"Hardly the sort of people-"
Laurel brought a hand up to stop her like a crossing guard. "Can we please skip this conversation? We're not going to agree. We'll both end up angry. Could we just not have it?"
Vivian straightened into her queen's posture on her chair, her chin lifting, her eyes taking on the same cold gleam as the sapphires she wore. "Certainly," she said stiffly. "Never mind that I have only your best interests at heart."
That Vivian had never had any interests at heart but her own was a truth Laurel chose to keep to herself. If she provoked her mother into an argument in public, she would never be forgiven. A part of her thought she shouldn't care, but the plain truth was Vivian was the only mother she had, and after a lifetime of walking on eggshells to gain approval, to garner what Vivian would consider love, she was probably not going to change. Just as Vivian would never change.
The pendulum of Vivian's moods swung yet again as she turned toward the entrance to the dining room. Like the sun coming out from behind a thunderhead, a smile brightened her face. Laurel turned to get a look at whoever had managed to perform such a miracle and caught another unpleasant surprise square on the chin.
"Stephen!" Vivian said, offering her beringed hands to Danjermond as he strode to their table. He took them both and bent over one to bestow a courtly kiss. Vivian beamed. All but purring, she turned toward Laurel. "Look, Laurel dear, Stephen is here! Isn't this a lovely surprise?"
In a pig's eye. Laurel forced a smile that looked as if she had a lip full of novocaine. "Mr. Danjermond."
"Stephen, you're just in time for dessert. Do say you'll join us."
He treated her to a dazzling square smile. "How could I decline an offer to spend time with two of the most beautiful belles in the parish?"
Vivian blushed on cue and batted her lashes, impeccably schooled in the feminine art of flirtation. "Well, this belle needs to powder her nose. Do keep Laurel company, won't you?"
"Of course."
As she walked away from the table, Danjermond slid into the empty chair to Laurel 's right. He was, as she was, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the courthouse that morning-the coffee brown suit, the ivory shirt and stylish tie-but he had somehow managed to come through the day without a wrinkle, while Laurel felt wilted and rumpled. Something about his elegance made her want to comb her hair and take her glasses off, but she refrained from doing either.
"You're angry with me, Laurel," he said, simply.
Laurel crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, taking her time in replying. Outside, a squall line had tumbled up from the Gulf and was threatening rain. Wind pulled at the fingers of the palmetto trees that lined the putting green. She stared out at them through the French doors, debating the wisdom of what she wanted to say.
"I don't like the games you play, Mr. Danjermond," she said at last, meeting his cool green gaze evenly.
He arched a brow. "You think my being here is part of a conspiracy, Laurel? As it happens, I dine here often. You do concede that I have to eat, don't you? I am, after all, merely human."
The light in the peridot eyes danced as if at some secret amusement. Whether it was her he was laughing at or the line about his being a mere mortal, she couldn't tell. Either way, she had no intention of joining in the joke.
"Anything new on the murder?" she asked, toying with the stem of her water glass.
He plucked a slice of French bread from the basket on the table, tore off a chunk, and settled back in his chair with the lazy arrogance of a prince. Chewing thoughtfully, he studied her. " Kenner released Tony Gerrard. He feels the murder is the work of the Bayou Strangler."
"And what do you think? You don't think Tony Gerrard might have pulled a copycat?"
"No, because if he had, he would have screwed up. Our killer is very clever. Tony, regrettably," he picked a white fleck of bread off his tie and flicked it away, "is not."
"You sound almost as if you admire him-the killer."
He regarded her with a look of mild reproach. "Certainly not. He intrigues me, I admit. Serial killers have fascinated students of criminal science for years." He tore another chunk off the fresh, warm bread, closed his eyes, and savored the rich, yeasty aroma of it before slipping it into his mouth. As he swallowed, his lashes raised like lacy black veils. "I'm as horrified by these crimes as anyone, but at the same time, I have a certain"-he searched for the word, picking it cleanly and carefully-"clinical appreciation for a keen mind."
As he said it, Laurel had the distinct impression that he was probing hers. She could feel the power of his personality arching between them, reaching into her head to explore and examine.
"What do you think of sharks, Laurel?"
The change of direction was so abrupt, she thought it was a wonder she didn't get a whiplash. "What should I think of them?" she said, annoyed and puzzled. "Why should I think of them at all?"
"You would think of them if you found yourself overboard in the ocean," Danjermond pointed out. He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his subject, his expression serious. "In all of nature, they are the perfect predator. They fear nothing. They kill with frightening efficiency.
"Serial killers are the sharks of our society. Without souls, without fear of recrimination. Predators. Clever, ruthless." He tore off another chunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. "A fascinating comparison, don't you think, Laurel?"
"Frankly, I think it's stupid and dangerously romantic," she said bluntly as her temper began to snap inside her like a live wire. Ignoring the dictates of her upbringing, she planted her fists on the table and glared at the district attorney. "Sharks kill to survive. This man is killing for the pure, sick enjoyment of seeing women suffer. He needs to be stopped, and he needs to be punished."
Danjermond scrutinized her pose, her expression, the passion in her voice, and nodded slightly, like a critic approving of an actor's skills. "You were born for the prosecutor's office, Laurel," he declared, then his gaze intensified, sharpened, as if he had sensed something in her. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward across the table until he was just a little too close. "Or were you made for it?" he murmured.
Laurel met his gaze without flinching, though she was trembling inside. The air between them vibrated with Danjermond's potent sexuality. He was close enough that she could pick up the hint of a dark, exotic cologne. Somewhere outside the cube of tension that boxed them in, thunder rumbled and fat raindrops spat down out of the clouds. The wind hurled handfuls under the veranda, pelting the panes in the French doors.
"You do fascinate me, Laurel," he whispered. "You have an astonishing sense of chivalry for a woman."
Vivian chose that moment to return to the table, and Laurel thought that if she was never grateful to her mother for anything else, she was grateful for this interruption. Stephen Danjermond made the short hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The less she had to be alone with him, the better.
He sat with them for coffee. Vivian ordered bread pudding and enjoyed it with a side order of political talk and chatter about the upcoming League of Women Voters dinner. Laurel sat studying the stubs of her fingernails, wishing she were anywhere else. Her thoughts turned unbidden to Jack, and she wondered, as she stared out at the rain, where he was tonight, what he was feeling.
Judge Monahan and his wife were shown into the dining room, capturing Danjermond's attention, and the district attorney abandoned them for more influential company. While Vivian took care of the bill, Laurel took her first deep breath in thirty minutes.
They walked out onto the veranda together and stood watching as the valets dashed out into the rain to retrieve their cars.
"This was lovely, darling," Vivian said, smiling benevolently. "I'm glad we could have this evening together after that unpleasantness with your sister Sunday. I swear, I don't know at times how she could even be mine, the way she behaves."
"Mama, don't," Laurel snapped, then softened the order with a request. "Please."
Instead of pique, Vivian chose to move on as if Savannah had never been mentioned at all. "I'm so glad Stephen was able to join us for a little while. He's very highly thought of in these parts and in Baton Rouge, as well. With his family connections and his talent, there's no telling how far he might go." Her white Mercedes arrived under the portico, but she made no move toward it, turning instead to give her daughter a shrewd look. "As I walked across the dining room tonight, I couldn't help thinking what a handsome couple the two of you would make."