he bastard," Monica kept whispering in a drained, lifeless voice. "The bastard."

Faith sat in a county patrol car with Monica, holding her when she cried, letting her talk as she would. The door on her side of the car had been left open, while the one on Monica’s side had been closed; a subtle splitting of hairs on the part of the parish law enforcement. Monica didn’t seem to care that the door beside her didn’t have any inside handles. She was in shock, shivering occasionally despite the heat of the night, added to that from the fire, and Sheriff McFane himself had carefully spread a blanket over her.

Faith stared out the open door, feeling more than a little numb herself. It had all happened so quickly… The house was gutted, a total loss. Alex had poured gasoline all around the house and tossed a match to it, intending that she be trapped inside with no clear way out. Had she somehow managed to get out, he had been waiting with a rifle. It would have been assumed that she’d been killed by whoever had been sending her the notes, and since he was innocent of that, he’d felt safe. But Gray had hidden his car behind the shed, and in the darkness Alex hadn’t seen it. When Gray had come stumbling out of the burning house, Alex’s careful plans had been shattered. He had been shocked by Gray’s presence – Gray, whom he loved like a son. All they could do now was guess what Alex would have done, faced with that dilemma.

Her car, sitting so close to the house, was also a total loss. Without the key to crank the engine and pull it away, she had watched as a section of wall fell on it and set it afire. Gray’s Jaguar had been pulled away from the shed and now sat safely on the side of the road. The shed still stood, though. She stared at it through the smoke. Maybe she could sleep there, she thought with ghoulish humor.

Her small yard swarmed with people. The sheriff and his deputies, the volunteer firefighters, the fire medics, the coroner, the sightseers. God knows what so many people had been doing out that time of night, but an inordinate number of them had evidently followed all the flashing lights.

She watched Gray’s tall body, silhouetted against the dying blaze. He was talking to Sheriff McFane, a few yards away from Alex Chelette’s covered body. He was shirtless, his long hair flying around his bare shoulders, and even from here she could hear him coughing.

Her own throat felt like fire, and she could feel the stinging of several burns, on her hands and arms, her back, her legs. It hurt to cough, which didn’t stop her lungs from periodically trying to clear themselves, but all in all she felt lucky to be alive and in relatively good health.

"I’m sorry," Monica said abruptly. She was staring straight ahead. "I sent the notes… I just wanted to scare you into leaving. I never would have – I’m sorry."

Stunned, Faith sat back, then immediately straightened her sore back away from the seat. She started to say, "That’s all right," then changed her mind. It wasn’t all right. She had been frightened, and sickened. She had known there was a killer out there. Monica hadn’t known, but that didn’t excuse her. She hadn’t killed the cat, but that didn’t excuse her either. So Faith said nothing, leaving Monica to find her own absolution.

Faith watched as a medic approached Gray and tried to get him to sit down, tried to put an oxygen mask on him.

Gray shook him off, gesturing angrily, and pointed him toward Faith.

"I’m going to tell them," Monica said, still in that expressionless voice. "Gray and Michael. About the notes, and the cat. I won’t be arrested for shooting Alex… but I don’t deserve to go unpunished."

Faith didn’t have time to respond. The medic brought his equipment over to the patrol car, and squatted in the open door. His penlight flashed in her eyes, making her blink. He took her pulse, checked the burns on her hands and arms, tried to put the oxygen mask on her. She pulled away. "Tell him," she said, indicating Gray, "that I will when he does."

The medic stared at her, then gave a little grin. "Yes, ma’am," he said, and jauntily returned to his first reluctant patient.

Faith watched as he repeated what she’d said to Gray. Gray wheeled around to glare at her. She shrugged. Annoyed and frustrated, he grabbed the oxygen mask and with ill grace clapped it over his nose and mouth. He immediately began coughing again.

Because she had promised, she had to submit to treatment when it came her turn again. The medics agreed that her lung function was good, meaning that her smoke inhalation wasn’t critical. Her burns were mostly first-degree, with a few second-degree blisters on her back, and they wanted her to see Dr. Bogarde. Gray was in much the same shape. Both of them were extremely lucky.

Except he had lost a friend, and she had lost every possession except the robe on her back and the shoes on her feet. And an open shed, a lawn mower, and two rakes, she reminded herself. She had insurance on both the house and car, but it would take time to replace everything. Her tired mind began trying to catalogue all the things she would have to do: have her credit cards replaced, get new checks, buy new clothes, get a car, find a place to live, have her mail rerouted to somewhere.

So many things to do, and she was so tired that she felt incapable of accomplishing a single one. At least nothing was irreplaceable, except for the few photographs she’d had of Kyle. There were no other family mementos.

Alex’s body was eventually taken away. Monica stared at it being loaded in the hearse, for transport to the parish morgue. Because he had died by violent means, there would be an autopsy. "For seven years he used me," she whispered. "He pretended I was Mama." She shuddered. "How do I tell Michael?" she asked bleakly.

"Who’s Michael?"

Monica gave her a puzzled look. "The sheriff. Michael McFane. He’s asked me to marry him."

Faith sighed. The tangle just kept getting worse. "You don’t," she said, and touched Monica’s arm. "Put it behind you. Don’t hurt Michael by telling him. It won’t make you hurt any less, and it’ll give Alex just one more victim. Pick up from here and go on."

Monica didn’t reply, to either agree or disagree, but Faith hoped she took her advice. She had picked herself up enough times to know the value of going on.

Eventually both she and Gray were taken to Dr. Bogarde’s clinic and put in separate examining rooms. The dapper little doctor checked Gray first; Faith could hear them talking through the thin walls. Then he came bustling into the tiny room where she sat uncomfortably on the table. He cleaned and dressed her burns and checked her breathing, then gazed at her with a sympathetic eye.

"Do you have a place to sleep?"

Faith gave him a rueful smile and shook her head.

"Then why don’t you stay here? You look out on your feet. There’s a rollaway bed that we use sometimes, and you’re welcome to it. I can give you a set of scrubs to wear – don’t tell, but I sneaked them from the hospital in Baton Rouge." His eyes twinkled at her. "A few hours’ sleep will do wonders for you. My nurses get here at eight-thirty, and then you can call your insurance agent, buy clothes, handle all those things. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot more capable after you’ve had some sleep."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, accepting his offer. The difficulties of being virtually naked, without transportation, cash, or credit cards, were almost more than she could deal with at the moment. In the morning she could have Margot wire her some money, and she would begin the process of picking herself up again, but for tonight she simply couldn’t cope.

Dr. Bogarde left, and in a few minutes Gray came in. His torso and face were still streaked with black smoke, but the doctor had cleaned some patches and applied bandages, giving him the look of a large calico cat. Figuring she looked much the same, and not wanting to look in a mirror to verify it, she smiled at him.

His tired face moved into an answering smile. "Dr. Bogarde said you’re okay, but I wanted to see for myself."

"I’m fine, just tired."

He nodded, then simply put his arms around her and folded her against him, sighing deeply as he absorbed her nearness. Until he had seen that she was okay, merely stunned from her fall when he’d shoved her, he had lived in a hell of fear. The events of the night were still catching up with him; part of him felt numb, while another part was still aching with almost inexpressible grief. It didn’t matter that his father had been dead for twelve years; he had just learned of his death, so the pain was fresh. If anything had happened to Faith, too –

"Come home with me," he said, pressing his lips to her temple and smelling the smoke in her hair. He didn’t care.

Shocked, she drew back and stared at him. "I can’t do that," she blurted.

"Why not?"

"Your mother… No."

"Leave Mother to me," he said. "She won’t like it – "

"That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one!" Faith shook her head. "You can’t spring me on her at a time like this. Everything that’s happened tonight will be enough of a shock at one time. Dr. Bogarde offered to let me sleep here tonight, and I accepted."

"Forget it," he growled. He hated to admit she was right, but he could see that she wasn’t going to budge. "If you won’t come home with me, then I’ll take you to the motel."

"I don’t have any money or credit card – "

He set her away from him, and temper sparked in his dark eyes. "Damn it, Faith, did you think I’d charge you for the room?"

"I’m sorry," she apologized. "I’m used to paying my way, so I just didn’t think." A motel room would be more comfortable, and more private.

He sighed, and reached out to cup her cheek. The anger died out of his eyes. It was amazing how flowers could grow in the damnedest places, but the Devlin weed patch had sprouted quite a wildflower in Faith. "Come on," he said, helping her down from the examination table. "Let’s tell Dr. Bogarde you’re going with me."

Ten minutes later, he drove up to the motel office and wearily unfolded his long length from the Jaguar. There was still a lot to be done this hellish night. Uncaring how he looked, he went inside and got a key, returning in less than a minute to escort her to room number eleven. He unlocked the door, turned on the light, and stepped aside to let her enter. Tiredly Faith moved past him, and looked longingly at the bed. She would love to just lie down and sleep, but couldn’t bear the thought of getting the sheets filthy with soot.

Gray followed her inside, closed the door, and pulled her to him. She laid her head on his chest, shutting her eyes as she reveled in the feel of him, so hard and strong and vital. Death had been so close…

His fingers gently encircled one of her wrists, and he lifted her sooty fingers to his lips, then folded his hand around hers. "We start dragging the lake tomorrow," he said abruptly.

She rubbed her cheek against his hand, aching for him. "I’m sorry," she said gently.

He took a deep breath. "There’s a lot to be done. I don’t know when I’ll have a free minute."

"I understand. I have a’ lot to do myself. All of the insurance claims, things like that." It would have been nice if they could have leaned on each other during the coming ordeals, but necessity was pulling them in different directions. Because the dragging of the lake would be done under law enforcement authority, access to the process would be limited; she knew that without having to have it explained.

Gray would be there, but no other civilians not directly involved in the dragging operation would be allowed.

"I don’t want to leave you," he murmured, and indeed he seemed incapable of making himself move, despite everything else that had to be done before this long night was over.

"You have to. My problems are mostly paperwork and shopping; I can take care of them. You have more serious problems."

He tilted her head up with his fingers, dark eyes boring into hers. "We’ll talk when this is over," he said, the promise somehow sounding ominous. He kissed her, the pressure of his mouth warm and hard. "Call if you need me."

"All right."

He kissed her again, and she sensed his reluctance. She stroked his hair in comfort. "I don’t want to go," he confessed, resting his forehead against hers. "Twelve years ago I had to tell Mother that Dad had left her for another woman. Now I have to tell her that he was murdered, instead. The hell of it is, I know this won’t upset her as much as the first did."

"You’re not responsible for what she feels or doesn’t feel," Faith replied, touching her thumb to his lower lip. "You and Monica loved him, so he won’t be unmourned."

"Monica." Gray’s mouth tightened, and his eyes turned flinty. "She confessed what she did, about the notes and the cat. Michael’s all torn up about it. She broke several laws with that little caper."

"Let things settle down before you do anything," Faith advised. "Family’s family, after all. You don’t want to do anything rash and cause a breach. Remember, she’s been through a lot, too." Her own family was scattered to the four winds, and her life was littered with loss, so she knew what she was saying. She saw the swift acknowledgment of that reflected in Gray’s eyes.

A huge yawn overtook her, and her head dropped against his shoulder. "That’s my last piece of advice for the night," she said, and yawned again.

He kissed her forehead and eased her away from him. He had to force himself to leave her, but he knew if he didn’t do it now, he’d collapse on the bed with her. "Get some sleep, baby. Call if you need me."

She had one friend in town, Faith realized over the next few days. Whether Halley Johnson had learned from town gossip where Faith was staying and volunteered her own services, or Gray had called her and asked her to help, Faith didn’t know and didn’t ask. Halley knocked on the motel room door at ten o’clock the next morning, and put herself at Faith’s service.

Faith had already called Margot and arranged for money to be wired to her, but she still needed some means of getting to the bank to get the money. She also needed, quite desperately, to do some shopping, and she didn’t know if any of the stores in town would sell anything to her. The situation between herself and Gray had altered drastically, but no one in town knew it.

"First things first," Halley announced, when Faith said she had to go to the bank. She looked Faith over with a critical eye as she carefully walked out to get into Halley’s car. The burns weren’t all that uncomfortable, but Faith felt as if she’d been hit by a truck, probably the result of the two bone-jarring collisions she’d had with the ground. "I’ll take you to my house," Halley said. "Feel free to use my makeup, do your hair, pamper yourself a little. And while you’re doing that, if you’ll tell me your sizes, I’ll do some quick shopping for you. Nothing fancy," she said, holding up her hand when Faith opened her mouth to protest. "Just underwear, a pair of slacks and a shirt, so you can get out of that robe. You can pay me back when you pick up your money."

With it put to her like that, Faith couldn’t refuse. "Thanks," she said, smiling at Halley. "I was wondering if I’d be able to buy clothes in town."

"You will," Halley said with complete assurance, "or I’ll call Gray Rouillard myself, and tell him to straighten out his mess. Besides, the whole town’s buzzing with the news that his daddy didn’t really run off with your mama, that you figured he’d been killed and came back to town to try to prove it. We’re all just flabbergasted about Mr. Chelette. Imagine getting in an argument with his best friend and accidentally killing him, and trying to hide it all of these years! It must have driven him crazy, for him to burn down your house like that. Is it true he tried to shoot you, too, and Monica Rouillard managed to shoot first?"

"Something like that," Faith said faintly, wondering what the official version was. She didn’t want to contradict whatever was being told. As far as she knew, only she, Gray, and Monica knew about Monica’s unwilling seven-year affair with Alex.

Halley dropped her at her house, and Faith enjoyed another long, soaking shower, shampooing her hair twice with strawberry-scented shampoo before the stench of smoke was completely gone. She took Halley at her word and indulged in moisturizer from head to foot, after which she began to feel almost human again. She used a minimal amount of makeup, just enough to put a bit of color in her face, and blow-dried her hair. By the time she was finished, Halley was back with her packages, which blessedly included a new toothbrush.

The clothes were simple, cotton panties and bra, and a lightweight knit pants and tunic outfit. Just having underwear again was wonderful. She had been acutely aware of being naked beneath the robe and scrubs. Halley had a good eye for color; the knit outfit she’d selected was a flattering pale pink. A carroty redhead couldn’t have worn the color, but Faith’s hair was a dark, almost wine-colored red, and the knowledge that she looked good in the pink perked up her spirits.

Halley stayed with her most of the day, driving her where she needed to go: the bank, first and foremost. Having a thousand dollars in cash did wonders for her sense of security, and the first thing she did was reimburse Halley for her clothes. Next visit was to the insurance office, which thankfully was one-stop shopping, because the same company insured both house and car. Faith had recovered enough to be amused by the sympathetic, almost deferential treatment she received in the insurance office; the line between celebrity and notoriety was a very thin one, but evidently she was now on the celebrity side.

As the morning wore on, she was grateful for her new status. Because she was totally without identification, the insurance agent had to step in and verify everything before she could get replacement credit cards, credit card companies not being inclined to blithely send out cards to everyone who called. New cards were being expressed to her in care of the insurance agent, and would be there the next day. The insurance company also took care of a rental car for her, and one would be there that afternoon.

Next was shopping, and Faith needed so much that her mind boggled at the enormity of it. Even when she’d been run out of the parish, she hadn’t lost all her possessions, meager as they’d been. This time she was starting from scratch, but this time she also had resources.

Emcient Halley suggested they make a list, and that helped Faith get her thoughts organized. Suitcase, purse, wallet; shampoo, soap, deodorant, toothpaste, tampons; makeup and perfume; razor, brush, comb, hair dryer, travel iron; underwear, hosiery, shoes, clothing. "My God," Faith said, staring at the list, which kept getting longer and longer. "This will cost a fortune."

"Only because you’re buying it all at one time. Everything on there is something you would have bought anyway, eventually. What would you leave off, anyway? The makeup?"

"Get real," Faith said, and they laughed. It was her first laugh of the day, and it felt good.

They descended on the local Wal-Mart, and filled two carts. Even keeping her purchases to a minimum of the necessities, she was accumulating major stuff. None of the shoes fit, however, which meant another stop. Halley was so cheerful about the entire process, though, that Faith found herself enjoying the expedition. She had never participated in that rite of American girlhood, shopping with friends, and this was a new experience for her.

Halley unwittingly echoed her thoughts. "Wow, this is fun! I haven’t done this in a coon’s age. We need to do it again – under different circumstances, of course."

The total tally put a sizeable dent in her cash fund. That accomplished, Faith realized she was exhausted, and an observant Halley drove her back to the motel.

Gray called her that night, and he sounded as exhausted as she still felt. "How are you, baby?" he asked. "Did you get everything done today?"

"I’m fine," she said. "Functional, at least." She had taken a two-hour nap, but it hadn’t helped much. "The insurance company is handling the details with the rental car and credit card companies, so everything is working out. Halley took me shopping, so I have clothes now."

"Damn."

She ignored that comment, but a smile flirted with her mouth. "How do you feel?"

"As if I’m three days older than dirt."

She hesitated, not certain if she wanted to hear the answer to her next question. "Have you found anything yet?"

"Not yet." His voice was strained.

"How’s Monica?"

He sighed. "I don’t know. She just sits with her head down. She and Mike will have to work this out themselves; I can’t run interference for her on this."

"Take care of yourself," she said, tenderness vibrant in her tone.

"You, too," he said softly.

As soon as he hung up, Faith called Renee. She felt guilty for not having thought of it sooner, knowing how upset Renee had been.

Her grandmother answered the phone. When Faith asked for Renee, the old woman said in a fretful voice, "Guess she’s gone. Took her clothes and lit out, night before last. I ain’t heard from her."

Faith’s heart sank. Renee had probably panicked after confessing what had happened at the summerhouse, and now she was running again, for no reason.

"If you hear from her, Granny, there’s something I want you to tell her. It’s important. The man who killed Guy Rouillard is dead. She doesn’t have to be afraid anymore."

Her grandmother was silent a moment. "So that’s why she was so jumpy," she finally said. "Well, maybe she’ll call. She left some stuff, so she might come back for it. I’ll tell her, if she does."

Mr. Pleasant’s car was pulled from the lake the next afternoon. Mr. Pleasant was in it.

Probably on Gray’s orders, a deputy came to the motel to tell Faith. The young man was uncomfortable and respectful, twisting his hat in his hands. He couldn’t say how Mr. Pleasant had died, but the body was being taken to the parish morgue, where he would lie in the same room with his killer. Faith had to bite back an instinctive protest, knowing it would be useless.

After the deputy left, she sat down on the bed and had a good cry, then called Detective Ambrose. Poor Mr. Pleasant didn’t have any remaining family, but the detective promised to find out what he could about any arrangements Mr. Pleasant might have made for his own funeral, given the state of his health. There was red tape to go through, of course, since his death was a homicide, but with his killer already dead, gathering forensic evidence for a trial wasn’t an issue.

Guy Rouillard’s Cadillac was found the next morning, not far from where Mr. Pleasant’s car had been found. The long skeleton in the backseat was the only earthly remains of Gray’s father. Alex Chelette’s method of disposal had been simple: put them in their cars, prop a brick on the accelerator, and put the car in gear. Sheriff McFane was the one who had thought about finding the cars, and there were only three places on the lake where the water was deep enough to hide a car, and it was possible to get a car there. With their search locations narrowed down, it hadn’t taken them long to find the bodies.

Faith didn’t get to talk to Gray, but information flew around the town, and she knew he was ruthlessly using his influence to get Guy’s remains released as soon as possible, for a funeral twelve years delayed. Noelle Rouillard appeared in town for the first time since her husband’s disappearance, looking tragic and unbelievably beautiful in a black dress. Gray’s cynical assessment of his mother’s reaction had been on target; being a widow was far preferable to being abandoned. Now that everyone knew her husband had not left her for the town whore, she could hold her head up again.

The funeral was held four days after Guy’s remains were found. Though she knew people would whisper about her presence, Faith bought a black dress and attended the service, sitting on a back pew beside Halley and her family. Gray didn’t see her there at the church, but later, after the funeral procession had transported Guy’s body to the burial site, his dark gaze was drawn by the sunlight on her flaming hair.

He was standing with a supporting arm around Monica. Sheriff McFane was on her other side, so Faith supposed the engagement was still on. Noelle was bearing up with the sympathetic support of all her old friends, the ones she had refused to see for a dozen years. Faith was some ten yards away, separated from him by a group of people, but their eyes met and she knew he was thinking about what she had said. Guy was sincerely mourned by his children; what Noelle felt didn’t matter.

She stared at him, drinking him in with her eyes. He looked tired, but composed. His mane of hair was pulled back and secured at the back of his neck, and he wore a beautifully fitted, double-breasted black Italian suit. Sweat gleamed on his forehead in the noonday heat.

She made no move to go to him, and he didn’t gesture her closer. What was between them was private, not for public display at his father’s funeral. He knew he had her support, for he had cried out his grief in her arms. It was enough that she was there.

It was as they were leaving the grave site that Faith saw Yolanda Foster, standing by herself; Lowell was nowhere in evidence. Yolanda had been crying, but now her eyes were dry as she stared at the grave, an open look of heartbreak on her face. Then she gathered herself and turned away, and Faith felt all the pieces of the puzzle click into place.

It had never made sense that Guy would leave everything for Renee, not after all the years they’d been having an affair. Alex had said that Guy had been planning to divorce Noelle, and that had made more sense, but abruptly Faith knew that it wasn’t Renee Guy had been planning to marry. After all his years of tomcatting around, Guy Rouillard had fallen in love that summer, with the mayor’s wife. He had protected Yolanda’s reputation, not even telling his best friend about her. Gossip about them had leaked out, or Ed Morgan wouldn’t have known, but their affair hadn’t been common knowledge. It was even possible Renee had told Ed that Guy was seeing the mayor’s wife.

Yolanda and Guy had made secret plans. And now, after all these years, she knew that her lover hadn’t deserted her. Guy was sincerely mourned by someone other than his children, after all.

It was late that night before all of the sympathizers ran out of excuses to stay any longer, and Gray had a private moment with his family. He sipped his Scotch as he studied Noelle, who was infinitely more cheerful now after burying her husband than she had been during the twelve years he’d been missing. He needed Faith, he thought. He wanted to be with her. Seeing her at the cemetery had made the hunger even sharper. Sexual hunger, emotional hunger, mental hunger. He simply wanted her, in all the ways possible. He remembered the way his heart had swelled in his chest when she’d told him she loved him, remembered the moment of blinding joy. Like a fool, he hadn’t yet told her that he loved her, too, but that was an oversight he intended to rectify as soon as they could be alone.

Right now, he had something to say to his mother and sister.

"I’m getting married," he said calmly.

Two startled pairs of eyes looked back at him. He saw Monica’s dismay, saw it quickly change to acceptance, and she gave him a tiny nod.

"Really, dear?" Noelle murmured. "I’m sorry, I haven’t been keeping current with your social life. Is it someone from New Orleans?"

"No, it’s Faith Devlin."

Calmly Noelle set her glass of wine aside. "Your joke is in extremely bad taste, Grayson."

"It isn’t a joke. I’m marrying her as soon as it can be arranged."

"I forbid it!" she snapped.

"You can’t forbid anything, Mother."

Though he said it calmly, Noelle reacted as if he’d slapped her. She rose to her feet, holding herself as erect as a queen. "We’ll see about that. Your father may have associated with trash, but at least he never brought it home and expected me to associate with it!"

"That’s enough," he said, his tone soft and dangerous.

"On the contrary, if you lower yourself to marry that slut, you’ll find it’s just beginning. I’ll make her life here so miserable – "

"No, you won’t," he interrupted, slamming his glass down so that the Scotch sloshed over the rim. "Let me make your position plain, Mother. I know what’s in Dad’s will. He left you enough money to keep you in style, but he left everything else to Monica and me. If you behave yourself, and treat my wife with every courtesy, you may continue to live here. But make no mistake, the first time you upset her, I’ll escort you out the door myself. Is that clear?"

Noelle shrank back, her face pale, her eyes livid as she stared at her son. "Monica," she said, her voice abruptly frail. "Help me to my room, darling. Men are so uncivilized…"

"Put a sock in it, Mother," Monica said tiredly.

"I beg your pardon." The words were freezing.

Monica visibly braced herself. She was as pale as Noelle, but she didn’t back down. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But Gray deserves to be happy. If you don’t want to come to his wedding, fine, but I’ll be there with bells on. And while we’re on the subject, I’m getting married, too. To Michael McFane."

"Who?" Noelle asked, her face blank.

"The sheriff."

Disdain curled Noelle’s lip. "The sheriff! Really, dear, he’s – "

"Perfect for me," Monica finished firmly. She looked both scared and exhilarated at finally having stood up to Noelle. "If you want to come to my wedding, I’ll be pleased, but you can’t stop me from marrying him. And, Mother – I think you’ll be happier if you move to New Orleans."

"Good idea," Gray said, and winked at his sister.

The next morning, Faith drove down to New Orleans for Mr. Pleasant’s funeral. She had hoped Gray would call her, but understood why he hadn’t. She had pestered Sheriff McFane mercilessly about doing what he could to get Mr. Pleasant’s body released, and he had told her that Gray was embroiled in the process of having Guy’s will probated, using his influence to hurry the process. The legal difficulties of a forged letter of proxy, under which he had been governing their financial holdings all these years, were mostly negated since Guy’s will had left everything to Gray and Monica anyway, but there were still problems to handle.

Margot flew down to New Orleans to be with Faith, somehow discerning over the telephone that she was more upset about Mr. Pleasant than she had let on. The brief funeral service was attended by only a handful of people: some neighbors, herself and Margot, the little blue-haired lady from Houston H. Manges’s law office. To her surprise, Detective Ambrose came by, wearing what looked like the same fatigued suit. He patted Faith’s hand, as if she were Mr. Pleasant’s family, and all the while his cynical cop’s eyes never left Margot’s face.

Too tired to drive home, Faith got a hotel room for the night. Margot decided to stay overnight too – no surprise there – and went out with Detective Ambrose.

"I don’t sleep with men on the first date," Margot said the next morning, chattering nervously. "I mean, I just don’t. It’s too dangerous, and tacky besides." She couldn’t sit still as they ate their breakfast at the room service cart in Faith’s room; she fidgeted with her napkin, her silverware, her clothes. Her gaze flitted around the hotel room; hers was connecting, and virtually identical, but she seemed to find everything of immense interest. "I may be old-fashioned, but I think sex should wait at least until there’s a commitment, and waiting until marriage would be even better. Women risk too much by sleeping with men who aren’t their husbands – "

"So was he any good?" Faith interrupted, sipping her coffee.

Margot clapped her hand to her chest and rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh my Gawd, was he!" She jumped up and began to pace the room. "I couldn’t believe what was happening, I just don’t do that, but that man had made up his mind and it was like being on a roller coaster, there was just no way to get off. Well, that’s not exactly what I mean. About getting off, that is, because I did – " She stopped and turned dark red. Faith almost choked on her coffee, she was laughing so hard.

"He wants to see me tonight, but I told him I have a flight back to Dallas, and he should call me at home if he wants to see me again." Margot looked anxious. "Do you think there’s any way I can slow this down and get back on the right track?"

"Maybe," Faith said, but she had seen Margot in love before, and doubted anything could slow her down.

They spent the morning shopping, replenishing Faith’s wardrobe from the chic New Orleans boutiques. She left the city about two o’clock, giving Margot both the privacy and time for another meeting with Detective Ambrose.

She arrived back at the motel, her temporary home, at four. Reuben waved to her, and came out to help her carry in her purchases. Then, hungry from the exertion, she drove downtown to Halley’s cafe.

She chatted with Halley for a while, then ordered the chicken salad sandwich that had become her usual supper. She was sitting in a booth with her back to the door, and her sandwich had just been placed in front of her, when she heard the door crash open behind her, and an abrupt silence fell over the cafe.

Startled, she looked up and found an enraged Gray Rouillard towering over her. Reuben must have called him, she thought absently. His black hair was loose, tangled around his shoulders. "Where the hell," he barked, "have you been?"

"New Orleans," she replied in a mild tone, though she was acutely aware of the breathless interest of everyone in the cafe.

"Would it be asking too much of you to let me know where you’re going to be?" he snapped.

"I went to Mr. Pleasant’s funeral," she said.

He slid into the booth opposite her, some of the fury fading from his face. Beneath the table, his long legs clasped hers, and he reached across to take both her hands in his. "I was scared sh – spitless," he confessed, quickly adjusting his first word choice to something more socially acceptable. "You hadn’t checked out, but Reuben saw you put a suitcase in the car. I even had him open your room to see if any of your things were still there."

"I wouldn’t have left town without telling you," she said, secretly amused that he thought she might have left town at all.

"You’d better not," he muttered. His hands tightened on hers. "Look," he began, and stopped. "Ah, hell, I know this isn’t the best place to do it, but I’ve still got tons of paperwork to wade through and I don’t know how long it’ll be before I see daylight. Will you marry me?"

He had succeeded in surprising her. He had gone beyond surprising her. She sat back, stunned into speechlessness. Gray wanted to marry her? She hadn’t dared let herself even think of it. With their tangled pasts… the thorny situation with his mother and sister… well, it just hadn’t seemed to be an option.

Evidently he took her reaction as rejection, and his dark brows drew together. Being Gray, he immediately took ruthless measures to get what he wanted. "You have to marry me," he said, loudly enough that everyone in the cafe could hear him. "That’s my baby girl you’re carrying. She’ll need a daddy, and you need a husband."

Faith gasped, her eyes rounding with horror. "You fiend," she shrieked, scrambling out of the booth. She wasn’t pregnant and she knew it, her period having arrived right on time, three days before. She had a confused, dizzying impression of a room full of avid faces, staring at her, and Gray wore a ruthlessly satisfied look on his face as he smiled at her, enjoying her sputtering, incoherent fury. Maybe he saw something in her eyes, a split second of warning, but it wasn’t enough. Her hand shot out for her glass of iced tea and she dashed it full in his face. "I am not pregnant!" she yelled.

Gray climbed out of the booth, wiping tea from his eyes with Faith’s napkin. "Maybe not now, but if you want to be, we’d better get married."

"Marry him," Halley advised, leaning over the counter. She was grinning hugely. "And make his life hell. He deserves it, after this stunt."

"Yeah," he said positively. "I deserve it."

Faith stared up at him. "But – what about your mother?" she asked helplessly.

He shrugged. "What about her?" Faith opened her mouth to yell at him again, and he grinned, holding up his hand. "I told her and Monica that I intended to marry you. Mother went into her acute disapproval syndrome, but Monica told her, literally, to put a sock in it. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Well, except for one." His eyes glittered at her, outrageously reminding her of the courthouse. "Monica gives us her best wishes; she and Michael are getting married next week. She strongly suggested to Mother that she move to New Orleans, which she’s always liked better than Prescott, anyway. So, baby, I’m going to be rattling around in that big house all by myself, and I need my own personal redhead to keep me company."

He meant it. Faith swallowed, once again unable to speak. Gray’s head tilted as he smiled down at her, dark eyes full of desire and tenderness. "There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you," he murmured. "I love you, baby. I should have told you sooner, but things started happening."

She thought of hitting him. She thought of snatching someone else’s tea to toss in his face. Instead she said, "Yes." He held out his arms, and she walked into them, to the accompanying spatter of applause from the cafe patrons.