When Darkness Falls

From Kiss of the Wolf by Susan Krinard

What a way to come home.

Dana St. Cyr stood at the sloping shoulder of a narrow road edged by cattails and a stand of bald cypress trees, tapping the toe of her shoe on the gravel as smoke poured out from under the hood of her rented Lexus. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, lay mile upon mile of swamp, with not a gas station in sight.

The sun beat down on Dana’s head and shoulders, plastering jacket and blouse to damp skin. How could it still be so hot in mid-September? Why in the world had she decided to leave her cell phone in California? If she had to walk all the rest of the way to Grand Marais …

Big Marsh. That was a good name for a town in the backwaters of southern Louisiana, even if this was more swamp than marsh. Dana blew out her breath and glanced down at her Prada mules. Practical, she thought in mild self-disgust. Where did I ever get the idea that anything other than sneakers would be practical in a place like this?

But she hadn’t worn sneakers since the age of sixteen, when she’d decided who and what she was going to be. All that certainty had vanished a few months ago, when suddenly it wasn’t enough to have a thriving career as one of San Francisco’s top plastic surgeons, blessed with an elegant penthouse overlooking the Bay and several closets full of Paris couture. The perfect life she’d built had grown inexplicably flat and lonely.

And that was why she was standing here on the road in the soggy heat of a Louisiana afternoon. She still remembered Uncle Charles’ stories of the bayou. “If you ever get in trouble,” he’d said, “go home to Beaucoeur Parish. You’ll always find a welcome there, with your own people.”

People she’d never met. People who actually liked living in a place like this.

She sighed and pushed damp hair out of her face. The road was still deserted. Birds sang in the cypress trees and tangled thickets of impenetrable scrub. A few white, fluffy clouds scudded across the sky.

Dana pulled off one shoe and flexed her toes. The last thing she intended to do was stand here and wait to be rescued. A few blisters weren’t going to kill her. The worst part would be arriving in Grand Marais with a psychological disadvantage, the stranger from California who got herself broken down in the middle of nowhere.

It’s not as if you care what they think. You don’t have any expectations, remember? This was a crazy idea, anyway, and if not for Uncle Charles …

The cattails by the side of the road rustled with the motion of some hidden shape. Dana lost her balance and leaned against the Lexus, the small hairs rising on the back of her neck. Did they have bears in Louisiana?

You’re being ridiculous. It’s probably a deer, or maybe an opossum.

But it was not a deer, and definitely not an opossum. Dana blinked, and a tall, very human form emerged from the undergrowth.

The man moved a little way toward her and paused, regarding her silently. Dana assessed him with a keen eye developed over years of sculpting faces, inching her way toward the car door and the can of pepper spray in the glove compartment.

Her first impression was of height, broad shoulders, and a shock of red-brown hair. But it was the face beneath that hair that made her forget about the pepper spray. If the swamp sheltered escaped criminals or crazed hermits, surely none of them could be quite so strikingly attractive.

Mid-thirties, she calculated. Non-smoker, not a shred of excess weight, high cheekbones, firm chin with a dimple she couldn’t improve on. A mouth with lips just full enough to be sensual without sacrificing masculinity. Strong, straight nose. Eyes just a little deepset, a shifting turquoise under dark, straight brows.

The rest of the body matched the face, beautifully proportioned, narrow through hips and waist under a clean white t-shirt, thighs muscular in blue jeans painted with mud to mid-calf. Dana couldn’t see his feet behind the tall grass, but his hands, thumbs hooked in his pockets, looked as graceful as a concern pianist’s.

The Greeks had made statues like this, but nature seldom duplicated their talents. Not without help. If genes like his were common, she’d be out of a job. And then maybe she’d have time for a love life….

The man took a step toward her, breaking the spell. Dana flung open the car door and dived across the seat. Idiot. Who knows better than you how little a face has to do with the soul inside?

“Are you in need of assistance, ma’am?”

Dana’s fingers slid off the button of the glove compartment. She peered out the passenger window where the face gazed back at her, lips curved up at the ends as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

She flushed, slid back into the driver’s seat, and folded her hands in her lap. The doors were unlocked. He could get in if he wanted, but she’d be damned if she let him think she was afraid, especially when he was circling his finger in an unmistakable request that she roll down the window.

Calmly cursing herself, she punched the window button. Hot air flooded the car, and with it the subtle scent of male: cotton, soap, perspiration, and a whiff of motor oil. The man leaned down and rested his elbow on the door.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

His voice was a low drawl, tinged by an agreeable accent that reminded her of Uncle Charles. She searched his eyes for any clue as to his intentions, but found only blue-green sparkling with mischievous light over depths she couldn’t begin to plumb.

“A very astute observation,” she said coolly. “You don’t by chance know how to repair my car?”

“It’s possible,” he said, his gaze wandering to the open neck of her blouse. “Where are you headed?”

“Grand Marais.” If it’s any of your business. “Do you live in this area?”

He rested his dimpled chin on his knuckles. “You’re still a good five miles from town, if you don’t count the shacks and fishermen’s camps along the levee. You have family in Grand Marais?”

“Lucky guess.” Better that he know she wasn’t alone and without resources, just in case—though her skittishness was beginning to seem very foolish. “Augustine Daigle is my great aunt. Do you know her?”

“I’ve met her.” He cocked his head and studied her with sharper interest. “You’re a Daigle?”

Dana wondered if this kind of inquisitiveness was specific to Louisiana. “St. Cyr, actually. Aunt Augustine is my mother’s aunt. My parents left this area in their twenties. This is the first time I’ve been here.”

Now what possessed her to babble on so? Something about his lazy, half-lidded eyes invited her to confide in him, a total stranger, in a way she wouldn’t her closest friends back home. She tried to reassemble her guard, but the stranger’s demeanor had radically altered in the short time she’d been talking. He had drawn back from the window, and his eyes had lost all of their friendliness.

“You look like a woman who enjoys fine things,” he said, all the melody gone from his voice. “Grand Marais is a simple place, with simple people. I don’t think you’ll like it here. If I were you, I’d go back where I came from.”

Dana realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. “I beg your pardon. I won’t trouble you any further, but if you have a cell phone I can borrow …”

“I’ll tell them you’re here.” His mouth set in a straight, grim line. “Take my advice. Don’t stay in Beaucoeur Parish.”