Bayou Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  Two

  “Excuse me, but I think we’re related.” The cool voice with its clipped Canadian accent hit him like so many snow pellets she’d brought with her from up north.

  Claude raised his head slowly, taking the time to enjoy how good she looked from the tip of her strappy shoes to the green eyes staring at him with a challenge.

  “We’re not closely enough related for it to matter,” he said.

  “Well,” she snapped, “if you’re worrying about the gene pool, I’m not here with marriage in mind.”

  “It wasn’t marriage I had in mind, either, cousine,” he said, giving it the full French inflection.

  She didn’t look flustered or embarrassed, which he’d expected. Somehow, she looked more amused. “Is there some reason you’re acting this way with a total stranger?”

  Yes. A couple of very good reasons. But he wasn’t about to share them with his Canadian cousin. He played innocent. “What way?”

  “Like you ordered me out of a catalogue and you’re checking out the merchandise before buying.”

  He laughed. Couldn’t help himself. Okay, so there was more brain inside that luscious package than he’d guessed. Unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. “I offer my apologies, cousine. Welcome to the Big Easy.” He grimaced down at his filthy hands. “I’d welcome you properly but I’m filthy.”

  “You knew who I was when I walked through that gate, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You let me think you were the hired help.”

  “I didn’t encourage you to think anything,” he corrected her.

  “You were gardening. I took you for the gardener and you did nothing to change my impression. Why?” Her hair was a rich color, like rosewood, he thought, in a particularly fine piece of furniture that had been polished and cared for over hundreds of years. When she turned and the sun lit her hair, he watched colors from gold to burgundy spark. She had a redhead’s fair skin and eyes the deep, mysterious green of the bayou at sunrise, with a few gold flecks in their depths to keep things interesting.

  Her body was slim and wiry as though she never sat still long enough to gain an ounce. Some nice curves on her, though. Subtle but nice. He didn’t want her to be pretty and he most certainly didn’t want her to be intelligent or inquisitive, both of which she was shooting at him out of both barrels. What he wanted her to be was gone.

  He’d had one of his few-ever arguments with his mama over having this unknown cousin to stay. His mother, when she’d made up her mind, was immovable, however, so all Claude could do was keep an eye on this suddenly discovered branch on a family tree he’d be perfectly happy to chop down.

  “Well?” she insisted. “Why didn’t you introduce yourself before?”

  He decided to tell her, partly because he always preferred the truth and partly because the truth might make her run. He looked at her and let the silence lengthen. She could feel the animal attraction that arced between them, and he waited until the air around them was tinged with it and her eyes were clouding. “Cousin Claude would have had to act polite. I took one look at you and I didn’t feel polite.”

  She didn’t step back or even drop her gaze, so he began to feel as scorched by her proximity as from the sun beating down on them.

  “I see,” she said slowly, not looking ready to run, looking more like she might try him out for size. Shit. Trouble ahead. “Your mother said you should wash up and join us on the verandah for iced tea.” And with that she turned and was gone, her body moving rapidly, the yellow dress floating behind her as though trying to catch up.

  Oh, and wasn’t she exactly the kind of distraction he didn’t need?

  And the kind of distraction he enjoyed most.

  He entered the house from the back and washed up at the laundry sink, then pulled a clean T-shirt over his grubby jeans and called himself decent.

  By the time he’d made it to the verandah, the tea party was in full swing. His mama loved company and he could hear the excitement in her voice as she talked to her shirttail relation. There was a tinkling burst of feminine laughter, and then he was around the corner of the house and able to see them. He was struck by how familiar they looked together. Two attractive women of different generations gathering over tea. He supposed women had been doing it for centuries—these two looked as though they had and not as though they’d met less than an hour ago.

  Amazing.

  When he climbed the steps they were talking about how much they both loved the ocean, and it sounded very much as though his mother had accepted an invitation to visit her new friend in Halifax. “Of course, I don’t live there now, but my parents are still there. I think you’d like Halifax. It’s right on the ocean and full of history.”

  “It’s where our histories connect,” he said, making his presence known. “Your people booted my people out of your country.”

  “Terrible the way families were split up,” Lucy said, not bristling in defense as he’d half expected.

  “Lucy’s writing a book about the Acadians and the Cajuns. She wants to put some of our family stories in it.”

  And wasn’t that just perfect? “Does she now?”

  Lucy must have heard reluctance in his tone for she turned her big green eyes in his direction. “Your mother said it would be all right for me to look through your family records for my research.”

  They both gazed at him. What could he say? “Hey, it’s fine by me. Knock yourself out.”

  “Lucy Charles,” his mother said in her company voice, “this is my son, Claude LeBlanc,” as though she knew damn well they hadn’t bothered to properly introduce themselves.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” he said, holding out a freshly washed hand for her to shake. As her fingers clasped his, he felt the jolt he’d expected and dreaded. Merde. His mother looked at him and he guessed she knew exactly what he was thinking. Why did he always go for the skinny ones with brains? Hundreds of easy-going, soft, round women passed through his life. They married his friends and turned into charming Southern wives and mothers. But it was this type, this energetic, driven, skinny brain box that would grab his interest every time.

  She took back her hand and for the first time appeared flustered. Hadn’t expected that jolt, huh?

  Well, he had. The question that was puzzling him was what the hell he was going to do about it.

  A smart man would do nothing.

  When it came to skinny, driven brain boxes, Claude had never been a smart man.

  Lucy watched as Claude accepted a glass of iced tea from his mother and settled into one of the wicker chairs. You could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his mother, and in spite of the arrogant, sexually aggressive way he’d treated her, it was obvious he adored his mother and she adored him right back.

  Interesting. Lucy sat back and listened as they discussed the stone patio he was making for Beatrice. She enjoyed the lilt of their voices and the smug knowledge that the two branches of the family might never have come together if not for her, when she was startled by Beatrice saying, “Why don’t you take your cousin downtown tonight and show her around?”

  He glanced at her from under his brows. “You like jazz?”

  “Yes, very much. But—”

  “I’ll go home and clean up. I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll have dinner.”

  She blinked. “Don’t you live here?”

  He looked amused, but it was his mother who answered. “He’s crazy. I’ve got this big old place all to myself, but he—”

  “I’m too old to live with my mother.”

  “Paah. You don’t want me knowing what you get up to.”

  He shot a quick glance, full of devilry, at Lucy. “And there’s that.”

  “Perhaps I should stay home tonight and spend the evening with you, Cousin Beatrice.”

  “Well, sure you could, sweetie,” Cousin Beatrice said doubtfully. “Do you play bridge?”

  The French Quarter restauran
t was casual and funky, with a band playing in the center and diners getting up to dance whenever they felt like it. The food was amazing. She’d had a local fish she’d already forgotten the name of, and salad with pecans. Claude had chosen a dry French wine and had managed to shake his caveman manners of earlier, which had made her dread the evening. He was obviously making an effort to entertain her and his charm was so effortless, it had to come naturally.

  Her date had transformed from the grubby but gorgeous gardener to a sophisticated and even more attractive . . . what? He didn’t look like an antiques dealer. He seemed more like a modern-day pirate. Maybe it was the white, open-necked linen shirt against the tanned skin, the longish dark hair—and she was almost certain she’d caught a glimpse of a small gold hoop in one ear.

  An expensive-looking sleek gold watch glinted from his wrist. His hands were square and strong. He wore a heavy gold ring on his right hand, set with a large square emerald that looked very old. She could imagine those hands plundering treasure.

  “You’re smiling. What is it?” he asked.

  “I was admiring your ring.”

  “Thank you. Usually I tell people it’s a family heirloom.”

  “Is it?”

  “No.”

  Why did the picture of him with iron-bound wooden boxes spilling with ill-gotten gains have to flash through her mind? He wasn’t a cartoon character but a man who was distantly related to her and who, she was beginning to think, possessed an odd sense of humor.

  “Are you going to tell me where you got it?”

  He gazed down at the ring, letting it flash in the candlelight. “In my business I come across many beautiful things. Some I can pass up.” He raised his head and suddenly gazed at her with intensity. “Some I can’t.”

  Ring. He’s talking about a ring. But she knew bloody well it wasn’t an emerald under discussion making her blood start to pound. He was talking about her. His blue-gray eyes held hers and she felt the mysterious pull, unable to look away.

  Well, he could sweet-talk her all he liked, but the ultimate decision would be hers. He was undeniably attractive. He also had trouble tattooed all over him.

  Finally, she broke eye contact and took refuge in a sip of wine.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Oh, what the hell. If he wasn’t trouble, she wouldn’t be as interested. “Yes.”

  Somehow she’d known it would be like this when they touched. His hands, discreetly and properly placed, one clasping her hand and the other resting at her waist, felt overly warm and intimate. She smelled his skin and knew he could smell hers. The beat of the music was sensual, insistent, and she found her feet moving and her blood pounding to the same rhythm. She wouldn’t look into his eyes, that would be too dangerous, so she kept her gaze on the hollow of his throat below his Adam’s apple, where his pulse beat to the same rhythm as hers.

  Had she ever felt so hot for anyone in such a short time? No. She’d had her share of men, but her relationships tended to follow a certain predictable pattern. A few get-to-know-you dates, some kissing, and usually by then she knew if she wanted the man in her bed or not. Most of the ones who’d made it there had been good men who took the time to learn her body and who gave her pleasure. One lasted a couple of years and she knew the reason they’d ended things was because they weren’t ready for marriage or right for each other long-term.

  Lucy believed in dating, and she enjoyed it. Well, she’d been a student a lot longer than she’d been a teacher, and research was her strength. She always did her studying and research before finals. Why should sex be any different? A woman who took the time to thoroughly research her subject was far less likely to end up with a failure on her hands than one who blundered blindly into relationships.

  Dancing with Claude, simply dancing with the man on a crowded floor, felt like throwing out all her careful methods and rushing blindly into an affair.

  Because this wasn’t dancing. It was foreplay. Somehow this man had jumped all her carefully built fences, blasted open all her gates, leapt all her walls. He was here. And if she didn’t do something drastic, they’d be intimate before she knew him at all.

  Part of it was the atmosphere of this city, she knew. The place pulsed with life and the drumbeat of sexuality. Her first day and night in New Orleans and already she loved it. Some cities were like that. They came right out and said, Hey, this is what I’m all about. New Orleans was one of those cities. A little faded, a little decadent, a bit seedy around the edges, but a sensual feast and, as far as she could tell, a twenty-four/seven celebration of life.

  Claude’s body pressed against hers as the floor grew more crowded and she felt the pulse beat of desire grow stronger. Their bodies brushed as they moved; she felt the heat coming off him and her skin grew as sensitive as though he were caressing her. She heard her breathing change to the lighter, quicker breaths of arousal. God, this was insane.

  “Let’s walk,” he said suddenly, huskily, and she nodded. If “walk” was a euphemism for “Let’s go outside and have crazy wild sex,” she’d still have gone.

  They returned to their table, where Claude threw money down, and then took her hand and led her out into the night. It wasn’t a lot cooler outside than in, but the air was a little fresher, the insistent music muted, and her sanity made a brave attempt at a return.

  There was a current of energy humming between their joined hands that both stimulated and unnerved her. Determined to get some idea of who he was before launching herself into his bed, she marshaled her thoughts.

  She knew from his mother that he wasn’t married and never had been. Beatrice had also made it clear that there hadn’t been a steady woman in his life for a while, though he was too obviously sexual not to have had plenty of unsteady women. Which, come to think of it, was exactly how he made her feel. Unsteady. Thrown off her course. Out of control.

  She breathed in the scents of New Orleans at night, the dust and flowers, the mélange of cooking styles, the saffron scent of Creole, the butter-garlic-wine of French, the spiced fish, and then, oddly, the smell of frying donuts. Beignets, she corrected herself mentally. Claude led her around a group of college-aged kids who’d been overdoing the go-cups.

  Behind them a quartet of Japanese girls giggled and shot each other with digital cameras.

  What exactly did she know about this man her body wanted to jump all over naked, she wondered as she stopped at a questioning gesture to take a group picture of the girls. Next to nothing.

  Sense, Lucy, she chided herself. Where’s your sense?

  They walked a little farther and even as she tried to take in the atmosphere of this amazing city at night, even as the scents of one amazing restaurant after another teased her and the jazz ebbed and flowed as they approached one club after another, she found the man beside her clogging all her senses.

  He looked, felt, smelled, and sounded delicious. She hadn’t tasted him yet, but every part of her knew it wouldn’t be long.

  “Claude, I know so little about you,” she said, deciding to come right out and ask. If she was cramming her study time with this man she had to go straight to the important facts.

  He glanced down at her and his eyes glistened as they passed under one of the restored gaslights.

  “I would like to change that,” he said, tightening his hold on her hand ever so slightly.

  Oh, come on. What was she, stupid to fall for this practiced seduction? They’d wandered onto Royal Street; she could see the sign. She turned to face him.

  “I’m a researcher. A pretty good researcher. In thinking about this book, which I’ve done for some time you understand, I’ve studied all the branches of our family. That’s why I was so excited when your mother invited me to come down and meet you. You see, I already know a lot about your family.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. When the Acadians were expelled from Nova Scotia, many of them fled to Louisiana where the only other French colony of any size existed
in North America. Their descendents are the modern-day Cajuns.”

  “We learn this history in grade school, cousine.”

  “Of course. And when families were split, as in our case, when the men and boys were shipped off first, and the women later sent for, they wrote letters to each other, some of which actually made it. I’ve got one or two. And one amazing diary. They’re heartbreaking.”

  “That will be very helpful for your research,” he said, running a single fingertip down the slope of her cheek. It was probably the practiced gesture of a professional flirt, but he did it so well it was almost as though he couldn’t help himself. She shivered, feeling the finger trace its path like a tear.

  “I’ve gathered quite a bit of information over the years. The point is, Claude”—she took a deep breath and blurted out what had been bothering her since the cab pulled up in front of the mansion—“if anyone in the family had amassed a fortune I’d have heard about it.”

  He stiffened slightly. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “Have you perhaps shared these thoughts of yours with my mother?”

  “No. Of course not. But she told me your father inherited from a distant uncle.” She shrugged, letting him in on the fact that she knew every one of his uncles, distant uncles, cousins, and pretty much everyone else with a drop of shared family blood.

  “Ah.” She thought his eyes crinkled in amusement. “The uncle was a mistake.”

  “It was.”

  “But then my father did not know that you would one day enter our lives.”

  “No. I suppose not.” What a strange conversation. And when was he going to get around to answering her question?

  “You know what I’ve been thinking?”

  “What?”

  “How very well that ruby necklace would go with your hair and coloring,” he said, pointing behind her.