Slow Heat in Heaven (43 page)

Her objections fell on deaf ears. His open mouth was moving up and down her neck, taking love bites, while his fingers lightly twisted her nipples. He tilted his hips forward. Reflexively she pressed her bottom against his erection.

"You want me," he growled. "You know you do. I know you do."

He slipped one hand beneath her skirt. He pushed down her panties and palmed the downy delta at the top of her thighs. She sighed his name, in remonstration, in desire. "No," she groaned, ashamed of the melting sensation that made her thighs weak and pliant.

He hissed a yes into the darkness as his fingers sought and found the slipperiness that made her a liar. He raised her skirt and pulled her against him. The cloth of his jeans against her derriere was rough, soft, wonderful.

Then his thumbs, stroking her cleft, down, down until they parted the swollen lips. She pressed her forehead into the hard wood of the branch and gripped it with her hands. "Cash." His name was a low, serrated moan of longing.

He deftly unzipped his jeans. His entry was slow, deliberate. He was ruthlessly stingy with himself until his own passions governed him and he sheathed himself within the moist, satiny fist of her sex. He ground against her. The hair on his belly tickled her smooth skin.

Schyler flung her head back, seeking his lips with hers. Their open mouths clung together; tongues searched out each other. He fanned one tight, raised nipple with his fingers. His other hand covered her mound. His stroking middle finger quickly escalated her to an explosive climax.

His coming was long and fierce and scalding. When it was over, he slumped forward and let her support him. Both might have collapsed to the carpet of grass had not Schyler been braced against the limb of the tree.

Eventually he restored her clothing and his. Schyler let him. She was too physically drained to move. And too emotionally unstrung to speak.

My God, what she had just done was unthinkable. Yet it had happened. She wasn't sorry, only deeply disturbed, because while he'd been holding her she'd been inundated with him. She had forgotten her problems. She had forgotten everything, including Belle Terre.

She spun around when she heard the engine of his pickup being gunned to life, not realizing that he'd slipped away. It was just as well, she thought, as she watched the truck disappear down the lane. She wouldn't have known what to say to him anyway.

Parked on the edge of the ditch, Cash waited until the last of Jigger's gawking customers left before he pulled up in front of the derelict house. Even over the noise of the pickup's motor, he could hear the rattlesnake in the drum.

He cut the motor and got out. Through the screened back door, he could see Jigger hunched over the kitchen table counting the day's take. Cash knocked loudly. The old man whirled around. He was holding a pistol aimed directly at the door.

"Calm down, Jigger. It's me."

"I nearly blew your fool head off, don'tcha know." He dropped his money on the table and shuffled toward the door.

"What do you do with all your money, Jigger? Stuff it in mayonnaise jars and bury it in your yard? Or maybe under your kennel?"

The old man's eyes glittered. "You want to know, Boudreaux," he taunted, slowly waving the pistol back and forth just beneath Cash's nose, "you try to find out."

Cash laughed. "Do I look stupid to you?" Then his smile disappeared altogether. "I assure you, I'm not."

Jigger lowered his head and peered up at Cash from hooded eye sockets. "I should shoot you anyway. You helped my black bitch get away. You took her to Belle Terre."

"You nearly killed her."

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is. You didn't leave her alone after the miscarriage like I told you to. I take that personally, Jigger."

"It wasn't me. It was a customer."

"It's still your fault."

Jigger executed a Gallic shrug. "She's just a woman. I'll get me another one."

"Fine with me," Cash said with deceptive nonchalance. "But if you ever work over another woman the way you did Gayla Frances, I'll come here, cut off your cock, and stuff it down your throat until you choke. Understand,
mon ami?
" Cash leaned against the door frame where the paint was chipped and peeling. His eyes didn't blink, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips.

"You threaten me?"

"Oui.
And you know I don't threaten lightly."

Jigger's face split into a parody of a grin. "You got the hots for the bitch, hey Boudreaux?" Then he shook his head. "No. You're fuckin' Schyler Cran
-dall."

"That's right, I'm fucking Schyler Crandall," Cash said tightly. "But I'm still looking out for Gayla."

The two men eyed each other antagonistically. Finally Jigger threw back his head and cackled. Cash Boudreaux was perhaps the only man in the parish who intimidated him. Jigger was smart enough to know when retreat was prudent. He didn't want to test the other man's reputed temper and skill with the knife that always rode in the small of his back. If one were measuring meanness, they were equal, but Cash was twenty years younger, thirty pounds lighter, and much swifter. Physically, Jigger was no match for him.

Cash relaxed his tense stance and eased himself away from the doorjamb. "Are you going to show me your rattler or did I drive out here for nothing?" He angled his head in the direction of the oil drum.

Jigger shoved the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. He strutted across the yard toward the drum. A light cord had been strung from the house. A bare bulb dangled over the drum. Jigger switched it on. With a proud flourish he knocked the rock off the lid and pried it open with a tire tool.

"Look at that son of a bitch, Boudreaux. Ever see such?"

Unlike most spectators, Cash approached the oil drum with a casual, intrepid stride. He walked right up to it and peered over the rim. The rattler's tail was flicking, filling the still night air with its insidious racket. Even the nocturnal birds and insects in the trees had fallen silent out of respect and fear. The pit bull bitch barked, then whined apprehensively.

Jigger waited excitedly to hear Cash's reaction. He was sorely disappointed when Cash shrugged, unimpressed. "Fact is, I have seen such, lots of times, in the bayous."

"Bloody hell."

"I'm not lying. Once a flood washed up a whole colony of cottonmouths.
Maman
wouldn't let me play outdoors for days. The yard was working alive with those snakes. All sizes. Some as big or bigger than this. Could have swallowed a dog whole."

He leaned over the barrel for a closer look and stayed a long time. Jigger peered over his shoulder. When Cash spun around abruptly, Jigger dropped his short crowbar and leaped backward.

Cash smiled with sheer devilment. "Why, Jigger, I do believe this snake makes you nervous."

"Bullshit." Angrily Jigger picked up the lid, tossed it back onto the drum and maneuvered it into place with the crowbar he'd retrieved from the ground. When he was done, he stuck out his hand. "One dollar."

"Sure." Never breaking his stare, Cash fished in his tight jean pocket and came up with a crumpled one-dollar bill. "It was well worth a dollar just to see you jump like that." He strolled toward his parked track.

"Boudreaux!" Cash turned around and faced the man standing in front of the dram. "You know who sent me this snake?"

Cash only grinned through the darkness before disappearing into it.

Schyler slept late. When her alarm went off at the regular time, she rolled over, shut if off, and promptly went back to sleep. Hours later she woke up. She glanced at the clock and discovered that it was closer to lunch than breakfast. She should feel ashamed; but after the hellish day she had had yesterday, she decided that she deserved to take a morning off. She showered and dressed quickly and was soon in the kitchen doing damage to a honeydew melon.

"You can have chicken salad for lunch, if you'll wait an hour for it to chill," Mrs. Dunne told her.

"Thanks, but I need to get to the office." Sometime during the night, in her subconscious, a thought concerning their last shipment to Endicott's had struck her. Luckily she remembered it this morning and was eager to discuss it with Cash.

"Well if you ask me, you're working too hard."

"I didn't ask," she retorted, but kindly, as she winked at the housekeeper on her way out. As she went past the parlor doors, she saw Gayla in there dusting the books on the shelves. "Gayla, I asked you to catalog those books, not dust them. That's what I pay Mrs. Dunne to do."

"I don't mind. I ran out of chores. I feel guilty just sitting around mooching off you."

"You're not mooching." Schyler smiled up at Gayla, who was perched on a ladder. She got only a faint smile from Gayla in return. "Is something wrong? No more voodoo dolls, I hope."

"No." Distractedly Gayla gazed through the wide windows. The expansive lawn, full of sunlight and serenity, hardly looked threatening. "It's just that
I. . . I. . ."
She sighed and shook her head in self-derision. "Nothing."

"What?"

Gayla made a helpless gesture with her dust cloth. "The yard looks so peaceful and harmless now. But when it gets dark outside, I have the eerie feeling that something or someone is out there watching us."

"Gayla," Schyler chided gently.

"I know it's stupid. I jump at my own shadow."

"That's understandable after all you've been through. The doll was a very real threat. I was reluctant to call the sheriff's office to come out and investigate, but if you want me to I will."

"No," Gayla exclaimed. "Don't do that. Besides it wouldn't do any good. The sheriff is a friend of Jigger's."

"Then you're certain he was responsible?"

"He probably paid somebody to put it in my room."

"I'm sure he just wanted to scare you. I doubt it'll go any further than that. For all his chicanery, Jigger Flynn wouldn't dare set foot on Belle Terre."

"I hope not." There wasn't much conviction behind Gayla's voice.

Schyler lowered herself to the padded arm of an easy chair. "That's not all, is it?"

"No."

"Tell me."

Gayla climbed down the ladder and dropped her cloth into a basket of cleaning supplies. Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell on a deep sigh. "I don't know if I can pinpoint what's wrong, Schyler."

"Try."

"You're too busy to listen to my whining."

"I've got time. What's on your mind?"

Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Gayla said, "I've just been wondering what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I don't have enough college to get a good job. I'm too old to go back to school. Even if I wasn't, I couldn't afford it." She raised troubled eyes. "What is there for me to do? Where should I go? How will I live?"

Schyler rose and embraced her fondly. "Don't rush yourself to make a decision. Things will get sorted out in time. Something will turn up. In the meantime you have a home here."

"I can't go on living off you, Schyler."

"It makes me angry when you say that."

She tilted Gayla's head up. Looking into Gayla's eyes was like looking into twin cups of chicory coffee. They were that large, that dark, that fluid. They should be laughing; instead they were full of despair.

It was disappointing to Schyler that Jimmy Don Davison hadn't responded to that letter she had mailed him in prison. She had hoped that once he knew Gayla had left Jigger in fear of her life, he would contact her. She had gambled on him being curious about his lost love at the very least. Obviously he wasn't.

A forgiving letter from Jimmy Don would be like a tonic to Gayla. It would imbue her with optimism for the future. Schyler had no way of knowing how Jimmy Don felt about his former sweetheart, but surely once he was acquainted with the circumstances, he wouldn't hold Gayla's recent past against her.

"It's too pretty a day to worry about the future," Schyler said softly. "I don't want to think about you leaving Belle Terre. It makes me sad. I don't know what I would have done without your friendship these past few weeks."

Gayla's eyes cleared of misery, but they flashed with anger. "Tricia's been so hateful to you. How do you stand it?"

"I try to ignore the swipes she takes at me."

"I don't see how you can. And her husband just stands
there and lets her get by with it." Gayla shook her head. With a wisdom beyond her years that was probably inherited from Veda, she added, "There's something wrong there."

"Wrong where?"

"With them."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. They're sneaky. Both of them. They carry on whispered telephone conversations. Are you aware of that? When I walk past, they hang up, or start talking real loud, like I'm too stupid to tell that they're faking it." She looked at Schyler worriedly. "I wouldn't trust them if I were you."

Those furtive telephone conversations were probably being placed to realtors. Gayla didn't know about the Ho- wells' plan to put Belle Terre up for sale. Schyler laughed off her warning. "I doubt they're plotting to smother me in my bed."

"Mr. Howell hasn't got the balls. But she does. She hates you, Schyler. I don't know how two girls can be raised as sisters and turn out so differently."

"We come from different stock."

"Well I think Tricia is a bad seed. Mark my words."

"She's just insecure about her self-worth." Gayla's intuition made Schyler more uneasy than she wanted to acknowledge. Still, and to Gayla's annoyance, she defended Tricia. "Mother ignored both of us, but Daddy made no secret of favoring me. Years of living with that turned Tricia sour."

"I respect you for taking up for her. But don't give her your back."

With that warning echoing in her ears, Schyler left Gayla in the parlor and headed toward the back of the house. She checked Cotton
's
room, but he wasn't there. She found him outside, sitting in a lawn chair and feeding shelled pecans to squirrels that ate the treats right out of his hand. When Schyler appeared, they scattered across the lawn and into the nearest trees.

"Spoilsport," Cotton said, frowning at her.

"Good morning to you, too." She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss before dropping into the chair beside his. "How are you this morning? I feel glorious." Pointing her toes far in front of her and reaching high over her head with both arms, she stretched luxuriously.

"You should. You've slept away half the day."

"Well after yesterday, I thought I deserved it."

"Reckon you do. Quite a mess, wasn't it?"

"How did you know?" He'd already been asleep when she came in last night.

She followed his gaze down to the morning newspaper lying on the small table between their chairs. Even reading upside down, Schyler could see that the front page was dominated by an account of the Crandall Logging rig accident. The accompanying picture featured Cash, standing astride one of the massive logs, overseeing the chore of clearing the highway.

"Cash was right there in the thick of it, I see."

Schyler knew better than to take her father's comment at face value, but she pretended to. "He's a born organizer. The other loggers would walk through a wall of fire for him."

"Hmm." One of the squirrels had decided that Schyler posed no danger and had crept back for more nuts. Cotton leaned out of his chair and tossed it a pecan half.

"Does Mrs. Dunne know you've got those? Pecans that pretty should be going into a pie."

"Don't change the subject," Cotton said crossly.

"I didn't know there was one," Schyler fired right back.

"Why didn't you tell me about this accident?"

"I haven't seen you since the accident."

"Why didn't you ask for my advice when Boudreaux came roaring up here yesterday morning?"

"I'm sorry. Did he disturb you?"

"He's always disturbed me."

She ignored that and answered his original question with forced calm. "I didn't tell you about it or ask your advice because frankly I didn't think about it."

"I'll have you know, young lady, that I'm still the head of this goddamn company," he bellowed.

"But you're temporarily out of commission."

"So you've turned the whole operation over to that Cajun bastard."

"Now wait a minute, Daddy. I depend on Cash, yes, but I still make the decisions. On most of the major ones, I've consulted you. Yesterday was an exception. I had to act spontaneously. I didn't have time to weigh my options. There were no options."

"You could have phoned. You could have kept me posted."

"I could have, I suppose, but since your surgery I've tried to insulate you from the day-to-day hardships of running the business."

"Well don't do me anymore goddamn favors. I don't want to be insulated. I'll be insulated for a long time when they seal me in a friggin' casket. Don't rush it."

It took an enormous amount of self-control for Schyler to remain silent and let that go by without comment. Like a catechism, she mentally recited all the reasons why she should overlook his unfair allegations. He wasn't to be excited or upset. Stress of any kind could be dangerous, if not deadly. He was prone to depression and contrariness when his pride was in jeopardy.

In a carefully regulated voice she said, "Now that you're obviously feeling so much stronger, I'll consult you on business matters. It was only out of consideration for your health that I hadn't before now."

"That's bullshit." He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You didn't consult me because you've got Cash to talk to." A vein in his temple began to throb, but neither of them noticed. "Do the two of you talk shop in bed?"

Schyler flinched guiltily. She stopped breathing for a moment. When her involuntary responses eventually took over again, she raised her chin a notch and bravely challenged her father's censorious stare.

"I'm a grown woman. I won't discuss my personal life with you."

He banged his fist on the arm of his chair. "We're not talking about your personal life. You got passed over for your sister. She duped us all into believing Howell had knocked her up. You lived with a goddamn fairy for six years. After all that, why would I start caring about who you're screwing? I don't."

"Then what are you shouting at me for?"

He moved his face closer to hers. "Because this time your bedmate is Cash Boudreaux."

"And that makes a difference?"

"You're damn right it does. He's too close to my business, my home. Your affair with him affects everything I've worked my ass off for."

"How?"

"Because that Cajun bastard—"

Schyler shot out of her chair and bore down on him. "Stop calling him that! He can't help being born illegitimate."

Cotton flopped back in his chair and looked up at his daughter with disbelief. "God almighty. You're in love with Mm."

Her face went blank. She continued staring at her father a few thudding heartbeats longer, then turned away. She braced her arms on the back of the chair she'd been sitting in, leaning against it for additional support.

Cotton wasn't finished with her yet. He sat up straight and scooted to the edge of his seat. "You dare to defend that man to me. To
me,"
He thumped his chest. Inside it, shooting pains were leaving fissions in the walls of his heart. He was too irate to notice. "Have you made the pitiful blunder of falling in love with that skirt chaser, with Cash Boudreaux?"

She flung herself away from the chair and angrily confronted Cotton again. "Why not? You were in love with his mother."

They glared at each other so hard that neither could stand die open animosity for long. They lowered their eyes simultaneously. "So you know," Cotton said after awhile.

"I know."

"Since when?"

"Recently."

"He told you?"

"No, Tricia did."

He sighed. "What the hell? I'm surprised you didn't know all along. Everybody else in the parish did." Cotton cracked another pecan, dug out the meat and passed it to an inquisitive and intrepid squirrel."I committed adultery with Monique for years. I made her an adulteress."

"Yes."