Carnal Innocence (3 page)

Dutifully he examined her long scarlet nails. “Looks to me like you’ve just finished scratching somebody’s eyes out. Gimme a lemonade and some of that huckleberry, with French vanilla on top, Earleen.”

Rather pleased with Tucker’s description of her nails, Josie ran them through her artfully tangled mane of black hair. “Justine would’ve liked to scratch mine out.” Grinning, she picked up her Diet Coke and sipped through the straw. “She was over at the beauty parlor getting her roots done and flapping her hand around to show everybody this eensy speck of glass she called a diamond. Will probably won it knocking down bottles at the fair.”

Tucker’s golden eyes twinkled. “Jealous, Josie?”

She stiffened up, bottom lip poking out, then her face cleared as she tossed back her head and hooted. “If I’d wanted him, I’d’ve had him. But outside of bed he just about bored me senseless.” She stirred what was left of her soda with the straw and sent a quick flirtatious look over her shoulder at two boys lounging in a booth. They puffed up quickly, sucking in beer guts. “We’ve got this burden, you and I do, Tuck. About being damn near irresistible to the opposite sex.”

After smiling at Earleen, he dug into his pie. “Yeah, it’s our cross to bear.”

Josie drummed her newly painted nails on the counter for the pleasure of hearing them click. The restlessness that had driven her to marry and divorce twice within five years had been flaring up for weeks. Nearly time to move on, she thought. A few months back in Innocence made her yearn for the excitement of anywhere else. And a few months anywhere else made her yearn for the quiet aimlessness of her hometown.

Someone had popped a quarter in a juke and Randy
Travis was crooning about the miseries of love. Josie drummed her fingers in time and scowled at Tucker as he shoveled in huckleberries and ice cream.

“I don’t see how you can eat like that in the middle of the day.”

Tucker scooped up more pie. “I just open my mouth and swallow.”

“And never gain a goddamn ounce. I have to watch every blessed thing I eat or my hips’ll be as wide as Mamie Gantrey’s.” She stuck a finger in Tucker’s ice cream and scooped up a lick. “What’re you doing in town besides stuffing your face?”

“Errands for Della. Passed a car turning into the McNair place.”

“Hmmm.” Josie might have given that piece of news more attention, but Burke Truesdale strolled in. She wriggled straighter in her chair, crossing long, smooth legs, and sent him a honey-dripping smile. “Hi there, Burke.”

“Josie.” He came over to give Tucker a thump on the back. “Tuck. What’re you two up to?”

“Just passing the time,” Josie said. Burke was six feet of solid muscle with a linebacker’s shoulders, and a square-jawed face softened by puppy-dog eyes. Although he was Dwayne’s contemporary, he was closer to Tucker in friendship, and he was one of the few men Josie had wanted and done without.

Burke rested one hip on a stool, his heavy ring of keys jangling. His sheriff’s badge winked dully in the sunlight. “Too hot to do anything else.” He muttered a thanks to Earleen when she set an iced tea in front of him. Burke guzzled it down without taking a breath.

Josie licked her top lip as she watched his Adam’s apple bob.

“Miss Edith’s kin’s moving into the house,” Burke announced as he set the glass aside. “Miss Caroline Waverly, some kind of fancy musician from Philadelphia.” Earleen had refilled his glass, and this time he sipped slowly. “She called down to have the phone and power hooked up.”

“How long’s she staying?” Earleen always had her
eyes and ears open for news. As proprietress of the Chat ’N Chew, it was her right and her duty.

“Didn’t say. Miss Edith wasn’t one to talk about her family overmuch, but I do remember hearing she had a granddaughter who traveled around with an orchestra or something.”

“Must pay well,” Tucker mused. “I saw her car turn into the lane fifteen minutes ago. She was driving a brand new BMW.”

Burke waited until Earleen had moved away. “Tuck, I need to talk to you about Dwayne.”

Though his face remained passive and friendly, Tucker’s shield slid into place. “What about?”

“He got juiced up again last night, had a pushy-shovy going over at McGreedy’s. I put him up in a cell for the night.”

Now there was a change, a darkening of the eyes, a grimness around the mouth. “You charge him with anything?”

“Come on, Tuck.” More hurt than offended, Burke shifted his feet. “He was raising hell and too drunk to drive. I figured he could use a place to sleep it off. Last time I drove him home in the middle of the night, Miss Della was spitting mad.”

“Yeah.” Tucker relaxed. There were friends, there was family, and there was Burke, who was a combination of both. “Where’s he now?”

“Over at the jail, nursing a hangover. I figured since you’re here, you could haul him home. We can get his car back later on.”

“Much obliged.” His quiet words masked the raw disappointment in his gut. Dwayne had been on the wagon nearly two weeks this time. Once he’d fallen, Tucker knew, it would be a long, slippery climb back on. Tucker stood, pulling out his wallet. When the door slammed open behind him, rattling glasses on the back shelves, he glanced around. He saw Edda Lou Hatinger and knew he was in trouble.

“Belly-crawling bastard,” she spat out, and launched herself at him. If Burke hadn’t retained the
same reflexes that had made him a star receiver in high school, Tucker might have had his face sheared off.

“Hey, hey,” Burke said helplessly while Edda Lou fought like a bobcat.

“You think you can toss me off just like that?”

“Edda Lou.” From experience, Tucker kept his voice low and calm. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Her small teeth bared in a snarl. “I’m going to hurt
you,
you fucking weasel.”

With reluctance, Burke slipped into his sheriff’s mode. “Girl, you pull yourself together or I’ll have to take you over to the jail. Your daddy wouldn’t be happy about that either.

She hissed through her teeth. “I won’t lay a hand on the son of a bitch.” When Burke’s grip loosened, she slipped free, dusting herself off.

“If you want to talk about this—” Tucker began.

“We’re going to talk about it, all right. Here and now.” She swung in a circle while customers either stared or pretended not to. Colorful plastic bracelets clicked on her arms. Perspiration gave a sheen to her face and neck. “Y’all listen up, you hear? I got something to say to Mr. Bigshot Longstreet.”

“Edda Lou—” Tucker took a chance and touched her arm. She swung out backhanded and knocked his teeth together.

“No.” Wiping his mouth, he waved Burke away. “Let her get it out.”

“I’ll get it out, all right. You said you loved me.”

“I never did that.” That Tucker could be sure of. Even in the throes of passion he was careful with words. Especially in the throes of passion.

“You made me think you did,” she shouted at him. The powdery spray she was wearing was overwhelmed by the hot sweat of temper and combined in a sickly-sweet aroma that reminded Tucker of something freshly dead. “You wheedled your way into bed with me. You said I was the woman you’d been waiting for. You said …” Tears began to mix with the sweat on her
face, turning her mascara into wet clumps under her eyes. “You said we were going to get married.”

“Oh no.” Tucker’s temper, which he preferred not to have riled, began to stir. “That was your idea, honey. And I told you flat out it wasn’t going to happen.”

“What’s a girl to think when you come whistling up, bringing flowers and buying fancy wine? You said you cared about me more than anybody else.”

“I did care.” And he had. He always did.

“You don’t care about nothing or nobody, only Tucker Longstreet.” She pushed her face into his, spit flying. Seeing her like this, all the sweetness and flutters gone, he wondered how he could have cared. And he hated the fact that some of the boys who’d been lounging over their sodas were elbowing each other’s ribs and chuckling.

“Then you’re better off without me, aren’t you?” He dropped two bills on the counter.

“You think you’re going to get off that easy?” Her hand clamped like iron on his arm. He could feel her muscles quiver. “You think you can toss me off like you did all the others?” She’d be damned if he would—not when she’d hinted marriage to all her girlfriends. Not when she’d gone all the way into Greenville to moon over the wedding gowns. She knew—she
knew
half the town would already be smirking about it. “You’ve got an obligation to me. You made promises.”

“Name one.” His temper building, he pried a clutching hand from his arm.

“I’m pregnant.” It burst out of her on a flood of desperation. She had the satisfaction of hearing a mutter pass from booth to booth, and of watching Tucker pale.

“What did you say?”

Her lips curved then, in a hard, merciless smile. “You heard me, Tuck. Now you’d better decide what you’re going to do about it.”

Tossing up her head, she spun around and stormed out. Tucker waited for his stomach to slide back down from his throat.

“Oops,” Josie said, grinning broadly at the goggle
eyed diners. But her hand went down to take her brother’s. “Ten bucks says she’s lying.”

Still reeling, Tucker stared at her. “What?”

“I say she’s no more pregnant than you are. Oldest female trick in the book, Tucker. Don’t get your dick caught in it.”

He needed to think, and he wanted to be alone to do it. “You get Dwayne over at the jail, will you? And pick up Della’s stuff.”

“Why don’t we—”

But he was already walking out. Josie sighed, thinking the shit was going to hit the fan. He hadn’t told her what Della wanted.

D
wayne Longstreet sat on the rock-iron bunk in one of the town’s two jail cells and moaned like a wounded dog. The three aspirin he’d downed had yet to take effect, and the army of chain saws buzzing inside his head were getting mighty close to the brain.

He took his head out of his hands long enough to slurp down more of the coffee Burke had left him, then clamped it tight again, afraid it would fall off. Half hoping it would.

As always, during the first hour after waking from a toot, Dwayne despised himself. He hated knowing that he’d strolled, smiling, into the same ugly trap again.

Not the drinking. No, Dwayne liked drinking. He liked that first hot taste of whiskey when it hit the tongue, slid down the throat, settled into the belly like a long, slow kiss from a pretty woman. He liked the friendly rush that spread into his head after the second drink.

Hell, he fucking loved it.

He didn’t even mind getting drunk. No, there was something to be said about that floating time after you’d knocked back five or six. When everything looked fine
and funny. When you forgot your life had turned ugly on you—that you’d lost the wife and kids you’d never wanted much in the first place to some fucking shoe salesman, that you were stuck in a dusty pisshole of a town because there was no place else to go.

Yeah, he liked that floaty, forgetful time just fine.

He didn’t particularly care for what happened after that. When your hand kept reaching for the bottle without warning the rest of you what was coming. When you stopped tasting and kept on swallowing just because the whiskey was there and so were you.

He didn’t like the fact that sometimes the drink turned him nasty, so he wanted to pick a fight, any fight. God knew he wasn’t a mean-tempered man. That was his father. But sometimes, just sometimes, the whiskey turned him into Beau, and he was sorry for it.

What scared him was that there were times when he couldn’t quite remember if he’d turned nasty or just passed out quietly. Whenever that happened, he was more than likely going to wake up in the cell with a hangover fit to kill.

Gingerly, knowing that the movement could change the busy loggers in his head into a swarm of angry bees, he got to his feet. The sun streaming through the bars at the window all but blinded him. Dwayne shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand as he groped his way out of the cell. Burke never locked him in.

Dwayne fumbled his way into the bathroom and whizzed out what felt like a gallon of the Wild Turkey that had filtered through his kidneys. Wishing miserably for his own bed, he splashed cold water in his face until his eyes stopped burning.

He hissed through his teeth when the door slammed in the outer office, and whimpered just a little when Josie cheerfully called his name.

“Dwayne? Are you in here? It’s your own sweet sister come to bust you out.”

When he stepped into the doorway to lean weakly on the jamb, Josie raised her carefully plucked brows. “My oh my. You look like something three cats had to drag in.” She stepped closer, tapping a bright red nail on
her bottom lip. “Honey, how do you see through all that blood in your eyes?”

“Did I …” He coughed to clear the rust out of his throat. “Did I wreck a car?”

“Not that I know of. Now, you come on along with Josie.” She moved to him to take his arm. When he turned his head, she stepped back fast. “Sweet Jesus. How many men have you killed with that breath?” Clucking her tongue, she dug in her purse and pulled out a box of Tic Tacs. “Here now, honey, you chew on a couple of these.” She popped them into his mouth herself. “Otherwise I’m likely to faint if you breathe on me.”

“Della’s going to be real pissed,” he mumbled as he let Josie guide him to the door.

“I expect she will—but when she finds out about Tucker, she’ll forget all about you.”

“Tucker? Oh, shit.” Dwayne staggered back as the sun slammed into his eyes.

Shaking her head, Josie pulled out her sunglasses, the ones with the little rhinestones circling the lenses, and handed them to him. “Tucker’s in trouble. Or Edda Lou’s claiming he got
her
in trouble. But we’ll see about that.”

“Christ almighty.” For a brief moment his own problems faded away. “Tuck got Edda Lou knocked up?”

Josie opened the passenger door of her car so Dwayne could pour himself in. “She made a big scene over at the Chat ’N Chew, so everybody in town’s going to be watching to see if her belly bloats.”

“Christ almighty.”

“I’ll say this.” Josie started the car, and was sympathetic enough to flick off the radio. “Whether she’s knocked up or not, he’d better think twice before moving that whiny slut into the house.”

Dwayne would have agreed wholeheartedly, but he was too busy holding his head.

Tucker knew better than to go back to the house. Della would be on him in a New York minute. He
needed some time alone, and once he drove through Sweetwater’s gates, he wouldn’t get any.

On impulse he swerved to the side of the road, leaving a streak of rubber on the sweaty macadam. With home still the best part of a mile away, he left his car on the grassy verge and walked into the trees.

The paralyzing heat lessened by a few stingy degrees once he was under the shelter of green leaves and dripping moss. Still, he wasn’t looking to cool his skin, but his mind.

For one moment back at the diner, for one hot, hazy-red moment, he’d wanted to grab Edda Lou by the throat and squeeze every last accusing breath out of her.

He didn’t care for the impulse, or for the fact that he’d taken an instant’s sheer pleasure from the image. Half of what she’d said had been lies. But that meant half of what she’d said had been the truth.

He shoved a low-hanging branch aside, ducked, and made his way through the heavy summer growth to the water. A heron, startled at the intrusion, folded up her long, graceful legs and glided off deeper into the bayou. Tucker kept an eye out for snakes as he settled down on

Taking his time, he pulled out a cigarette, pinched a miserly bit from the tip, then lighted it.

He’d always liked the water—not so much the pound and thrust of the ocean, but the still darkness of shady ponds, the murmur of streams, the steady pulse of the river. Even as a boy he’d been drawn to it, using the excuse of fishing to sit and think, or sit and doze, listening to the plop of frogs and the monotonous drone of cicadas.

He’d had only childish problems to face then. Whether he was going to get skinned for that D in geography, how to finesse a new bike for Christmas. And later, whether he should ask Arnette or Carolanne to the Valentine’s Day dance.

As you got older, problems swelled. He remembered grieving for his father when the old man went and got himself killed in that Cessna traveling down to Jackson. But that had been nothing, nothing at all
compared to the sharp, stunning misery he’d felt when he found his mother crumpled in her garden, already too close to death for any doctor to fix her seizured heart.

He’d come here often then, to ease himself past the misery. And eventually, like all things, it had faded. Except at the odd moments when he’d glance out a window, half expecting to see her—face shaded by that big straw hat with the chiffon scarf trailing—clipping overblown roses.

Madeline Longstreet would not have approved of Edda Lou. She would, naturally, have found her coarse, cheap, and cunning. And, Tucker thought as he slowly drew in and expelled smoke, would have expressed her disapproval by that excruciating politeness any true southern lady could hone to a razor-edged weapon.

His mother had been a true southern lady.

Edda Lou, on the other hand, was a fine piece of work. Physically speaking. Big-breasted, wide-hipped, with skin she kept dewy by slathering on Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion every morning and night of her life. She had an eager, hardworking mouth, willing hands, and by God, he’d enjoyed her.

He hadn’t loved her, nor had he claimed to. Tucker considered promises of love a cheap tool for persuading a woman into bed. He’d shown her a good time, in bed and out. He wasn’t a man to stop the courtship process once a woman had spread her legs.

But the minute she’d started hinting about marriage, he’d taken a long step back. First he’d given her a cooling-off period, taking her out maybe twice in a two-week period and cutting off sex completely. He’d told her flat out that he had no intention of getting married. But he’d seen by the smug look in her eye she hadn’t believed him. So he’d broken it off. She’d been tearful but civilized. Tucker saw now that she’d believed she’d be able to reel him back.

Tucker also had no doubt now that she’d heard he’d been seen with someone else.

All of that mattered. And none of it mattered. If Edda Lou was pregnant, he was pretty sure that despite
precautions—he was the one who’d made her so. Now he had to figure out what to do about it.

He was surprised Austin Hatinger hadn’t already come looking for him with his shotgun loaded. Austin wasn’t the most understanding of men, and he’d never been fond of the Longstreets. The fact was, he hated them, and had ever since Madeline LaRue had chosen Beau Longstreet, ending forever Austin’s blind dream of marrying her himself.

Since then Austin had turned into one mean, hard-bitten son of a bitch. It was common knowledge that he slapped his wife around when the mood was on him. He used the same thumping discipline with each of his five children—the oldest of which, A.J., was now serving time in Jackson for grand theft auto.

Austin had spent a few nights behind bars himself. Assault, assault and battery, disorderly conduct—usually carried out while spouting scripture or calling on the Lord. Tucker figured it was only a matter of time before Austin came after him with that shotgun or those ham-sized fists.

He’d just have to deal with it.

Just as he’d have to deal with his responsibility to Edda Lou. Responsibility was what it was, and he’d be damned if he’d marry responsibility. She might have been skilled in bed, but she couldn’t keep up her end of a conversation with a hydraulic jack. And, he’d discovered, she was as small-brained and cunning as a she-fox. That was one thing he wasn’t about to face over breakfast every morning for the rest of his life.

He’d do what he could, and what was right. There was money, and there was his time. That much he could give. And maybe, once the worst of the anger wore off, he’d feel affection for the child, if not for the mother.

He hoped there’d be affection rather than this sick feeling in his gut.

Tucker scrubbed his hands over his face and wished Edda Lou would just disappear. That she would pay for that ugly scene in the diner where she’d made him look worse than he was. If he could just think of a way, he’d …

He heard a rustle in the leaves and swung toward it. If Edda Lou had followed him, she was going to find him not only ready to fight, but eager.

When Caroline stepped into the clearing, she muffled a scream. There, in the shady spot where she’d once fished with her grandfather, was a man, golden eyes hard as agate, fists clenched, mouth pulled back dangerously in something between a snarl and a sneer.

She looked around desperately for a weapon, then realized she’d have to depend on herself.

“What are you doing here?”

Tucker shucked off the tough shell as quickly as he might have peeled off his shirt.

“Just watching the water.” He flashed her a quick, self-deprecating smile that was supposed to signal he was harmless. “I didn’t expect to run across anyone.”

The taut and ready stance had relaxed into idleness. But Caroline was not convinced he was harmless. His voice was smooth, with that lazy drawl that could so easily be mocking. Though his eyes were smiling at her, there was such melting sexuality in them that she was ready to run if he so much as leaned toward her.

“Who are you?”

“Tucker Longstreet, ma’am. I live just down the road. I’m trespassing.” Again that “don’t worry about a thing” smile. “Sorry if I gave you a turn. Miss Edith didn’t mind if I wandered in here to sit, so I didn’t think to stop by the house and ask. You
are
Caroline Waverly?”

“Yes.” She found her own stiff answer rude in the face of his country manners. To soften it, she smiled, but didn’t lose that reserved, tensed stance. “You startled me, Mr. Longstreet.”

“Oh, just make that Tucker.” Smiling, he took her measure. A tad too thin, he thought, but she had a face as pale and elegant as the cameo his mama had worn on a black velvet ribbon. Usually he preferred long hair on a woman, but the short style suited her graceful neck and huge eyes. He tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “We’re
neighbors, after all. We tend to be friendly ’round Innocence.”

This one, she thought, could charm the bark off a tree. She’d known another like him. And whether the words were delivered in a southern drawl or a Spanish lilt, they were deadly.

She nodded—regally, he thought.

“I was just taking a look around the property,” she continued. “I didn’t expect to come across anyone.”

“It’s a pretty spot. You settling in all right? If you need anything, all you have to do is holler.”

“I appreciate that, but I think I can manage. I’ve been here only an hour or so.”

“I know. I passed you coming in, on my way to town.”

She started to come up with another bland response, then her eyes narrowed. “In a red Porsche?”

This time his grin was slow and wide and devastating. “She’s a beauty, huh?”

It was Caroline who stepped forward, eyes hot. “You irresponsible idiot, you must have been doing ninety.”

She’d gone from being fragile and lovely to downright beautiful with that flush of heat in her cheeks. Tucker kept his thumbs in his pockets. He’d always figured if you couldn’t avoid a woman’s temper, you might as well enjoy it.

“Nope. As I recollect, I was just coming up on eighty. Now, she’ll do a hundred and twenty in a good straightaway, but—”

“You almost hit me.”

He seemed to consider the possibility, then shook his head. “No, I had plenty of time to swing around. Probably looked closer from your point of view, though. I sure am sorry for giving you a scare twice in the same day.” But the glitter in his eyes had nothing to do with apology. “Mostly I try to have a different effect on a pretty woman.”