by Sandra Hill
“Hot damn!” was Remy’s response to the second set of drinks. Then he said, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Okay, but you go first. No more ogling my butt.”
“Oh, heck!” He grinned from ear to ear.
By the time they reached the small dance floor, the band was well into “Louisiana Man.” René didn’t skip a beat when he said into the microphone, “Hi, Remy.”
Rachel could swear Remy told his brother to do something very vulgar to himself with his accordion, which was unlike Remy. He usually exuded excessive politeness around women. He probably thought she couldn’t hear under the strain of the booze buzz that assailed her.
Remy turned toward her, opening his arms in invitation. Most men in her experience either couldn’t dance or didn’t do it well, and definitely didn’t like dancing, considering it a useless exercise.
“Can you dance?” she asked.
“Darlin’, I’m Cajun,” he said, as if that was answer enough.
She put her hands on his shoulders. He put his hands on her waist. And Remy soon proved that Cajun and dancing went hand in hand. Oh, he wasn’t flamboyant or anything. Just smooth. So smooth that she wasn’t even self-conscious anymore about how she looked or people staring at them or hooting encouragement to Remy or whether her butt resembled a caboose in the slut dress. All she was aware of was the soft movement of their hips, the warm heat which suffused her body—which had almost nothing at all to do with liquor—and the absolute rightness of her being in his embrace. She hadn’t even noticed when the bride and groom, Luc and his wife, Charmaine and some man who kept gawking at Charmaine’s chest and a whole lot of other people joined them on the dance floor.
“You weren’t lying. You are a good dancer,” she said, tilting her head back to see him better.
Remy laughed. “We haven’t started dancing yet, chère.”
“What do you call this?”
He thought for a long moment, as if unsure whether to say what he really thought. Then he pulled out one of those slow, sexy grins of his. “Foreplay.”
She tripped on her feet. Probably the alcohol buzz. Or the Remy buzz.
“So, you plied me with liquor to seduce me.”
“Oh, no! You’re not laying that one on me. You are the one seducing me.”
Her mouth dropped open with indignation, but she never had a chance to sputter out a reply because the rogue yanked her closer, took her right hand in his left one, and spun her around, emerging into a lively Cajun two-step with other couples in the room.
Remy was a big man, at least six-foot-two, but he was light on his feet. And he had rhythm. Why that should arouse her was a puzzle. But she was.
When “Louisiana Man” ended and the band segued smoothly into “Cochon de Lait,” Remy smiled at her, as if asking if she wanted to continue. She smiled back. When he leaned down to place his cheek against hers, she turned her face at the last moment so that his disfigured side pressed against her cheek.
He gasped softly at her action, stiffened, then relaxed. “Have you ever heard of St. Jude?” he murmured against her ear. “I swear, you two are conspiring against me.”
After that, they danced several more sets in a row. “Big Mamou.” “Zydeco Gris Gris.” “Louisiana Saturday Night.” “Je Veux Me Marier.” Sometimes they danced without their bodies touching, but mostly Remy held her pressed against him shoulders to groin. Rachel felt his heart beating against hers and relished the sweetness of life. She was alive and in this time and place with this man—this healthy man if his rapid heartbeat was any indication.
“Do you go dancing often?” she asked breathlessly.
“No.”
Well, that was blunt. “When was the last time?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t go out much, Rachel. I’m only here tonight because my brother René is back in town for the weekend. He’s an environmental lobbyist in Washington.”
Well, that was interesting, and surprising, that the extremely handsome man on the stage with the wild sense of humor worked in such a sober profession. But that was beside the point. “C’mon, Remy, I can’t picture you staying home, celibate and lonely. I imagine you go out with lots of women. And the way you dance, you must have lots of practice.”
“I never said anything about being celibate,” he said, lifting his chin in defense. “But I haven’t had a date in months, and that’s the truth.”
Rachel snuggled up against him then, pleased for some odd reason that he didn’t date much. Remy reciprocated by running the flats of both his hands up and down her back before settling them on her hips.
She loved that he was taller than she was, even in high heels. She loved the way they fit so well together. She loved the way his dark hair curled on the back of his neck, in need of a haircut. She loved the smell of his skin, a male scent unique to Remy, discernible even through his soap and aftershave. She loved the way he was so polite when he bumped into another couple. She loved the way his dark eyes were alternately somber and twinkling as he gazed at her. She loved the way his long fingers held hers firmly and possessively. She loved his disfigured face . . . and the pain he tried to hide. She loved how he was scared to death by what was happening between them.
In fact, she was beginning to love way too much about this man. And, truth be told, she was scared, too.
The band took a break then, and Remy led her, fingers intertwined, to a round table at the edge of the dance floor. Luc and his half-sister Charmaine greeted her warmly. Remy introduced Rachel to Luc’s wife Sylvie, who was dark haired, lovely, and clearly besotted with her husband—who wouldn’t be with those teasing eyes?—and to a man named Larry Ellis from D.C., a client of Remy’s charter helicopter business, or something like that. Then, too, his other brother René came up, looped an arm around hers and Remy’s shoulders, and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this lady, bro?”
“This rat is my brother, René,” Remy said with mock reluctance. “And this is my, uh, friend, Rachel Fortier.”
“Rachel is ’doing’ Remy,” Charmaine announced. “And me, too.”
“I wouldn’t mind her doing us, too,” Luc interjected, and winced in an exaggerated fashion when Sylvie elbowed him.
“I beg your pardon,” René choked out. “Are you a . . . hooker?”
Hah! No wonder he thinks that, with me in this hooker dress!
“Charmaine is being deliberately crude,” Remy explained. “Rachel is a decorator. She’s going to Feng Shui my houseboat and Charmaine’s spa. So, watch your mouth, René.”
René gave Rachel a closer look, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. “My apologies for jumping to conclusions,” René said. Then he turned his attention to Remy. “Feng
Shui? A houseboat? Isn’t Feng Shui that weirdo decorating crap? Mon Dieu, I have been gone much too long.”
Rachel bristled at René’s coarse description of her profession, but then decided a bar wasn’t the place for arguing.
Remy shoved a change of clothing into the hands of René who still wore his suspendered tuxedo pants and cummerbund. René left for the men’s room and soon came back wearing a plaid shirt, leather vest, jeans, a jaunty, low-crowned palmetto hat and cowboy boots. He looked devastatingly handsome in both outfits, Rachel had to admit, but not as good as Remy, of course.
They all sat about the table chatting then. Rachel listened, sipping the whole while at a cool glass of white wine which someone had placed in front of her. The men drank from long-necked bottles of beer.
At their table and all around them, Rachel relished the unique Cajun patois dialect which peppered much of the conversation. It was archaic French mixed in with Spanish, English, German, African and Native American, all combined to give a musical lilt to the speech. Rachel had read that at one time the Cajun people had been forbidden to speak their language in public schools. Thank goodness they hadn’t lost their heritage totally.
; At first, Rachel remained quiet as the three brothers and Charmaine caught up on all the news. Apparently, René hadn’t been back in town for several months. He brought them up to date on his environmental concerns and what was being done about it. “Your mother is being surprisingly helpful,” René said to Sylvie. “No doubt due to your help, darlin’.” Inez Breaux-Fontaine, Sylvie’s mother, was a U.S. Congresswoman from Louisiana who usually befriended big oil interests, not the “tree huggers.” Remy spoke circumspectly about a new, exciting contract he’d just signed, though for the life of her Rachel couldn’t figure out exactly what it entailed. Luc talked about some interesting cases he’d represented in court recently, including the fact that he’d filed a class-action suit on behalf of some alligators against an industrial waste authority—and won. Sylvie, who appeared a bit shy, volunteered that her work as a chemist still involved continued studies of a love potion, of all things. And Charmaine regaled them with stories of her four ex-husbands and about a man who came to her health spa this week, requesting a colon cleansing. “As if!” in her words.
What an interesting group of people! Rachel thought. A pilot, a lawyer, an environmentalist/musician, a spa owner, and a chemist all in one family.
And that’s what intrigued her most of all. The family. Even as they talked over one another, teased, sniped, and argued, it was clear that they had deep love for each other, especially the three brothers. Rachel envied that experience fiercely.
Their attention turned to Rachel. Remy’s hand still held hers, and he squeezed slightly. “Don’t be intimidated by my family. I’ll protect you,” he whispered in her ear.
His breath in her ear caused slingshots of erotic darts to ricochet throughout her body, and Rachel wondered who was going to protect her from Remy. When her eyes connected with his, he winked at her, and Rachel felt the wink all the way down to her toes. He knew exactly what effect he had on her, and he liked it. Well, she liked it, too. A lot.
She looked up to see everyone grinning at her and Remy, except for the D.C. guy who was gazing at Charmaine’s chest.
Luc said, “Tante Lulu gave Remy a hope chest,” as if that had anything to do with them.
Everyone nodded.
“Dum-dum-dee-dum,” René hummed.
That made Rachel sit up straighter. Dum-dum-dee-dum she did understand. These people couldn’t possibly think she and Remy had marriage on the horizon. Talk about premature! They hadn’t even done . . . well, anything. Yet. And maybe they never would. But, hot damn, the prospect of doing anything with Remy sent shivers down her spine, and other places, too.
“Are you cold?” Remy drew her closer to his body heat.
“Huh?”
“You were shivering.”
“Not from the cold.”
He grinned at that. The louse.
Beau walked up then with a giggling blonde Barbie attached at his hip, their arms over each other’s shoulders. “Mary Sue and I wanna go to a club the other side of town. Any chance you could give my cousin a ride home in her truck?” Beau asked Remy, the whole time batting his eyelashes at Rachel imploringly. “Rachel drove me over here, but I’m not sure she knows the way home in the dark.”
“Sure thing,” Remy answered too quickly before Rachel could even get out her, “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Thanks, Remy, I owe you, bud,” Beau said and rushed off before she could grab him by his mullet and wring his neck. “You’re the best, cuz,” he called back to Rachel.
Mary Sue just giggled as a departing goodbye.
Rachel groaned inwardly. It was one thing to shiver around Remy in the safety of a crowded room, quite another to shiver alone with him in a cozy private car—uh, truck.
As if on cue, René once again hummed, “Dum-dum-dee-dum!”
Sweet temptation
Remy drove the long way home.
Surprise, surprise!
He was going to relish the sight, the sound, the smell of Rachel Fortier sitting next to him for as long as he could. Forget about the fact that she sat stiff as a board as far away as possible on the bench seat of her truck.
“Relax, Rachel, I’m not going to jump your bones.” Not yet, anyhow. In truth, he was the one feeling as REDHOT as her vanity license plate.
She turned slowly to look at him. “What if I wanted you to?” Immediately, she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. “I must be drunker than I thought.”
Okay, maybe she’s a little REDHOT, too. If I’m lucky. “You’re not drunk, baby. Just a little tipsy. Here, breathe in some of this fresh air,” he said, lowering the electric windows. What he thought was, Laissez les bon temps rouler. Let the good times roll.
She did just that, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the seat rest, which in turn caused her breasts to arch outward while she breathed deeply, in and out.
He felt as if he’d been given an electric shock to his groin—a delicious electric shock. That in-and-out business was giving him ideas. In and out. In and out. God, I’m turning into a lech with these hair-trigger hard-ons.
“What’s hard?” she murmured, with her eyes still closed.
For the love of St. Jude! I must have been thinking aloud. “Nothing, honey. Not a thing.”
For a while they were quiet, enjoying the cool breeze through the open windows and the silence of the night. The back roads of Louisiana were like a trip back in time. They passed roadside diners and old vintage gas stations. Weathered barns still had painted signs advertising soda pop. Some of them were even in French.
“You have a nice family, Remy,” Rachel remarked all of a sudden. “You should be thankful.”
“I don’t know about nice. Most times they’re royal pains in the patoot.”
“It’s obvious how much you all care about each other.”
“I suppose. But then, we had to be close, growing up with the father we did. Our mother died when we were pretty young, and Luc, being the oldest, pretty much raised me and René.”
She opened her eyes and turned toward him, her face against the head rest. “Why didn’t your father take on that role?”
“Because he was an alcoholic, greedy, whoring, abusive, mean bastard.” For once, he didn’t take back his coarse words.
Rachel homed in on one word. “Abusive?”
“Mostly toward Luc. Our big brother kept us hidden away and took the beatings whenever Dad caught up with him.”
“Granny said Valcour LeDeux was an oil man.”
Remy nodded. “Yeah, later he was, when oil was discovered on some family property. Before that, we lived in one rusted-out trailer after another. But that’s enough about me. Have you talked with your ex since you’ve been here?”
Remy hadn’t intended to ask Rachel about her former lover. He’d wondered, but wouldn’t have actually asked the question unless he was a little bit tipsy, too. He slowed down the truck, just in case.
“Actually, I did talk to David. Today, in fact. He’s been bugging two of my best friends back home. So, I called to tell him to lay off.”
That’s all she said. Nothing more. Like that was any kind of an answer. “So?” he prodded.
“So?” she responded.
“So, what did you say, and what did he say?”
She smiled in a way that said it really wasn’t any of his business. It wasn’t. On the other hand, hell, yes, it was. He half expected her not to respond, but she did. “He said he was sorry, please come back, and make sure I bring back that, um, an object that I mistakenly took with me.”
“That’s all?”
“Yep.”
“He didn’t even tell you he loved you?”
Her eyes widened with surprise. He could see that even in the darkened car, the only light coming from the full moon and his headlights. “No, Remy, he didn’t, now that you mention it.”
“Dumbass.” Remy didn’t apologize for that word, either.
“The contractor is going to install your skylight next week,�
� she informed him, clearly wanting to change the subject. That was okay. He’d learned what he needed to know.
“That’s good. I’ll be gone most of the week, but I expect that won’t matter.”
“No. At some point, I need to show you some fabric samples for the drapes and seat cushions and bedspread, but we can wait to see how the skylight looks first. I left the samples on your bedroom dresser if you want to look them over sometime.”
“On the other hand, would you like to check out the houseboat now?” he asked, holding his breath.
She sat up, giving him her full attention.
He thought she would never answer. He prepared himself for the disappointment of her answer. He prayed as hard as a lapsed Catholic could pray in three seconds flat.
“Yes.”
The voice in his head said, You owe me bigtime, big boy.
Chapter 9
Rock the boat, baby.
Remy stopped the truck along the road and kissed her right after she said “Yes.” Lightly.
And he kissed her when he stopped the truck by his houseboat. Not so lightly.
He kissed her some more on the deck before he unlocked his door. Harder.
And he kissed her lots more once they entered the houseboat, before he even turned on the lights. Ravenously.
He probably pressed his advantage, thinking she might change her mind. No way, baby! This was the new Rachel Fortier, the one who made decisions based on what she wanted. The one who valued her own opinion of herself over everyone else’s, the one who no longer strived to be everybody’s “good girl.” In fact, she was going to try damn hard tonight to be a bad girl.
Without preamble, he led her to his bedroom. All the dressers and loose furniture had been removed, except the bed, leaving extra space there now.
“Are you sure?” he asked tenderly.
How like this overly sensitive man to give her a second chance to change her mind, even when he obviously wanted her to stay!
“I’m sure.”
