Bayou Angel

by Sandra Hill

  She was so confused.

  When she’d tried to discuss it with Tante Lulu, the old lady had just patted her on the shoulder and said, “Sometimes our true feelin’s are buried so deep, we doan even know they’s there. An’ they kin only come out when they’s ready.”

  Whatever that meant!

  Then Tante Lulu had added, “If I was you, I would kiss that boy like he just came home from the wars, and see what happens.”

  Grace knew exactly what would happen, but she hadn’t made a smart remark about it to Tante Lulu because the old woman had probably been thinking about her own soldier boy who’d never returned to her.

  Angel examined the cards fanned out in his one hand and remarked in a voice thick and sultry as a midnight bayou breeze, “So, you wore the dress. Just like I told you.”

  He was probably trying to distract her from playing well.

  “That’s all I did.”

  He glanced up from his cards, tossed two down, and motioned for the dealer, Luc LeDeux, to hit him again. “Meaning? You’re wearing underwear?”

  Luc pretended not to have overheard, but a grin tugged at his lips.

  She ignored Angel’s question, even as his eyes skimmed the upper part of her dress with the exposed back, knowing she couldn’t possibly be wearing a bra, unless it was paste-ons. And darn it, his scrutiny caused her breasts to pearl and tighten with a deep ache. Good thing he couldn’t see through the fabric.

  “Panties,” he concluded.

  Well, two could play this distraction game. “Bikini panties, if you must know.”

  “Oh, well, I can handle panties, even bikini ones.”

  “Lace bikini panties.”

  He grinned, slow and lazy. “Score one for the lady. Gracie, Gracie, Gracie! I am so going to enjoy...you.”

  “In your dreams!”

  “In case you’re wondering, I fulfilled my part.”

  She frowned, having no idea what he meant.

  “I’m going commando. Don’t want to waste any time, after the games are over and the real games begin.”

  Enough was enough! “You overconfident oaf! You’re assuming you’re going to win.” They had both been given an equal number of chips for their bankrolls, presumably worth a million each. Pushing a short stack to the center, she spread out her flush and gloated, “I call.” He had two pairs, so an easy win for her.

  The whole time, René had been discussing strategy and odds of each turn of the cards over the loudspeakers.

  “That’s just one hand, baby,” Angel said. “Let’s see what you can do this time.”

  “Bring it on, big boy,” she replied as they both put their antes front and center.

  She thought he muttered something about being big, all right.

  This time, while René was expounding once more on the art of poker playing and all the permutations of how this particular hand could be played, Angel did indeed win with bullets, a pair of aces, to her queens. The teasing smile that spread across his mouth was pure deviltry. And temptation on the hoof.

  “That’s one-one, cupcake. Care to sweeten the pot?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid?”

  “No.”

  This was the third and final hand. They each put out their blind bets before being dealt two cards, facedown; these were their hole or pocket cards. She peeked at hers, a queen and a jack. Angel did the same to his. Of course, nothing showed on his face, expert that he was.

  She checked, and he did likewise.

  The dealer, Luc, turned the flop, the three cards face up in the; center of the table. A queen, queen, and jack.

  Wow! Talk about luck! At the very least, she was going to end up with a queen-high full house, almost unbeatable; the only thing that could beat her would be king-or ace-high full house.

  She doubled her bet, and Angel matched her.

  Luc turned over one more card...a three of hearts.

  Well, that didn’t help her, and she couldn’t see any way it would help Angel, either.

  She checked again, and once again he checked, too.

  Was he bluffing? Hmmm.

  Luc turned over the river card. A ten of diamonds.

  She placed her bet.

  He matched hers and raised.

  Grace knew she had him beat, she just knew it, but still she looked across the table at him. For just a second, the king of no tells had the most vulnerable, hopeless look in his eyes.

  And her heart literally ached.

  Without hesitation, Grace surprised even herself when she made a life-changing decision. “I fold.”

  He flipped over his Big Slick, one of the best starting hands in Texas Hold ’Em, an ace and king, giving him an ace-high straight, a good hand but not good enough to beat hers. Angel cocked his head to the side in question.

  “Win some, lose some,” Grace said, trying her best to maintain an expressionless face.

  Sliding her two cards into the muck, face-side down, she said, “You win.”

  Angel seemed shocked. “Come on, show us your hand,” Angel prodded, clearly suspicious. She must have given off some tells that he was now having trouble interpreting. Reaching across the table, he went to turn over her pocket cards. But she slapped a hand over them, not about to let him see what a fool she was.

  But then the implications of what she had done hit her. Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

  She lifted her gaze to look into his eyes, expecting him to gloat or say, “I win! I win! You are mine...for tonight!”

  He did neither. He just stood, did a little bow at the applause, then began to walk away from the table. When he was only a table-length away from her, he turned and said, “See you.” Then left the room.

  That was all.

  But oooh, boy, it was enough!

  And so the game began...the REAL game...

  It was dark, and she hadn’t arrived.

  Angel wasn’t sure if she would show up, but still he was all amped up...and prepared.

  Lights off, candles lit. White wine, Grace’s favorite sauvignon blanc, on ice. Soft music on the built-in sound system—Grace’s favorite, Alicia Keys. That la-de-da gourmet cheese that Grace liked; it cost about the same per ounce as gold these days. Fruit was chilling in the fridge, but no strawberries. Grace was allergic to strawberries. And French bread on the counter, the ridiculous kind that if not used today would be hard as a rock tomorrow.

  If he was a nice guy, he would have called off the bet, or at least told Grace she didn’t have to fulfill her part after he’d won. Apparently, he was not as nice as everyone thought he was because he was for damn sure going to demand everything he could get from Grace and let the chips fall where they may.

  He grimaced at his own corny play on words but then stiffened. He heard the faint sound of high heels on the wood deck surrounding the houseboat, getting progressively louder.

  With heart racing, he waited, not turning even when he heard the screech of the screen door. When he did turn, finally, she just stood in the middle of the room.

  “I’m here,” she said, her voice a combination of belligerence and nervousness.

  Hell, he was nervous, too.

  In the muted candlelight, she was a picture of pure femininity. Creamy white skin, with long legs leading down to white high-heeled slingbacks. Her shiny red hair was straightened tonight but already reverting back to curls in the swamp humidity. Dangly pearl earrings. A cupid’s-bow mouth outlined in sexy red lip gloss. White clingy halter dress with red flowers. Think Marilyn Monroe standing over the air vent in The Seven Year Itch, except Grace’s dress wasn’t totally white. Where’s an air vent when you need one?

  It seemed like forever that he just stared at her before replying, “I’m glad.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He leaned back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, to keep from leaping on her like a teenager in testosterone overload. He should take things slow and easy. Have a drink. Chitchat. Maybe steal a k
iss or two or twenty. But no, he was too far gone for that. “Will you take your dress off for me, Grace?” Nothing like putting all my cards on the table, with no warning.

  More card puns! I am definitely losing it.

  She blinked at him.

  “Real slow.”

  “You probably think I won’t.”

  “I’m hoping you will.”

  As she began to undo the braided belt at her waist, she held his gaze. “I know that you think I’m shy, practically a virgin, but I’m not. I was wild years ago. I still am, underneath, even if I don’t always act on it.”

  He smiled. He couldn’t help himself. “Be wild for me, Gracie.”

  “You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow, Angel.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “I’m not your usual sweet young thing. I’m thirty-five years old, and it shows.”

  “What makes you think I’m attracted to sweet young things?”

  She shot him a look of utter disbelief.

  “Anymore.”

  She dropped the belt to the floor, which caused the gathered fabric to balloon out, making it a loose, shapeless dress, held on only by the ties at the back of her neck. “You’ll regret having forced me to do this,” she said, at the same time she was raising her hands to her nape.

  “If you want to think you’re being forced, go right ahead.”

  “I always pay my debts.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  Instead of answering strongly in the affirmative, she hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  Hope soared—that’s how pathetic he’d become. Vaguely, he wondered exactly what she meant. Maybe it wasn’t what he hoped. Whatever. He would puzzle it out later. For now, he waved a hand for her to continue undressing.

  Even from here, he could smell her Jessica McClintock perfume. Lilies of the valley. He knew because he’d asked her one time when they’d been seated next to each other in a poker game, and her scent had distracted him...in a nice way.

  “Take it off,” he repeated.

  Her eyes blazed green fire at him. Anger, yeah, but it could also be signs of arousal. Maybe he was building dreams on the tenuous framework of hopes, but he could not care less.

  Grace undid the ties, held them out from each side of her neck, then let them drop, causing the dress to slide down and pool at her feet.

  For a long minute, he couldn’t look below her haughtily raised chin. But then he did.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  She was everything he had dreamed of and more, wearing nothing but sexy high heels, which caused her body to arch, belly forward and ass back...pure centerfold posture...and a pair of white, high-riding-on-the-sides bikini briefs, which were lacy, like she’d said, but she’d failed to mention that they were embroidered all over with tiny roses. Standing long and tall, she was one frickin’ flame-haired goddess. Her breasts, topped by tiny pink nipples, were perfect half globes, bigger than he’d imagined, but that was possibly just the contrast with her slim frame. Her waist was narrow and her hips just wide enough. He was even rather fond of her stubby, bitten-down right thumbnail. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and her body wasn’t that of a perfectly toned twenty-year-old, but, oh, baby, he loved the way she looked.

  “Why are you standing all the way over there?” she sniped.

  “Because I need the wall to prop me up. Otherwise, I might faint.”

  She tilted her head in question, a little Mona Lisa smile tugging at her ruby lips.

  “You make me breathless just looking at you, Grace. My heart is racing, the blood is draining from my fool head, and I feel humbled just being here with you, like this.”

  “Wow! Such flowery words! Be still, my heart.”

  “I’ve also got a hard-on that could lift a locomotive, just from looking at you.”

  She laughed. “That’s the Angel I know and”—she hesitated—“recognize.”

  Ouch!

  “Listen, let’s just do it. Get this stupid bet over with. Okay?”

  “It? As in singular? You’ve got another think coming, babe. I’m calling the shots here. You promised all night, and I for one don’t intend to waste one minute of it. I can sleep next week. Tonight I fuck.”

  “Oh, that was nice.”

  He shrugged. “And by the way, this was not a stupid bet. In fact, it’s the smartest bet I’ve ever made. Should have done it years ago.”

  “You didn’t want me—that way—years ago.”

  “Oh, sweetie? I was ready to jump you like a dead battery, from the get-go.” He shoved away from the wall and started to walk toward her. “No, don’t move. In fact, turn around. Slowly.”

  Now he got a view of the small of her back, always a tantalizing part of the female anatomy to him, and rounded buttocks that, yeah, had a bit of cellulite, but not a deterrent to him. Nope, he chose to be more fascinated by the dimple in each cheek, each of which he was going to enjoy kissing. The dimples, not the cheeks. Well, both.

  “Raise your arms and lift your hair,” he said in a raw voice, little more than a whisper, once she was facing him again. He was still several feet away. “That’s it. Now hold that pose.”

  “If I’m going to stand her like a bleepin’ nude statue, you should get naked, too.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He smiled and toed off his shoes and yanked off his denim shirt and the T-shirt underneath. He popped the snap of his Levi’s but didn’t unzip.

  Her lips parted as she stared at his chest and his belly button.

  God bless belly buttons.

  There you go again, Angel, my son, asking God to bless the oddest things.

  Maybe I oughta get a belly button ring.

  Was the penile piercing not enough of a mistake for you?

  Okay, maybe not!

  Then he began to circle her. Not touching. Just memorizing everything he could about her body. All his big plans for all the wicked things he’d systematically do to seduce Grace flew out the window. Angel had been a player for a long time, like forever. He knew fifty, no, a hundred ways to melt a lover. But right now he was like a pilot with a destination in mind and not a clue how he was going to get there. All he knew was that he wanted to take the slow route. Real slow. But his system was on automatic pilot, and his glider plane was fast turning into a supersonic jet heading for home.

  Grace glanced down and stared meaningfully at the jeans he still wore, unsnapped, riding low on his hips.

  “Not yet.”

  She shot him a glare of irritation. “If you’re going to keep looking at me like that, I’m going to come, and that would cut your party short.”

  Wha-what? “Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, you can’t say things like that to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll make me come.”

  She smiled, as if that had been her intention.

  He was having a hard time understanding this Grace standing before him. She was throwing off opposing signals like an out-of-whack neon sign.

  So, he decided to test the neon waters by reaching out and strumming the back of his knuckles over her nipples.

  She gasped as the tips hardened even more, into pink pearls.

  He did it again and husked out, “Do you like that?”

  “No, my nipples are hard because of the Arctic wind blowing through here. Pfff!”

  He thought about reacting to her sarcasm with an equal dose of his own, but he had more important things on his mind. “You are everything I’ve ever dreamed you would be,” he murmured, instead, moving around to her back again.

  “Been dreaming about me a lot, have you, Angel?” she inquired over her shoulder.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Eeeek! What are you doing?” she yelped with surprise as he knelt on the floor behind her and licked the back of first one knee, and then the other.

  “Smelling the roses.”

  “Jerk!”

  He licked again.

&
nbsp; “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Nope, just a lust attack.” He put his hands on her waist to prevent her from turning around. “Ticklish, are you?”

  “I never thought I was before.”

  “Don’t move.” He took his hands off her waist and began at the side of her foot, skimming his fingertips over the outside of her calves, thighs, hips, waist, rib cage, and underarms.

  A full body shiver rippled over her.

  He pulled on the elastic waistband of her bikini briefs, tugging them down to her ankles. After she stepped out of them, along with her shoes, he urged, “Spread your legs a little bit, honey.”

  She hesitated, then did as he asked.

  Now he skimmed his fingertips over her high arches, grazing the soft skin of her inner ankle, then her inner calves, her knees, and the tops of her thighs. But then he stopped and traced a fingertip over the crease of her buttocks, the small of her back, and her spine all the way to her nape.

  “Aaaaaahhhh!” she moaned, and her legs started to buckle.

  Quickly he stood and held her back against him, one arm around her waist, the other free to do...other things. Looking down over her shoulder, he stared at her begging-to-be-sucked breasts and the thatch of red curls below.

  “You remind me of one of those Vargas pinup paintings that used to be in old Playboy magazines.”

  “You’re crazy. Those paintings depicted women with almost too-perfect bodies.”

  “Precisely,” he said and kissed the curve of her neck. She still had her hands raised to her head. “Like these,” he murmured, cupping her breasts from underneath, using the rough pads of his thumbs to strum the nipples into even greater hardness.

  “Oh. My. God!” She dropped her hands and rested her head back on his shoulder, pressing her breasts into his hands. He could feel the nipples against his palms. “Don’t you dare stop,” she gasped out.