Kiss Of The Wolf Part 1

KISS OF THE WOLF.

Susan Krinard.

To the "p.r.i.c.kly Chicks," cheerleaders extraordinaire.

Chapter 1.

What a way to come home.

Dana St. Cyr stood at the sloping shoulder of a narrow road edged by cattails and a stand of bald cypress trees, tapping the toe of her shoe on the gravel as smoke poured out from under the hood of her rented Lexus. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, lay mile upon mile of swamp, with not a gas station in sight.

The sun beat down on Dana's head and shoulders, plastering jacket and blouse to damp skin. How could it still be so hot in mid-September? Why in the world had she decided to leave her cell phone in California? If she had to walk all the rest of the way to Grand Marais...

Big Marsh. That was a good name for a town in the backwaters of southern Louisiana, even if this was more swamp than marsh. Dana blew out her breath and glanced down at her Prada mules. Practical, she thought in mild self-disgust. Where did I ever get the idea that anything other than sneakers would be practical in a place like this?

But she hadn't worn sneakers since the age of sixteen, when she'd decided who and what she was going to be. All that certainty had vanished a few months ago, when suddenly it wasn't enough to have a thriving career as one of San Francisco's top plastic surgeons, blessed with an elegant penthouse overlooking the Bay and several closets full of Paris couture. The perfect life she'd built had grown inexplicably flat and lonely.

And that was why she was standing here on the road in the soggy heat of a Louisiana afternoon. She still remembered Uncle Charles's stories of the bayou. "If you ever get in trouble," he'd said, "go home to Beaucoeur Parish. You'll always find a welcome there, with your own people."

People she'd never met. People who actually liked living in a place like this.

She sighed and pushed damp hair out of her face. The road was still deserted. Birds sang in the cypress trees and tangled thickets of impenetrable scrub. A few white, fluffy clouds scudded across the sky.

Dana pulled off one shoe and flexed her toes. The last thing she intended to do was stand here and wait to be rescued. A few blisters weren't going to kill her. The worst part would be arriving in Grand Marais with a psychological disadvantage, the stranger from California who got herself broken down in the middle of nowhere.

It's not as if you care what they think. You don't have any expectations, remember? This was a crazy idea, anyway, and if not for Uncle Charles...

The cattails by the side of the road rustled with the motion of some hidden shape. Dana lost her balance and leaned against the Lexus, the small hairs rising on the back of her neck. Did they have bears in Louisiana?

You're being ridiculous. It's probably a deer, or maybe an opossum.

But it was not a deer, and definitely not an opossum. Dana blinked, and a tall, very human form emerged from the undergrowth.

The man moved a little way toward her and paused, regarding her silently. Dana a.s.sessed him with a keen eye developed over years of sculpting faces, inching her way toward the car door and the can of pepper spray in the glove compartment.

Her first impression was of height, broad shoulders and a shock of red-brown hair. But it was the face beneath that hair that made her forget about the pepper spray. Even if the swamp sheltered escaped criminals or crazed hermits, surely none of them could be quite so strikingly attractive.

Mid-thirties, she calculated. Nonsmoker, not a shred of excess weight, high cheekbones, firm chin with a dimple she couldn't improve on. A mouth with lips just full enough to be sensual without sacrificing masculinity. Strong, straight nose. Eyes just a little deep set, a shifting turquoise under dark, straight brows.

The rest of the body matched the face, beautifully proportioned, narrow through hips and waist under a clean white T-shirt, thighs muscular in blue jeans painted with mud to midcalf. Dana couldn't see his feet behind the tall gra.s.s, but his hands, thumbs hooked in his pockets, looked as graceful as a concern pianist's.

The Greeks had made statues like this, but nature seldom duplicated their talents. Not without help. If genes like his were common, she would be out of a job. And then maybe she would have time for a love life...

The man took a step toward her, breaking the spell. Dana flung open the car door and dived across the seat. Idiot. Who knows better than you how little a face has to do with the soul inside?

"Are you in need of a.s.sistance, ma'am?"

Dana's fingers slid off the b.u.t.ton of the glove compartment. She peered out the pa.s.senger window, where the face gazed back at her, lips curved up at the ends as if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

She flushed, slid back into the driver's seat and folded her hands in her lap. The doors were unlocked. He could get in if he wanted, but she would be d.a.m.ned if she let him think she was afraid, especially when he was circling his finger in an unmistakable request that she roll down the window.

Calmly cursing herself, she punched the window b.u.t.ton. Hot air flooded the car, and with it the subtle scent of male: cotton, soap, perspiration and a whiff of motor oil. The man leaned down and rested his elbow on the door.

"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.

His voice was a low drawl, tinged by an agreeable accent that reminded her of Uncle Charles. She searched his eyes for any clue as to his intentions, but found only blue-green sparkling with mischievous light over depths she couldn't begin to plumb.

"A very astute observation," she said coolly. "You don't by chance know how to repair my car?"

"It's possible," he said, his gaze wandering to the open neck of her blouse. "Where are you headed?"

"Grand Marais." If it's any of your business. "Do you live in this area?"

He rested his dimpled chin on his knuckles. "You're still a good five miles from town, if you don't count the shacks and fishermen's camps along the levee. You have family in Grand Marais?"

"Lucky guess." Better that he know she wasn't alone and without resources, just in case-though her skittishness was beginning to seem very foolish. "Augustine Daigle is my great-aunt. Do you know her?"

"I've met her." He c.o.c.ked his head and studied her with sharper interest. "You're a Daigle?"

Dana wondered if this kind of inquisitiveness was specific to Louisiana. "St. Cyr, actually. Aunt Augustine is my mother's aunt. My parents left this area in their twenties. This is the first time I've been here."

Now, what had possessed her to babble on so? Something about his lazy, half-lidded eyes invited her to confide in him, a total stranger, in a way she wouldn't confide in her closest friends back home. She tried to rea.s.semble her guard, but the stranger's demeanor had radically altered in the short time she'd been talking. He had drawn back from the window, and his eyes had lost all of their friendliness.

"You look like a woman who enjoys fine things," he said, all the melody gone from his voice. "Grand Marais is a simple place, with simple people. I don't think you'll like it there. If I were you, I'd go back where I came from."

Dana realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. "I beg your pardon. I won't trouble you any further, but if you have a cell phone I can borrow... "

"I'll tell them you're here." His mouth set in a straight, grim line. "Take my advice. Don't stay in Beaucoeur Parish."

Chapter 2.

His last words were drowned out by the roar of a car approaching at high speed from the east. He looked toward the road, and Dana caught a flicker of something breathtakingly dangerous in his face before he turned away.

"Wait!" she called after him. "You haven't told me your name-"

But he was gone. Just like that, vanished, without even a swaying branch to mark his pa.s.sage. The noise of the car-a very new, very expensive BMW convertible-had become deafening, and Dana winced as it pulled up beside the Lexus.

This seemed to be her day to find astonishingly handsome men in the swamp, she thought absurdly. A flash of white teeth in a tanned face, tousled blond hair and the insouciant air of great wealth dazzled her sight like heat rising from hot pavement. The driver stopped his engine and leaned over the seat.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there," he said. "I'll hazard a guess that you didn't park here just to take in the-" He hesitated, peering at her over the top of his sungla.s.ses. Blue eyes crinkled in consternation and darted away, searching the thicket where the first stranger had disappeared. Just as Dana was about to speak, he removed his sungla.s.ses and turned his blinding attention on her again.

"Forgive my bad manners, miss. I trust that I may be of a.s.sistance?"

Dana felt her spine relax. She didn't know this man any better than the other one, but he was something she understood: rich, confident, and sure of his place in the world. She'd had several boyfriends exactly like him. The difference lay in the accent; Mr. BMW's voice had the graceful cadence of a quintessential Southern gentleman.

"I hope so," she said, offering her hand. "I'm Dana St. Cyr, on my way to Grand Marais. I'm afraid the rental company has quite a bit to answer for."

"So I see." He took her hand in a firm grip, making no concession to her gender. "Chad Lacoste. St. Cyr, of the Baton Rouge St. Cyrs?"

"My father was from New Orleans."

"And you're from the West Coast."

"I suppose my accent gives me away."

He grinned. "Believe me, I knew you weren't from around here the moment I saw you."

She guessed he meant it as a compliment. "I flew in from San Francisco two nights ago. Apparently I wasn't very well equipped for this expedition."

"You've been crossing the Atchafalaya Basin-nothing but camps and oil rigs for miles. It's lucky I decided to go for a drive this afternoon." He shook his head. "I'd hate to see you hitching a ride in one of those beat-up trucks the locals use."

"You're not local, Mr. Lacoste?"

"Chad, please. We don't stand on formality here in the bayou."

So she had observed. "Chad. I take it that you don't live in this area?"

"Not in Grand Marais, but outside of town on a piece of land drier than most, in a plantation house built by my great-great-grandfather. Quite a pile, really. I usually spend a few months each year at Bonneterre. The rest of the year it's New Orleans, New York, London. In fact, I haven't been back to the parish for several years." He smiled at her with open appreciation. "It looks as if my stay won't be as tedious as I'd feared."

Before she could think of an appropriate response, he jumped out of the convertible and gallantly opened the pa.s.senger door. "If my lady will step into my carriage?"

She grabbed her purse and the suitcase in the back of the Lexus and scooted into the convertible's leather seat, instinctively smoothing her trousers and doing up the top b.u.t.tons of her blouse. Chad Lacoste hopped in beside her and gunned the engine. The moment she was buckled in, he stepped on the gas pedal and sent the BMW hurtling down the road.

Dana braced herself, struggling to concentrate on the rather monotonous scenery. She felt Chad's eyes on her and wished he would watch the road instead.

"Enough about me," he said abruptly. "What brings you to Beaucoeur Parish, Miss St. Cyr?"

"Doctor," she said, clearing her throat. "But please do call me Dana."

"Doctor. How interesting." He shifted gears and accelerated. She expected him to ask more questions, but he seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She decided to change the subject.

"Chad... did you happen to see the man I was speaking to just as you arrived?"

His face clouded, and she was reminded of the instant when her first would-be rescuer had changed so completely from lazy-eyed rogue to ominous stranger.

"Remy Arceneaux," Chad said, biting off the words. "You don't want to have anything to do with him, Dana."

"Oh? Does he have a bad reputation?"

"Worse." His jaw set, and she was considering pressing for details when the first recognizable structures appeared by the road.

Many of the buildings were little more than shacks or cottages, but as they crossed a bridge and entered the town proper, Dana noted that there seemed to be a single main street along which most of the businesses were located. Among them she recognized a brick church with a cemetery, a small market and hardware store, some kind of dance or game hall, and a tiny bank.

"Welcome to Grand Marais," Chad said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "If you can find anything 'grand' about it." He raced down the center of town at seventy miles an hour, past desultory pedestrians, barking dogs and the tiny police station. Dana guessed that there wasn't much more to Grand Marais than she could see-the side streets didn't seem very long, and the tallest building was only two stories high.

She spotted a two-pump gas station next to an ancient hotel and tapped Chad's arm. "You can let me off there," she said. "They must have a tow truck somewhere in town."

"You didn't tell me where you're staying."

"With my great-aunt Augustine Daigle."

Chad slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, no one was behind him. "Daigle?"

"My grandmother's sister. I know she lives on the edge of town... "

She could have sworn that Chad's tan face turned a shade more pale as he swerved into the gas station lot. He set the brake, left the engine idling and vaulted over the closed door as if some private demon nipped at his heels.

"I'll be right back," he said. Without further explanation, he strode into the booth-sized convenience store

attached to the station.

Dana sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could get out here, of course, and find whatever pa.s.sed for a taxi in a small bayou town like this. But it seemed rude to leave after accepting a ride from Lacoste, however reckless his driving. It couldn't be that far to Great-Aunt Augustine's.

"Sally?"

She turned at the unfamiliar voice. A middle-aged man, the station attendant by the look of his stained overalls and the rag in his hands, was staring at her in obvious confusion.

"I'm afraid not," she said. "My name is Dana St. Cyr."

"St. Cyr?" He twisted the rag into a tortured spiral. "But you look...you look just like her-except for

the hair. And the clothes." He spoke the last part of the sentence as if to himself, but the uneasy expression on his face remained. "You knew Sally?"