Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"That seems a highly improper suggestion, Mr. Danjermond," Laurel said coolly, wishing fervently that someone else would happen out into the hall and break the sexual tension or at least witness it. But then she had the eerie feeling that no one else would see it or sense it. The signals he was sending out were for her alone.

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his coffee brown trousers, he smiled that all-knowing feline smile that made her feel as if he were a superior life-form who had taken the guise of a mere mortal for amusement. "I don't believe I've broken any rules by asking you to lunch."

Once again he had neatly maneuvered her into a corner. The realization annoyed her. If she wanted to make an argument against his statement, she would have to be the one to bring up the topic of sexual tension and implied propositions.

Or maybe she was just imagining the whole thing. Perhaps she had taken such an aversion to Vivian's notions of him as a son-in-law, she was reading into everything he said. Whatever the case, she didn't want to deal with him; she didn't have the energy.

"Thank you for the invitation," she said smoothly. "But I'm afraid I already have plans."

One straight brow lifted. His gaze seemed to intensify, his pale green eyes glowing like precious stones held up to the sun. "Another man?"

"My aunt. Not that it's any of your business."

He treated her to a full-fledged smile that was perfectly even, perfectly symmetrical, bright, white, handsome as she imagined all the Danjermonds had been since the days of the Renaissance. "I like to know if I have competition."

"I told you before," Laurel said, edging toward impatience. "I'm not looking to get involved with anyone at the moment."

The word "liar" rang in her head, and she had the distinct feeling Stephen Danjermond heard it, too. But he would have to call her on it. She wasn't bringing up the subject of Jack Boudreaux. Today she honestly wished she'd never heard the name.

"Sometimes we get things we are not necessarily expecting, though, don't we, Laurel?" he said.

He didn't like her rebuff. She could hear the faintest edge in his smooth, cultured voice, and behind the affable smile his eyes had a coldness about them that hinted at temper. Too bad. She had no intention of becoming entangled with him-emotionally or otherwise.

"Annie Delahoussaye certainly got something she wasn't expecting," she said, neatly shifting gears to business. God, how appalling that murder seemed safer territory than personal relationships.

"You're here on her behalf, Laurel? For someone who claims not to be interested in going back to work you certainly are spending a great deal of time in the courthouse."

"Her parents asked me to act as their liaison with the sheriff's department," she said. "They're devastated, naturally, and Kenner is less than forthcoming, to say nothing of the fact that sympathy is a completely foreign concept to him."

Danjermond nodded thoughtfully. "He's a hard man. He would tell you there's no place for sympathy in his work."

"Yes, well, he'd be wrong."

"Would he?" he asked, looking doubtful. "Sympathy can sometimes be equated with weakness, vulnerability. It can draw a person into situations where perspective becomes warped and emotion takes over where logic should rule. We're taught in law school not to allow ourselves to become emotionally involved, aren't we, Laurel? As you well know, the results can be disastrous."

He couldn't have cut her more cleanly if he had used a scalpel. And he'd done it so subtly, seemingly without effort. And once again, Laurel could say nothing without incriminating herself. She had the distinct feeling he was punishing her for turning down his invitation, but she could hardly accuse him. The best thing she could do was concede to an opponent she was no match for and get the hell out.

She took a very rude, very deliberate look at her watch and said flatly, "Oh, my, look at the time. I have to be going."

Danjermond gave her a mocking little half bow. "Until we meet again, Laurel."

She left the courthouse feeling battered. Kenner had been bad enough, but she couldn't encounter Stephen Danjermond without feeling she had walked into a tiger's cage. He was beautiful, charismatic, but there was a strength, an ego, a temper there beneath the handsome stripes. This time he had reached out and swiped at her with his elegant paw, and she felt as if his claws had sliced into her as sure and sharp as razor blades. She thanked God she would never have to face him in a courtroom.

The Acura was parked beneath the heavy shade of a live oak at the edge of the courthouse lot. Laurel slid behind the wheel, and the tension that had gripped her in its fist all morning finally let go, leaving her feeling like a puddle of melted Jell-O. She stared across the street for a moment, watching the weathered old men who sat on their bench in front of the hardware store.

They gathered there every morning in their summer hats and short-sleeved shirts, suspenders holding up baggy dark pants. Laurel knew the faces had changed over the years, but she could remember old men sitting there when she had been a small child. They took their places on the bench to watch the day go by, to swap stories and gossip. Today they looked grim, unsmiling, wary of every car that drove past, watchful of strangers. A woman emerged from the store, holding the hand of a daughter who had probably considered herself too old for it just yesterday.

Annie Delahoussaye was on a lot of minds today.

Was she on Jack's mind?

"Shit," Laurel whispered, her lashes drifting down as weariness weighed like lead on her every muscle-most especially her heart. His image drifted into her mind without her permission, that haunted, brooding look in his eyes, his face hard. She'd seen that look all night, heard his harsh, smoky voice. "I've got enough corpses on my conscience…"

He might have been referring to his work, but he had played the cynical mercenary hack every time she brought the subject up. He wrote horror for the money. He would claim he had no trouble distinguishing fact from fiction. Her thoughts turned back to what little mention he'd made of his life as corporate attorney for Tristar Chemical. Hardly a violent occupation. Still, every time she started to dismiss it, something pulled her back. He had crashed and burned, he'd said, and taken the company down with him. Why?

Intuition told her she would find some of the answers she was looking for in Houston, where Tristar had its headquarters. She had acquaintances there, could make a phone call… Practicality told her not to look. She was far better off leaving Jack and his moods alone. He obviously had problems he needed to work out-or wallow in, as seemed to be his choice. They would be disastrous together, both of them wounded, looking to each other for strength that simply wasn't there. He didn't want her anyway. Not in any permanent sense. They had had some fun together, "passed a good time" as the Cajuns said. That was all Jack wanted.

She ignored the way that knowledge stung, and reached for the ignition, firing the car's engine and airconditioning to life. How many times had she said she wasn't looking for a relationship? She was in no emotional condition to enter into one. That she had taken him as a lover was a whole other matter, a matter of letting herself live, of taking something for her own pleasure. She told herself she wanted nothing more than that from him, and did her damnedest to forget the way his arms had felt around her while she cried.

Lunch consisted of stuffed tomatoes and garden-fresh salad that no one seemed to have an appetite for. They sat at the glass-topped table on the back gallery, looking out at the courtyard where old growth was flourishing, now that it was free of choking weeds, and new flowers were growing fuller and more vibrant by the day.