Luke (14 page)

Half walking, half running, she skimmed around family groups and dodged couples. She had to get away before Luke saw where she was going, needed to make it to where she'd parked her car if she was going to foil his plans for her. That he'd head straight for where she'd been standing, she didn't doubt for a moment. He'd think it great fun to display her as his prisoner during the triumphant
march into Turn-Coupe. He might still manage to kidnap her at some point during the festival, but she was going to make it a lot harder for him than he expected.

Shouts, grunts, and a few halfhearted yells sounded from behind her. Glancing back, she could see the top of Luke's capped head in the middle of the melee of citizens and pirates as he and his crew fought their sham battle in order to land. April was halfway across the parking lot when she heard the full-throated cry of victory that signaled the successful pirate invasion for another year.

Hard on that sound came a deeper roar that erupted in a thunderous explosion. The ground shook. April was buffeted by a wave of hot air that sent her stumbling, falling. Pain spiked into her knees and hands as she caught herself. For a stunned instant she was still, locked in a deafened silence. Then she inhaled sharply and her ears cleared in a rush of noise.

Shrill screams rasped on the hot air. She swung around to look back.

People were crawling and running in all directions. Pieces of wood and metal hailed down around them, rattling and splashing as they hit pavement, wood dock and water. Flames roared heavenward, chasing the black skirts of a mushrooming cloud of smoke. Several people were in the river, struggling toward shore, though one or two floated without moving. Where the houseboat had sat was a shattered and fiery hulk.

April struggled to her feet, jerking her petticoats out of the way as she started forward. At the same
time, she saw Luke running toward the burning craft. He dodged people, shoved gaping onlookers out of his way. As he reached what was left of the houseboat, he didn't stop but hurtled forward in a fast but shallow dive. He surfaced almost at once, then with his arms flashing wetly with every stroke, he cleaved his way past burning patches of gas and oil and through a rain of ash and fiery debris. Curling smoke spread over the water to wreath his dark head as he arrowed toward a splashing survivor.

April lost sight of him as the gathering crowd obscured her view. Then Roan was there on the catwalk in front of the hulk. He gave orders in a staccato stream, adding a few curt gestures as he directed his deputies. Order began to emerge from the chaos. The crowd was controlled, sent back out of danger. Luke's cousin didn't wait to see it, but shed hat and boots and hit the water to help with the rescue of survivors.

The next few minutes were filled with sirens and flashing lights as fire trucks, emergency rescue crews and ambulances arrived. Personnel went to work in a carefully orchestrated sequence. The silent and awed revelers stood around in quiet groups, watching with strained expressions and talking among themselves as those who'd been blown into the water from boat or dock were brought ashore. Among the first, April saw, was Betsy North. She was pale and shaking, but had a wry quip for the technicians who lifted her onto a gurney.

Speculation ran like wildfire through the muttering assembly. Some theories centered on the engine compartment located aft as the source of the explo
sion, but most leaned toward a leak in one of the propane tanks carried by most houseboats. Mention was made of cigarettes and trapped gas fumes, though with little foundation. That it might be something more than an accident didn't seem to be part of the equation.

April wasn't so certain. She knew no one had been smoking, knew there had been no smell of the usual odor-causing chemicals that were added to scentless propane gas. She was beginning to feel as though she were in an action-adventure movie where something desperate happened every time she turned around. It was surreal, as if she had stepped from the quiet, semi-intellectual country life she had made for herself into a nightmare. She couldn't help wondering if she was supposed to have been one of the people pulled from the water and sent away in an ambulance, one of those who might be pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

Again and again, Luke swam and dove and brought limp, half-alive bodies to the shore. He was like an automaton programmed for rescue, unflagging, endlessly searching the rippling river surface for yet another person, determined, apparently, that none should be overlooked. Finally, April saw Roan swim out to meet him, saw him catch Luke's arm, give him a shake, and point toward the river's edge. Luke turned in that direction, staring at April where she stood on the outer edge of the crowd. Then he gave a single hard nod.

The two men turned as one then, and swam with slow, tired strokes to the dock. They lifted themselves to the jutting catwalk with lithe strength
while water fell from their clothes in shining torrents that were painted bloodred by the reflections of flames. Roan twisted around and perched on the edge for a moment with his head down and his chest heaving. Luke rose to his feet at once and stalked along the dock leaving a wet footprint with every step.

He was coming toward April.

She felt an insane impulse to run. It was impossible. She couldn't move, couldn't decide how to act for the morass of her thoughts. Luke had been searching for her in the water. He'd plowed the rocking river waves like a machine because he'd thought she was lost in them, hurt, dying, even drowned. Whether to save her or only to prove that she was gone, he had expended heart-wrenching effort, battled spreading oil, gas fumes, fire and smoke.

He had lost his jaunty stocking cap and his hair was slicked to his head. His once white shirt was stained a dirty brown streaked with oily black. It molded to his body to show every ridged muscle, every wrenching breath. His leather breeches were so water-soaked they were glutinous. His lashes were stuck together in spikes and his eyes were bloodshot. A smear of blood streaked one high cheekbone. His clenched fists swung at his sides.

For a long moment, she thought he meant to walk up and take hold of her, though whether in embrace or punishment was impossible to say. Just before he reached arm's length, she wrenched her muscles under enough control to take a hasty step backward.

He stopped. A visible shudder ran over him. In
low, even intensity, he said, “I thought you were dead.”

The spectators nearest to them began to edge away. Those walking past gave them a wide berth, though several curious looks were cast in their direction. In the settling quiet, April could hear Luke's hard breathing, and her own. She could feel the pump of the blood through her veins and the thudding of her heart.

“I changed my mind about staying onboard,” she said with care. “I thought—I thought it would make me too easy to find.”

“Easy?”

He spoke the word as if he'd never heard it before. She moistened her lips as she answered, “For you. To kidnap me.”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes behind their shield of lashes dark with anguish, “but I didn't know. And so I pictured you drowning in a shroud of petticoats, burned beyond all recognition….”

“Don't,” she said in sharp repudiation. He had pictured her burned as Mary Ellen had been, dying as she had died, in agony that he was helpless to prevent. For an instant, April felt empathic understanding of his pain and helplessness wash through her with stunning force.

“Anything was likely, and I thought of it all,” he continued relentlessly. “It was not a fun few minutes I spent until I saw you standing here all dry and clean and whole. And when I did, I wanted to—”

He stopped, closed his lips tightly across his
teeth. Water droplets from his clothing made soft plopping sounds as they hit the ground.

“You wanted to what?” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with valiant effort.

“Do desperate things to you, not all of them suitable for public viewing.” He wiped a hand over his face, rubbing at the water that oozed from his hair and along his taut jawline.

“I don't think that would have helped matters.”

“Neither do I, but it might have helped my feelings. It still might.” He bit the words off as he reached to close the fingers of one wet, oily hand around her upper arm. His fingers pressed into her skin in a hold just short of painful. Glancing around, he centered his gaze on her car and started to walk toward it, pulling her with him.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “This isn't—”

“I'm taking you home—or rather, you're taking me to Chemin-a-Haut. I need to shower and change before I can get on with this.”

The glance she threw at his set face as she fell into step beside him did nothing to reassure her. “Oh. I thought…”

“That I was kidnapping you, after all? You're right, I am,” he said, his voice grim as he stared straight ahead.

She could fight him or she could go quietly. Crossing him in his present mood seemed like a bad strategy. She would have to accept her capture with as good a grace as she could manage and consider it a reasonable contribution to soothing Luke's ill humor as well as to charity.

He was moving so fast that it was hard to keep up with him, at least with any dignity. She reached to lift her skirts with her free hand to keep from tripping on them. Her voice a little breathless, she asked, “You got everyone from the houseboat out?”

“I think so. I counted eleven in all.”

“Was anyone—? That is, were there any fatalities?”

He shook his head. “Couple of broken bones, some burns, maybe internal injuries. Everyone should be all right. They were lucky.”

“I was luckier,' she murmured, almost to herself. Then she added, “I saw Betsy. She seemed okay.”

“Could be in shock, just not feeling the pain. They'll know more when they get her to the hospital.”

She agreed. At the same time, she glanced at the cut on his cheekbone that was dripping blood onto his shirt collar. She wondered if he felt it, but knew it was pointless to ask. She'd learned that much in New Orleans.

He put her into her car then walked around and crawled inside. She'd left her key in the ignition, a common habit in Turn-Coupe where car theft was not exactly a growth industry. Luke turned it to start the Lincoln and they pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward town on the main road that would take them through it then on out to the lake.

“You don't think you should stay and help Roan?”

“He has it under control.”

She hesitated, then said anyway, “We could wait to see if they're going to cancel the whole festival.”

“They won't,” Luke said with a shake of his head. “Too many out-of-town visitors and vendors who need to recoup investments. Disappoint them and they may not come back next year.”

His comments were perfectly civil, but his voice was grim and he didn't bother to look at her. There was a closed-in set to his features, as if his mind was elsewhere. An odd pain formed around April's heart. In that moment, she'd have given anything to see his familiar grin or look of cocky insouciance.

A glimmering of suspicion slid into her mind. What if he wasn't taking her to be held for charitable ransom? What if he really meant to carry her off somewhere for his own purposes? He could do it, nothing easier. Even if she kicked and screamed and called for help, no one would come. They would think it was all a part of the festival ritual.

She felt chilled in spite of the summer heat inside the car. Then she gave a tiny shake of her head. That couldn't happen, no way.

Could it?

H
ow in hell was he going to get April onto his boat?

Luke frowned over that all-important question while he took a fast shower then skimmed into jeans and a T-shirt. He'd like to throw her over his shoulder and carry her, but the situation called for a little more finesse than that. He didn't want to start out on an extended stay in the swamp with her ready to scratch his eyes out the minute he let down his guard.

She was going with him, however, no matter how hard she fought. It was the only way he could be certain of where she was and what she was doing.

He'd died a thousand times there in the river while he searched for her. He wasn't going through that again any time soon. The years since Mary Ellen's death had been haunted by the things he hadn't done, hadn't been able to do because he'd failed to look ahead. This time he'd make sure that if he had to live with regrets they'd be for things he damn well
had
done.

April was standing in the front parlor when he came down the stairs. Her attention was on the portrait that hung over the white marble mantel. The
expression on her face was pensive as she studied it, her concentration so total she apparently failed to hear his approach. She looked so right there in her long dress with her hair spilling down her back that he stopped in the doorway, reluctant to disturb her and spoil the illusion. She was more attuned to his whereabouts than he'd thought, however, for she spoke over her shoulder after a moment.

“This is your grandmother as a bride, isn't it? She was beautiful.”

“Still is, in her way,” he agreed as he came forward. “It's in the bone structure so it doesn't go away. You'll be the same when you're her age.”

She sent him a quick look without comment as if she suspected some motive behind the compliment. It was annoying, mainly because she was right.

After a moment, she changed the subject, saying, “I didn't see her at the pirate landing today.”

“She doesn't think much of the festival, says she has better things to do than waste time with playacting or looking at arts and crafts that have more to do with making money than with either art or craft.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

“I always thought the two of you would get along again, the way you did when you were a kid, if you had a chance to really know each other.” He kept his face straight to hide his brief amusement. Granny May had thought April was too dreamy and impractical as a teenager and that he spent too much time mooning over her. April had resented the fact that he discussed her with his grandmother. Both
thought the other had too much influence. Neither was right.

“Possibly,” April answered as she turned away.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Not yet.”

She stopped and her gaze flicked over him, as if to check that he was decently dressed. As she lifted it to his face once more, wariness hovered in its depths. “People will be wondering what became of you,” she said in tentative tones.

She was right, or would be if he hadn't made a couple of calls while he was upstairs. “I have a proposition for you to think about first.”

“Such as?”

“We could skip the rest of the day, maybe take the pontoon boat and a picnic out on the lake. It would give you a chance to smooth out the kinks and forget your close call. We might even extend it to a couple of days, if you wanted.”

She tilted her head. “I don't want. Anyway, our bypassing the main day of the festival won't do much for the bottom line of the charity Turn-Coupe is honoring this year.”

“Certain things take precedence. Your safety is one of them.”

“My safety? And how is a day on the lake going to aid that?”

“It should keep you out of harm's way until Roan has a chance to look into the explosion,” he answered in the most reasonable tone he could manage.

“But it won't help me discover what's going on.

I promised myself I'd figure that out for my own peace of mind. It's more important now than ever.”

Luke felt his scalp crawl. “It's more dangerous now than ever, you mean.”

“You don't know that. The explosion was probably an accident. Even if it wasn't, that doesn't mean it had anything to do with me.”

“Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better,” he said. “I don't buy it.”

“I'm supposed to believe that someone blew up a covey of strangers just to get to me? How would he know I was even on the boat?”

“Betsy never could keep a secret. Half the town was waiting to see me board the craft and carry you off over my shoulder.”

“But that makes me responsible for what happened and I—” She stopped abruptly and swung away from him as her voice caught in her throat.

“It does nothing of the kind,” he said in sharp contradiction. “But if you go haring off trying to find out who's behind it, and somebody gets caught in the crossfire, you will be at fault.”

“Then I'm surprised you care to be anywhere around me since I'm so dangerous to know.”

“I can take care of myself,” he said evenly.

The look she sent him over her shoulder was waspish. “I'm sure that will be a great satisfaction to me when I'm crying over your grave.”

“Would you? Cry over my grave, that is?” It might be stupid to ask, but he couldn't help it.

“Don't joke about such a thing!” She shuddered visibly as she looked away.

No doubt it was his own fault that she took ev
erything he said as a joke, he thought darkly. Bracing an arm across the doorway, he said, “If it bothers you that much, you can always cooperate for my sake.”

Her head snapped around again as she demanded, “Why are you so determined to talk me into this? What is it to you?”

It was a good question. Luke wished he had an answer. If he had any sense, he'd stop talking and cart her off whether she wanted to go or not. Was he hesitating because he was afraid of what she might think of him? She could hardly see him in any worse light. Or maybe it was something to do with his self-righteous disapproval when Kane had carried Regina into the swamp earlier in the summer. He'd been pretty snide toward Kane about that. Luke himself had no use for violence against women and was reluctant to take on even its appearance, much less the actuality. The cases were different, but had enough surface similarity to make him uncomfortable. Granny May always said that those who judged others often wound up in the same fix themselves, and she had a nasty habit of being right.

Yes, and it just might be that he was leery of laying hands on April for fear he couldn't make himself let go again. Or that the price in pain of freeing her would be more than he could afford to pay. On the other hand, letting something happen to her could cost everything he had, everything that was in him.

He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. In that case, he might as well please himself. The
problem, then, could be making sure he didn't please himself too much.

Without bothering to answer her question, Luke swung away from her and walked toward the kitchen at the back of the house. There, he pulled open the refrigerator and began taking out meat and cheese, lettuce, fruit and an assortment of juices. When April followed him and stood watching with her arms folded across her chest, he ignored her. Turning to the bread box, he took out a fresh loaf of French bread.

“I told you,” she said with emphasis, “that I'm not interested in a picnic.”

“I know.” He brought the picnic basket from the pantry and began to pack things inside.

“In fact, I'm leaving. If you want me to drive you back to wherever you left your Jeep, you'd better come on now.”

“I don't think so,” he answered, weighing the merits of dill or bread-and-butter pickles, then tossing both jars into the basket.

“Fine. I'll see you around.”

As she whirled around and began to walk away, he called after her, “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“I doubt it,” she answered without looking back.

“I have your car keys.”

She stopped, turned in a slow half circle. “I'll thank you to hand them over.”

“Can't do that.” He gathered an armload of canned goods and dumped them into the basket, tossed in some paper towels, then added several more items from the refrigerator.

“I mean it, Luke.”

The basket was full. He covered it with a handy tea towel before he turned back to her. Crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the cabinet, he gave her a slow smile. “Want to wrestle me for them?”

“I'm in no mood for games.”

“Maybe you should be. You work too hard, take everything way too seriously.”

“Nearly getting blown up is a serious business,” she said shortly.

“But it didn't happen. You're alive and you're here. You have the choice of relaxing a while or heading back into town where everyone will be talking about the explosion and how it happened and what you know about it. Of course, if you enjoy being in the public eye and answering prying semi-dumb questions, I guess that's all right.”

She glanced away an instant. When she looked back, her gaze was stony. “You are the most…” She stopped, took a deep breath. “All right, so we'll picnic. But I warn you—I can't stay long. I have work to do this evening.”

It was a major victory, but one he couldn't acknowledge by so much as the twitch of an eyelid for fear she'd go back on her decision. He nodded his understanding, if not his acceptance, then tipped his head toward the refrigerator. “Could you get the ice and that bottle of Chardonnay on the top shelf? I've got my hands full.”

The rig he kept for outings of the kind he had in mind was no seagoing monster like the craft that had blown up, but it wasn't half-bad. A thirty-two-
foot pontoon boat with a 120 horsepower outboard, it had an enclosed fiberglass cabin for weather protection. Though not really designed for extended living, it afforded reasonable comfort for twelve or more people for a few hours, or decent overnight accommodations for two for a few days—or longer if provisions were replenished. Twin cushioned benches on the front deck could be made down into two single beds or a double. Otherwise a portable table could be set up between them for dining al fresco.

Inside the cabin were all the comforts of home, including a tiny galley with hot and cold running water, three-burner stove, sink, gas-powered refrigerator, and built-in dinette booth. A shower and toilet were located in the back. Sliding glass doors at each end of the cabin allowed the air to blow through and gave access to the rear deck as well as the front.

An aluminum dinghy with a ten horsepower outboard was tied to the rear of the pontoon boat. This gave added convenience and maneuverability, since there were many places in the swamp where a craft as large as the pontoon boat couldn't reach. For day trips or just messing around on the water, the setup couldn't be beat.

If April was impressed, she managed to hide it. She didn't appear nervous of stepping onboard, however, which had been a question in Luke's mind after her experience earlier. Moving aft ahead of him, she helped him stow away their provisions then took a seat on one of the front benches nearby while he fired up the outboard and settled it into a rum
bling purr. He could have asked her to step back out on the pier to shove them off, but he preferred to do it himself. A moment after he sprang back onboard again, he put the motor in gear and they headed toward open water.

As they left the dock, Luke saw April staring at Chemin-a-Haut, at the weathered gazebo near the water's edge, the sloping lawn with its green velvet sheen in the slanting summer sun, and the big old two-story mansion that sat foursquare and solid with its back gallery overlooking the lake. He wondered what she was thinking as she gazed so pensively at its West Indies roof line, massive columns and shuttered coolness, if she was thinking how she might have been its mistress or only comparing it to Mulberry Point in her mind.

He'd never know for sure without asking. And asking was the last thing he'd ever do.

There was a swimsuit or two and a couple of extra T-shirts and shorts stored with the rough bedding under the bench where she sat. Luke thought of suggesting she change for comfort's sake, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Something about her old-fashioned dress and how it clung to the curves of her breasts and the slender turn of her waist fired his senses. So did the way the wind ruffled the hem of her skirt across her ankles and flipped it up to show her lace-edged petticoats. She was a walking invitation to exploration, even as her manner forbade all thought of it. It gave him such pained pleasure to look at her that he wasn't about to deprive himself of it.

A great blue heron, squawking in protest at being
disturbed in his fishing, lifted from the shallows beyond the house. April turned her head to follow its water-skimming flight. The wind of their passage stirred her hair that she wore free and loose between her shoulder blades and the sun slanted across her face. Her lashes flickered down an instant while her chest rose and fell with a long, deep breath.

Abruptly, as if she felt his stare, she opened her eyes and looked back at him. He shifted in his seat as he realized he'd been caught but didn't look away. She held his regard while the trace of a smile banished the strain from her eyes, replacing it with tenuous accord. She reached up to catch a strand of hair that was fluttering across her mouth. Holding it back, she lifted her voice above the roar of the boat motor. “This may not have been such a bad idea, after all!”

Guilt hit Luke like a hard jab to the solar plexus. For a single second, he considered whipping the boat into a wide turn and taking her back to land. That, or telling her the truth.

He did neither. Instead, he revved the engine to a faster pitch and sent the pontoon boat flying toward the channel that would funnel them into the backwaters of the swamps where no one could track them, no one could find them—unless he wanted to be found.