by Sandra Hill
Adam was back to sitting behind the desk, his fingers tented before his lips, thoughtfully. “How about the dude in the Chez parking lot? Another ex?” he asked in a snide manner that was starting to annoy her.
“Yes, another ex. An ex-fiancé who didn’t have the same morals as you about sharing. But you know what, Adam, you don’t have much room to talk.” Her tone of voice put him in the Raging Asshole category, she hoped.
“What does that mean?” His feet dropped to the floor and he leaned forward across the desk.
“According to my Internet search, you were the Horndog of the South for years, even while your wife was alive. Rumor is that you screwed so many women that Black & Decker wanted to put your name on a drill.”
His face was the one flaming now. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
She arched her brows. “I could say the same thing.”
He glared at her for a long moment, then sank back. “What are we going to do about this thing between us?”
She didn’t bother denying the “thing” he referred to. “Not a damn thing!”
“Why?”
“Because you have no respect for me, and I have even less for you.”
“Maybe we had an information malfunction,” he conceded. “Besides, the way I hear it, you have no more interest in another marriage than I do.”
“Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?”
He ignored her question and went on, “So, what does respect have to do with wild, no-holds-barred, screaming sex?”
Screaming? Me or you, buddy? She wasn’t about to ask him which. He would probably answer her in ways she might not like . . . or like too much. “Think a lot of your talents, do you?”
He shrugged. “And don’t you dare mention Black & Decker screwing again.”
She laughed.
“I could wipe that smirk off your face in a nanosecond,” he said. “C’mere.” He crooked his finger at her and motioned toward his lap. “Plant your sweet ass right here, sweetheart. And, yes, I’ve noticed how sweet it is.”
“Not a chance!”
“Are you as turned on as I am?”
“No.”
“Prove it. Come over her and let me kiss you a little. Betcha I could make you as wet as those cally flowers out there.”
“Oh, that was crude. And they’re calla lilies, not cally flowers.”
“The best sex is always a little crude.”
“This is not sex.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Actually, she wasn’t. And, to her inner dismay, she was a little wet . . . or was that “gooey,” as Sabine had accused Simone of getting every time a Cajun man winked her way. Yep, the bane of her life. Cajun goo.
She stood suddenly. Time for her to go out and mix with the remaining guests, some of whom had passed the open door of her office, peeked in, and then passed with a wave when they saw it was occupied.
“Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Adam. Do come again.” She realized her mistake immediately.
Even before he grinned and said, “Oh, I intend to. Come again.”
“Crude again? Tsk-tsk!”
As he passed her on the way out of the office, he gave her a little smack on the butt. “You don’t know crude yet, darlin’.”
“That amounts to sexual harassment,” she called after him, not really upset.
“So sue me. I can recommend a good lawyer.” He turned to waggle his eyebrows at her.
She gave him the finger.
They were both laughing when they reentered the lobby area, which was almost deserted, except for her mother, Helene, BaRa, and Tante Lulu. They must have been in her office longer than she’d realized.
Her mother took one look at her and Adam and sighed to BaRa. “She’s got her crazy on again. I see the signs. Cajun Crazy! I’m gonna pray fer her.”
“I’m gonna pray fer her, too,” Tante Lulu said. “Ta St. Jude. But I ’spect mah special intentions are different from yer special intentions.”
“You’re not still hoping for a reconciliation with Cletus, are you?” Helene asked Simone’s mother.
“Goodness’ sakes, no! Cletus’s grandmother from Houston came ta mah trailer and dragged him with her by the ear. If I’d known he had a grandmother, I never woulda taken him in. I only let him move in ’cause I felt sorry for him when his mama shut her heart ta him. Anyways, Cletus’s grandma said all his troubles started when he got involved with mah family. The nerve! That boy was stealin’ pennies when he was in grade school, dollars by junior high, and cars by high school. To tell the truth,” her mother confided, “I think he called his grandmother ta come rescue him. Scarlett took a dislike ta the boy right off. Scarlett is Simone’s cat, which she seems ta have forsaken in her rush ta leave. Almost scratched Cletus’s tattoos off one day. Cletus got ta be afraid the cat would slip a hairball in his mouth while he was sleepin’, which was most of the time.”
Simone didn’t know about anyone else, but her brain went fuzzy just listening to that long discourse in answer to a simple question.
“Then what’s the problem, Addie?” BaRa asked, after blinking several times.
“He’s a Cajun!” Simone’s mother said, as if that was answer enough.
The “he” in question, Adam, just stood poleaxed before her, stunned that all these women could be discussing him as if he wasn’t even there.
“What we need ta do is find a Yankee fer mah daughter . . . one what’s a little dull and homely-like,” Addie said.
“Well, I can’t claim to be boring, and I try my best not to be dog-ugly most days,” Adam said.
Several of the ladies blushed, not having realized he was listening.
What did they think . . . he was a potted plant just standing there with no ears? Jeesh!
“But as for being Cajun, I can’t help that,” Adam continued. “I am a little bit Yankee, though, from one of my grandmothers. I suspect that part is lodged in my big toe that looks slightly Yankee-ish and has a tendency to twitch sometimes.”
Helene snickered and gave him a thumbs-up.
Tante Lulu was slapping her knee and cackling, “A Yankee toe! Doan that beat all?”
Her mother was not amused.
BaRa just looked confused.
Adam turned to Simone then and whispered, “Does a guy have to go through this gauntlet every time he wants to get close to you?”
She tilted her head at him. “Depends on how close.”
He grinned. “Real close.”
Beware of too much happiness . . .
Adam was smiling when he got home. And he was smiling after taking a shower that evening and taking care of some necessary business . . . in the shower. He was still smiling when he came down for coffee the next morning.
Maisie was eating a toasted bagel with cream cheese. Already dressed for school, she had a big-ass pink bow in her hair, holding back a mass of black curls that had only been half brushed. A good wind and she’d be carried away like a hot air balloon. She was wearing blue jeans with a T-shirt that read “My Uncle’s an Army Stud” and black ballet slippers. Kindergarten fashionista!
He couldn’t object today.
“What bug is ticklin’ yer funny bone?” his father grumbled from where he sat at the table, sipping at a giant mug of black coffee. Adam assumed he’d lost at poker last night.
“Daddy is jist happy, PawPaw,” Maisie chastised his father.
“Yeah, well I wish he’d pass the happy pills,” his father responded.
Adam poured himself a cup of coffee and waved aside his father’s offer of a bagel. He’d grab something on the way to the office. He sat down at the table opposite the pipsqueak. “Nice bow!” he remarked.
“I did it myself.” Maisie beamed.
“Don’t think I don’t know what’s got you all grinnin’ like a dog with a sweet bone.” His father was still on that subject. “Tante Lulu told everyone about your meetin’ up with that Simone LeDeux at the open hou
se. Whoo-boy! She said the air was a-sizzlin’ and a-smokin’. I take it yoga is no longer in fashion.”
His father was becoming as much of a busybody as Tante Lulu. That’s what comes of a grown man living with his father. It’s against nature. “Tante Lulu talks too much. And since when is that old lady in your poker group?”
“She isn’t. She told her niece Charmaine who told one of her customers, Maudine Earhart, whose husband Leroy’s cousin plays poker with us guys.”
The bayou grapevine!
“See-mone? Is she the lady from church?” Maisie wanted to know.
He nodded and reached across the table to dab at her milk mustache with a paper napkin. “She’s the one.”
“Kin we invite her ta our pool party?”
The pool party again! He glared at his father, who put up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
He wasn’t sure if his father referred to Simone, which had been Adam’s thought, or the party idea. He decided to home in on the latter, but he would talk to his father later about discussing matchmaking for Adam with his daughter. “You’re the one who mentioned a homecoming party at church.”
“Well . . . um . . . Maisie and I got the idea together.”
“I have a list, Daddy, of everyone we kin invite ta our pool party.”
“A list, huh? And when is this party going to be held?”
“Not till school is out fer the summer, in two weeks. You are comin’ ta my graduation, aren’t you, Daddy?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world . . . not even for a hundred million Tootsie Pops.” Those were her favorites, cherry preferred.
“Oh, Daddy!” she said.
“Will this be a kiddies-only party?”
She shook her head, almost dislodging the giant bow. “All kinds of people.”
By that, she meant all ages, he assumed. He was getting mighty suspicious, though. His daughter had a devious mind. “And what will we be celebrating? Kindergarten graduation? Losing your loose front tooth? Summer?”
“Dad-dy! A party doesn’t hafta be a celebration. It kin jist be a happy time.”
“Oookay!”
“But maybe it could be a Fourth of July party.”
“That sounds good.” And it was almost two months away. She’d probably forget about it by then.
“And make sure See-mone gets an invitation.”
Yep, devious! And that’s what happened when you introduced your child to one of your ladies. Not that Simone was one of his ladies. Yet.
His father was amused, clearly understanding his discomfort. “You could invite your yoga friend, too,” he suggested with more mischief than helpfulness, “if you’re worried about See-mone getting the wrong idea.”
“The yoga friend is moving to California.”
“Aaah!” his father said, as if that explained everything.
By the time Adam got to the office, he was no longer smiling so much. Clearly, he had to think this whole Simone attraction over more carefully. Not jump right in where lust beckoned.
The first thing Luc said to him, though, was, “Hey, buddy. I heard you and my half sister are a thing.”
“We’re not a thing.”
“Yet?”
“Yet.”
“Oh, boy!”
“What does that ‘Oh, boy!’ mean?”
“It means Tante Lulu has her work cut out for her this time.”
They went off to court then, for yet another day of proceedings in the never-ending Pham versus Cypress Oil lawsuit. After three long weeks, they might finally have closing arguments today. The wheels of justice moved slowly, and there had been many a spoke in the wheels during this trial. Such as the judge having a scheduling conflict. And the defendants calling for a sidebar on every other issue, causing innumerable delays. Cypress Oil failing to provide discovery, which called for more sidebars and arguments without the jury. In essence, the tactic was to slow the process down so much that the litigants would be so irritated they would drop their suit. Which hadn’t worked.
Luc and Adam had several times been threatened with wrongful conduct fines. But that was another story, and par for the course.
By noon, both sides had closed. The jury would begin deliberations at one p.m., right after lunch.
Now he and Luc were leaving the courthouse with Mike. His father hadn’t been feeling well lately and had chosen to stay home. Actually, there hadn’t been many spectators today at all, boredom having set in, Adam supposed. Valcour LeDeux himself hadn’t been around for more than a week. Supposedly, he and his young (compared to him) wife were off to Bermuda.
Was he that confident of Cypress winning the case? Or did he just not care? Probably the latter. He personally wouldn’t suffer so much as the company itself and the value of its stock, if they lost.
Thankfully, Adam hadn’t thought about Simone LeDeux all morning . . . until Mike mentioned that he’d found a business card for Legal Belles in his wife’s purse.
Uh-oh!
Could Adam be saved from a relationship misstep by something as simple as “conflict of interest”? For some reason, he wasn’t smiling.
Chapter Six
The wheels of justice made odd turns . . .
Simone was staked out in front of Luther Ferguson’s home. He was the teacher who was supposedly providing nighttime math tutoring to a thirteen-year-old girl, Darlene Rossi.
Her Mazda sedan, parked several houses down the street, was a dark blue that blended in with the surroundings on this starless night, a portent of bad weather to come. She hoped the rain didn’t come until she was done here. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d worked in inclement weather (Winter blizzards in Chicago came to mind.), but she’d prefer not to.
It was a waiting game at this point, although Simone was prepared for every eventuality once Darlene arrived . . . if she did. Cell phone, zoom lens camera, recording device, Mace, a pistol, even doggie treats. Luckily, the neighbor’s pet Lab had been taken inside. What she didn’t want or need was a barking dog alerting the perp of her presence.
Angela Rossi, a single parent, never married, had informed Simone fifteen minutes ago that her daughter Darlene just left their home after yet another argument. She lived only four blocks away.
Simone was prepared for all situations, not just investigating a crime, and she’d already informed Angie, “I’m a mandatory reporter of child abuse. If I gain this evidence for you, it has to be turned over to the police. Otherwise, I’m liable for huge fines and even jail time myself. More than that, I can’t in good conscience let this kind of predator loose to repeat his crimes.”
“But what about Darlene?” her mother had argued. “I don’t want her name in the papers. She’ll be ruined before she ever enters high school. Can’t we just tell the school principal and get him fired? As long as he’s out of the picture, Darlene would be safe.”
Simone had shaken her head. “Not a possibility. First of all, it’s a crime. Second, if not Darlene, it will be, and probably has been, some other girl.”
“I just don’t know.” Angie had wrung her hands in dismay, and Simone’s heart had gone out to her. The woman worked hard as a waitress at an upscale Houma restaurant and had even given up her more lucrative night shift when she’d suspected her daughter’s involvement with the teacher.
Counseling had accomplished nothing in the past, according to Angela. Still, Simone could try to suggest counseling, because Darlene’s problems wouldn’t end with the incarceration of Luther Ferguson. The very fact that the girl could be seduced by the man as well as her refusal to stop the “tutoring” sessions, was indicative of other problems that needed to be addressed.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Simone had offered. “I have twenty-four hours to report from the time I witness a crime. Let’s say I get the evidence. How about if I make arrangements, ahead of time, with a lawyer I know, who will go with you to law enforcement to file a complaint. Darlene’s a minor, so her name shouldn’t be
made public. I know in small towns news can travel fast, but we’ll do our best to keep things quiet. I guarantee if this case goes to trial, there will be other girls coming forward.”
Angie had nodded.
“And in return,” Simone had demanded, “I’ll have a counselor in place to immediately work with you and Darlene . . .” Simone had held up a halting hand when Angie had been about to protest, once again, that counseling hadn’t worked before, and continued, “because there is every possibility that Darlene will want to protect the creep and will hate you for taking him away.”
So Simone had talked with Luc, who’d agreed to take on the case, if needed, pro bono, and she’d contacted an old school friend who was a psychologist, as well. Now, all she needed was the evidence.
While she waited for Darlene to arrive . . . and, hey, maybe she wouldn’t come, and maybe her mother had been wrong about the teacher. Wishful thinking!
By this time . . . Simone checked her illuminated watch . . . yep, eight-thirty . . . Sabine would be propped on a bar stool at the Swamp Tavern, casing out Sam Ellison who stopped every night for a beer . . . and maybe something else. His wife was hoping it was only beer. It was probably more. Almost always, by the time a spouse suspected infidelity, it was a done deal.
Gabe Storm, the actor who’d envisioned himself as the “gigolo on the prowl,” was posing as a wealthy Internet tech tycoon with a proclivity for giving expensive jewelry to appreciative ladies. Thus far, the woman, who attended the same health club as new member, Gabe, hadn’t bitten his bait, which was points in her favor.
Most disturbing, in a personal way, was Simone’s meeting this morning with the two Vietnamese women. Thanh Pham, married to Michael Pham, the plaintiff in a lawsuit being handled by LeDeux & Lanier, was accompanied by her sister, Kimly Bien, a professor of women’s studies at Tulane. Thanh, a quiet, more traditional Vietnamese woman in both demeanor and attire, had clearly come at the prodding of her more aggressive, and protective, sister.
Helene had sat in on the session, too, and they both agreed that this one could get nasty. The verdict was expected any day in the Pham versus Cypress Oil Case, and it could be a (well-deserved) windfall for Michael Pham and his father’s shrimp fishing company. But would it be a windfall for Thanh and her two sons, as well? Kimly didn’t think so. Why? Thanh had suggested shyly that her husband of twenty-one years had other women. Her sister, Kimly, had snorted at that and amended, “Lots of women! And he’s acting like a man who’s about to make a big move.”