ANGEL MEETS THE BADMAN

by Maggie Shayne

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

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  Chapter 1

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  Sara Brand saw the devil waiting for her on the wide, white veranda when she arrived at the plantation known as Sugar Keep in Gator's Bayou, Louisiana. Beyond the shimmering heat waves—which she figured probably heralded his presence everywhere he went—he sat in a wicker chair, sipping something cold, the glass dewy and small in his big, coppery hand. He rose when she got out of the car, came down the steps to the driveway. His jeans were tighter than sin. His shirt hung untucked and unbuttoned, and even then it stuck damply to his skin in places. And where it gaped open, the exposed skin was tanned, sweat dampened. Sara's gaze slid over his smooth, broad chest and dipped to his dark, shadowy navel, rippled over his washboard abs and explored the little dusting of dark hair that started just above the button-fly of those jeans and went lower…

  "I can take them off if you want a better look."

  She jerked her head up fast, realizing she'd been standing beside her car with the door still open, staring at him for a full minute. He was only a foot away now, looking darkly amused, but deadly serious. Black eyes—devilish black eyes—probed hers. He had the thickest lashes she'd ever seen on a man. "Um … no. I mean. Sorry. I was … thinking."

  "I could see that. Care to elaborate?" His words flowed as slowly as molasses, drawn out by his slight Southern drawl, while his eyes raked her head to toe. The glance was suggestive. Appreciative. Devilish.

  Mentally she reviewed her appearance. She was wearing the same things she always wore. A loose, flowery skirt of thin material, in deference to the smothering heat. A sleeveless, cotton, button-down blouse. Her hair was in a ponytail, and her sunglasses covered her eyes. It was an everyday look for her. So why did she suddenly feel so self-conscious? So nervous?

  She automatically took a step backward, her back hitting the hot metal of the still-open car door.

  His eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he shrugged almost imperceptibly. "So I take it you're Sara Brand?"

  "Y-yes."

  He nodded. "Jake Nash," he said. He offered a hand.

  Sara reluctantly put hers in it. She knew she had no reason to be afraid of the man. That feeling was automatic and far more familiar to her than that other feeling that had swamped her when she'd set eyes on him. That had been … new. Different. Totally unlike her. To be afraid of him for no good reason … that was like her. All her instincts, honed from years of living in fear of strangers, were kicking into high gear. And it was almost a relief—despite the fact that her well-meaning sister-in-law, Chelsea, had told her she could let go of it now. That no one was out to get her anymore. That it was time to move on.

  Jake Nash's big hand closed around hers. It was hot and moist and strong. It totally enveloped her hand, and he held it a moment too long.

  Licking her lips nervously, she tugged free of his grip, knowing it was rude, knowing it would probably offend him.

  Apparently it did. Lips thinning as he looked down at his now empty hand, he asked, "Bags in the trunk?"

  "Um … yes."

  He held out a hand, palm up. She only stared at it. At the lines in his palm, at the callused mounds at the base of each long, strong finger.

  "Keys, Miz Brand?"

  "Oh!" She fumbled in her oversize crocheted shoulder bag, found them and held them out. Even as he took the keys from her, she was looking past him at the empty-looking, stately house and the abandoned veranda, searching for other people. Safety. Witnesses. The brochure had said this old Louisiana plantation was owned by an older couple, the La Fleurs, and run by them with help from a daughter and son-in-law. Nowhere had it mentioned that guests would be greeted in the driveway by a devil in denim.

  "They'll be along, don't you worry," he said. He moved to the back of the car, opened the trunk, hauled out her small case and smaller satchel, then looked at her with brows raised. "That's it?"

  "That's all. I'm … only staying for a week … and I don't plan to do much besides, um, you know. Relax."

  "Uh-huh." He looked her up and down again. "That'll be a sight to see, won't it? Come on, your bungalow is this way."

  He started off along a path that curved away from the big house and the gravel driveway, leaving Sara to catch up. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked his back, maybe a bit defensively.

  Broad shoulders shrugged. There was a dark spot right between them that kept drawing her eye. God, it was hot here. The air seemed … weighted down. Utterly still and heavy and hot.

  "What's what supposed to mean?"

  "What you said." She had to take two steps for every one of his. "About my relaxing being a sight. What did you mean by that?"

  He shrugged, sent a backward glance over his shoulder at her. "You're wound tighter than a seven-day clock, lady. I doubt you know how to relax."

  She swallowed hard. Chelsea had been right, then, hadn't she? Her fears were getting to be too much. If they were that obvious to a stranger…

  "I've always found it odd, myself, that some people think they need to get away from home in order to relax," he drawled, as if he hadn't just insulted her. Maybe he didn't think he had.

  "I was perfectly relaxed at home," she told him.

  He stopped walking, turned to face her, a puzzled frown creasing his deeply tanned forehead. "Then why'd you leave?"

  She looked at him, acutely aware that they were alone here on this isolated path. To the left was a meadow, rife with grasses and wildflowers nearly as tall as he was. She could hear the buzz and hum of insects. To the right, cypress trees, hung with veils of ghostly moss, and God only knew what beyond them. The swamp, the bayou, as they called it here? The main house and her car were behind them now. And ahead, past more shimmering heat waves, she could see that the bungalow, a small white building with clapboard sides and red shutters, was an equal distance away.

  When she brought herself to look at him again, it was to find him watching her intently. He looked … pissed off. But he said nothing.

  "I can, um, take the bags from here," she said.

  His lips thinned. He nodded. "Who you been talking to, Miz Brand? Hmm? Just what have you heard about me?"

  "What?" She gave her head a shake. "I—no one … nothing. Why would you ask something like that?" Unless he has something to hide.

  There she went again. Suspicious of everyone. Seeing evil secrets in the most innocent places. Chelsea was right.

  Jake Nash blew out a sigh, shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind." Turning, he trudged onward toward the bungalow, not speaking another word to her all the way.

  The small square building had a front porch like a miniature of the one on the main house. He dug a key out of his jeans pocket, unlocked the door, and dropped the bags inside. Then he stood back to let her pass.

  "Dinner's at seven, up at the main house," he said. "I'd offer to come for you then, but I wouldn't want you to spend the next two hours dreading my appearance. Meanwhile you can have free run of the grounds." He nodded once and turned to head out the door.

  "Wait."

  He stopped in the doorway, his back to her.

  "I offended you," she said. "I didn't mean to."

  "Hell, lady, I'm used to it." Then he moved through, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Sara went to the windowed door, parted the soft, white curtain and watched him go. He didn't turn around, never looked back, just strode away with broad, hurried steps. As if he couldn't get away from her fast enough.

  Only when he'd rounded a bend in the path, taking him out of sight, did she let the curtain fall back into place. "I'm sorry," she whisp
ered, closing her eyes. And she meant it.

  With a sigh of self-disgust she straightened her spine. "Well, that's what this trip is about, isn't it?" Biting her lip, she called to mind the affirmations that Chelsea had given her and spoke them aloud as Chelsea had told her to do whenever irrational fears rose up. "No one is out to get me anymore. All those years of hiding and jumping at shadows are in the past. No one has any reason to want to hurt me in any way. I am perfectly safe. I am perfectly secure. I am not afraid of strangers."

  There. That was better.

  She opened her eyes.

  Jake Nash was standing on the other side of the glass looking back at her. She shrieked. She didn't mean to; it just came out. At the same time, she lurched backward so suddenly that she fell over her bags and landed on her backside on the floor, with her skirt bunched up around her thighs.

  The door flew open, and he stood over her, staring down at her, looking just about as disgusted with her as she felt with herself. "You okay?" he asked as if he really didn't care. His gaze roamed down her legs, lingered on her thighs.

  Licking her lips, she nodded and held out her hand. "You startled me."

  "Sorry." Looking doubtful about doing so, he closed his hand around hers and helped her to her feet.

  "No," she said, straightening her skirt, heat flooding her cheeks. "I'm the one who should be apologizing here, Mr. Nash."

  "For being afraid of me?" His eyes were so intense they almost burned her. "Why should you be any different from anyone else? It's pretty obvious you've heard about me. I don't make excuses for what I did, Miz Brand, but I don't apologize for it, either. I paid for it. If you don't see it that way, that's your problem." He looked down at their joined hands and, shaking his head, let hers go. "And your loss," he added darkly. "Just tell me one thing, will you?" He returned to performing exploratory surgery on her eyes with his own. "Why would a woman as damned jumpy as you are pick a place that comes complete with an ex-con in residence? Hmm?"

  She flinched. She knew it, felt it, saw him react to it. "Ex … con?"

  He was silent for a moment, studying her. "Then you didn't know." Lowering his head, he shook it slowly. "What, is bad man stamped across my forehead or something?"

  She just shook her head. If she went a shade paler, she couldn't help it. He looked down at her hands. She did, too. Saw them shaking, fisted them to stop it.

  "Don't worry, Miz Brand," he said softly. "The time I did in the pen wasn't for rape."

  She lifted her head, met his eyes, tried to tell herself not to be afraid. But maybe the fear was no longer irrational. Maybe her instincts were right this time. She wanted to ask what it was for but couldn't quite muster the nerve. "Why did you come back?" she asked, trying hard not to sound as terrified as she felt. Her skin was tingling, and she wanted to run.

  "I came back because I forgot to tell you to stay clear of the bayou. It's dangerous out there. Gators. Snakes. No doubt you'd prefer their company to mine. Maybe they don't scare you quite as much as I seem to. But trust me, Miz Brand, they bite." He let his eyes move down her, stared at her breasts. "A lot harder than I would."

  A little swell of insight rose up, and brought a hint of irritation with it. "Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Nash?" she said.

  "Come on, Sara. That's not what you want to ask me. Not really. Go on," he said. "Ask me. You know you're dying to. Ask me what I did time for."

  She tried to look away. Found she couldn't. His eyes had a powerful hold on hers. "It's … really none of my business."

  "No," he said. "It isn't. And I probably wouldn't tell you anyway. But I'm sure you'll find someone else who will."

  Again he left her alone. But this time she locked the door behind him.

  Jake Nash got halfway back along the path and stopped. He stood stock-still and he said, "You are a bastard, Nash. You're a mean, bitter, burned-out bastard, and you'd better get a handle on it before you alienate the whole damned world."

  He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets, lowered his head. He hadn't meant to lose his temper with little miss faint-heart out there. Hell, when he'd first seen her getting out of her little convertible, he'd thought she was just about the prettiest thing he'd seen. He'd been half-convinced he was looking at an earthbound angel.

  And then … when her eyes had been eating him up the way they had, he'd thought maybe she wasn't feeling very angelic. And that maybe he would make nice with her, maybe give her a little vacation fling she wouldn't forget for a long time to come. God knew he was due for one.

  Not that he hadn't been with a lot of women since he'd been out of prison. He had. He was not a monk. But it was always the same—quick, dirty, meaningless. Just like his life had been up to now.

  He'd never once been with a woman like Sara Brand.

  She was different. Delicate. Clean. Good. There was an aura of innocence about the woman that was so real she nearly glowed with it. Her halo, he thought with a wry smile.

  And she'd been scared to death of the big, bad convict almost from her first glance of him, even before he'd spilled the beans. Hell, he supposed he had his own aura, his own nimbus, though few would call it a halo. More like a dark, dreary cloud. A woman like her wouldn't miss that in a man. She'd seen or smelled or sensed it in him right off. He was no good.

  She was obviously a classy woman, the kind he'd always felt was out of his league. He didn't belong with her kind any more than he belonged here at Sugar Keep. Oh, his aunt and uncle had done a good job of pretending he was just like them, just like everyone else, over the past year. Too good a job, maybe. Maybe he'd forgotten for a minute there, who he really was.

  He'd spent almost half his life in prison. He'd gone in at seventeen, and come out a year ago, thirty-three and naive enough to think he could start over. Get a new chance. A fair shake. It hadn't taken long to realize that there was no such thing as having paid his debt to society. Not in the eyes of the righteous, upstanding citizens on the outside. They would always see him as no good.

  Just the way Sara Brand had seen him, even without knowing a thing. She was as repulsed by him as everyone else around here was. Hell, he couldn't even blame her.

  But for some reason, with her, it stuck in his craw. It burned his pride, and so he fought back. Just like any animal would do. It was the base reaction, wasn't it? A cur dog would bite if you kicked it. A bastard-born convict would do the same. What the hell did she expect?

  "Jacob, honey-love, you get on up here and tell me all about our new arrival," Flossie chirped as he neared the main house and the veranda.

  Jake looked up to see his aunt in a tent-size floral muumuu and a big-brimmed hat, sitting in the chair he'd been in himself an hour ago. She vigorously waved a fan made of ostrich feathers in front of her face.

  "She arrived while you were at mass," Jake said. He nodded hello to Uncle Bertram, who was just coming out the door with a mint julep in hand.

  "Well thank the Lawd we have one heathen in the family, then," Flossie declared with a robust laugh. "I don't know how we ever got along without you, Jacob."

  He forced a smile. Tante Flossie went overboard on the efforts to make him feel welcome. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it. Just that he knew it wasn't genuine. He walked up the steps to the veranda but didn't sit. If he did, Flossie would keep him there all day.

  "So tell me about her," she insisted. "She's a schoolteacher you know. Kindergarten. Isn't that just sweet?"

  Jake shrugged and recalled her timidness, her skittishness. "Why am I not surprised?"

  "What's that, hon?"

  "Nothing." He gave his head a shake. "She's got dark hair and darker eyes. She's in her mid-twenties, and she's jumpy as hell," he said, dutifully complying with the status quo. Keeping his aunt informed was a matter of form around here. It was what was done. You didn't get away from her otherwise.

  Flossie's brows went up, making her forehead pucker. "Jumpy, you say? Well, now, I wonder why that is." She sent Bertram a glanc
e as if expecting him to answer, when she knew full well he wouldn't. He was a man of few words, Bertram was. He only shrugged and sent Jake a look of amused indulgence.

  No doubt Tante Flossie would make it her business to find out why, Jake thought dryly.

  "She comes from a large family in Texas, you know," she said.

  Uncle Bertram sat down in the porch swing, his white suit immaculate. He pushed off with his feet, sipped his julep and muttered, "Quinn."

  "Yes, Quinn's the town where most of her family lives," Flossie went on. "They have a ranch there."

  "That's real interesting, Tante Flossie," Jake said. Naturally Flossie would have done all the research she could on Sara Brand before her arrival. It was Flossie's way. She did it with all the guests who came here … made no secret of it, either … but few ever seemed to mind it much. "But you know," Jake went on, not in the mood to gossip, "I ought to be fixing that plumbing in the vacant bungalow. Can't rent it out until I finish."

  "Of course you should, hon. So you say she's jumpy? Did you get any idea why?"

  He shrugged, turning to go back down the front steps. "Oh, I dunno. I got the feeling it was me that made her nervous."

  "Oh, don't be silly. Why would she be nervous around you?"

  He turned to look back at his aunt and sent her a half smile. "You're a gem, Flossie. Just a gem."

  She smiled and fluttered her fan harder. "Well, Jacob, hon, so are you. But I wasn't trying to sweet-talk you. That girl's been around so many kinds of men, I can't imagine her being nervous, is all. Why, she has that brother, of course—although no one seems to know too much about what he does. But then there are all those cousins! One has a dude ranch, and one teaches all that judo kind of fol-de-rol. Another one raises horses and thinks he's some kind of medicine man or some such—you know, he's half Comanche? And one is a policeman, for heaven's sake!"

  At the bottom step, Jacob went still.

  "Sheriff," Uncle Bertram muttered. Then he sipped some more.