They would be pissed. Vivian especially so. Laurel fought the urge to smile, her mouth quirking like the Mona Lisa's. "Well, you're easily amused."
"So should we all be, angel. Life's too short."
He was right beside her now, facing the opposite direction. His arm nearly brushed her shoulder as he reached out to touch something on the sideboard. She told herself to move, but before she could he turned and was behind her, his arms slipping around her, head bending down so he could whisper in her ear.
"So why don' we go find your old bedroom and spend some time amusin' each other, catin? Me, I'd like to get out'a these wet clothes and into somethin'… warm…"
A shiver feathered over her skin as his breath trailed down the side of her neck and right on down the front of her blouse, stirring those strange embers of desire inside her. She tried to step away from him, but he held her easily, pressing his hands flat against her stomach. He nibbled his way down the side of her neck, nuzzling aside the collar of her blouse to sample the curve of her shoulder, and her pulse jumped.
Jack gave a low, throaty chuckle. She sure as hell wasn't thinking about Lady Vivian now. "Come on, sugar," he murmured. "There's gotta be a whole lotta empty beds in this big ol' barn."
"And they're going to stay that way," Laurel said. This time when she tried to escape his hold, he let her go. She shied away and turned to face him. "How do you propose we get back to town?" she asked, trying to trample down all her tingling nerve endings with pragmatism.
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked a hip. "I called Alphonse Meyette. Him and Nipper's gonna come tow the 'Vette back to the station. I told him to stop down to the Landing and have Nipper drive my Jeep out. I'll give you a ride home, darlin'."
Laurel scowled at the devilish grin. "Where have I heard that before?"
He leaned toward her, daring her to hold her ground, dark eyes snapping with mischief. "I'd rather give you a ride upstairs," he said, his voice dropping to a smoky rumble.
She couldn't help laughing at his audacity. Crossing her arms, she shook her head. "I know all about your reputation with women, Mr. Boudreaux."
He moved closer still, no more than inches from touching her, and she realized too late that he had her neatly trapped against the back of the settee. He planted a hand on either side of her and tilted his head as he lowered it, his gaze holding hers like a magnet. "Then how come we're not in bed yet?"
"God, the size of your ego is astonishing," she said dryly.
The dark eyes sparkled, the smile widened, the dimples cut into his cheeks. He bobbed his eyebrows. "You oughta see the rest of me."
The humor did her in. If his statement had indeed been ego, she might have slapped him, she certainly would have singed his ears with a scathing commentary regarding her opinion of Neanderthals who thought a man's worth and a woman's willingness all came down to a few inches of penis. But it was humor in those dark eyes, inviting her to share the joke, not be the butt of it. She tried to give him a stern look and failed, giving over helplessly to giggles instead.
"If I didn't have such healthy self-esteem," Jack said as he leaned a hip against the settee and crossed his arms, "I might be offended."
Laurel sniffed and pushed her glasses up on her nose, feeling better, feeling stronger. Vivian had knocked her badly off balance. Coming to Beauvoir had shaken loose too many feelings she wasn't ready to deal with. But Jack had distracted her from the dark emotional whirlpool that had threatened to suck her in, letting her get her legs back under her. She shot him a sideways glance, wondering if he had any idea she hadn't laughed in this house in twenty years.
The Corvette was extricated from the edge of the swamp with minimal fuss and towed away to Meyette's garage. Laurel watched the proceedings from the passenger's seat of Jack's Jeep with Huey the Hound sitting in Jack's spot behind the wheel. The rain had stopped, leaving everything dripping and glistening. The clouds had cleared a path for a melted bronze sunset that cast the swamp in silhouette. The air was fresh and cool, but the dark underlayment of the bayou lingered as always. Laurel shivered in her damp clothes as her attention drifted from the tow truck to the dense wilderness that lay around them. Without thinking, she raised a hand to nibble at her thumbnail.
She had grown up here on the edge of the Atchafalaya, but she had never felt a party to its secrets. The swamp was a world unto itself, ancient, mysterious, primal. She had always thought of it as an entity, not just an ecosystem. Something with a mind and eyes and a dark, shadowed soul. That impression closed in on her as Alphonse Meyette's tow truck rumbled off toward Bayou Breaux and quiet descended. The expectant, hushed silence of the swamp.
Thoughts of murder came, seeping into her like cold, and she shivered again and rubbed her hands over her arms as an image flashed through her head. A young woman lying out here, alone, dead, the swamp watching, knowing, keeping its secrets…
"Hey, ugly, outta my seat."
Jack's voice snapped the terrible vision, and she jumped. Huey grumbled a protest and clambered between the seats to the back, where he curled up in a ball with his back to them.
"Not your dog." Laurel rolled her eyes.
Jack grinned as he climbed behind the wheel, teeth flashing bright in the gloom. "I can't help it if he finds my personality irresistible." He tossed a dirty denim jacket across her lap. "Put that on. I charmed Nipper out of it on your behalf."
Laurel wasn't sure whether she should thank him or not. The jacket reeked of male sweat, cigarette smoke, and gasoline, but the Jeep was open, and the ride back was likely to be a chilly one, considering her damp state. She wrinkled her nose and shrugged into the coat. The sleeves hung past her fingertips.
"You okay?"
She glanced up from rolling the cuffs back.
"You looked a little peaked there a minute ago."
"I was just thinking… about that girl they found…" And what it would be like to die out here with no one to see, no one to hear but the swamp. She kept that part of her thoughts to herself. She had too vivid an imagination, put herself too easily in the place of others. Not a good trait for someone who had to deal with the victims of violent crimes. It was that inability to draw the line between sympathy and empathy that made her vulnerable.
"Bad business, that," Jack said softly, his hand on the key, his eyes scanning the darkening swamp.
A barred owl called four round notes, then lifted off from the branches of a nearby cypress tree, its wide wings beating the air, barely making a sound. Laurel pulled the smelly jacket tighter around her.
"Did you know any of them?"
He shot her a hard glance. "Are you questioning me, counselor? Should I have a lawyer present?"
Laurel pushed past the question of whether his tone held sarcasm or defensiveness, not sure she wanted to know the answer. "I'm asking an innocent question. Self-professed lady's man that you are, it wouldn't seem too unreasonable that you would have known one of the victims."
"I didn't. None of them were from here."
Four bodies. Four parishes in Acadiana, but not Partout. No victims from Partout Parish, no victims found here. Laurel couldn't help wondering if that was by chance or by design. If Partout Parish might be next on the killer's list. She looked at the wilderness around them and thought again about the terrible loneliness of dying out here.
The swamp was an unforgiving place. Beautiful, brutal bitch. Steamy and seductive and secretive. Death here was commonplace, a part of the cycle. Trees died, fell, decayed, became a part of the fertile ground so more trees could grow from it. Mayflies were eaten by frogs, frogs by snakes, snakes by alligators. No death would find sympathy here. It was a place of predators.
She glanced at Jack. Jack, who had teased her out of her mood at Beauvoir. Jack, with his devil's grin. He wasn't grinning now. That mask had fallen away to reveal the intensity that she suspected was the core of him. Hard. Hot. Shadowed.
"The only place I kill people is on paper, sugar," he said. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, dangled it from his lip.
The word "liar" rang in his head as he swung the Jeep around in a U-turn and headed for town.
Savannah stood outside the French doors of Coop's study, hiding among the overgrown lilac bushes beside the comfortable old house, watching as he worked. He sat at his desk, hunched over his notebook, a cigar smoldering in the ashtray, a snifter of brandy sitting besdie it. The desk lamp was the only light on in the house, creating an oasis of soft, buttery light around him. Through the glass he seemed like a dream, a warm, golden dream she would never be able to grasp and hold on to. Always held at bay by an invisible barrier. Her past. His devotion to his wife.