She had left Jack to avoid the awkwardness of morning-after talk. What had passed between them during the night had gone far beyond words and into a realm of unfamiliar territory. But this was safe ground. She wanted to ask his opinion, tap his knowledge. It was like business, really. And friendship. She wanted his support, she admitted as Huey bounded between a pair of crepe myrtle trees and bore down on her with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.

The hound crashed into her, knocking her into the front door with a thud. As she called him a dozen names that defamed his character and his lineage, he pounced at her feet, yipping playfully, snapping at her shoelaces. He whirled around and leaped off the front step, running in crazy circles with his tail tucked, clearly overjoyed to see her. Laurel scowled at him as he dropped to the ground at the foot of the step and rolled over on his back, inviting her to scratch his blue-speckled belly.

"Goofy dog," she muttered, giving in and bending over to pat him. "Don't you know when you're being snubbed?"

"Love is blind," Jack said sardonically, swinging the door open behind her.

He was in the same rumpled jeans. No shirt. He hadn't shaved. A mug of coffee steamed in his hand. As Laurel stood, she could see that the brew was as black as night. She breathed in its rich aroma and tried to will her heartbeat to steady. He didn't look pleased to see her. The man who had held her and loved her through the night was gone, replaced by the Jack she would rather not have known, the brooding, angry man.

"If you've got some milk to cut that motor oil you're drinking, I could use a cup myself."

He studied her for a minute, as if trying to decipher her motives, then shrugged and walked into the house, leaving her to follow as she would. Laurel trailed after him down a long hall, catching glimpses of rooms that had stood unused for decades. Water-stained wallpaper. Moth-eaten draperies. Furnishings covered with dust cloths, and dust cloths thick with their namesake.

It was as if no one lived here, and the thought gave her an odd feeling of unease. Certainly Jack, The New York Times best-selling author, could afford to have the place renovated. But she didn't ask why he hadn't, because she had a feeling she knew. Penance. Punishment. L'Amour was his own personal purgatory. The idea tugged at her heart, but she didn't go to him as she longed to. His indifference to her presence set the ground rules for the morning-no clinging, no pledges.

He led her into a kitchen that, unlike the rest of the house, was immaculate. The red of the walls had faded to the color of tomato soup, but they were clean and free of cobwebs. The refrigerator was new. Cupboards and gray tile countertops had been cleaned and polished. The only sign of food was a rope of entwined garlic bulbs and one of red peppers that hung on either side of the window above the sink, but it was a place where food could be prepared without threat of ptomaine.

He pulled a mug down from the cupboard and filled it for her from the old enamel pot on the stove. Laurel helped herself to the milk-a perfect excuse to snoop. Eleven bottles of Jax, a quart of milk, a jar of bread-and-butter pickles, and three casseroles, each bearing a different name penned on a strip of masking tape like offerings for a church potluck supper. Lady friends taking care of him, no doubt. The thought brought a mix of jealousy and amusement.

She leaned back against the counter, stirring her coffee. "Have you seen Savannah since the other morning when she left in such a huff?"

"No. Why?"

"I haven't, either. Nor has Aunt Caroline or Mama Pearl." She fiddled with her spoon as the nerves in her stomach quivered. She fixed her gaze on Jack's belly button and the dark hair that curled around it. "I'm a little concerned."

He shrugged. "She's with a lover."

"Maybe. Probably. It's just that…" She trailed off as the suspicions and theories tried to surface. She wished she could share it all with him, but he wasn't in a sharing mood, and faced with the stony expression he was wearing, she couldn't bring herself to tell him any of it. She felt alone; the one thing she had come to him to avoid. "… with all that's been going on, I'd feel better knowing for certain."

"So what do you want from me, sugar?" he asked bluntly. "You know for a fact she's not in my bed."

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, setting her cup aside on the counter. She halved the distance between them, hands jammed on her hips.

"What?"

"Being such a bastard."

Jack arched a brow and grinned sharply. "It's what I do best, angel."

"Oh, stop it!" she snapped. "It's too early in the morning for this kind of bullshit." She dared another step toward him, peering up at him in narrow-eyed speculation. "What did you think, Jack? That I was coming over here to ask you to marry me?" she said sarcastically. "Well, I'm not. You can relax. Your martyrdom is safe. All I want is a little help. A straight answer or two would be nice."

He scowled at her as the martyrdom barb hit and stuck dead center. Giving in to the need to escape her scrutiny, he abandoned his coffee and sauntered across the room to pull a beer from the fridge.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, twisting off the top with a quick motion of his wrist. "That I know who was screwing your sister last night? I don't. If I were to hazard a guess as to the possible candidates, I could just as well hand you a phone book."

"Oh, fine," Laurel bit back. She stalked him across the room like a tiger. Fury bubbled up inside her, and she wished to God she were big enough and strong enough to pound the snot out of Jack Boudreaux. He deserved it, and it would have gone a long way to appease her own wounded pride. "You're a big help, Jack."

"I told you, sugar, I don' get involved."

"What a crock," she challenged, toe to toe with him now, leaning up toward him with her chin out and fire in her eyes. She might have been uncertain treading the uneven ground of their suddenly formed relationship, but she knew what to do in an argument. "You're dabbling around the edges everywhere, Jack-with Frenchie's, with the Delahoussayes, with Baldwin, with me. You're just too big a coward to do more than get your feet wet."

"Coward?" He gaped at her, at the sound of the word. He described himself in many ways, few of them flattering, but "coward" was not on the list.

Laurel pressed on, shooting blind, fighting on instinct. Her skills were rusty, and she had never been good at keeping her heart out of a fight, anyway. It tumbled into the fray now, tender and brimming with new emotion. The words were out of her mouth before she could even try to rope them back. "Every time it starts looking like you might have a chance at something good, you turn tail and run behind that I-don't-give-a-damn facade."

"A chance at something good?" Jack said, his gaze sharp on hers, his heart clenching in his chest. "Like what? Like us?"

She bit her tongue on the answer, but it flashed in her eyes just the same. Jack swore under his breath and turned away from her. Struggling for casual indifference, he shook a cigarette out from a pack lying on the counter and dangled it from his lip. "Mon Dieu, a couple' a good rolls in the sack and suddenly-"

"Don't!" Laurel snapped. She held a finger up in warning and pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling. "Don't you dare." She gulped down a knot of tears and struggled to snatch a breath that didn't rattle and catch in her throat. "I didn't come here to have this fight," she said tightly. "I came here because I thought you might be able to help me, because I thought we were friends."

Jack blew out a huff of air and shook his head. "I can't help anybody."

Laurel tugged her composure tight around herself. Damned if she'd let him make her cry. "Yeah? Well, forgive me for asking you to breach the asshole code of conduct," she sneered. "I'll just go ask Jimmy Lee Baldwin flat out if he had my sister tied to his bed the past two nights. I'll just go knock on every goddamn door in the parish until I find her!" She held up a hand as if to ward off an offer that was not forthcoming. "Thanks anyway, Jack," she said bitterly, "but I don't need you after all."

He watched her storm out of the kitchen and down the hall, a frown tugging at his mouth, a lead weight sinking in his chest. "That's what I've been tellin' you all along, angel," he muttered, then he turned and went in search of matches.

Coop stared into his underwear drawer, frowning at the array of serviceable cotton Jockey shorts and boxers and the little silk things Savannah had bought him. He lifted out a white silk G-string, dangling it from his finger, shaking his head. He'd felt stupid as hell wearing it, too big and too old and too set in his ways. But as he dropped it in the wastebasket beside the dresser, he felt a little twinge of regret, just the same.

She wouldn't be back this time. The fight to end all fights had been fought. It was over, once and for all.

Too bad, he thought as he stared out the window. He had loved her. If only she had been able to take that love for what it was worth and find happiness. Of course, that restless, insatiable quality had been one of the things to draw him to her in the first place. So needy, so desperate to assuage that need, so utterly, pitiably incapable of filling that gaping hole within her heart.

He sighed as his mind idly drew character sketches of Savannah, and his gaze fell through the window, taking in the details of the setting. The bayou was a strip of bottle green beyond the yard, and beyond the banks lay the tangled wilderness of the Atchafalaya. Wild and sultry, like Savannah, unpredictable and deceivingly delicate, fragility in the guise of unforgiving toughness.

He thought he ought to write the image down, but he couldn't work up the ambition to go and get his notebook. Instead, he let the lines fade away and tended to his packing. Five pairs of shorts, five pairs of socks, the tie bar Astor had given him the Christmas before she forgot his name.

Astor. God, how different she had been from Savannah. She had always worn her fragility like a beautiful orchid corsage, as if it were the badge of a true lady, a sign of breeding. Her toughness had been inside, a stoic strength that had borne her through the stages of her decline with dignity. She would have disapproved of Savannah-silently, politely, with a tip of her head and a cluck of her tongue. But he imagined Astor would have forgiven Savannah her sins. He wasn't so sure the same could be said for his case. He had made his wife a pledge, after all.