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."