Hot Touch

by Deborah Smith

  He clucked his tongue in mild reprimand. “Here I’m being a gentleman, and you complain.” Paul finally managed to twist his torso so that his arousal no longer indented her stomach, but he felt her heart racing against his chest and knew that her resistance was a desperate facade.

  “Is that a sigh of relief I heard, doc?”

  “Nah, chère, it was your own sigh of disappointment.”

  They gave each other looks that quickly became strangled with repressed smiles of pure naughtiness. He arched a black brow at her. “Now that we’re friends, how about I introduce you to a few local treasures?” He cut his eyes with comic lechery.

  From the intense way she gazed up at him, her eyes half shut, her mouth half open, as if she wanted to be kissed—could the she-devil read his mind?—Paul knew that he had a very good chance of convincing her to go along with his offer.

  “What treasures?” she asked softly.

  “Cajun things.” He rubbed circles in the curve of her spine, letting his fingertips explore the territory of bone and muscle so that she had to know that he was making a map in his mind. Paul felt her quiver under his touch.

  She tossed a disapproving look toward the creek. “Will we have as much fun as today?”

  “Better than that. We’ll go eat some Cajun food tonight and do some dancing.”

  She looked skeptical.

  “You know so little about your mother’s people,” he reminded her. “Be fair. I have a feeling that you want to be fair with people if they’ll be fair too.”

  She nodded, her eyes flickering with admiration for his insight. “It’s all I ask.”

  On impulse he kissed the tip of her nose. When he drew back, her eyes shone with emotion. She blinked, squinted at him shrewdly, and asked in a firm voice, “I won’t have to catch my dinner, will I?”

  He laughed heartily. She bit her lip, smiled, then laughed a little with him. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh, really laugh, other than when she was with the ferrets. Wanting to absorb the sound, he struggled not to kiss her.

  From the general direction of the plantation came the honking of a car horn. She lifted her wrist and gazed at the wide ceramic bracelet that contained an elegant watch face. “So much for lunch. The crew must be signaling us. We’re late.”

  Paul slowly unwound his arms and noted that she didn’t leave too quickly. She became very formal and busily straightened her wet, wrinkled scarf, but she stayed close to him. He smiled to himself.

  “Chère?”

  “Yes?”

  “You make pretty good mudbug bait.”

  She threw the scarf at his head.

  After lunch Wolf growled heartily and on cue for the scene that had caused so much trouble that morning, and now he went through his paces in the outdoor scene as if he were the only calm creature within a hundred miles.

  Caroline stood on the sidelines, sipping a diet drink and peering out from under a sunhat contentedly.

  Wolf looked over to confirm her promise from time to time. You help, she-friend?

  I’ll help.

  He went back to work with a vigor that made Paul whoop with pleasure.

  Caroline was happy to make Paul happy—she was willing to admit that. She felt as if some strange power had taken hold of her; she’d never intended to tell him her melodramatic history, or huddle in his arms like a sad child, or let him talk her into going out with him.

  Their lunchtime encounter had left her drained and yet revitalized. She frowned, trying to categorize the odd feeling. It was something like the sensation she got after an hour of exercising with her Jane Fonda videos.

  She’d read somewhere that the pleasant exhaustion from aerobics was nearly as good as the languor that followed great sex. Good grief—what did that reveal about her feelings for Blue? Having never had great sex, she could only speculate.

  Frank’s brother, Tom, had been the sweetest, most unselfishly loving man she’d ever known, and he’d melted a lot of her defensiveness. Caroline smiled pensively. Thanks to Tom, she’d become a much nicer person.

  But by the time she met him, severe diabetes had taken a toll on his energy. Still, they enjoyed a beautiful relationship and it made her regret the callous way she’d treated men before.

  Not that she’d known any mature, sensitive men before she met Tom. She was a loner; she remembered only the crude, demanding boys from high school.

  She’d dated the bad guys, the troublemakers, boys who worried her stepparents to no end, exactly as she wanted. Revenge had been more important than self-respect.

  Caroline watched Paul guide Wolf through a few more rehearsals of the current scene. Paul Belue, hmmm. Here was a man who didn’t fit either of the extremes she’d experienced with the male of the species. He was sweet but lusty, gentle but wild.

  Caroline realized that just thinking about gentle, lusty, sweet, wild Paul Belue was enough to make hot sensations slip down the inside of her belly like melted sugar. She shut her eyes and desperately willed him out of her thoughts.

  Wolf’s sharp excitement plunged into her mind. Caroline jerked her eyes open and stared at Wolf, who stared beyond the barricade of lights, camera equipment, and people toward some impending disaster.

  “Waaatch out!” Ed Thompson called from somewhere near the pastures. “Gaaate ooopen! Llamas ouuut!”

  Chaos.

  Dabney, lounging in the director’s chair with her black miniskirt hiked to the tops of her thighs, leapt up screaming and ran around like an addled blackbird. Crew members climbed onto anything available. Frank came out of his trailer, grasped his head in horror, and simply stared.

  Dozens of llamas overran the set.

  Caroline began to chuckle. These long-necked, big-eyed darlings were as dangerous as a patch of petunias. They stopped amid the equipment and people, their funny little heads turning to and fro in curiosity, their shaggy sides heaving with exertion.

  Paul strode into the middle of the set, where Dabney was surrounded like Custer at the Little Bighorn. She dodged the llama’s snuffling noses.

  “They won’t hurt anyone,” Paul announced.

  “They’re biting me!” Dabney squealed, and latched on to him with both hands.

  The llamas were indeed smooching her with their mobile, soft, little mouths. “They’re just friendly, petite,” Paul told her, but he gazed at the llamas in consternation.

  She cringed—the llamas were now tugging at her tangled black hair—and threw both arms around him. Caroline tapped one foot impatiently and frowned at the scene. Ed and several college students finally arrived and began scattering the invaders.

  But the llamas weren’t finished with Dabney. They began to spit at her, rotating their mouths like old men with lips full of snuff, then nailing her with uncanny accuracy.

  The crew hooted. People clasped their stomachs and fell off their safe perches. Even Frank bent his head to the door frame of his trailer and laughed until he went weak-kneed and had to sit down. Caroline watched with a giddy smile. Wolf flopped by her right foot and made long, exuberant roooo sounds that sounded like canine amusement.

  Paul, who was getting spattered by association, let go of Dabney and began pushing llamas away, his smile contained behind an expression of absolute astonishment.

  The llamas finally stopped their assault as Ed and his helpers waded among them, shoving and yelling. Dabney looked down at her ruined leather outfit, her mouth slack, her hands dangling.

  You she-Elvis, you’ve been slimed, Caroline thought victoriously. She glanced down and found Wolf gazing at her.

  “That’ll teach her to mess with our man, won’t it?” she whispered. Wolf yipped.

  Caroline clamped a hand over her mouth and stopped breathing. Had she told the llamas to spit on Dabney? No, she hadn’t tried, she hadn’t even thought …

  Had they sensed what she wanted?

  Yes. Oh, Lord, yes. They’d felt her jealousy and reacted to it. Maybe they’d felt it all the way over in the
pasture and come to her aid. This was incredible.

  Stunned by the force of her feelings for Paul and what they’d unwittingly accomplished, Caroline turned quickly and headed for the house. She had to think this over.

  “Hey, llama mama, watch out!” Paul yelled.

  Caroline turned around and gasped. The whole herd was following her respectfully. They crowded around her.

  A few reached out and touched their noses to her gently. There was no spitting. People who’d been guffawing hysterically now watched dumbfounded. She glanced over the llamas’ heads and saw Paul with his hands on his hips, staring at her.

  Caroline coughed, clasped her hands behind her back, and smiled at the llamas.

  You’re very dear and I love you all. Now go back to the pasture.

  She called to the human audience, “They like blondes! I’ve seen llamas do this before!”

  That explanation missed weak and went straight to ludicrous, she thought, but it was the best her rattled brain could do.

  As the llamas walked calmly, unguided, back to their pasture, Caroline walked numbly, her face burning, to the house.

  The last golden streaks of sunset slanted through the open kitchen window and created yellow auras around the four cats who sat on the window ledge telling Caroline what they’d like for dinner.

  “How about the tuna and cheese combination?” she asked, holding up a can with one hand and an opener with the other. She watched their faces and listened to an assortment of cat talk.

  “Okay, Tabby and Orange, you’d rather eat rocks than this. I get the message, smart butts. I’ll give the tuna-cheese delight to Blackie and White Kitty.”

  She thought wryly that if Paul ever had children, he’d better let his wife name them. That musing produced a wistful envy inside her, and she quickly distracted herself.

  Caroline held another can in front of Tabby and Orange. “How about liver?”

  Their eyes gleamed. Mouse!

  Which she interpreted as We like that.

  “Marvelous,” Caroline said dryly, and began opening the can.

  “Tell me, chère, would they like spoons and napkins?”

  Caroline turned around and saw Paul standing in the doorway, one long leg out at an angle, his hands on his hips, a thoughtful smile softening his blunt-featured face as he watched her and the cats.

  Oh, that knowing smile of his was bad, very bad. At this rate he was going to figure out everything about her, including her special talent with animals and the fact that her heart raced every time she looked at him.

  “Animals respond automatically to the sound of a soothing human voice,” she answered. “And cats especially like female voices.”

  “What do llamas like?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at him innocently. “That was a fascinating incident today.” She busied herself with the cat food, glancing at him as she did. “I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you clean and fully dressed, doc.”

  “Look.” He pointed to his comfortable brown loafers. “Feet. I’d recognize them anywhere.”

  “Not that. Look. No socks.” His voice was droll. “See? I can be fashionable too, yes?” She chuckled. “Indeed.”

  Caroline’s arms tingled with pleasant goose bumps as he crossed the room and sat on the kitchen table near her. She felt his gaze burning into her back.

  “Thanks for feeding my cats,” he offered.

  “No problem. I like cats with practical names. Are you ready to go?”

  He clapped his hands together. “Mais oui! Ready for le bon temps! Good times!”

  Caroline glanced at him distractedly. Every woman in the state must be dying to share le bon temps with Dr. Blue, pure masculinity in a casual package.

  He wore a long-sleeved white pullover of heavy cotton that resembled a football jersey. It was decorated with a broad band of blue around the chest and shoulders, and he’d tucked the jersey into faded jeans.

  His flowing black hair and deep tan looked even more exotic next to the white pullover, his eyes more blue because of the complementing band of color across his chest, his shoulders more muscular where the color emphasized them. Breathing in shallow puffs, Caroline looked down at the can she had opened. “Ooops. Wrong one. Chicken.”

  White Kitty yowled in dismay.

  Paul laughed. “Sounds like she’s mad.”

  She is, Caroline told him silently. She hates chicken.

  “Hey, Caro, you gotta change clothes. All those scarves and shawls and things—people will think you got no closet.”

  “Caro? Caro? Pick a better nickname, please. That sounds like a syrup. Now, what’s this about me wearing too many clothes?”

  “You’ll get hot.”

  The skirt and blouse combination with layers of accessories was straight from a Neiman-Marcus display. Annoyed, she pointed to her heart. “I’m cold-natured.”

  “Once you eat some spicy Cajun food you’re gonna strip like a table dancer at a nudie bar. The dance of the overpriced scarves. Besides, people will think you’re a snob if you dress like that.”

  “I am a snob, and proud of it.”

  “Nah, not really. Go change.”

  Huffing, she crossed the kitchen to her bedroom door. When she jerked the door open, a blast of cool air rolled out. Just before she shut the door behind her she whirled around and gleefully thumbed her nose at him.

  “Thanks for the A.C. and the fashion advice.” He blew her a kiss.

  His classic black Corvette convertible made a perfect picture against the cathedral-like avenue of oak trees beyond the mansion’s lawn. A low fog was creeping in from the marshes, and it swirled around the car in the dusky evening light. The air was pleasantly warm and laden with the scents of earth and greenery.

  An advertising genius couldn’t have created a better atmosphere. If an automobile could be sexy and mysterious, the Corvette was the ultimate seducer.

  Standing on the patio, Caroline braced a hand against one of the mansion’s majestic columns, seeking support. The mental image of Paul behind the wheel of the Corvette sent a white-hot arc of sensation through her.

  “Hey, doc, you told me you drive an old truck,” she murmured over her shoulder.

  “I do sometimes.” Paul finished locking the front door and came to stand beside her. He looked down at her with proud, teasing eyes. “A man shouldn’t reveal all his goodies at once.”

  “That’s one terrific goodie. Which bothers you more—when men drool or women throw themselves on the hood?”

  He chuckled. “You like it. Bien. I got it, oh, ten, twelve years ago, when I was in college. It was a mess, a real fixer-upper.”

  He worked so damned hard to get and keep everything he owned. He poured energy and commitment into everything he touched. How could she help but feel this surge of affection for him?

  Paul leaned against a column across from hers and watched her for a moment. “You okay, chère?”

  “Of course.” It was a lie. She couldn’t bear to look at him, afraid that she’d cry and ask him to hold her. The air seemed vividly sweet and enticing; the small night songs of insects came to her underscored by the faint sound of slow, moaning jazz music that tightened her belly with erotic yearnings.

  Caroline dug her fingernails into her palms. It was some kind of Cajun magic Blue had conjured up to ruin her defenses.

  “Caroline?” Paul said worriedly.

  Ed Thompson had a collection of New Orleans jazz albums, she recalled, trying desperately to be sensible. The music must be coming from his cabin.

  “I’m … just tired, that’s all.”

  Caroline clutched her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. She had to get away from Blue and this place.

  “You okay?” he asked again, and stepped toward her.

  She straightened swiftly and glared at him. “I’m fine, Dr. Dolittle. Stop hovering.”

  He halted, studying her and frowning. With a sudden overwhelming ache she knew what was happening to h
er; she was homesick for a home she’d never known and dying to fall in love with this man.

  Stop it!

  “What’s goin’ on in that she-devil mind of yours?” he teased, but his eyes were serious.

  Caroline shoved one hand into the pocket of the black slacks she wore with an off-the-shoulder black sweater, black flats, and an array of delicate gold jewelry. With her other hand she flipped a smooth cascade of reddish-blond hair off each shoulder. She gave Paul a disgusted look.

  “You know, doc, Dabney would look great in that car. Have you shown it to her?”

  “Nooo,” he said in a low, wary tone.

  “You ought to. If anything could make a woman forget llama spit and think about sex, your macho machine would do it.”

  “I’m sort of like a llama. I prefer blondes.”

  “You’re a man. You prefer to have a friendly, willing woman.” It made her a little sick to realize how easily the obnoxious act came to her.

  She gazed at him in surprise when he heaved a sigh of relief. “I see,” he said succinctly, as if he’d just figured out something new about her. Then he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and smiled as if she were a wayward child.

  “Come on, llama mama. And cut the crap.” He ambled down the walkway toward the Corvette and waved one hand in a nonchalant “follow-me” gesture.

  He hadn’t bought the nasty routine at all. He could see right through her and he knew she was running scared.

  Her face burning with embarrassment, Caroline followed him.

  It was a typical Friday night, and half the parish seemed to be at Beaujean’s, a dance hall and restaurant on the outskirts of a hamlet some Cajun with a sense of humor had named Breaux LaMonde. Paul always thought that the name made Breaux LaMonde sound bigger and fancier than it was.

  There was nothing fancy about Beaujean’s long, low building with its neon alligator sign, but there didn’t need to be. The appeal was intangible, but like most things Cajun, it would charm anyone who gave it a chance.

  Paul guided a rather subdued Caroline inside a noisy dining room where the decor featured paneled walls dotted with beer signs and practical wooden chairs and tables covered with plain white cloths.