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events," Bastien murmured as they watched their mother walk away.

Greg shrugged. "She's very good at getting people to tell her things they never mean to say. She would have made a good therapist."

Lucern was silent, and they all handed their empty glasses back to Bastien. He didn't know how his mother had found out what she had, but he didn't doubt for a minute that it was true. Which made him about as miserable as he could be, for now he knew for certain that he would never be free of the woman. She was desperate, and desperate people were both as persistent as hell and unpredictable.

"Here you all are!"

The four men whirled away from the van again, this time to find Kate C. Leever facing them. There was a mischievous grin on her face as she took in their guilty expressions and the way they were all trying to hide something behind them.

"Rachel was looking for you. I said I thought I saw you come out here and said I'd check for her," she explained, still eyeing them with amusement. "She tried to stop me and said she'd go, but it's her weddingI couldn't let her leave her guests to go chasing after you four reprobates."

Lucern exchanged a glance with the others. They all knew darned well that Rachel had probably hoped to slip outside for a quick nip as their mother had just done. Kate, in her kindness, had made that impossible.

"Why did you call us reprobates?" Gregory asked.

Kate gave an airy wave and laughed. "Because of what you're doing out here."

The four men exchanged glances and shifted into a tighter group, making sure that the open back of the van and the cooler of blood were hidden; then Lucern echoed, "What we're doing?"

"Oh, like it isn't obvious," she snorted. "Sneaking out here, crowding around the van." She shook her head and gave them a condescending look. "I may have been raised in Nebraska, but I've lived in New York long enough to be savvy about you artist types."

Now the looks the men exchanged were bewildered. Artist types? Lucern was a writer, Etienne a program developer, Bastien a businessman and Greg was a therapist. Artist types? And what did she think artist types did anyway? The only way to find out was to ask. Lucern did. "What is it exactly that you think we are doing out here?"

She gave a resigned sigh. "You're smoking pot-joints." She said it as one word.

The men all gaped at her; then Etienne released a disbelieving laugh. "What?"

Kate tsked with exasperation. "Pot. Marijuana. You guys snuck out here for a debbie."

"Er I believe it's called a doobie," Greg interjected.

"Whatever. That's what you were doing, right?"

"Er" Lucern began. Then he, Bastien, Etienne and Greg shared a grin.

"Yes. You caught us. We were smoking a debbie," Etienne agreed.

"Doobie," Greg corrected.

"Yes." Bastien nodded. "We'd offer you some, but we er"

"Smoked it all up," Etienne finished.

The two men sounded disgustingly apologetic to Lucern's mind. Good Lord.

"Oh, that's okay. I don't smoke anything." She smiled crookedly, then added, "Besides, dinner is about to be served. I think that's why Rachel was looking for you."

"Well then, we should go in." Stepping forward, Lucern took Kate's arm firmly and turned her toward the building. They'd barely taken two steps when he heard the van doors closing and the other men fell into step behind them. Smoking debbies. Good Lord.

Lucern was distracted through dinner, merely picking at the food. It was apparently very good, if Kate's comments were to be believed, but he didn't really have an appetite. He found his mind stuck on his mother's claim that Kate's job depended on her convincing him to cooperate. Lucern didn't know why, but that was really bothering him. A lot.

" dance, Luc."

Lucern glanced around in confusion. He'd only caught the end of his mother's words, he'd been so deep in thought. He peered at her in question. "What?"

"I said, you should take Kate out on the floor and dance. To support Etienne and Rachel. Someone has to start everyone else dancing."

He glanced toward the dance floor, surprised to see that the bride and groom were dancing. The meal was over, and the first dance had begun. He, as the head of his side of the family, would be expected to join next. By all rights, he should be taking his mother, the matriarch, up there to encourage others to dance, but one look at Marguerite told him that she had started her