Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"That's the kind of man you think you fell in love with, sugar," he said, his voice low and rough. "You think you know me? You think you've got me pegged? You think mebbe there's something worth loving under all the scars? Think again. I killed my own father, drove my wife to suicide. I went from a profession where I got paid to lie and cheat to one that inspires twisted minds to commit murder." A bitter smile twisted his mouth. "Yeah, I'm a helluva guy, chère. You oughta fall in love with the like of me."

She didn't say a word, just sat there staring up at him with those wide eyes, and he knew he would have given anything to be the kind of man she needed. A bitter thought. A foolish thought. He was the last man she needed. Laurel deserved a champion, a knight in shining armor, not a jaded mercenary, not a man with ghosts. He was nothing but the worst kind of bastard. What he was doing to her now was absolute proof of that. Dieu, she'd just lost her sister, and here he was breaking her heart just to save what was left of his own.

One of the papers on the floor caught his eye, and he bent and grabbed it up, a sad parody of a smile pulling at his lips as he read his own handwriting. He had forgotten all about his ulterior motive for getting to know her. Such a poor ruse, he hadn't made more than a token effort to convince himself. But here it was in black and white, just in time to finish the job of cutting his own throat.

"Here," he murmured, handing it to her. "Here's the kind of man you come to in your hour of grief, angel. I'm sorry you didn' believe me the first time I told you."

Laurel didn't look at the piece of notebook paper she held in her hand. She stood up slowly on rubbery legs and watched Jack walk away from her. He went out onto the balcony without looking back, and she felt as though he had taken her heart out there with him. When she finally dropped her gaze to the carelessly scrawled notes, she knew he had pitched it off the balcony and into the murky waters of the bayou.

Laurel-obsessed with justice. A burden of guilt from past sins, real or imagined. Subdues femininity (unsuccessfully) with baggy clothes, etc. Represses sexuality (perfect conflict with prospective hero). A fascinating dichotomy of strength and fragility. Strong ties to dead father.

Need to get details on case that sent her over the edge. Were the accused guilty? Did she just want them to he? Why? Could write abuse into background.

A character profile. He'd been studying her, making notes for future reference. Her gaze fell to the floor, picking out the odd newspaper clippings among the sheets of typing paper and lined paper. The headlines jumped up at her as if they were three-dimensional: Scott County Prosecutor Cries Wolf. Charges Dismissed, Chandler Resigns.

She wouldn't have believed it was possible to hurt more than she already did. She would have been wrong. A new spring of pain bubbled up inside her. It was on a different level than the pain of losing Savannah, but it was no less sharp, no less acidic.

It wasn't as if he hadn't warned her, she thought, lashes beating back a fresh sheen of tears. It wasn't as if she hadn't warned herself. He wasn't the man for her. This wasn't the time. Too bad she had never gotten her heart to listen.

"Was it all grist for the mill, Jack?" she asked, going slowly, shakily to the open French doors. "The way we made love? The way you cried when you told me about Evie? The way Annie died, and Savannah-is that all plot for the next best-seller?" The thought sickened her. "Everything we did together, everything we-I-felt…" The words trailed off, the prospects too cruel to consider aloud.

"You missed your calling, Jack," she said bitterly. "You should have been an actor."

He said nothing in his own defense. He just stood with his hands braced on the balcony railing, broad shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the bayou. His expression was hard, closed, remote, as if he had taken himself to some dark place of solitude-or torment-within himself. Laurel wanted to hit him. She wanted to pound a confession out of him, a confession that refuted the damning evidence he had handed her himself. But she didn't hit him, and he didn't recant a word of his testimony. There wasn't a judge in the country who wouldn't have convicted him-for crimes of the heart, at the very least.

"I guess you proved your point," she whispered. "You're a bastard and a user. Bad for me."

She stepped out onto the balcony, appalled that the day could be so beautiful, that the birds could be singing. Below them, the bayou moved, a sluggish stream of chocolate. Huey lay sleeping on the bank.

"I know that you can't help the things that shaped you," she said, looking up at him through a watery haze that made him seem more dream than real. "None of us can. Savannah couldn't change the fact that our stepfather used her as his private whore. I can't change the fact that I knew and never did anything about it," she admitted, her voice choked with pain. "But you know something, Jack? I'll be damned if I'll believe we don't have the power within us to get past all that and be something better.

"You put that in your book, Jack." Chin up, tears streaming down her cheeks, she slipped the folded notepaper in his hip pocket. "And at least be decent enough to write me a happy ending."

Standing on pride alone, she turned and left him… left L'Amour… left her heart in pieces.

The summons to Beauvoir came before Laurel could leave the house for Prejean's. Vivian was on the brink of one of her spells, distraught over the news of Savannah 's death. Dr. Broussard and Reverend Stipple had been sent for, but what she really needed was the comfort of having her only remaining child nearby.

Laurel 's strongest urge was to say no. Vivian had disowned Savannah in life, had long ago ceased to love her. She couldn't keep from thinking that this was a ploy to gain attention, not a plea for sympathy or support. Vivian and Savannah had been rivals since the day of Savannah's birth. Why would that change after her death?

But the burden of guilt and family duty won out in the end. Laurel found herself in Caroline's burgundy BMW, turning up the tree-lined drive of her childhood home, cursing herself for being weak. She could almost envision Savannah looking down on her with disapproval. Still scrambling for Mama's love, Baby? Aren't you pathetic.

She cut the engine and lay her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, shutting her eyes against the exhaustion that pulled at her. She couldn't have felt more battered if someone had taken a club to her. Every part of her felt bruised, every cell of her body ached-her skin, her hair, her teeth, her muscles, her heart. Most especially her heart.

Images of Jack kept rising before her mind's eye, and her besieged brain struggled to rationalize in the name of self-preservation. He had pushed her away because he was afraid of hurting her. He had pushed her away because he was afraid of being hurt. But nothing she came up with could refute the evidence she had held in her hands.

God, he'd been studying her, jotting down notes, formulating theories as if she were nothing more than a fictitious character. The pain of that was incredible.

And still she wanted him to love her. The shame of that was absolute. She wanted him to come to her and tell her it was all a mistake, that he loved her, that he would be there for her as she struggled with the grief of loss. What a fool she was. She'd known from the start he wasn't the kind of man to depend on.

She sucked in a jerky breath, fighting the tears. She would get through this. She would get over it. She would get over him. She would find some way to be strong for Savannah.

Olive answered the door, looking appropriately dolorous, her skin as gray as her uniform, her eyes bleak. The maid led the way up the grand staircase and down the hall, and Laurel followed automatically, her mind on other times spent here.