Wild Jinx
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WildJinx
Wild Jinx
Sandra Hill
JOIN IN ON THE HIGH JINX!
PEARL JINX
“A hysterical, fast-moving page turner, and the sexy love story between Caleb and Clair make it an absolute must read.”
—RoundtableReviews.com
“4½ Stars! Hill’s books [are] inventive and heart-tugging. They are guaranteed mood boosters!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hilarious . . . The characters are colorful and vibrant, coming alive with every turn of the page . . .
Packed full of humor and adventure, sizzling SEAL sex, and enough romance to touch even the coldest heart . . . A real pearl.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“[Hill is} the queen of humorous contemporary romance . . . The laughs keep coming . . . The audience will appreciate this zany Keystone State caper.”
—Midwest Book Review
“For a hilarious good time, readers can’t go wrong with a Sandra Hill book. Pearl Jinx is loaded with charm, smart-alecky dialogue, adventure, and an endearing set of characters . . . rollicking . . .
Hill’s signature style shines through.”
—SuspenseRomanceWriters.com
PINK JINX
“Sandra Hill writes stories that tickle the funny bone and touch the heart. Her books are always fresh, romantic, inventive, and hilarious.”
—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author
“A hoot and a half! Snappy dialogue and outrageous characters keep the tempo lively and the humor infectious in this crazy adventure story. Hill is a master at taking outlandish situations and making them laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hill has yet again given us an adventure that is unbelievably funny! I am eagerly looking forward to another treasure hunting book from the incomparable Sandra Hill.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“Loaded with snappy dialogue, heartwarming moments that will pull at the most hardened heartstrings, engaging characters, and incredible sexual tension! It is always a great time to pick up a book by Sandra Hill.”
—ChicklitRomanceWriters.com
“With this comic contemporary romance’s great plot, witty dialogue, humorous asides, and quirky characters, readers will be impatient for book two.”
—Booklist
“A hilarious story filled with adventure, romance, danger, and mystery.”
—BookLoons.com
“Nobody does romance quite like Hill. She is always creating fresh new characters and imaginative new storylines with a style that’s all her own . . . [An] auspicious beginning to what promises to be another inventive series with memorable characters.”
—RomRevToday.com
“So hilarious that I actually laughed until I had to wipe tears from my eyes . . . If you need a healthy dose of laughter that’ll help you forget your troubles, pick up a copy of Pink Jinx.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“So absorbing I could hardly put the book down . . . Treasure hunting has never been more fun . . .
a comical and compelling read by one of today’s leading authors of entertaining romance.”
—CurledUp.com
“Romantic comedy at its best . . . Hill has written a fabulously funny story . . . an entertaining tale that must be read.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Sandra Hill is the queen of comedic love stories . . . Fans of lighthearted, jocular, modern-day novels will as always appreciate Ms. Hill’s wild sea ride.”
—Midwest Book Review
PRAISE FOR SANDRA HILL’S RAGIN’ CAJUN SERIES
THE RED-HOT CAJUN
“Hill’s thigh-slapping humor and thoughtful look at the endangered Louisiana bayou ecosystem turn this into an engaging read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A brimming romance for people who like to laugh [and] people who like to cry.”
—Booklist
THE CAJUN COWBOY
“Hill will tickle readers’ funny bones yet again as she writes in her trademark sexy style. A real crowd-pleaser, guar-an-teed.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“A pure delight. One terrific read!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine (four stars)
TALL, DARK, AND CAJUN
“If you like your romances hot and spicy and your men the same way, then you will like Tall, Dark, and Cajun . . . Eccentric characters, witty dialogue, humorous situations . . . and hot romance . . . [Hill]
perfectly captures the bayou’s mystique and makes it come to life.”
—RomRevToday.com
Also by Sandra Hill
Tall, Dark, and Cajun
The Cajun Cowboy
The Red-Hot Cajun
Pink Jinx
Pearl Jinx
This book is dedicated with much love to the women in my family . . . strong women, all of them, in the tradition of my mother, Veronica Cluston.
My sister Flora, my nieces Lori, Amy, and Julie, my granddaughter Jaden, and my two daughters-in-law, Bethany and Kim.
They’ve all had to suffer a bit (well, not Jaden), but always proven they carry the strong women gene. They’ve been able to buck up and face whatever comes their way, including the sometimes clueless, hardheaded men in their lives.
They are like the heroines in my books. Survivors, all of them. And they’ve got great senses of humor, the best survival tool of all.
Here’s to all women who can laugh at life . . . and survive.
Chapter 1
Home, home on the . . . bayou . . .
It was dawn on Bayou Black, and its inhabitants were about to launch their daily musical extravaganza, a performance as beautiful and ancient as time.
The various sounds melded: a dozen different frogs, the splash of a sac-à-lait or bream rising for a tasty insect, the whisper of a humid breeze among the moss-draped oaks, the flap of an egret’s wings as it soared out from a bald cypress branch. Even the silence had a sound. The only one not making any noise was its lone human inhabitant, John LeDeux.
But not for long.
“Yoo-hoo!”
About five hundred birds took flight at that shrill greeting, not to mention every snake, rabbit, raccoon, or gator within a one-mile radius.
John jackknifed up in bed and quickly pulled the sheet up to the waist of his naked body. He was in the single bedroom of his fishing camp, another name for a cabin on the bayou. He knew exactly who was yoo- hooing him. His ninety-two-year-old great aunt, Louise Rivard, better known as Tante Lulu.
Who else in the world says “Yoo-hoo”?
He should have known better than to buy a place within a “hoot ’n’ a holler” of his aunt’s little cottage. She took neighborliness to new heights. And “hoot ’n’ a holler”? Mon Dieu! I’m turning into Tante Lulu.
By the time the wooden screen door slammed, putting an exclamation mark on her entry, he’d already pulled on a pair of running shorts. He yawned widely as he walked into the living room, where his aunt was carrying two shopping bags of what appeared to be food. Not a good sign.
But this was his beloved aunt, the only one who’d been there for him and his brothers during some hard times. He’d never say or do anything to hurt her feelings. “What’re you doin’ here, chère? It’s only six-thirty, and I don’t have to report for work ’til ten.” John was a detective with the police department in Fontaine, a sister city to Baton Rouge. It was a two-hour drive, and most nights he stayed in an efficiency apartment he rented in Baton Rouge, but some nights, like last night, he just wanted to be home, here in his raised cottage with its stilts half-submerged in the bayou stream he loved. It was located on Bayou Black, far enough away f
rom Houma to still feel private but way too close to Tante Lulu.
“You gots bags under yer eyes, Tee-John,” his aunt said, totally ignoring his question. Tee-John . . .
Little John . . . was a nickname that had been given to him as a kid, way before he hit his six-foot-two.
She went into his small kitchen and was unloading her goodies. French bread, boudin sausage, eggs, beignets, red and green tomatoes, garlic, okra, butter, Tabasco sauce, and the holy trinity of southern cooking: celery, onions, and bell peppers. That was just from one bag. His small fridge would never hold all this crap.
“Yeah, I’ve got bags. I didn’t get to bed ’til three.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk! Thass one of the reasons I’m here.”
“Huh?”
“Come sit you pretty self down, honey.”
He sank down into a chair, breathing in deeply of the strong chicory coffee, which she’d already set to brewing.
Now she was whipping up what appeared to be an omelette with sides of sausage and fried green tomatoes. It would do no good to argue that he rarely ate before noon.
“I may be old, but I ain’t dumb. Even here in the bayou, we hear ’bout all yer hanky-panky.”
He grinned. “Do you see any hot babes here?”
“Hah! Thass jist ’cause I walked in on you las’ month with that Morrison tart, buck naked and her squealin’ like a pig. Ya prob’ly do yer hanky-panky elsewheres now.”
“You got that right,” he murmured.
“Why cain’t ya find yerself a nice Cajun girl, Tee-John?”
Like they don’t like hanky-panky as much as the next girl! “’Cause I’m not lookin’, that’s why.
Besides, Jenny Morrison is not a tart.”
His aunt put her hands on her tiny hips . . . she was only five-foot-zero and ninety pounds sopping wet. “Does she have yer ring on her finger?”
His eyes went wide. “Are you kidding? Hell, no!”
“Ya gonna marry up with the girl?”
“Hell, no!” he repeated.
She shrugged. “Well, then, yer a hound dog and she’s a tart. Hanky-panky is only fer people in love who’s gonna get married someday.”
That was the Bible, according to Tante Lulu.
“Best I bring ya some more St. Jude statues.”
“No!”
She raised her eyebrows at his sharp tone.
“Sorry, but, come on, Auntie. I’ve got a St. Jude statue in my bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, porch, car, and office. There’s St. Jude napkins and salt and pepper shakers here on the table, St. Jude pot holders by the stove, St. Jude wind chimes outside, a St. Jude birdbath, and God only knows what else.”
“A person cain’t have too many St. Judes.”
St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes and his aunt’s favorite. She was going to heaven someday on St. Jude brownie points, if nothing else.
“I’m not that hopeless.”
She patted his shoulder as she put a steaming mug of coffee in front of him on the table. “I know that, sweetie. Thass one of the reasons I’m here. I had a vision las’ night.”
He rolled his eyes. Here it comes.
“It mighta been a dream, but it felt like a vision. Charmaine says I should go ta one of those psychos.” Charmaine was his half-sister and as psycho as they came.
“Psychics,” he corrected.
“Thass what I said. Anyways, back ta my vision. Guess who’s gettin’ married this year?”
“Who?” He asked the question before he had a chance to bite his tongue.
“You,” she chirped brightly.
He choked on his coffee and sprayed droplets all over the table.
She mopped it up with a St. Jude napkin.
“I’m too young, only twenty-eight,” he protested. “Luc and Remy were thirty-three when they got married, and René was thirty-five. I got lots of time. What’s the hurry?”
“The time is right fer different folks at different times.”
“Any clue who the lucky lady will be?” he asked, deciding to go along with the nonsense. He wasn’t even dating anyone steadily, and he for damn sure didn’t know one single woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
She shook her head. “That wasn’t clear, but it’s gonna happen. The thunderbolt, she’s a-comin’.
Best ya be prepared.” The thunderbolt she referred to was some screwball thunderbolt of love that she claimed hit the LeDeux men just before they met the loves of their lives.
“No way! And just to make sure, I’m buyin’ a lightning rod before I go in to work today. Speaking of which, I’ve gotta take a shower. Can you put a hold on that breakfast for about fifteen minutes?”
“Oui, but first I gots ta tell ya my news.”
“Oh?” The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. The last time she had news to announce, she’d popped a surprise wedding on his brother René. Or maybe it was the time she and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest. “I thought the vision was your news,” he teased.
She smacked his arm with a wooden spoon. “Stop yer sass, boy. My news is that I hired Jinx, Inc.
ta come ta Loo-zee-anna.”
“The treasure hunting company? They’re coming here?” John had worked twice for the New Jersey operation, which hired out to find lost treasures of any kind . . . sunken shipwrecks, cave pearls, buried gold, lost objects, just about anything.
She nodded. “We’s gonna hunt fer pirate treasure.”
“Where?”
“On Bayou Black.”
“Auntie.” He sighed loudly. “There’s no treasure here on Bayou Black.”
“Well, not right here. Out past René’s fishing camp. In fact, we’s gonna use his camp fer our headquarters.”
His jaw dropped. It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned this idea, but it boggled the mind that his aunt had convinced a reputable treasure salvaging company that there was pirate gold on Bayou Black.
“Too bad ya gots ta work. It should be fun.”
“You’re talkin’ about Jean Lafitte, I suppose. Don’t you know that treasure legend is bullsh . . . uh, just that . . . a legend?”
“We’ll see. I gots clues what no one else has.”
That is just great! Probably another vision. “How are you involved?”
“I put up two hundred thousand dollars fer half the profits.”
He inhaled sharply. “That’s a lot of money.”
His alarm must have shown because she shot back, “It’s my money ta spend anyways I want.”
He put up his hands in surrender. “Absolutely. When is this venture gonna start?”
“Next month.”
“Okay. That’s great, really. I wish you all the luck.” That’s what he said, but what he thought, standing under the shower a short time later, was, The bayou is never gonna be the same again, guaranteed! Immediately followed by, Treasure hunting is never gonna be the same after bein’ hit by Tante Lulu. Talk about!
The menu at this nightclub was edible . . . uh, incredible . . .
Celine Arseneaux took a deep breath, then started across the crowded parking lot of the Playpen in suburban Baton Rouge, Louisiana, trying to ignore the fact that she was all tarted up like a high class call girl.
The get-up had been the bright idea of Bruce Cavanaugh, her editor at the New Orleans Times-Tribune, designed so that Celine would meld in the crowd at this upscale club, which provided sexual favors to both men and women, all run by the Lorenzo branch of the Dixie Mafia. Thus the black stiletto sling-backs, the sheer black silk hose, the black slip dress with red lace edging the bodice and hem, not to mention the flame red lipstick. Her shoulder-length boring brown hair had been blown and twisted into a wild curly mane. Normally, her idea of dressing up was new jeans, lip gloss, and a ponytail.
No way would she ever be confused for the award-winning journalist she was. Nor would she be taken for the mother of a five-year-old child. Nope. She was a woman on the make for a little action . . .
illegal, paid-for action.
“I look like a Bourbon Street hooker,” she’d complained to her fellow reporter, Jade Lewis, just a half hour ago as she’d helped plant the tape recorder inside her push-up bra and adjusted the tiny camera into the gold and rhinestone, rose-shaped brooch at the deep vee of her front. “I didn’t even know I could have cleavage.”
Jade had laughed. “Not a hooker. You look too high class for that. With the diamond post earrings and that brooch, you look like a bored, upper class gal with a wad of dough looking for Mister Studmuffin.”
“A desperate housewife?”
“Something like that.”
So now Celine walked up to the doorman, who resembled a pro-wrestler in a tux, and flashed the small card she’d been given for admission. Apparently, no one could enter the private premises unless they were with a member, or had obtained one of the cards . . . cards which were impossible to obtain without careful vetting. How Bruce had obtained hers she didn’t want to know.
The big bruiser studied the card, then stepped aside and held the door open for her. She could hear soft music up ahead . . . no bump and grind sordid business here. A hostess, who could have passed for a runway model in a trendy culottes outfit, inquired, “Black, white, or blue?”
“Huh?”
A light smile tugged at the hostess’s lips. “First time here?”
Celine nodded.
“The black room is for men wanting to hook up with a woman. The white room is for women wanting to hook up with a man. And the blue room is for men and women, together, wanting to hook up with . . . whatever.”
At Celine’s confused look, she elaborated, “Ménage à trois, honey.”