He looked at her now in her prissy little designer sportswear outfit. She was a woman born to money, used to fine things. It stood to reason she would want more. That was the way of women of her class-see to the comfort and luxury of number one and to hell with the rest of the world. She wouldn't listen to him. He was just a means to an end… again.

«Get in the boat,» he said with a growl, his temper rising like a tide inside him.

She took another step toward him, her chin lifting to a stubborn angle. «You know, Mr. Doucet, we would get along a whole lot better if you would stop bossing me around.»

Lucky all but closed the gap between them, leaning over her, trying to intimidate her with his size and the aura of his temper. «I don't want to get along with you. Is that clear enough, Miz Sheridan?»

«Like crystal.»

She tilted her head back to meet his furious gaze, refusing to back away from him. It didn't seem to matter to his eyes that she was everything he needed to stay away from. It didn't matter to his hormones that she represented more trouble than he could afford to handle. For an instant, as he leaned close and the scent of her perfume lured him closer still, desire flared hot and bright inside him and burned away all common sense.

His gaze drifted over the elegant line of her cheek and jaw, the perfect angel's-wing curve of her brows, the delicate pink bow of her mouth. He wanted to kiss her, taste her, plunge his tongue into her mouth. It was crazy.

Crazy.

A shudder went through him and he tore his gaze from her. He turned away from her abruptly, jerking her suitcase from her grasp and climbing down into the pirogue with it. He settled the bag on the flat floor of the boat, up in the bow with the rest of his cargo, and moved back toward the stern, taking up the push-pole. His hands were shaking.

Sweet heaven, he thought, gripping the pole and looking away as Serena eased herself into the boat; the sooner he got her to Gifford's, the better. He didn't need this kind of torment in his life. All he wanted was to be left in peace.

Peace, a derisive voice sneered inside his head, what was that? A dream. Something he was continually longing for that seemed forever beyond his reach. Something Serena Sheridan seemed to hold effortlessly, he thought, taking in the air of calm she wore like a queen s cloak as she settled herself primly on the seat of his pirogue. He couldn't help but envy her that. But if she were a cold, unfeeling bitch like her sister, why wouldn't she feel peace? Nothing would penetrate her armor of selfishness. She would be safe from caring and pain.

He heaved a sigh as he poled the boat away from the dock and steered it around, pointing the bow upstream, away from civilization and toward his home, his heartland-the cypress swamp of Bayou Noir. He focused on the wilderness that had been his salvation, never turning his head to catch the bright flash of yellow on the gallery of Chanson du Terre.

THE FIRST THING THAT ALWAYS STRUCK SERENA about the swamp was the vastness of it. What land there was in this part of the state was crisscrossed by a labyrinth of waterways, some so wide they appeared bent on swallowing up everything in their path, some so narrow they were hardly more than a series of puddles cutting through the dense overhanging growth of willow and moss-draped hardwood trees. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but water and woods twisted together in combat with one another-water eating away at land, land rising up where water had been.

It was a place where one could literally spend days wandering the bayous, trying to reach a point only a few miles away. It was a place where trails twisted and turned, cut back and looped around until the traveler had no concept of direction. A place where shadows distorted the perception of time.

The area was inhabited by few people. Those who still made their living in the swamp generally preferred the comfort and convenience of civilization, buzzing into the wilderness in their aluminum boats only to return at the end of the day, leaving the bayous to such native inhabitants as snakes and alligators… and Lucky Doucet.

The waterway they were on branched off again and again like cracks in a windshield. It seemed to Serena that Lucky turned at random, steering the pirogue east, then west, then turning south again, then north. They weren't thirty minutes away from Chanson du Terre and already she was hopelessly lost, her fear robbing her of the ability to remember the route. She sat on the hard bench with her back straight, arms at her sides, fingers curling around the edge of the seat, bracing herself as if for a fierce blow.

«What'sa matter, darlin'? You afraid the boat's gonna sink?» Lucky punctuated the question by shifting his weight to set the pirogue rocking.

Serena felt the meager contents of her stomach rise up the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, concentrating on keeping her fear contained inside a shell of outer calm. Don't let him know you're afraid. Don't let him know you're afraid.

«O-of course not,» she stammered.

Lucky sniffed, offended. «The only way this pirogue is gettin' water in it is if it rains. I built it myself. This one, she rides the dew.»

«Is that what you do for a living? You build pirogues?» Serena asked, looking at the paraphernalia in the front of the boat. There was an assortment of gunny sacks and red onion bags, wire and mesh crawfish nets, a bundle of mosquito netting. Fisherman's gear. She thought of the knife he carried and corrected herself. Poacher's gear.

«Non,» he said shortly.

«What do you do?» she asked, twisting around to squint up at him. He looked like a giant looming over her. She wondered if he would take the opportunity to lie to her or try to shock her by telling the truth. He did neither.

«I do as I please.»

Serena arched a brow. «Does that pay well these days?»

Lucky tilted his head and looked away, giving her his profile. «Pas de betises» he muttered. «Sometimes it doesn't pay at all.»

He thrust the pole down into the muddy bottom and pushed. The boat shot ahead, nosing the edge of a floating platform of water hyacinth, delicate-looking lavender flowers shimmering above dense masses of green leaves. They turned again and the bayou grew narrower and darker. The pirogue skimmed the inky surface like a skater on ice, cutting across a sheet of green duckweed as they aimed for a narrow arbor of willow trees with streamers overhanging the water from either bank.

Serena took a slow, deep breath before they entered the tunnel of growth. Her throat constricted at the sudden absence of light. Her skin crawled as the willow wisps brushed against her like serpents' tongues.

When the boat emerged on the other side of the bower, they had an extra passenger. A thick black snake lay like a coil of discarded electrical cord on the floor of the pirogue near the toes of Serena's red shoes. Serena tried to scream, but couldn't. She bolted back on the seat, pulling her feet up and rocking the pirogue violently as she scrambled to escape, reacting on sheer instinct. She might have flung herself out of the boat if Lucky hadn't caught her.

He banded her to him with one brawny arm, bending her over backward as he reached down to snatch up the snake and fling it into the water.

«Just a little rat snake,» he said derisively as he released her.

Weak-kneed, Serena wilted down out of his embrace. A shudder passed through her as she watched the snake swim for shore, nose above the water, body undulating like a ribbon in a breeze. She didn't care if it was made of rubber and came from Woolworth s. It was a snake. Still, she didn't like the idea of this man knowing her fears, so she forced herself to recover quickly. Control was her best defense.