The Love Potion

by Sandra Hill

  Luc was fairly certain that the half-wits chasing after them were unaware of this houseboat. They were safe…for now, at least.

  “This is all my fault, Luc. I never should have involved you in the shrimpers’ fight. Maybe we should give up before someone gets hurt,” René said. Even more ominous than his words was the fact that René was tucking a small pistol into the back waistband of his jeans, which was then covered by a denim jacket. Just as Luc’s weapon was hidden by the suede vest he’d grabbed when fleeing his apartment.

  “If I thought y’all would give up without me, I might consider tossing in the towel,” Luc said. “It’s a losing battle fighting these oil behemoths anyhow, as you well know.”

  “Hey, haven’t you ever heard of David and Goliath? That’s who we are…a bunch of Davids.” René grinned at Luc, trying to make light of a situation that was getting darker by the moment.

  “Dammit, René, I know you and your lamebrain friends. You’ll ditch the idea of legal representation and try to fight Cypress Oil with your own half-ass methods. When the almighty dollar’s involved, human beings are disposable roadblocks to the bottom line. Believe me, slingshots don’t count for crap with these people.” He looked pointedly at the back of René’s jeans when referring to slingshots.

  “Yeah, but if there are enough slingshots, and if the Davids have extra ammunition, as in The Swamp Solicitor”—René shrugged—“well, who can predict what will happen, eh, big bro?”

  Luc chuckled and shook his head. Sometimes it was hard for him to remember that his brother was thirty years old and not the gap-toothed urchin tagging after him in the bayous. In truth, Luc had been playing the big brother to René and Remy for so long, he wouldn’t know how to stop now. And René knew it.

  They stepped onto the houseboat and René held the screen door open for him, then unlocked the door, before Luc eased himself inside, sideways, with the wide tray. He set the food down on the table of a corner vee-shaped booth in the galley area.

  “I’m thinking about leaving Sylvie here with you,” Luc said in a low voice, not wanting to awaken the woman, who was napping on a narrow cot attached to the far wall of the large, one-room residence. The events of the past few days had taken their physical toll on her, and she’d barely protested an hour ago when he’d left her to go over to the restaurant and talk with René and his fishing comrades.

  “No way!” His brother shook his head vehemently. “I’m going to be on the run the next few weeks as things get hot and heavy. I can’t have my movements hampered by a chick. Not that Sylvie’s a chick…I mean, she’s attractive enough, and I may fancy myself a David, but let’s face it, she sure as hell isn’t any hot-to-trot Bathsheba. Too strait-laced, if you ask me.”

  They both looked toward Sylvie, who was sleeping soundly, her Happy Meal container at her side. For once, there was no rustling inside the box. Mickey and Minnie must be all screwed out.

  If René’s assessment of Sylvie was intended to be a criticism of her allure, Luc had to disagree. Her right arm was thrown over her head in abandon, causing her breasts to be uplifted and clearly outlined under her silk blouse. Her legs in their black slacks were parted. It was an uninhibited, inviting position that Sylvie would normally never take when awake, at least not in anyone’s presence. Certainly not his.

  Worst of all—or best of all, from my perspective—her left hand lay loosely over her flat stomach, low down. Was it an unconscious caress?

  Like a rush of erotic adrenaline, Luc felt that imagined caress through every inch of his own body. And his overactive imagination zoomed into sensual overload.

  Did Sylvie ever touch herself in the absence of a lover?

  Had she ever touched herself in the presence of a lover?

  His brother was wrong. Sylvie Fontaine could be a Bathsheba any old day. Looking at her, Luc felt his heart soften and another part of his body harden. Correction. Harden even more.

  “Holy shit!” René remarked in an undertone. Then he softly sang the words to that old Queen song “Another One Bites the Dust.”

  Luc came back to the present with a jolt. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You!” René hooted. “You’ve fallen for Sylvie Fontaine. Mon Dieu! I never thought I’d see the day that you’d tumble for the L-word.”

  “You’re crazy,” Luc protested.

  “You should see your face when you look at her, Luc. I wish I had a camera. You’re a freakin’ Cajun Hallmark moment.”

  “Go away. I’m not in lo…lo…love with anyone, least of all Sylvie Fontaine. That’s ridiculous.” Lord, I’m pathetic. I can barely think the L-word, let alone say it out loud.

  René shook his head in disagreement. “No one is bullet-proof, big brother. Geez, maybe love potions really do work. Oh, man, Tante Lulu must be in seventh heaven.”

  “I am not amused, René.”

  “Yep, it mus’ be love,” his brother continued. “I think I’ll write a song about it. ‘The Cajun Love Bug.’ Dieu, I jus’ can’t believe it. My big brother in love!”

  Luc sighed deeply. In his opinion, his brother and his aunt were both wrong. Oh, he’d already suspected earlier that he was developing feelings for Sylvie, but he’d marked them down to the effects of her souped-up jelly beans. No way am I falling in lo…lo…

  But he was beginning to fear that his heart had a mind of its own. And that scared the hell out of him.

  So, he handled the situation the way most men do. He decided not to think about it. Shoving René out the door with a promise to come over later to the tavern where his band, The Cajun Swamp Rats, would be playing, Luc turned the key, locking himself in, and proceeded to the other side of the room. He stood over the cot and said softly, “Sylvie. Time to wake up.”

  Nothing.

  “Come on, darlin’. I’ve been slavin’ over the stove all day. Come eat.”

  Nothing.

  Okay, now what? he asked himself. I could shout. Or I could take other measures.

  He thought about opting for “other measures.” Those might include easing himself into that small cot with Sylvie and checking out the possibilities of just how far a love potion could go.

  Sanity ruled, though. “Hey, babe,” he hollered, “move your butt or you’re gonna have company in that bed.”

  Sylvie jackknifed into a sitting position and glared at him through sleepy eyes, blinking with confusion. “You don’t have to yell.”

  “Yes, I do, chère. Yes, I do.”

  “Do you have an erection?”

  Luc’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut so quickly he almost bit his tongue. His hand went reflexively to his crotch to make sure he was decent.

  He wasn’t, but Sylvie couldn’t see that, hidden as his lower body was by the table. They were sitting at the small galley booth, having just finished their meal, when Sylvie made her out-of-the-blue inquiry.

  With a flaming face, she put aside the rats, which she’d been feeding leftover gumbo. Then she pulled out a small black-and-white-speckled notebook and a ballpoint pen she’d found on the counter. Unbelievably, she was preparing to take notes.

  I have landed in a god-awful Saturday Night Live skit. Pulling himself together, he replied as calmly as he could, “Now? Or ever?”

  “Now, of course.” She was looking everywhere but at him as she spoke.

  “Sylvie, I’ve had half a hard-on for you ever since I swallowed your damn jelly beans. A five on a scale of ten.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wanna see it?” he teased.

  “No!”

  Luc hadn’t realized that a face could get so red just from embarrassment. He kind of liked this shy side of Sylvie, though her question was far from shy.

  “Are your nipples sensitive?” she asked.

  “They are now.”

  “Do you have sexual fantasies?”

  “Do I ever!”

  “More than usual?”

  He grinned. “Ab-so-lute-ly.”

  “Is your heart r
ate accelerated at certain times?”

  He nodded. “At certain times.”

  “Do you ever—”

  “Hey, Sylv, do you have any particular reason for asking about the state of my body parts?”

  She’d been scribbling like crazy in her notebook, but now she put her pen down. “Well, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “I was thinking that, since we’re going to be together the next few days anyhow, and since you already swallowed the love potion, and since we don’t have any human trial data on the formula yet…well, it’s a perfect setup for studying your reactions.” She stared at him hopefully, waiting for a response.

  “A guinea pig? You want me to be your human guinea pig?”

  “Yes! I could check hourly on your pulse and temperature and…and arousals, not to mention a dozen other variables. I can already envision the separate time/data graphs I could plot. Really, this will be even better than a lab setting for the human trials.”

  He was gaping at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You’re going to do a hard-on graph of me?”

  “Well, that could be one of the graphs. But I certainly wouldn’t describe it so crudely.”

  “I’ll bet you wouldn’t, babe.” He shook his head in wonder that she actually thought he’d participate in such a bizarre experiment. “That’s all I need…to be known as The Swamp Solicitor and The Happy Penis.”

  “This is serious business, Luc. I’m a chemist. We could be making scientific history here.”

  He had to laugh at that. “My cock a scientific wonder? I…don’t…think…so.”

  “Where are you going?” she said in a panicky voice. He was sliding along the Naugahyde bench, preparing to stand.

  “Out. I need a beer.”

  “Wait. I’ll come with you.”

  He shook his head. “No. You stay here. Lock the door after me. Remy will be here about five A.M. with the copter.”

  “But—”

  “I need some time alone, Sylvie.” He was already walking toward the door, tucking the gun into his back waistband.

  “But—”

  Speaking over his shoulder, he snapped, “Unless you plan on doing something about these erections you’ve caused with your love potion, and with all your damn questions about them, I suggest you put a mile between your sweet self and my erections.”

  Silence.

  Curiosity got the best of him, and he peeked back over his shoulder. Her pen was flying over the notebook.

  He didn’t need to ask what she was writing. “Diary of a Penis,” no doubt. Mon Dieu!

  It was midnight, and Luc still hadn’t come back to the houseboat.

  Sylvie was bored. And worried. And just a little bit angry.

  Where was he?

  What if he’d dumped her here? No, her instincts told her that Luc wouldn’t do that. Certainly not without first providing for her protection. Like calling her mother for bodyguard service. Oooh, she would kill Luc if he’d done that to her.

  But what if something had happened to him? He’d said not to worry…that they were safe here, at least for a short time. His youngest brother Remy, a pilot for a North Louisiana ranch conglomerate and a Desert Storm Air Force veteran, would be coming to take them to some hideout in a far-off bayou, accessible only by air or a long, long trip in a pirogue. But maybe the bad guys had pounced on him anyhow. Maybe he was even…Oh, my God!…dead.

  Sylvie shot to her feet, her notebook and pen falling to the floor. She made quick work of unlocking the door, in a hurry to find Luc, to rescue him, or…or…She wasn’t sure what. She just knew she had to find Luc.

  Her eyes darted about the room, searching for a weapon—just in case. Not a gun, or switchblade knife, or even a baseball bat in sight. Just a battered fiddle that had seen better days. Well, it would have to do. She grabbed the old instrument by its neck and was out the door, making sure to lock up after herself. After all, her briefcase was still inside—albeit hidden inside a fishing tackle storage closet—and the lab rats, too.

  That was when the band started up again.

  Sylvie had been hearing René’s band, The Cajun Swamp Rats, playing off and on all night. They did loud renditions of both traditional and modern Cajun music, from the slow, evocative melodies passed through generations of French Acadians, to the more upbeat, lively, sometimes raucous, modern versions, including zydeco.

  As the band launched enthusiastically into the well-known “Big Mamou,” a song about one of Louisiana’s largest lakes, and she made her way determinedly toward the tavern, other thoughts entered her mind. Anyone listening to Cajun music soon ended up smiling. These Cajuns were such a fun-loving people, and they enjoyed a good laugh, even when the laugh was on them. That jerk Luc probably wasn’t hurt at all. He was probably in the tavern having fun—drinking, dancing, flirting with some barroom floozy.

  Forget about killing Luc, she was going to whack off his favorite body part. With a fiddle.

  Sylvie stormed right up to the tavern and past the big galoot at the door, who was a cross between a WWF wrestler and Godzilla. He gave the fiddle in her hand a cursory glance, then shrugged, muttering something about crazy musicians.

  Stepping into the dim interior of the tavern, she felt a blast of heat from the numerous bodies inside, even though the place wasn’t filled to capacity. Then she recoiled from the explosion of rowdy music that seemed too loud for the small space. The band had finished “Big Mamou” and swung without interruption into the equally upbeat “Louisiana Man.” Luc’s brother René, the lead singer, had a fair voice, but more important, a foot-stomping, grinning, rebel-yelling demeanor that told his audience he was there to have a low-down good time, just as they were.

  Then she saw Luc.

  The fiddle dropped from her fingers to the floor with a clunk. “You two-timing, womanizing SOB,” she muttered under her breath, though why she would think the louse owed her any fidelity, she couldn’t say. Her eyes blurred with sudden tears of hurt and blinding jealousy.

  Jealousy? Jealousy? No way! Uh-uh! Oh, God, jealousy.

  The Louse was leaning back against the bar, braced by his two elbows. One booted foot was propped casually by the heel on the foot rail. A long-necked bottle of beer dangled from the loose fingers of one hand.

  Standing in front of Luc was a gorgeous brunette with big hair. Her small hips were stuffed into a pair of skintight jeans and her breasts were pushed all the way up to the North Pole. And Luc was smiling at her. In fact, The Louse threw his head back and laughed out loud at something she said.

  Sylvie had never been witty. She’d never had a talent for flirting, as this bimbo obviously did. She didn’t have small hips. Let’s face it, shyness therapy or no shyness therapy, she was a failure in male-female seduction games.

  Seduction? Damn! First, jealousy. Now I’m thinking about seduction. With Luc, for God’s sake!

  Just then, Luc looked her way, over his girlfriend’s shoulder, and he smiled. The Louse dared to smile at her…in the same roguish, sexy way he did at all women.

  And she melted under that smile…the way all women did.

  It was untenable. It was humiliating. It was the last straw.

  Luc was approaching her now, his smile replaced by a glare as he no doubt recalled that he’d ordered her not to leave the houseboat till he returned. Hah! Without thinking, she reached down for the fiddle and threw it at him. He ducked just in time, and the fiddle barely missed the well-endowed bosom of the bimbo following close behind him, swaying in her high-heeled, white snakeskin boots. Both of them wore stunned expressions on their faces. Hell, Sylvie was pretty well stunned herself by her bizarre behavior.

  With a sob, she whirled and made a run for the exit. Luc caught up with her before she reached the bouncer at the door.

  “Sylvie? What’s wrong?” Luc asked, his viselike fingers on her forearm holding her in place.

  “You!” she railed, struggling to get free. “You’re the problem. I’m locked in that damn houseboat, worryin
g about you—”

  “You were worried about me?” The slow grin that spread across Luc’s lips was the absolute last straw, on top of the previous last straw, that is. Sylvie made a fist with her free hand and swung hard, but all she connected with was Luc’s other hand, which laced with hers and pulled her closer.

  “You were worried about me?” he repeated in a husky, too-sexy murmur.

  Sylvie smelled the tangy scent of Luc’s aftershave. He must have shaved somewhere this evening. For Barroom Barbie?

  “Yes, I was worried about you, you louse! You’ve been gone so long that I thought you might have been hurt, or…or killed. And what do I find? You drinking and flirting with some barroom floozy.”

  Luc’s jaw dropped open in surprise.

  “Hey!” the barroom floozy said. She was standing right behind Luc, ready to resume whatever had been going on between the two of them. “I’m no floozy.”

  “Hah! If it looks like a floozy, and jiggles like a floozy, and hangs out in dives like a floozy, then it must be a floozy,” Sylvie said. Even she was shocked at the snideness of her remark. She had certainly lost her shyness now.

  But the woman just cocked a hip and grinned at Luc, as if they shared some joke.

  Luc pulled Sylvie even closer then, and tucked her flush against his side with an arm looped over her shoulder. Then he turned so they faced the floozy, who, Sylvie had to admit, was a very attractive woman of about twenty-five or so. Darn it! The big-toothed, pure-white smile the floozy flashed Sylvie’s way further infuriated her. She was pretty sure the low, growling sound came from her throat, and not the band, which was now doing a cat-purring rendition of “Tiger in the House.”

  “I’d like you to meet someone, Sylvie chère,” Luc began.

  Sylvie wished she could sink into the floor. Luc was actually going to introduce her to his girlfriend, and if the twinkle in his dancing eyes was any indication, he must suspect that Sylvie was jealous. Oh, it was so embarrassing!