continued as he reached Bayou Road and headed east. His pace, however, slowed steadily, his surroundings triggering memories from the past.
Johnny tried to shake them off, but in a matter of seconds he was a kid again, running so fast his lungs felt as if they would explode inside his chest, his bare feet pounding the dirt while Farrel chased after him waving a stick. He could hear Clete Gilmore hollering, calling him ugly names and encouraging Farrel to “Get him!”
As he ran, he could see Jack Oden out of the corner of his eye, could see him gaining on him. More than once Johnny had wished that the gangly kid they all called Stretch had been his friend instead of Farrel’s.
Johnny stopped abruptly. He was breathing fast, as if he’d actually been running. He shook his head, forced the image back into the black hole where it belonged. He started down the road again, this time noticing that the potholes had gotten deeper, the ditches still waterlogged and ripe with decay.
A rusted-out mailbox signaled the farmhouse was just up ahead. He stepped over the rubble that had once claimed to be a sturdy gate, and walked steadily on. His heart rate picked up again, making his chest feel miserably tight. He didn’t want to feel anything, he told himself. Least of all, vulnerable and scared. Lonely. Yet of all the feelings tugging at his insides, those inescapable emotions dominated.
He scaled the porch steps and stopped, his hand poised on the doorknob. He turned the knob—surprisingly it wasn’t locked. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever bleak remains still haunted the old house. Then, after fifteen long years, Johnny opened the door and stepped inside.
The floor creaked just the way it used to, the sharp smell of rotten wood swelling his nostrils in protest. He lit a match and glanced around the empty living room. The place had been ransacked, which couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes—poverty keeping them from owning so much as a picture to hang on the wall.
He turned to his right and held the match toward the kitchen, and when he did, something scurried across the bare wood floor. He shifted his gaze to the shredded curtains at the window, then to the crude set of cupboards, the warped doors all standing open.
He walked past the kitchen and into the little room his parents had designated his. It was barely big enough to fit a mattress on the floor, and to his surprise the old ragged remains were still there, molding in the corner.
Despair overwhelmed him, and Johnny’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, hadn’t wanted any part of the past to intrude on the present. But he was a fool to think that it wouldn’t—there was just too much he had run away from.
The depth of poverty that had kept his family in a choke-hold continued to gnaw at Johnny once he returned to the boathouse. He stood at the window overlooking Belle Bayou, a cigarette cornered in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Not liking his melancholy mood, he willed himself to think of something else. The vision that popped into his head had silky blond hair and sexy blue eyes. Johnny took his time, treated himself to the perfect fantasy.
It was all too wicked and perfect to come true, of course. But a man could dream. And so he did.
Chapter 3
The dream was nasty, and he was in it.
Disgusted with herself, Nicole jerked awake and sat up in bed. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was barely six. She’d grown used to functioning on five hours or less these past few months, tormented by the nightmare she’d left behind in L.A. Last night, however, her thoughts had shifted to the man with the river-bottom drawl and see-to-the-soul eyes.
She told herself it was because of Gran and the unusual situation surrounding Johnny Bernard’s return. But was it? The man had taken her completely by surprise yesterday. He had looked dark and dangerous, yes—but not entirely in the way she had envisioned.
Disgusted that she was giving so much thought to the subject, Nicole wrestled with the rose-colored satin sheets and climbed out of bed. The sticky, warm air inside the room settled against her, and she sighed with the knowledge that she would have to find some way to cope with the heat again today. Her gaze fell on the fan near the end of the bed, and she almost reached out and turned it on. No, if she was ever going to adjust she would have to stop relying on that damn fan.
She swept her blue satin robe off the foot of the bed, slipped it on and tied the sash around her trim waist. A quick glance outside had her wondering if the late-night rain had left a breeze behind. Relief an open door away, she moved to the French doors that led on to the front porch and flung them wide in a sudden burst of hopeful energy.
At the very least, she had expected to hear a chorus of morning songbirds, but instead she felt a clunk and heard a string of colorful cursing, half of it in French. In an instant she knew who owned that distinctive drawl. Dreading her next move, Nicole forced herself to peer around the door.
He was leaning against the house wearing beat-up jeans and scuffed brown western boots. His hair was tied back the same as yesterday, too. One of his hands was rubbing his hip and the other was pinching his nose to stem the flow of blood.
Blood. Oh, God!
Nicole ducked back inside, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and dashed back outside. “Here,” she said, shoving the pink tissues in his face.
He took the offering without saying a word and pressed the tissues to his nose. Within a few minutes the blood had stopped flowing, and he balled up the tissues and jammed them into his back pocket. Giving her his full attention now, he said, “You carry accident insurance, cherie? It looks like working for you could be dangerous.”
Instead of anger, Nicole saw amusement dancing in his dark eyes. He rubbed at his hipbone again, then flashed her a crooked smile, which Nicole rejected with a stubborn lift of her chin. “If you’re looking for fringe benefits, Mr. Bernard, you won’t find them here.”
His grin turned wicked. “Oh, I don’t know. Insurance ain’t everything.” He gave her a thorough once-over. “And the name’s Johnny. Remember?”
Nicole didn’t care one bit for his sexist ogling. “Since you’re in one piece, I’ll leave you to whatever it was you were doing.” She turned to go back inside, then hesitated. “Which was…?”
“Checking out the condition of the porch. You did say it was top priority, right?”
“Yes, I did. But this early?”
“I couldn’t sleep. You, too?” He frowned. “Funny, I had you pegged for a snoozer ’til noon.”
How he did it, Nicole didn’t know. But as she turned to leave, he slipped in front of her and blocked the door with one of his long arms. It brought them in close contact, forcing Nicole to acknowledge his hairy, bare chest covered in a sheen of sweat. He had powerful biceps, too, all muscled and honed impossibly hard.
“I could use a glass of water. Got one?”
“Water?” Nicole was suspicious, and yet she couldn’t very well deny him after asking for the same courtesy yesterday at the boathouse. “Wait here.”
He dropped his arm. “I’ll pass on the ice,” he told her.
She hurried past him, through her bedroom and into the private bathroom, where she filled a glass quickly. But as she stepped back into her bedroom, she was brought
