by Nikita Black
"Dieu, she's a shy one," Quint remarked, perusing the well-stocked wine rack for a good vintage. "I think I'm in love."
"She's mine," Jacque reminded his brother coolly. "You can share—if Lisette doesn' get here an' skin your hide first. But I call the shots on dis one."
"Whatever you say, little brother," Quint agreed amiably and lifted the cork from the bottle he'd chosen.
A French label and very expensive, Jacque noted. He approved. This was a special occasion.
The shower went on, and they both glanced toward the bathroom. "Think she'll need a wrap when she gets out?" he wondered aloud, lifting his silk robe from the ornate wrought iron footboard of the huge bed that took up most of one side of his cabin.
"Oh, yeah. I think she will." Quint took the robe from him and headed for the bathroom. "Can't pack her off on dat bus wearing dirty clothes, now can we?"
Jacque sent him a grin. "What bus?"
Quint chuckled. "Still, better rinse out her things for her, eh?"
"I'm sure she'd be glad."
"Believe I will."
"Bien. I'll get started on the gumbo, right after I check my email and put out the day's fires at the office."
And send a quick note to Lisette...
***
Sahara closed her eyes and let the hot water run over her face and down her body. It felt wonderful. This was the best thing that had happened all day. She was happy she'd given in to Jacque's insistence she shower, using anti-bacterial soap to kill all the nasty germs she'd probably picked up during her unplanned dunk in the dirty swamp.
She'd had a bad moment when she'd realized there was no lock on the bathroom door, but had finally decided that, if her two rescuers had planned to jump her, they'd have done so by now. To be honest, neither had said or done anything the least bit untoward.
To be even more honest, a part of her might like it if they did.
Not that she could ever be serious about anyone who lived like this—poor and out in the middle of nowhere. Been there, done that. Never again would she be the town joke, laughed at for living in a one-room shack with parents who didn't believe in the benefits of money.
But she wasn't talking serious here. She'd only be staying a couple hours at most. And with the two of them competing for her, well, she should be safe enough.
The door clicked softly and she cautiously peeked around the curtain. No one there. Must have been the natural creaking of a house built on stilts over the water. She gave her hair a final wash and rinse, shut off the water and reached for a towel. She was really going to hate putting on those damp, filthy clothes again.
Except they were gone.
She stared at the empty space on the rack where she'd left her clothes and her pulse went into hyperspace. So much for being safe. They'd just been waiting until she was clean and naked.
A soft knock sounded on the door and she jumped a foot.
"Chère?" Quint's voice crept through the solid wood. "I took your clothes outside and gave 'em a good washin'. Go 'head an' use Jacque's bathrobe till they dry. It's hanging on the peg, non?"
She sagged with relief. "Um, okay."
"There's also some things in da cabinet you might need."
"Thanks." Forcing herself to be calm, she grabbed the silk dressing gown and wrapped herself in it. It was huge. The hem dragged the floor, the shoulders hit her elbows and the sleeves hung several inches past her fingers. It also smelled like Jacque.
Stunned that she'd recognize his unique smell, she lifted the sleeve to her nose and inhaled deeply. A little musky, a little spicy, and oh, so very male.
A tiny sound stole from her. It had been a long time since she'd been with a man, and until this very moment she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it.
No. She didn't miss it. Not all of it, anyway. Just this—the smell of a man completely enveloping her, weaving its sensual, mystical spell around her will and her senses. Claiming her. Reducing her hormones to needy supplicants at the altar of potent male pheromones.
Sweet mercy.
She took another breath. There was something innately erotic about Jacque's scent. A hint of exotic cologne mixed with the clean smell of a healthy man's body. And more. A note of something she couldn't quite place. Almost like... home cooking?
Her stomach growled, putting an unglamorous end to her sensual reverie. She sniffed again. Hell, that was no bathrobe, that was supper.
She rolled up the robe's sleeves and poked through the cabinet, finding a new toothbrush, a mascara and a blusher. Obviously whichever brother lived here was used to having women around. Women who needed to renew their make-up.
Whose house was it, anyway? She'd only seen one bed in the large one-room cabin, and just the one robe had hung in the bathroom. Jacque's robe.
A quick sting of irrational jealousy stabbed through her. She firmly squelched it. The man was gorgeous. Shoot, both of them were gorgeous. Back in New Orleans, she'd have killed for a date with either one of the Cherchat brothers. They were attractive and nice, and apparently Jacque could cook, too. Naturally, women would be hanging all over them.
She shrugged. None of her concern. She'd be out of their lives before she knew it. She was only grateful to the women who'd trained them well enough to keep spare make-up in the bathroom cabinet. She happily made use of it and the toothbrush as well.
Folding a towel around her hair, she emerged to find Jacque standing in front of the stove and Quint sitting at a small kitchen table, both men sipping wine. A third glass had been poured and sat in front of an empty chair at the table.
The cabin consisted of one large room, divided by a big, cushy sofa and easy chair into a bedroom area and a kitchen-living room area. There was a desk in one corner, and bookshelves scattered around the walls, filled with a variety of books and magazines. The small, neat kitchen contained an impressive assortment of copper and Calaphon pots and pans hanging from a rack over the stove. The bed was huge, with ornate wrought iron head and footboards, and was canopied by a full-length baire , or mosquito net.
Quint stood. "Vien, join us. Da gumbo is nearly ready. Feel better now?"
In the kitchen, Jacque was leaning against the stove. His gaze traveled the length of her, taking in every detail. She clutched his robe tight to her breasts. She'd tied the belt as tightly as she could, but made as it was for his bigger frame, the front still hung wide open. Her legs were exposed to the thigh as she walked to the table, the robe’s hem trailing on the floor behind her.
"C'est grand, ça. Big, I see," he remarked, his eyes lingering on her bare legs.
"A little." She gathered it closer and slipped into the chair.
"No matter. You won' be wearin' it for long."
She gaped at him. A shiver skittered up her spine at the implication of his words. Her nipples tightened unexpectedly, sending a startlingly sharp spurt of sexual desire deep into her belly.
"Dat's right." Quint slid the wine glass over to her and smiled. "Your clothes'll be dry in no time."
She blinked, scandalized at the conclusion she'd leapt to, and worse, her body's reaction to it. "I hope so," she murmured.
She was really losing it. Much longer with these two and no telling what she'd do. She looked around for a clock. Four-thirty. "How far are we from Gerroux?" she asked.
"'Bout half an hour," Quint said. "Drink up."
She lifted the glass to her lips, and was suddenly struck by a terrible thought. The towel around her hair slid to her shoulders.
"Somethin' wrong, chère?" Quint looked at her inquiringly.
"No..." With a shaky hand, she set the glass back on the table and fumbled with the towel.
Jacque put down his ladle, licked his finger and sauntered over. He picked up the wine. "Smell off?"
"No, it—"
"Or maybe you're afraid we put somethin' in it?" He winked, and picked up her glass.
"Of course not, I..." She watched, mesmerized, as he took a big swallow, her own throat followin
g the movement of his Adam's apple. "I was just—"
"See? Nothin' to worry 'bout."
His tongue slid out to capture a drop of burgundy liquid on the rim. He handed the glass back to her and she had to use two hands to take the damned thing, they shook so badly.
"What would I have to be worried about?" she stammered inanely. Her robe gaped open, and she almost dropped the glass grabbing for the lapels. The towel slid even further down her back.
Jacque eyed her breasts. "You mean besides bein' alone wit' two strange men, both big enough and strong enough to make you do most anything they want? Or you being naked under dat dressin' gown, wit' no way to escape us and no idea where you are even if you could?"
Chapter Two
Sahara's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again. "Yes, besides that," she managed to choke out.
Jacque chuckled. It said a lot for the woman that she was able to joke at a time like this. Which only reinforced his resolve to have her.
Her sweet, guileless reactions were turning him on but good. He hadn't been this hard in decades. "Look at it this way," he reasoned implacably. "Wit' all that goin' for us, we'd hardly have to slip you a roofie."
He didn't need to. He had the patience of a saint, even if his desires tended to come from less holy sources.
After a second, she gave him a feeble smile. "I see your point."
She grabbed her glass and took a large gulp, licking the rim afterwards. Her eyes went wide and she slammed the glass down, sloshing burgundy liquid onto the table. Dieu, she must have tasted him, or remembered he'd also licked it. He stifled a smile.
"Quint, fill the lady's glass, will you?" He fetched a sponge and wiped up the spill. "Relax, chère. We're not goin' to hurt you."
Quite the opposite.
He went back to cooking while his brother obliged, chiding her as one would a baby into taking several more sips of wine. Finally, her shoulders notched down a little.
"Mais, non, we'd never harm you, Sahara," Quint said as he topped up her drink. "It's not like you're a Treasury agent or anythin'. Then you might be justified in bein' afraid."
"How so?" She looked up, doe-eyed, that stupid towel sprawled over her shoulders like a spent lover.
Scratch that about having patience.
Quint got up and stood behind her. "Oh, you know, gov'ment types have been known to disappear now and den out in da swamp—" he eased the towel from her shoulders and went on as if he weren't doing anything unusual "—lookin' for moonshine and other illegal substances." She twisted around, but Quint set her straight and began gently rubbing her hair dry.
Jacque regarded Sahara intently. "'Less'n they meet up with Mama Breaux, course,” he murmured. “Den dey disappear for entirely different reasons."
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. "Mama Breaux?"
"Grandmère, our grandmother." Jacque propped a hip against the counter, watching her slowly melt beneath his brother's practiced hands.
Quint rubbed her hair until it shone while they regaled her with stories of how, over the past seventy years, more than one unhappy Fed had been forced to marry a Cajun girl on account of being caught by Mama Breaux with his hand in the mason jar, so to speak.
"Deflowering a virgin's a hangin' offense here. Least if you're étranger—an outsider," he explained.
Jacque grinned. "Didn' matter if she's slept wit' half the boys in the parish. They're always virgins. Luckily, the sheriff usually intervenes, and orders them to get married instead."
Quint shook his head. "You wouldn' believe the wedding ceremony. Mama Breaux, she makes the man strip naked in front of everyone and says spells over him, so he'll be reborn, like, as bayou folk, and leave his old life behind."
Sahara looked around, incredulous. "Are you telling me they just went along with these ridiculous weddings? Didn't any of them try to escape?"
"A few tried. Didn' get far."
"You can't fight Mama Breaux," said Quint, pausing in his ministrations. "She's got da voodoo. Everybody does what she say."
Jacque nodded. "I sure would. Dat's one scary woman."
"Come on. I don't believe you. Stuff like that doesn't happen any more."
"Not in a good long while, true enough." He lifted a shoulder. "But who knows. Things are different out here in the swamp. We respect our elders, listen to them. Besides, all those old couples are still together, so Mama Breaux, she must know somethin'."
"Still..."
Quint combed her hair with his fingers, massaging her scalp as he went, and her words trailed off into a sigh. Jacque shook his head. His brother had a bit of voodoo himself when it concerned women.
Jacque figured he'd better hurry and deliver the coup de gras, in the form of his filé gumbo. His own voodoo rested firmly in his cooking skills.
He'd proven that at age twenty-three when he'd made his first cool million selling Wild Jack Kershaw's Cajun Hot, the only Louisiana hot sauce gah-ron-teed to curl your hair—and he was living proof—concocted right there on Mama Breaux' ancient wood stove.
Mais yeah. He'd always done what she said. Ever since she'd tasted that first batch of sauce and told him to go out and make his fortune in da ville—New Orleans. He'd followed her advice, and for ten years hadn't looked back.
Not until this month, anyway.
***
"God, that was better than sex, Jacque."
At Sahara's comment, he paused in his dinner clean-up and grinned broadly.
Quint nearly choked. "Now, I agree, Jacque here makes the bes' gumbo east or west of the Atchafalaya River. But chère, I mean to say, if you think dis is better'n sex, you been wit' the wrong men."
She giggled and took another sip of wine. "What's your secret, Jacque?" She looked right at him, her eyes all innocent and curious. He was tempted to sweep the rest of the dishes off the table and show her right there.
Later, Chat.
"My tongue," he said, coming to a halt beside her. "The tongue is the secret—"
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But her little surprised intake of breath clinched it. He leaned down, inches from her face and paused until knowledge of what he was about to do flashed through her pretty blue eyes. Slowly, he extended his tongue, and flicked it over her bottom lip.
Inwardly he moaned. Dieu, she tasted good. "—da tongue is the secret to both cookin' and makin' love."
Her succulent lips parted, sudden apprehension battling with hot desire in her expression. He wanted more, but it was too soon.
He straightened and picked up her empty plate. He almost lost his own battle when he realized her robe had gaped open, giving him a fine view of her plump breast, her nipple pert and taut. He made himself walk to the sink instead of taking her in his mouth and suckling till she begged for what they both really wanted.
She swallowed and looked at her glass, making an admirable attempt at pretending what had just happened hadn't happened at all. But she knew. They all did. The electricity arcing between the three of them could power the cabin for a year. He glanced at Quint. The man was actually sweating, and he'd bet half his stock options it wasn't because the gumbo was too spicy.
"Cajun Hot ?"
Jacque narrowed his eyes at Sahara. How had she found out?
"Is that what you used for the gumbo? I thought I recognized the flavor..." Her words faded as he continued to stare at her. "Guess not."
He pulled himself together. Non, she couldn't know about him. She was just asking about spices.
"Yeah, it's Cajun Hot . It's all I ever use. Got a cupboard full of the stuff. Every spice and sauce they make."
Hell, now her other breast was visible.
He dumped the dishes in the sink and grabbed the espresso pot from the stove. Not that he needed the caffeine. He just needed something to occupy his hands.
"Me, too. Cajun Hot is great. Yep, the man who came up with those sauces, he's really got a tongue on him."
The robe gaped wider.
Quint
grinned. "Mais non, dat Cajun, he probably burned off his taste buds years ago."
Jacque dead-panned his smirking brother. "Bien amusant." He poured espressos all around, lingering over Sahara's cup and the incredible view above it. Tortueux—pure torture.
His eyes met Quint's over her head and he nodded imperceptibly. He couldn't take it a minute longer. He'd been hard for so long he ached.
Understanding immediately, Quint smiled. "So, Chat," he said casually, "you got any dessert for us?"
Jacque put down the coffee pot and slowly shook his head. His cock danced in anticipation. "Non. Rien—not a thing."
"Nothin'? No pie?"
Again, he shook his head.
"Or maybe a li'l bitty piece of peach cobbler?"
He glanced at Sahara, her breasts tantalizingly framed by the gap in the robe. Did she have any idea what she was doing to them? His mouth watered. "Sorry."
"Now dat's a damn shame. Me, I could really go for somethin'. Somethin' hot an' real sweet."
"Mm-hmm. Somethin' that would go down nice an' easy," he agreed. His imagination spun at the image.
They looked at each other, letting the silence lengthen. Sahara glanced nervously between them. The pink tip of her tongue poked out and swiped over her lips. He wanted that tongue on him. All over him.
"Well, then," he said quietly, anticipation all but making him burst. "I guess there's only one thing to do..."
They both set their sights on Sahara, hotly, expectantly. Excitement flooded his body, headed straight for his cock.
"Looks like dessert's gonna be you, chère."
Chapter Three
Sahara jumped from her chair. Her first thought at Jacque's explosive suggestion was to run like hell. But the hem of her robe had other ideas. It caught on her chair and she landed right in his arms.
"Where you goin' so fast?" Jacque held her loosely by the shoulders. She tried to back away and ran into the solid form of his brother.
"The bus," she squeaked. "I need to go now or I'll miss the bus."
"Already come and gone, chère. Won' be another bus for a whole week."
