Wild Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  I am not looking at his groin.

  I am not looking at his butt.

  I am not looking at his wide shoulders and narrow waist.

  Oh, God! Even his toes are sexy.

  She was caught mid-gawk by John, who grinned and said, “Like what ya see, chère?” Then he used a forefinger to swipe a dirty spot on her cheek. At least he didn’t attempt to remove the spot on her shirt, right above “Saint,” but he stared all right. “Ya look good in mud, sweet thang,” he drawled, still ogling her chest. Then his eyes wandered. “I wonder . . . yep, ya do have some mud behind yer knees.

  Mercy!” He licked his lips, which—be still my heart!—reminded her of their kiss.

  Shaking her head to clear it and hopefully shake him from the notion that she found him tempting as a beignet to a sweetaholic, she glared and said through gritted teeth, “I look like crap in mud. What’s with you and this knee fetish? Stop staring at my boobs . . . and my knees. I am not your darlin’.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Furthermore, tell your aunt to back off.”

  “What’s she doin’ now?”

  “Arranging our wedding.”

  The nitwit laughed.

  “And one more thing.”

  “Uh-oh! When a woman says, ‘One more thing,’ that usually means a guy should duck.”

  “What’s in that juju tea that your aunt keeps pushing on me?”

  “Don’t tell me . . . yer gettin’ the hots fer me, baby?”

  Like a furnace, sweetheart. Like a furnace.

  John’s teasing expression went suddenly serious. “Oh, Lord, the juju for you, and St. Jude novenas out the kazoo for me. We are dead ducks.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We should probably go have sex.”

  She had no chance to respond to that outlandish, but typical, remark from John because Adam—

  also wearing a wet suit, but not quite as gorgeous as the Cajun lunkhead, darn it—walked up and asked,

  “Who’s having sex?”

  “Nobody,” she and John replied as one.

  Adam’s dark Cuban eyes widened with disbelief. “Clueless . . . the pair of them are clueless to the bone,” he commented to the others. Then, “But, hey, Celine, if LeDeux’s not up for the job, I’m available.”

  Choosing not to respond, she stomped off again, but this time avoided the mud pudding.

  That’s when she saw a snake the size of a fire hose.

  And Caleb almost fainted.

  And John pulled out a pistol—Who knew he was carrying!—and shot the reptile right between its beady eyes.

  And Tante Lulu said, “Yippee, snake gumbo t’night.”

  It was as clear as mud . . .

  “Okay, guys, let’s do a run-through of what we accomplished this morning and what we plan for the rest of the day . . . and week. Jake and I will be back in eight days, max, hopefully sooner.”

  Veronica was standing outside the work tent as she spoke, following a sumptuous lunch which had been prepared almost totally by that remarkable Cajun Energizer Bunny, Tante Lulu. The meal had not included snake, thank God, but not for the old lady’s lack of trying. “Ever since we Cajuns was kicked out of Canada and France, and ever since all the upper crusts in Nawleans looked down their skinny noses at us, we Cajuns learned ta live off the land. We made a meal outta jist ’bout anythin’ . . .

  squirrels, possums, snakes. Besides, it tastes jist like chicken.”

  “I don’t care if it tastes like frickin’ filet mignon, you are not sneaking snake into my lunch, old lady. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” said the ex-Amish Navy SEAL, who had a huge aversion to snakes and was still looking a bit pale after the snake incident. Heck, Veronica was feeling a little shaky herself at the prospect of snakes that size slithering nearby, even if that particular one had been nonpoisonous.

  “Anyhow, I’m sorry to have to abandon you all like this, but Jake and I have to be in Barnegat by this evening. My grandfather is being honored by the New Jersey Historical Preservation Society.”

  “Don’t worry about taking off, Ronnie. We can handle things from this end,” Adam assured her. At his side, Caleb nodded his agreement.

  “Give him our congratulations,” Brenda said, and the others concurred.

  “Plus, I have to meet with three different prospective clients for upcoming projects. And Jake has to be in Atlantic City by tomorrow afternoon for his little poker tournament.”

  Jake chortled at her use of the word “little.”

  “Just kidding, sweetheart.” To the others, she explained, “This is a million dollar grand slam thingee—”

  “Thingee?” Jake inquired with mock affront.

  “—and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She flashed Jake a “Gotcha!” look at her last remark.

  Then, back to the others, “Grandpa and Flossie are going to watch Julie Ann for us so we can spend two days down on the boardwalk.”

  She and Jake exchanged smiles . . . because there were several significant things in what she’d said, which only Jake would recognize. One, there was a time when she’d hated everything poker and wouldn’t have willingly attended a poker event. Two, in the past her phobia about the ocean and the smell of saltwater would have made a stay at the seashore less than appealing. Three, thanks to her grandfather and his longtime girlfriend, she and Jake were going to be able to spend two full days of child-free time together.

  While the others were wishing Jake good luck, John homed in on the latter. “Two days alone in A.C. . . . whooee! You guys wouldn’t be thinkin’ of gettin’ married, wouldja?”

  With heated face, Veronica replied, “Of course not.”

  With no heat on his face, Jake replied, “Maybe.”

  “They wouldn’t do no such thing without invitin’ all of us, ’specially me since I sicced the thunderbolt of love on ’em.” This was from Tante Lulu, of course.

  Celine muttered something like, “Thunderbolt of love? No way!”

  “When Ronnie and I get married, you’ll be the first one invited,” Jake told Tante Lulu.

  Veronica noticed that he said “when,” not “if.” But that was okay. It was inevitable that they try once again, despite having been married and divorced four times before, but it wouldn’t be this week.

  “I have a good idea,” Tante Lulu mused, tapping her puckered lips thoughtfully. “How ’bout you two get hitched at the end of the Pirate Project. Sort of a double celebration. I throw a real good weddin’, if I do say so myself. Jist ask René and Val. People in Houma is still talkin’ ’bout the secret weddin’ I threw fer those two.”

  John rolled his eyes and confirmed, “My aunt, she’s not kiddin’, no. René and Val weren’t even speakin’ to each other when they arrived at Tante Lulu’s birthday bash, only to find it was really their weddin’ she had planned. Talk about!”

  Veronica had heard this story before, and it still boggled the mind. She was about to remind everyone that they had gotten off the subject when Jake came up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder, tugging her close to his side. Julie Ann was in the other tent, playing with her Barbie princess castle. “Let’s do it, honey,” he whispered in her ear.

  “What?” She shivered. Even after more than fifteen years of being together, off and on, Jake could still make her insides melt with his breath in her ear, or even a look. She loved him so.

  “Let’s get married again.”

  She looked at him, full in the face to see if he was serious.

  He was.

  And suddenly she, too, knew the time was right.

  They both turned to Tante Lulu and said, “Okay.”

  “But not during the Pirate Ball,” Veronica was quick to add.

  Tante Lulu’s shoulders slumped.

  “Ronnie’s right,” Jake said. “I want this to be private. Our wedding.”

  If she didn’t already love this guy, she would now, for understanding. “I don’t mind a bit of outrageousness
, but let it be our outrageousness, okay?” she said to Tante Lulu.

  The old lady nodded, but her brain was probably already in woo-woo land planning stuff. Veronica would worry about that later.

  “Hey, we could call this the Pirate Marriage,” she said to Jake. They’d given names to all their previous marriages: the Sappy Marriage, the Cowboy Marriage, the Tequila Marriage, and the Insanity Marriage.

  “Nope. Remember, honey, I told you that the next time we get married, it was going to be called the Forever Marriage.”

  She kissed him then, despite their audience.

  It was absolute chaos then as everyone had congratulations and opinions to offer.

  From Caleb: “Hey, best of luck. Just don’t let her talk you into a farm.”

  From Adam: “Hey, I have a cousin who plays in a Cuban salsa band. I could see if he’s available to play at your wedding.”

  From Tante Lulu: “Salsa? I thought salsa was some kinda hot sauce. Nope, René’s band will play Cajun music, and that’s that.”

  From John: “You guys have been together a looong time. Betcha need to spice up the dirty. Not to worry. I can help with the honeymoon. I have a friend who owns a sex toy company, and—”

  Celine snorted.

  John winked at her and continued, “I could get you a special deal on some items which would juice up your sex life.”

  “Tee-John LeDeux! Shush yer mouth!” Tante Lulu reached over and swatted him on the head with a palmetto fan.

  “Our sex life has plenty of juice, thank you very much,” Jake told John.

  From Brenda: “It better be soon. I’m not walking down the aisle wearing one of those god-awful bridesmaid gowns with a big belly. And, no, Tante Lulu, I’m not going to be a female pirate with a big belly, either.” Even when she wasn’t pregnant, Brenda had an obsession with her weight and was always on a diet. She refused to believe that men loved her voluptuous figure. And, hey, who said anything about a big wedding that would require bridesmaids . . . or even an aisle, for heaven’s sake?

  From Celine: “I could do a nice write-up about the wedding for—”

  “No!” every single other person yelled.

  Veronica could only imagine what that article would involve. “Love: Better the Fifth Time Around.”

  But then Tante Lulu went off on a long-winded ramble, “I’m thinkin’ a five-tiered cake. Do ya prefer lemon or raspberry or praline fillin’? We gotta move lickety-split if we’s gonna reserve the hall fer another day that week. Okay, okay, mebbe not so soon. Still, we gotta plan. Mebbe I should call yer grandmother up in Boston and see if she wants ta help. When ya get a chance, Ronnie, could ya give me a guest list? ’Cause this is yer weddin’. I wouldn’t wanna be takin’ over or anythin’.”

  Veronica stopped listening after Tante Lulu mentioned her grandmother. The thought of the Cajun dingy and her uptight lawyer grandmother was enough to give Veronica a stroke. Jake winked at her, having experienced her grandmother’s “help” in the past.

  It was a half hour and three aspirins later before Veronica was able to pull the meeting back to order. Tante Lulu had gone into the cook tent to gather up her belongings for the return trip to the cabin. She wasn’t going back to Houma, like she and Jake, but, instead, would remain at the cabin ’til the others came back this evening, probably preparing enough food for an army. Glancing at her wristwatch, she noticed that time was flying. Remy would be at the cabin in an hour, and they needed to be at the New Orleans Airport by four P.M. for their return flight to Jersey.

  “Okay, let’s discuss today’s operations. We watched your progress on camera feed to the computers, of course, but that’s not the same as firsthand experience,” Veronica said. “You first, Adam.”

  “We used the magnetometer along with high–grade metal detectors over four grids, covering roughly five hundred square feet. All we’ve come up with so far are a fishing rod, two beer cans that probably came in from a more populated area, and a rustic skinning knife which might very well have some historic value. Houma Indian provenance, maybe.”

  “Diving in the bayou is totally different from our ocean dives,” Caleb pointed out. “Here, depth and possible narcosis aren’t issues, but visibility is. Man, it’s like swimming through a cup of coffee.”

  “Yeah, but visibility is still possible in that kind of water, and it’s pure water, too,” John contended.

  “The problem isn’t the clarity of the stream, but raking up mud at the bottom. Every time we even touch the bottom we ruin that site for at least a day ’til it settles down.”

  “If there’s one thing my grandfather taught me, it’s that every treasure hunt runs into unforeseen problems. You have to adapt as you go,” Veronica said. “So we adapt. We’ll look at the maps again.

  Instead of following consecutive grids . . . in the lawn mower pattern . . . we’ll start with an X-pattern, bottom left to top right, then bottom right to top left. Only after we’ve completed those spots will we try the remaining squares. Do you follow me?”

  Everyone agreed, some offering opinions.

  “There’s something else,” John said, rubbing a hand over his mouth as if in deep thought. “I’m not so sure that the treasure is underwater. Yeah, I know Tante Lulu’s map would indicate that it is, but who knows? If this water grid doesn’t work out, I don’t think we should enlarge it to encompass more of the stream. Nope, I think we should hit the land on either side.”

  “Do we have enough shovels for those kinds of digs?” Caleb asked.

  “I think so,” Veronica said, “but if we don’t, we can order more through Remy.”

  After discussing other aspects of the day’s search and what would be done that afternoon, she concluded, “That’s it, then. Jake and I will be back soon. Call if you have any problems. Anything else?”

  Caleb raised his hand. “Do we have enough snake antidote?”

  Chapter 10

  He sure knew how to muddy the waters . . .

  John was dirty, exhausted and about to be reamed by Celine when she found out that she was going to be forced to stay here at the work site with him tonight. Alone.

  Ronnie, Jake, Julie Ann, and Tante Lulu were long gone, and Peach, Famosa, and Brenda were preparing to return to the cabin in two pirogues. It would be a shorter trip back since they would be riding with the current. But someone needed to stay behind and guard the site and all the expensive equipment, which meant him. And Celine, according to Chief Pinot’s orders.

  At the last minute, he took Celine by the upper arm and drew her back. “What . . . what are you doing?” she asked as the two pirogues took off without her. “Let me go. That’s the last of the pirogues.” Jerking away from him, she ran several yards down the bank, slipping and sliding in the mud. “Hey! Wait for me!” she yelled.

  No one bothered to stop. In fact, Famosa—ever Mr. Clueless—waved to her.

  Sputtering with rage and tossing out a few expletives that would do a Bourbon Street pimp proud, she finally accepted that she was going to be staying here, unless she was up to a really long walk through what would soon be evening in the swampland. Slowly, she turned, inch by inch, to confront him. She was so angry she practically had smoke coming out of her blazing eyes.

  He stood up by the cook tent, munching on an apple. His aunt had left them fresh fruit and vegetables, along with a large cooler full of perishables.

  “I can explain,” he said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “There’s a good reason for you to stay.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Chief’s orders.”

  “And you knew this . . . when?”

  “This morning.”

  She made a low growling sound as her hands moved into claw formation, about to launch herself at him. The problem was, she had been standing in the mud pudding too long, and she’d sunk down to the tops of her leather boots. Launching herself was out of the question as moist sucking sounds filled the air with each of her plodding step
s.

  He thought about laughing, but then decided not to be totally stupid. Tossing the core of his apple aside, he walked over to the edge of the clearing, avoiding the mud. “Do you need my help?”

  She gave him a killing glance.

  Still, he held a hand out to her.

  In her attempt to avoid contact with his hated self, she backed up, slipped, and fell on her butt with a wet splatting noise. Mud spattered everywhere.

  “You’re a mess,” he remarked idly.

  “Bite me,” she said.

  “Okay,” he replied and stepped into the mud. Picking her up by the waist, he walked over to the stream, with her kicking and screaming. Stepping carefully into the shallows ’til he was up to his knees, he dropped Celine. Kerplunk!

  Surprised, she sank under the water, like a dead weight.

  Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her back up.

  Sputtering and spitting out a combination of mud and water and various descriptions of his character in not-so-complimentary language, she staggered, trying to regain her balance. “Where are you going, you low-down, sneaky weasel?” she asked.

  Okaaay. Friendly, I am not gonna get. “I’m gonna get some of that environmentally friendly soap that René sent. We both need a bath.”

  “Oh, great! Leave me to be eaten by an alligator or snake or something.”

  He laughed. “Honey, you’ve scared off every animal within a one-mile radius with all your squawking.”

  Oops, maybe squawk wasn’t the right word.

  She made a hissing noise.