His wife had preceded him to the grave by ten years. Serena barely remembered her mother except in random adjectives-a pretty smile, a soft voice, a loving touch. She remembered that her father had been devastated by her mother's death. She could still hear the terrible sound of his crying-wrenching, inconsolable grief confined to his bedroom while ladies from their church had placated everyone else with tuna casseroles and Jell-O. There had been no second marriage, no more children, no sons to carry on the line or take up the reins of the plantation.
What was it like to love someone that much? To love so that death meant the death of one's own heart. Serena couldn't imagine. She had never known that depth of emotion with a man, had never expected to. In her work she'd seen too many crumbled relationships to believe the other land came along very often.
Her thoughts drifted to Lucky. She told herself it was only natural. She'd just spent a long hot night in his arms. That didn't mean she was thinking of him in permanent terms. But she couldn't help but wonder if he had ever known that kind of love. He would deny being capable of it. Of that she was certain. He didn't want anyone to know there was a heart under that carved-from-granite chest. Why? Because it had been broken, abused?
He had known Shelby, had been involved with her to some extent. Every time she thought of it, Serena felt a violent blast of disbelief and jealousy. Had they been lovers? Had they been in love? Was it Shelby who had bred that distrust of women in him? The idea brought a bitter taste to her mouth. It was yet another perfectly logical, practical reason for her not to get involved with Lucky Doucet, but she had taken that ill-advised step anyway. She had seen all the warning signs and plunged in headfirst in spite of them.
What a mess, she thought, a long sigh slipping between her lips. She picked absently at a scab of peeling paint on the railing and shook her head. She'd left Charleston with nothing on her mind but thoughts of a pleasant vacation and had fallen into a plot worthy of a Judith Krantz novel.
That was another reason she had left Chanson du Terre to begin with. In Charleston she had no complicated family relationships to deal with. She didn't have to wonder if her own sister was up to no good. She didn't have to look at her ancestral home and wonder what would become of it after two hundred years of Sheridan stewardship ended. She didn't have to worry about falling short of Gifford's expectations. She didn't have to watch him grow old. She could come back for the occasional dose of nostalgia and leave before it became necessary to deal with anything as unpleasant as past hurts and old fears.
«You can't hightail it out of Lou'siana first chance you get, then come on back and try to run things on the weekend.»
Gifford's voice still rang in her ears. The old reprobate. He had hit a nerve with that line, had scored a bull's-eye, sticking the dart right smack in the center of her guilt. And even while he'd been doing it, he had been maneuvering her so she would either have to deal with the problems or dig her guilt a deeper hole. He had her right where he wanted her, in the last place she wanted to be, dealing with questions she had never wanted to face.
«Serena, I don't believe you've met Mr. Burke from Tristar Chemical,» Mason said smoothly. He came forward, innocuous smile in place, and took her gently by the arm as she entered the front parlor.
«We haven't been formally introduced, no,» Serena said, extending her hand to the big man in the western-cut suit. «I'm afraid you mistook me for my sister the other day out at Gifford's, Mr. Burke. I'm Serena Sheridan.»
Burke let his eyes drift down over her, taking in the subtle lines of her figure revealed by the straight cut of her toffee-colored sleeveless linen sheath. He pumped her hand and grinned. «By golly, who'd a guessed there'd be two this pretty? It's a pleasure, Miss Sheridan?» His brows rose with a hope that made Serena loath to answer his implied question.
«Yes,» she murmured. She extracted her fingers from his meaty grasp and managed a twitch of the lips that passed for a smile. His gaze homed in on her breasts like radar.
«Now, what was a lovely young thing like yourself doing out in that swamp anyway?» he asked, settling a too-familiar hand on her shoulder.
Serena shrugged off his touch on the excuse of reaching up to smooth her fingers over her loosely bound hair.
«Serena is here on a visit from Charleston. She was trying to persuade Gifford to return so we might all deal with this offer in a proper manner,» Mason explained.
«And did you?»
«No, unfortunately not,» Serena replied. «As you no doubt realize by now, Mr. Burke, my grandfather can be a very stubborn man.»
«It goes a mite beyond stubborn, if you ask me,» Burke said, baring his teeth. «I have my doubts about his sanity.»
«Do you?' Serena arched a brow. «Are you a psychologist, Mr. Burke?'
«No-«
«Well, I am,» she said, her tone as smooth and cool as marble. «And I can assure you that while Gifford may be unreasonable and cantankerous, he is very much in control of his faculties.»
Burkes face turned dull red. His nostrils flared like a bull's and his chest puffed out. Mason intervened with diplomatic grace.
«Would you care for a drink, Serena?»
«Gin and tonic, please,» she said with a sweet smile, resisting the urge to lick a finger and chalk up a point for herself.
«Coming right up. And can I freshen that scotch for you, Len?»
Frowning, Burke followed him across the room to the antique sideboard that served as bar and liquor cabinet. Serena took the brief moment of solitude to survey the room. It looked exactly as it always had- taupe walls trimmed in soft white, faded Oriental carpets over a polished wood floor, heavy red brocade drapes flanking the French doors that led onto the gallery. The furniture was too formal to invite relaxation. It was a room Gifford never set foot in unless forced. He called it a place for entertaining people he didn't really like. How appropriate that they were gathering here, Serena thought as her gaze wandered over the people assembling for dinner.
Mason was already looking the part of the junior senator in a crisp shirt and tie and dark slacks, not quite as rumpled or distracted as he usually seemed. He made harmless small talk as he dug ice cubes from the bucket with tiny tongs. She had never thought about it before, but he would probably make a successful politician with his mild good looks and genteel manner.
Burke, in spite of the expensive cut of his suit, struck her as a man who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He had the predatory air of a man who had clawed his way up to his present status and had no intention of going back down. He wore a gawdy diamond pinky ring and a boulder-sized chunk of turquoise on a bolo tie, flaunting the rewards of his labors like a warrior brandishing the trophies of battle.
Serena hadn't liked what she'd seen of him at Gifford's, and her instincts were telling her not to like anything about him tonight, but she tried to be objective. It wasn't a fatal character flaw for a man to be vulgar or pompous or sexist, and she had to admit he'd had a right to his temper of the day before-Gifford had been shooting at him, after all. Still, there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. Something about his narrow eyes and the set of his mouth. Gifford had said the man wouldn't take no for an answer. Serena wondered what lengths he might be willing to go to to achieve his objective.
Shelby breezed in from the hall then, resplendent in an ultrafeminine dress done in a dark English-garden print with a square ivory lace collar and a flowing skirt. Her hair was neatly confined in an old-fashioned ecru snood that perfectly completed the picture of refined southern womanhood. The scent of Opium drifted around her in a fragrant cloud.