That was the kind of life he had chosen to live, solitary, and yet other lives kept drifting into his. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t need the trouble he knew was brewing on the Sheridan plantation, Chanson du Terre, didn’t need the reminder of past pain. But Giff had dragged him into it to a certain extent already and there was too much riding on the situation for him to decline playing so slight a role in the drama.

He cursed himself for caring. He had thought himself beyond it, thought the capacity to care had been burned out of him by the acidic quality of his experiences. But it was still there, which meant he had to find the strength to deal with it. God help him.

Serena gave him one last scathing glare and turned on her slim, expensive heel, heading for the street entrance of the store. Lucky swore under his breath and went after her, catching her by the arm.

“Where you goin’, sugar? I never said I wouldn’t take you.”

She looked pointedly at the big dirty hand circling her upper arm, then turned that defiant gaze up to his face. “Maybe I won’t take you, Mr. Doucet.”

“The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. Ain’t nobody else gonna take you out to Giffs.” He laughed without humor. “Ain’t nobody else crazy enough.”

“But you are?”

He smiled like a crocodile and leaned down toward her until his mouth hovered only a few inches above her lips. “That’s right,” he whispered. “I’m over the edge. I might do anything. Ask anyone ‘round this town here. They’ll all tell you the same thing-Il n’a pas rien il va pas faire. There’s nothing he won’t do. That Lucky Doucet, he’s one bad crazy son, him.”

“Well, I’m a psychologist,” she said with a saccharine-sweet smile. “So we ought to get along just peachy, shouldn’t we?”