Wild Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  Note to self: do not use the word squawk again.

  She was dunking her body underwater, for the fourth time, when he returned. Placing two towels on a dry section of the bank, he shucked his shirt, shorts, boots, and socks, leaving only his black boxer briefs. If that offended her, so be it. Her bad mood was rubbing off on him. He smelled like sweat and mud and his skin itched. And she was annoying the hell out of him.

  He sent the soap floating toward her, then dived underwater. The bottom had been stirred up here; so he swam underwater ’til the water was more clear. Crawfish scampered out of his way along with a sac-à-lait, three catfish, and a bream. He would try his hand at fishing later. The thought of fish cooked over an open fire caused his empty stomach to rumble.

  Lungs bursting, he finally rose up straight out of the water with a big splash. Orca couldn’t have done it better. He stood and combed his hair back off his face. She was about twenty feet away, shampooing her hair.

  For one brief second he allowed himself the luxury of taking in a Celine like he’d never seen before. Her arms were raised as she combed her wet hair back off her face. Her posture caused her breasts and the hint of nipples to be prominent under the skin-hugging T-shirt.

  He’d have to be made of stone not to react to the sensuality of her pose. Hard-core arousal shot through his body and lodged in lust central. Brain-dead under testosterone overload, he started to walk toward her in the thigh-deep water, but stopped abruptly, calling himself ten times a fool.

  Then she raised her T-shirt over her head, and shimmied out of her shorts.

  He went still, his heart thundering so hard he could barely breathe.

  Oblivious, she used the bar of soap to wash her clothing. Was she crazy? He was a man, and they were alone. She had turned now, and all he could see was her back and the band of a flesh-colored bra.

  “You don’t have to wash those,” he said weakly.

  She swung around with surprise.

  Despite using sunscreen, her face had a healthy glow, framed by hair that appeared black with wetness, accentuated by the incredible blue of her eyes. How could he not have seen how pretty she was before?

  “You are a pig,” she said, noticing the direction of his stare.

  Maybe not so pretty. And certainly not friendly.

  She resumed soaping up her shirt and shorts.

  “Why are you doing that?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking why she was washing her clothes or why she was standing there, practically naked, tantalizing him.

  “I refuse to spend the night in filthy clothes.” She slanted him a glance which told him loud and clear that she knew the effect she was having on him.

  He dived underwater again, coming up about five feet in front of her. “There are clean, dry clothes in your duffel bag up in the equipment tent,” he said, making sure he didn’t look below her chin. “And you better get them on pretty damn quick before I do something really stupid.”

  “What?”

  “Brenda packed up your stuff for you.” He ignored her real question.

  “And you waited ’til now to tell me?”

  “When would I have had a chance? You were too busy squa . . . I mean, yelling at me.” And tempting the bejesus out of me.

  She threw the soap at him.

  He caught it and began to soap up his chest, arms, underarms, hair, and then face, dipping himself under the water to wash off. Noticing that she was watching him, he slowed down, making sure she got a good show.

  When she realized what he was doing, she snorted with disgust and continued to rinse off her clothing.

  Once he was sufficiently clean, he glanced her way again, giving himself the treat of seeing a semi-clad Celine crawling up the bank. Whoo-boy! It was well worth the slap which was sure to come later if he was caught mid-ogle. The flesh-colored bra was pretty well transparent when wet, showcasing full breasts with up-tilted pink nipples, and the panties were outlined by two perfectly round buttocks. He whistled his appreciation.

  She froze, half-turned, like a deer in the headlights, her nipples getting even harder and more visible as the seconds ticked by like hours. Shaking her head to clear it, she resumed climbing up the bank, saying, “We are not having sex,” whether to him or herself, he wasn’t sure.

  “I never thought we were,” he said to her back. Liar!

  “Pfff! You didn’t have to say it. It was in your eyes.”

  “I can’t help what’s in my eyes,” he argued. Or down below.

  But then she stepped onto the bank, and he got a full-blown view of her ass in low-riding, flesh colored panties, and of the backs of her knees—What is it with me and knees lately? Jeesh! —which were really, really . . . um, interesting, and the small of her back which was also . . . um, interesting. Is that a tramp stamp there? Oh, God, I am lost, lost, lost if she has a tattoo almost riding her butt. No, it was just a piece of grass.

  Unapologetically, he watched her walk up the slight incline before the tents. Up, down, up, down, up, down, went her buttocks. She had the beat down pat. It was better than an X-rated video.

  But he was a gentleman. Most of the time. He would keep his mouth shut. For now. He would give Celine time to dress. Five minutes max. Then, here I come, ready or not. He would talk to her then, explain why the situation had to be this way, and everything would be peachy keen. Ha, ha, ha.

  He decided it was better if he stayed in the water for a while longer. His brain, and that other organ, needed a good talking to.

  Something fishy was going on with her . . .

  Celine had refused to speak or listen to John for the past hour until her temper calmed down. Since that didn’t appear to be on the horizon anytime soon, she walked downstream to where he was fishing with a makeshift pole.

  “John . . . ?”

  Without turning to her, he snapped, “What?” Then, more softly, “Now you’re gonna talk to me?”

  He actually had the nerve to sound hurt.

  “Don’t you think I have reason to be upset?”

  He shrugged. “You knew comin’ into this project, uninvited, that there might be problems.”

  “Problems, yeah. Kidnapping, no.”

  He turned. “Not kidnapping. Protective custody. Sort of.”

  “Bull!”

  “Hey, it’s either this or go back to Houma where you’ll immediately be picked up by the authorities. The chief says you need to be watched 24/7 ’til the trial is over. He’s suspicious of your obsession with me and this project.”

  She inhaled sharply. “I am not obsessed with you.”

  “I’m just sayin’, darlin’,” he drawled.

  She hated it when he drawled. Or was it that she hated it that she liked it when he drawled.

  Aaarrgh! “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You are a major liability now, babe.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. My partner, Tank Woodrow, was winged by a sniper, and he was five frickin’ miles out on the Gulf in his boat. Right now, he’s in temporary witness protection. Two other witnesses in the Playpen bust have been receiving death threats. And the word on the street is that the Lorenzo family has ordered a hit on me.

  “Plus, the security alarm at my house has gone off six times since I’ve been gone. Vanguard is threatening to drop me as a customer.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “I don’t think anyone can connect me with René or Luc’s cabins, but it’s a chance I can no longer take for me . . . or for you. Besides, it’s out of my hands.”

  She let out a whooshy exhale. “I’m a mother, John. I can’t cut myself off from Etienne and my grandfather.”

  “You told me they were out of town.”

  “They are, but I have to keep in touch. I call my son every night. My cell phone doesn’t get a signal out here.”

  “It doesn’t get a signal at René’s cabin, either.”

  “John, I have to keep in touch. What if there were an emergency?” She gulped. “This is a nightm
are.”

  “All we can do is make the best of it.”

  “I am not having sex with you.”

  He laughed. “I meant that we can agree to be amicable ’til this situation is resolved.”

  “Oooh, oooh, look. You have something on your line.”

  His rod was bent over in the middle with the force of his catch. With an expertise born no doubt of years on the bayou, he played the line . . . first tugging the fish in a bit, then giving it some lead, each time pulling it in a closer ’til finally he had it dangling over the water’s surface.

  He had nice hands, she thought. Long, thin fingers which would probably be just as expert at . . .

  no, no, no, I am not going there.

  “Look at that sweetheart,” John said, smiling at her.

  Only belatedly did she realize he was referring to the fish as sweetheart, not her.

  It was a big, ugly catfish with beady eyes and bristly whiskers. Frankly, she was more interested in his sexy smile. What’s happening to me? I must still be feeling the effects of that blasted juju tea.

  “Fish on the menu tonight, darlin’,” he crooned.

  In her hormone-warped brain, Celine thought at first that he had said, “Sex on the menu tonight, darlin’.”

  Could it possibly be wishful thinking on my part?

  Impossible! It must be the Louisiana sun melting my brain.

  Disgusted with herself, she sank down to a grassy spot and watched in silence as he continued to fish, sometimes wading carefully into the water. It was a companionable silence she felt no need to disturb.

  Like the area surrounding René’s cabin, it was beautiful here. Lush and serene. The air was heavy with floral scents, which could be almost anything in this tropical atmosphere; close by, she saw spider lilies, wild iris, and verbena. Birds chirped in the thick trees, one strain in particular sounded mournful, almost like a cat crying.

  Noticing her head tilted in question, John told her, “Doves.” Then added, with a wink, “Lovebirds.”

  Celine felt her cheeks burn, and not from the sun. How pathetic, that she was being turned on by a wink from that devil John LeDeux, who probably winked at grocery store baggers as easily as women he was attracted to. Not that she was in the latter category. He was just playing her . . . like the fish.

  Resting her chin on her upraised knees, her hands folded in front of her calves, she continued to watch him, trying to figure out why she was suddenly attracted to such an unlikely man for her. Well, not so suddenly. She had always considered him good-looking from when she’d seen him on entering high school in Houma for the first time. He’d been surrounded by a group of equally good-looking girls.

  In his defense . . . not that he needed her defending him . . . she had been pretty messed up at the time. Self-esteem hovering at zero. Ashamed that someone might learn about her father’s suicide; at fifteen, a girl thought that reflected badly on her. She’d had no one but her grandfather to help her get ready for first day of high school, and the old man, bless his heart, had the fashion sense of Jed Clampett. So, getting a crush-at-first-sight on John LeDeux pretty much amounted to disappointment waiting to happen.

  The one-night stand in college, she had been able to excuse away by the amount of alcohol they’d both consumed, but, really, the crush had still been there, beneath the surface, just waiting for the least attention from him to ignite. It was all well and good to explain her actions away, but the fact remained, she was stone cold sober now . . . and fighting an erotic fluttering in her tummy every time he looked at her. A ten-year crush? Pitiful, pitiful, pitiful!

  “What’s wrong?” John asked, easing down beside her in the grass. Two big catfish lay on the bank near his feet.

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  Jeesh! The guy threw off heat like a testosterone oven. She squirmed away from him a foot or two.

  “Your frowny face.” He leaned over and traced the furrows in her brow, for emphasis.

  She flinched at that mere touch, her skin suddenly ultra sensitive. “I think your aunt drugged me.”

  “Huh?”

  “She either slipped me a mickey, or rupie, or something powerful was in that juju tea.”

  He snickered.

  “How else can you explain the fact that I want to have sex with you?”

  She could almost hear the “thunk” as her blunt statement landed between them like a big fat pink elephant, impossible to take back, or ignore.

  The expression on his face morphed from surprise, to amusement, to something hot and smoldering

  . . . a look he probably perfected by standing in front of a mirror, or practiced on a gazillion women. He licked his lips, still staring at her. He was probably laughing at her inside.

  But then he said the most amazing thing.

  “Back at you, babe.”

  And he didn’t seem any happier than she was.

  Chapter 11

  Sliding head-first down the slippery slope of you-know-what .

  . .

  There was a long-running dumb man joke on the Internet that said, when it came to sex, men are like microwaves and women are like crockpots. It was not a compliment.

  Well, John knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Ever since Celine had mentioned the word “sex,” he’d been like a pressure cooker. From zero to hot damn in a nanosecond . . . and he’d been on a slow lust-boil ever since.

  And he was starting to like her. Even worse, he suspected she was starting to like him, too. Like and lust: a prescription for disaster, where the two of them were concerned.

  He cleaned the fish with the hunting knife Luc had given him when he was eight. And thought, sex.

  He built a round fire pit with small stones in the way Remy had taught him when he was nine, and thought, sex.

  He cooked the fish, wrapped in damp moss, in hot coals the way René had demonstrated when he was ten, and thought, sex.

  But he was no longer a boy, and Celine Arseneaux was more trouble than this Cajun could handle at this time in his life. So he tried to ignore his raging libido, served the food on St. Jude paper plates, and thought, sex.

  He listened to a song on a mix Charmaine had made up and left at René’s cabin, along with a small CD player. It was appropriately named, “Hot Hot Hot” by Buster Poindexter, and he thought, hot sex.

  He was lying on a blanket, drinking a paper cup of Tante Lulu’s rhubarb wine while Celine bustled around cleaning up, attempting to pretend she hadn’t said what she’d said. Maybe he could get so drunk that he would pass out and not do something stupid, which was not likely, considering his aunt’s wine was weak as piss . . . about one-percent alcohol.

  He had to think of something to dampen the fire. I know. Her kid. Jumping up, he went over to his backpack and pulled out a satellite phone. “Give me the number where your son is staying, and I’ll dial it for you.”

  She brightened immediately. “You didn’t tell me you had a satellite phone. You rat! Give it to me. I can dial myself.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ll dial. This phone is only for emergencies. This call is a one-time deal.”

  “A direct line with my grandfather is an emergency.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are not to mention anything that might link you with me . . . or LeDeuxs in general.”

  “But—”

  He put up a halting hand. “This is a deal breaker. I know how your grandfather feels about us LeDeuxs, but this has nothing to do with that. I can’t have any possible link between you, me, and the upcoming trial.”

  “Oh,” she said, realizing what he meant.

  “You can give your grandfather the chief’s number. If he deems it an emergency, he’ll patch you through.”

  She didn’t like it, but she accepted, giving him the telephone number. He dialed and a small boy answered, “Hello. This is Etienne Arseneaux. Who’s this?”

  For some reason, the hairs stood out on the back of his neck. Confused, he hand
ed the phone to Celine, but not before whispering a caution, “It’s your son. Remember. No mention of me.”

  Listening to the one-sided conversation, he poured himself another cup of wine and lay back on the blanket, head braced on an elbow.

  “Ah, sweetie, I miss you, too. You did? A big horse, huh? Oh, a pony. Did Uncle Samuel ride with you? Well, yes, he’s your uncle, sort of; he’s grandpa’s brother. I see. No, honey, I can’t join you there.

  I have a job assignment. Uh-huh. Maybe next time. I miss ‘You and Me time,’ too. Save up all your news for me ’til you get back, and we’ll have an extra long ‘You and Me time’ with popcorn and slushes. Okay, ice cream, too. No, you cannot bring a pony back to Houma. Gramps’s backyard is too small. No, I said. You can pretty please all you want. The answer is still no.” She laughed out loud.

  “No, that does not mean you can get a dog when you get back.”

  John could see . . . or rather hear . . . what a good mother Celine was. For some reason, he had trouble reconciling his having the hots for a mother.

  She continued to chatter as John watched her face, which was animated in a way which lit her up from within. Was this what parenthood did to a person? It must be. Luc and Remy and René reacted the same way when they were around their kids. It almost made him want to have a kid of his own. Almost being the key word.

  The grandfather must be on the phone now. “I know, Gramps, but I can’t tell you where I am . . . or give you a phone number.” She held the phone away from her ear for a moment. Even from across the blanket, he could hear the sound of yelling. “I’m on a super secret assignment. Use the number I gave you, but only if it’s urgent. I’ll call you again tomorrow night . . . ” She glanced over at him, and he shrugged. “ . . . if I’m able. I love you, too. Give Etienne a hug for me. Bye.”

  She clicked the phone off and handed it to him. Meantime, her face went bleak.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, refilling her cup of wine.

  “I miss my son. I’m almost never away from him overnight . . . let alone a week.” She took a long swallow of her drink.