"Yes, Mama," Laurel murmured, gritting her teeth as her mother bussed her cheek. "Have a nice evening."
Vivian swept out of the room, regal, imperious, victorious. Laurel watched her go, feeling impotent and beaten. If she hadn't been such a coward, she would have told her mother years ago to go to hell, as Savannah had. But she hadn't. And she wouldn't. Poor, pathetic little Laurel, still waiting for her mother to love her.
She snatched a glass off the sideboard, intending to hurl it across the room at the fireplace, but she couldn't manage to let herself go even that much.
Don't break anything, Laurel. Mama won't love you. Don't say the wrong thing, Laurel. Mama won't love you. Do as you're told, Laurel, or Mama won't love you.
The front door closed, and she listened to the engine of the Mercedes fire and the car's tires crunch over the crushed shell of the drive. Then she set the glass down, put her hands over her face, and cried.
Chapter Seven
Jack stood in the doorway to the parlor, in the shadows of the now-darkened entry hall. The sound of Laurel's tears tore at him, raked across his heart, and drew not blood, but compassion. He knew nothing of this house, these people, but he knew what it was to be part of a dysfunctional family. He could remember only too well the bitter words, the angry fights, the air of tension that had made him and his sister tiptoe around the house, afraid that any sound they might make would spark an explosion from their father and bring the wrath of Blackie Boudreaux down on one or all of them.
He knew, and that was all the more reason he should have just left. Beauvoir was a nest of snakes. Only a fool would poke at it. He was no fool. He was many things, few of them admirable, but he was no fool.
Still, he didn't move. He stood there and watched as Laurel scrubbed the tears from her face and fought off the next wave of them. She fought to school her breathing into a regular rhythm, blinked furiously at the moisture gathering in her eyes, busied herself cleaning her glasses off with the tail of her shirt. Dieu, she was a tough little thing. She thought she was alone. There was no reason she shouldn't have just flung herself down on the fancy gold settee and bawled her eyes out if she wanted to. But she struggled to rein her emotions in, fought for control.
Before sympathy could take root too deeply, Jack pushed himself into motion.
"You ready to go, sugar?"
Laurel jumped at the sound of his voice. Fumbling, she put her glasses back on and smoothed a hand over her hair, which had begun to dry. "I… I thought you went to pull the car out."
Jack grinned. "I lied."
Too aware of being alone with him, she stared at him for several moments while the grandfather clock across the room ticktocked, ticktocked. "Why?"
He was prowling around the room, carelessly picking up knickknacks that had been in the family for generations, absently looking them over, setting them aside. He glanced up at her as he picked up a lead crystal paperweight and hefted it in his hand like a baseball.
"'Cause I didn' like your beau-perè. And I can't say I was all too fond of your maman, either."
"They'll be crushed."
"Naw…" He grinned that wicked grin again, tossed the paperweight up, and caught it with one hand. Laurel 's heart jumped with it. "They'll be pissed. Late for dinner."
They would be pissed. Vivian especially so. Laurel fought the urge to smile, her mouth quirking like the Mona Lisa's. "Well, you're easily amused."
"So should we all be, angel. Life's too short."
He was right beside her now, facing the opposite direction. His arm nearly brushed her shoulder as he reached out to touch something on the sideboard. She told herself to move, but before she could he turned and was behind her, his arms slipping around her, head bending down so he could whisper in her ear.
"So why don' we go find your old bedroom and spend some time amusin' each other, catin? Me, I'd like to get out'a these wet clothes and into somethin'… warm…"
A shiver feathered over her skin as his breath trailed down the side of her neck and right on down the front of her blouse, stirring those strange embers of desire inside her. She tried to step away from him, but he held her easily, pressing his hands flat against her stomach. He nibbled his way down the side of her neck, nuzzling aside the collar of her blouse to sample the curve of her shoulder, and her pulse jumped.
Jack gave a low, throaty chuckle. She sure as hell wasn't thinking about Lady Vivian now. "Come on, sugar," he murmured. "There's gotta be a whole lotta empty beds in this big ol' barn."
"And they're going to stay that way," Laurel said. This time when she tried to escape his hold, he let her go. She shied away and turned to face him. "How do you propose we get back to town?" she asked, trying to trample down all her tingling nerve endings with pragmatism.
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked a hip. "I called Alphonse Meyette. Him and Nipper's gonna come tow the 'Vette back to the station. I told him to stop down to the Landing and have Nipper drive my Jeep out. I'll give you a ride home, darlin'."
Laurel scowled at the devilish grin. "Where have I heard that before?"
He leaned toward her, daring her to hold her ground, dark eyes snapping with mischief. "I'd rather give you a ride upstairs," he said, his voice dropping to a smoky rumble.
She couldn't help laughing at his audacity. Crossing her arms, she shook her head. "I know all about your reputation with women, Mr. Boudreaux."
He moved closer still, no more than inches from touching her, and she realized too late that he had her neatly trapped against the back of the settee. He planted a hand on either side of her and tilted his head as he lowered it, his gaze holding hers like a magnet. "Then how come we're not in bed yet?"
"God, the size of your ego is astonishing," she said dryly.
The dark eyes sparkled, the smile widened, the dimples cut into his cheeks. He bobbed his eyebrows. "You oughta see the rest of me."
The humor did her in. If his statement had indeed been ego, she might have slapped him, she certainly would have singed his ears with a scathing commentary regarding her opinion of Neanderthals who thought a man's worth and a woman's willingness all came down to a few inches of penis. But it was humor in those dark eyes, inviting her to share the joke, not be the butt of it. She tried to give him a stern look and failed, giving over helplessly to giggles instead.
"If I didn't have such healthy self-esteem," Jack said as he leaned a hip against the settee and crossed his arms, "I might be offended."
Laurel sniffed and pushed her glasses up on her nose, feeling better, feeling stronger. Vivian had knocked her badly off balance. Coming to Beauvoir had shaken loose too many feelings she wasn't ready to deal with. But Jack had distracted her from the dark emotional whirlpool that had threatened to suck her in, letting her get her legs back under her. She shot him a sideways glance, wondering if he had any idea she hadn't laughed in this house in twenty years.
The Corvette was extricated from the edge of the swamp with minimal fuss and towed away to Meyette's garage. Laurel watched the proceedings from the passenger's seat of Jack's Jeep with Huey the Hound sitting in Jack's spot behind the wheel. The rain had stopped, leaving everything dripping and glistening. The clouds had cleared a path for a melted bronze sunset that cast the swamp in silhouette. The air was fresh and cool, but the dark underlayment of the bayou lingered as always. Laurel shivered in her damp clothes as her attention drifted from the tow truck to the dense wilderness that lay around them. Without thinking, she raised a hand to nibble at her thumbnail.
She had grown up here on the edge of the Atchafalaya, but she had never felt a party to its secrets. The swamp was a world unto itself, ancient, mysterious, primal. She had always thought of it as an entity, not just an ecosystem. Something with a mind and eyes and a dark, shadowed soul. That impression closed in on her as Alphonse Meyette's tow truck rumbled off toward Bayou Breaux and quiet descended. The expectant, hushed silence of the swamp.