by Sandra Hill
That hurt, and was totally unwarranted. “If I do this, Bruce, you are going to owe me big-time.”
“Agreed,” he said, reaching across to shake her hand.
She’d have liked to bite his toady hand, but she didn’t.
“Uh, there is one thing . . . or two.”
She stiffened.
“You would have to get permission from the Jinx people to observe their operation.”
“You didn’t get permission?”
“Not yet. We just heard about this last night. There shouldn’t be a problem. This organization has to have dealt with the media before.”
“Where did you hear about this project?”
“Someone who works over at Terrebonne Airport heard secondhand about a pilot who was going to be transporting a team over to some remote region on Bayou Black.”
“And based on that flimsy report, you think there’s a legitimate story here?”
Bruce’s jaw visibly tightened. “You’ve got your assignment, Celine. Take it or leave it.”
Okay, he was drawing a line in the sand. Over such a piddly story?
Was she ready to cross the line? Could she afford to lose her job? What was it Harry Olsen, her old journalism professor, used to say, “Pick your battles, whether they be in war or the newsroom.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“You’ll probably need to go out on site with them for . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a week.”
This got worse and worse. Celine was glad she’d sent her grandfather and Etienne away for two weeks. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be back ’til she was done with this rinky-dink story.
Bruce made a big mistake then. He said, “Hey, maybe you and this team of treasure hunters could dress up like pirates for a photo shoot if they find the pirate loot. One of them could be a Johnny Depp version of Jean Lafitte, and you could be his pirate wench, like Anne Bonny. Ha, ha, ha.”
The sound of his office door slamming after her could probably be heard all the way to Lake Pontchartrain.
Is there an antidote for a love bug bite? . . .
John was helping to load equipment onto the hydroplane for its second run to René’s cabin. It would probably take two more trips to get them all there. But it was a balmy day . . . well, balmy for southern Louisiana, only eighty today . . . and no one was in a rush.
The water plane was parked in the stream fronting Remy’s ten-acre property, some distance from the huge house he’d built to accommodate his family that included his wife Rachel and seven . . . seven
. . . kids, both biological and adopted. He also had a houseboat down on the bayou which he used for guests.
Everyone was steering clear of Brenda, who was doing a final check of the supplies. She was in one snarky mood, probably missing her husband. Hey, if he was a woman, he would probably miss Lance Caslow, too, not because he was so good-looking, but because there’d be NASCAR tickets for life.
He and Famosa and Peach had thoroughly checked over the diving gear. The depth of the water at the spot they hoped to search was roughly fifteen feet, not so deep for free diving in short spurts, but they needed tanks to stay down for any length of time.
Tante Lulu would probably have lunch prepared by the time everyone arrived. He’d helped tote a half dozen grocery bags of food in the little VW this morning.
Jake was carrying Julie Ann back and forth across an open area, trying to soothe the fussy child, who was getting a cold and was not a happy camper. Who knew a body that small had lungs the size of a Goodyear blimp? There probably wasn’t a gator or egret left within a mile of the kid’s last bellow.
Ronnie was coming out of the house, heading this way, but she’d stopped to talk to . . . He squinted, then groaned. “No, no, no, no!”
“What’s the matter?” Famosa asked, coming up beside him.
John pointed. “Trouble. Celine Arseneaux.” Quickly, he reached for his athletic bag and pulled out the wig, jamming it on his head. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him from there.
Celine was wearing white running shorts, a purple Mardi Gras T-shirt, sneakers with no socks, and a Saints baseball cap with her ponytail sticking out of the back. Nothing seductive. Certainly a far cry from her tart outfit. A laptop case was slung over one shoulder, and a camera case and a canvas carryall over the other.
“Is she married?”
John flashed Famosa a disgusted look. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”
“Like you don’t.”
“Not where Celine Arseneaux is concerned. She’s a newspaper reporter.”
“Uh-oh.” The two of them watched Ronnie and Celine; they appeared to be arguing. Jake, with Julie Ann thankfully asleep on his shoulder, finally, headed toward Ronnie’s side, sensing trouble.
“So, is she married?” Famosa persisted.
“No. But she’s not for you.”
“You want her for yourself, don’t you?”
“Hardly. You’re welcome to her. Not here on this project, though. You can call her later.” In fact, I dare you, bozo. Go ahead. Pull one of your loser moves. I can’t wait to see Celine kick you in the nuts.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you being so generous?”
“She’s too hot for me.” Ha, ha, ha.
Famosa was eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing. Honest. She was the reporter who was at the Playpen the night we did the raid. Man, you should have seen her in a push-up bra, stiletto heels, and screw-me red lipstick. I don’t know this for certain, but I think she was wearing a thong.” If he repeats this to Celine, I am dead meat.
Famosa was practically salivating now as he gazed at Celine, picturing her in the killer bra and thong, no doubt.
Time to stick it to Famosa. “She’s kinda shy, Celine is. Likes guys that come on strong.”
Famosa nodded, using the fingers of both hands to comb his hair off his face and tidy the long swath he had clubbed at the neck with a rubber band. A Cuban Fabio.
John mentally wrung his hands with anticipation.
Ronnie was walking toward them now, leaving Celine talking to Jake. Ronnie motioned for them all to follow her over to a picnic table under an enormous live oak tree with its dripping Spanish moss.
Once seated, Ronnie said, “That’s Celine Arseneaux. A reporter for the Times-Tribune. She wants to do a story on our project.”
“Celine Arseneaux?” Tante Lulu asked with surprise. She’d been sitting on a folding chair, taking a rest. Her surprise soon turned to glee. She whispered, “St. Jude.”
John put his face in his hands for a moment.
“I don’t see any problem if she does the article after we’re done,” Famosa said.
Ronnie shook her head. “She wants to accompany us. She has up to two weeks free from regular assignments.”
“Two weeks! Do you think we’ll be out there two weeks?” This was from an alarmed Brenda, even though two weeks wasn’t all that long for a Jinx project.
“She’s promised not to run any stories ’til after the search is completed,” Ronnie continued.
“How did she find out about the project?”
“Someone from the private airport in Houma that Remy sometimes uses,” Ronnie told them.
Something occurred to John then. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Does she know I’m part of this project?”
Ronnie frowned. “No. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because she’s the reporter who did the no-name hatchet job on me.”
“Oh. Well, that settles it then. We can’t let her participate.”
“There’s somethin’ more important here. My whereabouts has to be secret ’til after the trial. Maybe I should just drop out.”
“No!” they all said.
Their loyalty touched him.
“I’ll tell her that she can’t participate, but we’ll give her an exclusive afterward,” Ronnie said.
“She’s a pit bull. Her reporter ante
nnae are gonna shoot up instantly. Nope, Celine is not gonna give up,” John told them.
“So you don’t trust her?” Ronnie asked him.
“Hell, no.”
“I mean, if I tell her that we have someone on board whose identity must be kept secret for high security reasons . . . if I can get her to promise she won’t reveal that this person is here, would her word be good?”
John was uneasy.
“If there’s one thing I learned as a SEAL,” Peach said, “it’s better to keep the enemy in your crosshairs.”
“She ain’t Tee-John’s enemy,” his aunt protested.
“She could be, Tante Lulu. Whether intentionally or not, she could put my life in danger.”
His aunt’s face went white, and she sank back down to her chair.
He squeezed her hand, wishing he hadn’t mentioned danger. He didn’t want to scare her. Turning to Peach, he said, “So, you think we should invite her to come along?”
Peach nodded hesitantly. “As long as you set ironclad conditions. And watch her ass.”
Now, that shouldn’t be a problem.
No, no, no. I did not think that.
“Let me go talk to her,” he said. “If I don’t feel comfortable, I’ll drop out.”
He approached the place where Celine still stood talking to Jake, who caught his silent signal and walked off toward his wife.
Celine didn’t recognize him . . . at first. When she did, her eyes went wide. “You!” she accused, then she burst out laughing. “You look like that guy from Dumb and Dumber.”
“Jim Carrey?”
“No. The other one. The big blond no-brain.” She went suddenly serious. “You’re part of this Pirate Project?”
He nodded.
“And you’re going to blackball me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How willing you are to adhere to some conditions?”
Her body bristled with suspicion. “Like?”
“Like you cannot reveal in your article . . . or to anybody at all that I’m here. At least not ’til after the Mafia trial.”
“And that would be when?”
“Three weeks, or longer. Both sides are lookin’ for a speedy trial date.”
“Impossible. I can’t wait three weeks to write an article on the Pirate Project.”
“And you keep my name out of any articles you write.”
“Why should I?”
“You owe me.”
She raised her chin in disagreement.
“Celine, I have to go in hiding because you outed me.” Not quite true, but, hey, a little guilt never hurt anyone.
“Will you give me an exclusive interview during the trial?”
He cocked his head in an inquiring fashion. “Double rewards, huh? An exclusive on the Pirate Project and the trial?”
“Yep.”
“You are not interviewing me on this project, though, not even as an anonymous person.”
“That’s unreasonable.”
“That’s the deal.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I drop out of the Pirate Project, and you get neither story. There’s one more thing, and this is non- negotiable. If we agree to let you follow us on this project, you have to stay here the entire time.
No going home at night. We can’t risk someone following you out here, for my sake and the sake of our prosecution, but also to preserve the viability of this project.”
She gasped, as if he’d asked something horrifying, like nude treasure hunting.
Now, there’s a thought.
“Stay . . . stay here? With you?”
“Not me, precisely. You can sleep in the lodge, or in one of the tents.” He frowned. “What? Do you need to go home every night?”
“Why do you ask that?” Her voice was shrill and panicky.
What the hell is going on? “Your grandfather . . . I understand he had a stroke. Does he need you home every night?”
Her shoulders sagged with relief.
Which was really odd.
“No. I mean, he’s better now. Still, I like to be home at night. However, they . . . I mean, he is out of town for two weeks.” She was stammering.
He affected women that way sometimes. “Then it should be no problem.”
He could tell she wasn’t happy, but she agreed to the terms, all of them, and he was soon helping her carry the laptop and camera case, leaving her with the carryall. He gave Ronnie a silent signal that she had agreed to the terms.
Ronnie introduced her, “I want you guys to meet Celine Arseneaux. She’s a reporter from the New Orleans Times-Tribune. She’ll be here for the duration. So, behave yourselves.”
John spoke up first, as if he hadn’t just talked to her, “Hiii, Celine. Welcome to the Pirate Project.”
“Drop dead,” she said.
He chuckled.
“I’m Adam Famosa. Anything you need, just come to me, baby.” Apparently, he was taking John’s ill-advice that Celine liked men who came on strong. For a college professor, Famosa had the brains of a bayou gnat. But then, he was a Yankee. They didn’t know jack about women.
Not surprisingly, Celine gave Famosa the same message she’d given him. Drop dead, baby. Except in Famosa’s case it was an unspoken message contained in a disapproving glower.
Famosa glared at him.
He shrugged his innocence.
Famosa stomped off, mumbling something about redneck pricks.
As Ronnie led Celine to meet the other team members, John found himself watching Celine’s back view. She was tall, maybe five-nine, kind of slim, but he noticed the rounded cheeks of her ass moving, first one, then the other, alternating up and down. A real nice rhythm she had going there. Hot-cha-cha.
He supposed it was what they called a heart-shaped bootie.
And her legs. Man, she had nice, long, tanned legs, with the most intriguing dips behind her knees.
Dips he suddenly envisioned himself licking. Slowly. Long, long laps like a cat. Would she taste sweet, like cream, or tangy with sweat from a bout of hard, energetic sex?
A jolt at his crotch called him up short. Holy crawfish! I’m getting a hard-on over Celine the Geek’s knees. That’s what she had been known as in high school, and even college when she’d blossomed a bit. A true blue high IQ, high achiever who looked down on those less intelligent or prone to unimportant things, like fun. God only knew why she’d deigned to go to bed with him that one time.
Well, yes, he did know. They’d both been wasted, celebrating the end of exams just before spring break. But knees? Who knows what I’ll do when I get a gander at her breasts? Another jolt of his you-know-what was his answer. Despite his reputation, it had been a long time since John had a steady lover, or even a one-night stand. Yep, that must be it. It wasn’t Celine. He just needed to get laid.
But then she turned, and while she was talking to Brenda, she casually whipped out a tube of chapstick, a protection against the fierce sun. She was running it over her mouth. The top lip, right to left. The same for the bottom lip. She filled in the fullness of both lips. Then pressed her lips together.
The blood drained from his head and passed through his body in waves, making him feel faint, all over. His jockeys suddenly got tighter.
This was unbelievable. Totally unbelievable.
Could it be . . . ?
He gasped, spun on his heels, and practically ran over to his aunt. “Tante Lulu, did you put some kind of voodoo aphrodisiac love spell crap on me?”
She was trying to find something in her purse, which was big enough to give a grown man carrying it a hernia . . . “What you talkin’ ’bout, boy?”
“Celine Arseneaux. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Did you put some kind of love potion in my coffee this morning?”
It wasn’t as outrageous a suggestion as it might seem. His sister-in-law Sylvie was a chemist who’d once invented a dingbat love potion that she put in jelly beans. His a
unt was big on juju tea. And practically every woman in Louisiana, the birthplace of that celebrated priestess Marie Laveau, knew about voodoo spells.
His aunt just stared at him, for once in her life at a loss for words. Then she grinned, slowly, and did a little Snoopy dance, waving a handkerchief like the marchers in a Bourbon Street funeral. “Praise the Lord and pass the gumbo. The thunderbolt done struck again.”
He made a screensaver of WHAT? . . .
Celine made her way over to the picnic table where John was chewing on a mechanical pencil, staring with much concentration at a laptop screen, occasionally typing in some data.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped, not having heard her approach, then turned back to the computer, ignoring her.
Okay. So, that’s the way he’s going to play it. Yeah, I agreed not to interview him, but this is taking things too far. “Don’t you think you’re being a little immature?”
Without looking her way, he replied, “Says she of ‘Drop Dead’ and ‘Sex Cop’ fame.”
“You annoy me.”
Silence.
“I didn’t want this assignment.”
Silence.
“My editor forced me to come.”
Silence.
“What do you think of my belly button ring?”
His head jerked toward her. “Very funny!” He turned away and resumed his silence.
Remy LeDeux, his brother and a pilot, had already taken half the Jinx team in his hydroplane to the project site. She, John, and the rest would go next. That Remy, he was one drop-dead gorgeous LeDeux, but only from one side. Apparently one side of his body, including his face, had been burned in an explosion in Iraq some time ago.
She stared at John in frustration. He was wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts today with a drab green
“Bite Me Bayou Bait Company” T-shirt, and flip-flops. His tanned arms and long legs showed muscle definition of either an athlete or guy who worked out regularly. She assumed the latter in his case, probably jogging. His dark brown, almost black hair was a little long, halfway down his neck, now that he’d removed the ridiculous wig.