“You are impossible,” she said. “Since when are kisses an act of chivalry?.”
“New rules,” he declared, and turned away from her to go back into the water and help his brother unload.
“Well, those rules had better not include anything else,” she called to his back.
At first, she didn’t think he’d heard her, but then she heard him remark to Remy, “Some women don’t know when to pull up the drawbridge.”
“Yeah,” Remy agreed, hefting a huge duffle-style bag over his shoulder, “a lot of moats are in danger when we Knights of the Bayou start updating the rules.” Remy and Luc both glanced at her on the shore, where she stood with one hand braced on a hip, and then they both winked at her.
They were right. A lot of “moats” were in danger when these two rogues were in the vicinity. And the funny thing was, the more she was around Remy, the less she noticed his disfigured face. Even more funny, and alarming, was the fact that the more she was around Luc, the less she noticed his boorishness. Dangerous business, that. Surely, a clear and present danger to…well, moats.
Sylvie turned to take in her new surroundings. A raised Cajun-style cabin of ancient vintage stood about twenty feet back from the water’s edge. It had been built on stilts to withstand the many floods that assaulted it over the years. That meant the main living quarters were on the second floor, and a roofed veranda and storage rooms were on ground level.
Despite its age and weathered, unpainted logs, it was a lovely, well-kept structure. Wide steps led up the center to a porch where a swing and two sturdy, hand-built rocking chairs could be seen. The windows were shuttered, but there were two large ones in front and another smaller one above where a loft must be located, indicating that the interior would be light and airy. A wide hammock was strung between two tupelo-gum trees on one side of the dwelling…a homey indication that this was not just a fishing camp but a place of rest and relaxation for its owner.
Most surprising was the pink and white explosion of wild roses that climbed riotously up the house supports and practically covered two sides of the house. Sylvie had to smile at that whimsical touch—probably added a century ago by one of Luc’s feminine ancestors. Then she smiled even wider when she noted another feminine touch…this one more recent. Between a gas-powered generator and a huge cistern on the far side of the house was positioned a five-foot-tall plastic statue of St. Jude. Even in this remote hideaway, Tante Lulu wasn’t taking any chances.
On the flight here, Luc had informed her that almost no one knew about this secret hideaway, which had been passed down through five generations of his mother’s family. It had originally been built by Rivard trappers from another time, before the Civil War era. At one point it had even been a safe house for slaves escaping to the North. Sadly, it had been abandoned for more than five decades before Luc took possession of it ten years ago. He doubted his father remembered its existence.
With a sigh of exhaustion, Sylvie grabbed one of the canvas sacks and began to lug it up the steps to the cabin, being careful not to drop her cardboard mouse house. All she needed was two horny rats on the loose in the bayou. She’d never be able to recapture Samson and Delilah.
“The key is above the doorjamb,” Luc yelled, then hastily added, “Check for snakes before you stick your hands anywhere inside the cabin.”
Sylvie shivered with distaste as she opened the front door, but then snakes were a fact of life in South Louisiana. She didn’t like the slimy things, but she didn’t fear them either. A quick examination showed she was safe…for now.
She set the Happy Meal box down, dropped the bag, and proceeded to open all the windows and shutters to air out the musty interior. She gasped with surprise when she got her first good look at the large room. It was a rustic cabin…ancient in age…but it was lovely.
There were straw mats on the wide-planked floors, but precious handwoven Cajun carpets of brilliant blues and pure whites were rolled up in tobacco leaves to preserve them from mildew and moths. On the wooden walls, mosquito netting protected glass-framed prints and primitive tapestries from flyspecks.
The cabin contained only one room, but it was large…at least thirty by thirty. A cozy living room with comfortable, albeit well-worn, chairs and ottomans, along with reading lamps, dominated one side. Opposite was an alcove with a built-in bed. In the back was a kitchen with vintage, but probably useable, appliances and a big cypress kitchen table and chairs. Upstairs was a sleeping loft, which had probably been used by the children of the family at one time when the cabin had been an actual residence.
A sudden humming noise jarred Sylvie from her musings, and she realized that the open refrigerator had suddenly turned on. The overhead fan began to whir, also. Luc must have started the outside generator.
“So what do you think, babe?” Luc asked. He and Remy had just come in, each carrying three of the canvas bags. “It’s not what you’re used to back at your mother’s plantation, but it should suit you for slumming a day or two.”
There he went again, bringing up the differences in their backgrounds…as if it mattered a hill of beans to her. She raised her chin defiantly and said, “This cabin is lovely. And the location is special. I can see why you cherish the place so.”
“Cherish? Who said anything about cherish? It’s just an old fishing cabin,” Luc answered defensively. He wasn’t fooling her, he loved the cabin, but for some reason he wanted to keep the fact hidden from her. He had acted the same way regarding his apartment back in Houma.
“Yeah, he cherishes the place, all right,” Remy offered, plunking a heavy bag of what must be canned goods on the kitchen counter. Then he winked at Sylvie as if they shared some secret about Luc.
Luc and Remy made another trip for more bags.
“I brought a cell phone for you, Luc,” Remy was telling his brother. “Don’t use it unless there’s an emergency. My phone will probably be tapped, as well as those of everyone else you know. But I’ll call you from a safe phone as soon as I get news.”
Luc nodded.
“What’s with all this stuff?” Sylvie asked then. There were about a dozen bags of various sizes around the room.
“Tante Lulu wanted to make sure you two were comfortable here,” Remy explained ruefully. “I think she may have overdone it a bit.”
Luc made a snorting sound of disgust, especially when he untied one of the bags and pulled out an exquisite comforter made of soft quilted patches of colorful cloth, immediately followed by embroidered sheets and a homespun tablecloth. “Hell! What does she think we’re doing here, setting up housekeeping?” He immediately realized the truth of his statement, glanced sheepishly at Remy and Sylvie, and then blushed.
Sylvie loved him for that blush.
No, no, no she didn’t really love him. She just loved the fact that the rogue could blush. It wasn’t love-love.
Oh, God! I am falling apart here. She put a hand to her forehead and moaned.
“Sylv, you’re dead on your feet,” Luc observed. “Help me make up the bed with those fresh linens and you can lie down. I’ll put the supplies away.”
She would have liked to argue, but it was the truth. She was suddenly so exhausted she could barely stand on her feet. The events of the past several days were catching up with her finally, and she feared she might not even be able to make it as far as the alcove.
Thunder ripped through the sky, followed almost immediately by a wild torrent of rain. It would undoubtedly be one of those quick summer storms well known in Southern Louisiana, come and gone in the blink of an eye. If Sylvie wasn’t tired before, she was now, with the sound of rain pounding on the rooftop in a metronome rhythm conducive to sleep.
Luc showed her to a small bathroom, where she washed her face and hands and arms, brushed her teeth, and donned an old T-shirt and jogging shorts of his. A short time later, she was tucked in between crisp sheets and was drifting off to sleep.
Before she fell asleep, though, she heard Remy advise
Luc, “You’re in over your head, brother.”
“With Dad and his oil cohorts?”
“No, with Sylvie. This one could break your heart, Luc.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Luc said in a low voice she could hardly hear, “Yeah.”
What Sylvie would have liked to say, if she weren’t so sleepy, was that maybe hers was going to be the heart broken. Or worse yet, maybe they would break each other’s hearts.
Love potions weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
Chapter Eleven
Five hours had passed, and Sylvie was still fast asleep.
The rain had stopped hours ago, and steam escaped from the ground in moist billows under the sun’s unrelenting rays. The scent of the roses that climbed over the outside of the house was almost overpowering since their recent dousing.
Luc had put all the supplies away, including a pigload of stuff Tante Lulu had sent along from his hope chest. Not just the bed linens, comforter, and tablecloth, but monogrammed towels, a sofa throw rug, pot holders, a macrame toaster cover, and a St. Jude toilet-paper dispenser.
To his surprise—he never would have thought of it himself—Tante Lulu had bought a small critter carrier made of clear plastic with a spinning treadmill, sawdust, and mice food for Samson and Delilah. They were humping away right now in their new home in a dark corner by the fireplace.
Even worse, Tante Lulu had enclosed a brand-new package of boxer shorts—white with red hearts, for God’s sake. Talk about obvious! And a flame-red Frederick’s-of-Hollywood-style nightie, which she had probably purchased in Wal-Mart. It was called “The Naughty Nightie.” Gawd!
What could his aunt possibly be thinking?
He was afraid he knew.
Remy had seen those items before he’d left, and had had to practically drag his open jaw off the floor. Luc had heard him laughing all the way outside to his plane, and then until take off. He was probably still laughing when he landed on the ranch near Natchitoches.
His aunt had also sent enough grocery supplies to feed a small army. He was standing next to the alcove bed now, trying to decide whether to awaken Sylvie for lunch, or just to let her sleep.
“Sylvie,” he said softly.
She had been sleeping on her stomach, her arms wrapped around the pillow, like a lover. At the sound of his voice, she rolled over onto her back, threw her arms over her head, made a sexy snuffling sound, and continued to sleep.
Luc would have liked to think that the internal lurch he felt then was in his groin area and due to the love potion, which seemed to affect him in waves, like a time-release pill. He ran a fleeting hand over himself, and sure enough the evidence was there—half-hard and ready for the wake-up call. But, no, it wasn’t that region of his anatomy that he was worried about. He suspected that it was his heart at risk here, and not just from a stupid jelly bean. There was some serious emotional stuff going on inside him. But he refused to think about that now.
He shifted from foot to foot, contemplating whether to make another effort to wake Sylvie with a louder voice, or whether to slide into the bed with her and rouse her another way. Rouse being the key word. No, no, no, he wasn’t really considering the latter.
Sylvie was wearing an old gray Tulane T-shirt of his, and it had become twisted around her upper body, molding to her breasts and abdomen. The cotton sheet, likewise, was tangled around her hips and legs.
Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and upper lip. She must be roasting in this noontime high humidity, but obviously exhaustion took precedence over discomfort for her today, at least subconsciously. He should let her sleep till she was completely rested.
Still, Luc lingered. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at Sylvie as she slept. Her black hair provided a sharp and appealing contrast to the clear creaminess of her complexion, especially with the slumberous blush that gave a hint of color to her cheeks. Her lashes were full and thick, black as coal, like his own. Her nose was straight, with a slight upturn in the middle. He denied himself the pleasure of looking at her lips, which he knew from memory were full and naturally rose-colored…and kissable. Oh, yes, very kissable. He still couldn’t believe how responsive she’d been when they’d almost made love last night. Responsive, hell! She’d been hot. Best not to think about that. Instead, he moved his gaze to her chin, which was strong and stubborn, like Sylvie.
In truth, Sylvie’s appearance was pleasing enough, but she wasn’t beautiful. Not really. So why was he so attracted to her?
Because she’s Sylvie.
With that disconcerting admission, Luc eased himself down to sit on the edge of the bed. He knew exactly when this “thing” for Sylvie had begun. They’d been elementary school students together at Our Lady of the Bayou School, and Luc had been suffering horribly from feelings of self-loathing, prompted and perpetuated by his father’s constant criticism.
Sylvie had always seemed out of his reach, even then, and perhaps he’d felt that, if he could gain the affection of a girl like Sylvie, then maybe he wasn’t as worthless as everyone told him he was. Truth be told, he’d done things he was ashamed of since then…a sort of living down to people’s expectations. And of course, there was that one reprehensible act ten years ago…no, he wouldn’t dwell on that now. But one thing had to be admitted…in many ways, he was unworthy of a good woman.
Of course, Sylvie had never reciprocated his clumsy attempts at friendship. He knew now that she must have been chronically shy, and that his attentions had probably aggravated her fears, but back then all he’d wanted was a kind word from the girl on whom he’d had a crush. Of course, later he’d wanted other things—things that would shock a shy girl like Sylvie—but from the beginning Sylvie had been to his childish mind all that he was not…good and respectable and loved.
Was he falling in love with Sylvie? Or had he always been a little bit in love with the girl?
And if so, was it the fault of the love potion? Or some chemistry that had been between them for ages, just waiting to react?
God! My brain has entered an altered state. How could I even think such unthinkable things?
Enough of this stuff! He and Sylvie had no future. Once the love potion wore off, along with his perpetual hard-on, his life would be back to normal. He didn’t want or need this kind of aggravation.
Maybe he should go out and catch some fish to keep his mind off the…aggravation. Just then, Sylvie moaned in her sleep. Her lips parted, her back arched, and her legs spread slightly. Man, oh, man, that must be some dream!
He stood carefully, not wanting to awaken her in the midst of…well, whatever she was doing. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her. Well, not quite the last thing. He began to tiptoe toward the front door.
Just then, though, Sylvie did an unforgivable thing. She moaned again, ever so softly, and through her lips came one whisper of a word. “Luc.”
Luc stopped dead in his tracks.
And smiled.
Sonofagun! Sylvie Fontaine…dreaming about the bad boy of the bayou. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder what I’m doing. Sonofagun! How did that old Hank Williams song “Jambalaya” go? “Sonofagun, we gonna have good fun, down on the bayou…”
Good fun?
Yep!
It was one thing to play the noble Cajun Knight when the woman was unwilling to be seduced or vulnerable. But Sylvie was dreaming about him! Hot damn! She’d told him back at Swampy’s that she wanted him, but he’d figured it was the oyster shooters talking. But maybe it was just the booze making her reveal her secret longings. Secret longings? God, he liked the sound of that.
First, she gave him a love potion. Second, she fueled the fire by telling him she wanted him. Third, she dreamed about him.
All bets were off now.
Sylvie awakened about one P.M., totally refreshed after her long sleep and ready to take back control of her unraveling life. She inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of fresh air after the recent rai
n and the fragrant scent of roses…lots of roses.
First, she checked on Samson and Delilah, who had adjusted surprisingly well to their new home. A pot of canned chicken noodle soup had been left warming on the stove…presumably for her. She ate it, standing up, from the pot, with some crackers, discovering she was ravenous. Quick work was also made of two homemade beignets…presumably from Tante Lulu’s kitchen. Her stomach satisfied for the moment, Sylvie sipped at a cup of black coffee, which might have tasted fine when Luc brewed it many hours ago, but was now bitter and lukewarm. Still, she felt revived, and ready to take on the world. Or at least Luc.
Strolling around the large room, she noted a framed photograph here and there…one of the three brothers as teenagers, their arms looped over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera in a rascally fashion. This was before Remy’s accident, and he was almost painfully beautiful to look at. But then, René and Luc were pretty darn gorgeous, too.
Another photograph prompted a giggle from Sylvie. It showed Tante Lulu standing next to a pre-adolescent Luc, coming up only to his chest even then. Based on his cute little three-piece suit, prayer-folded hands, and the rosary around his neck, Sylvie assumed it was a First Communion picture. Hard to imagine Luc ever being so angelic.
Last, there was a picture in an antique frame of a beautiful Cajun woman, about twenty, standing on the prow of a shrimp boat, Sweet Adèle, staring off into the watery distance. Sylvie assumed it was Luc’s mother, shortly before her death.
One thing she noticed as she walked around the room was that there wasn’t a speck of dust or clutter. Even the dishes that Luc must have used for his own breakfast and lunch had been washed and put away. No sign either of all the canvas sacks he and Remy had brought in. The straw matting had been rolled up, the wood floors swept, and the Cajun carpets laid around the room. Even the windows looked as if they might have been washed. A bouquet of fresh-picked pink and white roses held center place on the big cypress kitchen table. Luc had certainly been a busy bee while she’d been sleeping half the day away. What did all this say about the kind of man he was? Had he always been a neat freak? Or had it been pounded into him?