"Come on, sweetheart, stay with me," he coaxed, murmuring the words against her throat as he dragged the hem of her blouse upward, stroking his fingers up her sides toward her breasts. "We're just gettin' started…"
Laurel 's sense of responsibility was too ingrained, and she wriggled out of his grasp and reached for her glasses on the steering console, settling them on her nose and settling the issue.
"If I don't get back soon, Aunt Caroline and Mama Pearl will worry," she said, brushing futilely at the wrinkles in her clothes. "You don't want them sending the sheriff out looking for us, do you?"
Jack jammed his hands at his waist, the picture of a disgruntled male who was too sexy for his own good. He wore nothing but his jeans, and they weren't quite zipped. " Kenner couldn't find his own ass in the dark, let alone us."
"He could get lucky."
"But I'm not gonna," he grumbled.
"You already have."
Instantly he grinned his wicked grin and backed her against the console. "Mais yeah, angel." He chuckled, dipping his head to nibble her neck again. "And I like my odds for another go."
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.