The blonde had other ideas.
She leaned against him, tilting her head back and squeezing her breasts together with her upper arms to best display her cleavage. The black tank top she wore seemed to have been intended for a flat-chested twelve-year-old. It rode up well above the waistband of her skin-tight jeans and made it abundantly clear to one and all that she found wearing a bra too restricting. She seemed to have difficulty keeping her eyes open, probably due to the thickness of her blue eye shadow and the weight of her false lashes. Her silvery-blond hair-brown at the roots-had been teased and tormented into a frightening confection and lacquered into place with enough spray to put a hole in the ozone the size of Lake Pontchartrain. The earrings dangling from her lobes looked like small chandeliers.
Lucky heaved a sigh of disgust. The woman had no class. She smelled like dime-store perfume and stale smoke, and she'd drunk most of his whiskey. She was pretty enough in a cheap, hard sort of way, and she had a body that had undoubtedly turned a head or two, but she roused nothing in him except irritation. She might have done better if she'd shown a little style, a little cool, if she'd presented herself as a… lady. Like Serena.
He swore a vicious oath in French and tossed back what was left of his drink. What did he need with a lady? What did he need with a woman who wanted to touch his rawest nerves and memories? She was nothing but trouble. She would never let him alone. She would never allow him the emotional distance he needed to maintain. He'd told her from the beginning what she would get from him, and still she'd dug for more. She wanted love and he wanted nothing to do with it. End of story.
So why was he brooding about her? a mocking inner voice asked. Why was he wondering how she had handled Burke and how she was bearing up with Shelby? Why did he want to know if she had exhausted her supply of strength, if she was in need of a shoulder to lean on?
He swore again and shrugged the blonde off, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the table before him. The blonde-her name had gone in one ear and out the other-sat back with a coy look and helped herself to his cigarettes.
«You're a tough guy,» she observed, blowing smoke at the ceiling in a pose that was calculated to show off her profile. «A loner.» Her shoulders swayed, and unencumbered breasts bounced in time to the frantic Zydeco tune blasting from the jukebox.
Lucky shot her a sardonic look. «What are you? Einstein's daughter?»
She went on with her seduction routine as if he hadn't spoken. «I like a tough guy. I don't mind a little adventure, if you read me.»
«Like a book.»
«So-oo-o…» She drew the word into three syllables, squirming a little on her chair and giving him a dazzling smile, raising her carefully plucked eyebrows in question.
Lucky's answer was forestalled by the arrival of Skeeter Mouton. Skeeter pulled up a chair on Lucky's right and settled his bulk on it, mopping the sweat off his forehead with a bar rag. A smile lit up in the center of his beard like a crescent moon, but it didn't reach his dark eyes.
«Hey, Lucky, where you at?»
Lucky ignored the greeting and poured himself another drink. «You been waterin' the whiskey again, Skeeter.»
The bartender clutched his heart dramatically. His round face tightened in a wounded expression. «Me? Mais non! Madame Mouton, she keeps the books, she waters the liquor. How can you accuse me of such a thing when me, I come all the way over here to give you information?»
«Information 'bout what?»
«Your two friends.»
It was on the tip of Lucky s tongue to tell Mouton he didn't care what Willis and Perret were up to. He was all through fighting other people's battles. From now on he was adhering to a strict code of isolationism. No more damsels in distress. No more plantations to save. He was living for himself; the rest of the world could go to hell. But Skeeter went on, oblivious of Lucky's inner thoughts.
«They had them a little meetin' s'afternoon.»
«Who with?» Not that he cared. He was just mildly curious, that was all. He directed his gaze across the crowded smoky room to where Len Burke sat deep in angry conversation with Perry Davis. «With him?»
Mouton shook his head. «Non. The big oil man, he been right here the whole time. The other two, they got a call and went out, come back a while later smilin' like 'gators and throwin' money 'round. This was all just before you got here. You walk in, they slip out the side.»
«So?»
The round man shrugged and rolled his eyes, digging a folded bill out of a pocket on his apron. He waved it under Lucky s nose as if the smell of it might rouse him to show greater interest. «So this is the bill they tipped their waitress with. Toinette, she was just showin' it to me 'cause she never had a tip so big. She 'bout fainted.» He gave a snort of disapproval. «A twenty-dollar tip. Talk about!»
Lucky glanced at the bill in irritation. It was crisp and new, the kind of money decent people carried. In his experience, trash like Willis carried money that looked as dirty as the kind of deals that brought it to them. If Willis was leaving fresh twenties for cocktail waitresses, then it was a good bet there were lots more where this one had come from. He would have had to come into a tidy sum to inspire that kind of generosity. Gene Willis wasn't known for his philanthropy.
«'Toinette, she says Willis had a roll of those as thick as a 'gator's tail. Me, I don' figure he got ' em sellin' Bibles and he ain't been on the bayou since the night you shot up his boat full o' holes, so he didn' get 'em from stealin' crawfish. Somebody payin' him this kinda money…» Mouton shrugged and mopped his forehead. «Must be some kinda dirty job, oui?»
Lucky stared at the bill, rubbing the stiff paper absently between his fingers. This could have been the final payment for starting the fire, but if so, Willis and Perret would still be here, swilling Mouton's watered whiskey and playing bourre in the back room; the night was young. Non. This was payment for something else, something they were undoubtedly doing that very minute.
«You don' know what they were up to?»
Skeeter shook his head, frowning. «No good, dat's for sure. Willis, he said somethin' 'bout meetin' a lady. I didn' pay him no mind. What lady would meet with the like of him?»
Shelby, Lucky answered mentally. Serena was right, her sister would probably not have started the fire herself. The job was too dirty and physical. Shelby would have considered it well beneath her. But she wouldn't have hesitated to pay someone else to do it. And now she was paying them for another job.
«They took outta here, headed up the bayou.» Skeeter tilted his head, his dark eyes twinkling as he chuckled. «You sure put the air-conditioning in dat one, cher. Willis, he ain't never gonna get all them bullet holes patched up.»
The blonde, who had remained blessedly silent for all of five minutes, perked up suddenly at the mention of Willis's name. She leaned across the table toward Skeeter, making certain to twist herself around so Lucky could have another look at her amazing cleavage. «You know Mean Gene? He's a rowdy son of a bitch, ain't he?»
She threw her head back and gave a laugh that bore an unfortunate resemblance to the braying of a mule.
Lucky turned on her slowly, his eyes glittering. The dangerous look had caused more than one man to back away from him. The blonde just gave him a wink and a grin.
«How do you know Willis, chere?» he asked, his voice silky.
«Well, shoot, I know him every way.» She gave her donkey laugh again and slapped Lucky on the arm. «He's the one set me on to you, Ace. Said he reckoned you'd be needin' a woman 'cause yours was goin' someplace.» She flashed him her brightest smile and ran her hand up his thigh. «Remind me to thank him later.»