Cry Wolf Read Online Free Page B

intelligence beneath the lazy facade. A sharp mind behind the satyr's grin.
    “Oh, I agree. Absolutely,” he drawled, shuffling his feet, inching his way into her space again. His voice dropped a husky, seductive note as he leaned down close enough so his breath caressed her cheek. “So let's go to my place and do something more . . . satisfying.”
    “What about the band?” Laurel asked inanely, trembling slightly as the heat from his body drifted over her skin. She held her ground and caught a breath in her throat as he lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
    He chuckled low in his throat. “I'm not into sharing.”
    “That's not what I meant.”
    “They can play just fine without me.”
    “I hope the same can be said for you,” Laurel said dryly. She crossed her arms again, drawing her composure around her like a queen's cloak. “I'm not going anywhere with you, and the only satisfaction I intend to get is restitution for the damage your dog caused.”
    He dropped back against the Jeep in a negligent pose once more and took a long pull on his beer, his eyes never leaving hers. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don't have a dog.”
    As if on cue, the hound jumped up into the driver's seat of the open Jeep and looked at them both, ears perked with interest as he listened to them argue culpability for his crimes.
    “A number of people have identified this as your hound,” Laurel said, swinging an arm in the direction of the culprit.
    “That don' make him mine, sugar,” Jack countered.
    “No less than four people have named you as the owner.”
    He arched a brow. “Do I have a license for this dog? Can you produce ownership papers?”
    “Of course not—”
    “Then all you have are unsubstantiated rumors, Miz Chandler. Hearsay. You and I both know that'll stand up in a court of law about as good as a dead man's dick.”
    Laurel drew in a deep breath through her nostrils, trying in vain to stem the rising tide of frustration. She should have been able to cut this man off at the knees and send him crawling to Aunt Caroline's house to apologize. He was nothing but a liquored-up piano player at Frenchie's Landing, for Christ's sake, and she couldn't manage to best him. The anger she had been directing at Jack started turning back her way.
    “What'd ol' Huey do, anyhow, that's got you so worked up, angel?”
    “Huey?” She pounced on the opening with the ferocity of a starving cat on a mouse. “You called him by name!” she charged, pointing an accusatory finger at Jack, taking an aggressive step forward. “You named him!”
    He scowled. “It's short for Hey You.”
    “But the fact remains—”
    “Fact my ass,” Jack returned. “I can call you by name too,
'tite chatte
. That don' make you mine.” Grinning again, he leaned ahead and caught her chin in his right hand, boldly stroking the pad of his thumb across the lush swell of her lower lip. “Does it, Laurel?” he murmured suggestively, dipping his head down, his mouth homing in on hers.
    Laurel jerked back from him, batting his hand away. Her hold on her control, slippery and tenuous at best these days, slipped a little further. She felt as if she were hanging on to it by the ragged, bitten-down remains of her fingernails and it was still pulling away. She had come here for justice, but she wasn't getting any. Jack Boudreaux was jerking her around effortlessly. Playing with her, mocking her, propositioning her. God, was she so ineffectual, such a failure—
    “You didn't do your job, Ms. Chandler. . . . You blew it. . . . Charges will be
dismissed. . . .”
    “Come on, sugar, prove your case,” Jack challenged. He took another pull on his beer.
Dieu
, he was actually enjoying this little sparring match. He was rusty, out of practice. How long had it been since he had argued a case? Two years? Three? His time away from corporate law ran together in a blur of months. It seemed like a lifetime. He would have