Luke (7 page)

“You afraid of the dark?” he asked. “Or is it me?”

“Neither,” she said, her voice crisp in spite of the heat spreading upward from the neckline of her suit blouse. “I'd just like to see what I'm doing.”

His gaze remained on her features several seconds longer. Then he reached for the buttons of his shirt, releasing them without haste. “Right. In that case, you won't mind if I take a quick shower first.”

So much for expecting Luke's help in these circumstances. He meant to make them as trying as possible. Or was the innuendo in his request all in
her mind? If he expected to upset her, however, he was in for a disappointment.

“Be my guest,” she said with a quick wave in the direction of the bathroom. “There's a robe on the back of the door, generic hotel issue, one size fits all.”

He thanked her in laconic tones. Seconds later, the bathroom door closed behind him.

April let out her pent-up breath and sank down on the edge of the king-size bed. As she heard the shower running, she jumped up again. She didn't have time to give in to doubts and recriminations. She had to get ready to take care of Luke now that he was here.

She was waiting for him when he stepped from the bathroom. Her gaze flickered over the wet waves of his hair and the droplets that clung to the dark, curling hair on his arms. Her stomach muscles clenched an instant, then she forced herself to relax. “Here, lie down on the bed.”

“Whatever you say, ma'am,” he drawled, his gaze edged with amusement. He began to shrug one shoulder from the robe, but his features tensed and he froze into stillness with his breath caught in his chest.

“Here, let me,” she said, stepping forward.

“No!”

That he flinched away from her disturbed April almost as much as it annoyed her. “Don't be so touchy. I'm not going to hurt you. I wouldn't do that.”

“Wouldn't you now?”

She turned sharply away from him, unwilling to
let him see how upset she was by the doubt in his voice. Searching through the first aid kit laid out on the nightstand, she found the bottle of pain medication she always carried. Shaking one of the pills into her hand, she moved to the tray containing the ice bucket. When she'd filled a glass with ice water, she carried it to Luke and thrust it and the pill toward him.

“What's this?”

“Percocet. My doctor prescribed them for the migraines I get now and then.”

“I didn't know that.” His black gaze was steady as he accepted the medication.

“There are a lot of things you don't know about me.” Her lips took on an ironic twist as she recognized the repetition of what he'd said earlier.

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Shuttering his black gaze with his lashes, he gazed at the pill in his hand. “These things very strong?”

“Not strong enough to affect your driving, if that's what you mean.”

He gave a quiet snort that might mean anything. Then he shrugged and popped the Percocet into his mouth, following it with a long swallow of water. April watched him, mesmerized by the movement of the muscles of his strong throat, until she suddenly noticed what she was doing. She turned away then, busying herself with her medical supplies.

When she looked back again, Luke was lying facedown on the bath sheet that she had spread over the mattress. His head was turned away from her
and his eyes closed. The bathrobe lay across his lean flanks so he was naked to the waist.

For a scant second, she allowed herself to wonder if he was wearing anything under the robe. It didn't affect her one way or the other, of course. Dismissing the idea with determination, she reached for antibiotic ointment.

His skin was almost hot to the touch. She didn't think it was fever, not yet. Rather, it was his natural body heat, as if the fire of life inside him burned brighter than in most people. It made the tips of her fingers burn yet soothed them at the same time.

The broad expanse of his back was raw and inflamed in an irregular patch across his left shoulder and down the middle of his back. She touched that section lightly, then jerked her hand back as a shiver ran over him. Her voice not quite steady, she said, “Are you sure you shouldn't see a doctor?”

“I'm sure. Just get on with it.” His tone bordered on surly.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, then squeezed a generous amount of ointment across her fingertips and spread it as gently as possible, barely touching him. He lay perfectly still, with no further sign that he felt her ministrations.

After a moment, she said, “I'm sorry you were hurt because of me.”

“What makes you think that?” The towel and soft mattress under his cheek muffled the words.

“It seems more likely than you being the target, doesn't it? Besides, if you hadn't stepped in front of me, I would be the one…”

“Don't even think about it. It didn't happen.”

“No, but—”

“Why would anybody want to maim you?”

“How should I know? The same reason they'd want to call the house and harass me, I suppose.”

“Call the radio station, you mean?” He turned his head slightly, as if listening closely for her answer.

“What?”

“You said they called your house, but you meant the radio station, didn't you?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” she answered with a quick glance at as much of his expression as she could see. It gave nothing away, allowed no clue as to whether he accepted her retrieval of the slip. Finishing with the most serious burn area of his back, she turned her attention to the less tender edges and scattered spots.

Luke was quiet under her ministrations for long seconds. Finally he said, “You think this business could have something to do with what you're writing?”

“My work in progress is a historical,” she protested. “What could possibly be the connection?”

“It's still about the Benedict clan.”

“What if it is?” She'd thought earlier, when Julianne mentioned her work in progress, that Luke hadn't shown enough curiosity. She might have known it was because he already knew about it.

“There are some who might not like the idea.”

The hard undertone of his words was obvious, in part because she'd trained herself to notice such nuances, but also because she'd half expected it. Defensively, she asked, “You, for instance?”

“You could say that. Though I'm not the only one.”

Briefly, April wondered if Luke could be behind the threats to her safety. He'd shown up out of the blue just as they escalated, hadn't he? Now he was in New Orleans at the same time she happened to be there. What if his whole purpose was to stop her from writing the book? What if he meant to entice her back into a relationship so he could use his beguiling ways to persuade her to drop the story?

No, that was impossible. He'd shielded her from the acid, hadn't he? Surely that proved he could not be involved. Or did it? With his understanding of women, he might have reasoned that playing the hero, saving her from injury at his own expense, would be the perfect way to redeem himself. But what reason for preventing the book from being written could possibly be worth the pain?

Her voice tight, she said, “You mentioned others. Who else?”

“My grandmother, mainly. But there's also a whole set of backcountry Benedicts who just might form a pickup posse if you show them in a bad light. Or even if they only think you might.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Not to Roan. It's his theory.”

That put a different light on the subject. She remembered that Benedict family branch he'd mentioned. They'd been a wild bunch back in high school, a tightly knit group who lived deep in the Horseshoe Lake swamplands. They'd looked out for each other in the halls and on the athletic field. If one got in trouble, male or female, all that was re
quired was a high-pitched whistle and suddenly Benedicts with knotted fists and fire in their eyes came out of the woodwork. They excelled at sports, but also had an artistic bent. Most of them could play any musical instrument they picked up, draw anything they saw. One of the quieter boys had become a nature photographer famous on a national level for his swamp studies. Another was a ballad singer with a huge cult following. A girl who had been in April's class at school was a quilt designer with her own line of hand-dyed fabrics and a series of books featuring her elaborate fabric art patterns.

However, there were other cousins who were armored in hidebound ignorance and proud of it. They spat their chewing tobacco on the sidewalks in town, carried hunting rifles in their pickup truck racks, trapped mink, raccoons and nutria in winter, and had been known to wrestle alligators for the fun of it. The words
artistic license
were unlikely to be in their vocabulary.

“I'm not naming names,” she said defensively, “only using a little of the background. The Benedicts are a part of the history of the area. Their experiences reflect those of the earliest families to settle Turn-Coupe, only with a bit more color. I certainly don't intend to libel anybody living now.”

“They don't know that and they like their privacy. Besides, to their mind there's not a lot of difference between libel and ridicule.”

He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. A frown drew her brows together as she said, “I'll try to avoid either one, but with all the political
correctness these days, it's getting harder and harder to find a decent villain for a story!”

“We all have our problems,” he answered without noticeable sympathy.

She gave him a dark look, but the effort was lost as his eyes were still closed. Finished with the ointment, she put the top back on it and set it aside, then cut several lengths of bandaging gauze. As she folded these and put them carefully in place, she asked, “How do you know it was sulfuric acid that caused all this damage?”

“Tom, down at the hardware, once sold me a mislabeled bottle of it in the place of the muriatic acid I wanted.”

“What would you want that for?”

“The muriatic? It's used to clean bricks. I wanted it to clear the moss from the front steps at Chemin-a-Haut.” He opened his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Pretending distraction as she cut pieces of nylon tape to fasten the bandaging strips, she said, “Just wondering—and thinking about where someone might get sulfuric acid.”

“Nothing to it,” he answered, twitching a shoulder as he relaxed again. “It's one of the most common chemicals in the world, used for everything from fertilizer and detergent to drugs. It's also the lead acid in storage batteries used in cars. If someone wanted it, they'd only have to pay a visit to the friendly neighborhood junkyard.”

“And where did you learn all that?”

“From an encyclopedia when I was trying to figure out what to do with a gallon of it,” he snapped. “Lord, April, you can't think—”

“No, of course not,” she interrupted as she pressed the last piece of tape in place and stepped back. “There, all done. Now I think I'll take a shower myself so I can put a little ointment on my own blisters.”

He turned his head, starting to rise. “You're hurt? But I thought—”

“Don't move!” she warned, but he had already halted as pain cut off his voice. She put a hand lightly on the tense muscles of his arm. “Lie back down a minute until the pill takes effect. The burns I have are nothing, just a couple of spots.”

“You're sure?” He searched her face, his own features shadowed with grimness.

“Positive,” she answered, and was pleased to feel some of the stiffness leave him. “I'll bring your clothes out here first so you can ease back into them when you feel up to it.”

He made no answer, only gave her a close look. April thought she might have overdone the solicitation in contrast to her usual coolness. She turned away and walked briskly into the dressing room with its connecting bath.

Luke's eyes were closed and he had pulled a pillow down under his head when she returned with his shirt and pants. He looked more comfortable than before, as if the pain had eased. It seemed a shame to disturb him to say goodbye, though he'd have to make a move soon in order to take himself to his hotel.

There was something disquietingly sensual about him as he lay sprawled on the bed with his olive-bronze skin in dark contrast to the white bath sheet.
The thick fringe of his lashes made a scimitar shadow across the strong line of his nose. She could see the dark stubble of the beard under his skin, also a small scar in one brow that made it uneven, and the pulse that beat in a sure, steady rhythm in the hollow of his throat. The curves of his mouth hinted at both passion and laughter.

What was she doing? Standing there mooning over Luke Benedict was nearly as dumb as inviting him to her room in the first place. The last thing she needed was for him to open his eyes and catch her at it.

Whipping away from him, she picked up the antibiotic ointment, then searched out her nightgown from her suitcase and moved back toward the bathroom. Once inside, she closed and locked the door.

She decided on a bath instead of a shower and spent several minutes luxuriating in water scented by the bath gel provided by the hotel. Afterward, she went through her ritual of various creams, flossing and brushing, then applied the ointment and a couple of adhesive bandages. She didn't hurry since she wanted to give Luke plenty of time to dress and go. It was perhaps a half hour later when she tied her peach silk bathrobe around her and walked back into the bedroom.

Luke hadn't moved since she'd left him. His chest rose and fell in an even tempo that showed plainly that he was asleep.

Marching to the bed, she put her fingers on his good shoulder and gave him a nudge. “Luke?”

Nothing happened.

“Luke, wake up.” She shook him again though
she was reluctant to be too rough for fear of hurting him.