Luke (21 page)

“Romance was invented by men,” Luke said deliberately.

“They didn't invent it,” she contradicted him. “They just wrote about it at a time when most women lacked the knowledge or the time to put words on paper.”

“Maybe, but nothing and no one is more romantic than your average sixteen-year-old boy in love for the first time.”

“Too bad they grow out of it, then! Maybe men should relearn what it means to be romantic instead of getting together to practice drum beating and primal howls.”

“They don't grow out of it,” he said evenly. “The romance just gets beaten down by all the jeers and rejections. They don't have to learn again, but only to remember.”

“Are you saying—” She stopped, her breath coming so quickly that her chest rose and fell as if she'd been running.

Luke didn't answer. If she wanted to take the comment personally, it was all right with him.

She gave him a look of disgust and turned away. Then she paused and looked back, calling, “Here, Midnight, come on, boy.”

Midnight turned his head to look at her and flipped his tail, but didn't budge. It seemed fitting. After all, Luke thought, he was a male, too.

April spun on her heel and stalked into the cabin. Luke looked after her for long seconds, then he sighed as he muttered to his good buddy, Midnight, “Guess this means no nap time today.”

Luke finished the book just after dinner. For long moments, he sat staring into space, thinking. Then he got up and went to find another April Halstead romance.

It was unbelievable how caught up he got in the worlds April constructed sentence by sentence. The color and warmth of her vision led him on, her plots
intrigued him, and he felt as if he were exploring the far edges of her personality as he followed the thought processes of her female characters. Her guys seemed a bit glorified, but then he wasn't paying too much attention to them other than as stand-ins for his own involvement in the story. Maybe that's why it was such a body blow when it finally hit him.

He was the hero.

Or the hero was him, he, however you wanted to put it. He was in April's books. She hadn't just used him as a physical model for her men as she'd led him to think. She had put the very essence of him into her pages.

No wonder she'd been nervous about his reading material.

To be sure he wasn't hallucinating, Luke gathered all three novels onboard the boat and scanned their pages. He found bits of description, pieces of business such as how the guy moved and spoke, his habits, his mannerisms, his good qualities—and his faults.

The hero really was based on him.

She hadn't used him just one time, nor was it a recent idea. The three books were older titles published long before she returned to Turn-Coupe, and he was the hero of all three. What was more, April had caught him so well that it made the hair rise on the back of his neck. She had put him under a microscope and dissected him, exposing his heart and his thought patterns for the entire world to see.

Yet it wasn't really him, either, Luke saw after a moment. He'd never been that strong, that good-
looking or sharply intelligent. He'd never in his life had that much flowery stuff to say.

Nor, to his knowledge, had he ever been that fantastic in bed.

After all the buildup, he had to wonder if April hadn't been disappointed. Of course, the love scenes could have been taken from her relationship with Tinsley—now there was a happy thought. But if that was it, Luke couldn't imagine why the two of them had ever split up.

Yes, and now he thought of it, there was that day in New Orleans when April and her writer friends had teased him unmercifully about being the heroic type. God, but she must have been giggling up her sleeve.

And the photos tacked to the bulletin board behind her computer? They hadn't been there by accident or because he was a handy face and form. The collection wasn't of recent vintage, either, something he should have realized at the time. No, she must have used them as reminders, inspiration, or whatever for years. That meant she was probably still using him, might even now be scribbling out some scene that made him look like a horse's behind or else had him in bed with her heroine doing who knows what. Or even doing exactly what he'd done the night before.

That certainly accounted for the measuring looks he'd gotten from her in the past few days.

If he was the hero, though, who was the heroine? Did she use herself? Had she been going to bed with him in her mind for years on end while he'd never had a clue?

Yes, and did everyone in Turn-Coupe—Betsy, Regina, Granny May and the other women who read her books so religiously—know that she used him? Had they recognized it ages ago, when they read her first books, and never told him?

Luke put the books back in the cabinet where he'd found them and left the cabin for the dark front deck. Standing with his hands braced on the railing, he scowled as he slowly came to grips with the whole idea. He had to decide what it meant—if it meant anything beyond the fact that he was a certain type, someone April knew fairly well and didn't mind exploiting.

The easiest thing would be to ask her, but he wasn't sure he wanted to do that. For one thing, the truth might be hard to come by. For another, he probably wouldn't like it when he heard it. Then there was something else stirring in his mind, a half-formed impulse he couldn't quite grasp.

Then he had it.

What if April secretly longed for the hero she had created for herself? What if this ideal man was what it would take to really get to her? What if he turned himself into that man insofar as it was physically and mentally possible?

It was a tall order.

“What do you think, Midnight?” he asked the cat who had followed him outside. “Do I have a prayer in hell of it working?”

Midnight walked over, wound around his legs, then sat down on Luke's foot and began to purr. Luke took it for encouragement.

He didn't go back inside, but braved the mosqui
toes to sleep on the deck. The atmosphere between him and April was still strained the next morning, so he kept to the front end of the boat along with the third novel he'd retrieved for a textbook. She retreated to the cabin roof once more with her pen and notebook. They both came close to sunstroke as the day wore on and the sun's angle shifted, being too stubborn to occupy the same small section of shade at the same time.

It was late afternoon when Luke heard the buzzing. It was like a far-off chain saw in operation or else a radio-controlled model plane. He listened hard while the adrenaline rush of his warning instinct began to pour into his veins.

The sound was increasing and coming fast. It was no model plane but a real one. Now he could pinpoint not only the source but the make, model and engine ratio as well. It would have been a crime if he couldn't since he dusted crops with a similar model five days out of seven most summers, should be flying his Cessna now, on this windless evening as the sun went down. This one was coming fast and keeping low, almost skimming the treetops as it closed in on their hiding place.

Luke rolled off the bench where he lay and came erect in a single movement. Waving at April up top, he shouted, “Get down here. Come on!”

She stood up, staring down at him with a look on her face that said she'd been miles away and thought maybe he'd gone crazy while she wasn't looking. “What is it?”

“A plane. They could be looking for you. Get down here now!”

She glanced at the sky as comprehension bloomed across her features. Then she whirled away from him, heading toward the ladder on the rear deck.

It was a good move. Luke heard the thud of her footsteps overhead as he flung himself into and through the cabin, then ripped open the sliding screen door at the back. As he emerged on the back deck, the aerial buzz was becoming a roar. April was at the top of the ladder, but they had run out of time. As he reached the bottom rung, he yelled, “Jump!”

Her face was pale, her eyes huge. Her notebook was tucked into her tank top for he could see its outline. She didn't hesitate this time, but grabbed the ladder's top rail with one hand and sprang down feet first.

Luke caught her at the waist, clamping her to him even as he staggered and recovered. Then he dived for the cabin, half dragging, half pushing her inside.

The sound of the plane was deafening. Its shadow swept over the boat first as it bore down from the southwest. Then it went by overhead in a rush of air that swayed the surrounding trees like a hurricane, shivered the top of the water, and made the boat rock against its anchor ropes.

“Midnight!” April screamed above the racket. “Where?”

But the cat, no fool, had streaked through the front door, tail high and ears flat against his head. He was inside with them where it was safe.

Or where it had been safe. Until now.

A
tremor ran over April as she stood in the hard circle of Luke's arms and listened to the receding racket of the plane. The clutch of her fingers made white dents in the muscles of his upper arms. Despite the heat of the day, the warmth from his bare chest was welcome. She felt cold from the inside out.

“Who was it?” she asked when she could force the words past her cold lips.

His voice compressed, Luke said, “I didn't get a look at him.”

“Neither did I.” She forced herself to release her grip, then brushed at the half moon marks made by her nails in his skin. Before she could step away, the sound of the airplane changed. With a quick upward glance, she added, “He's coming back.”

“So it seems. I think…”

“What?”

“That whoever is at the controls will expect to see somebody onboard instead of a deserted-looking boat. With the commotion he made, most people would be outside taking a look.”

“You think he'll expect to see you.” It was a statement, though a tentative one.

He set her from him, began to move toward the door. “If he's checking this far back in the swamp then he must have a reason. He could know I'm missing from Chemin-a-Haut, could even have identified the boat as mine.”

She had reached the same logical, if unwelcome, conclusion. The plane was coming closer. Something had to be decided. “You're sure?”

“No, but what else is there? Especially if I want a better look?”

The time for discussion was fast running out. The words tight, she said, “Be careful.”

He gaze turned opaque for an instant. “I'll do that,” he answered, then turned and ducked out onto the front deck.

April watched as his movements slowed to the saunter of a man with time on his hands. He was good, she had to admit that. He tipped his face toward the sky and thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels like the most gape-mouthed hayseed.

“Don't overdo it,” she called, anxiety putting a snap in the warning.

The only sign that he heard her above the roar of the oncoming plane was the quick twist of his lips.

Briefly, April pictured the explosion she'd have had to endure from Martin if she had dared to criticize one of his more macho exploits. Her ex-husband was not a man to see humor in chancy situations. But then, he wasn't the kind to willingly step into danger in the first place, either.

She was thinking, analyzing, as protection from the fear that ballooned inside her as the plane noise
overrode all other sound once more. The staunch yet jaunty way Luke faced it tugged at her heart. The need to yell at him to come back, to grab him and pull him under cover again, was like an ache inside her. She clenched her hands into fists. She couldn't stand it, she couldn't.

What if whoever was in the plane had a gun? What if they dropped some kind of explosive to blow up the pontoon boat? What if they came in low enough to let a swimmer bail out, harpoon gun in hand like some stupid action-adventure movie? What if…

The plane streaked above the boat. Luke pivoted to keep it in sight, squinting into the last rays of the sun as he watched it bank north and disappear. The rumble of its engine faded into stillness.

April closed her eyes, inhaled and let it out again. Overactive imagination, that was her problem. It was an occupational hazard.

When she was sure the coast was clear she walked out to join Luke. He had moved to the prow of the boat, staring to the north with his arms crossed over his chest. As she stopped beside him, he gave her a brief glance before he asked, “Know anybody who flies a plane?”

“Other than you, no. But anybody can hire a pilot.”

He gave a nod of agreement.

When he didn't speak again, she asked, “You don't think it could be a coincidence, the plane coming in so low?”

“I'd love to believe it.”

His features were taut, with little in them to reassure her. “But you don't.”

He made no answer, but she needed none.

Midnight came out to join them then, winding around their legs and leaning against the ankles of first one and then the other in fine impartiality. It seemed that he sensed their disturbance, though that might be foolishness and his only real concern was his evening ration of fish.

With her gaze on the cat, April said, “You told me yourself that Roan figured out I was with you because we were seen leaving the festival together. What will happen if whoever was in the plane decides to come back by water to check out the same possibility?”

“The chance of them being able to find their way back in here isn't that great. Unless…”

“Unless they find a guide,” she supplied. “Someone who knows the swamp as well as you.”

“Not many do.”

The claim carried certainty without a shred of arrogance. Still, it didn't have enough conviction to suit April. “You know someone who might?”

“It's possible, if he saw the boat from the air or was shown an aerial shot.”

She would remain as sanguine as he seemed if it killed her. In even tones, she asked, “Anyone I know?”

“Frank.”

Frank Randall, who carried a grudge against Luke and might not mind doing him a disservice. The man who blamed them both for his sister's death.

The possibility had been there all along. Rein
forcement for her own suspicions was not something she was overjoyed to receive. “He doesn't have to be involved,” she said. “And if it's someone else, if he's approached strictly for his ability as a guide, he may not take the job.”

“Or he could jump at the chance.”

She didn't like the grim note in his voice. “Just in case, then…”

He turned his head to meet her gaze, his own hard with purpose. “Right. We move the boat as soon as it's dark.”

That was what they did, raising the anchors in swirling torrents of mud and easing out into the lake again at turtle speed and without running lights. April sat at the front railing and acted as lookout, straining her eyes in the light of a three-quarter moon and calling back warnings about sand spits, stumps and floating logs. After what seemed long hours, they reached a small meandering ribbon of water half-choked with marshy growth and overhung with trees. As Luke drove the boat into it, the pontoons scraped grittily over saw grass and water hyacinths while low-hanging limbs scratched along the cabin roof. They plowed along for perhaps a quarter mile, until they were well screened from the lake, then he shoved the big, unwieldy craft under and into the dense overhang of a big, leaning pin oak. As the dragging tree branches halted their forward progress, he cut the big outboard motor.

In the silence that descended, they could hear the creaking and rustling as displaced tree limbs eased back into place. April, standing near the console where she had retreated as they slid under the nat
ural cover, let out the breath she'd been holding. Luke rose from behind the wheel, then moved to flip on a couple of battery-operated lights. Raking a hand through his hair to dislodge a couple of dead leaves and a white streak of spider web, he said, “We should be fairly hard to spot in here. I'll add to the camouflage in the morning.”

“I hope there isn't much damage to your boat.” The words were stilted, she realized, and not precisely what she wanted to say. “I mean, I'm grateful that you risked wrecking it because of me, and sorry if it got scratched.”

“I bought the thing to be useful. If it gets a little beat up, hell, that's life. I can't think of a more worthwhile cause.”

It was difficult to stay mad at a man who not only felt that way, but was protecting her at his own risk. He made her feel safe, and that was miraculous. More than that, he had in some strange fashion freed her creative drive so words poured from the end of her pen as if from an artesian well. Or maybe it wasn't so strange. He had always been a wellspring for her art, a source of inspiration for the edgy yet tender heroes she created. The physical rapport they had shared only renewed that while adding another, more vibrant, dimension.

She was back; she was a writer again. That was something else she owed him.

As disturbing as he could be, then, and as distracting, she was fiercely glad to be there with him. Perhaps because of his example as well as his rock steady confidence, she was able to push her fears aside and exist in the moment. In the less fraught
days just passed it had occurred to her that however much she resented being tricked into this seclusion with him, it had not been a bad thing.

Amazing, but it could not be denied.

Whether she would feel that way when the episode was over, she had no idea. What would come from the development between her and Luke was equally unknown. For now and until this was over, she wanted to be with him, wanted him, needed him.

Their being at odds today had been disturbing and not so productive. There was more to it than that, but what exactly was something she didn't care to question too closely. If part of her reluctance was the problem of why he was willing to risk so much for her sake, it was something else she didn't want to examine. And perhaps couldn't afford to probe as long as they were so isolated together. All she knew was that she wanted things back the way they had been between them in the quickest and easiest possible way.

“Are we going to anchor or just tie up?” she asked, though she was fairly sure of the answer.

“Tie up, just a couple of lines to keep us from swinging into the open if a wind comes up.”

“Tell me where you want the lines and I'll give you a hand. It's been a long day, and unless you have a better idea, I'm ready to turn in.”

The look he turned on her held close consideration. “You go ahead. I can get the lines.”

“Then I'll make down the bed. I—if you don't mind, would you sleep inside? It bothers me, having the cabin all alone while you're out here with the snakes and bugs.”

“Not nearly as much,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “as it bothers me.”

“That's good, then.” She wasn't totally sure he understood what she was trying to say, but at least she'd have the chance of making it clearer later.

“No,
chère,
” he said, his voice rich and deep, “it's fantastic.”

She should have known he wouldn't need to have it spelled out in one-syllable words.

He came to her shortly afterward smelling of night freshness and a faint, wild hint of the lake from his bath. There was something different about him, she thought, as he settled beside her and reached to draw her close. He still whispered and cajoled with enjoyment threading through the words, but his touch was more commanding, his caress more lingering yet less tentative. He seemed to sense what she wanted, guess what she needed before she knew herself. His concentration was absolute, and directed toward the goal of her fulfillment to the exclusion of all else. He reached it, expanded it with skill and fortitude until her every nerve ending was sensitized almost beyond bearing, singing with the need to feel his weight against her, to have him deep inside her. In answer to the direction of her clinging hands, he slid into place.

It was a rampaging ride, an endless sounding of such power that she responded with stunning force. He was everything she'd ever imagined in a lover, skilled, inventive, tireless, cherishing. Still, when he was finally quiescent, lying with her held close against him, she stared with wide eyes into the darkness while she smoothed her palm over the hard
planes of his shoulder as if to soothe him, soothe them both.

They slept late. The huge tree that sheltered them also filtered the morning sun, giving them a deeper shade than before so the heat was held at bay a little longer. When April woke at last, nestled against Luke in spoon fashion, she was reluctant to move. She didn't want to disturb the man who held her, but also, for the first time in days, didn't feel like getting up to work. She just wanted to lie there, to simply be, secure in the moment. There was such rightness in it, as if she were where she belonged.

Not that it meant anything special, of course. It was all a matter of chemical attraction and physical compatibility. These things had little to do with love. They were transient while love was permanent. She'd learned that lesson long ago.

All right, then, her attraction to Luke had endured in spite of everything that lay between them. That didn't prove a thing, didn't mean it was love. It couldn't be. How could she possibly love someone she couldn't trust?

Or could she trust him after all? Wasn't it, just possibly, a bit illogical to depend on someone to keep her safe while refusing to accept him into her heart?

Julianne had been right. He was nothing like her father. He never had been, which was why she had turned to him all those years ago. Her father had been morose and cynical and self-involved. He had loved her, yes, but he'd cared more for his pride. She could see that now with clarity she'd had trouble managing while she was a teenager.

She could also see Luke far more clearly. She did have faith that he would protect her. In spite of the way he had lured her onto the boat and kept her there, she could no longer consider that he was involved in what was happening to her. She had tried to feel that way in self-protection, perhaps, but had known for some time that it was almost impossible.

No, he could not be so diabolical as to pretend to rescue her from a danger he had created himself. Besides, he had been too caring, too patient and practical in his concern for her comfort. He had nothing to gain by such an elaborate ploy; he'd made no promises, asked nothing of her. The intimacy that had developed between them was incidental, not the result of anything he'd done. Anyway, no sane man would concoct such an elaborate hoax for that kind of reward.

Would he?

She eased away from Luke and turned over, then propped herself on one elbow. His face was relaxed in sleep so he looked younger, less cynical, though there was nothing boyish about his dark stubble of beard. Laughter lines bracketed his mouth, however, and made fanlike rays at the corners of his eyes. His lashes were so thick they meshed together. The firm curves of his mouth were pure sensual temptation and the perfectly molded contours of his ears gave her an almost irresistible urge to tickle him awake.