Jimmy Lee can think. He's all the time so busy talkin', him, can't be nothin' much left in his head to think about. So you gonna be
our
lawyer,
chère,
or what?” she asked baldly, crossing her arms beneath her bosom impatiently while she waited for an answer.
Laurel gaped, stunned by the question, left speechless by T-Grace herself. The proposition was ludicrous. She wasn't a lawyer here in Bayou Breaux; she was just Laurel Chandler. The idea that she could be both was the furthest thing from her mind right now. She had come here to rest, to heal, not to take up the fight.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, nervously stroking a finger through the condensation on her beer mug. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Delahoussaye. I'm only in town for vacation. All you really need to do is file a complaint for trespassing. If you feel you need help, I'm sure there are any number of local attorneys who would be glad to represent you.”
T-Grace sniffed and shot a look at Jack. “Some less than there oughta be.”
He scowled at her, picking the unlit cigarette from between his lips to gesture with it. “I told you, T-Grace, I couldn't if I wanted to. Besides, you don' need no lawyer. Jimmy Lee's just a pest. Ignore him, and he'll go away.”
The older woman stared hard at him, all pretense of teasing gone from her bulging dark eyes, leaving her looking old and tough as boot leather. “Trouble don' just go away,
cher
. You know dat good as me,
c'est vrai
.”
Laurel watched the exchange with interest. Jack's bad-boy grin had vanished into that hard, intense look she had glimpsed the night before. A look that clearly told T-Grace to back off, a look that most grown men would have heeded. T-Grace pretended to shrug it off and turned away from him. She glanced sideways at Laurel as she pulled a pair of bottles from the cooler and popped the tops off.
“Why for you wearin' dem big glasses,
chère
? You in disguise or what?”
She moved off to do a dozen tasks at once before Laurel could formulate any kind of answer. Laurel pushed the glasses up on her nose and frowned.
“It's not much of a disguise, angel,” Jack said.
“Not compared to yours,” Laurel returned. The best defense was a good offense. She didn't like being so easily read, and she had no intention of talking to Jack Boudreaux about her motives for doing anything. She certainly wasn't about to let him escape being questioned himself.
“Mine?” he scoffed. He shook his head, took a long drink of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No disguises here. What you see is what you get, sugar.”
The wickedness returned, sparkling in his eyes, curling the corners of his mouth, digging those breath-stealing dimples into his cheeks. He leaned close, sliding his hand around to the small of her back. His fingers teased her through the thin cotton of her blouse, rubbing lazy circles.
“You like that promise, no?” he breathed, leaning closer still, his lips just brushing the shell of her ear. Laurel shivered, then gasped as his hand slipped beneath the hem of the loose-fitting blouse.
“No,” she said emphatically, batting his hand away. She gave him a look that had made better men back off and ground her teeth when he only smiled at her. “Don't try to change the subject.”
“I'm not. The subject is us. I'm just tryin' to get past the talkin' stage, angel.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“Well, that devil, he's gonna feel a chill one of these days real soon.”
She arched a brow at him, thwarting the temptation to be either flattered or amused. “Is that a fact?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he drawled, dark eyes shining.
His intent was clear. For reasons Laurel couldn't begin to fathom, he'd set his sights on her. Probably because she was the only female in his territory he had yet to notch his bedpost for. His arrogance was astonishing. But more astonishing was the vague sensation of arousal his words, his touch, his nearness conjured
our
lawyer,
chère,
or what?” she asked baldly, crossing her arms beneath her bosom impatiently while she waited for an answer.
Laurel gaped, stunned by the question, left speechless by T-Grace herself. The proposition was ludicrous. She wasn't a lawyer here in Bayou Breaux; she was just Laurel Chandler. The idea that she could be both was the furthest thing from her mind right now. She had come here to rest, to heal, not to take up the fight.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, nervously stroking a finger through the condensation on her beer mug. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Delahoussaye. I'm only in town for vacation. All you really need to do is file a complaint for trespassing. If you feel you need help, I'm sure there are any number of local attorneys who would be glad to represent you.”
T-Grace sniffed and shot a look at Jack. “Some less than there oughta be.”
He scowled at her, picking the unlit cigarette from between his lips to gesture with it. “I told you, T-Grace, I couldn't if I wanted to. Besides, you don' need no lawyer. Jimmy Lee's just a pest. Ignore him, and he'll go away.”
The older woman stared hard at him, all pretense of teasing gone from her bulging dark eyes, leaving her looking old and tough as boot leather. “Trouble don' just go away,
cher
. You know dat good as me,
c'est vrai
.”
Laurel watched the exchange with interest. Jack's bad-boy grin had vanished into that hard, intense look she had glimpsed the night before. A look that clearly told T-Grace to back off, a look that most grown men would have heeded. T-Grace pretended to shrug it off and turned away from him. She glanced sideways at Laurel as she pulled a pair of bottles from the cooler and popped the tops off.
“Why for you wearin' dem big glasses,
chère
? You in disguise or what?”
She moved off to do a dozen tasks at once before Laurel could formulate any kind of answer. Laurel pushed the glasses up on her nose and frowned.
“It's not much of a disguise, angel,” Jack said.
“Not compared to yours,” Laurel returned. The best defense was a good offense. She didn't like being so easily read, and she had no intention of talking to Jack Boudreaux about her motives for doing anything. She certainly wasn't about to let him escape being questioned himself.
“Mine?” he scoffed. He shook his head, took a long drink of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No disguises here. What you see is what you get, sugar.”
The wickedness returned, sparkling in his eyes, curling the corners of his mouth, digging those breath-stealing dimples into his cheeks. He leaned close, sliding his hand around to the small of her back. His fingers teased her through the thin cotton of her blouse, rubbing lazy circles.
“You like that promise, no?” he breathed, leaning closer still, his lips just brushing the shell of her ear. Laurel shivered, then gasped as his hand slipped beneath the hem of the loose-fitting blouse.
“No,” she said emphatically, batting his hand away. She gave him a look that had made better men back off and ground her teeth when he only smiled at her. “Don't try to change the subject.”
“I'm not. The subject is us. I'm just tryin' to get past the talkin' stage, angel.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“Well, that devil, he's gonna feel a chill one of these days real soon.”
She arched a brow at him, thwarting the temptation to be either flattered or amused. “Is that a fact?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he drawled, dark eyes shining.
His intent was clear. For reasons Laurel couldn't begin to fathom, he'd set his sights on her. Probably because she was the only female in his territory he had yet to notch his bedpost for. His arrogance was astonishing. But more astonishing was the vague sensation of arousal his words, his touch, his nearness conjured
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