by Rebecca York
That last thought made hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. It choked off quickly when she caught a flash of movement in the side mirror. The pickup truck that had followed her from town had stopped a little way down the shoulder. As she watched, two guys wearing baseball caps got out.
After a brief conversation, they started walking toward her. Did they intend to help a lady in distress? Or were they planning to have some fun—or worse—with the librarian stranded on an isolated road in the bayou?
One of them was tall and muscular. The other was short and squat, with a big belly. It could be Bob Mansard, although she couldn’t tell for sure because his face was hidden by his baseball cap and sunglasses.
Maybe good old Bob had made the suggestion about messing with her vehicle. Maybe Bubba had put a pinhole leak in the brake-fluid line, so that the car would drive normally until she was well out of town.
And maybe not. Still, she wasn’t going to take a chance on the goodwill of these guys.
Quickly she ducked down below the dashboard, retrieving the purse that had fallen on the floor of the passenger side.
Unwilling to wait in the car like a sitting duck, she pulled out her Glock and gripped it in her free hand as she opened the car door. It hit against the edge of the ditch, and a green lizard scurried out of the way. The creature drew her gaze to the dark, scummy water, and she felt her stomach knot as she thought of what else lived in its depths. At least the position of the car meant she could leap to the shoulder without getting wet.
Scrambling out into the hot, heavy air, she faced the men, holding the gun down along her leg where they couldn’t see it. They ambled toward her as if they owned this deserted stretch of road and their quarry was completely at their mercy.
Well, they were in for a big surprise. Back at the gas station, she hadn’t wanted to reveal her real purpose in coming to St. Germaine. But she could take these guys, just the way she could take anybody else who had dared to mess with her over the past two years.
She thrived on danger, and now she could feel adrenaline pumping through her veins.
“Bring it on,” she muttered under her breath.
She was about to raise the gun and shout, “Hold it right there,” when they both stopped short, as if they’d gotten a subliminal jolt of her thoughts.
One of them made a strangled sound, and she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.
Then she saw that neither one of them was looking in her direction at all. They were staring toward the bayou, toward the darker shade under a stand of pines.
About thirty feet away was a large cat.
A jaguar, she thought. The jaguar Andre Gascon had convinced her was simply a local myth that someone was using to cause trouble between him and the town of St. Germaine. But this animal was no figment of her imagination. And his glowing yellow eyes were trained right on her.
Chapter Two
In the background Morgan heard the sound of feet running, doors slamming, an engine roaring to life.
Tires spun on gravel as the truck in back of her made a U-turn and sped away, leaving her alone on the shoulder of the road—staring into the golden eyes of the jaguar.
Details assaulted her. The animal looked to be about two hundred pounds of spotted, muscular body, with huge paws and a black-tipped muzzle.
Once Andre Gascon had mentioned the jaguar myth, she’d researched the animals, because she was always thorough in her preparations for an assignment. She knew that the cats were most common in Central America, but they also inhabited the southern United States. Still, no matter where they lived, the stealthy creatures were seldom seen during the day—or at all.
As she stood facing the cat, all the stories she’d read about local residents mauled in the bayou and left for dead came to mind.
With a start, she realized that the gun was still dangling beside her leg. She raised the weapon now, taking it in a two-handed grip as she faced the animal.
One thing she knew, if the cat was responsible for the deaths in the bayou, she wasn’t going to be his next victim.
She thought that with one part of her brain. With another part, she decided that the animal looked too regal to be a man killer. She didn’t know how she came to that conclusion. She only knew that laying the blame for the bayou killings on the shoulders of this beast felt wrong.
Drops of rain began to trickle onto her head and shoulders as she stood on the shoulder of the road, still as a statue, facing the jaguar. For several moments, he continued to regard her with that unnerving intelligence. She didn’t know what she would have done if he had come any closer. Maybe fired a warning shot into the air.
But she didn’t have to put her nerves to the test because the animal took a step back, then another, moving slowly as though he knew that spooking a woman with an automatic pistol was a bad idea.
When the jaguar had backed away several paces, he turned and flipped his tail at her like an annoyed house cat. Then, with a mighty leap, he took off, racing away into the darkness under the trees.
She blinked and breathed out a sigh, wondering if the whole incident had been a fantasy. Then she reminded herself that she hadn’t been the only one to see the cat. The men in the baseball caps had taken off like frightened weasels.
Lowering the gun, she looked up and down the narrow ribbon of blacktop. The cat had come to her rescue as if he’d known she was in trouble from the men. But now she had another problem. She was stranded out here. The whole time she’d been on this road, she hadn’t seen another vehicle, except the truck that had been following her.
Earlier, there had been no point in calling 911. By the time help arrived, the men would have done whatever they’d planned.
Now the situation was different. Climbing back into the car, she set the gun on the passenger seat and pulled her cell phone from her purse. But when she tried to make a call, she couldn’t get a connection. Either this part of Louisiana was too isolated, or the storm was interfering.
As if to bolster the latter theory, a bolt of lightning flashed in front of her. Several seconds later thunder rumbled.
So now what? The car’s brakes were weak. If she had another choice, she wouldn’t drive. But staying here was dangerous, since the guys in the truck could come back after they figured the big cat was gone.
She wasn’t the kind of person who could sit still waiting for trouble. She had to do something and she figured that waiting here was more dangerous than trying to drive. Hopefully, she could make it to Belle Vista, then arrange to have the car towed to another gas station. Or maybe even to another town.
ANDRE GASCON came running through the rain from the field behind his house. He made a dash for his car, dove behind the wheel and started the engine, stomped on the accelerator, then skidded down the driveway.
Janet had heard from a friend in town that Morgan had stopped in St. Germaine for gas. Probably she’d let on where she was going, which was a big mistake. He wouldn’t put it past Bubba Arnette or one of his buddies to do something to her car.
Andre clenched his fists and cursed. He’d asked her to drive straight through from New Orleans. But he hadn’t insisted, because he hadn’t wanted to creep her out before she even got here.
If anyone had asked him how he knew she was in trouble now, he would have put it down to intuition.
But that was a lie. He knew.
And in truth, he’d been waiting for something bad to happen since this morning.
The sky looked like the inside of a coal mine. It wasn’t because night was coming. He still had time before sunset. The darkness came from the storm clouds hanging heavy over the bayou.
A few drops hit the windshield, like fingers tapping against the glass, a ghostly presence begging admittance.
His stomach had long ago tied itself in knots.
He’d snapped awake at seven that morning, after an almost sleepless night, prepared to hear a phone call telling him that she’d changed her mind and was taking an a
ssignment at the South Pole instead. But she hadn’t made the call.
Relief had been like a cool breeze blowing on his feverish skin. Still, he’d kept picking up the phone and putting it down. Finally he’d checked in with her office on the pretext that he wanted to make sure of her arrival schedule. In truth, her itinerary had been engraved on his memory since she’d e-mailed it to him.
Her plane had landed three hours ago. She should have been here by now. Instead he pictured her sitting in her car in the middle of the flash flood area.
The image turned him cold all over as he sped down the plantation road and onto the highway, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
MORGAN KNEW she was in trouble. The rain had picked up, restricting her vision. But when she opened the car door a crack, she could see that the sides of the ditch were even slicker than before. Her lips set in a grim line, she tried to back up, then rock the car forward and onto the road. After several repetitions, all she succeeded in doing was making the tires sink deeper into the mud.
“Damn!” It was raining harder now. She wanted to huddle inside the car and keep dry, but she knew the longer the vehicle stayed in the ditch, the less likely she was to get it out. Maybe she could put something under the wheels.
Rolling down the side window, she spotted a big patch of spiky ferns. They were worth a try. She scrambled out, this time slipping in the mud and almost dropping her gun.
Tucking it in the waistband of her skirt, she walked down the road toward the ferns, sheets of rain pounding her now.
She’d gotten a dozen yards from the car when she heard a roaring noise. Not the jaguar. Something much louder and more ominous. The sound was nothing like the one an animal would make. Instead she knew she was listening to an elemental force of nature bearing down on her.
Her head jerked up, and she looked in all directions. She couldn’t see the danger. Not yet. But she turned and started running back to the relative safety of the vehicle.
She had taken only a few steps when a wall of something plowed through the trees on the other side of the road.
It was a dark wave of water, sweeping away everything in its path, catching Morgan in its cold embrace.
With the force of a tornado, it lifted her feet off the ground. A scream tore from her throat as the current spun her around like a plastic doll and flung her into the bayou.
She screamed again as the water carried her farther from the road. She was a good swimmer, but it was impossible to do more than keep her head above the surface.
Things whipped past her. A black snake. A plastic milk jug. A clump of vegetation. Her jacket, shoes and skirt were torn from her body as though someone had rudely yanked them away.
When she felt her shoulder hit something, her arms shot up and clamped on. It was a young tree, bowing under the force of the water.
Desperately she clung to the trunk, even as the water tried to tear her away and send her to join the clothing that had disappeared downstream.
Rain pelted her head, and the roar of the roiling water pounded her ears. She was scared. And that was a novelty.
For the past two years—since Trevor had died in an ambush in Afghanistan—she’d been afraid of nothing and no one. She’d walked into dangerous situations like someone else would walk into a bedroom. She’d disarmed men twice her size. She’d chased a fugitive across the roofs of Baltimore town houses, jumping a five-foot gap three stories above the ground.
She’d thought she didn’t care what happened to her. Yet now she fought the deluge that tried to sweep her away, inching into a better position so that the tree trunk partially shielded her from the worst of the current. As she clasped the slippery bark, she knew that something within herself had changed. She didn’t want to die.
Not here. Not like this.
ANDRE SCREECHED his SUV to a halt, taking in the scene in a split second. A torrent of water poured across the road, and Morgan’s car was stuck in a ditch on the other side. Unless she was below the dashboard for some reason, she wasn’t in the car.
Merde!
Fear was a vise, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He wanted to rage in agony and anger. Instead he cupped his hands around his mouth and called her name as he scanned the bayou and the water. “Morgan!”
When he spotted a splash of persimmon color out in the water, his heart lurched inside his chest. The blob of color resolved itself into fabric. Her blouse, half-open. As the frightening picture came into focus, he saw the graceful column of her neck and her short blond hair. She was in profile to him, clinging desperately to a slender tree trunk as the water tore at her.
“Morgan, hang on,” he called. “I’m coming. Just hang on.”
If she heard him, she didn’t answer above the roar of the water.
He focused on keeping his mind working rationally as he ran back to his vehicle and grabbed the rope that was part of his emergency kit. First he thought he could throw it to her, then he canceled that idea. She might be partially sheltered by the tree trunk, but letting go of it to grab the lifeline would be too dangerous.
Instead he tied one end of the rope to a nearby tree. After testing it, he tied the other end around his waist and waded into the water. Immediately, the current gave a vicious tug on his body, trying to drag him away. But he gritted his teeth and kept his footing.
“Hang on,” he called again as he struggled toward Morgan.
OVER THE SOUND of the raging elements, Morgan thought she heard someone calling to her.
There was only one person who knew her name—who had been expecting her.
Hoping against hope, she called out, “Mr. Gascon?”
“Yes,” he answered, his deep voice carrying above the roar of the water.
“Thank God.”
“I’m coming.”
He was closer now, in the water, but she dared not twist herself around to look at him.
“I think under the circumstances, you can call me Andre.” He said it with a wry note in his voice between puffs of breath.
He must be strong. Strong enough to waste his breath on talking.
“You’re doing great. Fantastic. I’m almost there.”
She clung to the sound of his words, and he kept talking to her, his voice strong and reassuring over the raging water as he told her that everything was going to be all right. In just a few more moments he would pull her to safety.
Centuries passed before she felt a hard, male body press against her back, cupping itself protectively around her.
She let out a deep sigh of relief when his form blocked the worst of the raging water.
He held her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head, as though his relief at making contact was as great as hers.
“Thank the Lord,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“I’ll get you to shore. But don’t let go yet,” he cautioned.
He moved behind her, doing something she couldn’t see. Then a rope slipped over her head and shoulders.
“Loosen one hand,” he ordered as he held her in place.
She released her death grip on the tree, feeling the tug of the water. But he shielded her as he worked the rope farther down her body.
“Good. That’s good. Now turn around. Then I’ll turn so we’re facing back toward the shore.”
The water buffeted them as he turned her in his arms, clasping her to himself like a lover, as though she were precious to him. He was too close for her to see him well.
But she had studied his picture and knew he was a striking man. His amazing green eyes were deep-set. His gaze intense. His chin was strong. His lips finely shaped. But he hadn’t bothered to smile for the camera. She imagined that a smile would completely transform him.
Now she could tell that his frame was tall and strong as he wrapped her close, and she couldn’t get the notion out of her head that he had held her many times before, his body as familiar as her own.
Nonsense. She had never m
et him in person until a few moments ago. But she had come to know him through their correspondence.
She let her head sag to his broad shoulder, clinging to him for long moments before he cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”
“Yes,” she managed as she came back to her senses. They were still in danger, and she was going all dreamy on him.
As promised, he turned away from her.
“Circle my waist,” he said gruffly.
She did as he asked, wrapping her arms around him. When she realized her grip was too low and her hands were pressed over the fly of his slacks, she jerked, then quickly moved her arms a couple of inches higher.
A fresh surge of water tore at her, trying to break her grip on his waist. It almost did, and she was glad the rope bound them together.
She gritted her teeth as they inched toward blacktop. He was using the rope, pulling them along hand over hand. She hoped he’d tied the other end to something solid.
He didn’t spare the breath to talk now. It was all he could do to keep them moving toward shore.
Something large slammed past them, and she gasped from the impact.
“Are you all right?” he asked urgently.
“Yes.”
Redoubling his efforts, he hauled them the last few yards through the water and out of the deluge.
Breathless, they both sprawled on dry land, panting.
For long moments all she could do was lie still with her eyes closed, grateful to be on a solid surface again.
When she realized that the solid surface was Andre Gascon’s body, she tensed, then tried to push herself away. She managed to put a few inches of space be tween them before the rope pulled her back, and she flopped onto his chest again.
“Go ahead, use me for a trampoline,” he said.
She was icy cold from the water, but she had to laugh.
The comment was so typical of the dry humor that she’d enjoyed in his e-mails. He’d struck her as a man who used humor to defuse a tense situation. Apparently he was still doing it.
