Make You Blush

by Beckett, Macy

  “Ah.” A love charm, just as Allie had predicted. “I’ll do my best, but you need to understand something first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The spirits only reward the faithful.” She traced one pink-polished index finger around the circle inked on to her mat. “You’ve got to trust them. Can you do that?”

  Shannon nodded.

  “Because if you can’t, we’re wasting our time.”

  “I’ll believe.”

  “Okay.” Reaching below the cash register, Allie pulled out a small Tupperware bowl full of bleached chicken bones from the Popeyes three-piece meal she’d scarfed down last week. She had no clue how to perform this ritual—few folks did these days—but nobody needed to know that. She set down the container and reached for Shannon’s hands. “First, we’ll say a prayer.”

  Shannon quirked a brow. “To God?”

  “Of course. Who else?”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Don’t believe what Hollywood tells you. Voodoo’s not evil.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

  Allie was used to it by now. Dark magic, the kind Memère had supposedly used in her curses, was considered by believers to be hazardous to the soul, though the general public didn’t know that. Most voodoo doctors and queens used their gifts to benefit others. Though it was psychology, not voodoo, at the heart of what Allie did, she considered herself a healer all the same.

  The two linked fingers, bowed their heads, and asked for guidance in finding Shannon’s life partner. After “amen,” Allie scattered the small bones within the circle. While she hunched over the mat pretending to study the significance in the patterns, she searched her memory of the parish for anything useful that might lead to a match. She’d spent her childhood on the outside looking in, but she’d always paid attention.

  Someone’d had a mad crush on Shannon. . . . Who was it? Allie closed her eyes and considered a moment, trying to summon his image. Finally, the answer came. John Paul Romain, the simple-but-cute alligator farmer who lived on the bayou with his grandpère. He’d pined after Shannon like nobody’s business—everyone knew he was sweet on her. More importantly, JP was good people, and still single the last time Allie went home to visit. Her instincts told her the pair could make a great fit, but that Shannon needed to work for it before she’d appreciate an unsophisticated good ol’ boy like JP.

  “See this bone, here?” Allie said, pointing to what remained of her Cajun-fried drumstick. “It’s the largest and most important, but it’s near the bottom of the circle, like it’s been discarded. This tells me you’ve already found your match, but you turned him away.” She glanced at Shannon and asked, “Have you snubbed anyone who genuinely cared for you?”

  Slowly, Shannon’s eyes widened. “Well . . . yes, but that was—”

  “Ooooh.” Allie sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. “That’s bad. The spirits of our ancestors don’t like it when we ignore their help.”

  “So, he was really the one?”

  “What does your heart tell you?” Allie asked. “How does it feel to know you can’t have him anymore?” If that didn’t hook her, nothing would. No one could resist the allure of the forbidden.

  “What do you mean, I can’t have him?” Shannon replied in a sharp pitch.

  Bingo.

  Allie nodded at the bones. “It’s all spelled out right here. He’s off the market, at least where you’re concerned.”

  “But . . . but . . . JP said he’d wait—”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I don’t know.” Shannon tossed her clutch onto the counter. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I think maybe I do.” Despite Shannon’s doubts, the desperation in her eyes when she said, “Is there anything I can do to get him back?” told Allie the woman had it bad.

  Allie studied the bones. “Maybe. Won’t be easy, though. Even if he’s responsive to you, the spirits might interfere. You’ll have to do penance.” She shook her head. “No guarantees.”

  “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Biting back a smile, Allie grabbed an order pad from her apron and ripped free the top sheet. She bent down and wrote a list of chores to perform in atonement. When she added the final task—Leave an offering of pralines at Juliette Mauvais’s tomb—she made sure to warn, “But don’t scratch the triple-x marking into the wall. Memère’s spirit doesn’t like it.”

  Shannon nodded and took the slip of paper, then opened her clutch. “Thanks, Miss Mauvais. How much do I owe you?”

  Allie flashed her palm. “I can’t take money for interceding with the spirits on your behalf. It’s bad juju. However”—she gestured at a tray of sticky buns—“I’ve heard Romain men are fond of these.”

  Shannon grinned in understanding. “I’ll take them all.”

  After Allie boxed up the order, she taped her business card to the top. “I cater,” she said. “Tell your friends.”

  “Will do.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Allie scooped up her chicken bones, folded her mat, and returned the supplies to their rightful place beneath the counter. She couldn’t help feeling a needling of jealousy for Shannon and JP. Maybe they needed a push to get them started, but at least the foundation was there. They loved each other.

  Allie wanted that for herself. She was tired of mixing love potions and gris-gris for everyone else while remaining the eternal bridesmaid—figuratively speaking, of course. She didn’t have any close friends to ask her to stand up beside them in church, and her sister was no closer to holy matrimony than Allie was.

  With a sigh, she stepped from behind the counter and strode outside, making sure to prop open the front door so she could hear the phone. After inhaling the sweetness of cinnamon and vanilla all morning, Allie found the humid summer air smelled too sharp, like a mingling of garbage and car exhaust.

  And the heat!

  Allie’s mama and daddy, God rest their souls, used to say South Louisiana in August was hotter than a two-pricked goat in a pepper patch. Allie’d survived twenty-six of these summers, and she’d never gotten used to it. She shut the door, figuring she’d rather miss a phone call than air-condition the whole street on her dime.

  She took a moment to fasten her heavy curls into a twist, closing her eyes in relief when a breeze cooled the back of her neck. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a stunning face that had her stomach dipping into her bikini briefs—a face she couldn’t seem to banish from her most secret fantasies, no matter how much distance or time hung between them. Unfortunately, she repelled him like they were the same ends of a magnet—for every step she took forward, he took one back.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “Ladies,” Marc Dumont said with a cautious tip of his head. His gaze darted to the other side of the street, revealing how badly he wanted to cross it and get away from her. Some things never changed.

  Shannon fired a glare at Marc before turning on her heel and stalking away without another word. He’d probably broken her heart, a virtual rite of passage for half the girls back home, Allie included. Junior year, he’d dropped her like a Crisco-coated stone after a single kiss, just a teasing brush of lips that had left her hungry for the next nine years.

  So unfair.

  Allie couldn’t help glancing at his mouth when she said, “It’s been a while. You look good.”

  Too good—tanned and toned in all the right places. He’d grown out his hair so the chestnut waves nearly brushed his shoulders. It gave him a dangerous edge, especially when paired with the few days’ growth along his steely jaw. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his Levi’s and grinned, drawing out the cleft in his chin.

  “So do you.” The low timbre of his voice gave her dirty thoughts. “Real good.”

  Was it just her eager imagination, or was that
a spark of lust in his gaze? Her pulse quickened at the possibility that he’d overcome his aversion to her. Something in the slow, easy way Marc moved told her not even a brown sugar pecan scone could hold a candle to a night in his bed.

  Maybe it was time to get serious and find out—to go after what she wanted instead of wishing for other people’s happily-ever-afters. It was worth a shot. She didn’t have any appointments for the rest of the day, and her apartment was right upstairs.

  “Thanks.” She hitched a thumb at her shop. “Want to come inside and catch up? It’s awfully hot out here.”

  • • •

  No shit. It was hot out here all right—in a way that had nothing to do with the brutal Louisiana sun. Marc glanced at the sign hanging above Allie’s camelback store. THE SWEET SPOT: SOMETHING TO TEMPT EVERY SAINT IN NEW ORLEANS. He was no saint, but he was sure as hell tempted. A man would have to be gay, castrated, or dead not to sport wood around Allie Mauvais.

  She swept the back of her hand across her forehead, then blotted her flushed, olive cheeks. One black curl escaped her twist and sprang free, refusing to be tamed . . . just like all Mauvais women. She looked like a wild gypsy who’d just rolled out of bed with her lover, and when she locked those mismatched eyes on him, Marc’s jock twitched.

  Damn. He’d like to inch up the hem of that short denim skirt and find her sweet spot.

  But Marc never would. Not even he was that stupid.

  “Maybe another time,” he lied.

  He had no intention of spending a moment alone with her. He’d learned his lesson back in high school. Against his pawpaw’s advice, Marc had asked Allie to junior prom. He’d kissed her that night and had awoken the next morning to boils beneath his boxers. Pawpaw always said sex with a Mauvais woman would rot your pecker, and after that incident, Marc wasn’t taking any chances with his manhood.

  Why risk it?

  “Sure, another time.” When she arched to stretch her lower back, her breasts strained against the front of her thin white T-shirt, revealing the lacy pattern of her bra. Lord have mercy. “How’s your family?” she asked, lips twitching in a smile as she caught him staring. “I heard you’re going to be a big brother again.”

  “Yep, in December.”

  “How many kids does this make for your daddy?”

  “Six.” With five different women, but he didn’t need to tell Allie that. She probably knew better than anyone.

  According to legend, it was her great-great-grandma who’d cursed his family, vowing the Dumont men would never be lucky in love. It must’ve skipped a generation, though, because Marc was real good at getting lucky. Some might say an expert. He had women all over the parish—willing women who didn’t ask for more than a night of sweaty, tangled flesh and a quick good-bye. And unlike his dad, Marc had enough good sense to keep it wrapped. So what if a Dumont man hadn’t made it to the altar in almost a hundred years? If you asked him, that was a blessing, not a curse.

  Allie took a step closer and fanned the back of her neck, filling his senses with the candied scent that clung to her body. It made him want to lick her throat to see what she tasted like.

  “Been behaving yourself?” she asked.

  “Only by default.” Marc retreated a pace. “I’m taking over the Belle. She keeps me pretty busy.”

  That seemed to surprise her. “Your daddy’s retiring?”

  Marc shrugged. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

  But truth be told, the news had surprised him, too. In all the years Marc had spent working aboard his family’s riverboat, his old man had never found a nice word for him, never clapped him on the back for a job well done or given any indication that he’d trust Marc with the Dumont legacy. When he’d deeded over the Belle, he’d left Marc with seven words: She’s yours now. Don’t muck it up.

  The old man neglected to disclose how much work the Belle needed or how much it would cost. Or, more importantly, that he owed the waitstaff and cleaning crew two months’ back wages. But if everything went according to plan, the two-week Mississippi cruise he’d booked should draw enough income to pay off the bank.

  Which reminded him . . .

  “I should run.” He nodded toward the French Market Place. “There’s a lot to do before the next trip.”

  “Good luck. Don’t be a stranger, baby.” She winked an eye—the one the color of aged bourbon—and pulled open the door to her shop. A blast of cool, delicious air rushed onto the sidewalk as she stepped inside, and Marc pulled it deep into his lungs while his mouth watered.

  Damn, he wished he could stay, and not for a bear claw, either.

  He peeked through the glass and watched the gentle sway of Allie’s hips, then exhaled in a low whistle. If only she weren’t a Mauvais.

  Marc shook his head and strolled onward. For no real reason, he crossed to the other side of the street before continuing to the river.

  CHAPTER 2

  Marc shielded his eyes and gazed at the love of his life. She was seventy-five years old, high maintenance, and she’d been ridden hard by thousands of men, but he’d never beheld a more glorious sight than the Belle of the Bayou.

  Sunlight glinted off the solid brass roof bell, polished to a gleam by Marc’s own loving hand. You couldn’t see it from here, but his family crest was engraved deep into the metal, a testament to four generations of Dumonts who’d broken their backs to keep Belle riverworthy. The steam whistle perched nearby like an open-beaked eagle, ready to call travelers aboard for relaxation and adventure.

  Marc took in all four white-railed decks, lined with arched windows and doorways, and pictured them teeming with guests, imagined the inimitable noise of conversation and laughter reverberating off the water. From there, his eyes moved upward to the twin black smokestacks and the pilothouse beyond, where he would soon stand at the helm for the very first time as captain.

  Lord, he couldn’t wait.

  Even though Belle threatened to drown him in a tidal wave of debt, he couldn’t deny the surge of pride beneath his rib cage every time he looked at her.

  But there was work to be done. A rhythmic percussion of clunks pierced the air as workmen hammered at the oak paddle wheel, repairing damage from last season’s collision with a bridge. John Lutz had parked his familiar windowless van near the dock, which meant the mechanics were already in the boiler room. Now Marc needed to schedule the last round of interviews and meet with his managerial staff—his brothers and Pawpaw.

  Time to quit standing around.

  He jogged up the bow ramp onto the main deck, then took the stairs to the second-floor dining room where they’d always held their staff meetings. It was no coincidence that the executive bar—and all the top-shelf liquor on board—was located in that room. A couple fingers of Crown Royal Reserve made working with family a whole lot easier.

  Marc tugged open the door, relieved to find the air conditioner running again. Nothing put a damper on a cruise like the reek of three hundred sweaty vacationers. He noticed the ancient red-and-gold-patterned carpeting had been steam cleaned. He hated that carpet. It had always reminded him of the creepy-ass hotel in The Shining. Maybe next season he’d have the cash to replace it.

  All the tables were bare, chairs were stacked along the wall, and clear plastic bags of white linens from the dry cleaner had been tossed in the corner. Marc crossed to the far end of the room, where three heads were huddled in conversation—two blond, one gray. At the sound of his footsteps, Nick and Alex glanced over their shoulders and gave him a wave.

  “Cap’n,” Nick said with a mock salute, then took a deep pull from his Heineken.

  “Cap,” Alex parroted.

  Most folks would never believe Marc was related to the towheads. He had Pawpaw’s tawny complexion, while Alex and Nick had inherited their mama’s Swedish coloring: blue eyes, fair hair, and skin that had to burn a few times before it tann
ed. Of Daddy’s brood, these two were the only ones who shared the same mother, but that’s because they were twins. Identical—right down to the matching cowlicks that swirled the hair above their left brows.

  Marc had resented his baby brothers when Daddy had left his mama for theirs, until the same thing had happened to them a few years later. It was then, at the tender age of seven, that he’d learned to quit blaming his siblings for the sins of their father.

  “Papa was a rolling stone,” all right. But no matter which woman he shacked up with, he’d always made time for all five of his sons . . . if working them to death aboard the Belle counted as quality time.

  Marc took a seat at the head of the table, and Pawpaw pushed a tumbler of amber-colored liquid toward him. Breaking out the hard stuff already? That wasn’t a good sign.

  “Drink up, boy,” Pawpaw said. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Marc ground his teeth and glared at his brothers. The last time Pawpaw said those words, Nick had seduced the state inspector’s daughter and nearly cost the Belle her license.

  “What’d you do?” he asked them. “Or should I say who?”

  The two shared a quick glance before simultaneously admitting, “The jazz singer.”

  “Both of you?”

  Alex held his palms forward. “She came on to me in the ballroom and practically ripped my pants off. How was I supposed to know she thought I was Nicky?” He elbowed his twin. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing her.”

  “Well, ‘seeing’ is a strong word,” Nick argued. “It wasn’t as serious as all that.”

  “Mother of God.” And Marc thought he got around. Fresh out of college and still in frat mode, these two made him look like an altar boy. “I assume she quit,” he said.

  “Yep,” Pawpaw answered. “Called in this mornin’. But jazz singers are more common than mosquitoes in July round here. That’s not why you need the sauce.”

  Marc brought the tumbler to his lips and belted it back, savoring the smooth, smoky burn of aged whiskey. He cleared his throat and clunked the crystal onto the table. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s have it.”