Wildest Dreams

by Blake, Toni

  Looking around, her eyes came to rest on the shack Jake had taken the boat from. Jogging to it, she tried the wide door only to find it padlocked. Could nothing go her way?

  Again, she lectured herself that anyone with any sense would get back in the car and head back to the city, where at least you could see the danger coming at you, where at least there were other people around if you screamed for help. But despite the insanity of it, she found her gaze dropping to a little boat turned upside down on the ground beside the weather-beaten building. Bending, she mustered the strength to turn it over, toss the accompanying oar inside, and begin dragging it toward the gently sloped bank.

  She was moving on autopilot now—she didn’t consider the risk of such an act, she didn’t let herself think about getting lost in the bayou—she only knew she had to hurry if she was going to follow Jake’s wake, and she hoped like hell the moon would provide enough light to show her the way.

  “You can do this,” she told herself as she climbed in, her bottom landing on a hard wooden slat of a seat. She took a deep breath and lowered the paddle into the dark water. “You can do it.”

  Besides the fact that she regularly used the rowing machine at the gym, she’d competed in many a canoe race at summer camp, and had even gone on a number of canoe trips with friends over the past few years. So this wasn’t entirely crazy.

  Probably no crazier than pretending she was a high-priced hooker.

  Probably no crazier than following him this far already.

  And she’d come too far to turn back now.

  She ignored the painful beat of her heart as she labored to steer the boat, thankful she worked out three times a week—or at least she had before she’d come haring down to New Orleans and watched her whole world turn on its end.

  Dim moonlight fought its way through Spanish-moss-covered trees, and—thank you, God—gave her a glimpse of the ripples Jake’s boat had sent spreading across the water. She worked to calm her breathing, even as she paddled harder, trying to gain on him. The moonlit bayou seemed otherworldly, almost iridescent somehow, ancient tree stumps and drooping moss becoming giant stalagmites and stalactites, making the swamp a primeval cavern, the star-dotted sky overhead nothing more than a dark ceiling. A place as mysterious as he is, she thought.

  No wonder he’d come here. Already, she had the sense of him blending with this landscape, belonging to it. It all felt so surreal, she actually found herself hoping he didn’t somehow just dissipate, fade into the cypresses and dark water until there was nothing more for her to follow.

  Floating along the isolated waterway was almost serene—if she hadn’t been tormented by thoughts of never reaching him, of losing sight of his wake, of not being able to find her way back to the car.

  She came upon a fork in the bayou and followed the rippling water to the right. Ahead, trees blotted out the light enough that she still saw nothing of Jake or his boat.

  That’s when the water rushed around her toes and she looked down to see that the floor of the boat had filled with water, at least half an inch deep. Half an inch that hadn’t been there when she’d departed, because it had been upside down until then. Her boat had a leak.

  Don’t panic, she lectured herself. But the ache in her chest grew sharper as she realized just what a foolish decision she’d made. You’re going to die out here. You’re going to die and no one’s ever going to know what happened to you.

  Or maybe they would. They’d trace the car back to her, and Jake might help the authorities figure out that she’d followed him and set out in a boat after dark without a clue where she was going. Death by stupidity.

  She paddled faster, desperation driving her.

  Was the water around her shoes getting deeper quicker now or was that just her imagination? Exactly how many alligators lived in the average bayou? And did they aggressively attack humans dumb enough to end up in the water with them?

  “Jake!” she yelled with every ounce of energy left inside her. Her heart was going to beat right through her chest soon. “Jake! Are you out there somewhere?”

  Just then, a light came on in the distance, Jake’s shadow within its beam. He stood on a dock, peering out over the dark water. She rowed furiously toward him, thinking, Thank you, God!

  “Jake, it’s me!” she yelled again, getting nearer.

  “What the hell . . . ?” she heard him mutter, squinting.

  “It’s Stephanie!” she said, the dock just a few yards away now—and shit! She was about to float right past it!

  She reached out and grabbed onto the canoe already tied to the pilings, but her boat kept going, until she was pulled off her seat, her butt sloshing in the water, her back slamming painfully into the rear concave panels of the vessel. She yelped in pain as Jake said, “Jesus,” and held out another paddle to her. “Hold on to this.”

  She used one hand to grab the offered oar, the other to raise herself back onto the seat and hold steady. He pulled the opposite end of the paddle until her boat came flush against the moorings behind his—then he stared down at her, wide-eyed.

  “Boat has a leak, chère.”

  She didn’t have to glance down to see the water was up around her ankles now. “Thanks for the newsflash.”

  “Well, get the hell up here,” he said, dropping the oar on the dock and reaching down to her. There was a ladder, but she clung to his arm and he pulled her most of the way up without her having to climb.

  When they stood face-to-face, he simply shook his head, his expression one of pure disbelief. He asked her the same exact question he’d posed earlier at the Crescent. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

  “I followed you.”

  Only this time she feared he might be even angrier. “Are you outta your mind?” He peered down to the boat. “Floatin’ around in a leaky pirogue on a dark bayou where you don’t know your way? You tryin’ to give Mr. Cocodrie a late-night snack?”

  She shook her head, trying to get her bearings, never so glad to have something solid beneath her feet, but feeling just as close to collapse as she had back in her room a couple of hours ago when he’d been kissing her so intimately. “No—I was just following you.”

  His expression remained bewildered. “I heard you the first time, but I still don’t get it. Why the hell would you do that?”

  Again, she found herself shaking her head, having run out of words that made sense—if she’d ever had any. Exhaustion buffeted her. “I just needed to apologize. For everything. For not doing what you tell me in regard to finding Tina. For . . .” God, this was hard. She looked at his feet, then made herself meet his gaze. “For not being able to . . . you know . . . be with you. The way I want to.”

  He gave his head a slight tilt. “From where I stand, seems I’m the only one really wantin’ you to be with me. But that aside . . .” He shook his head and ran a hand back through his hair, focusing on her again with those captivating brown eyes. His voice came softer, nearly drowned out by the night sounds of the bayou. “You’re a mess, chère. Come inside and let’s get you cleaned up.”

  It wasn’t until he took her hand, then pushed through a door, that she comprehended there was a small house attached to the dock. And as he led her through a dwelling that seemed to lie somewhere between old and new, in flux, she already felt the very essence of him here, and she knew this was where she’d find out the things she wanted so badly to know about Jake Broussard.

  Chapter Twelve

  SHE MIGHT BE a mess, but she still looked damn fine. Which was why he consciously averted his eyes as he led her through the kitchen, into the bedroom, finally into the tiny bathroom where an old sink ran a dribble of water that would have to do.

  Her hands were scratched and dirty—pricks and thin lines of red that needed to be cleaned. He drew them under the faucet, making sure not to look at the swell of her breasts rising from the low nec
kline of her tank top or the way those jeans hugged her curves. He’d never imagined Stephanie could be so casual, nor tough enough not to complain about what she’d just been through, with hands that had to be stinging and a back that surely ached from the tumble she’d taken in the pirogue.

  Having held her hands too long, he let go of them abruptly, passing her a bar of soap. “Wash up real good,” he instructed as he turned away to find a towel, echoing words his grandmother used to impart.

  He shuffled through the little linen cabinet, automatically seeking the least worn and raveled of the old towels he’d never gotten around to replacing. But his mind traveled back, unwittingly, to the sight of her soft, round breasts, to the sensation of kissing between her thighs, to how lost in her he’d been, and how hard it had been to stop when she’d clamped her legs together.

  He’d headed out here to get away, from everything, just for the night, but now here she was—she’d followed him, for God’s sake. For a conservative woman, he was starting to think Stephanie Grant seemed pretty foolhardy.

  Pulling out a small green towel, he turned back, silently watching her lather her hands, and felt how close he stood to her in the tiny room.

  He couldn’t stand the silence for another second, especially when he thought of the danger she’d put herself in by coming out here. She was beautiful, and tempting, but he was starting to wonder if she had any common sense at all. “Peter, Paul, and Mary, do you have any idea how goddamn stupid that was?” he exploded. “Do you realize how lucky you are you didn’t get lost, and that you didn’t sink in that damn pirogue?”

  He waited for her to come right back at him, to defend her actions like usual, but instead, she only raised her head slightly and nodded, swallowing visibly as a look of regret washed over her. Her answer was an acceptant whisper. “Yes.” She turned off the water and took the small towel from his hand.

  He suddenly felt like an ogre, yelling at her, unable to take his eyes off her—unable to look away from her quiet strength. “Thank God nothin’ happened,” he heard himself mutter—then he pulled her into his arms for a crushing hug.

  She was so soft and warm, smelling now of his soap and the sweet, lush scents of the bayou. He bent over her, sinking his face into the silk of her hair. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her curves molding to him, and he was struck with stirrings that had just finally begun to fade with the horror of finding her in the bayou in a leaky boat.

  So just as suddenly as he’d embraced her, he pushed her away and reached for a tube of disinfectant cream on a shelf behind him, shoving it into her hand as he squeezed past her out of the bathroom. “Put this on your hands. I’ll be outside,” he said over his shoulder, too brusquely.

  Passing through the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and, as an afterthought, reached for a second. Heading out to the old glider, he thought, I can’t keep seeing her—I just can’t. Because the truth was—part of him had been glad she’d turned him down earlier. It had alleviated the guilt, sending him home frustrated but free. Free of that nagging shame that battered him upon acknowledging how much he’d felt with her—again.

  What had taken place back at the LaRue House wasn’t just sex. It was about giving her apple pie to help her feel close to her grandmother. It was about holding her hand as they walked down the street. So many little things twined together in his heart when he was with her, making it so that he simply wanted to be with her more.

  And at the same time, what had happened in her room had been all about sex. He’d been driven by something so deep in his soul he could barely understand it. He’d desperately wanted to give her something she needed. Something he needed, too. He’d forgotten about everything—anything—else in those moments. There had only been him and her and a raging desire that felt palpable, like it was wrapping around them, propelling his every action and emotion.

  So it was pure hell that she was here now—in the one place that was his alone, where he could escape and not think, not feel.

  He’d tell her she had to go. Then he’d take her back up the bayou himself and see that she got on her way. It was that simple. He’d break it to her as soon as she came out.

  As if on cue, she pushed through the door and he silently offered the can of beer he’d been unsure she’d drink. Taking a seat next to him, she accepted it without reaction—as unpredictable as always, his Miss Chardonnay.

  He stared out over the dark waters that usually brought him so much peace, listening as she popped the top and took a sip. “Drink your beer and then I’ll take you back up the bayou.”

  He felt those blue eyes piercing him, but didn’t turn to look at her. “I need to talk to you.”

  Something in his stomach pinched, yet still he stared straight ahead into the swallowing night. “So talk.”

  “It’s about what you said back at my room. That you couldn’t help me anymore.”

  He blinked, tried not to feel her nearness. Tried to push away the wanting that seemed to pluck at every pore of his skin. “What about it?”

  “I’m desperate, Jake. You know that.”

  Her gentle sigh wafted over him, but he cut her off at the knees. “We’ve had this conversation before. If you’ve got anything new to say, get to it.”

  She stayed silent for a long moment, before speaking softly. “I don’t have anything new. And maybe that’s the point. Tina’s still out there somewhere and I have to find her. But I know I can’t do it alone. You’re my only friend here. And you’re also my only hope. Maybe Tina’s only hope, too.”

  Finally, he turned his gaze on her, only in order to drive his words home, since they must not have sunk in back at her room. “What makes you think I have any more chance of findin’ her than you do? I’ve already looked under every rock I know and no sign of her. What makes you think havin’ my help makes the slightest difference at all?”

  “For all I know, maybe it doesn’t. But . . . you’re all I have here. And I know you didn’t want to help me in the first place and that I really have no right to ask, but I’m asking. I’m asking you not to desert me.”

  I can’t do it.

  Tell her that. Say the goddamn words.

  But something prevented him from it. He’d made the mistake of looking into those earnest blue eyes and his chest had tightened, his stomach shriveled.

  “I happen to think we make a decent team,” she went on. Yet when he narrowed his eyes in doubt, she added, “Although I’ll do whatever you say if you keep helping me. I promise.”

  “You’ve promised before, chère. Tonight, for instance, you said you’d stay put, no? But then there you are, back in a slinky dress, puttin’ yourself in harm’s way. What reason do I have to take you at your word?”

  She bit her lip, then took a page from his book—staring out into the black bayou. “Because I’m at rock bottom,” she said frankly. “Without you, I truly don’t have a clue what to do next.” She turned to look at him again. “But I think you know me well enough by now to know I will do something. And I don’t want to be stupid about it.”

  He tilted his head. “Too late for that.”

  “Then I don’t want to keep being stupid about it.”

  He withdrew his gaze once more. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. The rock was the knowledge that she would eventually do something dumb enough to get herself hurt if he left her to her own devices—the same reason he’d agreed to help in the beginning. The hard place was behind his zipper, and he didn’t know how the hell he was gonna keep dealing with that.

  “What do you say, Jake? Give me one more chance?”

  He still wanted to refuse, but he didn’t have it in him. Face it, son, you was born to help folks, his mother had told him not too long ago. Stephanie. Shondra. That stupid, mangy dog. Jesus, what did they think he was, some kind of superhero? But no, not even close. Superheroes got the job done.
He just tried to—and it didn’t usually work. Becky could attest to that.

  Finishing his beer, he calmly crushed the can in his fist and lowered it to the porch. Finally, he took a deep breath and focused on her again. “Let’s get somethin’ straight here. I keep lookin’ for your sister, I do it on my own—there’s no ‘team’ about it. Got it?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I do this on one condition and it’s that you do nothin’ independent of me, understand? I find out you did and that’s it, I’m done, you’re on your own. You give me the pictures of your sister and you’re not involved in this anymore, other than hearin’ what I find. Is that perfectly one hundred percent clear?”

  She looked contrite but far from beaten as she firmly replied, “Yeah, it’s clear.”

  “Good.”

  “Any other concerns?” she asked with a slightly sarcastic bite to her voice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What about the other part?”

  She blinked. “Other part?”

  He pulled in his breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and peered out over the water. “The part about me not bein’ able to keep my hands off you.”

  The admission, though one he thought pretty obvious, hung between them for a long moment. Long enough that he grew restless, uncomfortable. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of mints, popping one in his mouth.

  Finally, her voice came soft, almost drowned out by the sounds of insects, but not so low that he didn’t absorb each and every word. “Believe it or not, Jake, I don’t want you to keep your hands off me. I . . . definitely want them on me.”

  “Coulda fooled me, chère.”

  She glanced down at her beer can, fiddled with the ring on top. “I know. I’m sorry. I . . . can’t explain.”

  He’d stopped trying not to look at her. “I wish you’d try.”

  Slowly, she raised her blue gaze, looking nervous and sad. Then she blinked and turned away. “I just have this thing about . . . not liking to lose control.” She drew in a sharp breath and met his eyes once more. “And you make me do that.”