Kane (4 page)

The way out of town was lined with garages, barbecue joints, and run-down flea markets. Beyond these was a stretch of bungalows and ranch-style houses with plaster elves and pink plastic flamingos in the front yards. Washing flapped on clotheslines in the back, while children's toys littered the porches and fishing boats squatted under open carports. These gave way to fenced fields where vines twined around the posts and rose above them like nests of writhing green snakes. The black alluvial soil was striped with rows of dark green seedlings stretching arrow straight and as far as the eye could see.

The crop was cotton, Kane told her, then went on to explain the long and exacting cotton planting season. He also pointed out pin oaks and red oaks, tupelos and maples and a half-dozen other kinds of trees growing in the woods that separated the wide areas of fields
and overhanging the road like enormous green canopies. The deep timbre of his voice was soothing in its lilting cadence and easy, drawling grace. Regina relaxed by such slow, lulling degrees under its influence that she almost missed his quiet attack.

“I'd rather talk about you than trees and cotton. Where did you learn so much about old jewelry? Did you have some kind of training?”

“I studied gemology with the Gemological Institute of America,” she answered, sitting up straight, “but it was something of an inherited passion.”

“You mean you got your start with a collection handed down in your family?”

That was what he was supposed to think, what Regina allowed most people to think, though she never said it in so many words. “Something like that.”

Actually, Regina had conceived her passion for the antique pieces while hanging around a pawnshop after school. The elderly man who ran it, Abe Levine, had been the very embodiment of the word “venerable.” He'd always had time for her, putting down his book or his violin with a warm smile when she came into the shop. An endless source of knowledge about all things, he seemed to enjoy taking beautiful old pieces from the cases for her to see, relating their stories, telling her about values and where stones came from, about how to tell the real from the fake. He had given her the amber pendant she always wore, her first antique. She had lied to Kane about his being a relative, but she was sure Abe wouldn't have minded. Anyway, he was the closest thing to a grandfather she'd ever known.

During the long days spent in his shop, he'd fired
her imagination with tales about fortunes in portable jewels shown to him by actresses down on their luck or showgirls who had taken to heart the theory that diamonds were a girl's best friend. He knew the histories of fabulous pieces smuggled out of Russia before and after the Bolshevik revolution, or from Germany during World War II, also the tragic backgrounds of more simple pieces from those times. It was Abe who had put her in touch with the circle of buyers and sellers of old jewelry, who had helped her earn her first commission, urged her to accept her first assignment to value and sell an estate collection. Though she had also studied and learned on her own, visiting museums, reading countless books, never missing an opportunity to compare and value, she owed that gentle old man so much, including her independence.

Abe had never cared for her cousin Gervis. The feeling was mutual; Gervis had shed no tears when Regina's mentor died.

Odd, but Lewis Crompton reminded her of Abe, now she thought of it.

“For someone who handles jewelry for a living, you don't wear a lot of it, do you?” His glance lingered an instant on her hands that were bare of jewelry of any kind.

She felt heat rise in her face, something that didn't happen too often, or hadn't until she came south. She seldom wore rings because they drew attention to her nails, which she wore extra short to keep herself from biting them. “No, not while traveling,” she answered shortly. “It's too valuable to risk having it stolen.”

He arched a brow. “But you must travel with other people's collections all the time.”

“For which I'm bonded, of course. But I wasn't speaking of monetary value alone.” She folded her arms, tucking her hands out of sight, and hoped the gesture wasn't an obvious cover-up.

“Funny,” he said, his smile quizzical yet sharp. “You don't strike me as the sentimental type.”

“We all have our little quirks.” Turning from his probing gaze, she stared out the window. Kane, it seemed, was even more intent on getting information from her than she was on questioning him. There was grim humor in the idea, but somehow she wasn't laughing.

It was incredibly difficult, she found, not to answer his queries in full, if only to keep his attention focused on her. Something about his rich voice, the expressions that flickered in his eyes, gave the perception that he cared about what he was hearing. It was, no doubt, a valuable attribute for a lawyer.

After a time, he turned off the blacktop road they were traveling and bumped over a sandy track with potholes large enough to swallow a taxicab. Regina opened her mouth to ask where he thought he was taking her, but the truck tire fell into a pothole with a bounce that made her bite her tongue. By the time the pain subsided enough for her to talk, she caught the glint of a large body of water through the trees.

“Horseshoe Lake,” Kane said as he brought the truck to a stop.

She sat for long moments, looking out over the water that sparkled under the sun as if millions of fairy lights were concealed beneath the surface. Trees hung
with gray streamers of Spanish moss lined the shore and also straggled into the lake as though going wading. More edged the surrounding horizon like dark lace. The water was the color of strong tea, and cloud puffs drifting in the sky overhead were reflected on the opaque surface with a surround of blue. It was quiet, so quiet the only sounds were the wind in the trees, birdcalls, and the soft, regular slap of breeze-driven waves at the water's edge.

Regina opened the truck door and got out. Watching where she was stepping on the damp ground with its dew-laden grass, she moved toward the water's edge. Behind her, the other door slammed as Kane followed.

“It looks murky,” Regina said when he came to stand at her shoulder, “like something primeval might rise up out of the depths.”

“Dripping muddy slime and water lilies?” he asked, slanting a smile down at her. “You've seen too many swamp-thing movies. But there is a swamp beyond the lake, several thousand acres of marsh and snaking waterways where you can get lost and might never be found again.”

“You've been there? In the swamp, I mean?”

“Played there every summer as a kid.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” She barely concealed a shudder.

“The fun of it. Something to do. A cousin and I pooled our money and bought a secondhand aluminum boat and an old outboard motor. Sometimes Luke and I were gone for days at a time.”

Glancing at him, she tried to feature the boyhood he described. It was so different from anything she had known that he might have been talking about life on
another planet. At the same time, she didn't doubt what he'd said. In the bright daylight that exposed the strong bones of his face and crescent-shaped scar beside his mouth, he appeared rugged and capable of anything he cared to tackle. He was also rather imposing.

In an effort to regain her equilibrium, she said, “I imagine the police didn't think it much fun when they had to call out the search-and-rescue teams.”

“Never happened. Luke and I always found our way home again.”

“And your parents didn't mind?”

“My parents were dead, and my aunt Vivian who took care of me seemed to think knocking around in the swamp was better than a lot of things I could've been doing. Luke's folks never worried much about anything until something happened, but especially not about the backcountry—he has a real sixth sense where it's concerned. Nobody knows it better.”

“Not even you?” she asked dryly.

Kane smiled without rancor. “I don't hold a candle to Luke. His ancestors have lived around the lake for centuries, even when it was still an oxbow turn in the Mississippi River. He has a Native American branch to his family tree from a long way back. Tunica and Natchez.”

“Seriously?”

“It isn't that unusual around here.”

Again, she had to fight that sense of being in foreign territory. The lifestyle he described and the close relationship with his cousin were unknown quantities. They were also appealing, however, perhaps because of their strangeness.

As she tried to picture it, she said, “This cousin lived nearby?”

“Just down the road. Still does, for that matter.”

Surprise for her interest lurked in his dark blue gaze. Noting it, Regina felt wariness trickle down her spine. Turning back to the lake, she said, “I believe your grandfather said something yesterday about this being part of the Mississippi River at one time. Is that right?”

“Before it changed course, carved itself a new channel,” he agreed after a second. “All that was so long ago the openings to the horseshoe have silted up, forming this curving body of water, creating a lake with no access to the river. It's not an unusual phenomenon. There's another one like it above north of here called Old River, and one below known as False River, as well as others. We're a bit different because of the swamp that's caused by a creek—or actually another small river—that was blocked off from the Mississippi, so spread out into a wide area of marshland. It drains into the lake eventually, so helps keep the water fresh.”

Regina nodded her understanding, though she had only the vaguest idea of what he was describing. It was so peaceful here with the warm sun dazzling her eyes, the moist breeze caressing her face and whispering in the trees overhead. The leaves, the grass, vines and low-growing shrubs, the water plants at her feet, were all such a vivid green that the light around her seemed stained with the vibrant hue. She could almost feel the tension draining from her pores, being replaced by a tenuous, almost furtive, peace.

The day seemed to slow to an easy, swaying
rhythm. The impression was so insidious yet so alien that she couldn't help thinking how different everything was from the noisy, close, grime-coated streets she had left in New York, couldn't help considering how different she might have been if she had always known such natural magic.

Just then, a great blue heron that Regina had not noticed until that moment lifted from its still stance at the shadowy water's edge and sailed away with its wide wings almost skimming the water. She shaded her eyes with one hand as she followed its effortless flight.

Suddenly, her throat ached with the pressing uplift of some deep, emotional shift inside her. The day was so sublime. The huge bird was incredibly beautiful with the sun shining silver-blue on its plumage. At the same time, the heron was free, dependent on its own strength, without obligations, duties, or impossible dilemmas to cloud its mind and keep it lying sleepless, staring into the night. All it cared about was food and safety from the storms. And, possibly, comfort and security for its young.

“Had enough?”

She started, swinging around with her eyes wide and the blood rushing to her head. Amazingly, she had almost forgotten Kane was there. Forgotten, in his quiet, easy companionship, that he was watching her, judging her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer to catch her elbow in swift support.

She gasped and gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, yes. I was just…a thousand miles away.”

“You're sure?” His gaze touched and lingered on the bruise at her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

“I'm…fine. Really.”

He searched her face for an instant longer before he nodded. “Time to go, then.”

She agreed, and turned with him toward the truck. Still, he didn't release her, and the touch of his fingers seemed to burn, branding her flesh. His manner was protective, almost bordering on possessive.

She drew away, breaking his hold. Perhaps something was wrong with her head after all, for the gesture required a conscious effort.

It was some moments later, after they had reached the blacktop again and were barreling along past a series of big houses set back under ancient, spreading oaks, that Kane spoke again. “I need to stop by my place for a minute while we're so close, if you don't mind. I was reading a brief last night and left it on the table beside the bed. Picking it up now will save me a trip later.”

The words were casual and matter-of-fact, the request perfectly polite. Regardless, Regina tensed. She had heard that kind of excuse before. She hadn't appreciated it then, did so even less now.

What on earth made Kane Benedict think she might be so gullible, much less so accommodating? It must be because she had come with him so easily, because she had not thought to let anyone know where she was going.

What was she going to do? Should she risk insulting him with her accusations, or wait and see if it really was the cheap trick she suspected? Would it be better to make her position clear in no uncertain terms, or
might that only warn him that she was going to be difficult?

She felt sick. It was hard to believe Lewis Crompton's grandson would try this, in spite of the incident in the coffin yesterday. It was so isolated out here, so far away from everything she considered safe and civilized. No passersby, no telephones, no police. She had no weapon, no way, short of tooth and nail, of fighting back.

The most devastating question, then, was the one with the most doubtful answer. Was there any way on earth she could stop whatever he had in mind?

T
he truck neared an avenue of live oaks that led to a West Indies–style house with a hipped roof that overhung deep, railed porches on the front and back. A mud-splashed Jeep came down the shady drive, halting at the highway for them to pass. Regina noticed the brief movement as Kane lifted his fingers in a wave to the other driver. Instead of returning it, however, the man in the Jeep blew a quick tattoo on his horn. Kane braked to a stop, then reversed until he was at the drive again. With an expert movement, he whipped the truck off the road and in front of the sports vehicle.

A tall, dark-haired man climbed out and came toward them, walking around to the driver's-side window. “How's it going, Kane?” he said, then looked past him to Regina and touched the bill of his cap. “Ma'am.”

“Can't complain,” Kane answered, sitting relaxed with one strong wrist resting across the steering wheel. “Miss Dalton, my cousin, Luke Benedict. Regina's here on business, Luke.”

Regina leaned across Kane to offer her hand with a conventional greeting, then added, “We were just speaking about you, I believe.”

“Were you now?” Luke said, grinning as he retained her hand. “I can't imagine anything Kane could say about me that a lady like you should hear.”

“Boyish exploits,” she answered, responding with a smile to the unabashed admiration in Luke Benedict's eyes and sheer joy of living that radiated from him. It was easy to see the resemblance to Kane in the height, rangy build, and strong bone structure. At the same time, Luke was different, with a more blue-black shade to his hair, deeper olive coloring, and eyes of such a dark brown that the irises and pupils seemed to merge, creating laughter-bright depths like sunlight striking through dark pools.

“Even worse,” Luke returned with a droll wag of his head. “But Kane can't have bad-mouthed me too much, since he must have been in it up to his neck, too. Not like now, when he's too much of a stick-in-the-mud to have fun.”

“For that, you can unhand Regina,” Kane said, grasping her wrist in one hand and Luke's in the other and pulling them apart. “Why the devil did you flag us down? Make it fast. We've got places to go and things to do.”

“Busy, busy.” Luke winked at Regina as he spoke across his cousin. “You do know he's a driven personality? You'll have to make allowances?”

Regina hardly knew how to answer that, even if she had been paying strict attention. Her concentration was on her wrist that was still imprisoned in Kane's grasp. He seemed to have forgotten he held it, forcing her into an awkward position as she leaned across him, almost in his lap. She tugged experimentally. He didn't let go, but turned his head to stare down at her,
his features so close she could see the spiky length of his lashes, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting against the intense southern sunlight. His warm breath, faintly scented with mint, ghosted over her lips. Her stomach muscles tightened with a slow, drawing sensation she felt repeated in the lower part of her body.

“I wanted to remind you about my shindig, cuz,” Luke drawled, his voice a shade louder than before. “I'm firing up the usual Memorial Day extravaganza at Chemin-a-Haut and expect my friends and neighbors to gather around. Regina is more than welcome. In fact, I'll take it as an insult if you don't bring her.”

“Miss Dalton,” Kane said pointedly, “may not be here.”

“Now that would be a shame. She doesn't know what she's missing.”

“Chemin-a-Haut?” Regina repeated, her interest snagged by the unfamiliar syllables. At the same time, she snatched her arm free in an abrupt gesture fueled by annoyance and the suspicion that Kane didn't want her accepting his cousin's invitation.

“My humble abode,” Luke said, jerking a thumb toward the house behind them, “French for the High Road—some also say High-handed.” He grinned.

“This, er, shindig is a party?”

“An open house, sweetheart. Food and drink, music and dancing.” Luke propped his elbow on the truck's side mirror. “Also fireworks, comets, shooting stars, flying saucers, heavenly artillery, fireworks to match your hair. It's expensive and wasteful and damned hard work setting everything up, but everybody loves it, including me. Say you'll come.”

Voice laconic, Kane said, “It is something to see.”

He was waiting for her answer, Regina saw, as was his cousin. It gave her a strange feeling, having them both watch her so closely. For an instant, she couldn't think why, then she knew. She had their attention, their complete, courteous, almost deferential attention. Unlike most men she dealt with, they weren't waiting impatiently, tapping their fingers, for her to answer. They weren't planning what they were going to say next, or thinking of all the other things they needed to be doing, wished they were doing, elsewhere. It was disconcerting. It was also maddening.

“I'm sorry,” she said abruptly as she met Luke's gaze. “I have no idea if I'll be here. It all depends on Mr. Crompton.”

“Pop Lewis?” Luke asked cheerfully. “Hey, I can fix that.”

“But you won't,” Kane said, his voice taking on a hard note.

“Won't I?” Luke searched his cousin's face, his humor fading.

“No point,” Kane said in terse explanation. “The lady will be heading back to New York before the weekend, regardless.”

“She has something to do with the suit, then?” Luke glanced toward Regina. “Don't tell me you're mixed up in that mess?”

“Not at all,” she answered quickly, then compounded the lie by adding, “It's nothing to do with me.”

“Good girl. You don't want to get in the way of a man's obsession.”

The muscles in Kane's jaws gathered in a taut knot. “I'm not obsessed.”

“You do a damned good imitation. Don't you think so, Regina?”

It sounded as if the argument was an old one. It might be foolish to comment on something between the two men that she didn't fully understand, but it was too much to resist. With a faint smile, she said, “He does seem a bit preoccupied with it.”

Luke shook his head. “We should distract him for his own good. How long did you say you'll be around?”

She explained briefly about the Crompton jewelry collection and her afternoon appointment, adding that she would be leaving if everything worked out satisfactorily.

“Too bad,” Luke said, and heaved a deep sigh. Then he brightened. “But if you're really here on business, I guess old Kane has no claim, right?”

“Correct,” she agreed in brittle accents, though she refused to look at Kane.

“How do you feel about fried seafood? There's a great little catfish restaurant just outside Turn-Coupe where they serve shrimp and oysters in a batter so light that—”

“Hold on.” Kane put up a hand. “The meeting with Pops may run long. He'll expect Miss Dalton to stay for dinner. I've already alerted Dora, just in case.”

“I asked her first,” Luke protested.

The man beside Regina barely glanced her way before he said, “I don't think Miss Dalton wants to jeopardize a hefty commission for the sake of fried
shrimp.” Without waiting for an answer, he put the truck in gear and began to pull away.

Luke stepped back hastily. Raising his voice, he yelled, “You'd better come to my party anyway!”

“Don't I always!” Kane called, and stuck his hand out the window in a backward wave before he drove off.

Regina crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead of her through the windshield. In chill tones, she said, “You might have let me answer for myself.”

“You wanted to go to the catfish restaurant with Luke?”

She was loath to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer. “I don't need you to make my decisions for me.”

“I guess you want to go back, then?” he countered, his smile tight. “You prefer to tell Luke yourself how you really don't want to have dinner with him, but decided to turn him down in person just to show you can make up your own mind.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped.

“Show a little appreciation, then. I did the dirty work for you, while you came out smelling like a rose.”

He really was too much. “You actually think you were helping me?”

He turned his head, watching her a moment, before he said abruptly, “Is it me you don't like, or just men in general?”

“I don't dislike anybody,” she declared, shifting ground to meet this new challenge.

“You could have fooled me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Though the words came easily enough, she couldn't hold his clear blue gaze.

“You object to my company, don't care to be touched, and can't stand being close. What else am I to think?”

The direction he had taken was not a comfortable one. She needed to distract him. She should also start taking advantage of being alone with him to do her job, before he got to his house and she was forced to do something that might alienate him for good.

“You don't have to think about me at all,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “I'm nothing to you. Actually, I'm surprised you're wasting your time, unless this big lawsuit of yours is going so well it doesn't matter.”

He stared at her a long moment through narrowed eyes. “What makes you think it's a big case?”

“How everyone speaks of it, for one thing. How angry you were when you thought I had something to do with it, for another. So what's happening? Is it dull, legal stuff or something more dramatic?”

“You don't really want to know.”

The dismissive comment grated on her strained nerves. “It's something to talk about.”

“I prefer other things. For instance, how come you aren't married?”

This wasn't what she had in mind, but some kind of answer was required. “Who says I'm not?”

“You aren't wearing a ring.”

He had mentioned that before. She should have remembered it. Hastily, she said, “Some women don't
wear rings these days, just as some women keep their maiden names.”

“Is that what you're doing,” he asked, “or are you avoiding a straight answer?”

A flush began at her collar and rose to her hairline. Being evasive was as natural to her as breathing, a self-protective measure with infinite uses. She only lied outright if pressured into it, but often led people into the paths she wanted them to go, coloring the truth a little here and there to make herself more interesting, more normal, or less visible, according to what was needed. Few people recognized it or cared enough to call her on it. She might have known this man would be one of the few.

“No,” she said baldly, “I'm not married.”

“But you implied you were.”

“What does it matter?” Embarrassment and irritation made her snappish.

“It doesn't.” His voice was flat as he turned his attention to the road, slowing as they approached a driveway ahead of them. “That's why it makes no sense. Never mind, forget I asked.”

She would be glad to forget it. She did, too, the instant she noticed they were turning into the drive, then saw the house at the end of it.

It was a Southern dream, a Greek Revival temple, square, white, two-storied, with galleries on all four sides that were lined with rows of massive columns reaching to the roof of ancient, moss-grown slate. The columns, of a girth too wide for a man to reach around, were plaster-covered brick. The steps, which led up to the front gallery, curved in the style known as welcoming arms. There was grace and ancient peace in
the majestic size of the place and also in the protective embrace of the huge live oaks that dotted the lawn. Similar scenes were familiar from a hundred magazine pictures and movies about the Old South, so Regina was forced to wonder if she only imagined its air of gracious hospitality, gracious living, or if it was real. Either way, it was still impressive.

“Come inside a moment,” Kane said as he pulled up on the circular drive before the front door and started to get out. “I'm sure I can find you a cup of coffee.”

She settled more firmly in her seat. Voice stiff, she said, “No, thanks.”

“I'll be a few minutes, and you may as well be comfortable.”

“No,” she repeated more forcefully.

A faint smile tugged one corner of his mouth and he shook his head. “This isn't a seduction scene, if that's what you're thinking. It's been a long time since I threw anybody down in the middle of a hardwood floor and had my way with them.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said tartly as she looked away from the amusement in his eyes. “But I'll still wait here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Regina flinched as the truck door slammed shut behind him. Then she lifted a shoulder. Let him get mad, she didn't care. She hadn't been taken in by his maneuvering, and wasn't going to be. That he'd gone striding into the house like a man who really had forgotten some papers changed nothing. She sighed, then leaned her head against the back of the seat.

The mental image his words had sketched was a
potent one. She could almost see Kane drawing a woman down with him to a polished, rug-strewn floor. His shoulders would block out the light as he hovered above her. Behind his head, the celestial blue of the painted ceiling would swim with a misty swirl of clouds and cherubs and shimmering sun rays. Then he would—

A light tap came on the window beside Regina. The daydream fled and she swung with a sharp gasp to see an older woman standing beside the truck. She was slender and poised, her hair graying in a manner as natural as it was attractive. She bore a strong resemblance to Kane. Regina reached to wind down the glass.

“Good morning, my dear. I'm Vivian Benedict, Kane's aunt. He told me you were out here. Won't you come inside for a cup of coffee, or tea? I have a nice fig cake, warm from the oven.”