Evil Illusions by Jack Boudreaux.
The cover depicted the swamp at night, misty and dark, the water shining like black glass under a pale moon. Among the dense growth along the bank, a pair of eyes peered out, glowing red. The artwork was enough to make Laurel shiver. She turned the book over and read the back copy as she stepped down off the gallery and wandered along a brick path toward the back of the courtyard.
Master of suspense, New York Times best-selling author Jack Boudreaux creates another spine-tingling read guaranteed to keep the bravest cynic awake nights.
Something is stalking the town of Perdue, Louisiana, preying on children and spreading a terror that threatens to tear the town apart. By day Perdue maintains the facade of a picture-perfect small town, but appearances are illusion, and evil lurks in the woods beyond, waiting for the sun to set.
Beautiful young widow Clarie Fontaine has come to Perdue with her daughter to claim an inheritance the locals say is cursed. Haunted by a violent past, she hopes to make a fresh start. But even as she begins a new career as a nurse practitioner in the local clinic, a shadow is falling across her path to happiness. A shadow of menace… and death.
As terror tightens its grip on the town, Claire must decide whom she can trust. Is the dashing Dr. Verret a worthy candidate… or a killer? Is resident magician Jalen Pierce a harmless huckster, or is his innocent guise… an Evil Illusion…
Intrigued, Laurel settled back on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard and opened the book at random.
Night clutches the swamp in a grip as cold and black as death. Fingers of mist slither among the trunks of the cypress like ghostly snakes. From somewhere in the distance comes a roar that calls to mind prehistoric times, primeval swamps, ancient monsters.
Fear runs in rivulets down Paula's back. As she sits in the bâteau, waiting, watching, a sense of evil presses in on her. It is thick and heavy in the air. As thick as the mist. As suffocating as a blanket. She claws at the collar of her blouse and tries to swallow, swings around at a rustle in the underbrush behind her.
A nutria screams as it meets its death. A cottonmouth breaks the surface of the bayou, its long, lithe body wrapped around the thrashing body of a bullfrog. Overhead a winged black shape swoops down from the branches of a tree. Another night predator. An owl… a bat… something hideous… something terrifying… And a scream rips from Paula's throat. Hot, wild, raw. A scream like the nutria's. The scream of prey. Heard by no one. Swallowed up by the night.
"I'm flattered."
Laurel jumped, her heart leapfrogging into her throat. Jack stood not two feet away, leaning indolently against one of Aunt Caroline's Grecian lady statues, his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, one leg cocked. He looked tough and sexy in a faded black T-shirt depicting a dancing alligator and the slogan "Gator Bait Bar. Restaurant et Salle de Danse." The cut above his left eye only added to his aura of dangerous mystery, and somehow complemented the tiny ruby that winked blood red on his earlobe.
Laurel gathered her indignation and hopped to her feet, slapping the book shut. "You scared the life out of me!"
Jack grinned at her outrage. "My editor will be glad to hear it. She pays me bags full of money to scare people."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. What do you think you're doing, sneaking up on me?"
He pressed his hands to his heart and looked too innocent to be believed. "Me, I was just walking along, thinking to myself I oughta do the neighborly thing and stop by for a visit."
She crossed her arms and tapped her toe, eyeing him with open suspicion. Jack stepped closer, lifted the book from her fingers, and tossed it onto the bench.
"You know what your problem is, sugar?" he murmured, sliding his arms around her. She jumped, eyes wide at his nerve, and tried to bolt back, but he locked his hands behind her at the small of her back and held her easily. His wicked smile cut across his face. "You're too tense. You gotta loosen up, angel."
"Let go of me," Laurel demanded, holding herself as rigid as a post as her nerve endings snapped like whips in response to his nearness.
"Why? I like holding you."
"I don't want to be held. I don't like to be held."
He studied her expression for a long while, reading something like fear. Fear of him? Or was it something deeper, more fundamental? Fear of intimacy, maybe. Fear that she might actually enjoy it.
"Liar," he said softly, but set her free just the same. She should have been afraid of him. He was a user and a bastard. If he'd had a shred of decency, he would have left her alone. But she intrigued him, little bundle of contradictions that she was. And he wanted her. He couldn't escape that fact, and he didn't want to deny it.
He pulled his cigarette out from behind his ear and dangled it from his lip as he bent to retrieve the book. Evil Illusions, his latest best-seller, for all it meant to him. He wrote to kill time, to give himself some outlet, some way to vent what was inside him. He had never set out to become a success, an attitude that drove his editor insane. She wanted him to go on tour, to play the celebrity. He refused. She wanted him to court booksellers and distributors. He stayed home. His attitude exasperated her, but Jack just laughed it off and told Tina Steinberg she had enough energy, enthusiasm, and ambition for both of them.
"Are you ever going to smoke that cigarette?" Laurel snapped.
Jack glanced at her from under his brows and grinned, cigarette bobbing. "Nope. I quit two years ago."
"Then why do you keep sticking that cigarette in your mouth?" she asked peevishly.
His gaze held hers and all but caressed it, devilish lights dancing. "I've got an… oral fixation. You wanna help me out with that, sugar?"
Laurel scowled at him and at the wave of liquid heat that washed through her as her gaze strayed to the sexy curve of his lower lip and she remembered the feel and taste of his mouth on hers.
"Why horror?" she asked suddenly, reaching out to tap a finger against the book cover.
A wry smile pulled at one corner of Jack's mouth. Because it's my life. Because it's what lives inside me. Dieu, she'd run like a rabbit if he told the truth. Lucky he'd never had any particular aversion to lying.
"Because it sells," he said, tossing the paperback down on the bench.
Better she think of him as a mercenary than a lunatic. A mercenary probably still stood a chance of getting her into bed. And a mercenary he was, after all. Hadn't he spent half the afternoon rummaging through old newspapers, studying Miss Laurel Chandler's life as a prosecuting attorney? Not because he wanted to know more about her as a person, he told himself, but because he found her intriguing as a character. He had even jotted down a few notes about her for future reference, thinking she would make a fascinating heroine with her mix of fragility and strength.
"Come on, 'tite chatte," he said, nodding toward the back gate. He caught her small hand in his and started walking.
Laurel dug her heels in and scowled at him. "Come on where?"
"Crawfishin'."
She tried in vain to tug her hand away even as her feet took a step in his direction. "I'm not going crawfishing with you. I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"Sure you are, sugar." He grinned like the devil and drew her another step toward the gate. "You can't stay holed up in this garden forever. You gotta get out and live with the common folk."
She gave a sniff. "I don't see much of anything common about you."
"Merci!"
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Come on, angel," he cajoled, changing tacks without warning. He sprang toward her, landing as graceful as a cat, and swung her into a slow dance to music only he could hear. "Me, I'm jus' a poor Cajun boy all alone in this world," he murmured, his voice warm and rough like velvet, his accent thickening like a fine brown roux. He captured her gaze with his and held it, his head bent so that they were nearly nose to nose. "Woncha come crawfishin' with me, mon coeur?"