Cry Wolf by Tami Hoag Page B

it about Lady Astor?” she asked petulantly, giving her head a toss as she moved restlessly away from the table.
    She paced along the screened wall, oblivious to the shabby pontoon tour boat that was ferrying a load of unsuspecting tourists up the bayou and into the sauna that was the swamp at midafternoon.
    “Lady Astor Cooper,” she sneered, planting her hands on her hips. “Patron saint of martyred husbands.”
    “Better I martyr myself to my marriage than to my cock.”
    “Are you implying that's what I do?” she demanded. “Martyr myself to sex?”
    Cooper hissed a breath in through his teeth and made no comment. They were treading on dangerous ground. He had his own theories about Savannah's sexual motives, but it would do no good to share them with her. He could too easily envision her in a rage of hurt and hysteria, wildly lashing out. And he had no desire to hurt her. For all her faults, he had fallen in love with her. Hopeless love in the truest sense.
    “Well, I've got news for you, Mr. Cooper,” she said, leaning up into his face, her lovely mouth twisted with bitterness. “I get fucked because I like getting fucked, and if you don't want to do it, then I'll go find someone who will.”
    He caught her arms and held her there for a moment as she breathed fury into his face, steaming his glasses all over again. A deep, profound sadness swelled inside him and he frowned. “You make yourself miserable, Savannah,” he murmured.
    She shivered inside, trying to shake off the chill of the truth. Coop saw it, damn him. He caught her eyes with that worldly-wise, world-weary, worn blue gaze, and saw he'd struck a nerve. She jerked away from him and grabbed her sunglasses off the table.
    “Save your insights for your work, Coop,” she said waspishly. “It's the only place you really let yourself live.” She jammed the Ray-Bans in place and flashed him a mocking smile. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cooper.”
    She whirled out of Madame Collette's in a huff and a cloud of Obsession, not bothering to pay the bill. Ruby Jeffcoat knew who she was, the dried-up old bitch. She'd just add it to the tab and tell every third person she saw what a slut Savannah Chandler was, prancing around town in a skirt cut up to her crotch and no bra on.
    Laurel pushed herself away from the side of the Corvette as Savannah stormed across the parking lot, all pique and no pie in sight. She looked furious, and Laurel had a strong hunch it wasn't anything to do with the restaurant, but one of its patrons. Conroy Cooper. Old enough to be their father Conroy Cooper. Married Conroy Cooper.
    Oh, Savannah . . .
    “Let's get the hell out of here,” Savannah snarled. Tossing her purse behind the seat, she jerked open the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.
    Laurel barely had time to get in the car before the 'Vette was revved and rolling. They hit Dumas, and Savannah put her foot to the floor, sending the sports car squealing away from Madame Collette's, leaving a trail of rubber.
    “Where are we going?” Laurel asked as casually as she could, considering she had to shout to be heard above the roar of the wind and the engine.
    “Frenchie's,” Savannah yelled, pulling the pins from her hair and letting them fly. “I need a drink.”
    Laurel buckled her seat belt and held on, not bothering to comment on the fact that it didn't look as though they'd be having rhubarb pie for supper, and trying her damnedest not to think about Jack Boudreaux.

Chapter
Five
    “Jesus saves!”
    “Jesus lives!”
    “Jesus Christ,” Savannah snarled as she stopped in her tracks, propped a hand on one hip, and took a look at the scene outside Frenchie's.
    Patrons crowded the gallery, staring down, bemused at a dozen protestors who were toting signs bearing such intelligent slogans as “Close Frenchie's. End Sin.” The picketers were gathered in a knot at the bottom of the steps, putting on a show for the camera of a Lafayette tele-vision station,