by Sandra Hill
She thought for a moment, worrying her bottom lip with her small, even, white upper teeth. She had really nice teeth…thanks to a good orthodontist, no doubt. And really, really nice lips. Not that he noticed. Or cared. Or—
“Luc?” Sylvie prodded.
“Huh?” She must have been talking to him while his mind was on…other things.
“I said, how about the gris-gris doll? That was surely a threat to me.”
“Yeah, but voodoo practitioners are more likely to use poison. Or kidnap you and employ slow torture with a knife during one of their rituals. Or drop you in a snake pit.”
“You’re making that up.”
Despite her accusation, he saw a flicker of fear in her wide blue eyes. She had really nice eyes. This was the second time he’d noticed how pretty her eyes were. Stop it, he chastised himself. Stop noticing nice things. Hate Sylvie like you always do. Hate, not like. Or love. Definitely not love. He answered her, then, with the definitive male response: “Am not.”
“God, you are so juvenile!”
“Some women like a man with a sense of humor.”
“Aaarrgh!”
“You say that a lot. Is it a speech impediment?”
“Do you have a death wish?” She tried to swat him on the shoulder, but he rolled away onto his back.
It was fun baiting Sylvie. It always had been. But this was no time for fun and games. “Look, it’s been swell, but I better get out of here while I still can. If the Cypress Oil people don’t get me, you will.” He rose to his feet and walked into the living room and over to the French doors. Carefully, he checked the front yard and street. Empty. Amazing that none of the neighbors had heard the gunshots. Well, it was a Monday afternoon…a workday for most folks.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Sylvie asked, rising, too.
“I sup-pose,” he said slowly, rubbing his chin in contemplation.
“What? Why do you hesitate?”
“Well, I hate to draw the Houma police into this till we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“You’re saying they’re corrupt, too?”
He shook his head decisively. “No, but there would be publicity if we call them to investigate. It’s hard to keep a lid on it, especially when we’ve garnered as much press as we have so far, with so little effort. Putting ourselves in the limelight even more will make it all the harder to find out who’s behind this crap. Besides that, it will be awfully hard to continue my investigation or your experiments under a spotlight.”
Sylvie’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “So we do nothing?”
Luc was a little concerned about the way both of them were using “we,” but he could address that later. “No, we have to do something. Make a record of this incident, if nothing else. I have a fishing pal who’s a P.I., a former police detective from Dallas. We need some expert advice.”
Sylvie brightened visibly.
Luc wasn’t feeling so bright, though. Too many things were happening too fast. Still, he reached for the phone.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Sylvie asked enthusiastically as he punched in the digits.
The P.I.’s number was ringing, and Luc looked up at her, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Claudia Casale.”
Claudia Casale was a six-foot-tall blonde with the sharply honed physique of a female bodybuilder. None of her assets were hidden by her crisp white T-shirt, proclaiming “Extreme Exercise,” or her tight designer jeans. Sylvie couldn’t help wondering what type of fishing she and Luc engaged in. She’d bet it was strenuous stuff. Extreme to the max. And, for sure, Ms. P.I. wasn’t the type who would need a man to bait her hook.
Claudia had already dusted for prints; there were none. She searched for but found no physical evidence that would identify a suspect. She took photographs of the crime scene, regardless, and made a call to a locksmith and window glazier to come and secure the broken French door. She checked the bullet holes and gathered bullet casings, preserving them in little plastic zip bags. A small but efficient tap had been discovered in Sylvie’s phone, and photographic devices planted near her front and back doors.
The gris-gris held some interest for Claudia, which was surprising since Sylvie had expected a detective to dismiss the importance of voodoo. Claudia planned to show it to an ancient swamp woman who still dabbled openly in the voodoo arts. Everyone knew a gris-gris held a powerful curse that could only be removed by a certified exorcism of the spirits. Sylvie only hoped she wouldn’t be required to burn black candles every night, or carry around a bat’s eye, or make an animal sacrifice or some such thing. Perhaps the purchase of some magic charm would do the trick.
Geez, she couldn’t believe she was even contemplating such nonsense.
“Motives,” Claudia said, plopping down on the sofa next to Luc. Sylvie, sitting on a nearby upholstered chair feeding bits of bread to Samson and Delilah, noticed how Luc’s arm immediately went up over the top of the sofa—sort of, but not quite, embracing the woman. “Without evidence, the only way we can narrow down the suspects you’ve already mentioned is to examine their motives,” Claudia went on. “I can look for witnesses, though I doubt there will be any, and I’ll check police computer files for a similar M.O., but motive is our strongest working element right now.”
“We’ve already told you everything we know,” Sylvie reminded her. “Can you figure out anything from that?”
Claudia’s big brown eyes gave her a thorough sweep from head to toe. It wasn’t really an insulting examination…almost clinical…like it was part of her job. “Possibly,” she concluded, then glanced at the Happy Meal container, where the paper was rattling noisily. It was clear to everyone what was going on…again. With a grin, Claudia asked, “Did you really invent a love potion?”
Sylvie shrugged.
“And Luc swallowed it by accident?”
Sylvie shrugged again.
Claudia’s eyes shifted to Luc and lingered in a questioning fashion. “Are you feeling as…uh, feisty as ol’ Samson is?”
It was his turn to shrug. And blush.
“Wow!” Claudia threw back her head and laughed. “You two are a piece of work.”
What? What does she mean by “you two”? Is her investigative mind seeing something neither of us do? Hey, I’m an investigator of sorts, too. I don’t see a thing. Definitely not.
“Can you help us?” Luc grumbled.
“Well, I agree with you, Luc, the break-in was probably done to find her chemical formulas. The gunshot was to frighten Sylvie, not to kill her.”
“That’s a relief,” Sylvie said sarcastically.
Claudia just raised an eyebrow and continued. “I can’t rule out the possibility that you weren’t followed here, Luc, and that the gunshot wasn’t intended for you…as a threat, mind you. The person firing into this unit was using a sophisticated weapon. If he, or she, had wanted, they probably could have hit either of you.”
She and Luc both nodded.
“With regard to you, Sylvie, the suspects thus far, as I see it, are industrial espionage agents, who often move in quickly when they hear of promising new products; parties at Terrebonne Pharmaceuticals, who want to ensure they hold all rights to a potential financial windfall; your aunts, who’d like a piece of the action; voodoo fanatics, upset over your possible use of their dark secrets; and the media, snooping for a hot story. How does that list sound to you?”
“It seems unbelievable, but I guess I would have to include all of them, even though I refuse to believe that my aunts or anyone at Terrebonne would harm me.”
“Honey, anything is possible when money is involved.” The P.I. then directed her attention to Luc. “You are a different matter, my friend. Hell, you’ve pissed off half the state at one time or another. It could be Cypress Oil. Your father. Some corrupt EPA or law enforcement official. Just about anyone. Even an old lover.” That last she offered with a grin.
Luc fake-jabbed her on the upper arm with a fist a
nd laughed. “Darlin’, ‘old’ would be the operative word here. I’ve seen so little action lately that there’s rust on my zipper.”
Sylvie doubted that very much. And so did Claudia. Sylvie could tell by her raised eyebrows and husky chuckle. It was more likely Luc had a speed control on his zipper. Both women made a deliberate effort not to look down.
“This is my private number,” Claudia said then, giving them a Houma cell phone number. “Memorize it, and call me if you get into any further trouble. In the meantime, I would suggest that both of you go into hiding for at least a few days till I do some preliminary investigative work. No need to provide a target till we know what we’re dealing with here.”
Just before Claudia left, she looked directly at Luc and said, “Call me.” There was no doubt in Sylvie’s mind that she had plans for his zipper.
Not that Sylvie cared.
Much.
“Where are you going?” Sylvie asked a short time later as Luc gathered his jacket and looped it by one finger over his shoulder. He was preparing to leave.
“I don’t know. A few days in hiding, as Claudia suggested, seem in order for me to regroup. Somewhere beyond the range of these deranged lowlifes.” He started to walk toward the front door.
Sylvie hesitated for a moment before calling after him. “Take me with you.”
Little alarm bells went off all over Luc’s body at the suggestion. “No way! Uh-uh!” He turned to glare at her, hoping she would see just how impossible her suggestion was.
“You’d leave me here, unprotected? You really are pond scum.”
“Hire a bodyguard. I can recommend a few, and I’ll wait till one gets here. Better yet, why don’t I drop you off at your mother’s? She’d probably hire you a truckload of Rambos.”
“I am not staying at my mother’s,” she said with a vehemence that was telling.
Hey, he could understand that. It would take a grenade to make him stay with Inez Breaux-Fontaine, too.
Then she tossed in the zinger. “Would you stay with your father?”
Guilt…she’s gonna blindside me with guilt. “You are not coming with me,” he asserted firmly. “It’s too dangerous where I’m going.” Not that I know exactly where I’m going, but I’m pretty sure it will be dangerous. “So, take your pick. The police or your mother’s.”
“I could do some more lab tests for you,” she offered as a bribe. “In addition to the data I have in my briefcase, I could even show you some different ways to test that you might not have even considered.”
He was tempted. Almost. But the prospect of spending days…maybe even a week…with Sylvie Fontaine looking down her nose at every little thing he did…He shivered with distaste. “I could make you do the tests anyhow,” he said.
She raised her chin defiantly. “You don’t know me at all, Lucien LeDeux. I don’t do anything under pressure…not anymore.”
Huh? What the hell does that mean? Don’t ask. It’s a lure. The guilt trip again. Don’t freakin’ ask. “Whatever. I’m outta here.”
“There’s one other thing I could do if you’d take me with you.” She combed the fingers of a shaking hand through her mussed-up hair, making the strands even more tangled. Her bottom lip trembled. Bright red blotches of mortification mottled her cheeks. His heart stopped, then thundered wildly against his chest. She looked unexplainably brave…and adorable.
Adorable? Luc should have run like hell then. The alarm bells in his head had dropped about three feet and had set off the love potion, big-time. He felt as if a time bomb were ticking between his legs and in his heart. Still, he stood his ground, put both hands on his hips, and cocked his head in question.
“Honey, there isn’t anything you could offer that would make me change my mind. Save your breath.”
“Slow dancing.”
“No.”
“Real slow…with you.”
“No.”
“In the nude.”
“On the other hand…”
Chapter Six
Luc wanted to kick himself a short time later, even before they arrived back at his apartment.
It was a risky business, sticking around town, where gun-wielding, voodoo-practicing criminal elements abounded, with guess-who targeted in their crosshairs. His immediate concern was establishing a safe haven from which to operate. But first he needed to pick up his cell phone before leaving town. And, yes, a pistol, too.
Because of the laughable nature of the alleged love potion, Luc found it easy to forget that there was nothing to laugh about here. Not when his libido was stuck in overdrive…not when fanatics were making gris-gris dolls…not when weapons were being fired. In the midst of all that, what could he have been thinking to have agreed to bring Sylvie with him? It was too damn dangerous, physically and emotionally.
Sylvie thought it was the “slow dancing in the nude” offer that had convinced him in the end, but she was wrong. True, the invitation held some appeal. Okay, a lot of appeal, considering that it had been a twenty-year fantasy of his…the highlight of many an unconscious erotic dream. But it was the look of fear and vulnerability in her blue eyes, not nude dancing, that had snared him. As she’d stood in the midst of shattered glass in her plundered home, chin lifted with bravery, some powerful and frightening emotion had grabbed hold of his heart and shot all his common sense to hell.
It was too much to hope that it might be indigestion from his big breakfast. He couldn’t help wondering if the blasted love potion had affected his reasoning. He hoped so, unbelievably, because otherwise he would have to face an even more untenable conclusion…that he harbored feelings for Sylvie Fontaine…and had for a long time. Feelings!
Mon Dieu, he was becoming a freakin’ Knight in Shining Armor. Next people would be calling him The Cajun Knight, as well as The Swamp Solicitor, for chrissake! Talk about!
“Why are you frowning?” Sylvie asked.
He glanced to the right as his jeep idled at a red light on Verret Street near the courthouse. With her precious briefcase on the floor near her feet, Sylvie was holding onto the overhead crash bar with one hand and the equally precious Happy Meal box with the other. Her ebony hair looked as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket, partly due to the tussle on the floor back at her town house and partly due to the wind produced while riding in his open vehicle. Her face was flushed from fear and warm sun rays. Her silk blouse was plastered against some rather enticing curves.
Not that he paid any particular attention to these irrelevant details.
“I’m frowning because I’m driving around with two rats. I’m frowning because someone is trying to kill me, or you, or both of us. I’m frowning because we should be the hell out of Houma by now, instead of hanging around like clay pigeons. I’m frowning because you conned me into taking you into hiding with me. I’m frowning because…” He saw that she was about to protest the “con” remark, but he went on quickly before she could speak. “Most of all, I’m frowning because you make me want impossible things.”
Now, what made me disclose that? For sure, my emotional circuits have gone haywire.
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again as she stared at him incredulously. “Things?” she finally squeaked out. “You want things from me?”
“Yep,” he said. When he saw the panic on her now-beet-red face, he winked. Let her think he was just teasing, as usual. He was just teasing. Really.
Oh, God! First feelings, now I want things from her!
Damn, I should have gone fishing today.
But, man, I would really, really like to kiss her. For a long time.
And other things. Oh, yeah, definitely other things, including…
A driver behind him honked to alert him to the light change, and Luc moved forward in the late afternoon traffic.
This whole situation was crazy. So many strange and deadly serious events had occurred in the past three days, ever since he’d entered Sylvie’s lab. He needed answers to some important questio
ns to figure out who the perps were, but he couldn’t do any investigating while under fire. Claudia Casale was tops in her field, and he trusted her to do the preliminary investigative work for him. But, holy hell, it was going to be hard enough to cover his own ass, let alone Sylvie’s little heart-shaped butt.
What made him think he could do a better job of protecting her than Sylvie’s mother? Without giving it another thought, he swung the wheel of the Jeep and proceeded to make a sharp turn in the highway and over the bayou, much to the fury of the drivers behind him. The operator of a battered pickup truck that fishtailed around him flipped him the bird. As the vehicle—better known as a Louisiana Cadillac—rattled on down the highway, Luc noticed its bumper sticker. “Keep honking…I’m reloading.”
Luc continued to drive, now in a different direction.
“No!” Sylvie exclaimed with alarm. “You are not taking me to my mother’s.”
He gave her a sideways glance of surprise. “How do you know that’s where I’m headed?”
“I can read your face,” she said, “and your face says, ‘How do I dump Sylvie and ride off into the sunset?’ Well, think again, cowboy. I’m going with you. We’re in this together.”
“Oh, yeah?” That was real bright, LeDeux. He surreptitiously peeked her way to see if she shared in his low opinion of his conversational skills. Then he did a quick double take.
Sylvie still held onto the crash bar and her mouse hotel with white-knuckled intensity, but her hands were shaking, and her overwide eyes glistened with tears that she blinked to hold back. The woman was clearly in shock. Plus, she’d probably never ridden in a Jeep with no door before. Lots of firsts in her life today, for sure.
Without hesitation, he swerved the Jeep off the highway, to the tune of blaring car horns, and into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour, drive-through daiquiri stand. Cutting the motor, which, of course, continued to run till it came to a sputtering halt, he pried Sylvie’s hands off the crash bar and Happy Meal box, setting the latter on the floor next to her briefcase. Then he dragged her across the gear shift and onto his lap. Not an easy task in the close confines of the Jeep’s cramped interior.