Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

But he had saved her-several times-from her own thoughts, her own fears, from the dark mire of depression that pulled at her. Laurel studied him for a moment, wondering why he preferred the image of bad boy to champion.

"Come on, 'tite ange," he said, jerking his head toward the bar. "I'll buy you a drink. Besides, I've got a lawyer joke I just remembered I wanted to tell you."

"What makes you think I want to hear it?"

Jack slid an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward Frenchie's. "No, no. I know you don't wanna hear it. That's half the fun of tellin' it."

Laurel laughed, the tension going out of her by slow degrees.

"What's the difference between a porcupine and two lawyers in a Porsche?" he asked as they skirted around Baldwin 's truck. "With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside."

They crossed the parking lot, Jack laughing, Laurel shaking her head, neither one aware that they were being very carefully watched.

Savannah sat in a far corner of the bar, an aura of silence enveloping her like a force field, while all around her the air was filled with raucous sound. Filé was blasting out of the jukebox-"Two Left Feet." Billiard balls smacked together, people shouted to be heard above the general din. Savannah blocked it all out. Anger simmered inside her, hot and bitter and acidic.

The call from St. Joseph 's had broken in on her time with Cooper like an unwelcome news bulletin. Mrs. Cooper was suddenly having a bad spell, and couldn't Mr. Cooper please come? He had been there all morning and half the afternoon as it was. Selfish, greedy bitch. It wasn't enough that she had to hold on to him mentally, she had to drag him away physically, as well.

"I hate her," Savannah snarled, the feeling too strong to keep bottled up inside.

No one noticed she'd spoken at all. No one was paying any attention to her.

She took a gulp of her vodka tonic and did a slow reconnaissance of the room through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. The place was crowded for a Sunday evening. Thanks to Laurel. Laurel. Everybody's little heroine. Everybody's little savior.

The anger burned a little hotter, flared up as she tossed another splash of alcohol on the flames. The irony was just too bitter. Laurel was what she was because of Savannah. She was the chaste and pure one because Savannah had been her savior, her protector.

She stared hard toward the bar, where her Baby was being toasted and cheered by T-Grace and the regulars. And Jack Boudreaux stood by her side, the least likely white knight she'd ever seen. Baby was supposed to be home, brooding, hiding, weak, and in need of her big sister for comfort and support. Damn her. She was getting stronger by the day, by the minute, snatching away Savannah 's chance to be the stronger one, to play the role of protector again, to rise above her station of town tramp and be somebody important.

She picked up a matchbook off the table and mutilated it while she watched the way Jack hovered over Laurel, touching her shoulder, the small of her back, leaning close to whisper something in her ear then throwing his head back and laughing as she slugged him on the shoulder.

He had never whispered anything in Savannah 's ear, damn his miserable Cajun hide. She would have given him the ride of his life, but he'd never shown any interest in her beyond the casual flirting he did with every female on the planet. He was sure as hell showing an interest in Baby, and Savannah didn't like it one damn bit.

"Damn you, Baby," she muttered, polishing off the last of her drink.

"You talkin' to me, ma belle?" Leonce bent over her from behind, sliding one bony hand down over her shoulder to fondle her breast.

"Damn right, you jerk," she complained. "You're not paying any attention to me at all."

His scar repulsed her. It constantly drew her eyes to the grotesque lumps at either end of it and the misshapen end of his nose in between. She'd heard a story once that a woman had given him the mark with the business end of a broken bottle, but Leonce seemed to bear no ill will toward the gender. He came on to anything in panties.

"I'll pay anything you want if you get naked with me, chère."

Whore. You're nothing but a whore, Savannah…

Her anger spiked, breaking through her facade of boredom. She wasn't for sale. She did what she wanted when she wanted with whomever she wanted because she wanted to. Which made her a slut, not a whore. The bitter distinction burned in her stomach like an ulcer, and confusing, conflicting emotions twisted and writhed in her chest, the pressure building like steam in a radiator.

Needing to take it out on somebody, she grabbed a chunk of Leonce's beard and gave it a vicious twist, wringing a howl out of him. He staggered back the instant she let go and crashed into a pool player getting ready to take a shot, earning himself a jab with a cue stick and an earful of four-letter words.

Leonce ignored the other man, his glare fixed on Savannah as he rubbed his cheek. "What the hell you do dat for?"

Savannah stood up, kicking her chair back. "Go fuck yourself, Scarface. Save your money to buy yourself a brain, you asshole."

She snatched up her glass and threw it at him, bouncing it off his shoulder as he ducked away.

"Crazy bitch!" he yelled as sneers and chuckles rumbled behind him. "You goddamn crazy bitch!"

Savannah ignored him, snatched up her pocketbook, and went on the prowl. She didn't need to settle for Leonce Comeau; there were plenty of younger, good-looking bucks who would appreciate her company and her expertise. Her gaze caught on Taureau Hebert across the room, regaling his buddies with the tale of his latest run-in with the game warden.

She'd had her eye on him for a while now. He hadn't been nicknamed Bull for nothing. He was all of twenty-three and built for service from his mile-wide shoulders on down. It seemed like the perfect time to put him to the test.

But as she set off, hips swaying, tossing her wild mane back over her shoulder, concentrating all her considerable energy into the total package of allure, Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard bounced into the picture, and the men at Taureau's table snapped their heads around to ogle her cleavage as she served their drinks and flirted with them.

Savannah fought off the wild urge to scream. This was her territory. Who the hell did this cheap little waitress think she was, anyway?

Young and pretty, that's who she was. And she had a sunny smile and a sweet laugh. Like her mother, T-Grace, Annie favored her clothes a size too small, pouring her ample curves into tight jeans and tank tops that left nothing to the imagination. A tangle of fake gold chains hung around her throat, and she wore a cheap ring on nearly every finger. No style at all, Savannah thought bitterly as she fingered the long strand of real pearls she wore and briefly contemplated wrapping them around Annie Gerrard's pretty young throat.

The little bitch had no business sniffing around the men here. She had a man of her own, a husband. Savannah very conveniently forgot the fact that Tony Gerrard-Annie's husband-had only just been released from a stay in the parish jail for knocking her around, and rumors of a divorce were in the air.

She strolled around behind the table, slipping in between Taureau and the waitress, sliding an arm around Taureau's thick, sunburned neck as if they were longtime lovers. She ignored his startled expression and fixed a hard-eyed look on Annie. "Why don't you run along and get me a fresh vodka tonic, sweetheart? That is your job here, isn't it?"

Annie narrowed her dark eyes and propped her empty tray on her well-rounded hip. "Mais yeah, that's my job," Annie sassed, looking her adversary up and down with undisguised contempt. "What's yours, grandmère? Molesting young men?"