healing scabs in that region.

Luke was in heaven; that was all there was to it. The sensations that ran over him were so exquisite that it was all he could do not to groan in sheer bliss. He was also amazed at April's instinctive understanding about exactly where his back itched. Purest gratification made a prickle of gooseflesh spread across his shoulders. At least, he told himself that was the cause.

The boat rocked gently on breeze-pushed waves, squeaking a little against the tree that held it. Gentle musical strains poured from the stereo. The sun shone down, shimmering on the water in a hard brightness that he could see even behind his closed eyelids. A fly hummed in a sleepy circle, around and around. The soothing touch on his back moved in a ceaseless rhythm for some time. Then it slowed. Stopped.

Luke raised his head a cautious fraction. April was sitting with her arm braced on the bench's back and her head propped on her palm. Her eyes were closed and her breasts, so near his face, rose and fell in a telltale way.

He forced reluctant muscles to move enough to lift his upper body off her lap then rise to his feet. She opened sleep-drugged eyes as he hovered over her, but didn't protest as he eased her to a reclining
position. A sigh lifted her bodice and she reached to drag her long skirts up to midthigh for coolness. Then she was quiet again.

Luke slid her low-heeled sandals off her feet and set them quietly on the floor. Then he backed away, clenching his hands as he fought the impulse to touch the skin she'd bared, to push her skirts higher and press his lips to the raw scrapes on her knees that were doubtless a souvenir of the morning. In the back of his mind was a glimmer of just how dangerous this idea of his might become to his sanity.

It couldn't be helped. What was done, was done. He wouldn't go back now, even if he could. As he felt the opposite bench behind his calves, he sat down abruptly. Then he lay down with striated patience and closed his eyes.

He was dreaming. In the gray mists of half-acknowledged fancy, April hovered over him. Her hair fell forward around his face, caressing his cheeks. Her lips smiled. Her eyes shone with promise and excitement. Her hands smoothed over his naked shoulders, pulling him closer, closer….

“Wake up, damn you, Luke! We have to go back. It's almost dark.” She was shaking him, yelling in his face.

Blinking into wakefulness, he saw that she was right. The sun was almost down, its last rays streaking the water with russet and rose. Dusk was gathering under the cypress trees. He couldn't remember when he'd slept so soundly in the middle of the day, or at any other time for that matter. April wasn't the only one who had been burning the midnight oil,
but it was more than that. He'd known she was near. He'd been content for the first time in long years.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, putting a firm hand on her arm, pushing her away before he did something he might regret. “We're gone.”

They were, too, in record time, zooming out of the slough and heading like an arrow through the baffle of trees and along the winding paths that would take them away from the main channel. He shoved the control into high gear, kicking up a frothing wake that spread in rolling waves to the far, back reaches of the lake and on into the deepest depths of the swamp. With his eyes narrowed against the wind, he watched for stumps and logs and cypress knees, swerving to avoid all obstacles as he charted a course that not many could recognize, much less duplicate.

He failed to reckon on the fact that April had been there before.

She had been sitting with her face turned into the wind, staring almost unseeingly at the water, the trees, and the darkening sky. An abrupt frown drew her brows together. She swung her head to stare around her, following the line of sight of the channel he was following. She whipped around toward him again, then called above the boat's roar, “You're going the wrong way!”

He made no answer nor did he slacken his speed.

“Luke!”

He turned his head to meet her eyes. “We aren't going to Chemin-a-Haut!”

“We have to,” she shouted. “I have to get home.”

He didn't answer, but only faced forward again and sent the pontoon boat skimming straight for the swamp's darkest heart.

A
pril stared at Luke while alarm skittered through her. Where could he be taking her if not home? There was nothing this way except swampy wilderness reaching to the Mississippi River's natural levee. He must have gone crazy.

She couldn't keep screaming at him across the space between them, however, especially if he was not going to answer her. She gathered her skirts and slid from her seat, keeping low in the fast-moving boat. Going to one knee beside him at the console, she put her hand on the corded muscles of his arm.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“You'll see,” he said, and closed his lips tightly together again.

She hated that macho phrase, as if she had no reason for concern or was too emotional to know the worst in advance. “If this is a joke, it isn't funny. Turn around. Now.”

He made no answer. The boat swerved, jostling her against him as he swung to avoid some floating log or underwater snag.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, pushing free of him as she righted herself. “What's got into you?”

“I'm seeing to it that you're safe. If you won't take care of yourself, then I'll have to do it for you.”

“I don't need you to take care of me,” she declared as her temper rose.

“You can do it yourself, I suppose. The way you did this morning.” Derision underlined the words.

“Nothing happened to me.”

“By the grace of God and your lucky stars.”

“Anyway, you're going to kill us both going so fast!”

He glanced at her then and slackened the speed a notch. That was all.

“Take me home, Luke,” she commanded. “Take me home
now!
”

No answer.

“I mean it. Take me home or—”

“Or what?” he interrupted, his voice hard. “I'll be sorry? I am already, but that doesn't change a thing. We aren't going home, so just sit back down and enjoy the ride.”

He was kidnapping her, he really was. It wasn't playacting, had nothing to do with charity. They were threading their way deeper and deeper into the swamp. At some point, he'd stop. And then what?

She couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine. Pushing away from him, she resumed her seat. Still, she couldn't take her gaze from him, couldn't stop measuring his tall form, his taut features, and his hard, competent hands on the boat's wheel. She couldn't prevent herself from comparing their relative strengths, his against her own, and wondering what it would take to stop him.

She wasn't sure anything would.

It was not a comfortable conclusion. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she turned her face into the warm evening wind and stared straight ahead. She didn't look at Luke again.

Gray twilight was spreading over the water when they finally nosed into a narrow channel half-choked by cypress knees and floating mats of lavender water hyacinths. They rounded a bend and emerged into a quiet pool ringed by moss-hung cypresses and with more water hyacinths and yellow water lilies nearly obscuring the water's surface, growing so thick they appeared solid enough to stand on. Luke cut the engine and they slid in among the undulating plants with the boat's aluminum pontoons pushing them aside, forcing entry. Then as their forward progress stopped, the greenery closed in around them like a living boat slip.

Luke snapped off the radio, perhaps to conserve battery power. Then he removed the ignition key and pocketed it. He dropped a front anchor then headed toward the rear to let down another. As he stepped past her, she drew her feet up onto the seat and clasped her arms around her knees. He gave her a narrow glance but said nothing.

April stared around at their new place of concealment. It was perhaps fifty feet across and edged with marshy growth and trees even thicker than where they had tied up earlier. A pair of egrets perched on a dead snag a short distance away, their plumage glinting white in the last vestiges of daylight. Pale orange flies of some kind swarmed over a section of water lilies, and a long, muddy brown
shape against the bank farther on was either a rotting log or an alligator patiently waiting for a meal. The place was dank and uninviting. It was also deserted, totally deserted except for the two of them.

Luke returned to the front of the boat and took out a propane-fueled two-burner grill that he set up in its special niche near the forward railing. He fired it up, then threw a pat of butter into an ancient skillet and set it on a burner. While it was heating, he peeled and sliced a small onion, then broke several eggs into a bowl and beat them with milk and seasoning. He glanced at her now and then as he worked, but she refused to meet his gaze.

That avoidance seemed to annoy him. As he poured the egg mixture into the sizzling skillet, he said, “If I'd known you were going to sulk, I'd have brought along company.”

“I'm surprised you didn't anyway,” she returned in cool hauteur. “From habit.”

“You know nothing at all about my habits.”

“And want to know less!”

He gave a hard laugh. “Afraid you'll find them too appealing? You could always chalk it up to research.”

“No, thank you. But if we're going to talk about appeal, I should point out that I didn't kidnap you.”

“Well, if you think I brought you out here to make love to you, you can forget it. I could have done that in greater comfort at Chemin-a-Haut.”

“You relieve my mind,” she said, her glance scathing.

“I thought I might.”

“I don't care a rat's left ear what you thought! I
want to go home. I need to work. I need a bath and more comfortable clothes. I need to feed Midnight!”

“Your damned cat will survive. And so will you.” He attended to his omelet, lifting the edges to allow the center egg mixture to run to the bottom, then adding sliced onion and a handful of cheese.

“Thank you for the kind consideration,” she returned acidly. “But if you think that solves the problem, you're more of a Neanderthal than I suspected.”

“If you think your opinion of me is going to change the situation, you're more of a prima donna than I knew.”

She hated that title, even if she did apply it to herself when trying to stop worrying about her precious words and just get them on paper. “What I think is that you're going to have a lot of explaining to do if and when we do leave here. I sincerely doubt, for instance, that Roan gave his approval to this business.”

“Now you've got my nerves jangling like pocket change.”

“If I press charges for kidnapping,” she said pointedly, “you may need all your pocket change to pay a good lawyer.”

“You're going to get up before God and everybody and say I forced you to come with me?”

“Enticed me,” she corrected.

“I'm sure the countryside will be fascinated by all the intimate details,” he continued as if she hadn't spoken. “If they aren't, you can make up
something thrillingly sexy. Or if you can't, maybe I can.”

“You wouldn't.”

He flipped his omelet over then looked up. “Try me.”

He would indeed, she thought, and enjoy doing it. He'd always been a little over the top, but common sense and decency had acted as brakes back when they were younger. How was it that he'd ceased to care about those things? When had what he thought and wanted become more important than anyone else's needs or feelings?

It was plain that getting angry wasn't going to help. In fact, arguing with him only seemed to make him worse. What she needed was a reason to return that would be to his advantage, something that might even accomplish whatever goal he had in mind.

Persuasion was obviously her best course. A quick review of her options showed plainly that there were serious obstacles to any alternative.

She might manage to get her hands on the boat key, but it would take some doing. Even with it in hand, using it would be nearly impossible while Luke remained onboard to stop her.

She could swim to shore, but the swamp that surrounded them was a morass of marsh grass and unstable mud cut by water channels nearly impossible to navigate on foot. Alligators, poisonous water moccasins, and bog holes of mud and quicksand were added dangers, not to mention the swarms of mosquitoes that would make every step a living hell. On top of all that was the risk of losing her way.

There was the dinghy attached to the rear. Its motor required no key, but would need time to get running and set in motion. Once she was underway, she would probably be able to retrace their route among the many branching channels they'd taken, but again, she might not. It would be embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, to escape only to get herself lost. Still that was a risk she might have to take.

“Ready to eat?” Luke asked, his eyes hooded as he neatly divided the omelet and slid the halves onto a pair of disposable plates.

“I'm not hungry.” She really wasn't, though the combined smells of butter, eggs and onion were interesting, and the omelet appeared beautifully browned.

“Fine.” He dumped the extra portion back onto his plate. Turning to the ice chest, he took out a bottle of wine and filled a plastic glass. With the wine and a chunk of French bread in hand, he sat down to his dinner.

If she didn't eat now, she'd have to resort to something cold later. Besides, a glass of wine sounded wonderful after the day just passed.

“Oh, all right,” she said, as she swung her feet off the bench and turned around to the center table. She pulled the discarded plate toward her, then found a fork and reached to spear her share of the omelet.

In a blur of movement, Luke dropped the bread in his left hand and caught her wrist. “No, you don't. You weren't hungry. Now it's mine.”

He was making a point, she thought. She could
cooperate or accept the consequences. It was not one she much needed to have driven home.

In tones gone suddenly flat, she said, “Don't push it, Benedict. You've won for now, but there will be another time.”

He held her gaze, his own clear and assessing. Then slow and unreliable joy dawned in his eyes and spread to curl around his mouth. “A challenge,” he said softly, “or rather, another one. Now that's more like it.”

His grip on her arm was firm but not hurtful. The warmth of it seeped into her skin, radiating through her until she felt hot and breathless. She refused to acknowledge it, however, much less succumb to it, as she replied, “You may not think so before this is over.”

“We'll see, won't we? But I suppose it's only fair to let you keep your strength up.” Releasing her, he allowed her to take her part of the omelet. “Will you have wine? Or are you afraid of losing your head?”

“My head,” she said, unsmiling, “won't be affected.”

He picked up the bottle to pour. “No?”

“No.”

“How about a test?” he said as he filled her glass.

It was her turn to be satiric. “With one bottle of wine?”

“Who said that there was only one? The others just aren't cold.”

She might have known. “If getting your women
drunk is the usual practice, it's no wonder your reputation is so lurid.”

He put the cork back in the wine. “Actually, I prefer
my women
not to be too anesthetized. It doesn't do much for my rep if they can't remember the details.”

“You can be sure I won't be enhancing your precious rep since my limit is one glass. I'm well aware that women's bodies absorb alcohol at a faster rate than men's.”

“I offer you the perfect excuse and you won't take it,” he complained as he picked up the plastic glass and handed it to her. “Make up your mind, sweetheart. Do you want to, or don't you?”

“How can you think my mind isn't made up, for pity's sake!”

“For a start, those leading questions you asked the other day in town.”

“I was just curious. Though I should have known you'd turn it into something it wasn't.”

He broke the French bread with his long fingers, then popped a loose piece into his mouth and chewed. Finally, he asked, “Is that what I'm doing?”

“You know very well…” She stopped, took a deep breath. “Anyway, you said a few minutes ago that sex isn't why you brought me out here.”

“What if I said I lied? Would you be more resigned?” There was a glint of some suppressed emotion in his eyes.

Her heart kicked into a faster rhythm. She didn't know how to answer even if he meant it, which she was by no means certain he did. Instead, she asked,
“Wouldn't it have been simpler just to say you'd changed your mind?”

“Probably. But where's the fun in that?”

“Everything doesn't have to be fun,” she answered in irritation.

“No,” he said smiling straight into her eyes, “but making love works a lot better that way.”

She had walked right into the verbal pitfall. She snapped, “You should know!”

“So should you. Or wasn't that your experience?”

“We'll leave my experience out of this, thank you.” She put down her wine and picked up her fork.

“I'd like to, believe me, but I think it's there whether we want it or not. Good or bad, everybody takes their past to bed with them.”

“Deep, Benedict. But we aren't going to bed.”

“Too bad,” he said, and saluted her with his wineglass.

Instead of answering, she cut off a forkful of the omelet and put it into her mouth. It was good, but she'd expected nothing else since Luke was good at most things. She wondered almost at random if he was better at making love now, better at making it fun. As if it mattered.

Strange, but she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he'd accepted her decision. She did know that she was confused. If she accepted at face value his claim that he wanted to keep her safe, then she had to assume he had something more in mind than a brief expression of gratitude for the protective maneuver. What did he ex
pect to gain if not a night or two of passionate recompense?