curves of her hips and backside, and a loose white silk tank that managed to show more than it covered. A diamond the size of a pea hung just above the deep shadow of her cleavage, just below the necklace Daddy had given her years ago, and gold bangles rattled at her wrists as she shifted her weight impatiently from one spike heel to the other.
“Baby, what in the world do you think you're doing?”
Laurel pushed her bangs out of her eyes and flashed a smile. “Gardening! What's it look like?”
She abandoned her tools and straightened up, dusting the loose dirt off the knees of her baggy jeans before heading for the gallery. Mama Pearl would cluck at her like a fat old hen if she tracked it into the house.
“You've spent the entire last two days gardening,” Savannah said, frowning. “You're going to wear yourself out. Didn't your doctor tell you to relax?”
“Gardening is relaxing, psychologically. I've needed to do something physical,” she said, toeing off her canvas sneakers and stepping up beside her sister. In her heels Savannah towered over her. Laurel had always felt small and mousy in Savannah's presence. Today she felt like a grubby urchin, and the feeling pleased her enormously.
Savannah sniffed and made a comical face of utter disgust. “Mercy, you smell like a hog pen at high noon! If you needed to do something physical, we could have gone shopping. Your wardrobe is begging for a trip to New Orleans.”
“I have plenty of clothes.”
“Then why don't you wear them?” Savannah asked archly.
Laurel glanced down at the shapeless cotton T-shirt and baggy jeans that camouflaged all details of her body. Most of what she had brought with her was designed for comfort rather than style.
“It wouldn't be very practical for me to do gardening in stiletto heels,” she said dryly, eyeing her sister's outfit. “And if I had to bend over in that skirt, I'd probably get arrested for mooning the neighbors.”
Savannah looked out across the courtyard to L'Amour, the once-elegant brick house that stood some distance behind Belle Rivière on the bank of the bayou. The corners of her lush mouth flicked upward in wry amusement. “Baby, you couldn't scandalize that neighbor if you tried.”
“Who's living there? I didn't think anyone would ever buy it, considering the history of the place and the state it was in the last time I saw it.”
L'Amour had been built in the mid-nineteenth century for a notorious paramour by her wealthy, married lover. By all accounts—and there were many versions of the tale—she died by his hand when he discovered she was also involved with a no-account Cajun trapper. Laurel had grown up hearing stories about the place's being haunted. No one had lived there in years.
“Jack Boudreaux,” Savannah answered, her smile turning sexy at the thought of him. “Writer, rake, rascal, rogue. And when he gets to be old enough, I imagine he'll be a reprobate too. Come along, urchin,” she said, turning for the house. “Go hose yourself down. I'm taking you out to lunch.”
Jack Boudreaux. Laurel stood on the veranda, staring at L'Amour.
“Baby, you coming?”
Laurel snapped her head around, a blush creeping up her cheeks like a guilty schoolgirl's. Concern tugged at Savannah's brows, and she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.
“I think you've been out in the sun too long. You should have worn a hat.”
“I'm fine.” Laurel shook her head and dodged her sister's gaze. “I'll just take a nice cool shower before we go.”
Cold shower indeed, she thought, shaken by her response to the mere mention of a man's name. Lord, it wasn't as though she had enjoyed their encounter. It had unnerved her, and in the end she'd made a fool of herself. Mortification should have been her reaction to the words “Jack Boudreaux.”
She showered quickly and dressed in a pair of baggy blue checked shorts and a sleeveless blue cotton blouse. Barely ten minutes had passed by the time she
“Baby, what in the world do you think you're doing?”
Laurel pushed her bangs out of her eyes and flashed a smile. “Gardening! What's it look like?”
She abandoned her tools and straightened up, dusting the loose dirt off the knees of her baggy jeans before heading for the gallery. Mama Pearl would cluck at her like a fat old hen if she tracked it into the house.
“You've spent the entire last two days gardening,” Savannah said, frowning. “You're going to wear yourself out. Didn't your doctor tell you to relax?”
“Gardening is relaxing, psychologically. I've needed to do something physical,” she said, toeing off her canvas sneakers and stepping up beside her sister. In her heels Savannah towered over her. Laurel had always felt small and mousy in Savannah's presence. Today she felt like a grubby urchin, and the feeling pleased her enormously.
Savannah sniffed and made a comical face of utter disgust. “Mercy, you smell like a hog pen at high noon! If you needed to do something physical, we could have gone shopping. Your wardrobe is begging for a trip to New Orleans.”
“I have plenty of clothes.”
“Then why don't you wear them?” Savannah asked archly.
Laurel glanced down at the shapeless cotton T-shirt and baggy jeans that camouflaged all details of her body. Most of what she had brought with her was designed for comfort rather than style.
“It wouldn't be very practical for me to do gardening in stiletto heels,” she said dryly, eyeing her sister's outfit. “And if I had to bend over in that skirt, I'd probably get arrested for mooning the neighbors.”
Savannah looked out across the courtyard to L'Amour, the once-elegant brick house that stood some distance behind Belle Rivière on the bank of the bayou. The corners of her lush mouth flicked upward in wry amusement. “Baby, you couldn't scandalize that neighbor if you tried.”
“Who's living there? I didn't think anyone would ever buy it, considering the history of the place and the state it was in the last time I saw it.”
L'Amour had been built in the mid-nineteenth century for a notorious paramour by her wealthy, married lover. By all accounts—and there were many versions of the tale—she died by his hand when he discovered she was also involved with a no-account Cajun trapper. Laurel had grown up hearing stories about the place's being haunted. No one had lived there in years.
“Jack Boudreaux,” Savannah answered, her smile turning sexy at the thought of him. “Writer, rake, rascal, rogue. And when he gets to be old enough, I imagine he'll be a reprobate too. Come along, urchin,” she said, turning for the house. “Go hose yourself down. I'm taking you out to lunch.”
Jack Boudreaux. Laurel stood on the veranda, staring at L'Amour.
“Baby, you coming?”
Laurel snapped her head around, a blush creeping up her cheeks like a guilty schoolgirl's. Concern tugged at Savannah's brows, and she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.
“I think you've been out in the sun too long. You should have worn a hat.”
“I'm fine.” Laurel shook her head and dodged her sister's gaze. “I'll just take a nice cool shower before we go.”
Cold shower indeed, she thought, shaken by her response to the mere mention of a man's name. Lord, it wasn't as though she had enjoyed their encounter. It had unnerved her, and in the end she'd made a fool of herself. Mortification should have been her reaction to the words “Jack Boudreaux.”
She showered quickly and dressed in a pair of baggy blue checked shorts and a sleeveless blue cotton blouse. Barely ten minutes had passed by the time she
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