by Sandra Hill
“Good thing you didn’t drive your motorcycle tonight,” she commented.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I got caught. It came in handy during Hurricane Katrina when I was a new lawyer in town and the streets were a mess. But then there was the time last year when I got hit with hail the size of marbles. I was black-and-blue for a week.”
“The perks and perils of open-air driving. Here on the bayou, the dangers can be different. I was out on a pirogue with some friends when I was thirteen or so, and we rode right into an alligator’s nest. Talk about fast rowing to get out of there.”
“Thirteen, huh? At least you weren’t humping a teacher. Or were you?”
She straightened indignantly. “That was insulting.”
“Yeah, it was. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m nervous.”
She turned to look at him, barely visible in the cocoon created by the foggy windows and loud rain. Under normal circumstances, they could have heard the band playing in the tavern. Not now. “Why are you nervous? Oh, you mean the aftershocks from everything that happened tonight.”
“No, Simone, I do not mean what happened tonight. I mean everything that has been leading up to this night.”
Huh?
With a long sigh of what sounded like surrender, he undid his seat belt, then leaned over to undo her seat belt, as well. With a skill that had to have been perfected in cars throughout his teenage years and beyond, Adam yanked her up and out of the driver’s seat and over onto his lap. Before she could say, “What the hell . . . ?” or, “Stop!” or, “What a great idea!” he was kissing her. Wide-mouthed, wet, hungry kisses that went on forever. There might have been tongues involved, too, but she wasn’t sure if was his or hers. And hands! Oh, my! His hands were everywhere. Cradling her face, cupping her buttocks, shaping her breasts, tugging her closer, adjusting her position, making wide sweeps from her shoulders to her thighs and back up again. No interruptions in the kisses or the caresses.
And she was no better, or worse. She tugged at the rubber band holding his hair off his face in a little ponytail and combed her fingers through the strands. She nipped at his earlobe, and he moaned, arching up into her so that his erection pressed against her hip. She was touching him all over, too, except that one place, which she was saving for later.
She started to tell him she was too big for this space, and that he was, too, but somehow they fit. In more ways than one.
The whole time they kissed and touched, they murmured sexy words at each other. Or they seemed sexy, in context.
“Oh, darlin’.”
“Yes!”
“Please.”
“More!”
“Does that hurt?”
“Hurts so good!”
Laughter.
Giggles.
“I feel like a teenager again.”
“Yes, you do, stud.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“Do you feel teased?”
“Oh, yeah!”
Who knew where this might have led if there hadn’t been a sharp rapping noise. Adam eased her off his lap with a painful groan, and since the car had still been running, he was able to open the electric window on his side. For a moment, they couldn’t see clearly the person standing behind the flashlight shining into the car, but they were able to tell that it had stopped raining because the man standing there appeared to be dry.
“Uh-uh-uh!” a male voice chided. It was Adam’s police friend, Max Salter, who was grinning at them. “Well, well, well, Mis-tah Lan-ier, I thought I might find you here where you’d left your car, but I didn’t expect . . . this.”
“Bullshit!” Adam said, opening the door and shoving it hard against his friend’s belly so that he had to step back with a laugh. “What are doing here, Salter? Demoted to patrolling bar parking lots now, are you? Looking for DUIs?”
“Nah. I just thought you’d like an update on what happened at Ferguson’s house.” Peering around Adam’s shoulder, Max waved at Simone who was leaning across the passenger seat to hear what was being said. “Hey, Ms. LeDeux, whatcha doin’?”
She made a sound of disgust, and Adam put himself between Max and the car so that the detective couldn’t see her anymore. Chivalry and all that!
“It all went down short and sweet. We didn’t even need to call for backup. He’s in lockup, as we speak. Of course, he’s already lawyered up. That creep Jessie John Daltry from Nawleans.”
“I know Daltry. He doesn’t come cheap. Wonder where Ferguson would get the cash for such a high-priced attorney? Teachers don’t make that much.”
“Family money,” Max told him.
“Does that mean this case might be dropped?”
“Not a chance!” Max said. “We got the bastard this time.”
“Well, let us know what’s happening and if you need any more help,” Adam told him.
“Will do.” But then the detective added, “Behave yourself,” as he walked away, chuckling. Over his shoulder, he added, “By the way, you have a hickey the size of a French Quarter praline on your neck.”
Adam said a foul word and put a hand to his neck as he walked around the front of the car. The motor was still running, and the lights were still on. He then checked his watch.
Simone checked the dashboard clock, as well. Almost midnight. Good Lord, they must have been making out for a long time. Like teenagers. And a hickey? Surely she hadn’t done that. Had she? Well, he sure didn’t do it to himself. Can he see how red my face is? And, oh, my God! What if I have a hickey, too?
She put her window down when Adam bent his knees to put his face into her view. “Are you going to be all right going home alone?”
I don’t see any hickey. But his lips look all puffy and raw. Kiss-swollen. Get your act together, Simone. He asked you a question. Something about needing an escort home or something. What? She was a cop . . . or had been. What does he think I am, some fragile Southern belle? Who gives world-class hickeys. Aaarrgh! “Of course,” she said, as calmly as she could manage, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible so she could go home and cover her head with a blanket for a week or two.
Neither of them mentioned the big elephant in the parking lot . . . the still simmering attraction between them, the chemistry that had led them to behave so irresponsibly. The hickey.
Enough! She’d behaved badly. She’d been saved by the bell . . . uh, knock. No harm done! Time to move on.
She could tell that he was having second thoughts, too.
“Thanks for your help tonight, Adam. See ya!”
He inserted a hand, just before she closed the window. “Not so fast, Simone. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
If he asks for a good-night kiss, I’m going to scream.
If I don’t get a good-night kiss, I might scream.
“The party’s not over yet, sweetheart.”
That sweetheart was kind of ominous. Or maybe it was just the immature kind of thing a teen boy says when he hasn’t gotten his rocks off yet. “What party? Oh, you mean the pool party at your house,” she said, playing it dumb.
“No, Simone, that’s not the party I mean. The other party.”
Yep, definitely Boys ‘R Us.
But then she was feeling a little bit girlish.
Chapter Seven
What they needed was a party to celebrate . . .
The verdict in Pham versus Cypress Oil came down the next afternoon. Guilty on fifteen of twenty counts. There would be a two-week continuance before the trial was reconvened for the penalty phase when a decision would be handed down on fines and compensation for damages. In the meantime, post-trial motions would be filed, including any appeals Cypress wanted to make.
Everyone on Pham’s team was ecstatic, especially Mike Pham. Adam and Luc high-fived each other once they were out of view of the judge and jury, not wanting to appear too unprofessional, or be cited for contempt of court . . . a line they’d crossed a number of times, accordi
ng to the judge.
“Why didn’t we get them on the other five charges?” Mike wanted to know the minute they were alone.
Adam was tempted to stuff his fist down the ungrateful jerk’s big mouth, but Luc spoke first, “Hey, Mike, be satisfied with what ya got. Those five charges involved premeditation, and that’s hard to prove in this kind of case.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mike conceded. “Let’s go celebrate. Oyster shooters at the Swamp Tavern?”
“Not in the middle of the day for me. Sylvie would kill me. I have to attend my youngest daughter’s swim meet at five.”
Mike gave Luc a look that pretty much labeled him as pussy-whipped. He turned to Adam and said, “You got a wife hanging on your tails, too?”
“No wife, but I have work back at the office, including some paperwork involving this case.” He just had to add then, wanting to needle the bastard, “I wouldn’t celebrate too soon, though, Mike. You never know what courts will award. Might be just one dollar.”
“Whaaat? They wouldn’t dare!”
Luc, catching Adam’s cue, said, “Yep, sometimes the juries, they jist wanna give a message, not money. One time I had a client sue fer sexual harassment, and the court ruled in her favor, but gave her a measly one hundred dollars fer pain and sufferin’. My commission, it was about fifty cents. Talk about!”
It was amazing how Luc slid in and out of Cajun dialect so easily, and it appeared to be unintentional. Except when he deliberately exaggerated his language, wanting to come off as redneck dumb. Like the time he appeared before the State Supreme Court against some Manhattan bigshots trying to swindle a farmer out of his land for a shopping mall. They thought they were dealing with Barney Fife with a law degree, but instead got Matlock, but that was another story.
Mike gaped at the two of them, horrified. “Yer shittin’ me!”
Adam shook his head slowly, as if in sympathy.
Luc said, “We kin only hope you’ll get a fortune, cher.”
When Mike stalked off, Adam said to Luc, “Cher my ass! He’s not your friend.”
“I know. And the sad thing, ironically, is that he’ll probably walk away with at least a million bucks. Losers are losers even when they win. By the way, did you know you have a hickey on your neck?”
“I got hit by a ball when I was playing racquetball last night,” Adam lied. He hoped Max would keep his big mouth shut, but that was probably an impossible wish. Cops loved to find something to annoy lawyers. “It about knocked me out.”
“Yeah, right. And I suppose a racquetball caused yer lips ta be all red and puffy, too. When we get back to the office, maybe ya should suck on an ice cube.”
Adam told Luc what he could suck on.
Which didn’t bother Luc. “Guess it’s best that I do the TV interview, unless ya want the reporter askin’ if ya been bee stung.”
Once again, Adam noticed how sometimes Luc’s language got more Cajun and Southernish than others. Not just when he wanted to fool the unwary, but when he wanted to tease, as well. By the twinkle in Luc’s eyes, though, Adam could tell that Max had already been blabbing. Luc must have run into the cop in the courthouse.
“Bite me!” That was the best retort Adam could come up with, which turned out to be an unfortunate choice of words.
“Looks lak ya had enough bitin’ already, pal,” Luc drawled.
Yep, unfortunate.
When they got back to the office, Adam found his father in the lobby chatting with their secretary, Mildred Guidry, who was an avid home gardener, too. After congratulating them on winning the case, Frank went back to discussing pesticides with Mildred while Luc began making preparations for the interview with the local television station about the verdict and Adam went into his office, where Maisie was sitting behind his desk tapping away on his laptop.
“Maisie! Honey! You shouldn’t be using Daddy’s laptop. You might accidentally wipe out some important files.”
“Oh, Daddy, I brought mah own flash drive.”
He should have known. Kids knew more than adults about computers today. Not that he was a computer idiot, but Maisie could probably teach him a few things.
“I’m workin’ on the VeePees fer our party,” she told him.
“Huh?”
“The RSVPs.”
“RSVPs? Where did you hear of that?”
“PawPaw tol’ me it was a way to see how many people would come. And mah friend Phoebe’s sister Christine showed me how to do it on my computer.”
Oh, great, a conspiracy! “So, you got a lot of those RSVPs already?”
“Ten.” She smiled happily, as if she’d just won an Oscar.
“Really? You just sent them out.”
“Mostly they’re from my kindergarten friends so far,” she admitted.
“And you’re using a computer to plan this whole shindig, huh?”
“Of course.” She motioned for him to come behind the desk and peer over her shoulder. “I have files fer everything. Guest list . . . forty-three so far. Food . . . Tante Lulu sez she kin make a Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake fer us. Drinks . . . we’re havin’ pink lemonade with little umbrellas. And beer . . . yuck! Decorations . . . red, white, and blue fer the Fourth of July. Extra pool floats . . . we gotta have some flag ones, this bein’ a theme party. Games . . . me and mah friends are gonna plan those.”
“And this Christine helped you set this all up? How old is she?”
“She’s really old. Fourteen. But PawPaw helped, too.”
My father? What is he thinking? And did I hear Tante Lulu mentioned in that spiel? Oh, Lord! I don’t want to know how Maisie knows that old lady so well. Must be Dad who involved her. I am definitely going to have a word with him. And a “theme party”? We’re having a “theme party”? But for now, he just said, “Wow! You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”
“A good hostess is first of all a good party planner.”
He smiled at her adult language. “Where’d you hear that, my little hostess? From Christine? Or PawPaw?” Or, God forbid, Tante Lulu?
“Food Network. ‘Parties for the Younger Set.’ I’m the Younger Set. But you’re not old, either, Daddy. Well, not tooooo old!”
He had to laugh. After last night, making out in a car like a horny teenager, he was definitely not feeling old.
“I have a folder fer you, too, Daddy. Wanna see?”
He was about to say yes, but Luc stepped in and waved a folded newspaper at him. Luc signaled with his eyes that Adam had to see the headline.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to his daughter and walked out, following Luc into his office. “What’s up?” he asked Luc. “Too soon for news on our trial, isn’t it?”
“Look,” Luc ordered, spreading the newspaper out on his desk.
Adam swallowed a gasp of surprise. The headline read, “Houma Teacher Charged with Statutory Rape.” There was a picture of Luther Ferguson, flanked by Max Salter and two uniformed officers, doing the perp walk from the parking lot to the courthouse for arraignment early this morning.
“They sure work fast,” Luc said. He already knew about the situation that had come up last night, even though he’d just been returning from Baton Rouge early this morning when they’d gotten the verdict call. While they’d waited for the jury to come in, Adam had brought him up-to-date on the prior night’s happenings . . . minus the make-out session with Simone.
“According to Simone, they had to act fast because . . .”
“Mais oui! I shoulda guessed,” Luc interrupted. “Simone is the one who gave you the love bite. Wait till Tante Lulu sees that. Whoo-ee! Weddin’ bells will be a-ringin’.”
Adam ignored Luc’s jibe and skimmed the article. It wasn’t just statutory rape Ferguson was being charged with but a whole slew of other crimes, like sodomy, child pornography, and solicitation of a minor. “Oh, no! They granted him bail.”
“Yep. A hundred thou. Cash. Apparently his family has money. Somethin’ ta do with designer popcor
n in Nebraska. Ya ever heard of FergiePop? Zebra stripes, peppermint cane colors, polka dots, that kind of thing. And outrageous flavors, like Cajun Spice, Arctic Ice, Thai Ginger. They’ve been grownin’ the stuff fer a century or more, but always adaptin’ ta the times. No more simple salt and butter.”
“Yeah, Maisie wants to get some of the pink cotton-candy flavor for her party. But, man! If ever there was a flight risk, he’s it. He could skip town in a flash with that kind of money behind him.”
“Not so fast. He’s under house arrest with an ankle monitor. And the arraignment was fast-forwarded, so I expect the trial to be expedited, too.”
“Max hinted last night that there might be other victims.”
“There always are with these kinds of perverts.”
“Max also said something about Ferguson already being lawyered up with Jessie John Daltry.”
“Hah! Daltry’s a slimey s.o.b., but I’m not sure he can do much for a pedophile.”
The reporter for the TV station arrived and Adam was forced to participate in the interview about Cypress Oil along with Luc, merely because he hadn’t managed to escape the office fast enough. Maisie didn’t understand what the oil company case was about, but she was practically jumping with pride, watching her father being interviewed. Adam’s father was beaming, too.
Later that evening, when everyone was asleep, he called Simone. “Hi,” he said, not bothering to identify himself.
“Hi,” she said back, knowing who it was.
Was that a sign of something, that they recognized each other’s voices? Or just Caller I.D.?
“Were you sleeping?”
“Just getting ready for bed.”
“Alone?”
“Adam!”
“Sorry.”
“How about you?”
“Alone or in bed?”
“Both.”
“Same as you. I’m wearing black cotton sleep pants with red tongues imprinted all over them, a warped Christmas gift from my brother, Dave, that I wear as a concession to having a daughter in the house. How about you? What are you wearing? Or not wearing?”
“Adam! That is such a cliché! Next you’ll be asking me to come over and see your etchings.”
