Cry Wolf (29 page)

Laurel ducked away before he could get his arms around her. “Go weigh anchor, sailor, before I pull my gun on you.”

Purring low in his throat, he sprang toward her and stole a kiss, dancing deftly away when she would have slugged him. “I love it when you boss me around.”

She snatched up a pillow from the bench and hurled it at his head. Jack darted outside and used the door for a shield, chuckling the whole time.

Giving up on the idea of seducing her again, he went about the business of pulling up the anchor, cursing under his breath as it caught on something tangled in the reeds. He hauled back on the nylon rope, damning people who used the swamp for a garbage dump. The anchor finally pulled free, and he hauled it aboard. Minutes later the motor was puttering and the pontoon eased away from the bank and headed west . . .

. . . and the body of a naked woman, brutally tortured, cruelly slain, buoyed by the dense growth beneath her, floated out of the reeds and bobbed in the wake of the boat, her sightless eyes staring after them, her arm outstretched toward them in a plea for help that was much too silent and far too late.

Chapter
Sixteen

The sun shone, butter yellow, a soft, indistinct ball on the far side of the morning haze. Laurel sat at the table on the gallery, staring out across the courtyard, through the back gate, and toward the bayou, where the mist hung in gauzy strips above the water and wound like ribbons of smoke through the trees. She stared toward the bayou . . . and L'Amour.

The old brick house stood stately and alone, half hidden by trees and shrubbery that had been allowed to encroach during generations of neglect. From the branches of one gnarled live oak hung two dozen or more neckties, their tails fluttering in the slight breeze—a testimony to Jack's abdication from the world of corporate law, she supposed. She certainly couldn't imagine him putting on a tie, much less a suit, in his current phase—the rebel, the rogue. But she thought of him younger, intense, hungry to prove himself, and the image came quite easily. Jack, elegant in double-breasted gray silk. Handsome, yet rough around the edges. Educated, but with some aura of that boy who had grown up wild on the edge of the swamp. Like a panther that had been domesticated, always with a shadow of his former self nearby, the air of danger lingering around him.

She wondered what had driven him from that world he had worked so hard to conquer. She wondered if it was wise to care.

She shifted on her cushioned chair, curling her feet beneath her, and lifted her tea cup with both hands to take a sip of Earl Grey. The rest of the household would be stirring soon. Caroline would be subjecting her body to the contortions of her daily yoga regimen. Mama Pearl would be shuffling around her kitchen in a cotton shift and terrycloth slippers, starting the coffee, setting out a bowl of chilled fruit, grumbling to herself about the state of the world while the morning news came over the radio. But for now, the gallery and the morning belonged to Laurel, and she relished the peace. Unable to sleep past four o'clock, she had showered and dressed.

She had expected to feel a certain amount of turmoil concerning her night of lovemaking with Jack. After all, she had never been one to indulge in reckless passion—had, in fact, disdained and avoided it. But sitting in the dewy-soft quiet of the courtyard, she could find no regrets, no recriminations. He had offered something she wanted, needed—not just sex, but a release from other tensions—and she had accepted. And it had been wonderful. . . .

“People who get up this early shouldn't look so happy.”

Savannah stood in the open French doors to the hall, looking sleep-rumpled and groggy in her champagne silk robe. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild disarray, and mascara smudges ringed her eyes. She looked tough, dissipated by dissolute living, like a hooker the morning after. The glow of excitement had diffused, the allure had vanished with the moon.

She pushed herself away from the door and stepped out onto the gallery, barefoot, one hand tucked into the deep pocket of her robe, the other toying with the heart on her necklace.

Laurel tried to think of an innocuous comeback line, but she couldn't get past the hurt that still lingered from the night before. “Would you like some tea?” she asked quietly.

Savannah shook her head, her lips tightening against a bittersweet smile. That was Baby, falling back on good manners to hide her feelings. If all else failed her, she would at least be a gracious hostess. Such a little belle. Vivian would have been proud of her.

“I want to apologize for yesterday. I said a lot of things I shouldn't have.” The words came out in a rush of embarrassment and contrition. She busied her fingers twisting the sash of her robe. “And I never should have been such a bitch to you last night, but I was just feeling so hurt and so damn angry—”

Laurel set her cup down and rose, concern knitting her brows. “I didn't mean to hurt you, Sister—”

“No, not you, Baby. Cooper.” She stared down at the table through a bright sheen of tears, feeling as fragile as Laurel's china teacup. “I don't know what I'm going to do,” she said, trying to smile, shaking her head at the futility of it all. “I love that man something awful.”

She turned and walked away a few steps, breathing deep of the sweet, dew-damp scents of the garden—flowers and sweet olive and boxwood—green, vibrant scents of life. As if she could scrub away the feeling of despair that clung to her, she rubbed her hands over her face. But a dozen other feelings gurgled up inside her like tainted water from an underground spring—guilt and anger, remorse and jealousy. She didn't want any of it.

Trying to tamp it all down, she turned back toward Laurel, who stood watching her with wide eyes and a serious face. For just an instant she was that same little waif who had looked to Savannah for love and support when they had no one else to turn to, and Savannah felt a welcome rush of strength.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, finding a smile for her baby sister. “It doesn't have anything to do with us. I won't let anything come between us.”

Laurel went into her sister's arms, vowing to say nothing about Conroy Cooper or any other man Savannah involved herself with. She couldn't change Savannah, couldn't change the way Savannah thought about her past, and those were not the reasons she had come home in the first place. This was what she had come for, she thought as she hugged her sister—unconditional love and support. That had to work both ways. And so she said nothing about the scent of stale perfume and stale sex that clung to Savannah.

“I won't let anything come between us,” Savannah said again, vehemently, her embrace tightening around Laurel's slender frame.

“You might let some air come between us,” Laurel teased. “You're squeezing the life out of me.”

A nervous laugh rattled out of her, and she loosened her hold, stepping back, settling her hands on Laurel's shoulders. “Maybe I will have a cup of that tea, after all. We can sit out here and chat. You've made the garden so pretty again. We'll make some plans.”

She rushed back into the house, hurrying as if she were afraid the moment would pass and the wall of tension would rise up between them again. Laurel settled into her chair, reaching for the matchbook she had found on the seat of her car the night before. Savannah's, she supposed. She turned it around and around in her fingers, absently, just something to busy her hands. Not five minutes passed before Savannah returned with a tray bearing the teapot, a cup for herself, and a plate heaped with powdery
beignets
.

“These are left over from yesterday,” she chattered, arranging everything to her satisfaction on the table. “I just popped them into the microwave to warm them up and sprinkled fresh sugar on them. Have one,” she ordered, suddenly full of life and hope. “Have half a dozen. If anyone ever needed to load up on Mama Pearl's cooking, it's you, Baby. You don't have an ounce to spare.”

Laurel tossed the matchbook down on the tabletop between them and reached for a
beignet
. “You left that in the car.”

Savannah picked it up and sat back, studying it idly as she nibbled on the corner of her breakfast. She said nothing for a long moment, staring at the bloodred square blankly, then dropped it. “I use a lighter.”

A vague sense of unease shifted through Laurel. She set her
beignet
aside on her napkin, her gaze moving from her sister's expressionless face to the matchbook. An elaborate Mardi Gras mask was stamped in black above the words “Le Mascarade” and a French Quarter address in New Orleans. “If it's not yours, then how did it get in my car?”

A careless shrug was her only answer. Savannah pushed her chair back from the table and rose. “I forgot the sugar for my tea.”

As she padded back into the house, Laurel fingered the matchbook, a strange chill pebbling the flesh of her arms with goose bumps.

“
Bonjour, mon ange
. For you.”

Laurel gasped as a perfect red rose appeared before her. She hadn't heard Jack's approach, hadn't even caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. His ability to appear and disappear seemingly from and into thin air rattled her, and she narrowed her eyes to compensate with annoyance.

“You damn near gave me a heart attack.”

Jack frowned, leaning over her, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. “Is that any way to thank a man for bringing you flowers?”

She gave a little sniff of disdain but accepted the rose. “You probably stole it from one of Aunt Caroline's bushes.”

“It's no less a gift,” he said, leaning closer, his gaze fastening on her lips.

Anticipation fluttered in her throat. “How can it be a gift if it's something I already possessed?”

He lowered his head another fraction of an inch, closing the space between them to little more than a deep breath. His lashes drifted down, thick and black. “Isn't that just like a lawyer?” he whispered. “If I offered you the moon, you'd probably want to see my deed to it.”

Any retort she might have made was lost. Any thought she might have had in her head vanished as Jack settled his mouth against hers. He kissed her deeply, intimately, leisurely, reminding her graphically and frankly of the intimacy they had shared the night before.

When he lifted his mouth from hers at last, he made a low, purring sound of satisfaction in his throat, then chuckled wickedly. “Why you blushin',
ma jolie fille
?” he asked, his voice dark and smoky. “You gave me a helluva lot more than a kiss last night.”

“But you probably didn't have an audience, did you, Jack?” Savannah asked sharply. She stepped out from behind a pillar and set a silver sugar bowl on the table, never taking her eyes off him. She picked up the red matchbook and tapped it against her cheek. “Or have you led my baby sister that far astray?”

He straightened, his eyes cold, his face set in a stony mask. “That's none of your damn business, Savannah.”

“Yes, it is,” she argued. “I won't have you fucking my baby sister, Jack.”

“Why is that? Because I didn't do you first?”

She threw the matchbook down, color rising high into her cheeks. “You son of a bitch.”

“Stop it!” Laurel snapped, shoving her chair back and rising to her feet. She turned toward her sister, a part of her shocked by the pure hatred she saw burning like pale blue flame in Savannah's eyes as she stared at Jack, a part of her too annoyed to pay attention to it. “Sister, I appreciate your concern, but I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Savannah blinked at her, looking stunned. “No, you can't. You need me.”

“I need your support,” Laurel qualified. “I don't need you screening my dates.”

Savannah picked out four words from the rest and drove them through her own heart like a stake.
“I don't need you.”
Baby didn't need her, didn't want her, preferred the company of Jack Boudreaux. Panic clawed through her, and fury poured out of the wounds as hot and red as blood. Her one chance to do something important was being snatched away from her. Everything she wanted was always beyond her reach. Coop. Laurel. Baby was turning away from her for a man. And she was left with nothing, just another slut like every other slut in south Louisiana.

“After all I've done for you,” she muttered, her lush mouth twisting at the bitterness, at the irony. “After all I've done for you, you don't need me.”

Laurel's jaw dropped. “That's not what I said!”

“Well, fine,” Savannah went on. “You go on and have a high old time with him and just forget about me. I don't need you, either. You're nothing but an ungrateful little hypocrite, and I can't think why I ever would have saved you from anything.”

Tears shone like diamonds in her eyes. She caught at her artificially plump lower lip with her teeth, raking color into it. “I never will again,” she vowed, her voice choked and petulant. “You can count on that. I
never
will again.”

“Savannah!” Laurel started after her as she whirled and ran into the house, but Jack caught her by the shoulder.

“Let her go, angel. She's in no mood to listen. Let her cool off.”

Seconds later the Acura roared to life at the side of the house, and then came the angry screech of tires on asphalt.

Laurel turned and slammed her fist into Jack's shoulder, not to punish him, but because she needed to hit something, anything. “I don't understand what's going on with her!”

“She's jealous.”

“No,” she murmured, leaning into him as the anger seeped out of her muscles, leaving her trembling. “It's not as simple as that.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He heaved a sigh and slipped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head. “
C'est vrai,
life's a bitch. Nothin's ever simple. . . .”

Certainly not in Laurel's life. She seemed interminably tangled in a web of obligations. He wanted to cut her loose, if only for a little while, give her a break . . . have her all to himself so he might pretend she could be his.

“Except fishin',” he said, going with the impulse that had brought him here at this ungodly hour in the first place. “You ready to come fishin' with me,
ma petite
?”

“I never said I'd go fishing with you,” Laurel said, frowning.

“Sure you did. Last night.” He tucked a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face up. “You whispered it in my ear while we were makin' love. You said I could take you anywhere. I'm taking you fishin'.”

They went out in a
pirogue
Laurel had more than a few reservations about. Slender and shallow as a pea pod, it was made of weathered cypress planking and bobbed like a cork on the inky, oily surface of the bayou. Laurel stood on the dock for a long moment, looking dubious, as Jack loaded fishing gear into the bow.

“Are you sure this thing is safe?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he drawled, adding a cooler to the cargo in the nose of the boat. The
pirogue
dipped and swayed on the water as if protesting even that slight load. Unconcerned, Jack climbed in, braced his feet, and reached a hand up to help her aboard. “An old friend of mine made this
pirogue
for me. As he would say, ‘This boat, she rides the dew.' ”

Laurel swallowed hard as she stepped down into the craft and felt it bob beneath her. She grabbed hold of Jack's biceps for an instant to steady herself and to pull him with her if she went overboard. “Was he sober at the time?”