Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "I know where the house is." There was a trace of sar­casm in his voice. "I thought you might be running scared from something or someone there."

  "What would I be afraid of there?"

  "You tell me."

  "For your information, I was attacked by a. . . a dog." Her voice cracked. It was mortifying to feel tears in her eyes but she couldn't help it.

  Boudreaux stopped in his tracks. "A dog? A dog at­tacked you?" She nodded. "I heard the barking," he said. "Were you bitten?"

  "I think so. I'm not sure. I ran."

  "Jesus."

  He started down the path again, walking more quickly now. The chorus of bullfrogs grew louder. Schyler recog­nized the willows, whose long, trailing branches bent to­ward the still, murky waters like a penitent paying homage. This branch of the bayou was distributary, drawing water out of the wider, freer flowing Laurent Bayou. It was a narrow creek. The waters flowed sluggishly if at all, mak­ing it appear almost stagnant.

  There was a pirogue lying half in, half out of the water. Agilely, Cash put one foot in it and leaned down to deposit Schyler in the narrow, canoe-type boat. Taking a book of matches from the breast pocket of his shirt, he struck one and lit a kerosene lantern. The yellow light made his eyes appear as sinister as the wildcats that prowled the swamps. He blew out the match and turned up the lantern.

  "What were you doing here?" she asked with a detached curiosity.

  "Hauling in the day's catch." He nodded toward a net trap that was partially submerged in the shallow water. Several d-»' *n red swamp crayfish were squirming inside.

  "You seem to have a propensity for trespassing where you don't belong."

  He didn't defend himself. "Here, have a drink."

  A pint bottle of bourbon was lying in the bottom of the pirogue. He twirled off the cap and passed the bottle to her. She regarded it blankly. "Go on," he said impatiently. "It's not moonshine and it's not bootleg. I bought it this after­noon from a respectable liquor store."

  "I'd rather not."

  He leaned forward, his face looking satanic in the lan­tern light. "When you plowed into me you looked like you'd seen a ghost. I don't have any crystal glasses or silver ice buckets like up at Belle Terre. I'm sure it's not as fancy a cocktail as you're used to, but it'll give you a good, swift kick in the gut, which is what you need to stop your shakes. Now take a drink, goddammit."

  Not liking anything he had said, liking less the imperi­ous way he'd said it, Schyler yanked the pint of liquor from him and tipped it to her mouth. Cotton had taught her to drink, just like he'd taught her to do everything else. But he'd taught her to drink like a lady, in a manner Macy had approved of. The hefty swig of bourbon she drew out of Cash Boudreaux's pint scalded her throat and every inch of her esophagus along its way to her stomach where it ex­ploded with the impetus of a dying sun.

  She gave a hoarse, unladylike cough, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and passed the bottle to him. He took it from her and, staring at her with amusement, drank from it himself. "More?"

  "No, thank you."

  He took another drink before recapping the bottle and tossing it into the bottom of the pirogue. He climbed in and crouched down in front of Schyler. "Did he get you any­where beside the arm?"

  Schyler gasped when he reached out and encircled her wrist, drawing her arm closer to the lantern. His touch elicited a tingle, but what alarmed her was that her arm was oozing blood from several ugly scratches. "I didn't realize. My God."

  His fingers were warm, strong, and gentle as he probed the wounds, examining them carefully. "What did it look like?"

  "The dog?" Schyler shivered. "Horrible. Ugly. Like a boxer. Sort of like a bulldog."

  "Must've been one of Jigger's pit bulls." Cash's gaze rose to meet hers. "You were lucky to get off with no more than this. What'd you do to it?"

  "Nothing!" she cried. "I was walking, through my own woods, and suddenly it sprang out of nowhere."

  "You didn't provoke it?"

  The dubious inflection in his voice made her angry. She jerked her arm free and surged to her feet. "I'm going to the hospital. Thank you—"

  Cash shot up and loomed above her. His splayed hand landed solidly in the center of her chest and gave a slight push. "Sit down."

  Chapter Six

  Her bottom landed hard on the rough seat that spanned the floor of the canoe. Incredulous, she stared up at him. "I'll take care of you," he said.

  Schyler wasn't accustomed to being manhandled. Nor was she accustomed to someone dictating to her. In light of the fact that she was on eye level with the fly of his tight jeans, she said as calmly as possible, "Thank you for what you've done, Mr. Boudreaux, but I think I need to let a professional look at this."

  "Some consider me a professional." He knelt down in front of her again. "Besides, I refuse to take you to the hospital and you'd never get there under your own power." His eyes lifted to hers again. His were mocking. "Of course you could always get your brother-in-law to take you." He returned his attention to the bleeding wounds. "But you'd have to get to Belle Terre first, and I don't think you'd make it."

  "I'll need a rabies shot." Even as she spoke the sudden realization aloud, she felt ill at the prospect of getting the series of painful shots.

  Reaching around her for a leather pouch at the rear of the pirogue, Cash shook his head negatively. The light picked up strands of gold in his long, brown, wavy hair.

  "None of Jigger's dogs would have rabies. They're too valuable."

  She watched with mingled fear and curiosity as he with­drew several opaque brown bottles from the pouch. None were labeled. "Are you referring to Jigger Flynn?"

  "Oui."

  "Is he still around?"

  Cash snorted a laugh. "Every whore in the parish would be out of business if he ever left."

  Jigger Flynn's name conjured up childhood fears. Flynn was a reputed pimp and bootlegger, the occupation from which he'd derived his nickname. "My mother used to tell my sister and me that Jigger Flynn kidnapped little girls who didn't behave," Schyler said.

  "She wasn't far off."

  "At our house, he was one and the same with the Boogey Man. We would stare at his house with awe and fear whenever we drove past."

  "It's still there."

  "Somebody should have locked that reprobate behind bars years ago."

  Cash smiled around a soft chuckle. "Not a chance. The sheriff's office provides some of Jigger's most frequent customers."

  Knowing that he was probably right, Schyler nodded vaguely. She'd also been distracted by Cash's low laugh. It had touched an erogenous spot deep inside her. She pulled her arm from his grasp. "What is that?"

  He had soaked a wad of cotton with the clear liquid from one of the brown bottles. He lifted it to her nose. The smell was pungently recognizable. "Plain ol' everyday rubbing alcohol. And it's going to burn like hell. Feel free to scream."

  Before she could properly brace herself for it, he applied the alcohol to the scratches on her forearm. She felt the wave of pain approaching before it crashed over her full force. She was determined not to scream, but she couldn't hold back the choking sound that escaped before she rolled her lips inward and forcibly held it back.

  Her stoicism seemed to amuse him. He was grinning as he laid aside the blood-soaked cotton. "This will help stop the stinging." Quickly he uncorked another of the bottles he'd taken from the bag and, using his lingers, dabbed the contents onto her wounds. Now cleaned of blood, they didn't look so serious. After liberally smearing them with the unguent, he bound her arm from wrist to elbow with gauze. "Keep it clean and dry for several days."

  "What was that you put on it?" Amazingly the wounds had stopped stinging.

  "One of my mother's homemade salves." At her startled expression, he grinned sardonically. "It's got bat's eyes and ground spleen of warthog in it." His eyes glittered in the lantern light. "Black magic," he whispered.

  "I never believed that your mother prac
ticed black magic."

  His grin settled into a hard line of bitterness. "Then you were among few. Did the dog bite you anyplace else?"

  Schyler nervously wet her lips. "He snapped at my ankles, but—"

  She didn't get a chance to finish before he flipped back her skirt and lay the hem well above her knees. Cupping the back of her calf in one hand, he lifted her foot to his thigh and turned it this way and that beneath the light.

  "The scratches aren't as deep. I'll clean them, but they won't need a bandage." Checking the other ankle and find­ing that it only had one faint mark; he doused another ball of cotton with alcohol.

  Schyler watched his capable left hand swab the scratches and bites on her ankles. She tried to think of what Ken had called these Cajuns who healed. She tried to think of any­thing except the intimacy of having her foot propped high on Cash Boudreaux's thigh and his face practically in her lap.

  "You said I was lucky to get off this light," she said. "Has that dog attacked people before?"

  "There was a kid, a few months back."

  "A child? That dog attacked a child?"

  "I don't know if it was that particular dog. Jigger's got pit bulls with just enough mongrel in them to make them meaner than junkyard dogs."

  "What happened to make the dog attack the child?"

  "They say the kid provoked it."

  "Who said that?"

  He shrugged uncaringly. "Everybody. Look, I don't have the details because it was none of my business."

  "Some of that gossip that doesn't apply to you," she said snidely.

  "That's right."

  "What happened to the child?"

  "He got okay, I guess. I didn't hear anything more about it after they took him to the hospital."

  "He had to be hospitalized? And no one did anything?"

  "About what?"

  "About the dogs. Didn't Jigger have to pay a fine, any­thing like that?"

  "It wasn't Jigger's fault. The kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "It's Jigger's fault if the dog was running free."

  "I guess you've got a point. Those dogs are mean sons of bitches. He trains them to be. They have to be mean to fight in the pit."

  "The pit?"

  He looked at her with derision and gave a dry, coughing laugh. "Haven't you ever heard of pit bull terrier fights?"

  "Of course I've heard of them. They're illegal."

  "So is spitting on the sidewalk in front of the court­house, but that doesn't stop folks from doing it."

  He had finished treating the wounds on her ankles and was restoring his supplies, including Monique's home­made, anesthetizing salve. Schyler shoved her skirt down over her knees. That didn't escape his attention.

  Ignoring his lecherous smile, she said, "You mean that pit bull fights are held around here?"

  "Have been for years."

  "Jigger Flynn breeds dogs to kill and be killed?"

  "Oui."

  "Well, somebody's got to put a stop to that."

  Cash shook his head, obviously amused by the sugges­tion. "That wouldn't sit too well with Jigger. His pit bulls are one of his most lucrative sidelines. They aren't de­feated in the pit too often."

  "As soon as I get to Belle Terre, I'm calling the sheriff."

  "I'd let it drop if I were you."

  "But that animal could have killed me!"

  Moving suddenly, Cash closed his fingers around her throat and drew her face closer to his. "You haven't been back very long, Miss Schyler. I'll save you the trouble of finding this out for yourself." He paused and stared deeply into her eyes. "Nothing in Laurent Parish has changed since you left. Maybe you've forgotten the first unwritten rule. If you don't like something, you look the other way. Saves you a lot of grief. Got that?"

  Because she was concentrating so hard on his fingers touching her skin, it took her a moment to comprehend his warning. "I hear you, but I won't change my mind about this. I hate to think what would have happened if Flynn hadn't come along when he did and called the dog back to the truck."

  "You'd've been chewed to pieces, and that would have been a damn shame, wouldn't it? 'Cause you look pretty damn good just like you are."

  His thumb made a slow stroke along the base of her neck. When the pad of it swept over the rounded welt, he went back to investigate more closely. He rubbed it several times. "That mosquito got you, didn't it?"

  Schyler felt herself quickly losing control of the situa­tion. The intensity in his eyes was thrilling, but it made her uncomfortable. She liked die structure of his stern face and the sexy inflection of his voice very much. She had cov­ertly admired the breadth of his chest and the tapering shape of his torso. His thighs were lean and hard. The bulge between them testified that his reputation as a stud was well-founded.

  But she was Schyler Crandall and knew better than to fall for Cash Boudreaux's disreputable charm.

  "Kindly let me go."

  He kept stroking her throat. "Not before I put something on that bite."

  "That won't be necessary."

  However, she didn't move when he removed his hand from around her neck and went foraging through the bag again, coming up with a small vial. He uncorked it. The scent of the oily substance was familiar and evoked memo­ries of summer camp.

  "You're a phony witch doctor, Mr. Boudreaux. That's Campho-Phenique."

  He grinned unapologetically. "Close."

  Schyler never knew why she didn't deflect the hand that moved toward her neck again, why she sat still and let the pad of his index finger, slippery with the camphor-laden substance massage that small, red bump on her neck. She didn't know why, having done that, she let his fingers ex­plore her neck and chest for other welts, and, finding one beneath the neckline of her blouse, let him unbutton the first button. He slipped his hand inside and liberally coated the raised spot with the lotion.

  His hand remained in the opening as he asked, "More?"

  It was a loaded question. "No."

  "Sure?"

  "Very sure."

  Slitted eyes revealed glints of amusement as he with­drew his hand and replaced the vial in his bag. Standing, he stepped out of the pirogue and offered a hand down to her. This time she declined to take it and came to her feet without assistance. But the moment she stood up, she swayed. Only his quick reaction prevented her from fall­ing. Once again, he lifted her in his arms.

  "Put me down. I'm fine."

  "You're drunk."

  She was. A near impossibility on one swallow of booze. "You lied to me. That drink you gave me wasn't liquor store whiskey." He made a noncommital sound that could have meant anything.

  The three-quarter moon had risen above the tree line. As a result, the forest was brighter than it had been earlier. Cash made rapid progress through it, seeming to know even better than Schyler did where each curve in the path was and anticipating each low limb.

  The frightening ordeal with the dog, not to mention the potent liquor, had left her listless and dizzy. She gave up trying to hold her head erect. Her cheek dropped to his chest. Her body went limp. Her shape molded pliantly against his. She couldn't keep her eyelids open and they closed. When he came to a stop, she kept them closed for several seconds longer before opening them. They were standing in the shadow of the gazebo.

  His face was bending low over hers. "Can you make it the rest of the way on your own?"

  Schyler raised her head. Belle Terre looked like an iri­descent pearl nestled in green velvet. It seemed very far away. The prospect of covering that distance under her own steam wasn't very appealing, but she said, "I'll be fine," and slid to her feet when he relaxed his arms and released her.

  "I'd be glad to carry you the rest of the way, but your daddy would rather have somebody piss in the well than to have Cash Boudreaux's shadow fall on Belle Terre."

  "You've been very kind. Thank you for—"

  The breath left her body when he planted the heels of his hands in the center of her midri
ff and backed her against the latticed wall. His fingers closed hard around her narrow rib cage. His breath was hot as it fell on her startled face.

  "I'm never kind to a woman. Beware, pichouette. My bite is much more dangerous to you than Jigger Flynn's dog."

  "You call that making love?"

  Cash rolled away from the woman lying beneath him. Her body was shiny and slick with his sweat and bore the reddish markings of rowdy sex. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, he lit one and drew deeply on it.

  "I never have called it making love." He left the bed, peeling off the condom and dropping it into the wastebasket. He was only semi-soft. His body was still taut, still hungry.

  Rhoda Gilbreath sat up and pulled the sheet over her breasts. The ludicrously demure gesture was wasted on him. He was standing at the window with his back to her, naked, calmly smoking his cigarette and staring sightlessly at the gaudy, animated, pink neon sign in the parking lot of the Pelican Motel.

  "Don't pout." Her purr was conciliatory. "I like it hard and fast sometimes. I wasn't complaining."

  His head, with its shaggy, gold-streaked hair, came around. Scornfully he gazed at her over his shoulder. "You've got no reason to complain, Rhoda. You got off three times before I lost count."

  In the span of a second her expression went from seduc­tive to furious. "First you sulk, then you get nasty. One would think you'd be grateful."

  "What do you want, a tip?"

  She glowered at him. "It wasn't easy for me to drop everything and come running tonight. I only accommo­dated you because when you called it sounded like an emergency."

  "It was," he muttered, remembering the state he'd been in when he left Schyler at Belle Terre. Leaving the window and placing the cigarette between his broody lips, he reached for his jeans and stepped into them.

  The woman reclining against the headboard sat up at attention. "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?"

  "You're leaving?"

  "That's right."

  "Now?"

  "Right again."

  "But you can't. We just got here."

  "Don't sound so put out, Rhoda. You rushed over be­cause you were hot to get laid. You always are."