Bayou Born (Fleur de Lis Series)

by Linda Joyce

  Steven slept with her sister while she’d been buried in wedding plans. Camilla had acted strange, but she chalked it up to her sister’s changeable moods. Then, after she called it quits with Steven, Camilla disappeared. Her sister had hinted about an incident, but when she pressed her for details, Camilla had shut her out and taken off.

  She could never reveal Camilla’s involvement with Steven. Never tell her parents or any of the family not only the reason for the breakup, nor why there was no chance of any reconciliation ever. Camilla’s betrayal would pit family members against family members and destroy the family bond. Everything in her upbringing honed her instincts to protect family and Fleur de Lis. A split in the clan could be fatal to their legacy. She wouldn’t allow that.

  Steven had used Camilla.

  Eventually everyone would discover Steven’s predilection for indiscretions. As Granddaddy Lind said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.” Steve’s true nature would be revealed someday by a woman claiming child support. Or a jealous husband. Branna had decided long ago to take the high road and remain silent.

  And, now she could see the amazing grace of her loving family. Everyone questioned, but no one pushed. Well, no one except her mother. No one judged. Why couldn’t she see that at the time? They would have protected her and Camilla from him.

  She missed her sister. Ending the engagement had been painful, yet the true deep sadness came from the rip in the relationship with her younger sister. Branna had stayed at Fleur de Lis longer than she wanted, hoping Camilla would come home. She’d forgiven her, though the wound still needed more healing time. Camilla was just a pawn in Steven’s world, and her sister, even with her wild ways, hadn’t stood a chance against skilled seduction.

  Could she have possibly forgiven Steve for an affair? Maybe. But never could she look at him again knowing he’d seduced Camilla.

  Moving to Lakeview had brought the closure she needed, given her heart wings. Steven no longer had a hold on her. In time, she’d rebuild the damaged relationship with her sister.

  First, she had to find her.

  She chuckled and murmured, “Will Steven see the humor in my decision if I give his car to Camilla?”

  Chapter 29

  Hot water, Epsom salts, and aroma-therapy oils that Momma had guaranteed would relieve aches and pains filled the tub. Branna slid down in the luxurious water. Drifting scents of wintergreen, peppermint, and eucalyptus relaxed her. She dunked a sponge and squeezed it, sluicing water over her body. If the salts worked their magic, she’d feel like a new woman by the time she got out of the tub. All except for the cut at her hairline and the healing abrasions on her neck. She winced when she patted her neck with the sponge.

  Thursday had stretched long. She napped between watching replays of the accident recorded on a DVD. After viewing the same footage for hours, the time spent had lessened her panic. It wasn’t that she had PTSD, still, desensitization to the accident had to be a good thing, especially when catching a glimpse of the bruises on her body made her squeamish.

  Reporters doing follow-up stories had interrupted her self-therapy. Finally, she’d unplugged the phone when people she didn’t know called to talk about the accident. Some were certain she should have died. Several people were looking to find a way to grab fifteen seconds of fame at her expense.

  Sadie had dropped by after work to check on her and brought ice cream to share, then insisted on inspecting Bill’s paint job when he finished for the day. He got Sadie’s final approval, and only then did Sadie let her write the check, after which, Sadie confided that reporters were still calling the office seeking interviews.

  The accident was more than seventy-two hours old. It must have been a slow news day if they were looking to drag out leftovers.

  Branna soaked the sponge again and squeezed. The warmth from the water ran over her. “Ahh. It’s heavenly to be alive.”

  She slipped lower into the tub until the water covered her body and closed her eyes to let her imagination carry her away. She imagined James in the tub facing her, her foot seductively stroking his inner thigh, inching higher and higher, hoping for hard evidence of his desire. It was her tub fantasy. Anything she wanted could happen, right?

  Next, he would take her foot in his hands and begin to massage, massage his way up her leg pulling her closer and closer to him. He’d massage all the way up to...there.

  She squeezed her legs together tightly, and a shudder ran through her. She ran her hands over her chest and breasts and lower to her stomach, resting her hands on the insides of her thighs. She massaged until the tension melted away.

  If she could make James appear, she’d make sure they’d share a bath he’d never forget.

  When the doorbell chimed, she jumped and splashed water over the side of the tub. The clock on the counter showed eight p.m. She wasn’t up for visitors. Maybe if she ignored the noise, whoever would leave her alone.

  “Bang. Bang.”

  Clearly, whoever was insistent. Reluctant to leave her watery cocoon, she rose and toweled off, still hoping the annoyance at the front door would disappear.

  “Bang. Bang. Bang.”

  “All right! I’m coming.”

  She slipped on a sage green robe she’d brought at the day spa in New Orleans. With another towel, she dried the wet ends of her hair as she walked to the front door. There, she peered through the peephole, then drew back. The one person in the world she wanted to see stood on her porch.

  “Hello? Branna? It’s James. Are you okay?”

  She flipped the towel over her shoulder, then opened the door before he could bang again.

  “Whew. You’re okay. I tried to call several time, but the phone went directly to voicemail.”

  “I turned it off. Too many interruptions.”

  He hoisted a grocery bag before her. “You’ve got plenty of flowers already, so I thought—food. I know you haven’t had a decent meal since before the accident. I brought steak and salad.”

  “Then get in here and cook for me,” she teased and grabbed for his arm. “And they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. My masculine-side needs some attention. Flowers, even the edible ones, aren’t very filling. I need protein, then chocolate. Steak. Is. Good.” Her stomach rumbled loudly as if to second her decision.

  James closed the door behind him. “I’m glad I got here in time.”

  “I’m so hungry I could probably eat half a cow.”

  “That could be arranged. I know a farmer. But for now, sit at the counter and direct me. I’ll take care of everything.”

  A jolt spread through her when James put his hand in the small of her back and guided her toward the kitchen. Despite her hunger pangs, she had the urge to throw open her robe and ask him to devour her. In the past, that notion would have lived only in the fringes of her mind and never lingered. G.G. Marie would call her a hussy or a floozy, if she knew. And, she wouldn’t. Which was good, since not only did the image of her and James linger the forefront of her brain, she also pictured herself in a cowgirl hat straddling his buff, nude body. They could play her version of “ride’em cowboy.” Her cousin would be shocked to know that she could tell Santa she’d been naughty and nice this year when they made their annual Christmas Eve birthday photo with the red-suited man who came to Fleur de Lis’ holiday party each year.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told him. She detoured to the bathroom to wait for the heat of her blush to cool. She fluffed her short damp hair, then placed the towel on the rack.

  “I found the frying pan,” James called out.

  “Yee Haw,” she said low enough to ensure that he couldn’t hear. Wetting a washcloth, then covering her face with it, she hoped the cool dampness would lower the heat of her blush. If he had noticed, he hadn’t commented.

  On her way back to the kitchen, she grabbed a box of matches from the hall closet. Candlelight ambiance with dinner would create the mood she wanted. Life had to be lived to the fullest.
<
br />   Yesterday proved that to her in a whole new way. She would balance her happiness with family responsibilities. She had a right to come first, especially when it came to love. Her mother put love first. Her aunts and uncles too. Why had her family foisted expectations on her unlike anyone else in their family, ever?

  She lit candles in the living room and the large one on the dining table, before she put several jazz CD’s in the player, then hiked herself up on the swiveling barstool at the counter.

  “It smells awesome in here.” Her stomach gurgled embarrassingly loud, enough to be heard over the sizzle of meat.

  “Sounds like you have an appetite. I would’ve brought wine, but in case you’re taking pain meds, alcohol would be ill-advised.”

  “I took a muscle relaxer, but not the painkiller. I agree, though. Not a good idea to mix.”

  She didn’t need drugs or alcohol to experience the high that came from the company of the man she loved. How would he respond when he discovered that fact?

  When the steak reached doneness, and the salad was mixed, James put plates of food on the counter and handed over silverware.

  “We could eat at the dining table,” she offered, hoping for a candlelit dinner.

  “Is there something wrong with the counter? No need to mess up a linen tablecloth.”

  She shrugged, relenting, and wondered how to go about seducing him. There, her education was lacking, save watching Victoria Secret models on commercials.

  “This is so good. I guess it’s cozy at the counter,” she said between bites. The domesticity provided a sense of belonging. A contentment she longed for. She could imagine many dinners sitting side-by-side with James. “How was class today?”

  “They grumbled about their homework for next week. They have to come up with a list of at least ten books that define who they are.”

  “Hmm. I could start with Gone with the Wind and Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.”

  “My students weren’t so quick on the draw.”

  She eyed him. His eyes crinkle in the corners from his warm smile. His hands, strong and steady, cut steak with a knife and fork. When he licked his lips to catch a dribble of juice, she fumbled her fork and almost dropped it.

  “You’re really invested in your students. A great quality in a teacher, James.” She ran her hand from his shoulder to his elbow. When she looked up, his brow was furrowed, and his mouth quirked to one side as though he were perplexed.

  “Last year, a student I’d had during my first year of teaching came to see me. He’d graduated with honors, then had gone on to a university and received his Bachelors in journalism. He said as quirky as some of the homework was, my class was the one that helped him the most. For me, the reward doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “Clearly you have lots of talents.” She paused. Hearing her voice practically purr was a little unsettling. Gathering up their plates, she asked, “Adult beverage? I have a bottle of wine. Just because I shouldn’t imbibe, doesn’t prevent you. I wish I had thought of that with dinner. Or, I have some Basil Hayden, if you prefer.”

  “Branna, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.” She hoped that didn’t sound as overly bright to him as it did to her.

  Wariness in his eyes let her know he remained skeptical. “I feel like I should check your temperature or something.”

  She wanted to say she was definitely hot, but not due to any infection, unless a cocktail of love and lust was her virus. “Let’s go sit in the living room and enjoy the music.”

  Though he hadn’t asked, she brought him a glass with two fingers of bourbon whiskey and set it on the coffee table.

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “Please sit over here.” She pointed to the other side of the couch. If he remained where he was, she couldn’t cuddle close to him without aggravating the abrasions on her neck. The other side would be perfect. And if he couldn’t take the hint when she curled up to him, after he finished half of his drink, she’d unbutton his shirt.

  Would he need a clearer clue?

  When he settled into the couch, she snuggled close. He lifted his arm over her shoulder, which made their bodies fit closer. He raised an eyebrow, but kept the question to himself, instead started talking about upcoming summer events in Lakeview.

  Contact with James, as always, fluttered her heart and produced racing quivers through her body. Sometimes soft and pleasurable, other times, more intense. When the intensity cranked up, the current running through her always seemed to converge in the apex of her legs. Like now.

  She shifted her hips, seeking a more satisfying position. Though her muscles ached, that only made the quivering sensations more desirable. Like the contrast between sweet and salty.

  Each minute that passed seemed more like five or ten. She tried to keep up with James’ discussion of “Things to Do in Lakeview,” but as it dragged on, her impatience rose. He, of course, probably thought he was being helpful. She, however, waited for an opening to tell him she loved him, but with little experience in seduction, would she come off sounding like a silly high-schooler? If she put a sexy, full-court press on him, he’d probably freak and tell her she wasn’t that type, which was only half the problem. The other part—the good girl voice in her head sounding like G. G. Marie yelled, “Floozy!”

  A confession of her feelings needed perfect timing. However, maybe it was time for “show” rather than “tell.”

  “What was it like growing up in a historical landmark?” James asked. He took a final sip of the bourbon and drained the amber-colored liquid.

  “Wonderful,” she said, lifting her face to his.

  “James,” she whispered, ignoring his is obvious choice of subject. “Would you like another drink?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to change the music?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to help me feel better?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  She smiled. With nimble fingers, she maneuvered the bottom button on his shirt undone. When he didn’t move, she unbuttoned the next button. Excitement made her shiver. Breathless, she reached for another on his shirt.

  “Branna?” James halted her crusade to free his buttons. “As much as I want where I think this is leading, I’m not comfortable. You had a harrowing experience yesterday, and you’re still healing.”

  He kissed her nose, then lifted her chin and pressed his lips to hers. A chaste kiss. A proper kiss. But the urgent cry of her body craved more.

  How could she tell him that this was not the time for gentlemanly behavior? She melted against him while butterflies in her stomach did a free-form dance.

  “I’m fine. I promise,” she whispered near his ear. Reaching for his shirt again, she planned to show him just how ready.

  “Let me kiss you and hold you.” He repositioned himself, then lightly pressed his lips to her forehead. “Don’t frown, Branna. We’ve all the time in the world. Let me just hold you for tonight.”

  Kisses caressed her jaw, her cheeks, her eyes, and her nose. When his lips found hers, she allowed his kisses to silence her.

  For now.

  After all, they had all night.

  Chapter 30

  Early Friday morning, James parked his battered white truck at the rest stop south of Gainesville. Five a.m. and already he was dragging. Coffee did nothing to jumpstart his brain. He grabbed a cooling cup of black liquid and his tote bag, locked his truck, then headed to the other side of the rest stop where Bobby waited in the dual-wheeled pickup hooked to a flatbed-semi loaded with bales of hay. Destination—Marathon Key.

  “JD, look at you. Holey jeans and old boots. Boy, you’re still a damn redneck,” Bobby said as he climbed down from his truck. “You know what they say—once a redneck, always a redneck.”

  “Shows what you know.” James pulled open the rear truck door and tossed his tote bag inside. “What ‘they’ say is, ‘You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’
t take the country out of the boy.’”

  “Well, what I want to know, Professor, who the hell is they anyway?”

  He chuckled. Bobby could twist an argument better than anyone—woman or politician. “Listen up. They are the kind of people who pay my salary to teach smart redneck kids so they don’t grow up to be smart-asses like you.”

  “Damn, smart-mouth is what you are,” Bobby said as he checked the tie-downs on the load. He tugged on each one as he walked around the truck.

  “You’re a fake, Mr. Parker. Anyone with any sense knows that.”

  Bobby played his role to the hilt. Bobby’s father had demanded that his son get an education and threatened to keep Bobby from working the farm, even inheriting it, if hell-raising Bobby didn’t graduate with a four-year degree. Old man Parker was a tough bird. It was his way or the highway.

  In the end, Bobby caved. But he made sure it cost the old man a pretty sum. And made sure his education never interfered with people’s perception about him. He remained, first and forever, a good ol’ boy.

  “Come on Professor, let’s get go’n. I’ve been waitin’ here for hours. You drive first.” Bobby took shotgun.

  James slid behind the wheel, cranked the truck, put it in gear, and then rolled down the windows. Country music twanged. Trace Adkins belted out, Chrome, as James eased the truck on to southbound I-75.

  He and Bobby had been friends and neighbors forever. Growing up, acres of family farmland separated them. A dusty limestone road and trails through planted pines connected them. Parker property bumped up to land owned by James’ grandfather—thirty acres of planted pines created a natural divide.

  “Never thought you’d get out of farming, though,” Bobby said. He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. “We had some great times growing up.”

  “Summers, working from before dawn to noon at Granddaddy’s place, then afternoons working for your daddy in hay. Yeah, that’s a real party.” He’d spent summers in the Parkers’ hay fields and took a lot of pride when ol’ man Parker trusted him, at fourteen, enough to let him drive the big John Deer. He cut, fluffed, windrowed, and baled until day faded and it was so dark he couldn’t see to get the tractor out of the field. The headlights from the pickup trucks lit his way. Sunday he rested—rising early for church, dinner on the grounds, and “sings” on Sunday night. Sunday was the social day of the week until he had turned sixteen and was able to drive legally.