“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.”

Drake wasn’t so certain. Not with the sure belief the woman was a serial killer and she cried like a child at the drop of a hat. More tears flooded her large eyes and she covered her face, rocking back and forth.

“I’ll never have a man. My mother says I don’t have what it takes to hold a man . . .”

“Oh for God’s sake, Charisse,” Drake burst out, driven beyond endurance. “How old are you anyway? Has it ever occurred to you that you’re a grown-up and maybe, just maybe, your mother is full of shit?”

Saria gasped. Charisse startled, staring at him with wide, tear-drenched eyes.

“Drake,” Saria cautioned.