Billy sipped his coffee, a wistful sadness deepening the hue of his eyes. "I finally asked Mama Royce what had happened and she told me the truth. My mother was ill with cancer. By the time she went to a doctor it was too late for treatment. She died in her sleep, and my father found her dead one morning." He drew a deep breath and Shelby knew the emotional cost he paid in sharing with her. "Mama Royce said he went crazy with grief. They found him later that afternoon. He'd hung himself."

He stood and went back to the counter to refill his coffee mug. "What bothered me more than anything was that I wasn't enough to keep him alive." Even with his back toward her, Shelby heard the pain reflected in his deep voice...the pain of a little boy who believed he'd been lacking because he hadn't been enough to keep his father alive.

She got up and walked to him. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing against his solid back in an effort to a.s.suage his hurt. "Oh, Billy." She sighed. "As children we want our parents to be perfect, and it's sad when we realize they're only human and horribly imperfect." She stepped away from him as he turned around and faced her.

Gone was the moment of vulnerability, hidden beneath a mask of strength. "I guess we'd better get to work on those files." Again a whisper of sadness darkened his eyes. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find something that will completely exonerate all the members of your family in the murders." Placing an arm around her shoulders, he led her back to the table where the files awaited them.

For a little over two hours they sat at the table, not speaking, both reading page after page of police reports, statements and notes gathered about the swamp serpent murders. After reading the autopsy reports, staring at grotesque photographs, Shelby wondered if she would ever sleep without nightmares again.

The pictures of the victims haunted her, the details of their deaths horrifying her. What kind of a person could use a knife and savagely steal life? And how could she even begin to believe that somebody in her family was capable of such a thing?

"Let's take a break," Billy said, interrupting the silence that had engulfed them.

Shelby nodded and closed the manila folder before her. "I could use a break," she admitted.

"Let's drive into town and get lunch at Martha's." Shelby readily agreed, needing not only a break from the crime reports, but an escape from Billy's closeness, as well. She'd felt his gaze on her frequently, as if questioning, probing, needing something she was reluctant to give.

She had a feeling that sooner or later she was going to have to say that sleeping with him again had been a mistake, one she wasn't going to repeat another time. She couldn't, because she knew she was at risk of losing her heart to Billy.

As they drove in his pickup toward town, she considered her relationship with Billy. That there was pa.s.sion between them was certain, but Shelby knew pa.s.sion was not love. They also shared a curious bond forged in childhood and their mutual love of Mama Royce. One thing that didn't concern her was the ridiculous notion that she and Billy couldn't fall in love because he was from the swamp.

One of the things she admired about him was his pa.s.sion for the swamp and its people, his utter devotion to seeing to their needs, working for their futures. She'd seen his rage over the murders, knew the bitterness he held in his heart for whomever was responsible. If one of her family members was responsible for the heinous crimes, she feared that each time Billy looked at her, he'd see the faces of the victims.

"Hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not really."

"You will be when you walk into Martha's and smell some of her gumbo or jambalaya."

"Isn't it strange that Martha's is the one place in town where swamp and town people come together without conflict."

Billy smiled wryly. "There's one other place, also. The cemetery."

Shelby leaned her head back against the seat, her gaze still on him. "Did you know my father had an affair with Angelique's sister, Marguerite?"

"I think most people knew about it. But that's old news. Marguerite has been dead a long time."

"Yes, she was the second victim of the swamp serpent." Shelby sighed in frustration. "I keep trying to figure out a motive for the killings. At first I thought maybe Marguerite had broken off with my father and he killed her. But that doesn't make sense. She wasn't the first victim, nor was she the last." She frowned. "G.o.d, listen to me, attempting to tie my father to a murder."

"No, you're trying to logically think through a crime and unfortunately your father is a strong suspect."

"It's a horrible feeling, to think that your own father might be a killer."

"I know," Billy answered softly. His hand found hers on the seat and gently enfolded it in warmth. They rode that way in silence until they pulled up in front of Martha's. Only then did he release her hand, leaving her with a momentary bereavement and making her realize how tenuous was her hold on her own heart.

"I spoke to Olivia about her dinner with Tyler on the night he was killed," she said after they'd been seated and placed their orders. "She said they just ran into each other, decided to eat together, then parted ways."

"Sounds innocent enough," Billy said.

"Yes, but I keep thinking what if Tyler told Olivia he was close to discovering the ident.i.ty of the swamp serpent, then innocently she repeated that to somebody else...somebody who realized Tyler was a threat?"

"Who might she have repeated it to?"

Shelby fought a wave of helplessness. "Who knows...my father or Roger, anyone in the house." She hit a fist against the tabletop. "If only I could remember what I saw that night. It's there, trapped in my mind, but I can't get to it. I toss and turn all night long, trying to recall all the details of that night, but when I get to the face of the killer, it's blank."

Again Billy's hand covered hers, his dark gaze full of sympathy. "You're probably trying too hard. When you least expect it, you'll remember."

"Yes, but will it be too late? Billy, we don't have much of a defense for you. Sure, I can tell the jury that Tyler was working on the swamp murders and we believe that's what got him killed, but there's no guarantee they're going to take that theory over Abe's speculation that it was a crime of pa.s.sion committed by you."

"Then I guess you'll just have to be sure you remember before they come back with a verdict and put me away for life," Billy said.

Shelby grinned and pulled her hand from his. "Thanks for the no-pressure approach."

When the waitress brought their orders, they fell into silence. Shelby found her mind wandering back over the files she'd been reading, reaching, struggling to find something, anything that might exclude all members of the Longsford family from any culpability.

Billy ate methodically, his gaze distantly focused on the tabletop. Shelby wondered what he was thinking, if he knew the precarious position he was in and if he contemplated running. She couldn't bear the thought of him in a prison. Shelby knew that, like a wild creature in captivity, confinement would eventually kill him. And what of Parker?

"Billy, I know you don't have any relatives, but what about Fayrene? Did she have family?"

He shook his head. "No. Like me, Fayrene had n.o.body. I think that's part of what initially drew us to each other."

"You loved her?

"I thought I did." He smiled sadly. "I was lonely. I wanted to build something of my own, a family, financial security. I wanted to take the money Mama Royce left me and build something to give back to the swamp community, make a difference to those people. I thought Fayrene wanted the same kinds of things, but I was wrong. She was angry that I invested instead of spent. She'd been poor all her life and wanted baubles and nice things. She didn't want community work, she wanted luxury. I didn't realize until too late what a mistake it had been for us to marry each other."

"I'm sorry." And she was, sorry for shattered dreams and broken promises. She understood the desire to build something, the hunger for somebody to turn to in the night, to whisper shared dreams.

"What about you, Shelby? Why haven't you found some nice man and started a family?"

She twirled her straw in her soda, finding his question difficult to answer. She couldn't tell him that the single experience she'd shared with him so many years before had tainted other men for her, although that was partially the truth. "I don't know. I dated occasionally back in Shreveport, but n.o.body special, n.o.body I could imagine spending the rest of my life with."

"I have a feeling when this is all over I may have problems finding dates. Especially if the real killer isn't found and there's a lingering doubt about my innocence."

Shelby smiled. "You might be surprised. There are plenty of women who enjoy flirting with and dating dangerous men."

Billy reached out and stroked the back of her hand, the caress evoking a heat inside her. "What about you, Shelby? Are you drawn to dangerous men?" His voice was as seductive as a tongue against her ear, as beguiling as a kiss against her neck.

"Billy, what happened between us the other night was a mistake, one I don't intend to repeat. Professionally, it was a very stupid thing to do. You're my client and we need to maintain a professional relationship."

"It's a little late for that." His eyes spoke to hers in pa.s.sionate whispers, igniting a flame as his gaze lingered on her lips, then on the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He leaned forward and claimed her hand once again in his. "It's difficult to forget the sweet sounds you uttered when I made love to you." He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "You've gotten under my skin, Shelby, and I think we're going to make love again and again."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from his. "You think too much," she snapped, irritated that her body had responded so quickly to his touch, his words.

Billy laughed and took a sip of his soda. "I find it amusing that years ago it was me telling you that making love was a big mistake. Now you're saying those same words back to me." His smile faded and he regarded her soberly. "I wonder if the timing will ever be right between us, when we'll make love and neither one of us will consider it a mistake."

"You'd be better off worrying about your legal position than your love life," Shelby answered. "If we don't improve your legal position, you won't have much of a love life." She busied herself with her napkin, wiping her mouth then wadding the napkin into a ball at the side of her plate. "In fact, I'd say it's time for us to get back to work on those files."

Billy nodded, and together they left the restaurant and walked out into the broiling afternoon sun. "I wonder if we'll ever get a break from this heat," Shelby said as the hot pavement burned through the soles of her thin sandals. There wasn't even a gasp of a breeze to alleviate the heavy, humid heat.

"The best thing to do on days like this is get naked and wallow beneath the air from a ceiling fan."

"Billy Royce, you are the most perverse man I've ever known," Shelby exclaimed in frustration. "If you'd spend half the energy trying to solve this crime as you do trying to seduce me, we'd have the real killer behind bars."

Billy laughed. "But we wouldn't have half as much fun. Besides, I do have an image to keep."

"Ms. Longsford."

Shelby and Billy stopped walking at the sound of the unfamiliar voice that called from the distance. A teenage boy ran toward them, a brown-paper-wrapped box in his hand. "I thought I was going to have to drive all the way out to your place to deliver this to you." He held out the package to her.

Shelby studied his face closely. "You must be one of the O'Rileys."

"Yes, ma'am." The youth smiled cheerfully, causing the freckles to dance across his nose. "I'm Jackson O'Riley."

Shelby took the package from him. "I guess your mama still runs the post office." She had a vivid memory of Emma O'Riley, who had worked the mail since Shelby had been a small child. The woman had half a dozen children and a penchant for gossip.

"Yeah, I help out during the summers, but she doesn't pay me half enough." He blushed as only a red-haired teenager could, then with a nod of his head, he went on his way.

"Secret admirer?" Billy asked with raised eyebrows.

"Who knows? There's no return address." She tucked the package under her arm as they continued toward the pickup.

It wasn't until they were driving back to Billy's that she decided to see what was inside. Carefully she tore away the brown paper to reveal a plain white box. "I can't imagine who would send me something," she said. "It's postmarked from right here in Black Bayou. Why would somebody go to the trouble to send me a package instead of just bringing it to me?"

"Maybe it's from a shy secret admirer," Billy observed dryly.

She ignored him and opened the lid of the box. As she peeled back the colorful cellophane paper inside, she stared at the contents in horror. With a startled cry, she threw the box on the floor.

"Shelby?" Billy slammed on the brakes as she bailed out of the truck. He muttered a curse as she stumbled to her knees at the side of the road and lowered her head, drawing in deep gasping breaths of air apparently in an effort not to be sick.

Throwing the truck into Park, Billy reached over and picked up the box from the floorboard. He stared at the contents, anger rolling in waves in the pit of his stomach.

Nestled inside festive paper was a full bouquet of black, withered roses. Death in the form of flowers. He was about to place the lid back on when he noted a folded sheet of paper. It was a pale blue, thick sheet of stationery. And written on it in big, bold letters was, "GO BACK TO SHREVEPORT OR THESE WILL DECORATE AT YOUR FUNERAL."

Chapter Sixteen.

Billy stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching Shelby sleep. He'd driven her back to the shanty, the box with the flowers in the bed of the truck, then insisted she lie down for a little while. She hadn't protested and had immediately fallen asleep, exhausted from the emotional shock she'd sustained.

He should get back to work, reading files, making notes, trying to glean a clue, any clue to the ident.i.ty of the killer, but for the moment he was content to simply watch her sleep.

Her hair spilled over his pillowcase, the dark strands like finely spun silk. The laugh lines around her eyes disappeared in sleep, making her look younger. Her scent filled his room, the pleasant floral smell he would always identify with her. Just as he could be blindfolded and know his own son by smell, so it was with Shelby. Her scent was indelibly printed in his head...as was the curve of her breast against his palm, the taste of her mouth against his.

He pulled himself away from the door, irritated with his thoughts, disgusted by his very pa.s.sion for Shelby, a pa.s.sion more intense than any he'd ever felt for his wife. He realized now he'd been unfair to Fayrene. He'd promised to love her, without knowing what real love felt like, without understanding how all-consuming true love could be. Mentally shaking himself, he shoved these troubling thoughts away.

The box containing the ominous gift he stored temporarily in an unused kitchen cabinet. Later he would take it to Bob. It was obviously meant as a warning to Shelby, a threat that shouldn't be taken lightly.

Sinking into a chair at the table, his thoughts turned to Angelique. If he found out she was responsible for the flowers, he would personally wring her neck. It would be a long time before he managed to forget the paleness of Shelby's face when he'd helped her up off the ground, the way she had clung to him, her body shivering with fear and revulsion. Somebody would pay and pay dearly for bringing such horror to her.

Still, the dead bouquet was out of character for Angelique. Generally, Angelique was known for her healing powers; her charms and herbs were used in positive ways. There was no mistaking the message the flowers had been intended to bear, and it certainly wasn't a gift of love and goodwill.

Billy was aware of time running out, not only for himself but for Shelby, as well. There was no doubt in his mind that she had seen a member of her own family kill Layne Rocharee all those years ago. It was the only thing that made sense, traumatic enough for repression. But who?

With a deep sigh Billy focused on the files before him, somehow believing the answers to everything existed within the reports.

He'd been working about an hour, reading and taking notes, when he heard Shelby whimpering from the next room. Pitiful sounds of torment, they pulled him from his chair and to her side.

She lay on her back, her head tossing and turning, her eyes flickering beneath the lids as if she were watching a movie unfold...an unpleasant movie. A low moan escaped her and her hands flailed the air, as if warding off an a.s.sailant.

Billy reached out to awaken her, then hesitated. If she was dreaming the murder she'd seen, perhaps he was better to let the dream play out. Perhaps this time she'd see the face of the killer.

Tears oozed out from beneath her eyelids, and still he remained unmoving at her side, knowing that perhaps this time she would discover the answers they sought.

But as her moans and whimpers increased, her obvious terror pulled at his heart. It wasn't worth it. Her pain wasn't worth his vindication. He shook her shoulder gently in an attempt to awaken her, his guilt swelling as he thought of those mere moments he'd allowed her to suffer in an attempt to save himself.

"No...please stop...no," she cried. "I don't want to see, please don't make me."

"Shelby, wake up. You're having a nightmare." He shook her shoulder again and her eyes flew open. In their dark blue depths he saw the horror of her dreams. It was there only a moment, a yawning darkness that threatened to pull him in, then she sobbed and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Billy, when will this end?" She clung so tightly to him he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Her body trembled against his, like a captured bird quivering in his hand. She was so vulnerable it made his heart ache. He held her close, his hands moving up and down her back in an effort to soothe.

"You should go back to Shreveport," he said, wishing he'd never brought her back here. "Get out of Black Bayou and away from the swamp."

She pulled away from him and swiped at her tears. "And how do I run from my nightmares, Billy? How do I run from the knowledge that somebody in my family is probably a murderer?" She leaned her head against his chest and drew in a deep breath. "Shreveport isn't far enough for me to run from those things. No place is far enough."

When she raised her head again, he saw that the terror had been replaced by steely strength. "Running isn't a viable option," she said.

"Shelby, I'm frightened for you." Billy spoke what was in his heart. "Those flowers were meant as a warning. You aren't safe in your house."

"That's probably the one place I am safe," she objected. "If somebody is going to try to kill me, they won't do it in the house where the crime will be tied to the family." She uttered a bitter laugh. "Imagine the gossip if I was found dead in my own bed."

Billy pulled her against him once again, wishing he could swallow her up inside and keep her safe. It surprised him, the protective surge he felt for her, the same emotion that always humbled him when he experienced it toward Parker. He stroked her hair, listened to her heartbeat, allowed her fragrance to wrap around him.

Despite her words to the contrary, Billy knew that when the case was over she'd return to Shreveport. If what they suspected was true, her family would be destroyed when the swamp serpent was named, and there would be nothing left to keep her here. The Longsfords would be torn apart, Billy would be vindicated and the last of Shelby's innocence would be destroyed.

She moved out of his arms and got up from the bed. "If only I could remember," she said softly as she moved to stand in front of the window. "It's all there, the murder, the way the moon shone down that night, Layne Rocharee's face...it's all there, so clear, so sharp. But when I get to the face of the murderer, it's a blank."

Frustration eddied inside him. It would be so d.a.m.ned easy if she'd just remember. His trial date was less than ten days away and they were really no closer to catching the killer than they'd been before.

Could she not remember because she knew in her heart that for sure the memory would name her father, or her brother? Was she subconsciously making a choice, protecting her family over him? "Maybe you aren't trying hard enough," he said, inexplicably angry with her.

"Is that what you think?" She turned from the window and stared at him. "You think I'm not trying hard enough?"

"I don't know, Shelby. Are you really trying?"