One quick kiss, Johnny promised himself. Just one…

But as he lowered his head to hers, the sultry night turned suddenly stifling hot. Her lips were summer warm and satin smooth, and in an instant his plan of offering her just one quick kiss was shot to hell. After ravishing her mouth for a full minute, he backed her against the railing and kissed her again…then again.

He meant to stop. He would stop. Soon, he told himself. But he was losing control, and she was letting him. And that was when it hit him.

He was no better than the man from her past—the one who’d hurt her so deeply.

“Dammit, chérie, what the hell are you trying to do to me?” Then, before she could answer, before her head had a chance to clear and grasp just how close she’d come, he melted into the shadows.

Dear Reader,

As Silhouette Books’ 20th anniversary continues, Intimate Moments continues to bring you six superb titles every month. And certainly this month—when we begin with Suzanne Brockmann’s Get Lucky—is no exception. This latest entry in her TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS miniseries features ladies’ man Lucky O’Donlon, a man who finally meets the woman who is his match—and more.

Linda Turner’s A Ranching Man is the latest of THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES!, featuring Joe McBride and the damsel in distress who wins his heart. Monica McLean was a favorite with her very first book, and now she’s back with Just a Wedding Away, an enthralling marriage-of-convenience story. Lauren Nichols introduces an Accidental Father who offers the heroine happiness in THE LOVING ARMS OF THE LAW. Saving Grace is the newest from prolific RaeAnne Thayne, who’s rapidly making a name for herself with readers. And finally, welcome new author Wendy Rosnau. After you read The Long Hot Summer, you’ll be eager for her to make a return appearance.

And, of course, we hope to see you next month when, once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you six of the best and most exciting romance novels around.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

The Long Hot Summer
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my husband, Jerry,

the hero in my life and partner in all things.

To Tyler and Jenni, for their love and bright smiles.

And to Lettie Lee, for her instincts,

support and always taking my call.

WENDY ROSNAU

lives on sixty secluded acres in the Northwoods of Minnesota with her husband and their two energetic teenagers. A former hairdresser, today she divides her time between the bookstore she and her husband opened in 1998, keeping one step ahead of her two crafty kids, and writing romance. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, painting and drawing, traveling, and, most of all, spending time with those two crafty kids and their dad.

A great believer in the power of love and the words never give up, Wendy’s goal of becoming a published author is a testimony that dreams can and do come true. You can write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401. For a personal reply send a SASE.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Angola State Penitentiary

The hell of it was, the parole deal stunk. But if Johnny agreed to the terms, he’d be breathing fresh air within the hour. It should have been an easy choice to make—he’d been rotting in Louisiana’s maximum-security prison for six months. Yeah, it should have been easy—if only the terms of his parole weren’t so ridiculous.

A buzzer sounded and the iron door electronically unlocked. “Come on, Bernard, put a wiggle in it,” the guard ordered. “The warden wants to see you, pronto.”

Contrary to the direct order, Johnny slowly got to his feet. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out his half-used pack of Camels, and passed the cigarettes to his cell mate, who lay sprawled on the top bunk. They exchanged a look; it said, Good luck, but don’t bet too high on the odds. Then, in a lazy gait that had been a Bernard trademark for over half a century, Johnny sauntered through the open door and into the corridor of Cell Block C.

When Johnny entered the warden’s office moments later, Pete Lasky looked up from the mound of paperwork scattered on his cheap metal desk. Lasky owned a pair of uncharitable blue eyes, and a false grin that exposed a row of coffee-stained teeth—an occupational hazard created by the monotony of ten-hour days sandwiched between a desk and a window overlooking a bleak, prisoner-filled courtyard. “So, Bernard, you wanna be cut loose today?”

The stupid question deserved a stupid answer, but Johnny didn’t plan on getting cute; the sixty-year-old warden didn’t own a sense of humor. “No chance for a fat fine and public service?”

“Sure would make life easier for you, wouldn’t it?” Pete grinned. “Well, it ain’t gonna happen. Easy, I mean. Never did like that word. Easy ain’t gonna teach you when to keep your mouth shut or your fist out of some poor devil’s face. And those are two lessons that would do you some good.”

Johnny had heard it all before, and in most cases what was said about him was true. Only, in this particular instance—the one the warden was referring to—he hadn’t been shooting off his mouth, or taking the first swing. Yeah, he’d retaliated, but only after Farrel had come at him.

“I’ve had two phone conversations with your hometown sheriff,” the warden continued. “Looks like Sheriff Tucker’s not any happier about these parole terms than you are. The way he tells it, you’re about as popular in Common as a copper-belly at a Fourth of July picnic. But like I told him, I’m not in the ‘happy’ business.” The warden opened his top drawer, then took out the paperwork for Johnny’s release and laid it on his desk. “By the way, if you agree to this deal, that man—the one you damn near killed—is off-limits. Any criminal conduct will nullify your parole. Carrying a weapon will do the same. Failure to comply will earn you another six months inside. So what’s it gonna be?”

Johnny jammed his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans, and the image of Belle Bayou suddenly surfaced. With it came a treasured memory from his youth—his father teaching him how to fish cane-pole style at sunrise.

The truth was, if he agreed to the warden’s parole deal, he would be waking up to that sunrise every morning for the next four months. He hadn’t been back home in years—not until six months ago, anyway—but he’d never been able to forget the bond he’d formed with the bayou.

He knew the bayou as well as any of the old-timers. He knew where the best fishing spots were. Where the shy blue herons nested, and where every hidden channel in the bayou ended up. He also knew what a stir he’d cause by showing up in town again.

“Well?”

“I’ll take the deal,” Johnny said, glancing out the window behind Pete Lasky’s desk. The sky was tauntingly clear, and maybe that’s what had suddenly been the deciding factor. Or maybe it was remembering Belle. Either way, he heard himself say, “Four months working for Mae Chapman at Oakhaven won’t kill me, but staying in here another six just might.”

An hour later, Johnny walked out of Angola’s front gate and into hell’s kitchen. That’s what his mama had always called the month of August in Louisiana. It was just after ten, and already the temperature threatened one-hundred. He headed north, his plan to catch the bus out of Tunica. A mile down the road, he pulled off his white T-shirt and ran the sleeve through an empty belt loop on his jeans.

He’d never intended to go back to Common when he’d left fifteen years ago—both of his parents were dead and he had no other family—but after receiving that damn letter six months ago from Griffin Black, curiosity had overridden common sense. The letter had offered to pay him top dollar for his land. His land?

Now, everyone knew that Johnny didn’t own any land in Common. True, his father had owned land years ago—a run-down sugarcane farm that had never earned him more than a sore back and a pile of headaches. But all things considered, delinquent taxes should have relieved him of the farm years ago. Only a week later, after strolling into Common city hall and telling the clerk what he was there for, Johnny had promptly learned that he did, in fact, own his daddy’s old farm. But just how and why remained a mystery.

The truth was, there were only two people in town who cared enough to invest any time or money in him. Only Virgil didn’t have any extra cash to speak of, so that left Mae Chapman. The question was, why would she do it?

Johnny left city hall with the intention of confronting the old lady with what he’d learned. But the day’s heat was powerful, and he’d made a quick decision to stop by the local bar for one cold beer before showing up at Oakhaven. A bad decision, he realized, the moment he opened the door to Pepper’s Bar and Grill and walked straight into his childhood enemy.

He hadn’t been trying to kill Farrel Craig the way they had accused him of doing, as much as it had looked that way when Sheriff Tucker had shown up. Yes, he’d drawn his knife, but only after Farrel had come at him with a broken beer bottle.

It had looked bad, he couldn’t deny that—but he hadn’t been willing to roll over and let Farrel carve him up like a steak. Only, the authorities didn’t see it that way. He’d been arrested and convicted for assault with intent to do bodily harm—the sentence: a year in Angola State Penitentiary.

So now here he was, six months later, faced with going back home to serve a lousy four-month parole sentence. And he would serve it. Only, by summer’s end he intended to sell the farm and sever his ties to Common for good.

The sun was just setting as the bus rolled into Common and stopped on the corner of Cooper and Main. As Johnny stepped off the bus he glanced around the bare-bones town were he’d spent the first fifteen years of his life. The streets were nearly deserted. He supposed the sultry heat had driven most of the locals inside, or maybe they’d heard he was coming. He suddenly realized he could have been happy here if only the townsfolk would have given him a chance.

Gran would never willingly have agreed to hire such a disreputable man if she had seen the rap sheet that went along with him. Disgusted, Nicole tossed the paper on the Pendleton desk. She snapped off the old-fashioned floor fan sitting next to her, then picked up the phone and dialed the Pass-By Motel.

On the third ring Virgil Diehl answered in his thick cajun accent. “Motel. De coffee’s black and dere’s vacancies.”

“Hello, Mr. Diehl, this is Nicole Chapman calling.”

“Little Nicki! Oui! I heard yo’ was back from de big city. Bet Mae’s tickled pink, ma petite. Me, too. Yo’ is de perdiest angel in all of St. James Parish. Mais yeah.”

“Merci, Mr. Diehl. You’re kind to say so.”

“Dat’s me.” Virgil chuckled. “Kind is good for business. But yo’ kin’t be wantin’ a room, ma petite, so what yo’ after?” He paused. “Maybe I already knows.”

He no doubt did. By now the news of Jonathan Bernard’s return and his newly acquired position at Oakhaven had most likely raced through the supermarket, the bakery, the corner drug, and both bars. “Sheriff Tucker told me Mr. Bernard is staying in one of your rooms,” Nicole explained. “Is he registered?”

“Johnny? Yah, he’s here. Fact be, he’s jes’ comin’ through de door now.”

“Could I speak to him, please?”

“Yah—sure t’ing, ma petite.”

While Nicole waited, she turned the fan back on. A native of California, she was used to hot weather, but Louisiana’s sultry heat was a new kind of hot. One that would surely kill her if she didn’t acclimate soon—she had never perspired so much in all her twenty-five years.

She took another quick glance at the paperwork Sheriff Tucker had dropped by an hour ago. She hadn’t read every word, but she really didn’t need to. The gist was that Jonathan Bernard had been granted parole because of job security—thanks to Gran—and good behavior.

Good behavior. Nicole sniffed, taking another quick glance at the list of offenses the man had accumulated in the past thirty years. True, most of Jonathan Bernard’s offenses dated back to when he was a teenager. And there was even a span of time—seven years, to be exact—when it appeared he had reformed. But when she’d mentioned that hopeful tidbit to Sheriff Tucker, he had assured her that Common’s black sheep didn’t know the meaning of the word reform.

That’s why she intended to intervene. True, they did need someone to work a miracle on Oakhaven over the summer—the place was falling apart—but not Jonathan Bernard.

“This here’s me. If it ain’t free, I don’t want it.”

His phone manners spoke mountains for his character. The black-bayou drawl, however, sent an unexpected chill racing the length of Nicole’s spine. She paused a moment, and in the process lost her train of thought. Scrambling to get it back, she settled for “Is ‘me’ Jonathan Bernard?”

“You got who you wanted. Only, folks call me Johnny. What you selling, cherie?”

A one-way bus ticket north, Nicole wanted to say. Instead, she said, “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Bernard. This is Oakhaven calling about your so-called job. The point is, the job is no longer available.”

Silence.

“Mr. Bernard?”

“Let me talk to the old lady.”

Nicole hadn’t been ready for that. “I—ah, she’s taking a nap in the garden.” It was the truth.

“And she asked you to call me and say she’s changed her mind, is that it?”

Nicole had hoped to settle this without involving her seventy-six-year-old grandmother. “I don’t think—”

“The job is a condition of my parole,” he drawled thickly. “The old lady signed papers agreeing to supply me with an eight-to-five job, five days a week for the summer. It’s already been settled.”

He was lying. Gran was too smart to sign anything without legal advice.

“I guess what I’m saying, cherie, is I’m nonrefundable.”

Nonrefundable. Something in his voice suggested he was smiling. Narrowing her blue eyes, Nicole switched off the fan, then quickly flipped through the papers Sheriff Tucker had left. Sure enough, there it was, a copy of a legal agreement with her grandmother’s signature on it. Damn!

“You still there?”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Nicole tried to keep her voice strong and confident.

“Is this where I get one of those sticky apologies over the phone?”

Nicole bristled, but she kept her mouth shut.

“I guess not. Well, I’ll be moving into the boathouse sometime around four.”

That bit of news was too alarming for Nicole to keep quiet a moment longer. “You’re moving into the boathouse?” She nearly choked on the words. “I don’t think so, Mr. Bernard! In fact, I—”

But it was too late for thinking or talking. Jonathan Bernard had already hung up the phone.

Chapter 2

Gran’s garden was a blue-ribbon winner. Every kind of flower, in every color imaginable, from azaleas to camellias the size of grapefruits, flourished in the tropical heat. The old plantation-style house looked tired and desperate, the surrounding fields overgrown and empty of sugarcane, but the flower garden was breathtaking, the beauty so grand that Nicole couldn’t help but sigh in wonder as she slipped through the wrought-iron gate.

She found her grandmother asleep beneath a hundred-year-old oak and knelt in the grass beside her wheelchair. Reaching up to brush a stray, snow-white strand of hair from Mae’s wrinkled cheek, she whispered, “Do you plan on sleeping the entire afternoon away?”

The gentle touch and softly spoken words roused Mae, and she blinked open her blue eyes—eyes identical to her granddaughter’s. “It must be getting late if you’ve ventured outside to wake me,” she rasped, her solid voice a contradiction to her petite size. “Since your arrival two weeks ago I haven’t seen you out much in the heat of the day. So what is it that has lured you away from that poor tired fan you’ve attached to your hip?”

Trouble, Nicole wanted to say, but she thought better of simply blurting out what she’d done. She glanced at Mae’s ankle—a week ago the porch rail had given way and her grandmother had tumbled into the flower bed. She’d received a minor cut on her cheek, a few bruises and a sprained left ankle. “How’s the ankle?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem as swollen today.”

“No, it doesn’t. Thank the Lord, I didn’t break it, or I would be in this chair longer than a month.” She looked Nicole up and down. “So, what brings you outside? We blow an electrical fuse?”

“Very funny.” Nicole made a face.

Mae made an effort to simulate Nicole’s cross-eyed contortion.

Nicole laughed. “Okay, I’ve been a might excessive,” she conceded.

“Clair and I have been trying to come up with a way for you to strap the fan on your back.”

“I didn’t know you two were so ingenious.”

“There’s a lot of things we haven’t let you in on,” Mae teased.

“Like hiring an ex-con for the summer?”

“So you’ve heard? Gossip, or from someone credible who hasn’t twisted the entire story?”

“I assume Sheriff Tucker would be considered credible.”

“He certainly would not. He’s always disliked Johnny.”

“If you took the time to read his rap sheet, you’d know why.”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Can you blame me? I’m the last to know about this.”

“It wasn’t intentional. But honestly, I just forgot to mention Johnny coming to work for us. I guess in all the excitement of your moving in, it slipped my mind.”

That might have been true of someone else, Nicole thought. But not of her grandmother. In her advancing years Mae Chapman might be losing a little of her agility, but nothing would slip her mind, which was as sharp as a razor blade and twice as quick.

“I would have remembered today, since this is—”

“The day he’s moving in.” Nicole stood and nailed her grandmother with a peeved look. “So the truth is, you’ve hired an ex-con for the summer, and planned to tell me the day he arrived, is that it? Why so soon?”

“Now, Nicki, don’t give yourself another headache. We old people get feebleminded from time to time.”

“You’re about as feebleminded as I am,” Nicole snapped, jamming her hands on her slender hips and narrowing her cool blue eyes. “And don’t you dare give me that sad, one-foot-in-the-grave slump. I’m serious. This man has an arrest record longer than a month-old grocery list. Sheriff Tucker says he’s the dark side of trouble.”

“Bah! That’s ridiculous. He’s harmless.”

“Harmless? Sheriff Tucker says he nearly killed Farrel Craig at Pepper’s Bar six months ago. I’d say he’s about as harmless as a sunburned cottonmouth with a belly rash and a sore tooth.”

Mae chuckled. “That was very good, Nicki. I must remember that one. Tell it to me again so—”

“Gran, I’m not trying to be funny.”

“I agree it was careless of Johnny to get caught fighting, but you see—”

“Caught? You condone his fighting. It’s getting caught that you—”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, dear. Farrel and Johnny were always going at it, but it wasn’t all one-sided. None of us is perfect.”

No, no one was perfect. Nicole had certainly made her share of mistakes. Still, she needed to understand the reason behind what Gran had done. “So convince me we need him. Not just any carpenter, but Johnny Bernard.”

“That’s easy. Johnny’s my friend and he needed out of that wretched place. In the bargain, we get a carpenter to restore Oakhaven.”

“Friend?” Nicole felt her pulse quicken. “How good a friend?”

“Good enough to know it’s time he stopped running and came home. There, I’ve said it. Said exactly what I’ve been feeling for years, and it’s liberating to finally say it.”

“Would he agree?”

“That he’s been running?” Mae shrugged. “Probably not. I’ll be honest with you, Nicki. You’re going to hear a lot of gossip, most of it bad. But don’t settle on an opinion until you’ve met him. I guarantee there is more to Johnny Bernard than what’s in those reports. And far more than people in this town are willing to see, if they would just open their eyes.”

Nicole could tell her grandmother believed wholeheartedly what she was saying. The question was, why would Gran feel so strongly about this man? What wasn’t she saying?

“Actually, you and Johnny have more in common than you think, Nicki. He’s not the only one the townsfolk have been gossiping about lately.”

Her grandmother eyed Nicole’s short cutoffs, then her hair. Self-consciously, Nicki tried to tame her shaggy blond hair into some semblance of order. “I’m from California, Gran. You know I’m—”

“A free spirit. Yes, I know.”

Nicole smiled, not sure that was the word she would use. Or maybe it was, but in the past year she’d been reeducated on how dangerous being your own person could be. In fact, she’d lived through a nightmare and a half, and wasn’t ashamed to admit her spirit had been broken. Snapped in half, actually.

Three months had passed since the miscarriage, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday. She still didn’t sleep through an entire night, and she continued to experience depression—a condition the doctor believed would pass in time. Only, it wouldn’t; Nicole was sure of it. Time could never wash away the guilt a woman felt over losing her child. Especially in this case, when Nicole hadn’t been so sure she’d even wanted Chad’s child. Not until after the baby was gone.

No, time would never erase her guilt, and she had told the doctor as much. She had told him she wasn’t expecting miracles because, frankly, she didn’t deserve any.

“The good news, Nicki, is that Johnny’s an experienced carpenter. He’ll be the perfect solution for our growing list of house repairs. Unless you’ve suddenly decided to buck up under the heat and learn how to pound nails and replace shingles. If not, I’d say we’re in desperate need of a man around here. Someone who can swing a hammer and isn’t afraid to sweat.”

“And you’re sure he’s not afraid of hard work?”

“Johnny grew up hard, Nicki. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll give us our dollars’ worth. For the past two years he’s been working in Lafayette for a construction outfit. The foreman told me he would hire Johnny back in a minute, no questions asked. He’s that good. And he’s a military man, too. An ex-marine. I suspect he’s got hidden talents we don’t even know about.”

Nicole arched a brow. “And just how do you suppose we can utilize an ex-con who is an expert at warfare to his fullest potential?” She paused as if thinking. Finally, she said, “Funny, but I thought we were discussing restoring Oakhaven, not blowing it up.”

“A regular funny-girl today, aren’t you?” Mae shook her head. “I think you’ll be surprised, my dear. Pleasantly surprised, that is.”

Nicole didn’t like surprises. Especially surprises that involved men. She said grimly, “He’s arriving around four.”

“You’ve talked to him? Wonderful!” Mae’s excitement sent two birds nesting overhead into flight.

“I called the Pass-By Motel,” Nicole admitted. “Sheriff Tucker said that’s where I could find him.” She purposely left out the part about trying to fire him over the phone. “He said he’ll be staying at the boathouse.”

“Yes, that was our agreement. Do you suppose, Nicki, you could send Bick down there to open the windows and air the place out? I’ll scribble a message for Johnny. Bick can leave it on the table, since I can’t get down there to meet him myself.”

Mae’s gaze traveled across the driveway to where a trail led to the boathouse. The trail was a quarter-mile through dense woods—a shortcut to Belle Bayou. “I haven’t seen Johnny in fifteen years,” she offered wistfully. “I intended to visit him in prison, but my lawyer advised against it.”

Judging by the look in her grandmother’s aging eyes, she was sorry she hadn’t. Nicole found herself growing curious. She asked, “Is there some way I can help?”

Her grandmother reached out and patted Nicole’s arm. “You already have—by coming home. First you and now Johnny. It’s perfect.” She paused. “When he left I had no idea it would be years before he came home. I wonder how he turned out in the looks department? If he ended up anything like his father or grandpa, watch out, dear. Gracious, but those Bernard men were handsome.”

Nicole didn’t need to see him to know how he’d turned out. The report on the desk in the study confirmed that Johnny Bernard had gotten his reputation the old-fashioned way: he’d earned every bit of it. And as far as his looks went, she didn’t really care how handsome he’d turned out. They weren’t shopping for a lawn ornament, just a simple carpenter. How he looked on a ladder was of no importance, as long as he could climb one.

She bent forward and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “When you get your note written, I’ll see that Bick takes it with him. What do you say we have some lemonade? I’m dying.”

“You’re always dying,” Mae teased. “Where should we have our lemonade? On the front porch?”

Nicole positioned herself behind Mae’s wheelchair. “I’ve got an original idea. Why not relax in front of the fan in the study?”

An hour later, Nicole learned that Bick had taken himself off to town. Forced to run her grandmother’s errand, she hurried along the wooded trail toward the boathouse. She checked her watch, glad to see that she still had an hour before Johnny Bernard would descend on them. She wasn’t sure how she was going to face him after trying to get rid of him over the phone, but with any luck she wouldn’t have to think about that until later. She would open the windows, leave Gran’s note on the table and be gone before he even set foot on Oakhaven soil.

Within a matter of ten minutes, Nicole was through the woods, standing in a small clearing just west of Belle Bayou. All things considered, she was more intrigued by the moody swamp than frightened by it. It had a certain allure, a quality she had tried many times to capture on canvas.

It was an artist’s paradise, she admitted. The colorful vegetation that grew out of the muck along the banks fascinated her as much as did the huge cypress trees with their gnarly roots and distorted branches. The branches dripping with Spanish moss along the water’s edge reminded her of a travel brochure she’d once seen advertising scenic Louisiana.

Her gaze followed the grassy bank to the old wood and stone boathouse, this being the first time she’d come down to the bayou since she’d arrived from L.A. From an artist’s point of view the place had immense possibilities. It was dark and eerie, straight out of a gothic novel, and when she decided to paint it, she would do so with that in mind.

She started down the overgrown path through the clearing, approaching the aging structure from the north side. She reached for the door’s rusty latch, and as she pulled it open, it groaned loudly in protest. Inside, she ran her hand along the cool brick in search of the light switch. Relieved that it still worked, that she hadn’t been greeted by any creepy-crawly surprises, Nicole followed the ray of light past the clutter and ascended the stairs to the second story.

To her surprise, what once had housed old tools and fishing gear now resembled a modest apartment. She recognized a few pieces of furniture from the house: a rocker, a bureau, a square table and two chairs. The dark red sofa, she remembered from the attic. An iron bed made up with a blue bedspread had been arranged in such a manner that one could lie down and still gaze out the window and enjoy the bayou’s beauty at night. A partition wall cut the room in half. On one side, a small kitchen; on the other, an even smaller bathroom.

The window facing the woods, as well as the one overlooking the moody, black bayou, was already open. Puzzled, Nicole concluded Bick had second-guessed Gran’s request and had opened the windows that morning. Not giving it any more thought, she placed Gran’s note on the table and walked to the nearest window to gaze outside. She scanned the shoreline, noting the boat tied to the sagging dock, the cane pole resting across the seat.

Cane pole? Bick never fished with a cane pole.

She made the mental observation just as she heard something. A moment later, she identified the noise as footsteps—footsteps that had reached the stairs and were now steadily climbing.

She glanced at her watch. It was a little past three. He had said four. Nicole made a quick swipe at her blond bangs, swore silently at her bad luck, then forced herself to turn. Her first thought was that the black-bayou voice on the phone was a perfect fit for the dark and dangerous man who had suddenly filled the doorway.

Nicole’s gaze drifted over Common’s rebel, deciding that he was everything she had expected him to be, and more. A couple of inches over six feet, he stood shirtless, his long legs encased in ragged jeans. His broad shoulders looked hard as iron, his torso and stomach a series of layered muscles and corrugated definition. It was obvious he was in top physical condition. But then, what else did a jailed criminal have to do all day but get bigger and more dangerous by pumping iron in the prison gym? Hadn’t she read a controversial article about that somewhere?

She had taken a few self-defense classes—living in L.A., it had been the smart thing to do. Even so, it would be almost funny trying to use what she’d learned against a marine who could add Angola State Penitentiary to his bio.

To be sure, he was a survivor. Of that, Nicole had no doubt—as she stared into a pair of rich amber, see-to-the-soul eyes that promised Johnny Bernard had seen it all, and possibly done it all, too.

She watched as he reached behind his back and closed the door. The movement shifted him slightly sideways, sending a stream of sunlight from the window into his straight, black hair. Loose, it would have touched his shoulders, but to combat the heat he had pulled it back from his face and secured it low at the nape of his neck.

If not for a straight high-bridged nose and a sensual mouth softening his otherwise hard features, he would have been almost too rugged to be referred to as handsome. Those two features, combined with a reckless thin scar trailing from his right eye to his temple, softened him and made him human, thus dangerously good-looking.

Clearing her throat, Nicole wrapped herself in false confidence—something she did often these days—and forced herself to speak. “I thought you said you were arriving at four o’clock.”

“Did I?” He relaxed against the door and loosely folded his arms over his broad chest. The smile Nicole imagined him wearing earlier throughout their phone conversation appeared. He spared a quick glance at the plain silver watch on his wrist, then made eye contact with her once more. “Looks like you’re early, too. Anxious to meet me, Nicki?”

She hadn’t expected him to know her name, Johnny could tell by the surprise in her blue eyes. But he did know her name, and a whole lot more. He had pumped Virgil before he’d left the motel, and the old man had been eager to talk. In fact, he had claimed Nicki Chapman the “perdiest femme” he’d ever seen. And Johnny had to agree, she was the best thing he’d seen in a helluva long time.

Somewhere in her twenties, she was a little above average height, her body curvy and delicate. The delicate part warned him off right away—he avoided fragile women like they had the plague. They reminded him of glass figurines, and, frankly, they made him nervous. He did like looking at her, though. Liked her sexy long bangs and the way she let them play an intentional game of hide-and-seek with her eyes. Her honey-blond hair was shoulder-length and shiny. Her cutoffs, mid-thigh, flashed long, slender legs and sexy knees. Her short T-shirt was a distinct shade of blue, a perfect match for her eyes.

She’d been born in L.A. Her parents had died two years ago in a plane crash. This came from Virgil. She was an only child like Johnny, Virgil had said, but he couldn’t remember what she did for a living. Apparently, she’d moved in with the old lady a few weeks ago with the intention of making Oakhaven her permanent home.

“I came to drop off a note from Gran.” She gestured to the piece of paper on the table. “I had planned to open windows, too, but I see you already opened them.” She thrust her hand out. “Ah, I’m Nicole Chapman. Mae’s granddaughter. We met on the phone.”

Johnny was surprised that she offered her hand. Most people were reluctant to get that friendly with him. Too bad he was going to have to decline the gesture. He wasn’t sure what he had on his hands, but they were filthy. He unfolded his arms and showed her that both of his hands weren’t even the same color. “I was catching supper, among other things,” he explained. “Catfish.”

Her gaze drifted to his dirty hands, then she promptly dropped the one she’d offered. “Since you’re here and you’ll be working for Oakhaven, I—”

“Will I, cherie? No new plan to fire me before I get started?”

“You made it clear over the phone that the choice wasn’t mine, remember? I believe the word you used was nonrefundable. I checked with Gran and that seems to be the case.” She broke eye contact with him and glanced around the room. “Gran took a lot of time to fix this place up. I guess that means something.” She brought her gaze back to his. “You’re a carpenter, isn’t that right, Mr. Bernard?”

“Johnny. The name’s Johnny. And, yeah, I’m a carpenter.”

“Well, Oakhaven is in need of major repairs, Johnny, so it looks like there will be plenty to keep you busy.”

Her concession to use his name amused him, and Johnny grinned. “So I’ve noticed.”

She arched one delicate eyebrow, but didn’t argue with him.

He gestured to the rocker, then shoved away from the door and strolled past her to the couch. Once she’d slipped into the chair, he dropped down on the couch and let his long legs sprawl apart. The day’s heat had flushed her face, and he noted she looked miserably hot. He, on the other hand, had never felt better. He loved the Louisiana heat; it was in his blood, the hotter the better. He’d run away from Common years ago. Only he hadn’t left the state. He’d been calling Lafayette home for almost two years.

“Will the job take the entire summer?” she asked.

“That depends on what’s on the old lady’s list.”

A bead of sweat slipped past her left temple and down her cheek. She made a swipe at it, then lifted her right leg a fraction of an inch, then the other one. It didn’t dawn on Johnny until he saw her go through the motion a second time that her bare legs were sticking to the wooden chair.

“Do you have a glass of water with ice?” she suddenly asked.

“Sure.” Johnny stood and walked into the small kitchen. He scrubbed his hands, then retrieved a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water and dropped in a couple of ice cubes from the space-saving fridge. He returned and handed it to her. “One glass of water, served with ice.”

She peered into the glass, then glanced at his clean hands. “Thank you. I haven’t adjusted to the humidity yet,” she quietly explained, “but I will eventually.”

Johnny wasn’t convinced—she looked about as miserable as she could get. He returned to the couch and watched her use the glass to cool her warm cheek. “Carpenters don’t come cheap,” he drawled, watching her slide the glass down her neck, then back up. She had a pretty neck, long and pale.

“No, they don’t. But I imagine carpenters on parole are just happy to be working at all.”

Johnny laughed out loud, liking her honesty. “So I’m supposed to work cheap, is that it? Or am I donating my time?”

She moved the glass to her opposite cheek and closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s something you’ll have to work out with Gran. She sprained her ankle a week ago and she’s in a wheelchair. I imagine we can get our supplies at Craig Lumber, don’t you think?”

“If they don’t carry it, I’m sure they’ll order it.”

“Good, I’ll call them tomorrow and make sure Gran’s account is in order.”

“Jasper Craig still own the lumberyard?”

“Yes, but I’m told Farrel— Ah, his son runs the business now that his father’s retired.”

By the look on her face, Johnny was sure she knew about the bar fight that had landed him in jail—at least, Sheriff Tucker’s version. “My parole states no physical confrontations. What that means, cherie, is I’m not supposed to engage in any violent behavior. I don’t plan on killing Farrel Craig the next time I see him.”

“Should that make me feel better?”

Johnny shrugged. “For the record, I didn’t start that fight at Pepper’s. Even though I’m sure that’s what you’ve heard. The truth is, if I had wanted Farrel dead, I would have killed him years ago. Leastwise, that’s what I told the judge. Now, maybe after I’ve been in town awhile I’ll feel different—Farrel being the number-one jackass that he is.”

“So you’re saying the bar incident wasn’t your fault?”

“I’m saying, maybe I defended myself a little too good.” Johnny paused. “Now about those repairs. The place looks like hell. Where do we start?”

For the next half hour, they discussed what Johnny would tackle first. The rotten roof and porch were the most urgent. But there was more: inside jobs for a rainy day, a dead tree in the front yard, painting, window repair.

After a while, Nicole stood, peeling her legs away from the chair one at a time. “If you could figure out some kind of a supply list, I would appreciate it. That’s really not something I understand. If you can’t—”

“I can.” Johnny stood.

She looked nervous suddenly, and as she attempted to step around the chair she stumbled. Before she landed on the floor, Johnny took one long stride and reached out to grip her upper arm, quickly bringing her back to her feet. She was as lightweight as a hollow-legged bird, he noted, letting her go as quickly as he had rescued her.

Hastily she handed him the empty water glass then pulled herself together without delay, impressing him once more with how cool and collected she could be.

She crossed to the door, surprising him when she suddenly turned around in the doorway. “Gran called you her friend. I’m curious to know if it works both ways. Do you consider my grandmother your friend, Johnny Bernard?”

Johnny stayed where he was, his hands shoved into his back pockets. “I really don’t think that’s what you want to know, cherie. What you really want to know is if she’ll be safe around me? The answer is, yes. I wouldn’t hurt the old lady, or anyone she cares about. Good enough?”

“If you mean it,” she said bluntly, and left.

Johnny listened to her light footsteps descending the stairs. And once the outside door creaked, he moved to the window to watch her cross the clearing.

Part of the reason the heat was eating her up so badly was that she moved too fast, he decided. In Louisiana, things were best done at half speed. She needed to learn that, if she was ever going to appreciate the tropical heat. He should mention it, but right now wouldn’t do much good—she’d be too busy second-guessing his motives to take a suggestion from him.

The afternoon passed quickly. Before Johnny knew it, the sun had melted into the bayou and he’d spent four hours repairing the dilapidated dock that had been ready to float away in the next windstorm. Now as he walked along the trail in the dark, his thoughts turned to the old lady. He couldn’t put off seeing her any longer, though that’s just what he’d been doing. Why, he didn’t know. Maybe because she was going to look at him long and hard with those knowing blue eyes of hers, and she was going to make him start feeling guilty for leaving fifteen years ago without saying goodbye.

The minute he emerged from the wooded trail and glanced across the driveway, he knew he’d put off seeing her too long. The two-story house was completely dark except for one lone light shining in the left wing. Relieved in a crazy way that made him feel like a vulnerable kid again, he crossed the driveway and ambled toward the big house. He could see the improvements Henry had made over the years. Mae’s late husband had been a handy devil. The courtyard had been enlarged, and there was a swing in the backyard he didn’t remember from when he was a kid. Two more sheds had been built west of the big field. The carport had been extended, and now accommodated not only Mae’s ’79 Buick, but a sleek-looking white Skylark.

Henry had died of a heart attack five years ago. Virgil had written the news to Johnny in the Marines. Johnny hadn’t kept in contact with anyone else in town, but Virgil was a persistent old bird and he had tracked Johnny down years earlier. He had written faithfully over the years. Johnny had never been much of a letter writer, but he’d managed one or two a year, which had suited Virgil just fine.

More than once, Johnny had thought about writing to Mae. But he hadn’t known what to say, so he’d just told Virgil to let her know he was alive. The day he’d received the letter of Henry’s death, for one crazy second he’d wanted to come back for the funeral. But then he’d remembered how hard it had been burying his father, and a few years later his mother, and he had chickened out.

In the sheds, Johnny found old lumber and Henry’s carpentry tools. In the older shed, he found Henry’s tan ’59 Dodge pickup. The memories the pickup resurrected were unexpected. Johnny tucked them away after circling the pickup twice, then wandered back to the house and found a sturdy oak in the front yard to settle against.

While lighting a cigarette, he saw someone pace by the French doors in the left wing of the house. Johnny knew immediately who it was—the blue-eyed bird with the shapely legs and long bangs was easy to spot. Smiling, he slid down the tree to the ground and rested his back against the sturdy oak. He ignored the steady hum of mosquitoes overhead and the distant rumble of thunder. An hour passed, and still he watched her pace the room anxious about something, or someone. Was his arrival keeping her up? It made sense; she must have heard some pretty wild stories about him by now.

By the time she turned out the light and went to bed, it was after midnight, and Johnny had smoked a half-pack of cigarettes. He got to his feet and strolled out the yard and down the driveway. Since leaving Angola he couldn’t get enough fresh air, and, although it was late, he decided to walk to his parents’ old farm.

The thunder continued as he reached Bayou Road and headed east. His pace, however, slowed steadily, his surroundings triggering memories from the past.

Johnny tried to shake them off, but in a matter of seconds he was a kid again, running so fast his lungs felt as if they would explode inside his chest, his bare feet pounding the dirt while Farrel chased after him waving a stick. He could hear Clete Gilmore hollering, calling him ugly names and encouraging Farrel to “Get him!”

As he ran, he could see Jack Oden out of the corner of his eye, could see him gaining on him. More than once Johnny had wished that the gangly kid they all called Stretch had been his friend instead of Farrel’s.

Johnny stopped abruptly. He was breathing fast, as if he’d actually been running. He shook his head, forced the image back into the black hole where it belonged. He started down the road again, this time noticing that the potholes had gotten deeper, the ditches still waterlogged and ripe with decay.

A rusted-out mailbox signaled the farmhouse was just up ahead. He stepped over the rubble that had once claimed to be a sturdy gate, and walked steadily on. His heart rate picked up again, making his chest feel miserably tight. He didn’t want to feel anything, he told himself. Least of all, vulnerable and scared. Lonely. Yet of all the feelings tugging at his insides, those inescapable emotions dominated.

He scaled the porch steps and stopped, his hand poised on the doorknob. He turned the knob—surprisingly it wasn’t locked. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever bleak remains still haunted the old house. Then, after fifteen long years, Johnny opened the door and stepped inside.

The floor creaked just the way it used to, the sharp smell of rotten wood swelling his nostrils in protest. He lit a match and glanced around the empty living room. The place had been ransacked, which couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes—poverty keeping them from owning so much as a picture to hang on the wall.

He turned to his right and held the match toward the kitchen, and when he did, something scurried across the bare wood floor. He shifted his gaze to the shredded curtains at the window, then to the crude set of cupboards, the warped doors all standing open.

He walked past the kitchen and into the little room his parents had designated his. It was barely big enough to fit a mattress on the floor, and to his surprise the old ragged remains were still there, molding in the corner.

Despair overwhelmed him, and Johnny’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, hadn’t wanted any part of the past to intrude on the present. But he was a fool to think that it wouldn’t—there was just too much he had run away from.

The depth of poverty that had kept his family in a choke-hold continued to gnaw at Johnny once he returned to the boathouse. He stood at the window overlooking Belle Bayou, a cigarette cornered in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Not liking his melancholy mood, he willed himself to think of something else. The vision that popped into his head had silky blond hair and sexy blue eyes. Johnny took his time, treated himself to the perfect fantasy.

It was all too wicked and perfect to come true, of course. But a man could dream. And so he did.

Chapter 3

The dream was nasty, and he was in it.

Disgusted with herself, Nicole jerked awake and sat up in bed. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was barely six. She’d grown used to functioning on five hours or less these past few months, tormented by the nightmare she’d left behind in L.A. Last night, however, her thoughts had shifted to the man with the river-bottom drawl and see-to-the-soul eyes.

She told herself it was because of Gran and the unusual situation surrounding Johnny Bernard’s return. But was it? The man had taken her completely by surprise yesterday. He had looked dark and dangerous, yes—but not entirely in the way she had envisioned.

Disgusted that she was giving so much thought to the subject, Nicole wrestled with the rose-colored satin sheets and climbed out of bed. The sticky, warm air inside the room settled against her, and she sighed with the knowledge that she would have to find some way to cope with the heat again today. Her gaze fell on the fan near the end of the bed, and she almost reached out and turned it on. No, if she was ever going to adjust she would have to stop relying on that damn fan.

She swept her blue satin robe off the foot of the bed, slipped it on and tied the sash around her trim waist. A quick glance outside had her wondering if the late-night rain had left a breeze behind. Relief an open door away, she moved to the French doors that led on to the front porch and flung them wide in a sudden burst of hopeful energy.

At the very least, she had expected to hear a chorus of morning songbirds, but instead she felt a clunk and heard a string of colorful cursing, half of it in French. In an instant she knew who owned that distinctive drawl. Dreading her next move, Nicole forced herself to peer around the door.

He was leaning against the house wearing beat-up jeans and scuffed brown western boots. His hair was tied back the same as yesterday, too. One of his hands was rubbing his hip and the other was pinching his nose to stem the flow of blood.

Blood. Oh, God!

Nicole ducked back inside, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and dashed back outside. “Here,” she said, shoving the pink tissues in his face.

He took the offering without saying a word and pressed the tissues to his nose. Within a few minutes the blood had stopped flowing, and he balled up the tissues and jammed them into his back pocket. Giving her his full attention now, he said, “You carry accident insurance, cherie? It looks like working for you could be dangerous.”

Instead of anger, Nicole saw amusement dancing in his dark eyes. He rubbed at his hipbone again, then flashed her a crooked smile, which Nicole rejected with a stubborn lift of her chin. “If you’re looking for fringe benefits, Mr. Bernard, you won’t find them here.”

His grin turned wicked. “Oh, I don’t know. Insurance ain’t everything.” He gave her a thorough once-over. “And the name’s Johnny. Remember?”

Nicole didn’t care one bit for his sexist ogling. “Since you’re in one piece, I’ll leave you to whatever it was you were doing.” She turned to go back inside, then hesitated. “Which was…?”

“Checking out the condition of the porch. You did say it was top priority, right?”

“Yes, I did. But this early?”

“I couldn’t sleep. You, too?” He frowned. “Funny, I had you pegged for a snoozer ’til noon.”

How he did it, Nicole didn’t know. But as she turned to leave, he slipped in front of her and blocked the door with one of his long arms. It brought them in close contact, forcing Nicole to acknowledge his hairy, bare chest covered in a sheen of sweat. He had powerful biceps, too, all muscled and honed impossibly hard.

“I could use a glass of water. Got one?”

“Water?” Nicole was suspicious, and yet she couldn’t very well deny him after asking for the same courtesy yesterday at the boathouse. “Wait here.”

He dropped his arm. “I’ll pass on the ice,” he told her.

She hurried past him, through her bedroom and into the private bathroom, where she filled a glass quickly. But as she stepped back into her bedroom, she was brought up short—Johnny Bernard stood only a few feet from her bed.

He turned, saw her surprise, and said, “Red Smote just pulled in the front yard. Hanging around outside your open door looked worse than just coming in. Should I leave?”

“I think that would look worse, don’t you?” Nicole glanced at the clock. It was barely six. “If Red sees you leaving at this hour…” She didn’t need to go on.

“Red’s the biggest gossip in town,” he agreed. “At least, he used to be. We wouldn’t want the town speculating on something that never happened.” He relaxed his stance and shoved one hand into his left front pocket. “Hell, if a guy’s gonna be accused of something memorable, he should at least have the pleasure of doing it first.”

He was teasing her, his knowing eyes full of mischief. But just for the record, to let him know she wasn’t a push-over, she said, “I know where to kick you to make it hurt the most, so if you’ve got any ideas, I suggest you forget them.”

He laughed. “You won’t get any work out of me if I can’t walk, cherie.”

He had a point. Nicole took the necessary steps to close the distance between them, and handed over the glass of water. Then, to make sure Red was truly in the yard, she chanced a quick glance out the door. Sure enough, he was leaning on the hood of his run-down, red Ford pickup, talking to Gran’s handyman, Bickford Arden, the husband to their loyal housekeeper. Several mornings a week the two elderly men went fishing before breakfast. Hoping that was the plan and that they would head to the bayou soon, Nicole turned around to assure Johnny that he could leave shortly, only to find he’d moved closer to her bed and had become very interested in the rumpled satin sheets where she’d tossed and turned half the night.

Color swept into Nicole’s cheeks, and Johnny turned just in time to witness it. “Restless night?”

“The heat,” she responded.

He glanced around the room. Nicole was sure he had no interest in floral wallpaper in Wedgwood-green and gypsy-rose, but his eyes seemed to miss nothing. She doubted that he would be able to quote what the massive bed, bureau and matching vanity were worth on the antique collectors’ market, but, still, his interest was keen as his hand brushed over each piece in obvious appreciation. Finally, he stopped in front of her vanity, his dark eyes finding her in the generous mirror. “Heard you’re staying.”

“Yes, I am,” Nicole assured.

“And the heat?”

“I’ll learn to love it.”

He grinned. “You move too fast. Slow down some. That’ll help.” He emptied his water glass, set it on the vanity, then turned his attention to her lacquered jewelry box. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the top open and looked inside.

Surprised by his boldness, Nicole stared speechless as he rummaged through her personal items, a piece at a time. Finally, his head came up to capture her reflection once more in the mirror. A minute dragged into two before he let his gaze drop back to her modest assortment of baubles, and he pulled out an inexpensive bracelet. “No shiny rocks, cherie.” He looked at her in the mirror again as if waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he returned the bracelet to the box and closed it. “So what’s important to you, Nicki Chapman? It’s obviously not a box full of gold and silver.”

No it wasn’t, Nicole admitted to herself. To some women, expensive jewelry was important, but not to her. Oh, she liked nice things, but she was more a simple pleasures kind of woman. She enjoyed painting a breathtaking sunrise. Walking in a warm summer rain. She thought a bona fide laugh, a beautiful smile, priceless. But those were her private thoughts and she didn’t intend to share them with a stranger.

“Look, Mr. Ber—Johnny, what’s important to me is my business. Yours is doing the job you were hired to do, not asking questions.”

“Does that work both ways? You don’t have any questions for me?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Nicole argued. “I’m not on parole. And I haven’t earned a reputation in this town as a troublemaker.”

Instead of being offended his dark eyes softened and he wagged a finger at her. “Shame on you for listening to the gossip, cherie. You know what they say. Half of it usually isn’t true.”

“And the other half?”

“Sometimes fighting back is the only way you can survive.”

It was clear that he was a man ripened by experience and polished by a predatory edge. Still, was he saying all that was just a false front? That he’d reacted instead of acted? Nicole had done much the same thing, only not in such a grand fashion. She’d donned her L.A.-cool facade to survive the pain she’d left behind, and even before she’d lost her baby, when Chad had walked out on them, she’d pasted a smile of indifference on her face.

She didn’t want to dismiss his offenses so easily, but if she was right, she couldn’t help wondering who or what had prompted his less-than-sterling reputation. Surely not just bad blood between him and Farrel Craig.

She asked, “Why did you ignore Gran’s message to stop by the house yesterday?”

“I didn’t ignore it. I came by.”

“You certainly did not.”

“Yes, I did. I started to fix the dock at the boathouse and lost track of time, but I showed up about nine.” He shrugged. “The place was dark, except for this room. I didn’t knock at the front door because I figured the old lady had gone to bed already.”

Was he telling the truth? Nicole didn’t know, but then, why would he lie? “She waited all afternoon and into the evening. That was inconsiderate. Let’s hope today you find the time. After all, she is the one responsible for getting you out of prison early, Mr. Bernard.”

“Johnny. My friends call me Johnny.”

“Friends?” Nicole arched a brow in a mocking fashion that she knew wouldn’t go unnoticed. “So far, the only friend you have in this town—the only one I’m aware of, anyway—is my grandmother. And I’m still confused as to why she’s so willing, when you don’t appear to appreciate her kindness with even the simplest thank-you.”

Her chastising seemed to amuse him. He said, “Actually I have two friends in this town. Maybe in time I could add you to the list and make it three. What do you say, cherie? Think you could stop disliking me long enough to cut me some slack?”

“Cut you some slack?” Nicole sniffed. “And then what?”

“Then we get on with the reason I’m here.”

“Whether I’m your friend or not, Mr. Bernard, you will do the job Gran expects of you. A full day’s work, plus room and board, for the taste of freedom.”

“Yeah, that was the deal we made. But what about our deal?”

“I don’t understand.”

He gave her another head-to-toe. “You’re not exactly ugly, cherie. If you can get past the gossip and give me a fair shake, I’ll see that I keep my hands in my pockets and my dirty thoughts to myself.” He made a show of stuffing his hands in his back pockets.

Well, that was certainly blunt enough, Nicole thought. “Dirty thoughts are dirty thoughts, Johnny. Maybe the deal should be not having them at all.”

His laugh bounced off the walls. “Cherie, I’ve been in prison six months. My dirty thoughts are what kept me sane.”

There was no way she could respond to that without wading into dangerous water, so Nicole kept silent.

A moment later, he rounded the bed to gaze at the painting hanging on the wall. She had painted the picture of Oakhaven’s private swimming hole three years ago when she and her parents had come for a two-week visit. It was the summer before her parents had been killed in a plane crash.

“Nice picture. Someone local paint it?”

“No.” In L.A. Nicole had been a rising star on the gallery circuit. Or at least, she had been until a few months ago. Lately, painting had become as difficult as sleeping.

He turned around, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper. “I’ve got a supply list started.” He circled the bed, stopped less than a foot away from her and handed her the list. “They might have to order some of this, so get on it right away.”

Nicole accepted the paper, but when she glanced at it and none of it made sense, she turned and laid it on the nightstand. “I’ll call today.”

“The shingles come in different colors and styles. They’ll have some samples at the yard you can look at.” He glanced outside. “The coast is clear.”

Nicole walked to the French doors. Sure enough, Bick and Red had left for the bayou. She felt him come up behind her, brush past. She said, “Will you see Gran today? She really was in a mood last night when she finally gave up on you.”

He turned around, waited as if expecting her to say more.

Finally Nicole gave in and said, “Please?”

A lazy smile parted his lips. “Yeah, as soon as she gets her hair combed and her teeth in, I’ll come by.” He started to leave again, then hesitated. “See how easy it is, cherie? A simple ‘please,’ and already you’ve got me eating out of your hand.”

He cut down the dead tree in the front yard before noon. Officially, he had two days before he started work, but the tree was an eyesore, and, anyway, it felt good to do some physical labor.

Sweat-soaked from the day’s heat, Johnny took a good whiff of himself and wrinkled up his nose. A sour fungus growing on something rotten smelled better than he did right now. He glanced at the sky and decided it had to be around one o’clock. He hoisted the chain saw and axe and returned them to one of the sheds, then headed back to the house.

He found the old lady in the garden. He stopped just outside the gate, his chest tightening awkwardly as he assessed her asleep in her wheelchair beneath the old oak. She had always affected him strangely, touching that vulnerable part of him, that little-boy part that was attracted to someone who treated him like they cared. He still didn’t know why she had bothered with him; he’d been a wild little bastard. But if he had any good in him at all, Mae Chapman could take credit for it.

She blinked awake as if sensing he was there, her blue eyes cloudy and content as they fastened on him. Her thinning wisps of white hair were pulled back in an attempt to make a small bun at her nape. She was thinner than he remembered, her frail body lost in the fabric of her simple yellow cotton dress.

“I expected to see you yesterday—this morning at the latest,” she called out, her voice strong and lucid. “You got a reason to avoid me?”

She spoke bluntly, but without rancor. Her raspy voice sent another burst of emotion through him as Johnny swung the gate open and strolled through. He noticed the bandage on her right ankle, smiled when on further inspection, he saw her small feet tucked into a pair of modern-looking tennis shoes meant for a woman half her age. “Heard you were laid up.” He gestured to her injury. “Didn’t see any need to bother you too early.”

“My ankle’s got nothing to do with my ability to get out of bed. And it hasn’t affected my speech, either.” She spun the wheelchair around to face him.

“No, it doesn’t appear so.” Johnny grinned. “Then again, you were never short on words, as I recall.”

His teasing brought a smile to her gaunt face, exposing a row of perfect-fitting dentures. “Land sakes, look at you.” She gave him a prideful once-over. “You still got your daddy’s eyes. Kept his shiny hair, too. Delmar would have liked that.”

At the mention of his father, Johnny’s thoughts turned to the events that had lured him back to town six months ago, and what had happened since. “Are you the one?” he asked. “Have you been paying the taxes on the old farm?”

Her reaction to his question was a slow lifting of one thin white brow. “Now, why would I want to do that?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Johnny countered, still feeling far more emotion than he liked.

“I never invest in anything that isn’t a sure thing.”

“Oh? Then why did you waste your time on me all those years ago? Or have your lawyer hammer out a deal with the parole board? If you got a reason for dragging me back here, old lady, I want to hear it.”

“Your manners are still gut rot, boy.”

“Answer the question!” Johnny demanded, his patience stretched. “I got a letter from Griffin Black six months ago wanting to buy me out. Now I was sure he was crazy, that is until I came back here and found out I still owned the farm. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

She looked crestfallen. “I had no idea this would cause so much trouble. I’m sorry.”

She looked suddenly old and vulnerable. Ashamed of himself, Johnny said, “I was coming to see you that day. After I left city hall and I’d found out about that trustee business, I stopped for a quick beer and—I guess you know what happened after that.”

“What always happens when you and Farrel get within ten feet of each other.” She shook her head. “But I’m to blame this time. If I had let you know about the farm, none of this would have happened.” She narrowed her eyes. “I would have told you if you had bothered to write, that is.”

Johnny swore. “Keeping that land for me was a foolish mistake.”

“I suppose me caring about you is foolish, too?”

Johnny ignored the question. “Virgil says you’re going to be in a financial squeeze if you don’t sell off your fields or start making a profit from them. You should be putting your money to better use than wasting it on that worthless farm on the hill.”

“Virgil’s got a big mouth. And speaking of old Big Mouth, how come you wrote to him and not me? It wouldn’t have hurt you to write me a few lines every other year, would it?” She looked him squarely in his eyes. “You didn’t have to leave, you know. Henry and me were prepared to take you in when your mother died. You could have lived here with us instead of run off like you did.”

Yes, he knew she would have taken him in. And that’s what had scared him the most. The people who had cared about him had never stayed very long in his life. It wasn’t rational thinking, but he’d been scared to death to depend on Mae and Henry after his mother had died. It had been easier just to run away. To leave all his problems behind and start over where no one looked at him twice because his name happened to be Bernard.

“What did you tell Griffin?” she asked.

“He’s offering a fair price. Besides, what do I need with a piece of land when I’ll be gone in four months?”

“Do me a favor. Wait to make your decision until the end of the summer.”

“It won’t make any difference,” Johnny insisted. “As soon as my parole is up, I’ll be going back to Lafayette.”

When she didn’t argue with him, Johnny leaned against a nearby oak and turned his attention on the house. Ready to discuss the repairs on the porch, the sight of Nicole crossing the front yard in a black skimpy top distracted him. He let his gaze wander, his eyes fastening on her cutoff jeans, noticing once more how they hugged her backside like an overcharged magnet. “How come I never knew about that?” he asked without thinking the question through, a moment later wishing he had.

The old lady followed his line of interest. “Nicki? That would be Alice’s fault. She was a stingy woman, my daughter-in-law. She didn’t like sharing my son Nicholas, or my granddaughter. Henry and I were visited a few holidays a year, and we got Nicki one week each summer. It wasn’t enough, but it was better than nothing.”

Johnny heard the bitterness in the old lady’s voice. “She says she’s staying. That her idea or yours?” He glanced back just in time to catch the old lady arch both white eyebrows.

“It was my suggestion, but Nicki’s decision.”

Johnny followed Nicole’s progress as she crossed the road. “So what’s her story?”

“If and when she thinks you should know, I’m sure she’ll tell you.”

Johnny had hoped the old lady would feel generous and offer a little free information. But it looked like she wasn’t going to. Instead, for the next half hour they talked about how hot the summer was expected to be, the repairs on the house, and who had died since he’d been away.

Johnny didn’t mention Nicole again, or the fact that he’d been in her bedroom that morning. It might be perverse, but he liked knowing something the old lady didn’t. Liked keeping the memory of the slender blonde in her robe all to himself.

After a time, the conversation waned, and he shoved away from the gnarly oak. “I’ll see you later.” He took a step toward the gate.

“Not so fast. Will the boathouse do? You could never get enough of the bayou.”

“Still can’t,” he admitted. “I fixed the dock yesterday. That’s why I was late making it up to the house last night. You’d gone to bed. Guess I forgot you old people turn in early,” he teased.

When he turned around to give her one last look, he caught her smiling. “You always had a smart mouth. But it’s a good-looking one, to be sure,” she conceded. “Join me for supper?”

Somehow, arriving on the back doorstep like a stray dog looking for a handout didn’t sit too well. Johnny shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She grunted, and she, too, shook her head, which sent the loose skin on her cheek into a slight tremor. “The more things change, the more things stay the same. Supper’s at seven. Come through the front door, and put on a shirt.”

A bar of soap jammed in his back pocket, Johnny left the boathouse and headed for Oakhaven’s swimming hole. He didn’t have to think twice how to find his way. He hung a left off the trail, ducked under a familiar leafy hickory, and the swimming hole came into plain view. Small and secluded, the pond still looked like a well-kept secret in the middle of nowhere.

Johnny pulled off his boots, stripped his socks and unzipped his jeans. He was just seconds away from sending them to the ground when he heard a loud splash. He gave his jeans a tug back to his hips, yanked his zipper upward, then moved to the water’s edge.

So this is where she’d gone.

Johnny watched as Nicole surfaced, then rolled onto her back and began kicking her way to the middle of the pond. Something blue caught his eyes along the shore. He slipped through the foliage and found her towel and cutoffs draped over a downed hickory limb. A pair of canvas sling-back shoes were perched on a stump.

She had no idea someone was there, and he could have sat and watched her all afternoon—something he would have enjoyed doing if he weren’t so annoyed by the fact that she was so unobservant. He scanned the bank until he found two flat stones. Then, gauging the distance, he dropped down on one knee and let the first rock fly. It entered the water like a shot out of a gun, sailing past Nicole’s pretty nose with deadly accuracy. By the time he’d sent the second rock zooming on its way, her feet had found the bottom of the pond, and she was searching the bank with alarm in her wide eyes.

When she spied him, her alarm turned to anger. “Are you crazy! You missed me by less than an inch.” Her voice was shrill, irritation evident in the straining pitch.

“No, it was more like four,” Johnny quipped.

She waded toward him, her breasts swaying gently in her swimsuit. She left the pond behind and kept coming up the grassy bank. “One inch or four—I don’t see much difference, Mr. Bernard. It was too close and—”

“Johnny.”

She stopped a few feet away and met his eyes disparagingly. “What?”

“You keep forgetting my name.”

She glared down at him where he still knelt in the grass. “We’ve been all through that,” she snapped.

“Yes, we have.” He glanced around as if looking for something, or someone. “You haven’t seen old One Eye around, have you?”

“One Eye?” She tipped her head to one side and began squeezing the water from the ends of her hair. “What’s a ‘one eye’?”

Johnny stood and hung his hands loosely on his hips. “One Eye’s a gator. He used to take his afternoon nap in this here swimming hole years ago.”

Her hands stilled. “An alligator? Here?”

Johnny told the lie easily. One Eye had always favored the privacy of the black bog deeper in the swamp. And he might still be there. But more than likely, the aging gator had been turned into a purse or a sturdy pair of boots by now.

He let his gaze travel the length of her delicate curves. Outlined in the skimpy, two-piece swimsuit, she was definitely hot. He wanted to stay in control of the situation, but his imagination was working overtime, and right now he would have liked nothing better than to run his hands over her satin-smooth skin, lick the water beads from her bare shoulders, lower her to the grassy bank for some serious one-on-one.

“You always run around half-dressed, or is this a sign my luck’s changing? Twice in one day. I’d say that’s—”

“Is there something you wanted besides stopping by to give me a hard time?”

Now there was a phrase. Johnny shifted his stance hoping to ease his discomfort, then reached for her towel and tossed it to her. She caught it, and after drying herself off, she picked up her cutoffs and slipped them on.

“Next time you think about swimming, it would be smart to tell somebody where you’re going.” Johnny glanced over Nicole’s shoulder to where a snake hung camouflaged in the branches. It was a harmless variety, and yet it could just as easily have been poisonous. She was completely unaware of her surroundings, and, again, it angered him. “This isn’t L.A., cherie. You got more to worry about here than rush-hour traffic and parking tickets. Here, you never know what might fall out of the sky.”

She looked thoroughly annoyed with him. She said, “If that’s all you came by to say, it’s getting late. Gran will be—”

“Glad I came along to make sure you didn’t drown, or worse.”

“I’m a good swimmer.”

With lightning-quick reflexes, Johnny shot his arm out past her head and yanked the snake out of the tree. As it dangled from his outstretched hand, thrashing to free itself, he drawled, “And just how good are you with curious snakes?”

To his surprise, she didn’t go crazy on him and start screaming the way he’d expected she would. She did, however, take several steps back. “I didn’t see it,” she admitted.

“I know.” He gave the mottled brown snake a mighty heave into the woods. “It’s just a harmless milk snake, but until you see it, how would you know? By then, it could be too late.” Lesson over, he changed the subject. “You call Craig about those supplies we need? Talk to him about ordering shingles?”

“I tried.”

“What do you mean, tried?”

“Farrel Craig wasn’t in his office when I called this morning. It’ll have to wait until Monday. I’ve decided to go into town, that way then I can order the shingles.”

His bar of soap must have slipped out of his pocket. She bent to pick it up and tossed it to him. “When you decide to wash, don’t forget to use it.”

She was past him before he had a chance for a comeback. Johnny watched her go, her hips swaying slowly. Each step she took appeared innocent enough, and maybe that was the turn-on. There was something erotic and very inviting about a woman who had no idea how completely she affected a man, inside and out. And there was no doubt Nicole Chapman affected him. He’d spent half the night thinking about her, and most of the morning.

Once she was gone, Johnny unzipped his jeans and shoved them to his knees. He was just stepping out of them when he saw her shoes sitting on the stump.

Nicole stopped to examine her injury. The inch-long cut on the bottom of her foot wasn’t deep, but it hurt like the devil. Angry with herself for forgetting her shoes, she started back to the pond, limping like a lame bird. She wouldn’t have forgotten the damn shoes if it hadn’t been for that blasted snake. It had taken all the composure she owned to keep from screaming and acting foolish.

If she’d returned to the pond a second sooner, Nicole was sure, she would have caught Johnny Bernard buck naked. He looked as surprised as she did when she reappeared—his hair loose and hanging free to his shoulders, his jeans riding low on his hips, the zipper at half-mast.

She motioned toward the stump where her shoes sat. “I—I forgot them.” She took a step to retrieve them, and winced when a sharp pain shot into the bottom of her foot.

“What happened?”

“Just a scratch.” Nicole tried to downplay her injury and the pain it was causing. Johnny Bernard hadn’t come right out and said what he thought of a city girl moving to the country, but she sensed he didn’t think she would last long.

His gaze sharpened. “You didn’t step on something you shouldn’t have, did you?”

Was he trying to be funny or was he serious? She had thought it was a stick that she’d stepped on, but now suddenly worried, Nicole hobbled to the nearest tree. Leaning against it, she raised her foot to examine the injury. The blood covering the bottom of her foot made it difficult. She wiped it away, trying to pinpoint the pain.

“Here, let me have a look.”

Nicole glanced up and found him standing over her. “No, really, I’m fine.”

“Let’s make sure.”

She slid down the tree and sat. “Just don’t make it hurt worse.”

He crouched in front of her and took hold of her foot. His hands were big and warm, rough from the kind of work he did. He wiped away the blood on his jeans, then carefully examined the cut. Finally he said, “You’ll live, but you need surgery.”

“What!”

Nicole tried to jerk her foot back, but he hung on. In fact, he tightened his grip. “Easy. There’s a sliver in there, and you could drive it deeper if you’re not careful.”

“A sliver?” Relieved, Nicole sighed and relaxed against the tree.

“A good-size sliver,” he corrected. “It needs to come out.”

“And it will,” Nicole assured. “Gran can—”

“I don’t think you should wait.” His dark eyes found hers. “If you put your weight on it, you could break it off or force it deeper. ’Course, I could carry you to the house…”

“Carry me? No. I—”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He worked his hand into the front pocket of his ragged jeans and came up with a long sleek knife that unfolded into something that looked like it came straight out of a Rambo movie. That he owned such a knife was bad enough, but to think he was going to use it to probe the bottom of her foot was worse.

“Wait!”

He looked up. “You change your mind, cherie? You want a ride to the house?”

Damn him, but he almost looked as if he were enjoying this, Nicole thought.

When she didn’t answer, he settled more comfortably in the grass, tucked his hair behind his ears, then took hold of her foot again. She wasn’t expecting him to be gentle, but as she leaned her head against the tree and braced herself for what was to come next, she had to give him more than a little credit; he treated her foot like a piece of fragile glass.

She closed her eyes at the first prick of pain. “Talk to me,” she insisted. “Say anything. Gran said you were a marine,” she began, sucking in her breath as the pain began to build.

“For five years.”

“Ouch!” Nicole bit her lip.

“Easy. This damn thing’s twice as long as it is deep. Just breathe slow and even.”

He sounded sincere. Nicole braced herself and tried to do as she was told. “Why did you quit the military?”

“I didn’t quit. I was medically discharged.” His hand stilled, and he glanced up. He offered her a smile before he lowered his head and went back to work. Quietly, he drawled, “I won’t cut your toes off, cherie. I promise.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I spent some time in Kuwait.” He looked up, laid the knife in the grass. “This isn’t working, cherie, but I know what will.”

Before Nicole could ask him what he had in mind, he lifted her foot upward and pulled. The movement dragged her away from the tree, and, to keep her balance, she arched her back and rested on her elbows for support. He took in her sprawled position and said, “Now, don’t move, no matter what. Okay?”

Nicole hesitated, then nodded warily.

He lowered his head, and a moment later his warm breath touched the bottom of her foot. Nicole had no idea what he meant to do until she felt his tongue slide over the cut. She clutched the grass at her sides in tight fists and craned her neck to see what was going on. He’d said don’t move, but my God, he was licking the bottom of her foot!

She tried to sit up while at the same time pulling her foot away. He looked up. “I said, don’t move. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

He went back to work, and Nicole felt his tongue glide slowly over her foot once more. She decided to give him exactly one minute, and if he didn’t—

“Ou-ouch!” Nicole jerked her foot away from him with such force that it sent her falling onto her back. She closed her eyes for a second, the pain momentarily stealing her breath. It had felt as if he’d sent the sliver clean through the top of her foot.

“You all right?”

Nicole slowly opened her eyes. Johnny was kneeling over her, the ends of his black hair almost tickling her face, those unnerving eyes smiling down at her. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. And there it was—the wicked-looking sliver.

“It’s huge,” Nicole gasped.

He turned his head away from her and spit the splinter into the thick brush, then sat back on his heels. “When I was a kid, my mama used to take slivers out that way. We never owned a pair of tweezers.” He reached for his knife and slipped it back into his pocket, then stood and held out his hand to help her up.

Nicole took his offered hand, and he easily pulled her up. She tested out her foot, the pain only slight now. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

Now that her crisis was past, Nicole once again became fully aware of Johnny Bernard. They were standing close, his chest gleaming and hard, his half-zipped fly exposing an appealing dark navel. Yes, she’d noticed his attributes yesterday and again this morning in her bedroom, but that didn’t mean she wanted anything from him, because she most definitely did not.

“I need to get back,” she announced quickly.

“Yeah, me, too. I’ve been invited to supper.”

Nicole reached for her shoes and slipped them on. “I thought you said you didn’t have many friends.”

“That’s right. Just so you know, cherie, the old lady invited me to join the two of you for supper. See you at seven.”

Chapter 4

“A little warning would have been nice,” Nicole insisted.

“Warning? Why would you need to be warned?” Mae asked. “You don’t have to do any cooking. Clair will take care of that like she always does. All you have to do is show up. You don’t even have to change your clothes or comb your hair if you don’t want to. You look fine.”

Gran had completely missed the point. She wasn’t talking about her clothes, for heaven’s sake, or the menu. She simply saw no reason for Johnny Bernard to share meals with them. He had a kitchen in his apartment above the boathouse. Wasn’t that good enough?

“I still can’t believe how much he’s changed,” Mae mused. “I tell you, Nicki, when Johnny stepped into the garden today, and I got my first look at him after fifteen years, I couldn’t believe it was the same scrawny youngster. Oh, I knew it was him—he’s got his daddy’s eyes and his grandpa Carl’s mouth.” Mae plucked another wilted blossom off the azalea in the corner and dropped it into her lap, then focused her attention on Nicole once more. “Did you say it was at the swimming hole you ran into him?”

Nicole sat a little straighter in the white wicker chair on the front porch. “Yes. I went to cool off.”

“Ninety-eight in the shade today,” Mae confirmed. “Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter.”

“Oh, goodie.”

Mae chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, dear. Now then, down to business. Over supper, I think we should discuss our remodeling ideas with Johnny—the first being the attic. I know there are other things that seem more important, but it would make such a lovely studio for you, Nicki.”

“I know you think so.” Nicole did, too. It was a wonderful idea; that is, it would have been if she felt at all creative and focused these days. Only, she hadn’t been able to do much of anything but feel sorry for herself the past three months. She wanted to return to work, she really did—but just thinking about painting caused her palms to sweat.

She stood and crossed to the porch railing, unwilling to let her grandmother see her anxiety. “I’ve been thinking about taking the summer off,” she said, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. “I haven’t had a vacation away from my career since I sold my first painting four years ago. I’m tired and—”

“The entire summer?” Mae gave a hollow whistle. “Do you think that’s smart? You love your work, and the galleries…won’t they be anxious to get something new on their walls?”

“I’ve taken that into consideration,” Nicole assured, leaning against the support post. But she wasn’t worried about the galleries; what she wanted most of all was the fever back. She wanted to wake up tomorrow morning with a driving need to create something alive and beautiful. But what if she never felt the fever again? What if she had lost her talent? What if it had vanished along with everything else? She couldn’t begin to describe the fear that daily clawed at her insides. And if she tried to explain it to Gran, she would have to reveal everything. And right now she simply couldn’t do that.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of something else. She was successful in putting it out of her mind, but, in the trade-off, the topic circled back to another unpleasant topic. Her grandmother asked, “Did you see Johnny got rid of that old dead tree in the yard?”

Nicole concentrated on growing a nasty headache, the kind that drained your complexion and dulled your eyes. The kind that would excuse her from the supper table.

“Nicki, did you hear? The tree’s gone.”

Nicole opened her eyes and glanced out into the front yard. “Yes, I noticed,” she said without emotion.

“Make sure you comment on it at supper. Say he’s done a fine job, or something to that effect. A little praise is what he needs to hear right now. It will boost his confidence.”

“I think I’m coming down with a headache,” she primed.

“Well, take something before it gets out of hand, dear. You wouldn’t want it to spoil supper.”

“No,” she agreed, “that would be unfortunate.”

A stingy breeze, slow and barely evident, drifted onto the porch. Like a greedy beggar, Nicole raised her chin in an attempt to cool her warm cheeks. She could smell the potted azalea in the corner, the fried chicken Clair Arden was preparing for supper. “Will it rain tonight?”

“No, but maybe tomorrow. So did we decide on green or gray shingles, Nicki? I think you said green, right?”

Nicole felt a tug on the uneven hem of her orange tank top. She glanced down to see that Gran had wheeled up close.

“The shingles, Nicki. What color? I can’t remember what we agreed on.”

“We didn’t, did we?”

“We certainly did.” Mae arched a thin brow. “This drifting in and out that you do—is it a creative thing, or is there something on your mind I should know about?”

“What?”

“I keep telling myself it isn’t that I’m a boring old woman, but that you’re simply creating upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“In the mind, Nicki. Honestly, one minute we’re having a conversation, and the next you’re lunching with the fairies.”

“I was thinking about how to remodel the attic,” Nicole lied.

Mae pointed at Nicole’s splattered tank top. “Is this another one of those fashion statements? What do they call this one? Homeless, or the rag of the month?”

Nicole didn’t feel like smiling, but Gran’s comments were always amusing. The dress code in Common was definitely not as liberal as in L.A. “Have the ladies at the garden club been talking?”

“Of course,” Mae admitted honestly, her eyes reflecting not a bit of censure. “No one moves to Common without getting a head-to-toe and a couple dozen opinions for free. Pearl Lavel tells me her son saw you last week at the post office and he’s been talking about you ever since. Sounds to me like you made quite an impression on Woodrow. If you’re wondering, he’s single and twenty-seven. I don’t believe he’s a strong enough personality for you, though, and Clair agrees.”

They’d had a similar discussion earlier in the week. Only, it had been in reference to Gordon Tisdale’s son, Norman. He was single, too. A thirty-six-year-old teacher at the grade school. Gran and Clair’s assessment of Norman, however, was that he didn’t have a sense of humor—a vital component for a lasting marriage.

Nicole rubbed her temple, the headache she’d been hoping for was going to be a reality very soon if they started talking about eligible bachelors, marriage and babies.

Mae glanced at her watch. “It’s almost seven. Johnny should be coming soon.”

The comment prompted Nicole to look across the road to the wooded trail. The sun was sinking, causing shadows to grow between the trees. Soon the mosquitoes would come, and like a gray cloud of doom they would chase anyone with half a brain inside. “Did you know his family well?”

“Yes. Delmar and Madie were good people, honest and likable. Madie was the prettiest girl in town, I always said. And the men agreed. They were all after her.” Mae returned to the azalea bush and began plucking dead blossoms. “That old farm was a curse, though. Nothing ever grew in those fields, no matter how hard Delmar tried. Finally, he gave up and took himself off to town. Got a job at the lumberyard working for Jasper Craig. No one else in town would hire him, but Jasper surprised everyone and took Delmar on. It lasted a few months, then the accident happened.”

“What accident?”

“Delmar was run over.”

“Run over? Was he killed?”

“I’m afraid so. The driver of the car must not have seen him. It happened down the road about a mile. They never did learn who was behind the wheel. Henry found him early that morning. We called Sheriff Tucker, and he came out. Delmar was so badly mangled, they didn’t show him at the funeral. Poor Madie cried her eyes out for months. Johnny…well, after that, things just got harder for him. Then Madie got sick a few years later and died from cancer. Day after we buried her, Johnny ran off.”

Nicole turned to face her grandmother. “You wanted him to stay, didn’t you.”

Mae’s eyes turned warm with affection. “The first time I saw that boy something inside me melted. He was barefoot and so skinny he was all ribs and legs. He had a smart mouth and language like nothing I’d ever heard. ’Course his orneriness was just a front, you see, a way to cover up being scared. The kids in town were awfully mean to him. It’s why I know that fight at Pepper’s wasn’t all Johnny’s doing. I’m not saying he didn’t participate, but I know in my heart he didn’t start it.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Farrel Craig was on the other end of that fight. Anytime that boy got near Johnny, there was trouble. Farrel and those two puppets of his, Clete Gilmore and Jack Oden, used to chase Johnny home after school everyday. It started way back in grade school.” A honeybee buzzed around Mae’s head. She paid no attention as she went on. “I’ve never told this to a soul, but Henry and I would have adopted Johnny if he hadn’t run off. Yes, Nicki, I wanted him to stay, and I would be lying if I denied I want him to stay now. Running away from your problems isn’t the answer. Deal with the demon, I always say. Or the demon will chase you all your life.”

Nicole gazed across the yard, not knowing what to say. The summer oak leaves began to rustle, and she angled her face to catch the elusive evening breeze. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the night sounds coming alive in the distant bayou.

Suddenly the feeling of being watched intruded on her, and she opened her eyes just as a shadowy figure broke through the oak grove and started across the road. She fixed her gaze on Johnny Bernard’s slow, ambling gait, on the quiet strength he exuded with each step. No one else walked quite like he did, she decided. There was something mesmerizing about the unhurried way he moved. Something raw and earthy. Primal.

He wore a white T-shirt stretched over his iron chest. He’d even taken the time to tuck it into a pair of jeans that were in better condition than she’d seen him in so far, but even at this distance, she could see they weren’t hole-free. He was crossing the yard now, his shiny black hair moving slightly in answer to the sultry summer breeze. She hadn’t wanted to think about their afternoon meeting at the pond, but suddenly she could think of nothing else. The memory of how easily he’d handled the snake, the way he’d gotten her attention by skipping rocks practically under her nose. The way his silky tongue had slid over the bottom of her foot.

Aware that her heart had begun to race, Nicole quickly spun away from the railing.

“Nicki! Nicki, where are you going?”

“He’s coming.” Nicole headed for the open French doors that led into the study, her voice straining to sound normal. “I’ll tell Clair supper will be on time.”

Mae arrowed her wheelchair in front of the open French doors leading into the study. “You don’t mind wheeling an old lady in, do you? Nicki went to tell Clair we’re on our way.”

Johnny had seen Nicole shoot inside like someone had lit a fire under her. Instead of commenting on it, though, he sauntered up the steps and positioned himself behind the old lady’s chair. “You trust me to keep it under the speed limit?”

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