by Toni Blake
That's all she knew about where to find him other than Sophia's. So if she had any chance of finding him tonight, she needed to beat him home, see him walking down the street. Finally, a use for the rental car she'd kept just in case her search for Tina led her beyond the immediate vicinity. Even driving, she'd still have to hurry, and still might not locate him.
She pulled out on Esplanade, heading toward the French Quarter. Passing Burgundy—a one-way going the wrong way—she turned onto Dauphine, speeding down several blocks before circling back to Jake's street again. That quickly, though, it seemed futile. Too many doorways. Too many balconies and windows and gates and shutters. He could be behind any of them. She briefly considered the phone book, but quickly concluded that a guy as secretive as Jake would be unlisted, even if just as a holdover from his days as a cop.
She crept up the street in the midsize sedan, studying the few people she spotted on the sidewalk, but none of them were Jake. Until, that is, she spied a man crossing toward an old blue pickup truck parked along the curb. Her stomach lurched at the sight of him.
She slowed to a stop, hoping he wouldn't realize it was her—although she wasn't sure why.
She'd been trying to tell herself she'd come to plead with him about not giving up on Tina, since he was the only person in this town willing to help. But the much bigger truth was that she'd come to apologize, because she was so sorry for what had happened back at her room, so sorry she'd said no. Something had compelled her to seek him out and make things right.
And yet now she hid within the safe confines of her rental car, just wanting to watch him, see what he did, where he went. He never gave her any answers about himself—maybe if she followed him, she'd finally learn more about him.
She flipped on her turn signal, as if waiting for his parking space, then watched the truck's taillights blink on before it rumbled away from the curb. Hanging back, she killed the turn signal and proceeded behind him.
She followed him up a maze of streets that led deeper into the city. Maybe this was childish, maybe it was downright stupid—but her heart beat faster wondering where he was going and what it would tell her about him. Within a few turns and stoplights, the blue pickup veered onto an expressway ramp, leading her onto Interstate 10.
Once on the open road, Jake drove fast and she struggled to keep up without him noticing. As they crossed the Mississippi, she found herself asking: Where does a man like Jake Broussard go at a time like this? To another woman, someone who wouldn't heat him up just to turn him down? Her stomach tightened at the thought. Why was sex so difficult for her? She wanted so desperately to explain it to him, but she didn't know the answer herself. She pressed on the gas a little heavier, lest she lose sight of the truck.
Soon they were on a more desolate, empty road and she was careful to stay back a reasonable distance, just barely keeping his taillights in view. The farther they got from the city, the darker the air became. She saw only the low-lying road directly in front of her. God, where on earth was he going?
If you had half a brain, you'd turn around and go back. Leave the man alone.
Yet she'd come so far, and to head back to New Orleans now would only leave her all the more curious and frustrated. Despite herself, she simply ... wanted to be close to him, wanted to be wherever he was.
But an hour into the trip, she let out a huge sigh, thinking he might never get to where he was going. And dear God, what was that on the side of the road? She only caught a glimpse, but was fairly certain she'd just passed a small alligator.
Following more twists and turns, Stephanie found herself pursuing Jake down a two-lane road labeled Route 56 and knew instinctively she was in the heart of bayou country. For some reason, it made her heart beat painfully—it somehow seemed dangerous and a little eerie to be out here in the middle of a deserted area she knew nothing about. Keeping up with Jake had turned into a safety measure as much as anything else—she no longer even cared if he figured out she was following him.
After ninety minutes of driving, Jake slowed and took a left. When she reached the turn, she nearly missed it, even knowing it was there—the narrow one-lane gravel road wasn't marked, and pulling onto it felt like crossing some sort of invisible line, some point of no return.
She crept slowly along the bumpy, winding path, afraid she'd come upon Jake's truck if she rounded a bend too fast, and also hoping she didn't end up driving into a swamp.
Around a curve and through thick trees, she spotted Jake's truck stopped beneath a single light pole, a dim beam illuminating the area. She pressed her brakes, bringing the car to a stop as she shut off the lights, then struggled to peer through the tall trees.
She could barely make out Jake's shape as he walked to a shanty-type building beneath the light, then pulled something long and narrow, bigger than himself, from the lean-to. She squinted as he moved back past the trees blocking her view to realize he was dragging a small boat. They must be at the water. And he was going to get in the boat and float away from her after all this?
Ripping the headlights back on, she gave it some gas. Only—damn it!—her tires were spinning. She'd gotten the car stuck—in a pocket of mud or something. "Oh, please, no—don't let this happen," she beseeched God or anyone else who might hear.
Taking a deep breath, she released the gas pedal, then slowly, patiently tried again. Nothing but spinning wheels and a horrible whirring sound that multiplied her fears. This can't be happening. After another deep breath, she asked herself what her father would do in this situation. Surely they'd covered such things when she'd been learning to drive. Put it in reverse, she told herself. Ease back and turn the wheel to let the tire find something new to bite into.
Voilà—a second later, the front wheel backed out of the mud, and Stephanie let out a huge sigh of relief as she drove around the hole and sped to where Jake had parked.
Yanking the keys from the ignition, she practically leaped from the car and raced to the shore, but saw only a pale wake that told her which way he'd headed. Damn it.
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?"
T 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. Coco-drie 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 12
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 neckline 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, smelting now of his soap and the sweet, lush scents of the bayou. He bent over her,
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, / 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.
