by Tami Hoag
Laurel drew a deep breath that was redolent with the aromas of Madame Collette's cooking and the subtler wild scent of the bottle brown water beyond the screened room, and allowed herself to relax. The day was picture perfect—hot and sunny, the sky now a vibrant bowl of pure blue above the dense growth of trees on the far bank. Oak and willow and hackberry. Palmettos, fronds fanning like long-fingered hands. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do but pass the day looking at the bayou. There were people who would have paid dearly for that privilege.
“We-ell,” Savannah purred as she surveyed the room through the lenses of her Ray-Bans, “if it isn't Bayou Breaux's favorite son, himself.”
Laurel glanced across the room. At the far corner table sat the only other customer—a big, rugged-looking man, his blond hair disheveled in a manner that suggested finger-combing. He might have been fifty. He might have been older. It was difficult to tell. He had the look of an athlete about him—broad shoulders, large hands, a handsome vitality that defied age. He sat hunched over a spiral notebook, glaring down through a pair of old-fashioned round, gold-rimmed spectacles. His expression was fierce in concentration as he scribbled. A tall pitcher of iced tea sat to his left within easy reach, as if he planned on sitting there all day, filling and refilling his glass as he worked. Laurel didn't recognize him, and she turned back to Savannah with a look that said so.
“Conroy Cooper,” Savannah said coolly.
The name she recognized instantly. Conroy Cooper, son of a prominent local family, Pulitzer Prize–winning author. He had grown up in Bayou Breaux, then moved to New York to write critically acclaimed stories about life in the South. Laurel had never seen him in person, nor had she ever read his books. She figured she knew all she needed to about growing up in the South. She had listened to him tell stories on public radio once or twice and remembered not the tales he had told, but his voice. Low and rich and smooth, the voice of old Southern culture. Slow and comforting, it had the power to lull and woo and reassure all at once.
“He moved back here a few months ago,” Savannah explained in a hushed tone of conspiracy.
Her gaze was still directed at Cooper, her expression masked by her sunglasses. She trailed a fingertip up and down the side of the sweating glass of Coke Marvella had brought, a movement that reminded Laurel of a cat twitching its tail in pique.
“His wife has Alzheimer's. He brought her back here from New York and put her in St. Joseph's Rest Home. I hear she doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground.”
“Poor woman,” Laurel murmured.
Savannah made a noise that sounded more like indigestion than agreement.
The pie arrived, steaming hot with vanilla ice cream melting down over the sides to puddle on the plate. Laurel ate hers with relish. Savannah picked and fiddled until the ice cream had completely returned to its liquid state and the pie was a mess of pinkish lumps and crust that resembled wet cardboard.
“Is something wrong?”
She started at the sound of Laurel's voice, dragging her gaze away from Cooper, who had yet to acknowledge her presence. “What?”
“You're not eating your pie. Is something wrong?”
She flashed a brittle smile and fluttered her hands. “Not a bit. My appetite just isn't what I thought it was, that's all.”
“Oh, well . . .” Laurel shot a considering glance at Cooper, huddled over his writing. “I was thinking I would just run up the street to the hardware store. Aunt Caroline needs a new garden hose. You wanna come?”
“No, no, no,” she said hastily. “You go on. I'll meet you at the car. I'm going to have Madame Collette box up one of these pies and take it home for supper.”
Savannah forked up a soggy bite of pie and watched as Laurel ducked through the doorway, leaving her alone with the man who had effortlessly snared her heart and seemed determined to break it.
Anger shimmered through her in a wave of heat, pushing her toward recklessness. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted to see the same kind of hunger in him that she felt every time she saw him, every time she thought of him. She wanted to see the same raw longing burning in his eyes. But he just sat there, writing, oblivious of her, as if she weren't any more important than a table or a chair.
She rose slowly, smoothing her short skirt, her every movement sensuous, sinuous. For all the good it did her. Cooper went on scribbling, head bent, brows drawn, square jaw set.
Slowly she sauntered across the room, stiletto heels clicking on the linoleum floor. She tossed her sunglasses down beside his notebook, and slowly raised the hem of her skirt, inch by inch, revealing smooth, creamy thighs and a thicket of neatly trimmed dark curls at the juncture of those thighs.
Cooper bolted in his chair, dropping his pen and nearly overturning the pitcher of tea at his elbow. “Jesus H. Christ, Savannah!” The words tore from his throat in a rough whisper. He glanced automatically toward the door for witnesses.
“Don't worry, honey,” Savannah purred, sliding the fabric back and forth across her groin. “There's nobody here but us adulterers.”
He reached across the table with the intent of pulling the skirt down to cover her, but she inched away from him and slowly moved around the end of the table, her back to the door.
“Like what you see, Mr. Cooper?” she murmured in a voice like honey, wicked mischief flashing in her pale blue eyes. “It's not on the menu, but I'd give you a taste if you asked me real nice.”
Blowing out a sigh, Cooper sat back and watched as she lowered one knee onto the chair beside his. The initial shock had subsided, and his usual air of calm settled over him as comfortably as the old tattersall shirt he wore. It was Savannah's nature to shock. Overreacting only pushed her to be more outrageous, like a naughty child seeking attention. So he settled himself and looked his fill, knowing he would see anyone intruding on the moment quickly enough to act before they could be caught.
“Maybe later,” he drawled. “Tonight, perhaps.”
She pouted, staring at him from under her lashes. “I don't want to wait that long.”
“But you will. That'll only make it better.”
He reached out again, slowly, casually, and drew his fingertips up a few smooth inches of leg, meaning to tug the skirt down out of her grasp, but she caught his hand and guided it between her thighs.
“Touch me, Coop,” she whispered, leaning against him, pressing her cheek down on top of his head. She wound her right arm around the back of his neck, anchoring his face against her breasts as her hips began to move automatically, rhythmically against his hand. “Please, Coop . . .”
She was hot and silky, her body instantly ready for sex. She moved against him wantonly. Cooper had no doubt that she would have straddled him on the spot if he would have allowed it, without a care as to who might walk in on them. The idea held a strong fantasy appeal, he thought, grimacing, as desire pooled and throbbed. But he wouldn't follow through.
He thought that might be the only thing that set him apart from the sundry other men Savannah had cast her spell over—that he somehow managed to maintain the voice of reason in the face of her overwhelming sexuality, instead of losing himself in it.
“Please, Coop,” Savannah breathed. She traced the tip of her tongue along the rim of his ear, panting slightly as need gathered in a knot in the pit of her belly.
The need swirled around her like a desert wind, heating her skin. She wanted to tear her blouse open and feel his mouth, wet and avid, on her breasts. She wanted to impale herself on his shaft and go wild with the pleasure of it. She wanted . . . wanted . . . wanted . . .
Then he pulled his hand away and stood, disentangling himself from her, and the want congealed into a hard ache of frustration.
“You're such a bastard,” she spat, jerking her skirt down, straightening her top. A strand of hair fell across her face and stuck to her sweat-damp cheek. She tucked it behind her ear.
Cooper pulled his glasses off and began cleaning the steam from them, meth
odically rubbing the lenses with a clean white handkerchief. He looked at her from under his brows, his gaze as blue as sapphire, as steady as a rock. “I'm a bastard because I won't have sex with you in a public place?”
Savannah sniffed back the threat of tears, furious that he had the power to make her feel shame. “You wouldn't even look at me across the goddamn room! You wouldn't even give me a civil ‘Good afternoon, Miz Chandler.' ”
“I was concentrating,” he said calmly.
He settled his spectacles back in place, folded the handkerchief, and returned it to the hip pocket of his khaki pants. That task accomplished, he gave her a tender look, the corners of his mouth tilting up in a way that was, despite his fifty-eight years, boyish and unbelievably charming. “I'm a sorry excuse for a man if my work can so involve me that I miss one of your entrances, Savannah.”
He reached out a hand and touched her cheek with infinite gentleness. “Forgive me?”
Damn him, she would. That low, cultured drawl wrapped around her like silk. She could have curled up beside him and listened to him talk for a hundred years, glad just to be near him. She sniffed again and looked at him sideways.
“What are you working on? A short story?”
Coop picked up the notebook as she reached for it and closed it, forcing a grin. “Now, darlin', you know how I am about letting anyone read my work. Hell, I don't even let my agent read it until it's done.”
“Is it about me?” The storm clouds gathered and rumbled inside her again. “Or is it about Lady Astor?” she asked petulantly, giving her head a toss as she moved restlessly away from the table.
She paced along the screened wall, oblivious to the shabby pontoon tour boat that was ferrying a load of unsuspecting tourists up the bayou and into the sauna that was the swamp at midafternoon.
“Lady Astor Cooper,” she sneered, planting her hands on her hips. “Patron saint of martyred husbands.”
“Better I martyr myself to my marriage than to my cock.”
“Are you implying that's what I do?” she demanded. “Martyr myself to sex?”
Cooper hissed a breath in through his teeth and made no comment. They were treading on dangerous ground. He had his own theories about Savannah's sexual motives, but it would do no good to share them with her. He could too easily envision her in a rage of hurt and hysteria, wildly lashing out. And he had no desire to hurt her. For all her faults, he had fallen in love with her. Hopeless love in the truest sense.
“Well, I've got news for you, Mr. Cooper,” she said, leaning up into his face, her lovely mouth twisted with bitterness. “I get fucked because I like getting fucked, and if you don't want to do it, then I'll go find someone who will.”
He caught her arms and held her there for a moment as she breathed fury into his face, steaming his glasses all over again. A deep, profound sadness swelled inside him and he frowned. “You make yourself miserable, Savannah,” he murmured.
She shivered inside, trying to shake off the chill of the truth. Coop saw it, damn him. He caught her eyes with that worldly-wise, world-weary, worn blue gaze, and saw he'd struck a nerve. She jerked away from him and grabbed her sunglasses off the table.
“Save your insights for your work, Coop,” she said waspishly. “It's the only place you really let yourself live.” She jammed the Ray-Bans in place and flashed him a mocking smile. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cooper.”
She whirled out of Madame Collette's in a huff and a cloud of Obsession, not bothering to pay the bill. Ruby Jeffcoat knew who she was, the dried-up old bitch. She'd just add it to the tab and tell every third person she saw what a slut Savannah Chandler was, prancing around town in a skirt cut up to her crotch and no bra on.
Laurel pushed herself away from the side of the Corvette as Savannah stormed across the parking lot, all pique and no pie in sight. She looked furious, and Laurel had a strong hunch it wasn't anything to do with the restaurant, but one of its patrons. Conroy Cooper. Old enough to be their father Conroy Cooper. Married Conroy Cooper.
Oh, Savannah . . .
“Let's get the hell out of here,” Savannah snarled. Tossing her purse behind the seat, she jerked open the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.
Laurel barely had time to get in the car before the 'Vette was revved and rolling. They hit Dumas, and Savannah put her foot to the floor, sending the sports car squealing away from Madame Collette's, leaving a trail of rubber.
“Where are we going?” Laurel asked as casually as she could, considering she had to shout to be heard above the roar of the wind and the engine.
“Frenchie's,” Savannah yelled, pulling the pins from her hair and letting them fly. “I need a drink.”
Laurel buckled her seat belt and held on, not bothering to comment on the fact that it didn't look as though they'd be having rhubarb pie for supper, and trying her damnedest not to think about Jack Boudreaux.
Chapter
Five
“Jesus saves!”
“Jesus lives!”
“Jesus Christ,” Savannah snarled as she stopped in her tracks, propped a hand on one hip, and took a look at the scene outside Frenchie's.
Patrons crowded the gallery, staring down, bemused at a dozen protestors who were toting signs bearing such intelligent slogans as “Close Frenchie's. End Sin.” The picketers were gathered in a knot at the bottom of the steps, putting on a show for the camera of a Lafayette tele-vision station, chanting their slogans in a vain attempt to drown out the swamp pop music that spilled through the screens.
In the center of the righteous stood the ringleader of their band, Reverend Jimmy Lee Baldwin, resplendent in a white summer suit, fresh out of the JC Penney catalog. Two thousand dollars' worth of too-white caps shone as he spoke to a reporter who looked as though he used enough hair spray to put his own personal hole in the ozone.
Jimmy Lee was good-looking, standing an inch or two past six feet tall, and had once been lean and athletic, though in the years since high school basketball, firm muscle had softened. He wore his tawny hair slicked straight back from his face, drawing attention to his eyes, which were the color of good scotch, and to the dazzling dental wonders that lined his smile like big white Chiclets.
Though he was barely thirty-eight, lines of dissipation were etched deeply beside those tawny eyes and around a mouth that had a certain weakness about it. Between the teeth and the tan that looked as though he'd gotten it down at the Suds 'n' Sun Laundromat/Tanning Parlor, Jimmy Lee looked just a little too tacky to be truly handsome. Not that anyone could ever have convinced him of that.
“Who is it?” Laurel asked, shoving her glasses up on her nose. The sight of the white news van automatically made her nervous. The irrational fear that they had come here to track her down flashed through her mind, but she resolutely crushed it out with the gavel of practicality. She wasn't news any longer.
“The Reverend Jimmy Lee Baldwin. Saver of lost souls, purveyor of heavenly blessings, leader of the Church of the True Path.”
“I've never heard of it.”
“No. I reckon Georgia had its own religious screwballs. The Revver showed up here about six months back and started to gather himself a flock. He's got his own show now on local cable up in Lafayette. Fixin' to be a big star in the televangelist ranks, he is.”
Savannah dug a cigarette out of her pocketbook and lit it, taking a long, considering drag as she stared at Jimmy Lee through her sunglasses. He was on a roll, gesturing like a wild man as he began ranting about the dens of iniquity.
“Come on, Baby,” she said on a breath of smoke. “I need to get me that drink.”
Laurel started for the side door, having no desire to call attention to herself by crashing a picket line. But Savannah made a beeline for the action, miniskirt twitching across her thighs, hips swaying alluringly. She gave her head a toss, fluffing her long, wild mane with her free hand as she went. She looked like a walking ad for wanton sex and decadent living. Laurel bit back a groan and followed
her. Trouble had always been a magnet to Savannah, and she was headed toward this mess with a sly smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
Her approach did not go unnoticed. Almost immediately a chorus of wild cheers and wolf whistles rose from the men on the gallery. Of the group involved in the protest, the reporter saw her first, his head snapping around in a classic double take as he held the microphone in front of Reverend Baldwin. He elbowed the cameraman, who swung his lens in her direction. Reverend Baldwin broke off in midtirade, clearly annoyed to have his moment in the spotlight cut short. He recovered quickly, though, and moved to turn the situation to his advantage.
“Sister, sister, be redeemed!” he called dramatically. “Let Christ Jesus quench your thirst.”
Savannah stopped a scant six inches from the minister, cocked a hip, and blew a stream of smoke in his face. “Honey, if He shows up in the next five minutes with a Jax long-neck, I'll be glad to let Him quench my thirst. In the meantime Frenchie can serve that need just fine.”
She blew a kiss to the camera while the crowd on the gallery howled laughing, and sauntered on, the picketers-turned-gawkers parting like the Red Sea to let her pass on up the steps. Laurel tried to hurry after her before the faithful closed ranks on their leader again, but Baldwin caught her by the arm.
“Turn to God, young woman. Find the True Path! Let the Lord quench the thirst in your soul with conviction and righteousness!”
Laurel looked up at him, her brows pulling together in annoyance. She had no patience for the likes of Jimmy Lee Baldwin. Televangelists ranked a notch lower than disreputable used-car salesmen in her book, bilking the poor and the elderly out of what limited funds they had, selling them the kind of salvation God offered free of charge in the Bible. She hadn't come here looking for a fight. In fact, she would have given anything to have passed unnoticed through the throng. But she wasn't about to be used as a pawn. She pulled in a deep breath and felt the fire that had been turned low leap inside her.
“I have convictions of my own, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, smiling inwardly as he jerked his head around and looked at her as if she were a mute suddenly healed. He hadn't expected her to stand up to him. “All of them more important than the sale of perfectly legal alcoholic beverages in a licensed establishment.”