Tami Hoag: Cry Wolf

He leaned down toward her as he set the accordion on the floor and unfurled the grin that had knocked more than a few ladies off their feet. "Hey, sugar, where you been all my life?"

Laurel felt as if he had turned a thousand watts of pure electricity on her.

He looked wicked. He looked wild. He looked as though he could see right through her clothes, and she had the wildest urge to cross her arms over her chest, just in case. Annoyed with herself, she snapped her jaw shut and cleared her throat.

"I've been off learning to avoid Lotharios who use trite come-on lines," she said, her arms folding over her chest in spite of her resolve to keep them at her sides.

Jack's smile never wavered. He liked a girl with sass. "What, are you a nun or somethin', angel?"

"No, I'm an attorney. I need to speak to you about your dog."

Someone in the crowd raised a voice in protest against the absence of music. "Hey, Jack, can you quit makin' love long enough to sing somethin'?"

Jack raised his head and laughed, leaning toward the microphone that was attached to the piano. "This ain't love, Dede, it's a lawyer!" As the first wave of laughter died down, he said, "Y'all know what lawyers use for birth control, doncha?" He waited a beat, then his voice dropped a husky notch as he delivered the punch line. "Their personalities."

Laurel felt a flush of anger rise up her neck and creep up her cheeks as the crowd hooted and laughed. "I wouldn't make jokes if I were you, Mr. Boudreaux," she said, trying to keep her voice at a pitch only he could hear. "Your hound managed to do a considerable amount of damage to my aunt's garden today."

Jack shot her a look of practiced innocence. "What hound?"

"Your hound."

He shrugged eloquently. "I don't have a hound."

"Mr. Boudreaux-"

"Call me Jack, angel," he drawled as he leaned down toward her again, bracing his forearm on his thigh.

They were nearly at eye level, and Laurel felt herself leaning toward him, as if he were drawing her toward him by some personal magnetic force. His gaze slid down to her mouth and lingered there, shockingly frank in its appraisal.

"Mr. Boudreaux," she said in exasperation. "Is there somewhere we can discuss this more privately?"

He bobbed his eyebrows above dark, sparkling devil's eyes. "Is my place private enough for you?"

"Mr. Boudreaux…"

"Here's another trite line for you, angel," Jack whispered, bending a little closer, holding her gaze with his as he lifted a finger and pushed her glasses up on her nose. "You're pretty when you're pissed off."

His voice was low and smoky, Cajun-spiced and tainted with the aroma of whiskey.

Drawing in a slow, deep breath to steady herself, she tilted her chin up and tried again. "Mr. Boudreaux-"

He shot her a look as he moved toward the microphone once again. "Lighten up, angel. Laissez les bon temps rouler."

The mike picked up his last sentence, and the crowd cheered. Jack gave a smoky laugh. "Are we havin' fun yet?"

A chorus of hoots and hollers rose to the rafters. He fixed a long, hot look on the petite tigress glaring up at him from the edge of the stage and murmured, "This one's for you, angel."

His fingers stretched over the keys of the battered old piano, and he pounded out the opening notes of "Great Balls of Fire." The crowd went wild. Before the first line was out of his mouth, there were fifty people on the dance floor. They twirled and bounced around Laurel like a scene from American Bandstand, doing the jitterbug as if it had never gone out of style. But her attention was riveted on the singer. Not so much by choice as by compulsion. She was caught in the beam of that intense, dark gaze, held captive by it, mesmerized. He leaned over the keyboard, his hands moving across it, his mouth nearly kissing the microphone as his smoky voice sang out the lyrics with enthusiasm, but all the time his eyes were locked on her. The experience was strangely seductive, strangely intimate. Wholly unnerving.

She stared right back at him, refusing to be seduced or intimidated. Refusing to admit to either, at any rate. He grinned, as if amused by her spunk, and broke off the eye contact as he hit the bridge of the song and turned his full attention to the piano and the frantic pace of the music.

He pounded out the notes, his fingers flying up and down the keyboard expertly. All the intensity he had leveled at her in his gaze was channeled into his playing. The shock of black hair bounced over his forehead, shining almost blue under the lights. Sweat gleamed on his skin, streamed down the side of his face. His faded blue chambray shirt stuck to him in dark, damp patches. The sleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms dusted with black hair, muscles bunching and flexing as he slammed out the boogie-woogie piece with a skill and wild physical energy rivaling that of Jerry Lee Lewis himself.

Making music this way looked to be hard work physically and emotionally. As if he were in the throes of exorcism, the notes tore out of him, elemental, rough, sexy, almost frightening in intensity. He dragged his thumb up and down the keyboard, stroking out the final long, frenzied glissando, and fell forward, panting, exhausted as the crowd whistled and howled and screamed for more.

"Whoa-" Jack gulped a breath and forced a grin. "Bon Dieu. It's Miller time, folks. Y'all go sit down while I recuperate."

As a jukebox kicked in, the rest of the band instantly dispersed, abandoning the stage in favor of a table that was holding up gamely under the weight of more than a dozen long-necked beer bottles and an assortment of glasses.

Leonce clapped Jack's shoulder as he passed. "You're gettin' old, Jack," he teased. "Sa c'est honteu, mon ami."

Jack sucked another lungful of hot, smoky air and swatted at his friend. "Fuck you, 'tit boule."

"No need." Leonce grinned, hooking a thumb in the direction of the dance floor. "You got one waitin' on you."

Jack raised his head and shot a sideways look at the edge of the stage. She was still standing there, his little lawyer pest, looking expectant and unimpressed with him. Trouble-that's what she looked like. And not the kind he usually dove into headfirst, either. A lawyer. Bon Dieu, he thought he'd seen the last of that lot.

"You want a drink, sugar?" he asked as he hopped down off the stage.

"No," Laurel said, automatically taking a half step back and chastising herself for it. This man was the kind who would sense a weakness and exploit it. She could feel it, could see it in the way his dark gaze seemed to catch everything despite the fact that he had been drinking. She drew deep of the stale, hot air and squared her shoulders. "What I want is to speak with you privately about the damage done by your dog."

His mouth curved. "I don't have a dog."

He turned and sauntered away from her, his walk naturally cocky. Laurel watched him, astounded by his lack of manners, infuriated by his dismissal of her.

He didn't glance back at her, but continued on his merry way, winding gracefully through the throng, stealing a bottle of beer off Annie's serving tray as he went. The waitress gave an indignant shout, saw it was Jack, and melted as he treated her to a wicked grin. Laurel shook her head in a combination of amazement and disbelief and wondered how many times he had gotten away with raiding the cookie jar as a boy. Probably more times than his poor mother could count. He stepped through a side door, and she followed him out.

Night had fallen completely, bringing on the mercury vapor lights that loomed over the parking lot and cloaking the bayou beyond in shades of black. The noise of the bar faded, competing out here with a chorus of frog song and the hum of traffic rolling past out on the street. The air was fresh with the scents of spring in bloom-jasmine and wisteria and honeysuckle and the ripe, vaguely rank aroma of the bayou. Somewhere down the way, where shabby little houses with thin lawns lined the bank, a woman called for Paulie to come in. A screen door slammed. A dog barked.