Waitresses swayed among the tables, balancing plates of steaming seafood and pitchers of beer. In one corner a four-man band was testing sound equipment.
One band member raised a mug and yelled, “Ah do ba-lieve it’s Monsieur Belue, the movie star! How you doin’, cher?”
“Comme-ci, comme-ça,” he answered, grinning.
Out of the corner of her mouth Caroline said to him, “Is that good?”
“Fair to middlin’.”
The crowd included young and old, families and couples, all neatly dressed, which gave the raucous atmosphere a wholesome touch despite the copious amounts of beer. A mural on one wall depicted a bayou surrounded by cypress trees. On the dock of a levee an old man sat fishing.
Painted across the bottom of the mural in big, flowing script were the words Laissez le bon temps rouler!
Caroline pointed to the words. “Shop at Fred’s fish market?”
Paul laughed, “Let the good times roll. You’ll hear that a lot around here.”
He watched as Caroline’s sleek black outfit drew stares from everyone. The off-the-shoulder sweater was modest by most standards, but it exposed a tantalizing portion of her upper chest and molded itself to pretty breasts no man could resist studying. She had long, slender legs, and the black slacks were a perfect way to show them off.
By the time she slid into the chair Paul held out, her face had the shuttered look he was getting to know so well. “They’re staring at me,” she whispered. She sat very straight and casually let a swathe of red-gold hair cover her scar.
He sat down across from her and leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. “They think you’re a movie star.”
“Hah.” She glanced around. “It’s very, ummm, down-home. Everyone looks like they just came from a PTA meeting.” She paused, frowning. “They look friendly, but I wish most of them weren’t speaking French.”
He took her hand. It was icy. “Relax, Caroline. How about some beer?”
“Oui.” She nodded almost desperately. “Oh, oui.”
Two beers later she had her elbows on the table and her hair shoved behind her ears. Paul coaxed her to tell stories about her work with famous animal actors and blessed his intuition when eagerness came into her eyes. He loved listening to her voice and watching her face.
Each time she laughed or smiled he caught his breath a little. A world of kindness lay deep inside her, and it showed as she talked about her work with animals.
When dinner came she stared down at it, and her humor faded. “What did you order for me? Where’s the person who’s supposed to help me eat it? Why are those crawfish so red? Are they embarrassed? They ought to be, because this is an outrageous amount of food.”
“Dieu!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Look, it’s a combination.” He pointed to different specialties. “Fried ’gator, fried catfish, boiled crawdads, stuffed crab, jambalaya, and a cup of gumbo. Be careful. It’s all spicy.”
She took a bite of crab and her eyes watered. He handed her a glass of beer; she swallowed a gulp of it and sighed. “I like it.”
“Bien! Can you finish it?”
“Sure. The first bite nuked my taste buds. They’re numb.”
By the time they finished dinner, the band cranked up its first song, a rousing tune that got many of the diners on their feet. The singer belted the French lyrics out in a nasal yodel.
“Sounds as if he’s hollering for help,” Caroline observed drolly, but her fingertips were keeping time on the table.
“It’s ‘La Porte en Arrière.’ It’s very popular—sort of a Cajun national anthem.”
“Bien!” she said loudly.
He looked at her with amusement. She gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve had too much beer. I don’t usually drink.”
“Say something else in French.”
She thought for a moment, then drew herself up proudly and pointed toward the mural. “Latex la bon tom Rolaids.”
Paul laughed until his stomach hurt. When he finally managed to stop he noticed that her smile had faded into a pensive look.
“I don’t drink much because my mother’s drinking was responsible for this.” She gestured toward her scar.
He grimaced. “Oh, no, chère, this isn’t a night for brooding, no. Forget about your mother. Come on.”
Before her mood could turn darker, he led her to the dance floor. The music was a twangy mixture of accordion, guitar, fiddle, and drums with a fast rhythm.
“Can you two-step, chère?”
“Certainly!”
“Ow. I said two-step, not toe-step.”
“Sorry. Keep your feet out of my way.”
“My feet are supposed to lead, you she-devil. I’m the boy, you’re the girl, and—”
“Okay, okay, quit beating your chest and hold me against it. I’ll do whatever you do.”
That offer was too good to tamper with, so he pulled her to him and suffered her stomping gladly. Several songs later she had mastered both the two-step and the waltz, and then she looked up at him with excited, half-shut eyes as if she were experiencing something new and much more delicious than dancing.
“I absolutely love this.”
Paul nearly groaned. “I can’t concentrate if you look at me that way,” he warned in a solemn voice.
“What way?”
“What way? she says. Don’t the men in Beverly Hills tell you how sexy you look when you dance?”
“Sure. All the time.”
“Lots of men, yes?”
Her guarded look came back. “Several.”
“Anyone special?”
“They’re all special, each in his own way.”
“Tell me about them.”
She laughed, sounding a little awkward. “They’re all handsome and wealthy.”
“You’re not talking, right?”
“Right.”
Paul wondered if she had someone important in California, or at least someone she cared about. Nah. Why would the brutally honest Caroline be evasive when he asked her about it?
“So what are they doing while you’re in Louisiana?”
She smiled wickedly. “Crying.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll come back?”
“Oooh, mean!”
She slapped his cheek playfully; he turned his head and caught her thumb between his teeth, then sucked it for a second before he turned loose. Her lashes flickered and a languorous pink mist crept over her face.
Paul nearly groaned. He looked away from the tempting sight and wished for several things—first, that they were in his bedroom; second, that she weren’t tipsy, because he wouldn’t want her to regret anything after she sobered up; and third, that he could think of an excuse to avoid the slow dance the band would probably play next.
Holding her closer would be torture. Wanting her was a special hell because he knew that she wanted him, too, but not the people or the place that he represented. He was certain that he could win her over and bring to light all the tenderness she tried to hide, but he needed more time.
“I have to go play the accordion,” he murmured as the band finished its song.
The band leader announced in a low, wicked tone, “We gonna do one of them snugglin’ songs next.”
“You have to play the accordion now?” she asked gruffly.
Her yearning tone only added to his distress. “Now,” he told her firmly, as if world peace depended on it.
Paul took her hand and they went to the band’s corner. He motioned to the man who’d greeted him earlier. “Hey, Felix, I’m ready to take over.”
“Huh?” Felix looked at him blankly.
Paul glared at him. “Caroline, meet Felix Chavis. Felix, Caroline Fitzsimmons. Felix, ma ladyfriend is waitin’ to hear me play the accordion.”
“Oh!”
Felix had finally caught on, thankfully. With a great sigh of relief Paul found Caroline a chair near the band, grabbed the accordion from Felix, and held it low in front of his body. The accordion made a
great screen for a man’s dignity, he thought.
He played several songs with the band, and her incredulous smile told him that she was caught up in the music and impressed by his skill. The music was charged with emotion; it wailed, coaxed, wept, and laughed heartily, conveying both the sadness and the joy of Cajun history.
Paul’s gaze kept meeting Caroline’s; each time the atmosphere between them pulsed with excitement. When the band took a break, he walked to her slowly, never giving her a moment’s respite.
Breathing between parted lips, her face flushed sexily, she stood up and motioned for him to bend his head. Her breath was warm on his cheek, and the scent of her skin and hair was a potent aphrodisiac. He’d bet money that her perfume had one of those provocative names.
She whispered, “You’re great with that thing.”
He gave her a slow, intimate look. “I’ll be glad to play anytime you want.”
She laughed shakily. “You make the music come alive.”
“The look on your face gives me inspiration, chère. I could make music all night for you.”
“You play much better with clothes on, but it’s not as interesting to watch.”
They grinned like old friends, and he realized that he was having the time of his life. With a certainty that amazed him, Paul knew that he and this woman could turn the world inside out for each other.
• • •
The next morning he got up early, glad that it was Saturday and there was no movie work scheduled. He pulled a pair of cutoffs on and hurried down the long, creaking staircase, planning to surprise Caroline with a big breakfast.
The last time he’d seen her she’d had her shoes in one hand and a daffy smile on her face. She’d been leaning against her bedroom door and blowing him sleepy good-night kisses.
This morning Wolf—who usually slept in Paul’s bedroom—met him at the bottom of the stairs, his ears and tail drooping. Paul gave him a shrewd look, cursed loudly, and ran to the kitchen.
On the far side, the door to the small bedroom stood open.
While his breath stalled in his throat, Paul walked into the room. The air conditioner was turned off. The bed was neatly made. Her things were gone. She was gone.
He’d never felt more alone.
Five
Paul cuddled the miniature zebra’s head in one hand and carefully put drops in her infected eye with the other. She was just a baby, barely four months old, and no taller than his knees. Her dam stood nearby in the small paddock, watching intently.
“There, ma petite fille, you’ll be fine.”
The foal drew a lungful of fragrant morning air, then exhaled it in a playful snort. Paul tucked the bottle of antibiotic drops into a pocket of his work shirt and stroked her ears as he straightened wearily, his body stiff from two nights of camping out on a marsh island.
“Blue, come look at something. I don’t know what to make of this. The ferrets have turned into little zombies.”
Paul turned and found Ed frowning by the pen’s gate.
“I know how they feel.”
Paul left the pen and walked with him through two barns, crossed an open area in the compound, and stopped at the ferrets’ habitat. Despite his fatigue and bad mood, he stared at the small animals with fascination.
All two dozen of them sat upright by the wire fence, their tiny paws tucked against their chests, their manner expectant but not alarmed, their sharp, dark eyes trained on some invisible something beyond the staff buildings.
Ed scratched his head and sighed. “Cat came out of the woods a minute ago. He’s lying by his moat. Waiting. Just like the ferrets. The llamas are all lined up by the pasture fence, like some sort of reception line at a party.”
“Think we’re about to have an earthquake or something?”
“No. But what?”
Paul scanned a peaceful panorama of marsh and woodland, then raised his gaze to a magnificent blue sky. “Couldn’t be the weather.” He frowned. “Seen Wolf lately?”
“No.”
“If there’s a good reason for everything to be upset, he’ll be that way too.”
Ed shrugged, his dark eyes intrigued. “They don’t look upset. They look excited.”
“I’ll find Wolf.” Paul walked quickly toward the house. He climbed a small rise, passed along a path bordered by a wooden fence covered in honeysuckle vines, and strode under the giant oaks that surrounded the main grounds.
He spotted Wolf in the grass at the edge of the driveway, his posture quiet and sphinxlike as he gazed down the shadowy corridor of oaks that canopied the road. Paul watched him curiously. What in the world was going on here?
“Wolf. Venez! Marchons!”
Wolf stood at the orders, looked over his shoulder at Paul, wagged his magnificent plumed tail tentatively, then looked back down the road. Paul went to him and knelt, running a hand over Wolf’s thick silver ruff.
“What are you expecting, ami?”
Paul glanced up and saw a long black limousine pull into sight at the distant curve in the drive. He drew a sharp breath. It was only eight A.M., but this must be Caroline returning from the weekend.
He cursed the bittersweet anticipation that tugged at him. Anger overwhelmed it as he dug his palms into the faded denim of his jeans.
She’d gone to California to take care of the need he’d created in her. She’d taken the passion he’d cherished and given it to some other man—why else would she sneak away without offering him the honor of an explanation or a good-bye?
She hadn’t had the honesty or the courage to make love with him. He’d thought that he understood her, but he was wrong. He’d thought that deep down they shared the same need for friendship and tenderness as well as sex. He was wrong.
There was a wide streak of tolerance in him; he tried to look inside people and animals, then understand their motivations without passing judgment. He got angry easily, and he forgave easily too. But this he couldn’t forgive.
“No more foolishness for me, chère,” he said fiercely. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
He certainly wasn’t going to stand here like a wistful kid, waiting to greet her. He stood, feeling miserable and furious, swung about on one heel, and walked back toward the wild animal compound.
All four of his cats bolted out of the honeysuckle. Two of them dived between his work boots, nearly tripping him. They headed for the driveway at top speed.
Paul came to an astonished halt. Caroline’s arrival was responsible for the animals’ strange behavior, he realized.
No, that was ridiculous. It went beyond rational explanation. He’d worked with animals all his life and he’d never seen anything like this before.
Paul rammed his hands through his hair. He’d never seen anyone like Caroline Fitzsimmons before either.
Okay. Think. She used some subtle training technique to make animals respond to her this way.
Sure, man. And that makes them sense that she’s arriving before they see her.
No, that was a damned impossibility. Then what? Some psychic connection? Paul grimaced with disgust at that notion. In New Orleans there were modern-day voodoo witches who said they could control animals and people through their magic. He found voodoo at least as reasonable as psychic mumbo-jumbo.
Paul shook his head, slapped the air violently with one hand, and walked on. Bewitched, then. She’d bewitched his animals, but she’d sure as hell lost her chance to bewitch him.
Master sad. Hurt. Miss you.
Caroline inhaled raggedly and cupped Wolf’s head in her hands. She’d barely had time to swing her feet out of the limo before he shoved past the driver and plopped his large gray head on her knees.
When Master with you—good. You stay!
I had to go away and think. Where is he, Wolf?
Wolf took her hand in his mouth and tugged gently. Follow.
Caroline managed to tell the driver where to leave her suitcases before Wolf dragged her away from the limo. He was so impa
tient that she almost toppled over on the stiletto heels of her scarlet shoes, and had to withdraw her hand from his grip.
The rest of her was the same fiery shade of red as the shoes—her voluminous silk jacket with padded shoulders that a defensive tackle would envy, the cowl-neck blouse underneath, and the slinky, tapering pants with their scarlet buttons at the ankles.
She’d wound her hair up in a knot and adorned it with a scarlet and gold comb. Even the rims of her sunglasses blazed with the warning red color.
It was the kind of outrageous outfit women called dramatic and men called embarrassing; it would surely help in her campaign to keep distance between herself and Paul.
Wait a minute. Weren’t bulls enraged by bright reds? Caroline shook the anxious thought away and followed Wolf down a path bordered by honeysuckle bushes taller than her head.
She and Wolf came in sight of the movie crew, who were eating breakfast at long tables on the lawn in front of the caterer’s trailer. People stopped what they were doing, turned around in their chairs, and stared unabashedly at her.
Caroline waved at Frank, who stood up with his mouth ajar and pointed behind her. She glanced back.
She was being trailed by four cats, a small squadron of white ducks from the plantation’s pond, and a squirrel.
Caroline winced. Blue’s animals were truly dear, but this was getting out of control. “They like the color,” she called stoically, pointed to her outfit, and trudged on.
Now her face matched her clothes.
Wolf led her to Paul’s veterinary hospital, a small white stucco building nestled beside a barn. Wolf settled on its concrete stoop. Caroline turned toward the rest of her menagerie.
Sweet babies. Now go about your business before a freak show asks me to audition. They scattered politely.
Caroline took a deep breath, swung a plain wood door open, and stepped into an anteroom that smelled of antiseptic and medicine. A couple of male college students sat at battered desks amid stacks of books.
“We’re trying to figure out why the panther won’t mate,” one of them explained. “We don’t have a female panther of his species, but we’ve got a female cougar from Texas. At least we could get genetically similar cross-bred kittens, but he won’t have anything to do with her.”
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