by Sandra Hill
“This is Sylvie Fontaine, the chemist friend I was telling you about,” Luc told his bimbo, who nodded vigorously in understanding. Her well-lacquered hair didn’t move a bit.
“And you, sweet thing,” he said, chucking Sylvie under the chin. “I want you to meet Charmaine.”
Charmaine. That figures. A perfect bimbo name. Oh, God, when did I turn so mean and condescending and—
“My sister.”
Chapter Eight
Leaning against the bar, Sylvie decided that she needed a drink. Something to wipe away her humiliating rush to The Swamp Shack to save Luc’s worthless hide, followed by her humiliating misconception about Luc and what she’d thought was a barroom floozy, not to mention her humiliating jealousy—her second bout that day with the green-eyed monster.
I was jealous. Jealous! Maybe this is one of those Stockholm Syndrome kind of things where a victim falls in love with her captor. Aaarrgh! I wasn’t captured by Luc. And I’m certainly not in love with him, God forbid!
She was sandwiched now, like a hot dog on a bun, between Luc and said “floozy,” his sister, Charmaine, at the crowded bar.
Yep, that’s me. The world’s biggest weenie.
Sylvie recalled now that Charmaine Devereaux, illegitimate child of Luc’s father and a Baton Rouge stripper, had been Miss Louisiana a few years back. That less-than-proper family background had provided much fodder for the gossip-mongers back then. She also vaguely remembered that Charmaine operated a posh beauty salon over in Thibodaux. That would account for the Texas-style hair. Sylvie suspected, on the other hand, that her own hair lay limp and lackluster after all she’d been through that day.
“I’ll have a pink zinfandel,” Sylvie told the bartender, a huge giant of a man with a bald head and a thick mustache. A gold hoop ring sparkled in one ear, giving the impression of a scruffy pirate.
“Say what?” Blackbeard was obviously harried by a sudden rush of dance-heated customers and not in the mood for fancy drink requests.
Not that hers had been fancy. Geez! “A pink zinfandel. That’s wine,” she explained.
“Lady, I know what zinfandel is,” the bartender grumbled in a weary drawl. “We got red wine and white wine, chère. You want pink, how ’bout you order a glass of each and dump ’em together?”
Sylvie’s upper lip curled. “I am in a bad mood, mister, and I am not amused by your attitude. Remember one thing,” she snarled. “‘He needed killin’’ is a legal defense for murder in Louisiana.”
“You a lawyer, too?” the bartender asked with a laugh, nodding toward Luc.
“No, I’m not a lawyer, you dunce. I’m a chemist.”
“Ah, well…me, I feel much better, then. You gonna kill me with some chem-i-cal, ’stead of bullets?” The whole time he was expeditiously filling orders for other customers…mostly beers without glasses for the no-frills crowd.
Luc snickered and chugged down the last of his beer.
Charmaine ignored both the bartender’s snippy remark to Sylvie and her equally snippy retort, as well as Luc’s snicker.
“Can I have a glass of ice water, Gator?” Charmaine batted her false eyelashes at the burly man, who was suddenly not in such a bad temper. In fact, Gator smiled at Charmaine, flashing a gap-toothed, David Letterman-style smile, and said, “Anytime, sweet cakes.”
That irritated Sylvie, for some reason. “I’ll just have one of those,” she decided, pointing to the tray of oyster shooters that a waitress was preparing behind the counter.
Oyster shooters were a Louisiana specialty featuring a single raw oyster in a shot glass covered with enough Cajun lightning, or Tabasco, to peel the skin off the tongue. They were tossed back and down the throat in one smooth motion, followed immediately by a chaser of straight, one-hundred-proof bourbon.
I can handle that.
I think.
“Uh…I don’ think so, Sylvie,” Luc cautioned.
Sylvie lifted her chin defiantly.
“Trust me, this is not a good idea.”
“Maybe I’ll have two.”
Luc shook his head hopelessly at her. “Have you ever had an oyster shooter?”
“Of course,” she said. Well, she’d watched other people toss them back like peanuts, and they’d seemed to enjoy them. And she did eat raw oysters on occasion. And she did like her food on the spicy side. And, although she preferred a cool zinfandel, bourbon had to be good if so many people drank it, right? “I can handle it,” she concluded with only slightly faltering confidence.
Luc held three fingers up to the bartender, and Blackbeard placed a set of oyster shooters in front of each of them.
“Not me,” Charmaine said with a laugh, waving a hand with gold-speckled, blood-red fingernails of an ungodly length. Gator slid Charmaine’s set of shooters over in front of Sylvie.
Then everyone turned to watch Sylvie. It appeared she had no choice. She put the first shot glass to her mouth and knocked it back cleanly. Without any chewing, the oyster slid down her throat and landed in her stomach with a thud. The voyage was smooth, but the passage was red-hot. Sylvie thought her mouth and throat and stomach lining were going to burst aflame. Not giving herself a chance for second thoughts, she tossed back the bourbon chaser, hoping to extinguish the flame, but what it did, instead, was fuel the fire. Certain that her eyeballs were steaming, Sylvie exhaled repetitively with short, rapid puffing sounds, much like a mother in labor.
Luc was laughing uproariously, while Gator just stood watching her with arms folded over his chest and an expression on his face that translated into; “Lady, I’ve seen dumb twits before, but you take the cake.”
Charmaine passed her glass of ice water over and advised, “Here, try this, honey,” immediately followed by, “The first thing you gotta learn in bayou country, sweetie, is never let a Cajun man goad you into nothin’…if you know what I mean. Just take my second husband, Justin. He could charm a woman up one side and down the other till she didn’t know her engine from her caboose. When he left, he took everything, including the gumbo pot. I made sure my third husband wasn’t a Cajun, but Lester left, too, and good riddance; that man was booooring. By the way, Sylvie, who does your hair? I’d love to give you a little more pouf.”
Pouf? Pouf? At a time like this, she’s thinking about hair, of all things. Geez! My hair doesn’t need pouf. It already feels as if it’s standing on end.
As Sylvie chugged down the ice water and motioned for another, Luc patted her on the back. “Next time, maybe you’ll listen to me, chère.”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Could you possibly be more smug?” Sylvie commented. Then she sighed woefully because his smugness was forcing her to do just the opposite of what he recommended.
Sylvie prepared to toss back another oyster shooter, followed by the bourbon chaser.
“Oh, swell!” Luc muttered.
This time she only hyperventilated a little. Luc followed suit with his own oyster shooter, and didn’t show any reaction at all other than an appreciative “Whoo-ee!” accompanied by a single pound of his closed fist on the bar and a fierce shake of his head.
“Let’s dance, chère,” he suggested, abruptly straightening himself from his leaning position at the bar.
At first, Sylvie thought she’d heard him wrong. After all, there was a loud buzzing noise in her head, and her earlobes felt numb. But, no, she hadn’t been mistaken. Luc turned her with a hand on her elbow, about to guide her toward the minuscule dance floor. She wanted to protest, but her tongue was in rigor mortis. The minute she stepped away from the bar, her knees gave way. Luc chuckled and held her up with an arm wrapped around her waist.
“You are pickled, babe,” he murmured against her ear.
Sylvie felt the soft flutter of his breath all the way to her toes and a dozen not-to-be-mentioned-in-public places in between. She wasn’t drunk, though…just a little off balance. Was that why Luc was having this odd effect on her? “I’m just a little woozy. It’ll pass in a moment.�
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“Well, Ms. Woozy, can I have this dance?”
“I don’t want to dance,” she declared, digging in her heels. “And I’m tired of you bringing up that dancing business with me all the time. I’m not twelve years old anymore. I’m not so easily shocked.”
He appeared taken aback at her vehement response. Then he winked at her. God, she hated it when he winked at her. Well, truth be told, she liked his winks, and that was why she hated them.
“Mais oui, but I’m not talking about that other kind of dancing now…the kind you so graciously offered to me earlier today, I might note. A little Cajun two-step, that’s all. Regular dancing.”
“Hah! There’s nothing regular about you.”
Luc grinned at her, as if she’d given him a compliment. “Was that a compliment, chère?”
Looking around, she was startled to find herself in the center of the postage-stamp-sized dance floor. Luc must have steered her there while they’d been talking. She ignored his question and brought up one of her own. “Shouldn’t we worry about being in such a public place? Aren’t we making ourselves easy targets here?”
He shrugged with unconcern. “The bouncers at the front and back doors have been alerted to watch for any strangers. This is an out-of-the-way tavern, frequented mostly by local people who know each other, especially on a weekday. There’s no real danger…yet.” Still encouraging her to dance with him, he held his hands out to her, as if she would willingly step into his embrace.
She shook her head stubbornly and ignored the dancers who occasionally brushed against them in the brisk Cajun two-step…a dance that wasn’t quite fast and wasn’t quite slow.
The band was playing an upbeat version of that Joel Sonnier song, “Knock, Knock, Knock,” about a bayou rogue who’s in the doghouse with his wife once again. Every time the band came to the refrain, René—who wielded a mean accordion, alternating with an over-the-shoulder washboard to give a zydeco touch—yelled out the foot-stomping lyric “Knock, knock, knock,” and the house joined in raucously.
Meanwhile, Luc’s arms were still open wide, his fingers beckoning, his hips swaying slowly to the beat.
She forced her eyes upward.
Luc winked at her knowingly. “Don’t you want to ask any questions about my…uh, body parts? Did you bring your notebook with you?”
“No, I didn’t bring my notebook.” She hesitated. “Although…if there’s some reaction you’re experiencing, of course I want to hear about it.”
He laughed out loud at that. “I’d rather show you.” Now he was circling her, snapping his fingers in rhythm, waiting for the most opportune moment to pounce on her, no doubt.
Sylvie was getting dizzy trying to watch Luc, who couldn’t seem to stand still. “Oh, all right,” she agreed churlishly. “Let’s dance and get it over with.” She stepped into his arms, putting one stiffened left arm on his right shoulder, holding him at arm’s length, with her right hand in his left one, forcing it out and away from her body.
Now, that wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. With no essential parts touching, her body swayed to the beat along with Luc’s. The band moved seamlessly into its next song…a plaintive, twangy rendition of “Jolé Blon.”
Luc laughed softly. “I can’t dance like this, Sylvie. I can hardly feel your rhythm from way over there.”
“My rhythm? What do you mean? Oh…no…what are you doing?”
Luc placed one hand on each of her hips and yanked her flush against his body. Then he forced her arms up and around his neck, meanwhile lacing his hands behind her waist.
She didn’t need to ask about his bodily reactions now.
To say they were acutely conscious of each other was the understatement of the millennium.
Both of them stopped, standing stock-still in the midst of the dancers. The most incredible aura seemed to surround them. Being in Luc’s arms felt so nice. More than nice. A sensual, compelling mix of emotions filled her…a mix that soothed and ignited her body all at one time.
Luc cocked his head to the side in puzzlement. Clearly, he was experiencing the same rush of physical sensations and alarming emotions as she. Bemused, he began to dance again, forcing her to follow.
Sylvie liked to dance, and she was no slouch on the dance floor. She didn’t call attention to herself, but she had her own subtle moves. She noticed Luc’s lips twitch into a little smile at one of those moves. It was just a sinuous roll of the shoulders, but she could tell that he liked it…a lot.
Luc, on the other hand, was a gooood dancer. A man at ease with his body, he oozed uninhibitedness. Most women, on the other hand, were self-conscious about their bodies and danced accordingly, afraid of making a fool of themselves. Not that Luc did any outrageous dance moves. He danced the way he probably made love…slow and sexy. And he watched her the whole time with a maddening arrogance. Lazily assessing. Waiting.
Eventually, her eyes dropped before his steady gaze. Lordy, Lordy! What is wrong with me? Speculating about Luc as a lover? It must be the bourbon. It had better be the bourbon!
She should ask him how he was feeling. She was a chemist. He was a guinea pig, so to speak. It was unprofessional of her not to regard this situation in a clinical way.
Before she could switch into her chemist mode, though, Luc spoke. “I want you so much, Sylvie. Do you know that? You’re making me crazy.”
Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered against her chest walls. Every woman alive wanted to be wanted, and Sylvie was no exception. It didn’t matter if Luc’s desire stemmed from a chemical potion; the words still struck a chord in her. There were a million things she should have said, but what slipped out, instead, was the God’s-honest truth. “I want you, too.” She gasped at what her loose tongue had revealed. “I didn’t mean that. It just came out of nowhere. Forget I even said it. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Shhh. Don’t try to explain, Sylvie,” he said in a grainy voice, pressing a silencing forefinger against her lips. “Some things shouldn’t be examined too closely.”
She reeled under the influence of the potent alcohol.
Or was she reeling under the influence of the potent Cajun?
Their slow dance had slowed down to a mere swaying from side to side. His smoldering eyes held hers with an intensity of wanting…and fear. Yes, that was fear she saw in his dark eyes. And she knew just how he felt. She was scared to death, too.
“It’s just the love potion,” she assured him.
“Maybe.” He licked his lips. The way he was staring at her lips, as if he wanted to kiss her, was enough to melt Sylvie’s bones…if they weren’t already butter soft. And the way the crotch of his jeans brushed against her as they danced was already melting some significant portions of her anatomy.
“How do you explain your wanting me?” His one hand was still planted against the small of her back, but the palm of the other was distractedly stroking—Be still, my heart!—up and down her back, from shoulder to waist.
“The bourbon,” she answered quickly, but she really wasn’t sure about that. Still, she sought for logic in what was becoming an increasingly illogical situation. “Luc, don’t try to make this more than what it is. It’s chemistry, pure and simple…whether it comes from a love potion formula or alcohol. You’ve never been attracted to me in all the years we’ve been acquainted.”
“Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie.” He shook his head hopelessly at her. “I’ve had a thing for you since we were kids…just like my brother René pointed out so annoyingly earlier today.” She could tell that he immediately regretted his admission.
“A thing? Oh, Luc, you are so full of it.” She had to laugh. “Apparently I remember better than you do just how attracted you were to me then. I distinctly recall the time you said I was the Southern belle who was never going to be tolled.”
He grinned at her. “I said that? When?”
“I don’t know…when we were ten years old or so, I guess.”
“Oh
, now I remember. That was the time you sniffed at me, like you always did, as if I stunk like day-old roadkill.”
She blinked at him in confusion. Then comprehension dawned. “You, fool! I had an allergy in those days. I was always sniffling.”
They stared at each other then. Could they both have been so wrong?
“Is that why you’ve been tormenting me all these years?” she demanded. “Because I sniffed, for heaven’s sake?”
“No…well, not totally,” he said, ducking his head sheepishly. “The incident that’s stuck in my mind is the time you refused to dance with me.”
“Now, that I do recall,” Sylvie conceded. “We were sixth-graders at Our Lady of the Bayou School, and it was our first boy-girl dance.”
“Yep.” He nodded. “Do you have any idea, Sylv, how much nerve it takes for a twelve-year-old boy to ask a girl to dance? And to be refused? Mon Dieu! Talk about humiliation!”
“Oh, Luc, I was sooo shy, then.” Still am, in many ways…though you’d never know it tonight. “Having the best-looking, wildest boy in class ask me to dance…calling attention to me…well, I was the one humiliated. But it had more to do with my shortcomings than yours.” That had been the first time he’d ever brought up the nude-dancing business, but she wouldn’t mention that now.
“Really?” He grinned at that disclosure, then homed in on one part of what she’d said. “You thought I was good-looking?”
She punched him playfully in the shoulder and he pretended to be hurt, even as they swayed to the music. Without being coerced, or even asked, she returned her hand to the back of his neck. Then they smiled at each other. Just a smile. But it connected them in a way that constricted Sylvie’s heart and made her yearn for something just beyond her reach.
Luc looked a little misty-eyed, too.
If Sylvie didn’t know better, she would swear she was the one under the influence of a love potion, not Luc.
The band ended its song, and René stepped up to the microphone. “We’ve got to take a break soon, folks.”
There was a communal groan. The dancers were all having too much fun.