"Well." He narrowed his eyes and shifted his weight, pelvis thrust slightly, one knee bent. "You found me."

"I saw Phyllis leave the house earlier, and I thought-"

"Regardless of what you might have heard, darlin'"- he shook his head, spilling hair over his brow-"I don't fool with married women."

"She isn't married... yet."

"Good as, as far as I'm concerned." He reached for the blossom in her hair. She skirted back, beyond his hand.

"She's in love with you, you know."

"I know." He reached again.

She backed away. "Are you in love with her?"

His grin stretched and his eyes narrowed. "A gentleman never tattles, Juliette."

"But you're no gentleman. Remember?"

"Obviously. Or I wouldn't be contemplating what I'm contemplating. Then again, if you were a lady you wouldn't be slinking 'round in the dark, smelling like temptation, inviting such ungentlemanly contemplation."

Her chin lifted. "I had to... speak with you on a matter. You're a difficult man to corner during the day."

"I have a job to do. Some of us don't have the leisure of idling our days away watching steamboats

paddle up and down the river."

He tipped his head and allowed his gaze to slide down her body. "I hope you're wearing shoes. Padding

'round barefoot on the gallery during the day is one thing, wandering the grounds at night without shoes is something else. There are snakes who find the warmth under a woman's skirts highly inviting."

She squared her shoulders and took another step back. "I didn't come here to discuss shoes or snakes."

"All right. Why did you come here, I mean other than to catch me in the act of making love to another

woman?"

She flashed a look toward the house, her expression pained and flustered. "I want you to take me to Belle Jarod."

He frowned. "Why?"

"It's my home. I have a right to see it."

"When Max is ready for you to see Belle Jarod again-"

"Max Hollinsworth can go to hell."

"Tsk, tsk, chere. Not nice to bite the hand that feeds you. Especially when it's Max Hollinsworth's. He'd

sail his own flesh and blood down the river if it suited his purpose. And speaking of that...

"I know you thought you were doing Liza a favor by giving her that dress. Trust me, darlin', that was no favor. Allowing her a taste of those kind of fineries can and will lead to problems."

"I hardly think that a little enjoyment over a dress can lead to problems."

"Once a woman enjoys the feel of silk against her skin, she's hardly gonna appreciate burlap, is she? That

kind of dissatisfaction invites intolerance, and intolerance invites anger, and anger invites resistance to authority. Resistance, to a woman like Liza, invites reprisal. I don't think either of us wants to see her whipped. Or worse-"

"I can't imagine there being anything worse than whipping," she interrupted, her tone as biting.

"Then you are naive, Miss Julie. There are far greater terrors these people face if they're forced to leave Holly House. Woman like Liza sold in the market, no telling where she would end up. A whorehouse maybe. Maybe sold to a breeding slaver. And in case you aren't familiar with that, let me tell you. Men and women thrown together in a pen where they copulate under the watchful eye of their master. She works the fields on her hands and knees until she gives birth, most times right there in the dirt. Month

later she's bred back, and the same old filthy ritual starts again. She'll most likely be dead by the time she's thirty-five."

Her eyes widened. She flashed a worried look toward the house.

He moved toward her; she hardly noticed until he reached for the jasmine blossom in her hair. Turning her gaze up to his, she held her breath as he slid the flower along her lip, dusting it with fine yellow pollen. "Chere," he said more gently. "You don't want to go to that haunted old place of shattered dreams and passions- not yet. Might stir up memories best left buried for a while."

"I'll go with or without you."

There it was again, the challenge.

He crushed the jasmine bloom between his fingers and the burst of fragrance scented the night air thick

and sweet as cane nectar. Sliding the oil along the warm nape of her neck, he said simply, "Jasmine suits you, darlin'."

His feet propped on the gallery balustrade and crossed at the ankles, Tylor sat in a wicker chair on the night-cloaked balcony, drinking bourbon, staring hard through the dark, sweating. Max reined back his urge to wring his neck- at the least shake some sense and backbone into him.

"My patience with you is at an end, Tylor. It's time for you to behave like a Hollinsworth and the future

master of Holly Plantation. By God, you're going to take an active role on this farm or-"

"Listen to those damn dogs, Daddy. Something's got them spooked. Howling and howling all night long.

They don't ever shut up. It's enough to drive a man out of his mind."

Tylor stood and leaned his shoulder against the column and drank his bourbon. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "There's something out there. I feel it. Like cold fingers crawling over my skin."

"It's too damn much bourbon in your blood and yellow fear for a backbone."

Tylor gave a short laugh. "Whatever you say, Daddy."

Max moved up behind him. "You're going on that gator hunt with Chantz and Andrew. You're going to start acting like a man around here."

Tylor turned and looked into Max's eyes. "You trying to get me killed?"

"That damn gator isn't going to kill you, Tylor."

"I ain't talking about the gator. I'm talking about Chantz Boudreaux."

Max walked away.

"He's got every reason in the world to kill me, Daddy."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Tylor. Why would Chantz want to kill you?"

Drenched in night shadows, Tylor gazed out into the dark as he listened to the hounds bay. "If I'm dead

there'll be nothing more standing in his way. You wouldn't have much choice, then, would you? You'd

have to acknowledge him as your son or what the hell will happen to Holly Plantation when you die?

"I suspect you've long regretted your decision to turn your back on Emmaline, considering how Chantz and I turned out. Hell, you might treat him like dirt, but it isn't because you don't respect him. If you ever looked at me with a modicum of the esteem you feel for him, maybe I wouldn't have turned out like I did. How the hell am I supposed to live up to a man like Chantz?

"He'd like to kill me. No doubt about it. I see it in his eyes every time he looks at me. All that hatred and resentment. And I don't blame him. Hell, I'd like to kill him, too, just so I can be rid of the man who reminds me every day of my life that I don't measure up to my father's bastard son.

"Maybe I will kill him. What would you think about that, Daddy? What if I just drink enough of this damn courage to march out there and put a bullet in his handsome head?"

Tylor walked toward him, drinking his bourbon. "No comment? Still won't acknowledge him when slapped across the face with the truth? That would mean admitting a mistake and Max Hollinsworth is too damn proud to admit his mistakes. Then you'd have to admit that you've been a son of a bitch to him and Emmaline for thirty years. You'd have to acknowledge to the world that you allowed your own flesh-and-blood son to live barely better than one of your slaves." Tylor grinned. "I know the truth about Emmaline, that she's nothing more than some little mud dauber you came across one night. I heard the two of you talking, how you got drunk and forced yourself on her, encouraged by your equally drunken cohorts. That was a pretty story she concocted for Chantz. Fine old Carolina family, my aching butt."

Max glared into Tylor's drunken eyes and said through his teeth, "You're to keep your mouth shut about that, Tylor. You hear me?"

Tylor raised both eyebrows. "Why, Daddy, I'm starting to believe you care more for that bastard than you're willing to admit."

He hurled away the empty glass; it shattered below. "You make me want to puke. I'm tired of your bullying me. I'm tired of your constant reminders that I don't live up to your expectations, as if I could as long as Chantz is alive. I'm declaring war, Daddy. And when the dust settles there is going to be one of your sons left standing. Winner takes all. Holly Plantation, Juliette Broussard... and Belle Jarod."

The sudden silence pressed down on them, and Tylor turned away, walked several paces down the gallery before stopping stock-still to stare out through the dark toward the hound pens. No howling, now. Not so much as a whir of an insect interrupted the stillness.

A movement amid the shadows. From the darkness, Juliette ran toward the house, starlight reflecting off her flowing hair and lightning bugs streaking and flashing around her as if brightening her path.

Tylor looked around into Max's eyes, his face pale amid the night shadows.

Then the roar rose up, belly thunder, the deep, sensual solitary grunt of the bull gator staking his territory.

"I feel compelled to discuss a situation with you, Maxwell. A situation that Miss Julie might find a touch discomposing."

Fred Buley looked over at Juliette where she stood at the window, her back to Maxwell and Fred as she stared out through the dark in the direction of Chantz's house.

She could see their reflection in the glass- the way Max and Fred regarded her. Not so long ago she would have felt discomposed and furious by their blatant appraisals. Then, of course, she'd had every reason to feel outraged by such disrespect. But here she stood with the fire of conflicting emotions crawling up her throat and burning her face. How could she continue to pretend to herself, and to Chantz, that he meant nothing to her? More importantly...

How could she continue to hide her feelings from Maxwell when the hunger for Chantz drove her to risk, not just her reputation, but Chantz's as well.

Max said, "Juliette's presence at Holly House is to prepare her completely to mistress Belle Jarod when the time comes. If there is business to discuss, I feel she would benefit from participating in the discussion."

Fred sucked on his cigar and continued to focus his attention on Juliette. "Of course, Maxwell. I understand completely her reasons for being here."

There was something in the way Max looked at her tonight; his dark blue eyes were hooded as a hawk's. He knew, of course. He'd known even before she'd been willing to admit it to herself- since the morning after Tylor had returned her to Holly House he'd suspected that she'd fallen under Chantz's spell. The certainty of it had swept her like a wave when coming face-to-face with him on the stairs moments ago. Standing half in and half out of the shadows, he had stared down at her with glazed eyes and the expression of one slightly mad. Saying nothing, he had gently caught her arm and directed her to this room where Hazel and Fred appraised her like she was the condemned headed for the gallows.

Juliette turned from the window and met his stare directly, refusing to allow herself to be intimidated. Her hands were clasped at her waist. Too tightly. Much too tightly, she realized. The sharp pain of her nails digging into her palms crept up her arms like threads of ice.

His cheeks flushed by bourbon and the sweltering heat of the close night, Max set aside his glass. Turning his bloodshot eyes up to hers, he didn't so much as blink. Dear God, he was toying with her, like a cat with a pitifully exhausted mouse.

She had to warn Chantz. Prepare him. Panic beat in her chest as furiously as her racing heart. Suddenly the whoosh whoosh of the punka overhead sounded loud as a wind-storm.

Fred tapped his cigar ashes into a glass bowl. "We have a concern over Liza."

Juliette stiffened. She did not, however, look at Fred where he sat in a chair, his muddy booted feet propped on an ottoman, watching her through a stream of smoke.

Max cleared his throat. "I can't imagine what sort of problem you might have with my Liza. She's a good girl. Works hard and knows her place."