Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"Let go of me," Laurel demanded, holding herself as rigid as a post as her nerve endings snapped like whips in response to his nearness.

"Why? I like holding you."

"I don't want to be held. I don't like to be held."

He studied her expression for a long while, reading something like fear. Fear of him? Or was it something deeper, more fundamental? Fear of intimacy, maybe. Fear that she might actually enjoy it.

"Liar," he said softly, but set her free just the same. She should have been afraid of him. He was a user and a bastard. If he'd had a shred of decency, he would have left her alone. But she intrigued him, little bundle of contradictions that she was. And he wanted her. He couldn't escape that fact, and he didn't want to deny it.

He pulled his cigarette out from behind his ear and dangled it from his lip as he bent to retrieve the book. Evil Illusions, his latest best-seller, for all it meant to him. He wrote to kill time, to give himself some outlet, some way to vent what was inside him. He had never set out to become a success, an attitude that drove his editor insane. She wanted him to go on tour, to play the celebrity. He refused. She wanted him to court booksellers and distributors. He stayed home. His attitude exasperated her, but Jack just laughed it off and told Tina Steinberg she had enough energy, enthusiasm, and ambition for both of them.

"Are you ever going to smoke that cigarette?" Laurel snapped.

Jack glanced at her from under his brows and grinned, cigarette bobbing. "Nope. I quit two years ago."

"Then why do you keep sticking that cigarette in your mouth?" she asked peevishly.

His gaze held hers and all but caressed it, devilish lights dancing. "I've got an… oral fixation. You wanna help me out with that, sugar?"

Laurel scowled at him and at the wave of liquid heat that washed through her as her gaze strayed to the sexy curve of his lower lip and she remembered the feel and taste of his mouth on hers.

"Why horror?" she asked suddenly, reaching out to tap a finger against the book cover.

A wry smile pulled at one corner of Jack's mouth. Because it's my life. Because it's what lives inside me. Dieu, she'd run like a rabbit if he told the truth. Lucky he'd never had any particular aversion to lying.

"Because it sells," he said, tossing the paperback down on the bench.

Better she think of him as a mercenary than a lunatic. A mercenary probably still stood a chance of getting her into bed. And a mercenary he was, after all. Hadn't he spent half the afternoon rummaging through old newspapers, studying Miss Laurel Chandler's life as a prosecuting attorney? Not because he wanted to know more about her as a person, he told himself, but because he found her intriguing as a character. He had even jotted down a few notes about her for future reference, thinking she would make a fascinating heroine with her mix of fragility and strength.

"Come on, 'tite chatte," he said, nodding toward the back gate. He caught her small hand in his and started walking.

Laurel dug her heels in and scowled at him. "Come on where?"

"Crawfishin'."

She tried in vain to tug her hand away even as her feet took a step in his direction. "I'm not going crawfishing with you. I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Sure you are, sugar." He grinned like the devil and drew her another step toward the gate. "You can't stay holed up in this garden forever. You gotta get out and live with the common folk."

She gave a sniff. "I don't see much of anything common about you."

"Merci!"

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Come on, angel," he cajoled, changing tacks without warning. He sprang toward her, landing as graceful as a cat, and swung her into a slow dance to music only he could hear. "Me, I'm jus' a poor Cajun boy all alone in this world," he murmured, his voice warm and rough like velvet, his accent thickening like a fine brown roux. He captured her gaze with his and held it, his head bent so that they were nearly nose to nose. "Woncha come crawfishin' with me, mon coeur?"

Temptation curled around her and drew her toward him. It seemed insane, this attraction between them. She didn't want a man in her life right now. She had all she could do to manage herself. And Jack would not be managed. He had a wildness about him, an unpredictability. He could tell her he had suddenly decided to fly off to Brazil for the day, and she wouldn't have been a bit surprised. No, he was no man for her.

But his offer was tempting. She could almost feel the mud between her toes, smell the bayou, feel the excitement of lifting a net full of clicking, hissing little red crawfish out of the water. It had been years since she'd gone. Her father had taken her and Savannah -against Vivian's strident objections. And she and Savannah had snuck away on their own a time or two after he had died, but those times were so distant in the past, they no longer seemed real. Now Jack was offering. Good-time Jack with his devil's grin and his air of joie de vie.

She looked up at him, and her mouth moved before she could even give it permission. "All right. Let's go."

They rode in Jack's Jeep down the bayou road, turning off on a narrow, overgrown path a short distance before the site of their accident. Lined with trees, rough and rutted, it had Jack slowing the Jeep to a crawl, and Huey jumped out of the back, eager to begin his exploration of this new territory. Laurel hung on to the door as the Jeep bounced along, her attention on the scenery. She knew the area. Pony Bayou. So named for a prized pony owned by a local Anglo planter back in the late seventeen hundreds. The pony was "borrowed" by a Cajun man who planned to use the stallion for breeding purposes. A feud ensued, with considerable bloodshed, and all for nought as the pony got himself mired in the mud of the bayou and was devoured by alligators.

Despite its gruesome history, Pony Bayou was a pretty spot. The stream itself was narrow and shallow with low, muddy banks and a thick growth of water weeds and flowers. A perfect haven for crawfish, as was evidenced by the presence of two beat-up cars parked along the shoulder of the road. Two families were trying their luck in the shallows, their submerged nets marked by floating strips of colored plastic. Half a dozen children chased each other along the bank, shrieking and laughing. Their mothers were perched on the long trunk of an ancient brown Cadillac, swapping gossip. Their fathers leaned back against the side of the car, drinking beer and smoking nonchalantly. Everyone waved as Laurel and Jack rumbled past in search of a spot of their own. Laurel smiled and waved back, glad she had come, feeling lighter of heart away from the aura of her family.

They parked the Jeep and gathered their equipment as if this were an old routine. Laurel pulled on a pair of rubber knee-boots to wade in, grabbed several cotton mesh dip nets, and clomped after Jack, who had nets tucked under his arm and carried a cooler full of bait. Huey bounded ahead, nose scenting the air for adventure. Jack scolded him as the hound splashed into the bayou, and Huey wheeled and slunk away with his tail tucked between his legs, casting doleful looks over his shoulder at Jack.

Jack scowled at the dog, not appreciating the fact that he felt like an ogre for spoiling Huey's fun. Laurel was giving him a look as well.

"There won' be a crawfish between here and New Iberia with him around," he muttered.

"Depends on how good a fisherman you are, doesn't it?" She lifted a brow in challenge.

"When you grow up fishin' to keep your belly full, you get pretty damn good at it."

Laurel said nothing as she watched him bait the nets with gizzard shad and chicken necks. He had grown up poor. Lots of people had-and did-in South Louisiana. But the hint of defensiveness and bitterness in his tone somehow managed to touch her more than she would have expected it to.