The Long Hot Summer

“A regular funny-girl today, aren’t you?” Mae shook her head. “I think you’ll be surprised, my dear. Pleasantly surprised, that is.”

Nicole didn’t like surprises. Especially surprises that involved men. She said grimly, “He’s arriving around four.”

“You’ve talked to him? Wonderful!” Mae’s excitement sent two birds nesting overhead into flight.

“I called the Pass-By Motel,” Nicole admitted. “Sheriff Tucker said that’s where I could find him.” She purposely left out the part about trying to fire him over the phone. “He said he’ll be staying at the boathouse.”

“Yes, that was our agreement. Do you suppose, Nicki, you could send Bick down there to open the windows and air the place out? I’ll scribble a message for Johnny. Bick can leave it on the table, since I can’t get down there to meet him myself.”

Mae’s gaze traveled across the driveway to where a trail led to the boathouse. The trail was a quarter-mile through dense woods—a shortcut to Belle Bayou. “I haven’t seen Johnny in fifteen years,” she offered wistfully. “I intended to visit him in prison, but my lawyer advised against it.”

Judging by the look in her grandmother’s aging eyes, she was sorry she hadn’t. Nicole found herself growing curious. She asked, “Is there some way I can help?”

Her grandmother reached out and patted Nicole’s arm. “You already have—by coming home. First you and now Johnny. It’s perfect.” She paused. “When he left I had no idea it would be years before he came home. I wonder how he turned out in the looks department? If he ended up anything like his father or grandpa, watch out, dear. Gracious, but those Bernard men were handsome.”

Nicole didn’t need to see him to know how he’d turned out. The report on the desk in the study confirmed that Johnny Bernard had gotten his reputation the old-fashioned way: he’d earned every bit of it. And as far as his looks went, she didn’t really care how handsome he’d turned out. They weren’t shopping for a lawn ornament, just a simple carpenter. How he looked on a ladder was of no importance, as long as he could climb one.

She bent forward and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “When you get your note written, I’ll see that Bick takes it with him. What do you say we have some lemonade? I’m dying.”

“You’re always dying,” Mae teased. “Where should we have our lemonade? On the front porch?”

Nicole positioned herself behind Mae’s wheelchair. “I’ve got an original idea. Why not relax in front of the fan in the study?”

An hour later, Nicole learned that Bick had taken himself off to town. Forced to run her grandmother’s errand, she hurried along the wooded trail toward the boathouse. She checked her watch, glad to see that she still had an hour before Johnny Bernard would descend on them. She wasn’t sure how she was going to face him after trying to get rid of him over the phone, but with any luck she wouldn’t have to think about that until later. She would open the windows, leave Gran’s note on the table and be gone before he even set foot on Oakhaven soil.

Within a matter of ten minutes, Nicole was through the woods, standing in a small clearing just west of Belle Bayou. All things considered, she was more intrigued by the moody swamp than frightened by it. It had a certain allure, a quality she had tried many times to capture on canvas.

It was an artist’s paradise, she admitted. The colorful vegetation that grew out of the muck along the banks fascinated her as much as did the huge cypress trees with their gnarly roots and distorted branches. The branches dripping with Spanish moss along the water’s edge reminded her of a travel brochure she’d once seen advertising scenic Louisiana.

Her gaze followed the grassy bank to the old wood and stone boathouse, this being the first time she’d come down to the bayou since she’d arrived from L.A. From an artist’s point of view the place had immense possibilities. It was dark and eerie, straight out of a gothic novel, and when she decided to paint it, she would do so with that in mind.

She started down the overgrown path through the clearing, approaching the aging structure from the north side. She reached for the door’s rusty latch, and as she pulled it open, it groaned loudly in protest. Inside, she ran her hand along the cool brick in search of the light switch. Relieved that it still worked, that she hadn’t been greeted by any creepy-crawly surprises, Nicole followed the ray of light past the clutter and ascended the stairs to the second story.

To her surprise, what once had housed old tools and fishing gear now resembled a modest apartment. She recognized a few pieces of furniture from the house: a rocker, a bureau, a square table and two chairs. The dark red sofa, she remembered from the attic. An iron bed made up with a blue bedspread had been arranged in such a manner that one could lie down and still gaze out the window and enjoy the bayou’s beauty at night. A partition wall cut the room in half. On one side, a small kitchen; on the other, an even smaller bathroom.

The window facing the woods, as well as the one overlooking the moody, black bayou, was already open. Puzzled, Nicole concluded Bick had second-guessed Gran’s request and had opened the windows that morning. Not giving it any more thought, she placed Gran’s note on the table and walked to the nearest window to gaze outside. She scanned the shoreline, noting the boat tied to the sagging dock, the cane pole resting across the seat.

Cane pole? Bick never fished with a cane pole.

She made the mental observation just as she heard something. A moment later, she identified the noise as footsteps—footsteps that had reached the stairs and were now steadily climbing.

She glanced at her watch. It was a little past three. He had said four. Nicole made a quick swipe at her blond bangs, swore silently at her bad luck, then forced herself to turn. Her first thought was that the black-bayou voice on the phone was a perfect fit for the dark and dangerous man who had suddenly filled the doorway.

Nicole’s gaze drifted over Common’s rebel, deciding that he was everything she had expected him to be, and more. A couple of inches over six feet, he stood shirtless, his long legs encased in ragged jeans. His broad shoulders looked hard as iron, his torso and stomach a series of layered muscles and corrugated definition. It was obvious he was in top physical condition. But then, what else did a jailed criminal have to do all day but get bigger and more dangerous by pumping iron in the prison gym? Hadn’t she read a controversial article about that somewhere?

She had taken a few self-defense classes—living in L.A., it had been the smart thing to do. Even so, it would be almost funny trying to use what she’d learned against a marine who could add Angola State Penitentiary to his bio.

To be sure, he was a survivor. Of that, Nicole had no doubt—as she stared into a pair of rich amber, see-to-the-soul eyes that promised Johnny Bernard had seen it all, and possibly done it all, too.

She watched as he reached behind his back and closed the door. The movement shifted him slightly sideways, sending a stream of sunlight from the window into his straight, black hair. Loose, it would have touched his shoulders, but to combat the heat he had pulled it back from his face and secured it low at the nape of his neck.

If not for a straight high-bridged nose and a sensual mouth softening his otherwise hard features, he would have been almost too rugged to be referred to as handsome. Those two features, combined with a reckless thin scar trailing from his right eye to his temple, softened him and made him human, thus dangerously good-looking.

Clearing her throat, Nicole wrapped herself in false confidence—something she did often these days—and forced herself to speak. “I thought you said you were arriving at four o’clock.”

“Did I?” He relaxed against the door and loosely folded his arms over his broad chest. The smile Nicole imagined him wearing earlier throughout their phone conversation appeared. He spared a quick glance at the plain silver watch on his wrist, then made eye contact with her once more. “Looks like you’re early, too. Anxious to meet me, Nicki?”

She hadn’t expected him to know her name, Johnny could tell by the surprise in her blue eyes. But he did know her name, and a whole lot more. He had pumped Virgil before he’d left the motel, and the old man had been eager to talk. In fact, he had claimed Nicki Chapman the “perdiest femme” he’d ever seen. And Johnny had to agree, she was the best thing he’d seen in a helluva long time.

Somewhere in her twenties, she was a little above average height, her body curvy and delicate. The delicate part warned him off right away—he avoided fragile women like they had the plague. They reminded him of glass figurines, and, frankly, they made him nervous. He did like looking at her, though. Liked her sexy long bangs and the way she let them play an intentional game of hide-and-seek with her eyes. Her honey-blond hair was shoulder-length and shiny. Her cutoffs, mid-thigh, flashed long, slender legs and sexy knees. Her short T-shirt was a distinct shade of blue, a perfect match for her eyes.

She’d been born in L.A. Her parents had died two years ago in a plane crash. This came from Virgil. She was an only child like Johnny, Virgil had said, but he couldn’t remember what she did for a living. Apparently, she’d moved in with the old lady a few weeks ago with the intention of making Oakhaven her permanent home.

“I came to drop off a note from Gran.” She gestured to the piece of paper on the table. “I had planned to open windows, too, but I see you already opened them.” She thrust her hand out. “Ah, I’m Nicole Chapman. Mae’s granddaughter. We met on the phone.”

Johnny was surprised that she offered her hand. Most people were reluctant to get that friendly with him. Too bad he was going to have to decline the gesture. He wasn’t sure what he had on his hands, but they were filthy. He unfolded his arms and showed her that both of his hands weren’t even the same color. “I was catching supper, among other things,” he explained. “Catfish.”

Her gaze drifted to his dirty hands, then she promptly dropped the one she’d offered. “Since you’re here and you’ll be working for Oakhaven, I—”

“Will I, cherie? No new plan to fire me before I get started?”

“You made it clear over the phone that the choice wasn’t mine, remember? I believe the word you used was nonrefundable. I checked with Gran and that seems to be the case.” She broke eye contact with him and glanced around the room. “Gran took a lot of time to fix this place up. I guess that means something.” She brought her gaze back to his. “You’re a carpenter, isn’t that right, Mr. Bernard?”

“Johnny. The name’s Johnny. And, yeah, I’m a carpenter.”

“Well, Oakhaven is in need of major repairs, Johnny, so it looks like there will be plenty to keep you busy.”

Her concession to use his name amused him, and Johnny grinned. “So I’ve noticed.”

She arched one delicate eyebrow, but didn’t argue with him.

He gestured to the rocker, then shoved away from the door and strolled past her to the couch. Once she’d slipped into the chair, he dropped down on the couch and let his long legs sprawl apart. The day’s heat had flushed her face, and he noted she looked miserably hot. He, on the other hand, had never felt better. He loved the Louisiana heat; it was in his blood, the hotter the better. He’d run away from Common years ago. Only he hadn’t left the state. He’d been calling Lafayette home for almost two years.

“Will the job take the entire summer?” she asked.

“That depends on what’s on the old lady’s list.”

A bead of sweat slipped past her left temple and down her cheek. She made a swipe at it, then lifted her right leg a fraction of an inch, then the other one. It didn’t dawn on Johnny until he saw her go through the motion a second time that her bare legs were sticking to the wooden chair.

“Do you have a glass of water with ice?” she suddenly asked.

“Sure.” Johnny stood and walked into the small kitchen. He scrubbed his hands, then retrieved a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water and dropped in a couple of ice cubes from the space-saving fridge. He returned and handed it to her. “One glass of water, served with ice.”

She peered into the glass, then glanced at his clean hands. “Thank you. I haven’t adjusted to the humidity yet,” she quietly explained, “but I will eventually.”

Johnny wasn’t convinced—she looked about as miserable as she could get. He returned to the couch and watched her use the glass to cool her warm cheek. “Carpenters don’t come cheap,” he drawled, watching her slide the glass down her neck, then back up. She had a pretty neck, long and pale.

“No, they don’t. But I imagine carpenters on parole are just happy to be working at all.”