Cajun Persuasion
Page 31
Sylvie laughed at the notion of anyone questioning her Creole bloodlines. Meanwhile, Blanche swiped at her tears with a tissue, careful not to mar her makeup. “Do you really believe my mother or my grandmother have experienced a lustful day in their lives?” Sylvie asked. “Or Aunt Margo or Aunt Madeline? Even my cousin, Valerie?” She made an exaggerated shiver of distaste. Valerie was the perfect example of Breaux womanhood, held up to her as a role model from the time Sylvie first demonstrated her profound shyness as a young girl. Shyness and timidity in any form were considered a weakness in the Breaux family.
“Well, in every family there’s an aberration,” Blanche conceded.
“Aberration about says it all,” Sylvie said with a sigh. In Sylvie’s matriarchal family, there were no men. Mostly, they just gave up and died under all that feminine domination. In her family, the women didn’t divorce their men; they buried them. The Breaux women were known throughout Louisiana as the Ice Breaux, in recognition of their cold ruthlessness in pursuing their goals. Her mother, Inez Breaux-Fontaine, was a state legislator with aspirations of being elected to the U.S. Congress. Her grandmother, Dixie Breaux, was a hard-as-nails oil lobbyist. Her aunts, Margo and Madeline Breaux, had stopped at nothing in setting up their mail-order-tea dynasty. Valerie Breaux, daughter of her deceased Uncle Henri, made no apologies for her roughshod, fast-track career path from jury consultant to Court TV anchor.
The look of compassion in Blanche’s eyes said without words that she understood perfectly how many of Sylvie’s present actions were based, deep down, on lifelong insecurities stemming from her family. With a shrug of resignation, Blanche asked, “So, when are you going to do the deed?”
“Soon. Two weeks . . . a month, at most. We’re still synchronizing schedules for all the test candidates.” Sylvie pointed to a petri dish filled with dozens of jelly beans.
“Jelly beans?” Blanche raised an eyebrow in question.
“Yep. My lab rats like them, and . . . oh, I might as well tell you. Charles has a passion for jelly beans, too.”
Blanche snorted with disgust. “It’s about the only thing he’s ever demonstrated a passion for.”
Sylvie shot her a glance of condemnation for that snide remark, even though it was true that Charles hadn’t succumbed to any of the normal hints and downright obvious seduction techniques she’d tried the past year.
“Would they work for anyone?” Blanche picked up a handful and let them slip through her fingers. “I mean, if I give them to some guy, would they work for me?”
“Not those. They contain my enzymes. In order for them to work for you, your enzymes . . . in fact, putting your simple saliva, or a drop of blood, even a hair, inside a neutral set of jelly beans, like those over there . . . would work for you. Along with my secret ingredients, of course.” She pointed to her briefcase, where a plastic ziplock bag held dozens of the multi- colored candies.
“Be careful, honey,” Blanche warned as she picked up her purse and prepared to leave. “Sometimes the worst thing that can happen in life is we get what we wish for.”
Sylvie refused to let Blanche’s admonition dampen her spirits. Nothing could ruin her good mood today.
Man on a mission . . .
Lucien LeDeux was in a lousy mood.
He was supposed to be on a two-week vacation. The crawfish were fat and sluggish this summer, and he’d much rather be down in the bayou checking his nets than cruising into the sweltering city at rush hour. But duty called in the form of entrapment . . . by his own conniving brother.
“You are in some kind of wild-ass-lousy mood,” his brother René griped from the passenger seat of the jeep where he was holding onto the crash bar with white knuckles. The right door had fallen off two months ago, and Luc hadn’t bothered to replace it. “I think it’s Sylvie Fontaine that has the steam risin’ from your ears.”
Sometimes René had a death wish.
“I think you’ve had the hots for her since we were kids,” René went on. “I think your testiness is just a cover-up for deeper feelings. I think you’re afraid of—”
“I think you better shut up, René. I only do one good thing a year, and your tab is runnin’ out fast.”
“Cool your jets, man. I was just pointin’ out that you and Sylvie are—”
“Knock off the love-connection talk, René, or I’m outta here.”
“Dieu, if you don’t wanna help, I can get another lawyer.”
“I should be so lucky.”
“Maybe F. Lee Bailey is available. Or Roy Black. How about that guy with the fringed leather jacket . . . Jerry whatshisname?”
“Hah! You and I both know there isn’t another attorney who’d take on your case.”
“Mais oui, but then I am fortunate to get ‘The Swamp Solicitor.’ ” René smirked at him.
Luc gritted his teeth and refused to rise to that particular bait, but he took great delight in pressing his foot to the accelerator and speeding down the highway, hitting every pothole the parish road crew had missed in the past few years. He got grim satisfaction from the surreptitious sign of the cross René made on his chest.
“I shouldn’t have put you in this spot, Luc.”
René’s sudden contrition surprised Luc. “You had no choice,” he admitted. “C’est ein affair à pus fi nir.” It was a much-used Cajun saying, but particularly applicable in this case. “It’s a thing that has no end.”
René nodded. “Perhaps we can finally put an end to it.”
The hopeful note in his brother’s voice tore at Luc’s heart. It didn’t matter if it was a seven-year-old René looking up to a ten-year-old Luc for answers, or a thirty-year-old René and a thirty-three-year-old Luc. Their father’s misdeeds were never-ending. The scars never got a chance to heal.
Luc’s stereo suddenly kicked on, and René’s static-y voice belted out:
Bayou man is a woman’ delight.
Catch fish all the day
And make love all the night.
Don’ matter if he rough
Like a scaly red snapper.
Long as he give his baby enough
Good hot Cajun lovin’ . . .
Even René’s raucous demo tape couldn’t raise Luc’s spirits now. His brother was an excellent small-time commercial fisherman, a fair singer and accordionist on the side, and a horrible lyricist. But he fancied himself the next Garth Brooks of the Bayou with his combination of country, zydeco, and Cajun music, which he played on off nights going from one dive to another across Louisiana.
Swerving his jeep off the highway, Luc ignored the sounds of a half-dozen horns blasting behind him. His turn signal hadn’t been working for the past year.
He took a quick look at the crowded parking lot of Terrebonne Pharmaceuticals and muttered, “That figures!” Without hesitation, he pulled his jeep into the “No Parking” slot reserved for the company president. The car continued to rumble even after he turned off the ignition, finally coming to a halt with a loud belch from its rear end.
“Your car needs a tune-up,” René advised, unwisely.
“My life needs a tune-up.”
“Yep.”
Luc glanced over at his brother to see what that terse remark implied.
“You’re a pain in the ass. A royal chew rouge.” René was grinning at him.
“I know.” Luc couldn’t help grinning back.
“Let’s hope Sylvie Fontaine has a taste for pain-in-the-ass, over-the-hill Cajuns.”
“Oh, yeah! Ab-so-loot-ly!” Luc shook his head at the futility of this whole mission. “René, my agreeing to come here today isn’t about impressing Sylvie. As if I could!”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try. You don’t have to nail her, or nothin’. Just be nice.”
Pour l’amour de Dieu! Where does René get these ideas? “Nail her? Where did that brain-blip come from anyhow? Me and Bunsen Burner Barbie? Ha, ha, ha.” He shivered with exaggerated distaste.
Come to think of it, he always felt k
ind of shivery when he was around Sylvie . . . nauseous, actually. He couldn’t stand the woman. Never could. Without a word—just a toss of her aristocratic head—she always managed to reduce him to the small, ill-clothed, bad boy from the bayous, anxious for a favor from an uptown Creole girl. Not that he ever showed it. Instead, he played down to her expectations.
“I still can’t see why I have to be the one to approach her, René. You know her, too. I remember her greeting you at the Crawfish Festival last summer. Seems to me she gave you a big hug of welcome. ‘Oooh, René, it was so sweet of your band to come play for us.’ ” The last he mimicked in a high falsetto voice. Then he added in a grumble, “All I got was her usual frown.”
René laughed. “Sylvie likes you, deep down.”
“It must be real deep.”
“Here,” René said, offering him the rearview mirror, which he picked up off the floor. “Your hair looks like a bayou hurricane just swept through.”
Luc raked his fingers through his windblown hair, then gave up. Was he seriously buying into René’s warped idea of impressing Sylvie?
“I still say you should have worn a suit.”
“A suit! What, you don’t like the way I’m dressed now?” He looked down at his jeans and the black T-shirt emblazoned with the logo “Proud to be a Coonass.” He lifted his chin defensively. “My clothes are clean.”
In truth, his clothes were always clean. Rumpled, yeah. But always, always clean. One time Sylvie had looked kinda funny at his muddy jeans and sniffed, as if he smelled. It didn’t matter that he was only eight years old at the time. His clothes were never dirty again, even when he’d had to wash them in cold bayou stream water in an enamel basin at night, along with those of his younger brothers Remy and René, and wear them damp to school in the morning. A slap or two from his father would be thrown in there somewhere. By mid-morning his head would often droop with exhaustion, and Sister Colette would rap him awake with a ruler to the head, deriding, “You bad boy, you! You’re never going to amount to anything but a gougut . . . a slovenly, stupid person.”
Lordy, he hadn’t thought of that in years. No wonder it rankled like hell that he had to go to Ms. Goody Two-Shoes for a favor today.
“Well, come on,” he urged as he climbed over the driver’s door, which was rusted shut. “Time to put our pirogue in the water and see if we float or sink.”
“Uh, me, I think I’ll stay here. Better you should dazzle Sylvie with your moves in private.”
Moves? What moves? Watching his brother squirm uncomfortably in the seat, avoiding his eyes, Luc realized that he’d been set up good and proper. René had never intended to go in with him. Whatever. He might as well get it over with. Maybe he’d still get in an hour or two of fishing to night.
“Bonne chance,” René called after him as he headed for the front entrance of the pharmaceutical research company, where workers were beginning to stream out, ending their workday.
Yep, it is a thing without end, he decided. Sa fini pas.
About the Author
SANDRA HILL is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than ten years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
For more information on additional books in Sandra’s Cajun and other series, please visit her website: www.sandrahill.net.
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By Sandra Hill
Cajun Series
Cajun Persuasion
Cajun Crazy
The Cajun Doctor
The Love Potion
Deadly Angels Series
Good Vampires Go to Heaven
The Angel Wore Fangs
Even Vampires Get the Blues
Vampire in Paradise
Christmas in Transylvania
Kiss of Wrath
Kiss of Temptation
Kiss of Surrender
Kiss of Pride
Viking Series I
The Pirate Bride
The Norse King’s Daughter
The Viking Takes a Knight
Viking in Love
A Tale of Two Vikings
The Viking’s Captive (formerly My Fair Viking)
The Blue Viking
The Bewitched Viking
The Tarnished Lady
The Outlaw Viking
The Reluctant Viking
Viking Series II
Hot & Heavy
Wet & Wild
The Very Virile Viking
Truly, Madly Viking
The Last Viking
Creole-Time Travel Series
Sweeter Savage Love
Frankly, My Dear…
Others
Love Me Tender
Desperado
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Love Potion copyright © 2012 by Sandra Hill.
cajun persuasion. Copyright © 2018 by Sandra Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-256640-9
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-256653-9
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