Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"Oh, man, Savannah 's gonna have my ass."

"Not if I have it first," Laurel said, stepping across the console to crawl over Jack's door. Hers was operational, but too near the trunk of a willow to get open. With both feet planted on the squishy, oozy ground, she faced Jack, her hands jammed on her hips and fury lighting a fire in her eyes. "Of all the stupid, irresponsible-"

"Me?" He slapped his hands against his chest, incredulous. "You were the one pointing the gun!"

"-moronic, sophomoric, juvenile things to do. I can't believe anyone would-" She broke off as he started laughing. "What?"

He only laughed harder, wiping at his eyes, holding his stomach.

Laurel frowned. "I don't see the least little thing funny about this."

"Oh-yeah-you got a lawyer's sense of humor all right." Jack straightened and tried to compose himself. "The whole thing's ridiculous. Doncha see it? You, you prim little angel, pull a gun on me. We almost hit an alligator-" He broke off and started laughing again.

Laurel watched him, feeling her temper let go by degrees. They were safe. Savannah 's car was worse for wear, but no one had been hurt. As anger and fear subsided, she began to see the lunacy of the situation. How would they ever explain it? She put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

Jack caught the motion and the stifled sound. He looked at her, at the sparkle in her eyes and the shaking of her shoulders as laughter tried to escape, and he felt as though he'd been hit in the head all over again. On impulse he reached out and pulled her hand down, grinning like an idiot at the bright smile that lit up her face. Dieu, she was pretty…

"I don't know what I'm laughing about," she said, embarrassed.

"I don't care." He shook his head, stepping closer. "But you oughta do it more often, angel."

Her glasses were askew, and he took them off as he moved closer still. Laurel stopped laughing… stopped breathing. Her gaze was locked on his face. Her body was very aware of his nearness, responding to it in ways that were instinctive and fundamentally feminine-warming, melting. She was backed up against the side of the car, caught between an immovable object and an irresistible force. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair, lowering his mouth toward hers inch by inch.

She should have moved. She should have stopped him. She didn't know much about this man, and what she did know was hardly good. He was-what had Savannah called him?-a writer, a rake, a rogue. He was a man with a reputation for seduction and a past that was probably shady, to say the very least. He had no business touching her, and she had no business wanting him to. She should have stopped him. But she didn't.

She shivered at the first touch of his lips, blinking as if the contact had given her a shock. He held her gaze, his eyes dark and intense, mesmerizing. Then he settled his mouth over hers, and thought ceased. Her eyes drifted shut. Her hands wound into the fabric of his shirt. Jack pulled her close, slanting his mouth across hers, taking possession of it. At the first intrusion of his tongue, she gasped a little, and he took full advantage, thrusting slowly, deeply, into the honeyed warmth of her mouth.

She tasted sweet, and she felt like heaven against him. Jack groaned deep in his chest and pressed closer. The scent of her filled his head. Not expensive perfume, but soap and baby powder. He spread his legs and inched closer, fire shooting through him as his thighs brushed the outside of hers and his groin nudged her belly.

The need was instantaneous and stronger than anything he'd known in a long time. Strong enough to make him think, something he generally avoided doing when he was enjoying a lady's charms. It was crazy to want like this.

Crazy… She'd had a breakdown. She was vulnerable, fragile. Like Evie had been.

Desire died like a flame that had been suddenly doused. Jesus, what kind of jerk was he? He didn't bother to answer that question. It was a matter of record. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted and never gave a thought to anyone else. Selfish, self-absorbed. He had no business touching her.

Laurel opened her eyes as Jack stepped away. She felt dizzy, weak, as shaken as she had been when the car had finally rolled to a halt. Like a woman in a daze, she lifted a hand and touched her fingers to her lips, lips that felt hot and swollen and thoroughly kissed. Her skin seemed to be melting-warm, wet-then she blinked and realized with no small amount of surprise that it had started to rain.

The sky that had shone in various shades of blue all day like a lovely sapphire had gone suddenly leaden. Weather in the Atchafalaya was always capricious. A perfect afternoon could yield to a hurricane by evening, or a tornado, or a shower. Showers could become torrential downpours in the blink of an eye.

"We should get the top up on the car," she said blankly, her body not receiving any of her brain's commands to move.

Jack didn't move, either. He stood there in the rain looking tough and sexy. His cap was gone. His tousled black hair glittered with moisture. It ran down off his nose, dripped from his scarred chin. The bleeding on his forehead had stopped, leaving an angry red line. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and Laurel shifted nervously against the side of the car.

"I… I don't ordinarily just let men kiss me," she felt compelled to explain. She didn't even kiss on the first date. It had taken Wesley months to coax her into bed, months before she had trusted him enough.

He grinned suddenly, once again transforming himself. "Hey, I'm no ordinary guy," he said, shrugging, arms wide, palms up.

They worked together to get the top up and secured on the 'Vette.

"We'll have to walk for help," Jack said, raising his voice as the rain began to fall harder. "This car, she's not gonna go nowhere, and the rain could keep up all night."

Laurel said nothing, but followed him along the path they had mowed back out to the road, glad there was no sign of the alligator. She took a good look at her surroundings, getting her bearings from familiar landmarks. If you followed the dirt path into the woods to the north, you eventually came to the place where Clarence Gauthier kept his fighting dogs. A sign made from a jagged piece of cypress siding was posted on the stump of a swamp oak that had been struck by lightning and killed twenty years ago: "Keep Out-Trespasser Will Be Ate."

"Come on, sweetheart," Jack said, nodding toward town.

"No." Laurel shook her head and swiped at the rain drizzling down across her face. "This way." She turned and headed east.

"Sugar, there's nothin' that way but snakes and gators," he protested.

A ghost of a smile turned the corners of her mouth. Snakes and alligators. And Beauvoir, her home.

Beauvoir made Tara look like low-rent housing. It stood at the end of the traditional allée of ancient, moss-draped live oak, a jewel of the old South, immaculately preserved and painted pristine white. A graceful horseshoe-shaped double stairway led from the ground level to the upper gallery of the house. Six twenty-four-foot-tall Doric columns stood straight and white along each of the four sides of the building, supporting the overhang of the Caribbean-style roof. Entrance doors, centered on both the upper and the lower levels of the house, boasted fan lights and sidelights and were flanked by two sets of French doors, which were themselves set off by louvered shutters painted a rich, money green. Three dormers with Palladian windows called attention to the broad-hipped slate roof. A glassed-in cupola crowned the architectural work of art.

Beauvoir was a sight to take the breath away from preservationists. Laurel thought it might have inspired something like awe or love in her, as well, if her father had lived. But the plantation had gone into her mother's control at his death, and Vivian had seen fit to bring Ross Leighton to it. Laurel doubted she would ever feel anything but regret and loss when standing before the facade of Beauvoir-regret for her father's untimely death, for the childhood she had endured instead of enjoyed, loss for the generations of tradition that would die with Vivian. Neither Laurel nor Savannah would ever live here again. The memories were too unhappy.