Sally Daigle had been like fire, impulsive and warm. This one was just the opposite. Her hair was a paler blond than Sally's, and her face, even smudged and streaked, held both reserve and strength of purpose in its delicate, symmetrical contours. Remy had witnessed that strength more than once today when Lacoste had proved his utter incompetence at playing swamp guide.

Fort.i.tude and patience weren't her only a.s.sets. Outlandish as Ms. St. Cyr was, in a tentlike cotton shirt, belted jeans several sizes too big and tight sneakers black with mud, she had an unmistakable elegance in her bearing. Her beauty was not like Sally's, sculpted in wind and rain and sun. It had been honed and refined by city living, ambition and money.

Once, Remy had lived in the city. He'd nursed aspirations appropriate to a fast-rising young stockbroker who'd ridden out the hard times with almost miraculous skill. He'd walked through the French Quarter with women like this one on his arm.

No, not quite like Ms. St. Cyr. She reminded him of the creeks they had in the north: chilly, clear, likely to freeze your hand off if you made the mistake of dipping it in.

But he couldn't quite call her cold. Oh, no... he'd seen something in her eyes yesterday that told him she might not be what she first appeared. Those eyes were the color of brandy, the kind that could make a man drunk with a single sip. If it didn't poison him first.

Maybe that was why he was attracted to her in spite of everything.

Put it back in your pants, Arceneaux. The last thing he needed was a personal interest in a woman who looked like Sally Daigle. Every one of his instincts sc.r.a.ped that it was no coincidence to find Sally's cousin poking around in this part of the swamp the day after she arrived in Grand Marais.

She came with Lacoste. That's no coincidence, either.

That was the reason, the only reason, why he'd followed her and why he was about to do something stupid. What in h.e.l.l will Tris do when he sees her? Do you really want to put him through that again?

Remy plowed the damp earth with the toe of his boot, alarming a copperhead, which dove under a mat of last year's leaves. Can you just let her go without making her understand?

How could he make her, an outsider, understand, when even the locals regarded the Arceneaux brothers with the deepest suspicion and crossed themselves when they saw Remy or Tris in town?

With a whispered oath, Remy walked up to the bank where she was struggling with the grounded boat. Even that arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h Lacoste should have known better than to bring a motorboat out where the water was so low. Too much to hope that he would blunder into old Mauvais-Oeil's territory and get himself eaten by the nastiest gator in this part of the swamp, Evil-Eye.

Ms. St. Cyr looked up as Remy approached, freezing still as a doe caught in headlights. She remembered him, all right. Maybe she'd even had time to hear the rumors.

Remy smiled. "h.e.l.lo," he said with a mocking salute. "Seems like every time we meet, you're in some kind of sc.r.a.pe."

The woman placed dirty hands on her hips. "Do you have another warning for me, Mr. Arceneaux?"

So she'd learned his name. Lacoste, of course. "I think it's a little too late for that now, chere," he said. "What fool told you that you could bring a boat out here in September?"

She didn't deign to answer but left the boat where it was and battled her way up the bank to dry ground. She rested her back against a cypress stump and folded her arms.

"You, I suppose, know everything there is to know about this swamp?"

"I know that only the main channels are deep enough for a boat this time of year. I'm amazed you got this far." Casually he walked down to the craft and heaved it onto the bank. "What's done is done. You'd better come with me and get cleaned up."

"I'm waiting for my friend. He should return any minute."

Remy laughed. "I don't think so. It's after five, and he'll be lucky if he gets to the main road by nightfall." He made a show of looking around at the sluggish water, the thickets of swamp privet and the still-green cypress leaves overhead. "You like snakes and gators, Ms. St. Cyr?"

"About as much as I like strangers who appear and disappear with rude and cryptic comments."

He lifted a brow. "I still think I'm better company than what you'll find if you spend the night here. Especially since the mosquitoes are about to start hunting."

She glanced at the brown water winding among the water hyacinth and alligator weed, undoubtedly weighing her chances of walking out of the swamp alone. But Remy was certain of one thing; she was no fool, no matter how proud she was. She knew she wasn't equipped for this. Was she cursing Chad Lacoste under that mask of perfect composure?

"Can you lead me out of the swamp?" she asked. "I can pay for your services."

"Ah, chere, I'll just bet you can." He looked her up and down to see if he could get a rise out of her. Her eyes sparked into a genuine glare.

"Will one hundred dollars be enough?"

"I'd say yes, if it wasn't so close to sunset. Wouldn't do it for any amount after dark."

"Then what do you suggest, Mr. Arceneaux?"

"Guess you'll have to come to my place." He grinned at the way she stiffened up like a possum encountering a fox. "Don't worry, chere. Whatever the movies tell you, we ignorant swamp folk don't jump on anything that moves."

Chapter 4.

Ms. St. Cyr considered his answer, trying to decide whether or not to take offense. "I'm not concerned about that, Mr. Arceneaux-"

"You might as well call me Remy." "-Mr. Arceneaux, but I can't help but wonder at your offer of hospitality after your behavioryesterday."

If she wanted an explanation now, she wasn't going to get it. Maybe he could find a way to warn her,

and maybe he couldn't, but he planned to be the one asking questions.

"If I was rude, I apologize," he said. "I can offer you supper, a clean bed, privacy, and a ride back to town in the morning. You'll be safe as a baby gator in its mother's jaws."

She frowned. "I still don't understand-"

"You don't know much about people around here, chere, even if you're kin to the Daigles. It'll take anhour on foot to get to my place. You coming?" She hugged herself and gnawed on her lower lip, a habit very much at odds with her confident demeanor. It made her seem more vulnerable, somehow, especially when she started slapping at her

neck as the mosquitoes' advance guard began its evening onslaught.

Ms. St. Cyr caught him watching. "I used repellant," she protested, trying without success to keep her hands at her sides.

"Mosquitoes just like some people better than others," he said. "Once they get a fix on you, ain't no repellant gonna do the job."

"So I-" whack "-see. Well, Mr. Arceneaux, it seems that your kind offer is my only salvation." "Allons. It's Remy. No one's called me Mr. Arceneaux in-" Oh, about six years, since the days when he'd had an office on the tenth floor, with his own secretary and Herman Miller furniture. "In a long time."

"Remy," she said, a mere breath, as if she could hold back from that small intimacy by turning his name into a sigh. "Bon." He held out his hand. "Shall we go?" At least she tried not to be obvious about it when she sidestepped his hand and strode ahead of him just to prove that she wasn't afraid. He caught up and pulled her out of the path of a particularly nasty mud hole. She flinched a little at his touch, but it wasn't fear that lit her eyes when they met his.

He bien, but the woman had fine eyes. And she wasn't nearly as good at hiding her feelings as shethought she was. Remy winced at the sudden tightness of his jeans. Even something as relatively harmlessas sheer, uncomplicated mutual l.u.s.t was a very bad idea.

He took several steps away from her and set out across the highest ground. "Why did you come into the swamp today, Ms. St. Cyr?"

"It's Dr. St. Cyr." Ah, a touch of frost to quench the fire he'd seen in her a minute ago. "Doctor?" he said. A perverse littledevil of mischief made him stop short. He held up his thumb to display the tiny cut he'd received whilepulling the motorboat onto the bank. It would be gone in half an hour, but she didn't know that.

"You think you can fix this for me, Doc?"

She just barely kept herself from crashing into him. "I'm not... that kind of doctor."

"You mean there's a kind of doctor who doesn't know how to mend a cut?"

For the first time, he was treated to the sight of her blush. It started at the neckline of her shirt and crept

up to stain the marble contours of her face in a delicate and very tasteful shade of pink. "I'm a plastic surgeon," she said. Primly, as if she were somehow ashamed. Her pleasant fragrance, underlain by the scents of soap, deodorant and some mercifully subtle perfume, took on a tinge of unease.

A plastic surgeon. That explained the sense of wealth, the confidence, the air of superiority. He was willing to bet she was at the top of her field, though she couldn't be more than thirty. At the moment, though, she wasn't confident. He realized that he wanted her comfortable with him, even though he wasn't likely to see much of her after tomorrow morning. At least he hoped he wouldn't. Or did he?

He struck a melodramatic pose. "Tell me, Doc-do you think I could benefit from your special talents?" She gave him a look of utter contempt. "If you've ever looked in a mirror, you know d.a.m.ned well you wouldn't."

"Ouch." He grinned sheepishly. "I guess you only operate on ladies with double chins and middle-aged men with beer guts?" "Do you mind if we change the subject?" "Don't you like what you do, Doc?" "Dana," she said gruffly. "My name is Dana." It suited her. Strong and feminine at the same time. "Dana. You think I'm a pretty conceited cochon, don't you?" "Conceited, yes. I don't know about the other, since I don't speak French." She was willing to admit ignorance, which was quite a bit for a woman like her. He knew. Maman had always said he had something to prove every day of his life. "I can see we'll have to have a few lessons tonight," he said as he began to walk again. "Cochon. Pig." "I wouldn't go that far," she said, coming up beside him. "Tell me some other words." "The name for your friend with the buzz is marin-gouin. Just over there, under the black willows, are a couple of white-tailed deer-chevreuils. You don't see them too much in south Louisiana these days. Just about now the rabbit-lapin-is looking for his dinner, and the owl-hibou-is getting ready to hunt him. The woodp.e.c.k.e.r, piquebois, is turning in for the night. And soon you'll hear the bullfrogs- ouaouarons-begin their evening chorus."

Dana's lips moved, repeating the words. "You speak like someone who loves this place." Remy was quiet for a time, debating how to answer. As a boy, he had loved the swamp and the endless adventures he and Tris found there. But his restlessness had pulled him away, to the university and a career in the city. In the six years since his return, he had learned all over again how to value such simple thing as peaceful nights, family loyalty and running free where men seldom intruded. But love? The very word was one he'd put from his mind long ago. "I grew up in this parish," he said at last, guiding her through a b.u.t.ton bush thicket. "Cajuns-Acadiens -start learning about the swamp almost the day they're born." "Is your family here, as well?" "Scattered throughout south Louisiana. I don't see them much. What about yours? Where did you grow up?"

"San Francisco-the Bay Area." Something in her tone told him that she was no more ready to talk of her past than he was. "I was an only child." That must have been difficult. For all his problems with his family and his status as the Arceneaux "black sheep," he'd never felt alone as a boy. Acadians tended toward large and close-knit clans, his even more so than most.

He was the one who had left them. By unspoken agreement, he and Dana fell silent, concentrating on the nearly invisible trail winding among the broom sage and chokeberry shrubs. They skirted the edge of Matou Lake, dotted with the k.n.o.bby projections of cypress knees, and Remy could smell the scents of sun-warmed metal, tomato vines and seasoned cypresswood that meant home.

It was time to warn Tris.

He stopped Dana with a light touch on her arm. "Wait here," he said. "There's something I have to

check." Dana glanced up at the darkening sky but didn't protest. Remy jogged into a willow grove, out of her sight, and ran another quarter mile so that there was no chance she would find him if she went looking.

In the fading twilight, he took a deep breath, lifted his head and howled.

He knew Tris would hear him. He'd been very clear before he left; if he gave the warning, it would mean he wanted Tris well away from the houseboat until he signaled that it was safe to return. Tris wouldn't find it a hardship to spend the night in the swamp, but Remy hoped his younger brother's curiosity didn't get the better of him.

Once the message was given and answered, Remy ran back the way he'd come. Dana stood where he had left her, arms wrapped around her chest as she searched the darkness. She released her breath when she saw him.

"Where did you go?" she demanded.

"You miss me that much, chere?"

"Did you hear something... unusual a few minutes ago?"

Remy put on a puzzled expression and shrugged. "You mean the howl? Probably some hound chasing a c.o.o.n."

"It didn't sound like a dog to me. Are there any wolves in Louisiana?"

"Not anymore." She was sharp, this one. "They were killed off years ago. Let's go."

He waited until he was sure she followed, and then he led her across the remaining half mile to the banks of the bayou, where the houseboat rested on low water. The sun had gone down behind moss-draped cypress and tupelo, but the lamps shining from the deck made a beacon for weary travelers.

You'd better be gone, Tris, Remy thought. He pointed toward the lights. "Home. I can almost smell the fish sizzlin'."

Dana stopped and stared. "A houseboat?"

"Don't worry. I put it together myself."

She threw him a dubious look and paused at the ramp to examine the steel-riveted hull of the old barge, the small cabin with cypress roof on top, and the large pots of tomato and pepper plants on the open deck.

"It's perfectly safe," he said, grabbing her hand. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry as a wolf."

To his surprise, she let him pull her up the ramp. The boat hardly rocked under their footsteps; she seemed to take comfort in its solidity. There was no sign or scent of Tris.

Remy seated Dana at the small table in the kitchen next to the propane stove and started a pot of coffee. While he worked, Dana gazed about the room with barely concealed curiosity.

"Do you live here alone?" she asked.

He grinned at her over his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"Without seeing the rest of the house, I'd guess you do."

"Why is that?" He poured the freshly brewed coffee into a mug with The State Of Louisiana printed on it

and set it in front of her. "It's utilitarian. Spartan. Women can live that way, but they usually don't prefer to." He pulled an exaggerated frown. "Ah, chere-now you know my sad story. None of the ladies will have me."

"You mean your charm isn't enough?"

He sat down across from her and gazed into her eyes. "You think I'm charming as well as arrogant?"

She let the steaming coffee consume all her attention. "Thanks for the coffee. It tastes wonderful."

With a chuckle, he got to his feet and set about preparing the ba.s.s for supper, refusing her offer of help.