"Oh, he's around right enough." Lulu studied her palette, then plunged her brush into a pool of virulent green. "Come on up here on the porch, girl, don't be standing down there gawking at me while I'm working. Dwayne, where's that brother of yours? Can't you see this girl's come to seduce him?"

"I have not come-" Caroline broke off and backed up a foot when Lulu leaned over to sniff at her.

"Pretty cagey not wearing perfume." Lulu shook the dripping brush at her. "When a man's used to women tarting themselves up, he'll fall flat for the smell of pure soap and water."

Caroline cocked a brow. "Is that so?"

"You know it's so. You don't get to be… how the hell old am I, Dwayne?"

"I think it's eighty-four, Cousin Lulu."

"Eighty-four? Eighty-four?" Paint dripped on her shoes. "You're drunk as a polecat, Dwayne. No southern lady would ever reach the miserable age of eighty-four. It ain't seemly."

Dwayne considered his whiskey. He was well on the way to being sloshed, but he wasn't stupid. "Sixty-eight," he decided. "What I meant to say was sixty-eight."

"That's better." Lulu smudged paint on her cheek. "A dignified age. You go on in, Yankee, work your wiles on that poor, hapless boy. Just so you know I'm on to you."

"I'll keep that in mind." Unable to resist, she took a peek at the painting. It was Dwayne, cocked back in the rocker, clutching a hugely proportioned glass of whiskey. The style was somewhere between Picasso and the caricatures for Mad magazine. Dwayne's face was green, his eyes cracked with broken red lines. Poking up from his head were long purple donkey's ears.

"Ah, an interesting concept," Caroline commented.

"My daddy always said anybody who drinks for a living's bound to make an ass of himself."

Caroline looked from the portrait to the artist. In that single silent exchange she realized that Cousin Lulu wasn't as crazy as she pretended to be. "I wonder what reason anyone would have for choosing to drink for a living."

"For some, life's reason enough. Dwayne, where's that brother of yours? This girl's waiting and I can't paint with her breathing down my neck."

"Back in the library." He took a comfortable swallow of whiskey. "Just go on in, Caroline. Third door down on the right of the hall."

Caroline stepped in. The house was so quiet, it immediately crushed her urge to call out and announce herself. The light had that mellow golden quality she associated with museums, but the silence was more like that of a lady's elaborate boudoir while the mistress was drowsing.

She began to have doubts that anyone was there at all. She caught herself tiptoeing down the hall.

The door to the library was shut tight. As she put her hand up to knock, she pictured Tucker inside, stretched out on the most comfortable flat, cushioned surface, hands cocked behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. He would, of course, be taking his early evening, post-afternoon, pre-bedtime nap.

She rapped softly and got no answer. With a shrug, she turned the knob and nudged the door open. She'd just wake him up, she told herself. She had things to tell him and the least he could do was stay awake long enough to listen. Because while he was busy sleeping away his life, things were…

But he wasn't on the curvy love seat under the west window. Nor was he sprawled in the wing chair facing the stone fireplace. Frowning, Caroline turned a circle, taking a curious scan of the walls of books, an excellent Georgia O'Keeffe, and a dainty Louis XV side table.

And saw him behind a sturdy oak desk, bent over a pile of papers and books, with his fingers skimming casually-no, she realized- skillfully over the keyboard of a sleek little office computer.

"Tucker?" There was a world of surprise in the single word. He answered with a grunt, typed in some more data, then glanced up. The distraction on his face cleared instantly.

"Well, hey, Caroline. You're the most welcome thing I've seen all day."

"What are you doing?"

"Just running some figures." He pushed back from the desk to stand, looking lean and lazy in a T-shirt and chinos. "Nothing that can't wait. Why don't we go on out on the back porch, sit, and watch the sun set?"

"It won't set for two hours or more."

He smiled. "I've got time."

She shook her head, evading him when he came around the desk to reach for her. Holding him off with one hand, she moved closer to the desk to see what he'd been up to.

There were ledgers, printouts with columns of figures, invoices, receipts. Eyes narrowed, Caroline ran her finger over files.

LAUNDROMAT, CHAT 'N CHEW, HARDWARE, GOOSENECK

UNIT 1, ROOMING HOUSE, TRAILER PARK.

There was a pile of paperwork about cotton-seed, pesticide, fertilizer, market prices, trucking companies.

Another pile consisted of various prospectus folders and stock reports.

Dragging a hand through her hair, Caroline stepped back. "You're working."

"In a manner of speaking. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?"

She only waved him off, trying to think it through.

"Bookkeeping. You're keeping books."

He grinned. "Honey, it's against the law only if you keep two sets. Which my granddaddy did, successfully, for twenty-five years. So I guess it's more accurate to say it's against the law only if you get caught keeping two sets, which he never did and lived to his dying day as a pillar of this community." He sat on the edge of the desk. "If you don't want to sit on the porch and neck awhile, what can I do for you?"

"You use a computer."

"Well now, I admit I was prejudiced about it at first. But these damn little things save buckets of time once you get the hang of them. I'm all for that."

"Do you do all of this?"

"All of what?"

"This!" Frustrated, she grabbed up a pile of papers and shook them at him. "Do you keep all these records, these books? Do you run all of these businesses?"

He stroked a hand over his chin thoughtfully. Then he punched a few buttons, and the monitor winked off. "Mostly they run themselves. I just add the figures."

"You're a fraud." She slapped the papers down again. "All that lazy-southern-wastrel routine-I'd rather sleep than sit. It's just a front!"

"What you see is what there is," he corrected her, amused by the way she was pacing around the room. "It just seems to me that you have a different definition of lazy up north than we do down here. Down here we call it relaxed." He gave her a pained look. "Honey, I sure wish you'd learn to relax. The way you stir up the air in here is tiring me out."

"Every time I think I've got a handle on you, you shift. Like a virus." She turned back. "You're a businessman."

"I don't think that description suits me, Caro. Now, when I think of a businessman, I think of somebody like that Donald Trump or Lee Iacocca. All those fancy suits, messy divorces, and bleeding ulcers. Of course, there's Jed Larsson, and he wears a suit only on Sunday as a rule, been married to his Jolette as long as I can remember. But he does suffer from some bad heartburn."

"You're changing the subject."

"No, I was getting around to it. You could say I oversee some ventures now and again. And since I have a gift for figures, it doesn't take much effort."

She dropped down on the love seat and scowled at him. "You're not wasting your life."

"I always figured I was enjoying it." He walked over to join her. "But if it'll make you happy, I could give wasting it a try."

"Oh, just shut up a minute. I'm trying to think." She folded her arms across her chest. Hapless? she thought. Wasn't that what Lulu had called him? What a joke. The man knew exactly what he was doing, and he'd obviously been doing it his own way, in his own time, for years. Hadn't she seen it herself? The way he could give you that sleepy-eyed grin one minute, then drill right into your brain with a look the next?