Cry Wolf Read Online Free

frightening in intensity. He dragged his thumb up and down the keyboard, stroking out the final long, frenzied glissando, and fell forward, panting, exhausted as the crowd whistled and howled and screamed for more.
    “Whoa—” Jack gulped a breath and forced a grin. “
Bon Dieu
. It's Miller time, folks. Y'all go sit down while I recuperate.”
    As a jukebox kicked in, the rest of the band instantly dispersed, abandoning the stage in favor of a table that was holding up gamely under the weight of more than a dozen long-necked beer bottles and an assortment of glasses.
    Leonce clapped Jack's shoulder as he passed. “You're gettin' old, Jack,” he teased. “
Sa c'est honteu, mon ami
.”
    Jack sucked another lungful of hot, smoky air and swatted at his friend. “Fuck you,
'tit boule
.”
    “No need.” Leonce grinned, hooking a thumb in the direction of the dance floor. “You got one waitin' on you.”
    Jack raised his head and shot a sideways look at the edge of the stage. She was still standing there, his little lawyer pest, looking expectant and unimpressed with him. Trouble—that's what she looked like. And not the kind he usually dove into headfirst, either. A lawyer.
Bon Dieu
, he thought he'd seen the last of that lot.
    “You want a drink, sugar?” he asked as he hopped down off the stage.
    “No,” Laurel said, automatically taking a half step back and chastising herself for it. This man was the kind who would sense a weakness and exploit it. She could feel it, could see it in the way his dark gaze seemed to catch everything despite the fact that he had been drinking. She drew deep of the stale, hot air and squared her shoulders. “What I want is to speak with you privately about the damage done by your dog.”
    His mouth curved. “I don't have a dog.”
    He turned and sauntered away from her, his walk naturally cocky. Laurel watched him, astounded by his lack of manners, infuriated by his dismissal of her.
    He didn't glance back at her, but continued on his merry way, winding gracefully through the throng, stealing a bottle of beer off Annie's serving tray as he went. The waitress gave an indignant shout, saw it was Jack, and melted as he treated her to a wicked grin. Laurel shook her head in a combination of amazement and disbelief and wondered how many times he had gotten away with raiding the cookie jar as a boy. Probably more times than his poor mother could count. He stepped through a side door, and she followed him out.
    Night had fallen completely, bringing on the mercury vapor lights that loomed over the parking lot and cloaking the bayou beyond in shades of black. The noise of the bar faded, competing out here with a chorus of frog song and the hum of traffic rolling past out on the street. The air was fresh with the scents of spring in bloom—jasmine and wisteria and honeysuckle and the ripe, vaguely rank aroma of the bayou. Somewhere down the way, where shabby little houses with thin lawns lined the bank, a woman called for Paulie to come in. A screen door slammed. A dog barked.
    The hound leaped out at Laurel from between a pair of parked pickup trucks and howled at her, startling her to a skidding halt on the crushed shell of the parking lot. She slammed a hand to her heart and bit back a curse as the big dog bounded away, tail wagging.
    “That dog is an absolute menace,” she complained.
    “Don' look at me, sugar.”
    He was leaning back against the fender of a disreputable-looking Jeep, elbows on the hood, bottle of Dixie dangling from the fingers of his left hand.
    Laurel planted herself in front of him and crossed her arms, holding her silence as if it might force a confession out of him. He simply stared back, his eyes glittering in the eerie silvery light that fell down on him from above. It cast his features in stark relief—a high, wide forehead, sardonically arched brows, an aquiline nose that looked as if it might have been broken once or twice in his thirty-some years.
    His