Gifford tapped his envelope against the tabletop, drawing Serena's eye away from the half-empty bottle of Tabasco sauce. It was a standard white business envelope with the return address printed in neat black script in the upper left-hand corner:
LAMAR CANFIELD
,
ESQ
.
ATTORNEY AT LAW
.
“This is yours.”
“What is it?” she asked suspiciously, loathe to reach out and touch the thing. She'd had enough unpleasant surprises to last her.
Gifford pushed it across the table. “Look at it. Go on.”
She looked from her grandfather to Lucky, who was frowning darkly at the old man, and back to the envelope. Feeling as if she were about to take a step that couldn't be taken back, she picked it up and withdrew the folded papers. The document was ridiculously simple considering the power it wielded. It granted her power of attorney over Gifford's affairs, including the disposition of Chanson du Terre. It was stamped and signed on the appropriate lines in Gifford's bold hand and Lamar's, and it had been dated nearly three weeks previous. All it needed was Serena's signature to make it official.
Serena stared at it, feeling manipulated and used. It really was in her hands—a power she didn't want over a home that wouldn't let her go. Her first impulse was to throw the papers back in Gifford's face, but she didn't. Instead, she folded them neatly and put them back in the envelope. Without a word she stood and walked out.
“Why don't you put a little more pressure on her, Giff?” Lucky said sarcastically. “Then we can all stand around and watch her crack.”
“She'll bear up,” Gifford said, lifting his chin. “She's a Sheridan.”
“So's her sister.”
The old man sniffed and looked away, absently lifting a hand to rub the ear of a hound that had come to silently beg for attention.
Pepper clucked in disapproval as he slid down onto the chair Serena had vacated. “Ain't no wonder she don' stay 'round here, you all the time pushin' her 'round dis way, dat way. Me, I'd go on to Charleston too.”
Gifford scowled at his friend. “Then why don't you?”
“'Cause if'n I left, there wouldn' be nobody 'round to listen to all your cussin' 'cept Odille, and she'd up'n kill you one fine day.”
“Smartass.”
Lucky ground his cigarette out in the blue tin ashtray on the table, crushing it with short, angry jabs, then skidded his chair back and stood up.
“I don' like your tactics, old man,” he said in a low, tight voice. He was reacting on instinct, he knew, not with any kind of rationale. Serena had been hurt and upset and that brought all those long-dormant protective feelings rushing to the fore. He didn't like it, but that didn't keep it from happening.
“I did what I had to do.”
“Without a thought to how Serena would feel about it.”
Gifford arched a brow, his dark eyes speculative. “Since when do you give a fig about other people's feelings?”
Lucky said nothing. There was an answer lodged somewhere in his chest, but he refused to let it out or even look at it. He simply gave Gifford a long, disturbing look, then slipped out the door.
Serena was standing on the steps, looking out at the bayou, the infamous envelope tucked under one arm, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked pale and drawn, the dark smudges beneath her eyes a stark contrast to the youthful effect of the ponytail she wore. Lucky slid an arm around her and tilted her sideways against him.
“I don't want to go back just yet,” she said in a small voice.
“
Je te blâme pas
,” Lucky murmured, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “I don't blame you, sugar.”
“Can we go to your place?”
“
Oui
. If you like.”
“I need to get away for a while.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her head against him, and he felt that strange swelling, twisting feeling in his chest again.
“I'll take you away,
mon 'tite coeur
,” he said softly, and led her down the steps toward his pirogue.
Storm clouds were rushing in from the Gulf again as the pirogue slid in beside Lucky's dock. Fat and black, like dyed balls of cotton, they rolled north, thunder rumbling behind them. In a minute it would be raining, pouring, Serena thought as she looked up at the sky. And the minute after that it might be sunny and calm. The weather here seemed forever unsettled, unstable, adding to the impression of the swamp being a prehistoric place. Now, as the leaden clouds poured across the sky above, silence settled like a suffocating blanket all around. The trees went still. The birds went silent.
The rain started to fall as they crossed the yard, and by the time they had entered the house it was pounding down on the tin roof and splashing in through the window screens. Serena moved to close a window, but Lucky pulled her away.
“Let it rain,” he said, walking backward and drawing her with him toward the bed.
She looked up at him uncertainly. “But the floor—”
“It's cypress; nothing can hurt it.”
They undressed each other to the accompaniment of the thunderstorm, slowly and quietly as the rain pounded down outside and the cool moist breeze blew in through the windows.
“I need you,” Serena whispered, head back, eyes closed against the weariness and turmoil that ached through her like a virus. She needed Lucky to sweep it all away, if only for a little while. She wanted to lose herself in the bliss of belonging to him, even if it was only temporary.
“I'm here,” he said.
She sighed as he ran his fingers through her unbound tresses, spreading them across her bare shoulders. Rising on tiptoe, she returned the favor, pulling the leather lace from his queue and combing her hands through his curling black mane. He bound his arms around her, holding her high against his body, and kissed her slowly and deeply, then stood her away from him.
“
Viens ici, chérie
,” he whispered, sliding across the bed, holding his hand out to her.
Serena stared at him for a moment, mesmerized. He looked wild and dangerous, but she reached out and took his hand, welcoming its solid strength as she welcomed the strength of his arms when she settled herself on the bed and into his embrace.
They made love slowly as the rain fell. Lucky took complete command, letting Serena lie back to simply enjoy. He kissed her again and again, long, slow, deep kisses that left her breathless and languid. He lavished attention on her breasts, sucking gently at her nipples for what seemed like hours. Slowly he made his way down her body, kissing her everywhere with lingering, leisurely kisses, tasting her stomach, the point of her hip, the inside of her knee.
Lying between her legs, he slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her slightly. He settled his mouth against her intimately, caressing her with his tongue, drinking in the taste of her. Serena arched her back and sighed at the exquisite pleasure. Desire swirled through her, building like the storm wind outside, sweeping her away to a place where there was nothing but herself and Lucky and this vibrant heat that burned inside her and exploded through her as he took her over the brink.
The shock waves were still pulsing when he slid up over her, caressing her body with his. She cried out when he entered her, not in pain, but in ecstasy as her muscles clenched and held him deep within her, caressing him, coaxing him toward his own completion.
Lucky ground his mouth against Serena's, catching her soft, wild sounds, giving her his tongue and the lingering sweet taste of her own body. The old bed creaked as he moved against her. Thunder rumbled overhead and rain hammered down on the tin roof, but those things receded into nothingness. Chanson du Terre, the past, the present, all faded away.
All Lucky could think of was Serena, her softness, her heat, the way she fit around him as tight as a silken glove, the way she welcomed him into her body and held on to him as if she would never let him go. All he could think of was giving her pleasure and letting that pleasure sweep him away.
He moved within her, slowly, gently, holding back his own release as he lured her toward another. Her hips moved against his. The tempo of her breathing quickened. He slipped a hand between them and rubbed his thumb against her most sensitive flesh, and she cried his name again as her ecstasy crested, taking Lucky with her. His body shuddered and stiffened as he poured his seed into her. He tightened his arms around her and thought he'd never felt quite so alive.
He turned onto his side as his muscles began to relax, and sank gratefully into the mattress. Physically, he was tired. Emotionally, he was exhausted from the constant war between feeling and trying not to feel. He gathered Serena close against him and wondered if she could sense him shaking inside.
Outside, the storm had passed. The thunder was rolling away to the north, leaving behind only the gentle sound of the rain. Inside, the storm of passion had passed and Serena lay in Lucky's arms, spent, too tired to face the feelings their lovemaking had kept at bay—all the emotions Gifford's actions had jerked loose, the pressure he had put on her, the conflicts over what needed to be done, the questions about family loyalty, the memory of the fire and all it meant. As he had promised, Lucky had taken her away from all that for a brief time, but now it all came rushing back.
The tears came as quickly as the spring shower had, and she let them fall without bothering to hide them or apologize for them. Lucky held her close, stroking her hair, brushing his lips against her temple. He whispered to her in French, soft words, comforting words, his low, purring voice almost as tangible a caress as his hand. It was just the respite she needed. Quiet compassion. Sheltering. Tender solace. The kind of consolation offered on an unspoken plane of understanding, offered with empathy, offered by a soul mate.
Serena felt her heart swell painfully at the thought. What they had was temporary, tenuous, a slice of their lives that seemed taken out of context. It was like a hothouse flower that had been forced to burst open overnight. Feelings had been magnified and time-accelerated. She wondered if what they had would die as quickly as it had come to life.
She knew the answer. It wrung a few extra tears from her heart and brought the words to her lips even though she knew she shouldn't say them. She shouldn't have become involved with him to begin with, but it was too late to change that and she couldn't change what was in her heart, no matter how pointless it was.
She sighed with a sense of fatalism and murmured against the base of his throat, “I love you.”
The words ran into Lucky's heart like the blade of a knife. His hand stilled in the act of stroking her hair. Every muscle in his body tensed in rejection. “Don't,” he said automatically.
Serena sat up, pulling the sheet over her breasts, and looked at him, her expression as carefully blank as his. “Don't what? Don't love you or don't say it out loud?”
He shook his head as he climbed out of the bed and reached for his jeans. “Don't,” he repeated as he pulled up the zipper. “Don't say it. Don't think it.”
Serena watched him as he prowled the room, reading his unease in the set of his muscular shoulders and the tempo of his stride. He walked with his head down, eyes hooded, his hair partially obscurring his profile.
“Why not?” she asked, keeping her voice even.
He shot her a sideways glance. “Because it isn't true. You can't love me. You don't know me. This”—he gestured toward the bed—“this is just sex.”
“Not for me, it isn't.”
Lucky wheeled on her, his expression cruel, his eyes tormented. “Well, it is for me,” he shot back, taking an aggressive step toward the bed. “How's that, baby?” he asked sarcastically, raising his hands in question. “Is that what you wanted to hear? You're a great lay, but that's all it is.”
The pain was instantaneous. Serena told herself she'd asked for it, but that hardly dulled the sting. Even seeing the tumult of contradictory emotions in Lucky's eyes wasn't much of a balm. This was his line of defense and he would cling to it to the bitter end. He didn't want to believe there could be something more between them even when he knew it already existed. He was afraid of it. He didn't want her seeing beyond his armor, didn't want her to touch him.
“It's just sex,” he repeated half under his breath as he retreated to pace along the foot of the bed.
“I don't believe you.”
“I don't care.”
“If you don't care, why does it upset you so much to hear me say I love you?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned his face to her with a look that would have chilled most men. “Don't play shrink games with me, Serena.”
She didn't deny the charge, but shrugged and lifted her chin. If she'd been in possession of her common sense, she would have let the matter drop. But then, if she'd been in possession of her common sense, she never would have gotten into the pirogue with him at Gauthier's dock.
“I love you. That's how I feel. I needed to say it. I don't see why you're so upset,” she said defensively. “I didn't ask you to say it back.”
Lucky snorted. “
Mais non
, but you expected me to.”
She stared at him, feeling an acute sense of sadness like a stone in her chest. “No. I didn't.”
He swore in French and turned toward the window. “I can't give you what you want, Serena,” he said, ignoring her answer. “I don't have it in me.”
“Oh, I think you have it in you. You're just afraid to give it.”
“No,” he said, staring out at the rain. “It's not there. It's gone. There's nothing there. I can't be the kind of man you need.”
“What do you know about the kind of man I need?”
“I know he isn't me.”
“What if you're wrong?”
He wheeled on her, letting all the frustration and pain and rage surface in one explosion of feeling. “What do you know about me?” he roared. “Nothing! You've pieced together some fantasy profile, made me out to be a hero when I'm nothing. I'm nothing but a man hanging on to his sanity by his fingertips. I'm nothing but a trained killer who might go off the edge in the blink of an eye. I don't have anything inside me but nightmares. Is that what you want? Is that the kind of man you need?”