CHAPTER ONE
Did I close the garage door before I left the house? Slap! Is that moss dripping from those trees or some type of vine? Slap! Can you die from too many mosquito bites? Slap!
Olivia Harrington reached around to the side pocket of her backpack and pulled out the bug repellent. Not that it seemed to help. The bloodsuckers didn’t even wait for the mist to settle before they were back to biting.
“Got DEET.”
She glanced at the man behind her. He stood in the back of the pirogue, the sinewy muscles in his saggy-skinned arms flexing as he used a long pole to propel the boat through the murky water. She wondered if that type of pole had a name. Then she wondered if the man was too old for such exercise. He looked to be about as ancient as her neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Huckabee, who had waved at her from their balcony that morning when she left for the airport. She had waved back, but averted her eyes. The Huckabees were nudists who, at well over seventy, completely ignored the city ordinances about flaunting private parts. Thinking about leaving San Francisco brought Olivia full circle to wondering whether she’d closed the garage door.
“DEET,” the old man repeated in his mumbled Cajun accent as he continued to lift the pole and press it against the bottom of the swamp in a slow and steady rhythm that would’ve been soothing if she were in Venice on vacation. But she wasn’t in Venice. She was in Louisiana on a business trip. The most important business trip of her life. Which meant she needed to get a handle on her easily distracted brain and focus.
Smiling politely, she tried to motivate him—not that she had ever been good at motivating people. “Do you think you could…umm…pole a little faster?”
The old man lifted the pole and repositioned it. “Skeeter spray got DEET?”
“Oh!” She squinted at the ingredients on the bottle of insect repellent. She had bought it from REI, along with a backpack, a wide-brimmed hat, a T-shirt, khaki shorts, and an ugly pair of hiking boots that laced around her ankles. As a non-traveler, she’d been thinking more African safari than Louisiana bayou. What she really needed was a pair of night goggles, a fan, and, apparently, DEET.
A splash drew her attention to the left bank. With very little sunlight filtering in through the thick branches of the moss-covered trees, it was hard to tell what had made the sound. Probably one of those long-legged birds. The thought of birds had her thinking of her own bird problem. Jonathan Livingston was an annoying seagull who had taken to landing on her balcony, eating whatever garbage he had collected, and leaving his calling card on her Pottery Barn outdoor rug. It was truly disgusting, and she had bought more carpet cleaner in the last month than she’d bought coffee. And she bought a lot of coffee. It was the only thing that seemed to keep her mind on track—
“Gator.”
The word focused her brain better than a double shot of espresso. She scanned the water between the bank and the boat as she inched back on the seat. “As in alligator? Where?”
“Just yonder.”
Yonder? How did that translate? Fifteen feet? Ten? Two? Olivia tried to stay composed, but it was hard to be composed when you were traveling in “gator”-infested waters in a banana peel of a boat.
“Can they jump?” she asked.
The man kept lifting and pushing, taking his sweet time in answering. Figuring that his nonchalant demeanor was a good sign, she relaxed her shoulders. Her calm was short-lived when the man spoke.
“Up until last year, would’ve said no.” Lift. Push. Lift. Push. “Damned gator knocked Cousin Pip right out of the boat and death-rolled him.”
“Death roll? What’s a—” A thump had the boat wobbling and her composure completely deserting her. “Ohmygod!” She jumped to her feet and attempted to join the man in the back of the boat. Unfortunately, she was more agile in high heels than in awkward hiking boots. She stumbled and fell headfirst over the side.
The water was colder than she’d thought it would be. Or maybe it was just cold in comparison to the hot, humid air. Air she now struggled to find. Being a northern California girl, she wasn’t that good a swimmer to begin with, and the heavy backpack didn’t help matters. It weighed her down like a pair of cement shoes, quickly taking her to the mushy bottom. As much as she wanted to hang on to the backpack and her dreams, she realized she would have to make a choice. She had just slipped off one strap when strong jaws clamped her waist and pulled her through the murky water like a rag doll. She kicked and fought against the death roll, but it was no use.
It took her breaking the surface of the water and air rushing into her empty lungs for her to realize that she wasn’t locked in an alligator’s grip as much as a man’s. At first she thought that it was the old man she’d paid to bring her into the swamp, and she marveled at his strength and agility. But then a deep voice spoke next to her ear that sounded nothing like the pirogue gondolier’s. This voice was silky Southern and used pronouns.
“You need to be still or I’ll leave you to the gator.”
Olivia stopped struggling and relaxed in his hold, and with just a few strong kicks, he had her on the bank. Exhausted, she lay in the thick grass, too weak to even push her slime-coated hair from her face. With the backpack still attached, she no doubt looked like a beached turtle as she listened to the conversation between the men.
“What were you thinking bringing a little bit of a helpless girl out here, Coon?” the man who’d saved her asked.
Olivia bristled at the demeaning reference. She might not be able to reach the top items on a grocery shelf, but she was not helpless. But before she could defend herself, Coon spoke.
“Deliver my granny to the devil for a hundred.”
“A hundred? She paid you a hundred dollars?”
Another long pause. “Yep.” There was a creak of wood and the swish of displaced water.
“Coon, you are not leaving her here,” the man said with authority. His statement was quickly followed by an exasperated “Shee-it.”
It took a moment for Olivia to realize what was happening. By the time she sat up and swiped the hair from her face, the pirogue was already heading back the way it had come.
“Wait!” She wobbled to her feet, weaving like her mother after one of her social events. “I gave you a hundred dollars to take me to the Beaumonts’.”
Coon lifted the pole and pushed, then did it again before answering. “Done it.”
Surprised, she glanced back at the man who stood on the bank not more than ten feet away. He looked like some kind of hairy swamp creature. Lichen slime streaked his dark, shoulder-length hair and his thick beard.
Even with the beard and the passage of sixteen years, Olivia had no trouble recognizing the oldest Beaumont brother. Although Deacon Valentino had filled out since she’d last seen him. His shoulders were broader and the muscles of his chest more defined. But he still had the same arrogant stance and hard features.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Suddenly alligators weren’t the only threats in the swamp. But having grown up with the owner of the most successful lingerie company in the world, she had learned how to show no fear—even to intimidating men who studied her with an intensity that was as palpable as the humidity. Holding Deacon’s direct gaze, she squished her way closer and held out a hand.