Cry Wolf (17 page)

She started and glanced up, surprised to find Danjermond standing so close beside her. He had abandoned his coffee and stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his fashionable pleated trousers.

“No, not at all,” Laurel said quickly.

Danjermond smiled like a cat. “You're not a terribly good liar, Laurel. Tell the truth now. You'd rather be elsewhere.”

“I admit I didn't come back to Bayou Breaux to socialize.”

“Then it's my good fortune you made an exception in this case. Unless I'm the reason you're staring so longingly out that window, wishing yourself away.”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I was about to suggest we get together in a more intimate setting one evening soon. A candlelit dinner, perhaps.”

“I hardly know you, Mr. Danjermond.”

“That's the whole point of intimate dinners, isn't it? To get to know each other. I'd like to find out more about your views, your plans, yourself.”

“I have no plans for the moment. And I don't care to discuss my views. I'm not trying to be rude,” she said, lifting her free hand in a gesture of peace. “The fact of the matter is I was recently divorced and have been through a great deal in the past year. I'm simply not up to a date at this point.”

“Or a job offer?” he queried, lifting a brow, seeming not the least affected by her rejection of him personally.

Laurel tucked her chin back and eyed him with more than a hint of suspicion. “Why would you offer me a job? We've only just met.”

“Because I can always use another good prosecutor in my office. The Scott County case notwithstanding, you have an excellent record. Your work on the Valdez migrant worker case was outstanding, and you went far above and beyond the call of duty investigating the rape of that blind woman back when you were little more than a clerk for the DA's office in Fulton County.”

She had been barely out of law school. It was ancient history. The fact that he had for some reason dug that deeply into her past brought a return of the uneasiness she had felt earlier. She crossed her arms in front of her, careful not to dump coffee down the front of her sweater. “You seem to have an inordinate knowledge of my career, Mr. Danjermond.”

“I'm a very thorough man, Laurel.” He smiled again, that even, handsome smile. “You might say attention to detail has gotten me where I am today.”

To the DA's office in backwater Louisiana? It seemed an odd thing to say, considering Stephen Danjermond had Bigger Things written all over him. With his pedigree and family connections, Laurel would have expected him to be firmly entrenched in Baton Rouge or New Orleans.

“There is a method to my madness, I assure you,” he said, reading her silence with amazing accuracy. “Ambitious prosecutors are a dime a dozen in New Orleans. Acadiana offers me the chance to shine on my own. And there are unique problems here, problems I feel I can help control—drug smuggling, gun running. There is a certain element in the bayou country that remains largely uncivilized. Bringing that faction to heel and making them realize the days of Jean Lafitte are long past is a worthy goal.”

“And one that will attract the attention of the powers that be.”

His broad shoulders rose and fell. “
C'est la vie. C'est la guerre
. To the victor go the spoils.”

“I know how the game is played, Mr. Danjermond,” Laurel said in a cool tone. “I'm not naive.”

“No, you're an idealist. A much more difficult lot in life. Better to be a cynic.”

“Is that what you are? A cynic?”

“I'm a pragmatist.” He held her gaze and let the silence build between them until Laurel had to fight herself to keep from stepping back. “Will you consider my offer?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'm flattered, but I can't think about work yet.”

“But it's not just work to you, is it, Laurel? The pursuit of justice is a calling for you, an obsession,” he said. “Isn't it, Laurel?”

The question was too personal. She was feeling too sensitive. He stood a little too close, watched her too intently. He looked relaxed, and yet she had the impression of leashed power beneath his calm facade. He was too . . . everything. Too tall, too handsome, too charming. Too still.

She glanced at the platinum Rolex strapped to his wrist, and relief flooded through her. “I'm afraid I have to be leaving now, Mr. Danjermond. I promised my aunt I'd help her with some things this afternoon. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Until we meet again, Laurel.”

When donkeys fly, she thought. She hadn't come home for challenges or entanglements or trouble. She backed away another step, some primal instinct keeping her from turning her back too quickly on Stephen Danjermond. He watched her, calm amusement lighting his green eyes, and she turned then, simply to escape looking at his too-handsome face, turned just as Savannah walked in the door.

Chapter
Nine

Tension, like electricity, filled the room instantly, tightening skin, raising short hairs, freezing breath. The initial shock held everyone motionless, speechless, then Olive rushed into the room, chalk-faced, eyes brimming with tears.

“I didn't let her in, Mrs. Leighton!” she wailed. “I didn't! She shoved me!”

Vivian grabbed the maid by the arm and hustled her out into the hall. Savannah watched them go, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lush mouth. The initial responses to her appearance made it worth the trouble she had taken to get out here. She could have turned right around and left, only she wasn't satisfied. She wanted to tear through this little civilized, socially correct affair like a tornado and carry her baby sister off with her when she went. Damned if she was going to let Vivian dig her claws into Laurel or let Ross get within two feet of her.

She looked past the shocked faces of Glory and Don Trahern and Reverend Stipple, to her dear old step-daddy. Ross's expression was guarded, like that of a poker player bluffing on a busted hand. He still wanted her. She was sure of that, and she smiled at him to let him know she knew. To remind herself he had chosen her over his wife, over her mother. To reinforce the truth in her own mind—that she was a born whore and would never be anything else. And she reveled in the moment, in making him wonder, making him squirm.

Feeling smug, she strolled into the room, her gait loose, hips swinging. She had dressed for the occasion in a scandalously short, sleeveless dress that was white with large red amaryllis blossoms splashed across it, and fit her like skin on a sausage. Aside from her red stiletto heels, it was the only article of clothing she wore. She had looped a long strand of pearls carelessly around her neck to accompany her ever-present pendant, and brushed her hair upside down so that it was now like a cloud around her shoulders, wild and sexy. Her Ray-Bans completed the outfit, hiding her eyes, giving her an air of mystery.

“Savannah,” Laurel said, finding her tongue at last. She studied her sister and chose her words carefully. “We didn't expect to see you.”

“I had a change in plans,” Savannah said evenly. “I need to borrow your car, Baby. Seeing how mine is temporarily out of commission.”

“Of course.” Laurel took a step toward the door. “You can give me a ride back to Belle Rivière. I was just leaving.”

“So soon?” Savannah cooed, disappointment plumping out her lower lip as she slid her sunglasses down her nose and stroked a gaze down Stephen Danjermond. “I haven't even been properly introduced.”

Laurel bit her tongue and held her temper, saying a quick prayer that her sister wouldn't do anything more outrageous than she already had. She slipped an arm through Savannah's, intent on controlling her in some way.

“Stephen Danjermond, my sister, Savannah. Savannah—”

“District Attorney Danjermond,” Savannah murmured, preening like a cat, offering her free hand to the man Vivian had obviously marked for Laurel. “Such a pleasure, Mr. Danjermond. Savannah Chandler Leighton at your . . .” Her gaze slid down the long, lean, elegant length of him, lingering suggestively. “. . . service.”

“Miss Leighton?” One dark brow rose a fraction. “You go by your stepfather's name?”

“Oh, yes,” Savannah purred, stroking the palm of his hand with her fingertip. She shot a look at Ross across the room. “I owe my stepdaddy
so
much after all.” She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Ross made me what I am today, you know.”

“Savannah.” Vivian's voice cut across the parlor like a scimitar. She stood rigid and queenly beside her chair, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Yes, I expect it is,” Savannah drawled sweetly, cocking a hip and planting her hand on it in a belligerent stance that perfectly mirrored her attitude. “Seeing how you told me once to get the hell out of this house and never come back.”

Laurel flinched inwardly as her stomach knotted with tension. She moved toward her sister, reaching out to put a hand on Savannah's arm. “Savannah, please, let's just go.”

“Yes,” Vivian snapped, her alabaster complexion mottling red with anger. “Please do go. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head and behave as a lady, you are
not
welcome here.”

Savannah shrugged off Laurel's hand and sauntered toward the door, stopping within a yard of their mother. All the old bitterness seethed up inside her like acid, boiling and churning, eating away at her. Her face twisted into a sour mask. “I've never been a lady in this house, and I used to be
welcome
day and night.”

“Sister,
please
,” Laurel whispered, taking hold of Savannah's wrist. Her gaze darted between the raw fury and sheen of tears in Vivian's eyes to Ross, who stood across the room, suddenly fascinated by the pattern in the Aubusson rug. “
Please
, let's go.”

The tremor in Laurel's voice was the only thing that kept Savannah from lighting into her mother and shouting to the very proper guests that she was what she was because Ross Leighton had mounted her four times a week from the day she turned thirteen. And her very proper, perfect belle mother had never even suspected—because Vivian saw only what she wanted to see.

Vivian and Ross deserved whatever humiliation she brought them. But now was not the time. Poor Baby, always the peacemaker; she didn't need the tension. Savannah had, after all, come here to rescue her. Besides, she preferred to torture her mother and stepfather in little, never-ending ways.

“Come on, Baby,” she murmured, sliding an arm around Laurel.

They walked out of the parlor in no particular hurry, down the hall past Olive, who stood red-eyed, her flat face pale and wet, her stringy red hair clinging to her cheeks. The maid glared at Savannah. Savannah just laughed.

Laurel wanted to run and fling the door open and sprint for her car, but she was stuck beside Savannah, moving with nightmarish deliberation, their shoes clicking against the marble floor. She didn't dare try to rush. When Savannah was in one of her moods, there was no telling what she might do, what might set her off. Outside, the sun was breaking through. The low clouds that had brought the shower were already tearing apart into thin, gauzy strips and floating away. Humidity hung in the air like steam, thick and hard to breathe, intensifying the rich green scents of boxwood and bougainvillea. Savannah paused on the veranda as if she had all day and surveyed what might have been her kingdom if their father had lived.

Laurel saw it too. The broad sweeping emerald lawn, the lush semitropical growth of the cypress swamp beyond, the broad money green leaves of the sugarcane that stretched off in the other direction beyond the pecan grove. Home to generations of Chandlers. Generations that would end with them.

“Why did you have to do that?” she asked.

Savannah slid her sunglasses off and arched a brow. “Why? Because they deserved it. I came here to save you.”

“Save me?” Laurel shook her head. “I was doing just fine. It was only a dinner. I was about to leave.”

“Well, isn't that gratitude?” Savannah said sarcastically, cocking her hip. “I did what you've never had the nerve to do—I stood up to them—”

“I don't see the point in making a big public scene—”

“You wouldn't, would you?”

The remark cut Laurel to the bone. She sucked in a breath and looked away, guilt and anger twining inside her like vines. It wasn't fair of Savannah to blame her for not having been abused by Ross, but it was unpardonable that Laurel felt lucky for the same reason. The cycle of feelings never ended.

“Let's just go home and start the afternoon over, okay?” Start over. That was what she had come to Bayou Breaux to do. Why had she thought she would be able to start over in a place where the past never went away? She wanted to think they could all rise above it and move on, but with every moment she spent here, she felt it pulling at her more and more, like quicksand, like the thick mud of the swamp, sucking her down, draining her strength.

Savannah climbed in on the driver's side of Laurel's black Acura, her dress riding up her bare thighs. Laurel went around the hood and slid into the passenger's seat, her eyes on the veranda of Beauvoir. Olive stood at the main door, glaring at them. There was no sign of Vivian, who was doubtless in the parlor, trying to smooth things over as best she could with her guests.

Poor Mama, always so afraid of what people would think.

“How did you get out here?” she asked absently.

Savannah started the car and swung it around the circular drive, flinging a wave of crushed shell across the yard. She eased off the accelerator as they headed down beneath the canopy of the live oak.

“Ronnie Peltier gave me a ride.” She laughed at that and draped her left arm casually along the open window. “I gave him three rides last night. I figured he owed me.”

Laurel blew out a sigh and speared a hand back through her hair. “I wish you wouldn't do that.”

“What? Have sex with Ronnie Peltier?”

“Tell me about it. I don't want to hear it, Sister.”

“Christ, Baby,” Savannah snapped. “You're such a prude. Maybe if you
had
sex once in a while, you wouldn't be so uptight about it.” She barely slowed for the turn onto the bayou road, wheeling out in front of a four-by-four truck and squealing away from it as a horn blasted indignantly. “Maybe you ought to take that long, tall district attorney for a ride. He had a look about him.” She smiled slowly, savoring the idea of going a round or two with Stephen Danjermond herself. “I'll bet he's got a ten-inch cock and screws with his eyes open.”

“I'm sure I don't care,” Laurel grumbled.

“Yeah? Well, I'll bet Vivian cares. A fine, upstanding, well-bred man like Mr. Danjermond. She'd hand you over to him on a platter if she could. Think about it. She could marry you off to a man with money, power, prestige, a big future in politics, and snuff out the last embers of your big scandal all at once. How perfectly neat and tidy and cold—just the way Vivian likes things.”

There was nothing for Laurel to say. She had seen Vivian's game for what it was, too, and it didn't bear comment as far as she was concerned. She had no intention of letting her mother manipulate her—except that she already had. The thought struck her like a hammer to the chest. She had gone to Beauvoir to placate Vivian. Nothing that had happened during the course of that visit could be undone. Because of Vivian, Danjermond was interested in her personally and professionally. Because of Vivian, Savannah had caused a scene, and now there was this tension between them, calling to mind the wedge that would forever both bind them together and hold them apart—Ross's abuse.

“I never should have come back,” she whispered.

“Baby, don't say that!” Savannah exclaimed, stricken by the thought. She shoved her Ray-Bans on top of her head and stared at her sister, taking her eyes off the road for a full ten seconds. “Don't say that. You needed to come home. I'm going to take care of you, I promise.” She changed hands on the steering wheel and reached across to brush her fingers over Laurel's hair. “That's all I was doing at Beauvoir—taking care of you, protecting you from Vivian. We'll start all over, starting now. It'll just be you and me and Aunt Caroline and Mama Pearl. We won't do anything but have fun. It'll be just like old times.”

Laurel caught her sister's hand and kissed it and hung on tight while Savannah's attention cut back to the road.
Just like old times. Old times here are not forgotten.
. . . But they should be . . .

“I-I d-didn't mean for Mama to c-catch me! I-I thought she was g-gone to her m-meeting!” Laurel clutched at her sister, crying, miserable, desperate, her cheek still stinging and burning from the slap of Vivian's hand.

She'd done wrong. Mama was furious with her. Heaven only knew but that she might end up having a spell. And it would be all my fault, Laurel thought. She knew she wasn't supposed to have the pictures of Daddy out in the parlor, 'cause if Mr. Leighton saw them, he wouldn't like it. She winced again as the memory swooped down on her like a hawk. . . .

Vivian stepped into the room with a smile on her face, a smile that vanished as she saw what Laurel was playing with. The photo album, the crawfish tie pin, the bass tie Savannah had stolen out of the boxes for the Lafayette Goodwill. All their little bits of Daddy. They kept them up in Savannah's room, but just once Laurel had wanted to take them down to the parlor and sit by the window where Daddy had held her on his lap on rainy days and told her funny stories that he made up off the top of his head.

“Laurel, what are you doing?” Vivian asked, drifting across the room. She'd been to her hospital auxiliary meeting. She always wore her double pearls to the hospital auxiliary. They clicked together like teeth chattering as she came toward Laurel, her face turning red beneath her perfect makeup as her gaze settled on the collection of mementos. “Where did you get these things?”

“Um . . . um . . .” Laurel's fingers curled around the edge of the photo album, and she pulled it protectively against her, but it was too late. Vivian jerked the book away from her and gasped.

“Where did you get this? What is it doing out here? Shame on you for dragging this out!” She slammed the album closed and tossed it onto the seat of the old red leather wing chair that had been Daddy's favorite.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks and paced in a short line back and forth, back and forth, as nervous as a racehorse, her eyes flashing with something like panic. “Shame on you for bringing that out! Mr. Leighton is new to this house, and you're dragging out all this! What would he think if he saw this?”

Laurel didn't really care what Mr. Leighton thought. She didn't like him. Didn't like his staying in Daddy's room. Didn't like the way he patted her head. Didn't like the way he looked at Savannah. She didn't want him at Beauvoir.

“I don't like him!” she blurted out, popping up from her seat on the floor, anger making her feel like she could grow to be ten feet tall and mean as an alligator. “I don't like him and don't care what he thinks!”