Luke (6 page)

Luke was not thrilled with the comparison, even if the River Pirate Revel was in recognition of Fink's exploits. Mike Fink had been the terror of the lower Mississippi River during the early antebellum period. From his hideout in a river cave, he'd wreaked havoc on river shipping and all boat travelers unfortunate enough to fall into his clutches.

“That depends on the prisoner,” he said, arching a brow. And where she wants to be taken.”

“Whoa!” the redhead said, pretending to fan herself with her hand.

“He has a point,
chère,
” Julianne said to April without bothering to hide her smile.

“What he has is a fine opinion of himself,” April declared with a dark look in their direction. “And you two aren't helping any.”

Luke agreed, not that he needed help. “A person
has to take credit where it's due,” he said. “I may not be much in the way of a hero, April, sweetheart, but I'm sure the reason you're a romance author.”

“You're what?” The look she gave him was blank with surprise.

“Admit it,” he said. “If I'd been different, where would you be now? A married woman with nothing to show for the past decade and more except a rundown barn of a house and a half dozen kids clinging to your skirts.”

The redhead pushed her pizza away as she eyed them both with frank curiosity. “Hey, I thought you two had just got together recently. You really go back that far?”

“Farther,” Luke said, and smiled into April's eyes.

She drew a swift, uneven breath. “What a poignant picture, especially with a loving husband at my side. Failing one beautiful dream, however, I turned to another. It was a matter of survival, not of choice.”

The triumph Luke had felt vanished as if it had never been. He thought he just might need all the help he could get, after all.

T
he group dinner finally wound to an end. The goodbyes were said, the promises to get together again were made, and April's friends and colleagues went their separate ways. She walked beside Luke toward the parking lot where he'd left his Jeep. Only a few more minutes, she told herself, and she would be back in the blessed privacy of her hotel suite.

Though she was more than ready to call it a night, it was the shank of the evening in the Quarter. Cars eased through the narrow, one-way streets in company with tour buses, cabs, mule-drawn carriages and the occasional black and white of the city police. People looking for a good time in the Big Easy filled the sidewalks and moved in and out of the open doors of the restaurants and bars. The strident sounds of jazz and zydeco spilled out into the night along with wasteful currents of air-conditioned coolness. The tart scent of mustard from the hot dog-shaped pushcart on the corner hung in the warm, moist air. Blending with it was the ubiquitous smell of alcohol. It was a typical Saturday night in New Orleans.

The day hadn't been quite the disaster April expected. Luke had behaved himself for the most part,
neither intruding on what she had to do nor trying to prevent her from doing it. His presence had actually been helpful once or twice. Still, her relief that she would soon be free of his company was so strong she felt almost euphoric. That or the wine she'd had with dinner had to be the reason for the bubbling sensation in her veins. It could hardly be the man at her side.

“Not a bad day, all things being equal,” Luke said in meditative tones.

For a brief moment, it felt as if he'd read her mind. She sent him a quick glance where he strolled with his hands in his pockets, matching his long strides to her shorter ones. He appeared relaxed, oblivious of any undercurrents between them. It struck her as unfair.

“Speaking for yourself, I suppose?” she said without expression.

“You carried it off in fine style, I thought. The lady of the hour, very cool and collected.” He gave her a quick glance. “You didn't even attack the woman who'd low-rated your book.”

Her eyes widened a fraction as she asked, “How did you know about that?”

“Heard it around.”

“I'll bet you did.” The comment was a pained acknowledgment of the well-oiled gears of the romance writers' gossip machine.

“You shouldn't let things like that get to you. The opinion of one person doesn't matter.”

“Not if it's honest.”

He studied her for a second. “Meaning?”

“I'm not exactly Muriel Potts's favorite person.”

“I suppose there's a reason?”

She lifted a shoulder. “She sent me a manuscript of her first book when she sold it a few years back and requested a quote.”

“A quote?”

“A few sentences describing the book in glowing terms—sentences designed to be printed on the book's cover when it's published.”

“An endorsement, in other words,” he said with a nod of understanding. “So, did you give her a bad one or something?”

“Not quite, but close. Her story was trite and unrealistic. I didn't see how I could praise it and still have any credibility left with readers. Since I was in a deadline crunch at the time, I shelved the manuscript while I tried to think what to tell her. Somehow I forgot about it until after the book went to print. She's wasn't happy.” The last was an understatement of gigantic proportions. Muriel had made no direct reply to the letter of explanation April sent later, but statements she'd made to others showed that she'd been enraged.

“It mattered that much, did it?”

“To her mind. Sales figures for the book were terrible, so her publisher didn't exercise the option to buy her next. Muriel has published nothing since then, which of course is entirely my fault.”

“She made you the scapegoat. You could take that as a salute to your power in the industry.”

A group of college boys were coming toward them. Since they seemed to be taking up most of sidewalk, Luke put an arm around her waist to steer her closer until they'd passed by. April registered
each contact point of his long fingers as a spot of glowing heat. She stepped away as soon as she could, answering his comment almost at random. “I don't know about that. Publishers seem to think cover quotes help, but I've never bought a book based on what some other author said about it.”

“You have a different perspective,” he said with an ironic look for the distance she'd placed between them. “Celebrity endorsement apparently works wonders with average folks. It must, or there wouldn't be so many famous faces out there hawking everything from credit cards to salad dressing.”

He was so reasonable and so right that he left her with no rational objection. April hated that. Reverting to his previous remark, she said, “Anyway, it makes sense for writers to be upset by criticism, whatever its source. It takes a supersensitive person to be a writer in the first place, so why shouldn't negative comments be felt as intensely as everything else?”

“Sticks and stones?” he suggested, though there seemed a trace of sympathy in his smile.

“The pen is mightier,” she said, returning quote for quote.

“A thousand angels swearing on the Bible can't make it the truth if it isn't so.”

Her glance was jaundiced. “What do you know about it? You've never read my books.”

“No,” he agreed, his gaze steady, “but maybe I should.”

Funny, but coming from Luke, that almost sounded like a threat.

Just ahead of them, the owner of one of the pic
turesque Quarter shops was hosing down the sidewalk in front of his store. Though he deflected the spray of water at their approach, the uneven paving was slick underfoot. April stepped ahead of Luke, veering toward the street as much as possible. He moved with her, taking her arm. Since April was wearing heels, she accepted his support without pulling away.

Just beyond the wet stretch was one of the Quarter's landmark nightspots. The amplified tinkling of twin pianos blared from inside, mingling with the voices of entertainers and also the low hum of satisfied customers. Out front, a crowd of people straggled in an uneven line, taking up most of the sidewalk as they waited to be admitted. Many of them had mixed drinks in plastic go-cups in their hands, though a few appeared to be having a better time than the others. This last group staggered against each other in drunken cheerfulness, oblivious to the frowns from those around them.

April kept near the sidewalk's edge, murmuring politely as she moved around an older couple near the middle of the customer line. She'd taken another couple of steps when she caught a flash of movement on the edge of her vision as if someone had thrown their drink.

Luke cursed. He dragged her backward, then spun her to face the street. His arms clamped around her in a sheltering hold. In the same instant, something wet splattered around her feet with an acrid, sulfurous stench and sizzling wisps of vapor.

Luke's grasp tightened. April heard him draw a
hissing breath of pain. For an instant, they stood in frozen immobility.

Then someone screamed. Pandemonium broke loose as people scattered in every direction. April and Luke were left in isolation on the sidewalk.

“What happened?” she cried as she broke free of Luke's hold then whirled to face him.

“Acid,” he said through clenched teeth. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” she answered in spite of a burning sting on one ankle and across the top of her other foot. “But you're not. Where are you hurt?”

He didn't answer, but swung away from her to stride back the way they'd come. As he reached the shop they'd just passed, he snatched the still-running water hose from the shopkeeper. Without pausing, he lifted the end and let the water stream over his left shoulder and down his back.

April saw at once what he intended. Like dousing a burn with cold water, he was minimizing his injury from the acid while helping neutralize its effect. Under the spreading wetness of the water, she could see patches of reddened skin through the tattered holes eaten out of his shirt. She stepped closer, using both hands to sweep the flow of water across the splatters that he hadn't yet reached.

“Don't!” he ordered in hard tones. “You'll burn your hands.”

“What does that matter?” she snapped, clutching his shirt at his waist as he tried to step away. Quickly, she forced the spray over the last area where it needed to go, holding the water against his hot skin. The splattering waterfall that drenched her
feet made her own minor burns feel so much better that she could only imagine how it must feel to him.

“April,” he began in winded tones, then fell abruptly silent. Beneath her hands, she felt him shudder, a hard contraction of muscles that was instantly controlled. At the same time, the tight beading of goose bumps spread over him under his wet shirt. She looked up and was snared by the darkness of his gaze, caught also in the unbearable intimacy of holding her hands against the pebbled yet firm musculature of his back. At the same time, she noted that her hands were shaking with shock.

“What the hell came down here, buddy?” the shop owner demanded from behind them. “What was that stuff?”

It was a moment before Luke answered, then his voice was grim. “Sulfuric acid.”

“Whoever threw it got you pretty good. What's the scoop?”

“I wish I knew,” Luke muttered. He flung a quick glance at April.

She shook her head. She'd seen few details, only a vague movement from among the crowd of people. The person responsible must have fled as everyone around them scattered.

“Crazy, the things people do these days,” the shop owner commented with a wag of his head. “Don't know what the world's coming to. In my day, acid was something we tripped on.”

“Yeah.”

Luke's agreement was perfunctory, April thought. From the tightness of his features and his penetrating gaze, she could tell he thought the attack was
no freak accident, certainly no coincidence. She wanted to contradict him, would have if she could. It wasn't possible.

If he was right, then he'd been burned because of her. That knowledge gave her an almost physical pain, as if her own flesh echoed his suffering. That was one of the drawbacks to having a writer's imagination and empathy; it was difficult not to take the agony of others as her own. It was no more than that, of course, just misplaced identification. Luke's suffering meant nothing to her personally. Of course it didn't.

At the same time, she was ashamed of how much she had resented his showing up in New Orleans. Where would she be now if he hadn't come? She might well have caught that caustic, scarring acid full in the face. She owed him something and she didn't like being indebted to anyone. Least of all did she like being under any obligation to Luke Benedict.

Behind them, a police siren burped a warning. The black and white came to a halt with its lights flashing, and a pair of patrolmen got out. Someone had apparently phoned in a report of the incident on a cell phone.

The official inquiry didn't last long. There were few witnesses since most of those on the scene had melted away, reluctant to get involved. The officer in charge took down the details but was pessimistic about tracing whoever had committed the crime. April had expected no less; still, it was depressing.

The patrolmen offered to run Luke to the hospital emergency room, but the favor was declined. He'd
be all right, Luke said. He was heading for home in the morning and would have his family doctor look at the burns. He and April signed the official report, then made their way to his Jeep and drove to the hotel.

As they pulled into the entrance court, April said abruptly, “I always travel with a first aid kit. If you'll come upstairs, I'll put something on your back.”

A grim smile came and went across his face there in the dim interior of the car. “Thanks, but you don't have to go to that trouble.”

“It's no trouble, really.”

“Then why the solicitation all at once?”

She looked away from his penetrating gaze. “I feel so—I don't know. It seems the least I can do.”

He was quiet a moment longer, as if assessing his options or possibly her motives. Then he gave an abrupt nod. “All right. Why not?”

It had been some time since April had walked into a hotel with a man at night, since the last time she'd checked in with Martin, in fact. She felt conspicuous and a little wary as she crossed the lobby with Luke beside her. That was the trouble with being recognizable, even to a small degree, she thought. Even if nobody was watching, the feeling that they could be was always there. It was worse this evening because she'd practically thrown Luke out of her room the night before.

The clerk at the desk in the rear of the lobby smiled and wished them a pleasant evening but showed no curiosity. Moments later, they were gliding upward in the walnut-paneled elevator. A few
steps down the hall with its rich but subdued carpeting, and April let herself into the suite. Its heavy door closed behind them with a solid thud.

Panic moved through April at the sound. What in the world was she thinking? She'd spent months, even years, avoiding being alone with Luke, and now she'd not only allowed him into her room in the middle of the night but insisted he come in with her. The attack this evening must have scrambled her brain.

The best thing to do was to pretend everything was normal. If he had an ounce of consideration for her feelings and the situation, he'd do the same.

Turning from him, she removed her small shoulder bag and dropped it on the foyer console, then walked into the living room area to switch on a lamp. She went through the suite, then, methodically flipping switches until every light in the suite glowed. As she emerged from the dressing room, Luke was standing in the opening where French doors divided the bedroom and living room.