Lucky’s Lady

CHAPTER 14

«Arson!» gifford exploded, his weathered face turning an alarming shade of red. «By God, that tears it! That just tears it! I don't know what the hell this world is coming to. People got no respect for nothing anymore.»

He set aside the shotgun he'd been cleaning and rose from his lawn chair to pace in agitation. His hounds lay on the ground, one on either side of the chair, watching him move back and forth with their droopy eyes and somber expressions.

«That bastard Burke. I'll have his head on a pike before this is over. And that smarmy little Clifton York too,» he said, jabbing the air with a forefinger for emphasis. «The nerve of that little weasel, refusing to pay the claim.»

Serena thought of the apologetic insurance adjuster and felt a pang of sympathy. «Mr. York is only doing his job.»

«Practically accusing me of burning my own property,» Gifford ranted. «By God, I'd eat dirt before I'd stoop to something so low. No Sheridan ever behaved in such a reprehensible manner-not counting the ones that got kicked out of the family, of course.»

«Of course,» Serena confirmed dryly. She stood before him with her arms crossed over the front of her wilting pink cotton blouse and her knees locked to keep her legs from buckling beneath her. The early morning storm had turned the cabin's meager yard to a soft ooze that squished up around the sides of her calfskin loafers. This trip was taking a heavy toll on her footwear on top of everything else. If she stayed much longer, she was going to have to go around in bedroom slippers.

«There was a time in this country when a man's honor meant something,» Gifford announced, as upset with having his reputation impugned as he was with having someone burn his machine shed to the ground. He planted his feet, jammed his hands at the waist of his jeans, and glared down at Serena as if it were all her fault standards had fallen to such an appalling level.

«I'm sure it's nothing personal,» she said. «It's a clear-cut case of arson. Until they figure out who did it, the company can't pay.»

Gifford snorted. A shock of white hair tumbled across his forehead. His eyes were fierce. «Until they figure out who did it. A blind halfwit could figure out who did it. Burke is responsible. Goddamn Texan. This state ought to have border regulations.»

«Burke has an alibi,» Lucky said unexpectedly. «He was at Mouton's.»

Serena turned toward him, unable to hide her surprise. He was leaning indolently against the trunk of a big live oak, his eyes hooded and sleepy. He looked like a panther, all leashed strength and quiet intensity, waiting for some unsuspecting deer to wander past.

«How do you know that?»

He gave her a look that was flat and unreadable. His big shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. «Because I was there too, sugar.»

He'd left her bed to go to Mosquito Moutons. Serena did her best to stem the rush of hurt. She had no hold on him, she reminded herself. Regardless of what her heart wanted, Lucky had clearly defined their relationship as just sex. Having agreed to those terms, she had no right to be angry with him or feel hurt that he hadn't chosen to hold her all night.

Business, he'd said. She wondered what kind of business one conducted at Moutons in the wee hours of the morning. She wondered if it was the same kind of business he had been conducting the last time he'd been there-starting brawls, threatening people with knives.

«Of course he has an alibi,» Gifford said with disgust. «A man like Burke does his own dirty work when he's coming up through the ranks, but he hires it out as soon as he can. It wouldn't be any mean feat to hire some local piece of trash to start a fire. People will do anything for a dollar these days.»

«Unfortunately, no one saw anything,» Serena said. «Whoever did it managed to get away either before the first explosion or during the confusion afterward. I know I never thought of looking for a car or for anyone running away from the scene.»

«Maybe they never left the scene,» Lucky said quietly.

Serena sighed, blowing her breath up into the sweat-damp tendrils of hair that stuck to her forehead. She could feel Lucky's eyes on her, but she didn't look at him. They had already had this argument on the way to Giff's. She didn't for a minute believe Shelby had started the fire. It was simply impossible for her to picture Shelby slinging gas cans around and rigging machinery to blow up. But there may well have been a hired man capable of being bought off-by Burke, Serena insisted. Or the perpetrator may have been an outsider compelled by God knew what, a man who had simply blended in with the rest of the men while they had struggled to save the building.

«Well, there's no use speculating,» she said at last. «The point is, this business is getting way out of hand. You have to come back home, Giff. I mean it this time.»

Gifford lifted one bushy white brow. «Why? So you can cut and run?»

Serena refused to flinch. She stood toe to toe with the old man and said calmly, «So you can face up to your responsibilities.»

«Why should I be any better at it than you are?» he asked sarcastically. «Hell, I took my lessons from you, little girl. I didn't want to deal with it, so I left.»

«Stop it,» Serena snapped. She could feel the reins of her temper sliding through her exhausted grasp. Even in the best circumstances she had trouble dealing with Gifford in a controlled and rational manner. He knew exactly which buttons to push and he pushed them with a land of malicious glee that infuriated her even further. She looked up at him now and held her anger in check with sheer willpower. «You stop trying to lay all this guilt on me, Gifford. I've had it with your manipulation.»

«Oh? You are going back to Charleston, then?» he said with cutting mock-surprise. «Leave your old grandfather to deal with arsonists and strong-arm tactics and treason among his own ranks.»

Serena ground her teeth and spoke through them. «I'm not going anywhere.»

Gifford stared at her long and hard. «Neither am I.»

The pressure built between them for another few seconds as their gazes locked and warred. Then abruptly Serena's temper erupted like a volcano. She kicked the lawn chair and let fly a very unladylike curse that sent the coon hounds scurrying for safety under the cabin.

«Damn you, Gifford,» she shouted, her hands knotting into useless fists in front of her. «How can you be so stubborn!»

«It's a family trait.»

«Don't you dare be glib with me,» she warned, shaking a finger at him. «This is serious.»

«I know exactly how serious it is,» Gifford said softly, abandoning his theatrics for cold, hard sobriety. «I know exactly what's at stake here, Serena. I wonder if you do. You think I'm just being a contrary old fool. You think I'm enjoying all the havoc I'm wreaking on everyone's lives. I'm trying to save something that's been a part of this family for two centuries.»

«By sitting out here in the swamp?»

He shook his head, his impatience and weariness showing in his dark eyes and the set of his mouth. «You don't get it, do you? I swear, for someone so intelligent you can be as thick as a red Georgia brick. I'm not talking about saving Chanson du Terre for the moment. I'm talking about it living on after me.»

Serena took in his words and their meaning, tears of anger and hurt and frustration rising in her eyes. She knew exactly what he meant. «You can't make me want to come back here, Gifford. You can't force me to want to stay.»

«No,» he said softly. «But I can make you see what the consequences will be if you don't. I can put it all in your hands. You can have the power of Caesar-does it live or does it die? Do two hundred years of heritage go on or do they get ground to dust? It will all be up to you, Serena. Sell it or save it.»

There it was. The cards were on the table. No more games. No more silent manipulation. He was laying it all at her feet and the thing she wanted most to do was turn and run. Serena stared up at him through a wavy sheen of tears and hated him at that moment almost as much as she loved him. She couldn't turn away. He meant too much to her. She couldn't stand the idea of disappointing him, of having him look at her and see a failure and a coward.

As a psychologist she could pick each of those thoughts apart, dissect them and diagnose them, and recommend therapy. But as a granddaughter, as a woman, she could only stand there and experience it. She felt as helpless and impotent as a child. She couldn't step back from it to examine it with the cool, objective eye of a neutral third party. She couldn't simply watch the storm from a safe distance. She was in the middle of it and there was no honorable way out.

«You think about that for a minute,» Gifford said, his face as stern and set as if it had been carved from granite. «Then you come on inside the cabin. There's something that needs to be taken care of before you go back.»

He walked away, calling softly to his hounds. Serena stood facing the bayou, fighting the tears, trying to concentrate on the sound of footsteps and dog toenails on the worn boards of the gallery, the slam of the screen door, the sound of Marc Savoy singing on the radio, the call of an indigo bunting somewhere in the tree-tops nearby. Arms bound tight across her middle, she stared out at the muddy water and the profusion of spider lilies that grew along the opposite bank, and forced herself to hang on to the very last scrap of her pride and control.

Lucky watched her, everything inside him aching for her. Every feeling he had thought dead had been resurrected in the past few days and they ached and throbbed now, hypersensitive in their rebirth. He didn't welcome their return. It was easier, safer, not to feel at all. He resented their intrusion on his emotional isolation. He resented Serena for arousing them so effortlessly. But he couldn't look at her now and feel anger. Nor could he turn away. He couldn't look at her now and see how the calm, controlled woman from Charleston had been broken apart in a matter of days and not feel something-sympathy, empathy, compassion..

He pushed himself away from the tree and went to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, silently offering his strength, rocking her gently in time with the Cajun waltz that floated out through the cabins screens.

Serena turned her face to his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears, forcing two past her lashes to roll down her cheek and soak into Lucky's black T-shirt. The temptation was strong to just let go, to cry, to put the burden on his broad shoulders and ask him to take care of her problems the way he had taken care of Mrs. Guidry's poachers, the way he took care of the orphaned raccoons. But she didn't. Couldn't. He didn't want her problems. He had problems of his own. He didn't want involvement and he didn't want love. That knowledge made it all the more bittersweet to have his arms around her now, when she needed so badly to have someone to lean on.

Maybe he would change. Maybe he felt more for her than he wanted to admit. Maybe, when this business with Chanson du Terre was over, he would let her near enough to help him with the demons that haunted him.

And maybe pigs would fly.

She wasn't doing herself any favors falling into the trap of «there but for the love of a good woman» thinking. She and Lucky had been thrown together by circumstances, had given in to physical needs, and when it was over they would go their separate ways-he into his swamp and she…

«I guess I'd better go in and see what new treat Gifford has in store for me,» she said, sniffing back the tears she wouldn't let fall. She turned in Lucky's arms and looked up at him, knowing with a terrible crystal-clear clarity that she had somehow, somewhere fallen in love with him. The thought hit her with a violent jolt every time it came. This big, brooding warrior with his panther's eyes and hooker's mouth, with his dark soul and heart of gold, had captured a part of her no other man ever had. Too bad he didn't want it.

They were greeted at the door of the cabin by the smell of warm beignets and strong coffee. While the battle of the Sheridan's had been raging in the yard, apparently Pepper had been inside slaving over a hot stove. The old black man greeted Serena with a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder.

«You come on over here, Miz 'Rena. You looks like you could use some my coffee.»

Serena tried to smile. «Could I have you inject it directly into my bloodstream, Pepper? I feel like I haven't slept in a month.»

«Po' Miz 'Rena,» Pepper muttered, shooting a damning glare at Gifford, who sat at the battered red Formica-topped table with a long envelope in front of him.

Serena pulled out a chrome-legged chair and sank down on a green vinyl seat that had cracked and torn and been repaired with duct tape. Gifford had taken the seat by the window that looked directly out onto the yard, and she wondered if he had seen Lucky holding her, but she dismissed the thought. Despite the way Gifford made her feel, she was no longer sixteen years old and under his guardianship. If she chose to have an affair with a man who looked and acted like a pirate, that was her own business.

She glanced around the cabin as Lucky took a seat and fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Pepper kept up a running monologue in the background, drawling on pleasantly about the crawfish catch as he gathered up mismatched mugs and a big white enamel coffeepot. The coon hounds lay sprawled on the floor like rugs, looking up at Serena with mournful eyes. The furniture seemed haphazardly arranged around their gangly forms, worn and tattered armchairs with stuffing poking through in spots. The walls were unadorned except for mounted antlers and a gun rack grotesquely fashioned from a pair of deer forelegs.

Serena had always thought the cabin looked like her idea of a prison camp barracks with its tarpaper walls, pitted linoleum floor, and absence of niceties. It hadn't changed a lick in twenty-five years. It was the same floor, the same furniture, the same outdated appliances, the same arrangement of foodstuffs on the single shelf above the single cupboard, the same old round-edged black radio playing Cajun music and herbicide ads. Even the condiments on the table looked the same.

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 blame 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-«

«Its 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, cherie,» 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?»

Eyes wild, nostrils flaring, he stalked to the bed in a half crouch, meeting Serena at eye level. «You wanna have a peek inside the man you think you love, Doc?» he whispered. «You wanna know what makes me run?

«I spent a year in a private prison in Central America. My commanding officer arranged it because he was dirty and I was on to him. Our mission down there was one of those little soirees our government doesn't own up to. They told my family I was killed in a training accident. And for a year I sat in a filthy, rat-infested cell in total darkness. The only time they took me out was to torture me.

«Do you know what that does to a man's mind, Dr. Sheridan? Do you know what that leaves him with?» He straightened and slowly backed away. «Nothing. Nothing. I don't have anything to give you. I live for myself, by myself, and that's the way I like it. I don't want your help and I don't want your love. The only thing I ever wanted from you was your body.»

He turned away from her and went back to the window, feeling bleak and empty.

Serena sat there for a long moment, absorbing his words, aching-not for herself, but for Lucky, for the sensitive young man who loved his family, the scholar, the artist who had had his life systematically destroyed. She hurt for the man he was now, tormented, frightened, alone. She wanted so badly to reach out to him, but she knew he would only push her away.

«If you wanted me to believe you were nothing but a heartless bastard, you should have left me at Gifford's that first night,» she said, a part of her wishing he had done just that.

«You got that right,» he answered derisively. «I should have left you. But don't tell me I led you on, sugar. I told you from the first what this would be.»

«Yes, you did.» And from the first it had been a lie. They had come together in passion and anger and need, but it had never been as simple as «just sex.» Never.

«Then keep your pretty words to yourself,» he muttered. «I don't want to hear them. I have no need of your love.»

Serena wanted to cry. She'd never seen a man more in need of love. He pulled himself away from people, hid from the world. He had retreated to the solace of his swamp to heal his own wounds, but they weren't healing. They lay open and raw, and he retreated further still to some desolate place within himself. Her foolish heart ached to help him. The woman in her yearned to be the one to make a difference. But the psychologist knew it wouldn't happen and she knew why, small consolation though that was.

She didn't have the strength to fight the inevitable. All things considered, it seemed best to make the break there and then. Going on would be an exercise in futility, like beating her head against a brick wall. She had lost any kind of perspective that could have maintained a sexual relationship between them even if she had been able to stomach that kind of affair. And God knew she had other problems to take care of. She would chalk this up to being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong man.

As she moved to gather her clothes, she studied Lucky, still standing framed by the curtainless window, and wondered bleakly how the wrong man could seem so right.

He turned and watched her, cast in a mix of silver light and black shadow that made a perfect portrait of him. «Where do we go from here?'

Serena paused as she buttoned her blouse, considering options and answers, and decided to take his question at face value. «Chanson du Terre.»