Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03]

by Wild Jinx

  After Luc hung up, he tried Celine’s number. No answer.

  No sooner did John get word the next day that the Mafia dudes had been sentenced than he was on the horn to Remy. “Get me out of here!”

  The first thing he did when he got back to his cottage was take a shower, listen to the gazillion messages on his answering machine, read the newspaper account about Wild Bill Rivard, aka Tante Lulu, and her encounter with the mob, arrange to have his cleaning lady resume her twice-monthly routine, and call his family members to tell them he was back home. The chief had told him he didn’t have to return to work ’til Monday . . . five days away.

  An hour later, he hopped into his red Impala convertible and drove to Houma. Once he found James Arseneaux’s house—a modest, 1950s style cottage—he didn’t hesitate to go up onto the porch and knock on the door.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Arseneaux greeted him.

  “Some welcome! I’ve come to see Etienne.”

  “Ya shoulda called first.”

  “I did. Three times. Then I left a message on the answering machine.”

  “I hate answering machines.”

  “Where’s Celine?”

  “Workin’.”

  “Is Etienne here?”

  He scrooched his wrinkled face up, probably considering a lie, but just then, he heard Etienne yell from upstairs, “Grampa, is my quiet time up?”

  “Quiet time?” He glanced in question to Arseneaux.

  “He whacked down all the dahlias in the backyard with his spear.”

  “Spear?”

  “Broom handle.”

  “Hey, I dint know you was here.” Etienne was standing at the top of the stairs. The ear to ear, toothless smile on his face was enough to make any father’s heart skip a beat.

  “Hey, tiger, how’d you like to take a ride in my convertible?”

  Before the kid could answer, Arseneaux asked, “Ya got a car seat?”

  “No. Do I need a car seat?”

  “It’s the law. Jeesh! What kinda cop are ya?”

  One who knows zip about kids. “Okay, how ’bout we walk down to that ice cream shop. I see it every time I go to Luc’s office.”

  “Ice cream! Yippee! I like praline.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Ice cream at one o’clock in the afternoon?” Arseneaux griped, but he knew that he couldn’t keep John from his son, so he just shuffled off.

  Three hours later, John was ready to go take a nap. Or swig down a few oyster shooters. His kid could sap the energy out of a battery. They’d had ice cream, half of which ended up on Etienne’s face and shirt. A lady sitting next to them in the ice cream shop handed him a wet wipe. Was he supposed to carry stuff like that around with him? Then they went to the park—named Houma Lilypond Park, although there wasn’t a pond or lily in sight—where Etienne insisted he climb the monkey bars with him, ride the merry-go-round, go on the big slide, and race him around the field six times.

  After that, they fed the ducks down on the bayou, and there were plenty of bayous here in Houma, which was a really interesting town. With numerous bridges and bayous stemming out like spokes on a wheel, some called it the Venice of America.

  When they got back to the house, Etienne showed him his bedroom, then insisted he sit on the floor and play pirates and Vikings with him. When he’d asked him if he was a good pirate, Etienne had given him a look of disgust, as if he knew nothing. “A baaad pirate.”

  And questions! Mon Dieu! The kid asked a million questions.

  “Do ya like kids?”

  “Do ya have any kids?”

  “Do ya like girls?”

  “Kin I buy some firecrackers?”

  “Kin I buy a tittie magazine?”

  “Kin I borrow yer handcuffs?”

  And everything was followed up with the question: “Why?”

  And some of his questions were downright alarming.

  “Didja ever pull down yer pants and flash yer hiney at the nuns?”

  “Didja ever climb ta the tippytop of a tree higher than a house?”

  “Didja ever pet an ally-gator?”

  Then he provided some useful information, like, “Are you ticklish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “The bottom of my feet.”

  “Oh. My mom’s ticklish behind her knees.”

  “Oh, really?”

  John practically staggered up the porch steps at the end of the afternoon. When Arseneaux told him that Celine had called and would be home late due to a last-minute assignment, he decided not to hang around. “Tell Celine I’ll call her later,” he told Arseneaux.

  Arseneaux just grinned maliciously at him, and John knew his message would land in the virtual circular file.

  War of the Almost-Roses . . .

  Two weeks later, after twenty unanswered phone calls, on top of convenient absences by Celine every time he went to visit Etienne, John had had it up to his flaring nostrils. He felt like one of those hamsters running on an ever-spinning wheel.

  “File the papers,” he ordered Luc as he stormed into his Houma office.

  “What’s up now?” Luc, who’d just come back from the courthouse, put his bulging briefcase on his desk and told his secretary to hold all calls. Closing his inner office door, he plopped down into the chair behind his desk and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

  “Same old crap. You told me to try to work it out with Celine. Well, I’ve tried, hit a gazillion brick walls, and she’s not interested. End of story.”

  “The way I hear it, every time you call her, you end up making threats. What kind of bullshit diplomacy is that?”

  “She’s the one who should be contacting me, making concessions, trying to make nice,” he insisted. “I want to sue for custody. I’m gonna put an addition on my cabin. Hire a live-in sitter. Go to Disneyland. Be a freakin’ great Brady Bunch father . . . except with one kid. To hell with Celine!”

  “Tee-John,” he sighed, “take my advice, please. This is not the route to follow.”

  “It’s the only route I’m seein’ right now. Yeah, I know it’ll be hard. In fact, how do you do it with three kids? I spend a few hours with one kid, and I’m beat.”

  Luc smiled. “You need a wife.”

  “I’m tryin’. Not to get a wife, ferchrissake, but I’ve been tryin’ to have some kind of relationship with Celine, but she’s avoidin’ me like somethin’ smelly.”

  Luc grinned.

  “What?”

  “I’ve never known you to be the pursuer.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why? Do you love her?”

  “Pfff! I hardly know her.”

  “So?”

  “Until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t thought about Celine in more than five years. Even then, there wasn’t much thought that went into our one-night stand.”

  “Tee-John, I knew Sylvie since we were in grade school. Never thought much about her ’til one day I walked into her lab, and zing, I was a goner. It happened that quick.”

  “I do lust her,” he conceded.

  “That’s a start.”

  “If you keep grinnin’ like that, I might have to punch your lights out.”

  “You could try, little brother. You know, it just occurred to me . . . when I called you a couple weeks back to tell you about the Mafia thugs . . . normally, you would have asked about Tante Lulu first, but the first person you were worried about was Celine.”

  John frowned. He hadn’t realized. Hmmm. Maybe that was telling.

  “Seriously, why not just try dating for a while? See where it goes?”

  “Dating?” He laughed. “What, you think I’m still a teenager, and I’m gonna take her to the prom?”

  “Give me a break, Tee-John. What do I know about couples today? I’ve been married more than fifteen years. If not dating, then be lovers for a while.”

  “I wish! She’s shut down the love factory on me.”

  �
�Is this Tee-John LeDeux speaking? The guy whose scoring average is about one hundred percent . . . the guy who once claimed he’d never met a woman he couldn’t seduce?”

  He winced. “You’re right. I’ve been acting pathetic. Time to be proactive. Time to charm the pants off Celine Arseneaux.”

  “I presume you mean that literally.”

  “Damn straight!”

  “I’ll forewarn you, buddy, if you get custody of Etienne, Tante Lulu will be movin’ in with you faster than you can say, ‘Oh, my God!’”

  “Oh, my God! Okay, I’ll give it one more try, but then it’s time to do your Perry Mason routine.”

  “Perry Mason was a criminal lawyer.”

  “Whatever.”

  So it was that he arrived, unannounced, at Celine’s house that Saturday afternoon. He knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he walked in.

  And saw a man.

  A man who was sitting on the couch, holding Celine’s hand. In the background, probably the kitchen, he heard Etienne talking to his grandfather.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked. Just call me Mr. Diplomat. Not!

  The guy arched his eyebrows and stood. “David McLean.”

  Oh. David of the big too-too. His eyes shot to the guy’s crotch. Nothing spectacular that he could see.

  Celine knew where he was staring and why and could barely suppress a smile.

  “I assume you’re John LeDeux,” McLean said, stretching out his hand for a shake.

  Reluctantly, he shook the guy’s hand.

  “Back from Afghanistan?”

  McLean nodded.

  “How long you gonna be stateside?”

  A tiny smirk appeared on McLean’s mouth. He knew exactly why John had asked and was enjoying his discomfort. “A few weeks.”

  “Did you want something?” Celine asked, standing now, too. Next to McLean. Dammit!

  Matching John in height, McLean was wearing khakis and a golf shirt. His short blond hair framed a suntanned face which some might call handsome. Personally, he thought he was too girly-looking.

  Celine was wearing a red and white striped sundress with sandals and . . . Holy shit! . . . crimson-painted toenails. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in some kind of sexy knot with tendrils escaping around her face. She had makeup on; for some reason, that bothered him.

  “I came over on the suggestion of my lawyer . . . to talk,” he blurted out.

  “Now is not a good time,” Celine said.

  Right away, his blood pressure rose, but for once he restrained himself from saying something he might regret. “Well, you let me know when would be a good time, then, sweetie.” With that, he stalked out, leaving the two of them stunned.

  He needed a drink . . . or five.

  Mi casa es su casa . . .

  Next day, a Sunday, she showed up with Etienne at his cabin. It was barely nine A.M., and he was in the kitchen making a cup of instant coffee to go with his leftover cold pizza from the night before.

  He was barefooted, but decently covered in boxers and a T-shirt, although the shirt did have the crawfish imprint, “Shuck Me, Suck Me, Eat Me Raw.” Luckily, Etienne couldn’t read that well yet; nor would he understand . . . he hoped.

  “See, Mom, I tol’ you he’d be home.”

  John’s eyes connected with hers, in question.

  “You said you wanted to talk.” Her face was pink with embarrassment. He would imagine she didn’t show up at men’s houses, unannounced, very often.

  “Good morning, then,” he husked out.

  She wore navy blue Bermuda shorts, a lighter blue tank top . . . the kind with a built-in bra . . . white sandals with the red toenails peeping out, and a high ponytail. No makeup.

  She looked better to him than she had the day before, and she’d looked damn good then.

  “Good morning,” she replied, and her voice was husky, too.

  “See, Mom, John has a house on stilts right in the water, and ya kin fish off his back porch and see gators and egg . . . egg . . . egrets and snakes and stuff.”

  “Oh, that’s just what I want to do on my day off. Look at snakes.”

  “Oh, Mom!”

  “Are you here because Etienne insisted, or was it your idea?”

  She hesitated, then admitted, “I wanted to come.”

  He grinned.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.” He stretched out a hand and tugged on her ponytail, causing more strands of hair to come loose. “I’d like you to see my house. I can run over to Boudreaux’s General Store and pick up some stuff for lunch. We could fish a little. Swim. Take a nap.” He waggled his eyebrows at that last.

  “A nap! I doan take naps. I’m a big boy.”

  “So am I,” he said meaningfully to Celine. “C’mon, sugar, it’ll be fun.”

  Despite what he said, he wasn’t sure how much fun he could take from this bit of pure temptation. And forget about naps. He knew exactly what nap meant in his man-dictionary, and so did she. But she wasn’t bolting.

  Interesting.

  “Why do you call my mom sugar?”

  “Because she’s so sweet.”

  Etienne giggled at the idea of his mother being sweet.

  So it was that Celine, the unsuspecting chick, entered the fox’s lair that day.

  Then trouble came knocking on his door . . .

  John was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and all because his son and Celine were in his home, together, for the first time.

  Etienne, of course, loved it. What kid wouldn’t want to live in a home on stilts over water? First, Etienne had been fascinated by the huge black and orange Monarch butterflies that flitted about the area. Then a moving hump-shaped rock got his attention . . . an armadillo.

  The bayou could be a paradise for a little boy. Right now, he was leaning over the porch railing, fishing or spitting into the water, or both.

  But what did Celine think?

  Really, it was just a glorified cabin. Yeah, it had modern appliances in the little kitchen, and the bathroom had been remodeled last year. But it was small and had only one bedroom. Still, it was prime waterfront property, and the dwelling could always be expanded, or torn down for that matter, and a new house put up.

  Later, they were in the kitchen, having fished and swum to Etienne’s heart’s content.

  “So, what do you think of the place?” He and Celine were setting out already prepared po’-boys with side salads on his kitchen table.

  “It’s great. Can’t beat the view.”

  “Before I forget, there’s been an ominous silence from my family lately . . . regarding you and Etienne. That has every alarm bell in my head going off. I suspect they’re plannin’ something.”

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Not one of those embarrassing LeDeux events?”

  “They better not.”

  She picked up one of the St. Jude salt shakers on his table and laughed. She’d already remarked on the large number of St. Jude items around his house. “Maybe I should pray to St. Jude . . . to counteract whatever they’re planning.”

  “Won’t work,” he told her. “Tante Lulu’s got the dibs on St. Jude.”

  They spent the rest of the day together, hiking and relaxing on the porch which fronted the bayou. John found himself watching Celine. A lot.

  She was great with Etienne. Patient . . . like not losing her cool when he spilt grape juice on her shorts. Loving . . . the way she hugged him so much, and often for the smallest things, like catching a fish the size of a minnow. Stern . . . like refusing to budge when he begged for a dog. Smart . . . like having a knack for teaching him lessons without him knowing it, like making him count the number of different butterflies he saw.

  And she was damn attractive. He already knew what those spectacular breasts looked like under the bra and T-shirt. So, of course, that’s all his sexually charged X-ray
eyes saw. Her hair was a pretty dark brown color, but there were red and gold highlights here in the sunshine. Her pale blue eyes were one of her most interesting . . . even startling . . . features. When she bent over to examine a squeaking frog with Etienne, he noticed her butt—not fat but a nice handful for a man’s hands . . . his hands, to be precise. He also homed in on the back of her knees, which he’d like to lick some more.

  Now that she wasn’t so pole-up-the-ass stiff with him and inclined to make sarcastic remarks to counter every little thing he said or did, he liked her personality, too. Quick to laughter. Really intelligent. Caring. Sexy. Oh, yeah, sexy, without being blatant about it.

  Mon Dieu! I sound like one of those catalogues for a dating agency.

  Not that he didn’t see Celine’s faults, too, but, hell, he had plenty of his own. Like standing here, gawking at her like a pimple-faced adolescent dork.

  The thing was, the more he watched Celine and the more he listened, the easier he found it to say, in his head, I love you.

  No, no, no, I don’t love her. I’m just thinkin’ about lovin’ her.

  Celine glanced up at him then from the living room, where she was now setting up a DVD of The Incredibles. “Time for a bit of quiet time for a tired boy,” she told Etienne. Then to him, “Did you say something?”

  “Uh, did you hear thunder?”

  Sure enough, off in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  “It’s probably just a summer storm somewhere,” she said. “I doubt if it will reach us.”

  A voice in his head said, “Wanna bet?”

  Chapter 21

  He needed her knees . . .

  Celine was in big, big trouble, and she was having too much fun to put a halt to the disaster headed her way . . . the disaster being in the form of one great big love bug.

  Yep, she was falling in love with the worst possible man. No way would a guy like him be satisfied for long with a woman like her, even though he was giving her “the look,” now that Etienne had fallen asleep in the middle of his movie. His head was resting on folded arms on the rug, his little butt up in the air.

  Her heart constricted as she watched John lay a St. Jude afghan over him with loving care. Oh, God! How could I resist loving a man who loves my son? Or a man who loves his aging aunt so much he actually uses a St. Jude afghan?