Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (12 page)

In his defense . . . not that he needed her defending him . . . she had been pretty messed up at the time. Self-esteem hovering at zero. Ashamed that someone might learn about her father’s suicide; at fifteen, a girl thought that reflected badly on her. She’d had no one but her grandfather to help her get ready for first day of high school, and the old man, bless his heart, had the fashion sense of Jed Clampett. So, getting a crush-at-first-sight on John LeDeux pretty much amounted to disappointment waiting to happen.

The one-night stand in college, she had been able to excuse away by the amount of alcohol they’d both consumed, but, really, the crush had still been there, beneath the surface, just waiting for the least attention from him to ignite. It was all well and good to explain her actions away, but the fact remained, she was stone cold sober now . . . and fighting an erotic fluttering in her tummy every time he looked at her. A ten-year crush? Pitiful, pitiful, pitiful!

“What’s wrong?” John asked, easing down beside her in the grass. Two big catfish lay on the bank near his feet.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Jeesh! The guy threw off heat like a testosterone oven. She squirmed away from him a foot or two.

“Your frowny face.” He leaned over and traced the furrows in her brow, for emphasis.

She flinched at that mere touch, her skin suddenly ultra sensitive. “I think your aunt drugged me.”

“Huh?”

“She either slipped me a mickey, or rupie, or something powerful was in that juju tea.”

He snickered.

“How else can you explain the fact that I want to have sex with you?”

She could almost hear the “thunk” as her blunt statement landed between them like a big fat pink elephant, impossible to take back, or ignore.

The expression on his face morphed from surprise, to amusement, to something hot and smoldering . . . a look he probably perfected by standing in front of a mirror, or practiced on a gazillion women. He licked his lips, still staring at her. He was probably laughing at her inside.

But then he said the most amazing thing.

“Back at you, babe.”

And he didn’t seem any happier than she was.

Chapter
11

There was a long-running dumb man joke on the Internet that said, when it came to sex, men are like microwaves and women are like crockpots. It was not a compliment.

Well, John knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Ever since Celine had mentioned the word “sex,” he’d been like a pressure cooker. From zero to hot damn in a nanosecond . . . and he’d been on a slow lust-boil ever since.

And he was starting to like her. Even worse, he suspected she was starting to like him, too. Like and lust: a prescription for disaster, where the two of them were concerned.

He cleaned the fish with the hunting knife Luc had given him when he was eight. And thought,
sex.

He built a round fire pit with small stones in the way Remy had taught him when he was nine, and thought,
sex.

He cooked the fish, wrapped in damp moss, in hot coals the way René had demonstrated when he was ten, and thought,
sex.

But he was no longer a boy, and Celine Arseneaux was more trouble than this Cajun could handle at this time in his life. So he tried to ignore his raging libido, served the food on St. Jude paper plates, and thought,
sex.

He listened to a song on a mix Charmaine had made up and left at René’s cabin, along with a small CD player. It was appropriately named, “Hot Hot Hot” by Buster Poindexter, and he thought,
hot sex.

He was lying on a blanket, drinking a paper cup of Tante Lulu’s rhubarb wine while Celine bustled around cleaning up, attempting to pretend she hadn’t said what she’d said. Maybe he could get so drunk that he would pass out and not do something stupid, which was not likely, considering his aunt’s wine was weak as piss . . . about one-percent alcohol.

He had to think of something to dampen the fire.
I know. Her kid.
Jumping up, he went over to his backpack and pulled out a satellite phone. “Give me the number where your son is staying, and I’ll dial it for you.”

She brightened immediately. “You didn’t tell me you had a satellite phone. You rat! Give it to me. I can dial myself.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll dial. This phone is only for emergencies. This call is a one-time deal.”

“A direct line with my grandfather
is
an emergency.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are not to mention anything that might link you with me . . . or LeDeuxs in general.”

“But—”

He put up a halting hand. “This is a deal breaker. I know how your grandfather feels about us LeDeuxs, but this has nothing to do with that. I can’t have any possible link between you, me, and the upcoming trial.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing what he meant.

“You can give your grandfather the chief’s number. If he deems it an emergency, he’ll patch you through.”

She didn’t like it, but she accepted, giving him the telephone number. He dialed and a small boy answered, “Hello. This is Etienne Arseneaux. Who’s this?”

For some reason, the hairs stood out on the back of his neck. Confused, he handed the phone to Celine, but not before whispering a caution, “It’s your son. Remember. No mention of me.”

Listening to the one-sided conversation, he poured himself another cup of wine and lay back on the blanket, head braced on an elbow.

“Ah, sweetie, I miss you, too. You did? A big horse, huh? Oh, a pony. Did Uncle Samuel ride with you? Well, yes, he’s your uncle, sort of; he’s grandpa’s brother. I see. No, honey, I can’t join you there. I have a job assignment. Uh-huh. Maybe next time. I miss ‘You and Me time,’ too. Save up all your news for me ’til you get back, and we’ll have an extra long ‘You and Me time’ with popcorn and slushes. Okay, ice cream, too. No, you cannot bring a pony back to Houma. Gramps’s backyard is too small. No, I said. You can pretty please all you want. The answer is still no.” She laughed out loud. “No, that does not mean you can get a dog when you get back.”

John could see . . . or rather hear . . . what a good mother Celine was. For some reason, he had trouble reconciling his having the hots for a mother.

She continued to chatter as John watched her face, which was animated in a way which lit her up from within. Was this what parenthood did to a person? It must be. Luc and Remy and René reacted the same way when they were around their kids. It almost made him want to have a kid of his own. Almost being the key word.

The grandfather must be on the phone now. “I know, Gramps, but I can’t tell you where I am . . . or give you a phone number.” She held the phone away from her ear for a moment. Even from across the blanket, he could hear the sound of yelling. “I’m on a super secret assignment. Use the number I gave you, but only if it’s urgent. I’ll call you again tomorrow night . . . ” She glanced over at him, and he shrugged. “ . . . if I’m able. I love you, too. Give Etienne a hug for me. Bye.”

She clicked the phone off and handed it to him. Meantime, her face went bleak.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, refilling her cup of wine.

“I miss my son. I’m almost never away from him overnight . . . let alone a week.” She took a long swallow of her drink.

John stared at her, remembering the Celine he’d met for the first time in high school. She hadn’t been bad-looking then, but she’d been a little chunky and worn geeky clothes and had an attitude. Oh, she thought he was the one with an attitude, but it was the reverse. At least, it had been back then. She’d been so frickin’ smart. Not that he was a dummy, but she and her crowd had looked at him and his friends as if they were low-level cretins. Okay, maybe they had behaved that way at times.

But look at her now. Holy sac-à-lait! Even without makeup or hot clothes, she was stunning. Not beautiful, but very, very attractive. The blue eyes with the dark brown hair were especially compelling. And she had a nice figure, showcased by tight jeans and an abdomen-hugging white tank top, covered with an unbuttoned, faded blue denim shirt that matched her eyes. Her hair was held off her face with barrettes on either side of her face.

He wanted her.

Which was insanity.

Tante Lulu had told him earlier about Celine’s father having committed suicide soon after her mother died of cancer. Thinking back, he realized that it must have been just before she’d come back to Houma to live with her grandfather, just before starting high school. Had he been unconsciously unkind to her? At the least, he hadn’t been sensitive to what a troubled kid she must have been. No wonder she had been so aloof . . . not stuck-up, like he’d thought at the time.

All this insight, combined with this new appreciation for her physically, was giving him the hard-on from hell. He searched his brain to think of something to break the thread of irresistible attraction.

“It just occurred to me, Celine. When you were all upset about being cut off from your family, you never once mentioned Derrick being able to contact you.”

“Derrick? Oh, right. Derrick.”

In that moment, as pink stained her cheeks, he knew. There was no fiancé.

And like a virtual video in his head, he saw a huge window of opportunity open. The question was: Did he care?

Hell, yes!

Would it be a dumb move?

Hell, yes!

Would he dare to jump through?

Hmmm!

It was only eight P.M. Another hour of daylight before they would be forced to their beds by the hordes of mosquitoes practically salivating at the prospect of virgin skin.

Virgin?
Hah, skin was the only thing virgin around here. John for sure had been around the block a time or two or hundred. She, on the other hand, was hardly promiscuous or even very experienced, but she could not claim to be lily white. So why was sex between two consenting adults, meaning her and John, so wrong?

Well, duh! How about how different we are? How about us being in conflicting professions? How about him practically kidnapping me? How about him being my son’s father . . . and not knowing it?

John had erected his small tent with mosquito netting over to the side of the equipment tent where they had been working ever since dinner and where a sleeping bag had been laid down for her, covered with netting, of course. Now he was fiddling with a tape player and a mixture of songs. Patti LaBelle started to belt out “Lady Marmalade.” Definitely Charmaine’s kind of song.

Well, John’s, too, if the swing of his hips was any indication. And, oh, my, he was swinging his hips her way.

She backed up a few steps. “What are you doing?”

“Checkin’ out your window,
chère.
” Meantime, he was dancing closer, and she was backing up more. Pretty soon she would be landing in the mud pudding again, but, no, she did a backward left turn.

He laughed and snapped his fingers in tandem with the beat of his hips and the music. “I love to dance. Do you like to dance, Celine?”

There was no right or wrong answer to that question. If she said yes, she would be bee-bopping with the Bayou Lord of the Dance. If she said no, he would be offering to teach her to dance. But maybe it was one of those loaded question thingees, where he was saying “dancing” but really meant something else.
Oh, Lord, why am I double thinking everything?

“I like to dance, but I’m no expert, like you.”

“There’s no such thing as an expert when two people dance together. C’mon.” He held both hands out to her, beckoning.

Taking her hesitation for assent, he swooped in, lifting her up and swinging her around in his arms, spinning like a top. When he set her on her feet, a little bit dizzy, he started to dance around her, urging, “C’mon, Celine, show me your moves.”

He probably expected her to protest that she didn’t have moves, but she did. Oh, nothing like his, but moves nonetheless, and she was tired of being thought of as a sexless geek.

And so, she shimmied up his front. She undulated against his back. She rolled her shoulders, swung her hips, and shook her bootie. He matched every one of her moves and showed her some new ones. All to the drumming beat of “Lady Marmalade,” then James Brown’s “I Feel Good,” Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock ’n Roll.” That Charmaine sure had an eclectic taste in music.

They were laughing so hard they fell against each other by the time the music went slower. Now it was BeauSoleil’s Cajun ballad, “La Fleche D’amour.” They stilled abruptly, as if zapped with a Taser, when her breasts hit his chest. Without pulling apart . . . his hands were on her waist, hers were on his shoulders . . . they stared at each other, the air thick with a tension that was clearly sexual. With an unspoken question in the air, he finally made a decision for both of them by hauling her into his embrace. The slow dancing they engaged in then was foreplay as sensual as an intimate touch.

Again they danced from one song to another, but with each progressive song, their embrace got closer, their dance moves slower. Still BeauSoleil, but now “Les Blues de Chaleur,” or “Hot Blues,” and that classic “C’est un Peche de Dire un Menterie,” better known as “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.”

At what point they had stopped dancing, she had no idea. All she knew was that John’s eyes were closed, the beautiful black lashes fanned out on his tanned cheeks, and his mouth was moving toward hers. She couldn’t turn away, being still in his tight embrace, but she didn’t want to.

All of her senses were heightened. She smelled his minty breath; he’d been chewing gum earlier. She heard his breathing, even though it wasn’t heavy. She felt his body pressed against hers; they were thigh to thigh, belly to belly, breasts to chest, despite his being four or five inches taller. Well, no wonder! His hands had somehow managed to be cupping her buttocks, lifting her up onto her toes. And now she was going to taste him.

“Celine,” he whispered against her lips. “Open for me, darlin’.”

At least he knew who he was kissing. But she wasn’t about to be a submissive here. “You, too. Open for me, darlin’.”

He smiled against her lips, then nipped her bottom lip for mimicking him. It was a lazy kiss that followed, a long leisurely exploration that went on forever. The kiss was gentle, but wet. Very wet. The boy could kiss, she’d give him that. In fact, if she wasn’t careful, he would make her come, just with a kiss. On a groan, she pulled away, staring at him with dismay. To her embarrassment, she was panting.

And he appeared totally unruffled. Well, no, that wasn’t true. His eyes were half-hooded with arousal, his lips parted and moist, his breath hot, and yep there was something long and hard making its presence known down yonder.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, hauling her back into another kiss.

She was too weak and confused to protest.

This time, he let her have the full arsenal of his renowned expertise. His lips demanded, his tongue plunged, his teeth nipped. Without words, he coaxed her to mirror his actions. They soon had an incredible rhythm going with their tongues, hers going into his mouth, and his following its retreat into her mouth with his own tongue, over and over in a smooth, unbroken exercise in the most delicious torment. If he hadn’t been holding her up, her legs probably would have given out by now.

But suddenly he jerked back and started slapping the back of his neck and bare arms. Belatedly, she realized that dusk had fallen, and they were being eaten alive by giant kamikaze mosquitoes.

“C’mon, honey, let’s get out of here.” John grabbed her hand, dragging her toward his tent. He shoved her in, then ran back to the equipment tent, picking up a few items, then zipping them in when he returned. “I brought some calamine lotion,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”

Whaaat?
she squealed mentally.

Her surprise must have shown on her face because John rose from where he’d just turned on a small battery-operated lantern to cast a soft glow, and said in a gravelly voice, “Or do you want me to take them off?” The tent was so small his head brushed the top of the canvas. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped closer and walked his fingers from her shoulders to her knuckles, turned her hands over, and kissed both palms and wrists. An extremely erotic thing for him to do!