Clay (9 page)

“And he’s still hanging around?”

There was no way Janna could explain, since Denise thought her whole purpose in using the camp was the designs for her new fabric line. The two of them had been close at one time, before Matt died, but then Janna had returned to Mississippi and completed her education there. She had only told Denise about Lainey’s renal problem when she contacted her concerning the camp weeks ago. Even so, she hadn’t divulged its severity.

“We’ve…seen quite a bit of him,” she said in as casual a tone as she could manage.

Denise was quiet a long moment. “He knows about Lainey then?”

“No! Not yet.”

“How intriguing. So tell me, are you two involved?”

Janna glanced in the direction of her workroom. She could hear Lainey talking to Ringo, but Clay stood with his arms folded over his chest and one shoulder propped on the door facing. Holding his gaze, she answered, “Hardly.”

“Too bad,” Denise said with dissatisfaction. “I wish…”

“What?”

“Clay is so like Matt. The same looks, same lethal charm, same love of life…”

“I noticed,” Janna answered, profoundly glad Clay could not hear his cousin.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Janna couldn’t let her go on. “I know what you meant.”

“I doubt it. I realize Matt’s dad threatened you years ago, and understand why you’ve never wanted me to act as go-between for the family. Still, I’ve always wished you could get to know them, especially Clay.”

“No.” It was now clear to Janna why Denise had sent her handsome cousin to check on her in the first place.

“But it would be so perfect, I mean really.”

“It wouldn’t be perfect,” she corrected with iron in her voice, “it would be obscene. I have no use for a replica of Lainey’s father.”

At a soft sound behind her, she turned to look down the hall again. The doorway to the spare bedroom was now empty.

“What?” Denise asked in her ear. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I have to go.”

“Think about it. Think about what’s best for Lainey,” Denise said in haste, as if afraid she might be cut off.

“I am.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” Janna said, and punched the button to end the call.

The day wore on. Janna cleared the breakfast dishes, played tea party with Lainey using the plastic film containers Clay had given her, which were fast becoming a sizable collection, and ran a load of clothes through the ancient combination washer and dryer that sat in a corner of the bathroom. Folding Clay’s T-shirts and shorts seemed an oddly intimate task, one triggering a myriad of less than comfortable reactions. They were sophomoric, she knew, but that didn’t make them go away.

That he’d overheard what she’d said to Denise concerned her. How he had taken it, exactly, she didn’t know; he’d remained in his room all morning and she hadn’t ventured inside it. It wasn’t just the unfortunate slip of her tongue that bothered her, of course, but her recent discoveries. It crossed her mind to wonder if Clay knew about the body found in the lake, and if that might not have colored his reactions. It would explain a great deal.

The only way he could have discovered that, of course, was if Arty had told him. She wasn’t sure
why the old swamp man would let Clay in on something so important while leaving her in ignorance, but she supposed past friendship might account for it. That was, of course, unless he and Clay had put their heads together and determined that it was best not to mention the situation because she could be implicated in it. The conclusion was logical, in all fairness. The problem was that she didn’t feel like being fair.

There was another possibility; the two men could have something to hide themselves. Both of them spent their time in the swamp and knew it well. Who better to dispose of a body in its backwaters?

Janna stopped with her hands clutched on a pair of Clay’s briefs and closed her eyes. Why did she have to endure this soul-searching over a fairly common medical procedure necessary to save her daughter? It was as if something was trying to tell her that what she was doing was wrong, but how could she accept that when the only other option, waiting for a legal kidney, was as potentially lethal as it was uncertain?

“That might be more rewarding if those were occupied.”

Clay’s drawl, dry yet layered with implication, came from the bathroom doorway. Janna knew immediately what he meant, recognized that she had been mindlessly kneading the warm cotton of his briefs that were folded with the crotch in the front. She drew back the briefs and tossed them at his chest. “For that crack,” she said with disdain, “you can fold your own underwear.”

“I could take care of all my laundry if I was free.”

“Fat chance.”

He gave her a sultry look from under his lashes. “You’re sure? You might find other advantages.”

It was a relief to find that he hadn’t been sulking, though why she should care was something she had no intention of examining. “Forget it,” she said succinctly as she picked up the laundry basket.

“You’re a hard woman, Janna Kerr.”

“Aren’t I just?” The smile she gave him was as brittle as her voice as she slid past him into the hall. She could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, but she didn’t look back.

Lunch was a simple meal of baked chicken breast strips, rolls and a fresh green salad. While Janna prepared it, Lainey wandered back to be with Clay again, and the mingled bass and treble of their voices made Janna feel left out, almost excluded from some secret society. She placed the salads on a tray, along with bottled dressing, crackers and tall glasses of iced tea, and then carried everything back to join them.

Lainey and Clay had been playing with Ringo, and the little raccoon lay curled in her lap. With a significant glance at the ball of fur, Janna said, “Time to eat, sweetheart. Run wash your hands.”

Her daughter gave her a querulous glance. “Oh, Mama.”

“Mind your mother, punkin,” Clay said quietly.

Lainey met his steady blue gaze for a second. Something she saw there apparently convinced her it was useless to argue, for she heaved a sigh, then set Ringo aside and got to her feet. She took a couple of
steps toward the door, then turned back. “Clay needs to wash his hands, too, Mama, only he can’t very well. Besides, his fingers are all purple. Can’t you untie him for just a little while?”

For no reason that she could think of, Janna flushed. Lainey had adapted to Clay’s presence so easily, in the way children often accepted changes in their lives, that she’d assumed her daughter thought nothing of his captivity. She’d been wrong. “I really don’t think so,” she began.

“He won’t do anything except eat, will you, Mr. Clay?” Her small features mirrored earnest concern as she searched his face.

“No,” he answered with grave deliberation. “I don’t think I will.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

The pledge was an extremely serious one to Lainey, Janna knew. She thought that Clay realized it as well for a crooked smile came and went at one corner of his mouth as he held the child’s gaze. Still, he sketched a quick cross over the proper spot on his T-shirt-clad chest before he repeated with a slightly dryer note in his voice, “Promise.”

Lainey looked at Janna again. “See?”

Janna thought she must really be losing it, because she did think the arrangement seemed reasonable. Denise had said Clay would not resort to violence, and he had offered none so far, in spite of several opportunities. He’d failed, in fact, to take advantage of the most blatant intimacy. The look in his eyes as he’d given his word left little doubt that he meant to
keep it. The only question that remained was what else he might have in mind?

If he meant to exercise his charm on her as suggested, well, what of it? It was unlikely to get him anywhere. And if he had a little more freedom to pursue his aim, there should be even less need for violence.

“All right,” she said.

“You’ll do it?” Lainey’s face shone as if lit from within, and she clapped her hands as she jumped up and down.

“While you go wash your hands,” Janna told her then ushered her toward the bathroom as she went to find the key to his wrist padlock.

When she returned with it, she seated herself on the bed beside Clay. She held a hand out toward him, and he laid his bound wrists across her palm.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his voice low and deep.

“I know I’m taking a chance, if that’s what you mean.” She removed the lock, then plucked at the knotted ropes, finally going to her desk and returning with a slender paintbrush to use as a prying tool. As the ropes loosened and she began to unwind them, she saw that Lainey was right; his fingers did have a purplish cast.

Watching her, Clay drawled, “You like living dangerously, is that it?”

“I don’t know that I’d put it that way.” She risked a quick glance at him, and was caught by the heat in the dark blue depths of his eyes. For long seconds,
neither of them spoke, then he seemed to notice that his hands were free. Clasping one wrist, he rubbed at the marks.

“So what do I say now?” he asked. “Thanks?”

She lifted a shoulder by way of an answer, her gaze still on his hands. They were well made, strong, brown from the sun, and with long, aristocratic fingers. Watching them gave her a taut feeling in her lower abdomen that was a vivid reminder of the night before. It was difficult not to reach out to help him soothe the rope indentations as she’d seen her daughter do once before. As her gaze focused on his wrists, however, she noticed that they were marked not only by redness, but by the raw scrapes of new injuries.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” she said, shocked into inanity.

“It’s what happens when you’re trying to escape,” he answered, the words tinged with irony. “Of course, you can always kiss it and make it better if it really bothers you.”

“I don’t think so,” she said at once, though she had to wonder if his arch suggestion hadn’t been designed as a distraction. The only reason for it that came to mind was male reluctance to talk about his failure.

“So what made you decide to take this chance?”

“Misplaced concern, no doubt.” She got to her feet without obvious haste, stepping to where she’d left the lunch tray on her worktable.

“The point being?”

“Maybe I feel sorry for you?”

“Or maybe you’re sorry you started the whole thing?” He swung his feet off the bed and rose to his full height.

“Could be.” Janna’s throat tightened. Funny that she hadn’t realized just how tall and broad he was before, or quite how knee-knocking powerful was the aura of charisma that surrounded him. She wouldn’t let him know how nervous he made her, however, not if it killed her.

“Let me know when you’re sure,” he advised in quiet irony, “and I’ll tell you how I feel about it.” He didn’t wait for her comment, but moved from the room and across the hall. A moment later, Janna heard him talking to Lainey above the sound of running water.

She felt as if she’d lit a firecracker and there had been no explosion. Could Clay have just hinted that he had no objection to being at the camp? What reason could he possibly have for such a thing? She stared at the food on her plate as she tried to work it out in her mind, but finally shook her head in defeat.

The raccoon, deserted by both its playmates, shimmied down the folds of the bedspread that was pushed to the foot of the bed and waddled over to Janna. She took a piece of lettuce from one of the salad bowls and bent to offer it. Ringo accepted it in his handlike paws, but didn’t seem too impressed with it. While she watched, he took it to his water dish at the foot of the bed and proceeded to give it a good dunking.

Even as Janna smiled at the raccoon’s antics, doubt about her release of Clay grew in her mind. She had thought before that what she’d done to him was all wrong. Now she was forced to wonder if she had compounded the error by allowing him the use of his hands.

Clay returned with Lainey and the meal progressed. The two staged a race to see who could finish their salad first. It was a ploy by Clay to encourage her daughter to take in healthy calories, she thought. She’d like to believe that he had some ulterior motive, but it seemed too natural and spontaneous, as if he was used to kids, used to taking an interest in their welfare. It was that Benedict clan thing again more than likely, where all children were looked on as part of one big family, therefore tended, protected and cherished by all.

Clay’s sudden attack came in the form of a question, one that caught her off guard. “Did you mention me to your visitor last night?”

She pushed away her salad bowl and sipped her tea to give herself time to gather her scattered thoughts, but there was really only one answer. “I didn’t, not that it makes any difference. He saw you.”

“How was that?”

“How do you think?” Janna glanced at Lainey who was taking advantage of their distraction to sneak an extra roll from the plate.

“I doubt he was happy. Did he have any suggestion for what to do about me?”

“It didn’t come up, since he seemed to think you had some right to be here.”

“But you set him straight?”

“It was none of his business.”

“No?”

Clay’s gaze was so intent that it rattled her. “Anyway, there wasn’t time. His main reason for coming was to tell me that he’d need…”

“What?” he asked as her voice trailed away.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” Clay tilted his head, his gaze penetrating. “Let’s see. Could it be he needs—money?”

“How did you know?”

“Call it a guess,” he said with irony.

Was it really, or did he know more than he was admitting? “It’s my problem and I’ll solve it.” To change the subject, she went on, “Speaking of finances, I’ve been thinking about the dye plant you mentioned. Are you sure you know where to find it?”

“Positive.” He transferred his attention to his plate as he forked a bite of chicken.

“You’re bluffing. Aphrodite’s Cup and its
couleur de l’amour
doesn’t exist, hasn’t for a hundred years.”

“Wrong.” He handed the raccoon that had climbed up to his knee a tidbit of meat, a treat that seemed much more to Ringo’s taste than lettuce.