Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (10 page)

Other than the kiss, the only place they touched was where his fingertips touched her jaw. Which was amazing because it felt like a hot, wild, devouring exercise in sensuality, not this tender, smoldering exploration. Blood seemed to surge from his fingertips to his toes and a few important spots along the way.

A moan, so low he barely heard it, started deep in her throat, an erotic vibration against his tongue, already buried deep inside her hot-hot mouth.

Note to me: moaning vibrates the tongue.

A hair-trigger arousal hit him like a sexual sledgehammer to the groin. If he weren’t already on his knees, he would have probably been knocked there.

They broke apart at the same time and stared at each other, frozen in a mixture of confusion and horror, as if neither knew how they had come to be kissing. Something intense flared, and it scared the crap out of him. Surely, this wasn’t Tante Lulu’s famous thunderbolt.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t look down. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Their eyes caught and held. The air practically sizzled.

She nodded, a rush of pink staining her cheeks.

And he soon knew why she was embarrassed when his eyes strayed to “I’m a Saint,” where two hard points were dotting the m and the i.

With a huff of disgust, Celine put her sunglasses back on and folded her arms over her chest. “We better get a move on. The other pirogues are out of sight.” She said pirogue as pee-row, which was the correct pronunciation; lots of people thought it was like those doughy things filled with cheesy mashed potatoes.

This time he changed positions with her, took both paddles and gave her a pole to use, if necessary. He figured she was probably admiring
his
ass now, just as he had done hers, but the difference was, he didn’t care. In fact, he welcomed a little hottie-watching, both ways.

“How’d you ever get all these pirogues out here anyhow?” she asked, probably figuring a change of subject would cool them down.

Fat chance!
“My brothers and I spent five days here two years ago, building the things. It was great fun. The usual chaos with all the wives and kids and Tante Lulu, of course, but still fun.”

“Wow! I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. It’s not that hard to make a pirogue. In fact, they sell kits on the Internet that promise they can be made over a weekend.”

“Still, they appear to be well made.”

“They are. So, wanna make out?”

Chapter
9

The project site, about one mile from the cabin, was situated on a wide bend in the bayou. The stream here was about sixty feet wide and fifteen feet deep.

Celine took personal notes for her story by speaking into a small tape recorder, but she’d more than willingly agreed to help with the photography work on the project, chronicling every step of the venture, except for the underwater exercises which would be done by the divers.

“Over the years, the network of bayous changed constantly, due to storms and flooding,” Celine said into the recorder. “Land existing today might disappear underwater in five years, and vice versa. Thus, according to the treasure map, the pirate Lafitte’s booty had been buried on dry land, but that spot is now underwater. See written notes on history of the map. And check photos of map on digital chip A, numbers 17, 18, and 19.” She scribbled a few lines in a small notebook, then set both the camera and notebook aside, gazing about at the flurry of activity preparing for the first dive.

In the small clearing up about twenty feet from the water, two open-sided tents had been erected, one for Tante Lulu’s cooking and the other with folding tables set up for maps and computer equipment. In the event of a sudden rainstorm, the side flaps could be put down for protection.

She had some questions to ask about today’s schedule, but there was no way she was going within spitting distance of the Bayou Bad Boy who was discussing the upcoming operation with Ronnie and Caleb. After that killer kiss, he could very well turn her into the Bayou Bad Girl. Even though both of them had been playing an avoidance game for the past hour, there was no question they were acutely conscious of each other.

“Doan ya be worryin’ none, sweetie,” Tante Lulu said, patting her on the behind as she lugged a big bag of rice past her.

“Huh? What makes you think I’m worrying?” She followed the old lady into the cooking tent and helped her lift the bag of rice onto a folding table.

“Mebbe it’s the furrows in yer forehead. Toss in some dirt and a fella could plant corn.”

“Thanks a bunch.” Without thinking, she swiped a hand across her forehead to smooth it out.

Tante Lulu glanced up and grinned, but it wasn’t her forehead she was looking at. It was her mouth. Reaching down to a styrofoam chest, she got an ice cube and handed it to her.

“What’s this for?”

“To soothe them sore lips. They be swollen from a whole lot of kissin’, I reckon. I wonder who?” Tante Lulu smiled from ear to ear, knowing full well who had been kissing her. “Iffen that weren’t clue enough, Tee-John, bless his heart, keeps givin’ ya hot looks.”

She glanced over to John, who was pulling a diving suit out of a special chest, along with Brenda, Caleb, and Adam, who would also be diving. And, yeah, he gave her a hot look, followed by a wink when he caught her staring at him.

She groaned.

Tante Lulu chuckled. “Best ya be sendin’ a Dear John letter ta Darnell.”

“Darnell?”

“Yer fiancé.”

“Oh. Why would I do that?”

“Ya thick or sumpin’, girl? The thunderbolt, she is aworkin’ overtime here. I gotta tell ya, I been lookin’ forward ta this day fer a long time. Tee-John gettin’ married. Whoo-boy! They’s gonna be a boatload of wimmen cryin’ on the bayou.”

“John is getting married?” This was news to her, especially since he’d been practically licking her tonsils a short time ago. But then an alarming thought occurred to her. “You can’t possibly mean me.”

“Cain’t I?”

“There is nothing like that between me and John.”

“There will be, honey. St. Jude is in the buildin’, so ta speak, and yer fate is sealed.”

She thought about arguing, but knew it would be like throwing Jell-O against a glass wall. Nothing would stick with this matchmaking bulldozer. “What’s in that juju tea you keep plying me with?”

Tante Lulu fluttered her sparse eyelashes with as much innocence as a cat with a cream mustache. “Whatcha mean, honey? Ya feelin’ a little feisty?”

Celine narrowed her eyes. “Was there some kind of aphrodisiac in there?”

“Do ya believe in aphro . . . aphro . . . uh, love potions, sweetie?”

“No.”

“Then ya gots nothin’ ta worry ’bout, I reckon.” Under her breath, Celine could swear the old biddy said something about thanking St. Jude. Then she added, aloud, “I got lots ta do when I get home. The bride quilt. Tee-John’s hope chest, which is almost full, thanks be ta God. Monogrammed tea towels and doilies. We could get Charmaine’s little Mary Lou ta be a flower girl; she’s more than three now, and cute as a June bug, ’specially with all those corkscrew curls that Charmaine gives her. Do ya think yer little boy could be a ring bearer? Betcha they’d look cute together.”

Celine could ignore some of the things Tante Lulu said, but not when it came to her son. “No!” she said with more vehemence than she intended.

The old lady’s gray eyebrows—a sharp contrast to her blonde curly hair—shot up with surprise. “Why not?” she demanded. “Girl, surely yer not implyin’ that Tee-John couldn’t be a father ta the boy?”

Her only response was a choked out, “No, of course not.”

“Well then?” Tante Lulu had her hands on her little hips, encased in Mary Kate and Ashley hip-hugger jeans, and was tapping an orthopedic sneaker on the ground. She was like a pit bull protecting her young.

“I keep trying to tell you, there is not going to be a wedding between me and your nephew. We have no relationship, at all.”

“Did that boy kiss the daylights outta ya this mornin’ or dint he?”

The daylights, the night-lights, the brain lights, the skylights, every which way kind of light.
At Celine’s presumably red face, Tante Lulu tossed her hands out in a “So there!” gesture.

It was no use arguin’ with the old lady; so, Celine stomped off to confront John with the dilemma. Let him handle his aunt.

There were two problems with that. One, a section of the bayou banks between Tante Lulu’s tent and where the dive was to take place was that pudding-like mud where tracks disappeared as soon as they were made. Which meant that she sank down to her ankles in the goop, some of it slopping up onto her legs, arms, shorts, and T-shirt. It . . . and now she . . . smelled like rotting vegetation and dead fish. Second, by the time she’d waded into the stream to wash the mess off, then approached John, he’d already shucked down to a brief bathing suit and was shimmying his too-buff body into a very tight, neoprene wet suit that was more revealing than if he were nude.

I am not looking at his groin.

I am not looking at his butt.

I am not looking at his wide shoulders and narrow waist.

Oh, God! Even his toes are sexy.

She was caught mid-gawk by John, who grinned and said, “Like what ya see,
chère?
” Then he used a forefinger to swipe a dirty spot on her cheek. At least he didn’t attempt to remove the spot on her shirt, right above “Saint,” but he stared all right. “Ya look good in mud, sweet thang,” he drawled, still ogling her chest. Then his eyes wandered. “I wonder . . . yep, ya do have some mud behind yer knees. Mercy!” He licked his lips, which
—be still my heart!
—reminded her of their kiss.

Shaking her head to clear it and hopefully shake him from the notion that she found him tempting as a beignet to a sweetaholic, she glared and said through gritted teeth, “I look like crap in mud. What’s with you and this knee fetish? Stop staring at my boobs . . . and my knees. I am not your darlin’.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Furthermore, tell your aunt to back off.”

“What’s she doin’ now?”

“Arranging our wedding.”

The nitwit laughed.

“And one more thing.”

“Uh-oh! When a woman says, ‘One more thing,’ that usually means a guy should duck.”

“What’s in that juju tea that your aunt keeps pushing on me?”

“Don’t tell me . . . yer gettin’ the hots fer me, baby?”

Like a furnace, sweetheart. Like a furnace.

John’s teasing expression went suddenly serious. “Oh, Lord, the juju for you, and St. Jude novenas out the kazoo for me. We are dead ducks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We should probably go have sex.”

She had no chance to respond to that outlandish, but typical, remark from John because Adam—also wearing a wet suit, but not quite as gorgeous as the Cajun lunkhead,
darn it
—walked up and asked, “Who’s having sex?”

“Nobody,” she and John replied as one.

Adam’s dark Cuban eyes widened with disbelief. “Clueless . . . the pair of them are clueless to the bone,” he commented to the others. Then, “But, hey, Celine, if LeDeux’s not up for the job, I’m available.”

Choosing not to respond, she stomped off again, but this time avoided the mud pudding.

That’s when she saw a snake the size of a fire hose.

And Caleb almost fainted.

And John pulled out a pistol—
Who knew he was carrying!—
and shot the reptile right between its beady eyes.

And Tante Lulu said, “Yippee, snake gumbo t’night.”

“Okay, guys, let’s do a run-through of what we accomplished this morning and what we plan for the rest of the day . . . and week. Jake and I will be back in eight days, max, hopefully sooner.”

Veronica was standing outside the work tent as she spoke, following a sumptuous lunch which had been prepared almost totally by that remarkable Cajun Energizer Bunny, Tante Lulu. The meal had not included snake, thank God, but not for the old lady’s lack of trying. “Ever since we Cajuns was kicked out of Canada and France, and ever since all the upper crusts in Nawleans looked down their skinny noses at us, we Cajuns learned ta live off the land. We made a meal outta jist ’bout anythin’ . . . squirrels, possums, snakes. Besides, it tastes jist like chicken.”

“I don’t care if it tastes like frickin’ filet mignon, you are not sneaking snake into my lunch, old lady. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” said the ex-Amish Navy SEAL, who had a huge aversion to snakes and was still looking a bit pale after the snake incident. Heck, Veronica was feeling a little shaky herself at the prospect of snakes that size slithering nearby, even if that particular one had been nonpoisonous.

“Anyhow, I’m sorry to have to abandon you all like this, but Jake and I have to be in Barnegat by this evening. My grandfather is being honored by the New Jersey Historical Preservation Society.”

“Don’t worry about taking off, Ronnie. We can handle things from this end,” Adam assured her. At his side, Caleb nodded his agreement.

“Give him our congratulations,” Brenda said, and the others concurred.

“Plus, I have to meet with three different prospective clients for upcoming projects. And Jake has to be in Atlantic City by tomorrow afternoon for his little poker tournament.”

Jake chortled at her use of the word “little.”

“Just kidding, sweetheart.” To the others, she explained, “This is a million dollar grand slam thingee—”

“Thingee?” Jake inquired with mock affront.

“—and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She flashed Jake a “Gotcha!” look at her last remark. Then, back to the others, “Grandpa and Flossie are going to watch Julie Ann for us so we can spend two days down on the boardwalk.”

She and Jake exchanged smiles . . . because there were several significant things in what she’d said, which only Jake would recognize. One, there was a time when she’d hated everything poker and wouldn’t have willingly attended a poker event. Two, in the past her phobia about the ocean and the smell of saltwater would have made a stay at the seashore less than appealing. Three, thanks to her grandfather and his longtime girlfriend, she and Jake were going to be able to spend two full days of child-free time together.

While the others were wishing Jake good luck, John homed in on the latter. “Two days alone in A.C. . . . whooee! You guys wouldn’t be thinkin’ of gettin’ married, wouldja?”

With heated face, Veronica replied, “Of course not.”

With no heat on his face, Jake replied, “Maybe.”

“They wouldn’t do no such thing without invitin’ all of us, ’specially me since I sicced the thunderbolt of love on ’em.” This was from Tante Lulu, of course.

Celine muttered something like, “Thunderbolt
of love?
No way!”

“When Ronnie and I get married, you’ll be the first one invited,” Jake told Tante Lulu.

Veronica noticed that he said “when,” not “if.” But that was okay. It was inevitable that they try once again, despite having been married and divorced four times before, but it wouldn’t be this week.

“I have a good idea,” Tante Lulu mused, tapping her puckered lips thoughtfully. “How ’bout you two get hitched at the end of the Pirate Project. Sort of a double celebration. I throw a real good weddin’, if I do say so myself. Jist ask René and Val. People in Houma is still talkin’ ’bout the secret weddin’ I threw fer those two.”

John rolled his eyes and confirmed, “My aunt, she’s not kiddin’, no. René and Val weren’t even speakin’ to each other when they arrived at Tante Lulu’s birthday bash, only to find it was really their weddin’ she had planned. Talk about!”

Veronica had heard this story before, and it still boggled the mind. She was about to remind everyone that they had gotten off the subject when Jake came up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder, tugging her close to his side. Julie Ann was in the other tent, playing with her Barbie princess castle. “Let’s do it, honey,” he whispered in her ear.

“What?” She shivered. Even after more than fifteen years of being together, off and on, Jake could still make her insides melt with his breath in her ear, or even a look. She loved him so.

“Let’s get married again.”

She looked at him, full in the face to see if he was serious.

He was.

And suddenly she, too, knew the time was right.

They both turned to Tante Lulu and said, “Okay.”

“But not during the Pirate Ball,” Veronica was quick to add.

Tante Lulu’s shoulders slumped.