Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"Don't cry, sweetie, you're okay," she cooed, stroking a mop of black curls that were as soft as a cloud.

The little girl let out a last long wail, just to let the world know she had been sorely mistreated, then subsided into hiccups, her attention suddenly riveted on her rescuer. Laurel smiled at the swift change of mood, at the innocence in the chubby face and the wonder in the round, liquid dark eyes. A muddy little hand reached up and touched her face experimentally.

"Jeanne-Marie, are you okay, bébé?" The child's mother rushed up, her brows knit with worry, arms reaching out.

"I think she was just startled," Laurel said, handing the baby over.

After a quick inspection satisfied her parental concern, the young woman turned back to Laurel with a sheepish look. "Oh, look! Jeanne-Marie, she got you all dirty! I'm so sorry!"

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it," Laurel said absently, reaching out to tickle Jeanne-Marie's plump chin. "What a pretty little girl."

The mother smiled, pride and shyness warring for control of her expression. She was herself very pretty in a curvy, Cajun way. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you for picking her up."

"Well, I'm sure the dog's owner would apologize to you," Laurel said dryly, shooting Jack a glance over her shoulder. "If he would ever admit the dog is his."

The woman was understandably baffled, but nodded and smiled and backed away toward the rest of her group, telling Jeanne-Marie to wave as they went.

Laurel waved back, then turned toward Jack, a smart remark on the tip of her tongue. But he had a strange, stricken look on his face, as if he had seen something he hadn't been at all prepared for.

"What's the matter with you?" she said instead. "Do you have a phobia of children or something?"

Jack shook himself free of the emotion that had gripped him as he had watched Laurel with little Jeanne-Marie. Dieu, he felt as though he'd taken an unexpected boot to the solar plexus. She had looked so natural, so loving. The thought had crossed his mind instantly, automatically, that she would make a wonderful mother-as Evie would have if she had ever gotten the chance. If their child had ever been born. Thoughts he didn't usually allow himself during daylight hours. Those were for the night, when he could dwell on them and beat himself with them and cut his soul to ribbons with their razor-sharp edges.

"A-no," he stammered, blinking hard, scrambling for a mental toehold. He shrugged and flashed her a smile that was pale in comparison to his usual. "Me, I just don' know much about babies, that's all."

Laurel gave him a look. "I'll bet you know all about making them, though, don't you?"

"Ah, c'est vrai. I'm a regular expert on that subject." His grin took hold, cutting his dimples deep into his cheeks. He looped his arms around her, catching her by surprise, and shuffled closer and closer, until they were belly to belly. "You want for me to give you a demonstration, sugar?" he drawled, his voice stroking over her like long, sensitive fingers.

Laurel swallowed hard as raw, sexual heat swept through her.

"You certainly have a high opinion of your own abilities," she said, grabbing frantically for sass to ward off the other, more dangerous feelings.

He lowered his head a fraction, his dark eyes shining as he homed in on her mouth. "It ain't bragging if you can back it up."

Laurel 's pulse jumped. "I'll back you up," she threatened with a look of mock consternation. She planted both hands against his chest and shoved.

He didn't budge. Just grinned at her, laughing. Fuming, she pushed again. He abruptly unlocked his hands at the small of her back and she let out a little whoop of surprise as she stumbled backward. Momentum carried her faster than her feet could catch up, and she landed on her fanny in a patch of orange-blossomed trumpet creeper. Peals of high-pitched laughter assured her that the children had witnessed her fall from dignity. Before she could even contemplate resurrecting herself, Huey bounded out of a tangle of buttonbush and pounced on her, knocking her flat and licking her face enthusiastically.

"Ugh!" Laurel snapped her head from side to side, in a futile attempt to dodge the slurping dog tongue, swatting blindly at the hound with her hands.

"Arrête sa! C'est assez! Va-t'en!" Jack was laughing as he shooed Huey out of the way. The hound jumped and danced and wiggled around their legs as Jack stretched out a hand to Laurel and helped her up. "You can't get the better of me, catin."

Laurel shot him a disgruntled look. "There is no 'better' of you," she complained, struggling to keep from bursting into giggles. She never allowed herself to be amused by rascals. She was a level-headed, practical sort of person, after all. But there was just something about this side of Jack Boudreaux, something tempting, something conspiratorial. The gleam in his dark eyes pulled at her like a magnet.

"You only say that 'cause we haven't made love yet," he growled, that clever, sexy mouth curling up at the corners.

"You say that like there's a chance in hell it might actually happen."

The smile deepening, the magnetism pulling harder, he leaned a little closer. "Oh, it'll happen, angel," he murmured. "Absolutely. Guar-un-teed."

Laurel gave up her hold on her sense of humor and chuckled, shaking her head. "Lord, you're impossible!"

"Oh, no, sugar," he teased, slipping his arms around her once again. "Not impossible. Hard, mebbe," he said, waggling his brows.

The innuendo was unmistakable and outrageous. Their laughter drifted away on the sultry air, and awareness thickened the humidity around them. Laurel felt her heart thump a little harder as she watched the rogue's mask fall away from Jack's face. He looked intense, but it was a softer look than she had seen there before, and when he smiled, it was a softer smile, a smile that made her breath catch in her throat.

"I like to see you laugh, 'tite ange," he said, lifting a hand to straighten her glasses. He brushed gently at the smudge of mud Jeanne-Marie had left on her cheek. His fingertips grazed the corner of her mouth and stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his thumb beneath her chin and tilted her face up as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Not smart, Laurel told herself, even as she felt her lips soften beneath his. She wasn't strong enough for a relationship, wasn't looking for a relationship. She couldn't have found a more unlikely candidate in any event. Jack Boudreaux was wild and irreverent and unpredictable and mocked the profession and system she held such respect for. But none of those arguments dispelled the fire that sparked to life as he tightened his hold on her and eased his tongue into her mouth.

Jack groaned deep in his throat as she melted against him. His little tigress who hissed and scratched at him more often than not. She didn't want him getting close, but once the barrier had been crossed, she responded to him with a sweetness that took his breath away. He wanted her. He meant to have her. To hell with consequences. To hell with what she would think of him after. She wouldn't think anything that wasn't the truth-that he was a bastard, that he was a user. All true. None of it changed a damn thing.

He tangled one hand in her short, silky hair and started the other on a quest for buttons. But his hand stilled as a high-pitched, staccato burst of sound cut through the haze in his mind. Laughter. Children's laugher. Jack raised his head reluctantly, just in time to see round eyes and a button nose disappear behind the trunk of a willow tree.

Laurel blinked up at him. Stunned. Dazed. Disoriented. Her glasses steamed. "What?" she mumbled, breathless, her lips stinging and burning, her mouth feeling hot and wet and ultrasensitive-sensations that were echoed in a more intimate area of her body.