ANGEL MEETS THE BADMAN Read online

  As she saved the files to her hard drive and closed down the little laptop computer, she mentally reviewed every article of clothing she'd packed and told herself that being nervous about what to wear had nothing whatsoever to do with Jake Nash.

  Nothing.

  But she knew she was lying.

  By the time he finished fixing the leaky pipes in bungalow two, Jake had skinned his knuckles, banged his thumb and managed to smear pipe dope in his hair. He was hot, and he was dirty, and he was frustrated as hell.

  That woman. Damn her. There was a saying he'd heard once: When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. Well, she'd shown him who she was right off the bat. A delicate little flower of a female who was scared to death of men like him. A woman who took one look and decided she was way too good for the likes of him. And who was probably right.

  That was fine with him. He'd received her message loud and clear. Hadn't liked it, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. God knew he'd been dealing with attitudes like hers for well over a year now.

  So why did she have to go and change tactics on him? Why did she have to get that wide, innocent-but-damned-interested kind of look in her big brown eyes? Hell. He'd seen that kind of thing before, too. She was a "good girl" looking for a walk on the wild side. She was bored with her safe little life and probably thinking a vacation fling with the local "bad boy" would be an adventure. And a safe one, because she could run right back to her cocoon in Texas and never have to set eyes on him again once she'd had her fill.

  It, too, was a situation he'd faced before. It made him just as angry now as it had every time some bored housewife had shown up here and put the moves on him. He wasn't good enough to be seen with in public, but he would do fine for a night of hot, sweaty sex. A quick game of The Ex-convict and the Warden's Wife, with a real, live ex-convict for authenticity. It galled him. And every other time it had happened, he'd let the she-wolf in question know exactly what he thought of her plans.

  At least when he had meaningless flings with local bad girls, they were on the same level. Both knew what they wanted, both knew it didn't mean a damn thing. There was an understanding, unspoken, but there. Neither was using the other.

  These vacationing housewives were different.

  Thought themselves his better in every way and just wanted excitement. They were slumming. Looking for a dirty rat to turn them on for a night and probably intending to wash themselves in iodine afterward. He never had any trouble telling those kinds of women where to get off.

  This time he was having a little bit of trouble.

  This time he was sorely tempted to oblige.

  Where was his pride, anyway?

  He closed his eyes when he passed bungalow one on his way back to the house. He kept his head down and moved straight ahead, refusing to look left or right. And he walked fast. He was pretty pleased with himself when he rounded the bend and the big house came into view, because he'd managed not to even look back.

  That feeling of satisfaction vanished, though, when he saw that it had all been a wasted effort. Sara Brand sat in the porch swing, sipping iced tea and laughing with what remained of his family. If he knew Tante Flossie at all—and he did—she'd probably spilled the entire tale of Jake's sordid life by now.

  He swallowed the dryness in his throat, looked down at the streak of dirt across his sweaty belly and the stains on his shirt and wished he'd stayed away just a bit longer. But they'd seen him now. Tante Flossie was waving her arm so hard it was rippling, and she was smiling ear to ear.

  Hell.

  Jake drew a breath and strode forward. When he walked up the steps to the veranda, he tried to keep his spine straight and his pride intact.

  Sara looked at him. Her eyes managed to hold his for about ten seconds before they skimmed lower, sliding over his belly just the way they had earlier. He expected to see a tiny wrinkle of distaste appear in her little nose. But he didn't. Instead he saw the tip of her tongue dart out to moisten her lips.

  "We've been having the nicest talk," Flossie sang. "Sara told me how you rescued her from that boar, Jacob. I declare, those animals can be such a nuisance. You and Trent ought to take the shotgun out later on, see if you can't track him down. I'd hate to have someone get hurt!"

  He only nodded, his eyes on Sara. She looked as fresh as early-morning sunlight. Yellow sundress, with straps that left her tanned arms bare. Sandals, one of which sort of dangled from her toes. Her hair was down. Shoulder length and shiny and almost as dark as his own. She was so damned clean she would squeak, he thought. She'd even polished up her halo.

  "So are you pretty much recovered from that scare in the woods?" he managed to ask her.

  "Completely," she said.

  "I meant the part with the pig." He watched her face, saw her eyelids lower to half mast. "That part didn't scare me to begin with."

  "And the rest?"

  "My gracious, what else was there?" Flossie asked.

  Not missing a beat, Sara Brand said, "Being up in the tree with Jake. I've got this longtime fear of … heights. So … it shook me some."

  "Well, mercy, no wonder!" Flossie pressed one hand to her chest while the other one picked up the pace in flapping the fan she was rarely without.

  "But as it turned out, that gnarly old tree wasn't half as scary as it was trying to make me think it was."

  Jake held her gaze and hoped it didn't show when he flinched inwardly. So she thought she could see right through him, did she? They would see about that.

  Flossie was tilting her head, frowning from one of them to the other, and the last thing he needed was for her to get ideas, so he decided it would be a good time to change the subject.

  "Have you met the others yet?"

  "Just your uncle Bert," Sara replied. "He's inside making a fresh pitcher of pink lemonade."

  With a nod, Jake glanced at Flossie. "Are we expecting Vivienne for dinner?"

  "Oh, with that daughter of mine, who knows what to expect?" she replied, her fan slowing, eyes flicking just a little. The antics of her only child hurt the woman, no doubt about that. But not as much as they hurt Viv's husband. Trent had become Jake's only real friend over the past year, and Viv's behavior didn't sit well with Jake at all.

  But Flossie was sending an apologetic glance toward Sara now and remembering her manners. "Vivienne is my daughter. She keeps awfully late hours these days. But my son-in-law will be here. Oh, you'll love Trent. He's just as sweet as … why, just as sweet as Jacob is."

  Jake shot a look Sara's way and saw the amusement in her eyes. She looked right back at him, too, not bothering to hide it. "I can hardly imagine there being two like Jake in one family," she said, those pink lips curving just a little at the corners.

  "Don't worry," Jake said. "There aren't." Then he glanced down at himself again. "I'd best go clean up. See you two ladies at dinner."

  Flossie La Fleur loved to talk. She loved to have an avid listener, and she loved her nephew, Jake. All of that was obvious to Sara. Her husband, Bertram, on the other hand, seemed to be her opposite in every way. Reserved, all but silent, skinny as a rail, he treated Jake coolly. But then, he seemed cool toward everyone.

  By the time dinner was served, though, Sara felt as if she had become Flossie's new best friend. The woman had told her about her daughter's five-year marriage to Trent and the couple's frustration at being unable to have children. She'd told her about her own gall bladder surgery two years ago and her plans to redecorate the dining room. She'd told her that the bungalows stood on the same site where slave quarters had once been, and that Sugar Keep had been in her family for five generations.

  What she didn't tell Sara was anything about Jake Nash. And that was what Sara was dying to know. Sure, she'd gleaned the barest of facts about one life-altering incident from the newspaper reports she'd dug up on the Internet. But nothing personal. Why had he been trying to rob that store in the first place? How long had his sentence been, and when
was he released? What had he been doing since then? How did he feel about all that had happened to him?

  They were all sitting at the dining room table, and Jake was in the seat next to hers, and she couldn't seem to focus on anything else but him. Trent had shown up, as promised. He was, Sara saw at a glance, nothing like Jake. He wore a suit and tie, though he took the jacket off the second he arrived. He took her hand gently when they were introduced, and he pulled her chair out for her when she went to sit down.

  He was polite and soft-spoken and clean-cut. And invisible compared to Jake. He was pastel. Jake was neon. But he was friendly, and she liked him at once. He wasn't the kind of man she would ever have been afraid of … even before she'd begun working to get rid of her fears.

  "I'm sorry about Vivienne being late again," Trent said to Flossie as he settled into his chair. "I did call her, but she said she'd be tied up until late."

  He didn't meet his mother-in-law's eyes when he said it. Just looked down at his plate. Sara got an icky feeling. She glanced quickly at Jake and saw his jaw tense just slightly as he eyed his cousin.

  "Did she say why?" Jake asked.

  Trent smiled weakly. "Oh, you know Viv. Probably hitting the clubs with her friends. She can't get enough of the New Orleans nightlife." He looked around the table as if in search of his favorite food. "She'll be along when she gets tired out."

  "She always is," Jake muttered. And from the venom in his tone, Sara knew something was going on. Poor Trent. Vivienne must be a real problem.

  She bit her lip, gave herself a mental kick. She shouldn't be thinking that way about a woman she hadn't even met.

  Then she looked around the table. Just the mention of Vivienne's name seemed to have cast a pall here. Even the always-smiling Flossie seemed melancholy for a few moments.

  Yup, Sara thought. Vivienne was a problem. No question.

  "Speaking of the New Orleans nightlife," Trent began after a strained silence, "do you plan on sampling it, Sara? I'm sure any of us could suggest some places—"

  Sara held up a hand. "I'm not exactly a nightlife kind of girl," she said, offering him a smile. "I'll do some sight-seeing while I'm here, but during the day."

  "Jake will take you," Flossie said.

  Jake's fork clattered to his plate, and when Sara glanced sideways at him it was to see that he'd gone still and was staring at his aunt in what looked like horror.

  "Don't look like that, Nephew," Flossie said with a grin. "It'll do you a world of good. You've been working nonstop around here, and a day off is just what you need."

  "Oh, but … I don't want to … impose," Sara said, suddenly nervous at the thought.

  Jake sighed, closed his eyes slowly, opened them again. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that Miz Brand might not want or need my company?"

  "It's not that," Sara argued. "I mean, it's just that I—"

  "If she needs an escort around town, I'm sure she can dig up somebody she'd feel a little safer with than she would with me, don't you think, Flossie?"

  Now that pissed Sara off. "I've known you a day, and already that's getting old, Nash," she muttered so softly that only he could hear her.

  He frowned at her. "What?" he asked.

  She shook herself. Forced a smile. Fluttered her lashes. "Actually, Jake, I'd be glad of your company," she said with exaggerated sweetness. Then she added, in a darker tone, "That is, if you think you can stand to be around me for that long." Maybe it was because he got to her and she wanted to get to him right back, or maybe she said it just to see if he would squirm. She didn't like him slamming himself for having a record, because each time he did, she felt as if he was slamming her favorite cousin, Wes. Besides, why did Jake hate the idea of spending time with her so much, anyway? He certainly hadn't seemed to hate her company out in the woods this morning.

  He looked at her as if she'd grown horns. His expression more confused, perhaps, than angry. "Fine."

  "Fine," she parroted.

  "Lovely," Flossie said with a wide grin and a clap of her hands. "How about tomorrow?"

  Sara licked her lips and met Jake's eyes. He was looking right back at her, almost daring her—to do what, she didn't know. "Tomorrow is fine by me," she said.

  "Perfect." Jake said it like a swear word.

  "I can see you're looking forward to this," Sara said.

  "Yeah, like a toothache."

  "Gee, I'll try not to let all this flattery go to my head."

  Dead silence finally registered on her—on him, too, she thought. They both looked around the table, and she felt her face heat when she saw the way everyone was staring at them. With a sigh Sara pushed her chair away from the table. She was more than a little humiliated by her behavior, and even more so by having him react to her the way he had in front of everybody. "I'm … not very hungry, after all," she said. "I think I'll just head back to the bungalow."

  "Oh, please stay," Flossie cried. "Jake's not himself at all today." There was a sound under the table, and when Jake flinched, Sara knew he'd been kicked. "Are you, Jake?" Flossie asked.

  "No. Not myself at all," he muttered.

  "Neither am I," Sara said. "Maybe it was just the drive out here, or the heat. God knows there's been a lot going on at home. Really, I'd just like to go to my bungalow and turn in early."

  "All right, then. If you insist."

  When she got up, Bertram and Trent rose automatically. Jake sat there until Flossie bored holes into him with her eyes, then he got up, too, moving as if every muscle in his body were protesting the effort. "Good night," he said.

  "Night."

  His eyes seemed to delve into hers for just a moment. Then he looked away, and Sara turned and left.

  "Mr. Jacob Nash," Tante Flossie said, "if you don't go after that girl right now and make a proper apology, I'll … I'll…"

  With a long-suffering sigh, Jake rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I kind of figured that would be the case. Why don't you fix her up a plate, and I'll take it on out there to her, after dinner."

  Flossie sniffed. Trent just looked curiously at Jake, but Jake ignored the speculative look and went back to eating.

  Sara took a long, cool shower, and that helped alleviate the sticky heat that had been clinging to her ever since her walk back to the bungalow. She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel and took a more thorough look around her temporary home.

  It was small. The furnishings were made of white wicker for the most part. Big chairs with floral cushions, matching footstools. A white wicker coffee table and end tables with glass tops. Even a white wicker lamp and magazine rack. The bungalow was lined all the way around by windows and screens. No air conditioning out here. But now that darkness had fallen and most of those windows were cranked wide open, a cooling breeze wafted in and swept some of the sultry heat away.

  Sara's suitcases still lay on the floor just inside the front door, where Jake had dropped them. The big one was open. She'd rummaged through it for her laptop earlier, and then for the sundress she'd worn to dinner. But everything else remained packed. She felt a bit lazy, but then again, that was what vacations were about, right? Being laid-back and a bit lazy? Leaving responsibilities behind? Doing things you normally wouldn't do?

  Like fantasizing about dark, dangerous men with shady pasts who ought to scare the hell out of you.

  Sara shook that thought away and decided maybe Chelsea's cure was working far better than her sister-in-law would have wanted it to. She zipped up the big case, then picked it up and carried it through the bungalow, crossing on the cocomats that were scattered here and there over the hardwood floors.

  The living room took up the whole front half of the small, square building. The back half was divided in two. On the left side was a small kitchenette. Minifridge mounted on a wall, a pair of tiny cupboards and a rectangle of countertop barely big enough to make a peanut butter sandwich on. There was a hot plate, a toaster and a small table with two chairs. The right half was the bedroom. Bi
g windows, like those in the living room, lined it on two sides. It had a double bed and a nightstand with a glowing clock radio on it. The pair of small doors on the end led to a minuscule closet and a bathroom the same size as one. Shower, seat and sink. That was basically it. Clean towels were on the racks, though, and plenty of soaps and shampoos on the shelf inside the shower stall. Hey, it wasn't bad at all for what she was paying.

  Off the back of the bungalow was another porch, but this one was fully screened in, where the one on the front was open.

  She dropped the cases on the bed and started taking her clothes out and tucking them into the little closet. She hung some and left others folded, moving them onto the shelves. Somewhere in the process she shed her towel in favor of a lightweight nightgown of silky, cool, peach fabric, with spaghetti straps. The coolest thing she had brought along. Then she finished unpacking. It didn't take long. She hadn't brought all that much. She unloaded her brushes, combs, makeup and such onto the nightstand with the mirror attached. No room for anything other than her toothbrush in the bathroom.

  Finished, she shoved both cases under the bed and then stood in the dim room looking around her. "Well, Sara, now what?"

  She could use the time to think, she supposed. There was that problem at home to deal with. But she wasn't certain she was ready for that just yet. She wanted to be distracted.

  A glance at the clock told her it was only a little after eight. Hardly bedtime. But there was no TV. She hadn't brought a book along—an oversight she could remedy when she went out tomorrow…

  …with Jake.

  Licking her lips, she wandered out onto that big back porch. The sounds of chirping, whirring insects, along with buzzing ones, and other noises, odd high-pitched sounds from the bayou—and low droning ones, too—were surprisingly loud. It was like walking into an orchestra pit during warm-ups.

  For a moment she stood still, listening.

  It was dark outside. She'd never liked the dark. Especially being alone in the dark. But that was before. When her fears hadn't been foolish, because someone really had wanted her dead. Now she felt again the familiar tingle along the back of her neck. The little shivery feeling creeping up her spine. The slight catch in her breathing. But she knew she didn't need it anymore.