by Sandra Hill
“Someone’s trying to kill us, Luc,” she said, weeping freely now.
No kidding.
“I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I feel like such a fool, crying like this. I never cry. My mother taught me to never be weak…never weep or whine…hold in emotion. Oh, God, I am such a weakling.”
Someone should have wrung the neck of Inez Breaux-Fontaine a long time ago. Lord, the woman really is made of ice, like everyone says. It would seem Luc and Sylvie were both scarred by a parent.
He hugged Sylvie tightly, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and running a comforting palm up and down over her quivering back, the whole time crooning soothing words of assurance. “Hush, chère, you can stay with me if you want. Guess you’re just like all the other women…sticking to ol’ Luc like suckers on a gater’s tail. Just kidding, just kidding. Ah, don’ be cryin’, babe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’ll see. I’m gonna be your Cajun Knight.”
Luc drove into a parking space in front of his building on Lafayette Street a short time later, and Sylvie breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had to admit that she was touched by Luc’s comforting words and arms when she had broken down so ignominiously a short while back. But riding in his open-air Jeep had quickly jolted her back to the reality of whom she was dealing with here, especially when his brother René was singing the most outrageous song on a demo tape in Luc’s tape player, “I Gave Her Tongue, She Gave Me Teeth.”
Some Cajun Knight Luc was turning out to be. Whoever heard of a brave protector riding in a broken-down jalopy, cursing a blue streak under his breath? She was pretty sure she was the object of some of those curses since she’d virtually latched onto him like Krazy Glue.
Still, her heart warmed in the strangest way at the idea that he would even suggest such an outrageous concept…her very own Cajun Knight. Okay, she admitted to herself, reluctantly, she liked the sound of it. And she sure as Louisiana rain qualified as a damsel in distress.
Even now, she cringed at the thought that she had offered to slow-dance in the nude in exchange for his protection. Having battled so many years to overcome her chronic shyness, she had probably set herself back a decade with that definitely-not-shy proposition. She didn’t want to even think about the fact that her palms sweated and her head pounded with anxiety now—clear signs of regression to her old shrinking-violet self. She wiped her free hand on her slacks in a nervous, repetitive motion.
Luc noticed, and slanted her a questioning look as he left the jeep. She got out, too, and handed him her briefcase. Clutching the Happy Meal box in one hand, she inhaled and exhaled several times…to settle her nerves.
Taking Sylvie by the other hand, he laced his fingers with hers and led her toward the door of the pale yellow brick, shotgun-style building that housed his office and private residence. His calloused palm pressed against hers…not what you’d expect from a sedentary lawyer…but not surprising for Luc. What was surprising was how good that rough skin felt next to hers. Sexy and comforting at the same time.
Did Claudia Casale get to feel that rough skin abrading her flesh? Did he offer to be her Cajun Knight, too? No, Sylvie immediately rejected that notion with a little smile. The more-than-fit private investigator was more likely to offer to be Luc’s protector. Sylvie would like to see what that independent woman’s reaction would be if the rude, crude bad boy of the bayou ever tried to comment on the shape of her behind.
Hah! She’d probably like it, Sylvie’s contrary mind quickly opined.
Sylvie stole a glance through lowered lashes at said bad boy. He wore neatly pressed jeans and a soft cotton denim, collarless shirt, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Although he hadn’t shaved, he smelled faintly of some piney soap. His thick hair was mussed a bit, and his black eyes stared straight ahead with solemnity, checking for danger.
Sylvie had been critical of Luc for many things over the years, but she’d never been able to deny his handsomeness. He was ten kinds of sexy…and then some. Truly, with his dark good looks and his roguish personality, the man was way, way too appealing to certain types of women—like Claudia Casale, no doubt. It was oddly disconcerting to discover at this inopportune moment that she was one of those women, too.
Why do I care about his relationship with other women?
Other women? Was she going crazy? What was it with this “other women” business? She didn’t have a relationship with him.
While her mind had been wandering, the keyless jeep, which had been shut off, was idling away noisily behind them…a crude, belching reminder of the image Luc liked to portray in their mutual hometown of Houma, which was situated at the heart of winding bayous and moss-draped oak trees. Houma was a sophisticated city, despite its earthy Cajun influence and its distance from decadent New Orleans, sixty miles northeast, and from the state capital, Baton Rouge, ninety miles northwest. For the first time, she wondered if perhaps Luc deliberately tried to mask his true self with his outrageous outward appearance. Could she have been wrong about Luc all these years? She’d always thought he had an attitude problem, but maybe…just maybe…she had a perception problem. Had she been viewing Luc all these years through prejudiced eyes?
No, she was just softening under all the stress today. He was the same rude, crude bad boy of the bayous as he’d always been. She wasn’t going to be tricked into changing her opinion at this late date, Cajun Knight or not.
“Nice place,” she commented, regarding the building in front of them. And she meant it. The structure was old…probably pre-Civil War…and had the charm and character of many of the South’s vintage structures. Not quite the choice she would have expected of Luc. A rusted-out trailer would have been more in line with his rusted-out Jeep. As the old joke went…tornadoes and Southerners going through a divorce have a lot in common…including the fact that someone’s going to lose a trailer.
Geez, there I go again. Basing my opinions on outmoded stereotypes. Why do I find it so difficult to give him the benefit of the doubt? What do I have to lose by granting him a few admirable traits?
Luc turned to her, and she noticed the surprise, then pleasure, on his face at her praise. “I call her The Buff Bimbo.”
“Huh?”
“You know how lots of old mansions and plantation houses are given feminine names, like The Grande Dame or The Pink Lady? Well, behold.” He waved a hand proudly in a ta-da fashion toward the two-story, pale-yellow edifice before them. “The Buff Bimbo.” He grinned at her then, but she could tell that he loved the place.
Why that should endear him to her, she could not say. But somehow she liked the fact that a maverick like him would appreciate the timeless beauty of faded bricks, picturesque ironwork, and time-rippled glass. It was almost as if he had to give the building a coarse appellation to hide his affection, which might be construed as sentimental. God forbid that The Swamp Solicitor might have a mushy spot or two.
“Do you own the building?” she asked.
He nodded. “Some construction crews were about to raze the site and put in an annex to that modern office complex next door,” he explained. “It used to belong to a sugar broker before The War, and I paid an overinflated price to save her.” He shrugged, not bothering to mention which war he was referring to. Everyone in the South knew which war was “The War.”
Then Sylvie thought about his other words. “So, you rescue buildings, as well as damsels, huh?”
He blushed. He actually blushed. And Sylvie once again felt that odd tugging in the region of her heart. And a sense of guilt that she might have misjudged him these many years.
His street-front law office was on the first floor with a “Closed for Vacation” placard in the many-paned, leaded glass window. A low, black wrought-iron fence in the form of twining acanthus leaves encircled the small yard in front. He lived in an apartment on the second floor.
“Well, at least your office seems to be intact. No sign of forced entry,” she remarked as they entered the door to the left an
d then the corridor, off of which was another door to his office and up ahead a staircase leading to the second-floor apartment.
Luc nodded in agreement. “Perps wouldn’t dare break in through the window, fronting on a busy street as it is. It’s patrolled heavily by police. Not that burglars don’t try to break in on occasion, coming through the back entrance,” he noted, pointing to pry marks on the heavy oak double door to the right, with the brass nameplate “Lucien LeDeux, Attorney at Law.” “But this door has enough dead-bolt locks to secure the federal mint. Doesn’t stop the everyday criminal from tryin’, though. They seem to think we lawyers have a bundle of cash stashed in our desks. Too much Court TV and gold-chained Johnny Cochrans are ruining our image.”
Luc steered her with a hand on her elbow up the narrow stairway with its wonderfully carved cypress wainscoting and handrail. The upper walls were papered in a reproduction antique stripe of beige and burgundy offset with green acanthus leaves. Here and there were framed etchings of famous bayou settings. Astonishingly tasteful.
But Sylvie had something else on her mind. She hesitated at the top of the steps and turned to Luc. “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. You should not have been subjected to my embarrassing…”
“Sylvie Fontaine, don’t you dare apologize for behaving like a normal human being. You’re upset and scared, with good cause. Hell, I’m sure-God scared, too.”
She blinked at him with disbelief. “You don’t act scared.”
“Dieu, why do you think I was holding on to you so tightly back in the Jeep?” He winked at her then, causing her heart to skip a beat.
Even though she recognized that he was just being kind, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Oh, darlin’, you should not do things like that to me.” He was shaking his head at her.
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the Genie to come out. Because it tempts me to kiss you back, chère, and not on the cheek either. Because, if you knew the impure thoughts I’ve been having about you, you’d put a Mississippi mile between us, not a kiss.”
She still clutched her Happy Meal carton in one hand, and her other hand was still twined with his, but Luc leaned down, ever so slowly, and pressed his lips against hers. They were a perfect fit.
Sylvie closed her eyes, the lids of which suddenly felt heavy. It was amazing that, in the midst of all the danger, they stood in a hallway smelling of old wood and a century of beeswax polish, kissing. And it felt so very right.
He moved his lips back and forth across hers—a restrained, non-threatening whisper of a kiss. And yet it was all the more powerful because of its restraint and, for a certainty, it threatened everything that Sylvie had ever been or ever dreamed. He moaned deep in his throat, and that was her undoing.
She pulled back abruptly. Breathing heavily, she struggled to find some explanation for this strange chemistry whirling about them, connecting them in a most compelling way. She could see by the stunned expression on Luc’s face that he was equally touched.
“You have no idea how good your chances are with me right now,” he whispered huskily.
“Is it the love potion?” she asked.
He thought a moment. Then a quicksilver grin tugged at his lips. “Mus’ be.”
Sylvie was oddly disappointed at that response. But why, she couldn’t imagine. Did she want him to be attracted to her, on her own merits…as she obviously was to him, since she couldn’t blame the influence of a love potion?
Another thought occurred to Sylvie then. This forced confinement with Luc would be the perfect opportunity for her to study the effects of the love potion formula. Her first human trial run, in a way. Well, finally, there was some good news in this crazy scenario.
Another moan broke the charged silence, but this time it didn’t come from Luc, who had been staring at her hotly. Luc exchanged a startled look with her; then they both turned toward his closed apartment door, where yet another moan emanated, followed by a loud bang, as if someone was kicking against wood.
“Sonofabitch!” Luc muttered as he dropped her hand and rushed to his door, key in hand. But the key was unnecessary, since the door was unlocked…presumably not the way he’d left it earlier that day. In retrospect, she would guess that some of those pry marks on the office door downstairs were new.
When they entered Luc’s apartment, both came to a screeching halt.
Sylvie gasped.
“I’ll kill him. Whoever did this…I swear, I’ll kill him.”
His apartment was in even worse condition than her town house had been. She could see that it would be a lovely apartment, under normal circumstances. Sparsely furnished with vintage Louisiana cottage pieces that highlighted the random-plank Cypress flooring and fine natural-grain woodwork. But now, the furniture was upended, drawers pulled out and their contents tossed to the floor, dozens of dry-cleaners’ packets containing shirts, underwear, socks, and pants tossed here and there. Did the man dry-clean everything?
And most unusual, there were numerous crocheted, embroidered, and hand-woven bed linens, tablecloths, napkins, towels, and other household items. Some of them were made of the yellowish-brown cotton the Cajuns grew and wove themselves, which they called coton jaune, once referred to as slave cotton. Still other items came from the complex Acadian method of weaving called boutonne, with the intersecting checks and woof threads raised and tufted to make the intersections stand out. The most elegant Cajun bedspreads were made this way with borders of handmade, hand-tied lace…like the one on the floor over there. But all these exquisite handicrafts were tossed aside now, some of them brutishly slashed or ripped apart.
Sylvie had no time to ponder all this. She set down her box, and Luc dropped her briefcase, already opening a closet door in his bedroom where a straight-back chair had been propped under the doorknob and from which muffled groaning issued forth.
“Oh, no!” Luc exclaimed as he opened the door and pulled out a short woman with curly blonde hair whose hands and feet had been duct-taped together, with a piece of tape slapped over her mouth. “Tante Lulu! What are you doing here? I thought you left when I did. What happened? Are you hurt?”
Within moments, the diminutive old lady was free. Instead of falling into his arms hysterically the way most women would, especially one of her advanced age, his aunt slapped away Luc’s concerned hands, which were fluttering about her body, checking for injury. “No, I’m not hurt, but someone’s gonna be,” she raged angrily. “I came back here after you left to get the knitting needles I forgot, and those hoodlums jumped me.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“No, but I know it was that Valcour who was at the bottom of these shenanigans.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause one of the men referred to me as ‘the ol’ bitch.’ That’s what your father called me all the time.”
“Maybe I should take you to the emergency room, just to make sure you’re not hurt.”
“I tol’ you I’m okay.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “It took you long enough to come back here, though. I coulda starved to death in that closet while you been off doing God knows what. Oooh, lookee there at that Happy Meal box. You been to McDonald’s. And did you think of me? I’m just a sixty-five-year-old lady who needs her energy. Whatchou doin’ eatin’ that junk food anyways when I make you good Cajun food anytime you ask?”
Luc cast Sylvie a hopeless look. The silent message inferred there was no interrupting Tante Lulu once she got started.
“And, Lordy, my behind is so numb from sittin’ so long in that closet that I can’t hardly feel it at all. Why…” Her words trailed off as she seemed to recall her manners in the presence of a stranger. She addressed Sylvie. “Hello.”
Her eyes darted between Sylvie and Luc; then she smiled…a ludicrous expression with the lower half of her face reddened by the duct tape. She made a quic
k sign of the cross, then inquired, “Could this be the one, Luc? Finally?”
“No!” he said. “Definitely not.”
“The one what?” Sylvie asked.
“Don’t ask,” Luc advised.
“The one and only.” Tante Lulu beamed. “Think thunderbolts.”
Luc groaned.
Sylvie’s mouth dropped open. “Me? No, no, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Sylvie Fontaine, a…uh, friend of Luc’s.” She stepped forward, hand extended.
To Luc, Tante Lulu said, “Jolie fille. Pretty lady. She really should see Charmaine about that hair, though. A good oil treatment will tame it down. But you done good, boy.”
To Sylvie, she said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Luc’s great aunt, Louise Rivard, his mama’s aunt, but you can call me Tante Lulu.” The woman, who couldn’t be more than five feet tall, glanced upward as she spoke. Then the old woman shook Sylvie’s hand vigorously. “Welcome to the family.”
The family? What does she mean?
Luc rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he reached into the secret back panel of an open armoire, took out a pistol, and checked for ammunition.
“Well, if it isn’t Wild Bill LeDeux,” Sylvie said mockingly to hide her concern over the need for a weapon.
“Hey, babe. If I’m Wild Bill, you’re damn sure gonna be my Annie Oakley,” he countered with a grin. Then he turned serious. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told them both. “Tante Lulu, you can tell us what happened on the way.”
“On the way where?” She was rubbing her sore wrists.
“Bayou Noir.”
“Bayou Noir! I can’t go there. I have a baby to deliver in Chacahoula…could be this evenin’.” She turned to Sylvie and informed her, “I’m a traiteur, sweetie. A folk healer. Have been for nigh on fifty years. Lots of women still likes me to act the midwife for them. Maybe someday I’ll catch one of your bébés, yes?”