“Before you open that door, Saria, you listen to me,” Drake whispered, pulling a weapon from under his pillow.

She scowled at him as she fished for a T-shirt. Whoever had packed the case hadn’t believed in underwear. “A gun under your pillow? I was too occupied to think about weapons last night. I have no idea where my knife is.”

“You should be happy you have a man who puts your safety first.”

“I want you to be so crazy out of your mind for me you can’t possibly think about safety,” she objected.

Drake flashed a rueful grin. “Then I’ll admit I didn’t think about it until early this morning.” He tugged on his jeans, the grin fading. His eyes went dark and somber. “Don’t put your body between me and Charisse at any time. Not for any reason. I don’t miss, baby, and if I have to, I’ll kill her.”

The teasing laughter faded from Saria’s eyes and she went still. “Charisse would never hurt anyone, Drake. Please don’t make things worse for her by lettin’ her know you think she’s capable of bein’ a serial killer.”

“I’ll do my best, Saria, but you’ll have to trust me on this.”

She shook her head, opened her mouth to protest again, but then shrugged and hurried out of the bedroom to the front door. Drake followed her, the gun in his hand, finger on the trigger, hidden under the shirt he carried.

Charisse looked as if she’d spent the night crying. She stood looking completely absurd in her bright red short jacket and long black skirt, with red leather boots and a silk black blouse peeking beneath the jacket. Her hair, once a fashionable chignon, had begun to fall out in the rain and wind, so that tendrils fluttered around her face. She had beautiful skin and eyes and the small curls showed her features off to perfection, far more, Drake thought, than the severe, yet fashionable hairdo she chose to wear. Some people considered black widow spiders to be beautiful—he just wasn’t one of them.

Saria caught Charisse’s arm and drew her inside. “What is it, cher?”

Her voice was motherly, soothing, but she did exactly what Drake had told her, positioning herself so he had a clear shot at Charisse even as she took her into the living room and indicated a chair.

“We haven’t made any coffee, cher, but I’ll do that right away. What happened?”

“I made such a fool of myself with Mahieu last night. He was so angry with me.” Charisse put her hands over her face and began to sob.

That, at least, was genuine. Drake could always hear the echo of a lie, and there was a distinct odor to lies, but Charisse was telling the truth. He sighed and went to get tissue from the bathroom while Saria hastily put on the coffee. All the while he kept a careful line of fire to the woman—just in case.

Drake perched on the arm of a chair opposite Charisse where he knew he couldss no matter where Saria was if he was forced to shoot Charisse. He handed the sobbing woman a tissue, and shot Saria an exasperated look. She glared at him, clearly on Charisse’s side no matter what.

“Exactly what happened?” Saria said.

“I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore,” Charisse admitted. “I was lyin’ of course. Who wouldn’t want to go out with Mahieu? He’s . . . he’s . . . perfect.” She wept hysterically.

Saria sank down beside Charisse and patted her soothingly. “We can straighten this out, Charisse, don’t cry anymore and let’s figure it out.”

“You don’t understand. There’s no way to fix it. I told him to go away. He tried to talk to me and he said if he went, he wouldn’t come back. You know Mahieu, he means what he says.” Her voice rose in another hysterical wail. “I told him to go.”

“I’ll never understand women in a million years,” Drake groused. “If you didn’t want him to go, why would you insist he leave?” When both women looked at him, he sighed. “And don’t you own a pair of jeans? You’re out in the swamp and you’re some kind of fashion model.” Come to think of it, each time he’d seen Charisse, the woman was in some kind of fashionable suit. Even on the edge of the swamp, when he’d been on a picnic with Saria. “It isn’t practical, Charisse.”

“As a matter of fact, no, I do not own a pair of jeans. I’m a woman and I wear dresses or skirts,” Charisse said, batting tear-tipped lashes at him, clearly offended.

Drake would have thrown his hands up in exasperation, but he had a gun hidden by his side and didn’t have the luxury of expressing his complete frustration with the woman.

Saria gave him one emotion-laden look from under her long lashes, quelling any desire to continue the conversation with Charisse. Saria switched from her, you-speak-again-and-you’re-dead look to a sweet smile directed at Charisse.

“Cher, why did you decide to pick a fight with Mahieu? You drove him off on purpose. Why did you do that?”

Drake couldn’t tell the difference between what he’d asked and what Saria had asked, but Charisse responded with another sniff and more fresh tears. “My mother had her talk with me again. And she’s always right. I’m not good enough. Or pretty enough. Your brother is so handsome and smart and could have any woman he wanted. Why would he ever stick with me? He’s just using me. The first real woman to come along, he’d leave me and go off with her.”

Saria frowned. “That’s just not true, Charisse. A man would be lucky to have you.”