Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] Read online

  “Are you kidding? Red silk. No bra. Wide-legged tap pants. Probably no panties. Sex heaven, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes went wide.

  John had been around the block too many times not to recognize that Celine was turned on by his words. He faced her now, so close he could smell the mint of her toothpaste. “Wanna make out?”

  “No.”

  “Liar. I’ve learned stuff since we were together that one time.”

  “I would hope so.”

  “Hey, I was drinkin’.”

  “Give it up, John. You and I are not going to happen.”

  He trailed the back of his fingers down one bare arm, shoulder to wrist.

  Goose bumps rose on her skin, and her nipples peaked under her shirt, giving lie to her words.

  Oooh, boy! John was on a slippery slope here. Still time to jump off, but maybe he could slide a little bit longer. It could be a hell of a ride. No, no, no. Celine was not the type a guy fooled around with, then jumped off the happy train. Sucking in a deep breath, he encouraged, “Tell me about your son.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s beautiful and fun and I love him to pieces.”

  “Is the guy in Afghanistan his father?”

  “No.”

  “Does his father share custody? Ever see the kid?”

  “No!” There was horror in her voice.

  “The bastard! Ya want me to kick his ass, chère?”

  A chortle of amusement escaped her lips. “That would be interesting. But, no thanks. And, really, I would rather change the subject.”

  “Ya wanna make out?”

  Celine was tramping up the incline to the cabin a short time later.

  The good thing was that she was smiling.

  The bad thing was that she was tempted.

  I can float your boat, honey . . .

  By seven a.m., there was a chain of pirogues . . . well, four of them . . . headed upstream toward the project site. The flat-bottomed, dugout-style canoes were indispensable here in the often shallow waters of the bayou.

  Famosa and Caleb led the parade with Jake, Ronnie, and their kid in second place. Then came Brenda and Tante Lulu, and finally John and Celine.

  Although they’d already transported most of the equipment and supplies the day before, the pirogues were well-stocked again today. For example, Tante Lulu, declining efforts to get her to stay back at the cabin, insisted on bringing a small camp stove for what would no doubt be a gourmet lunch, Cajun style.

  Despite his words to Celine last night, John was still here, obviously, with no immediate plans to return to Houma with Remy this afternoon. He’d promised the Chief in a post-dawn phone call that he would stick to Celine like Krazy Glue, even when they were sleeping, the last of which had not amused his boss. When he’d informed she-of-the-red-hootchie-mama-nightwear, he’d made sure he was outside of slapping distance. In the end, she agreed, reluctantly, although she probably didn’t think he was serious about the sleeping arrangement. He was. Oh, yeah, he hot damn was. He had plans.

  For now, heat shimmered above the tannin-stained waters with the sun already beating down on them, but in a pleasant way. It was going to be in the eighties today, which was balmy for the bayous where temps often rose over a hundred. Plus, the radio weather station predicted low humidity; so, hopefully no rain, at least not while they were away from the cabin.

  “Do you spend much time in the bayous, chère?” He was speaking to Celine’s back as she was on the shelf seat in front of him, doing the right-hand rowing, while he handled the left rear. They made a good team . . . for canoeing anyway.

  “Not much anymore. My grandfather used to take me crabbing on the bayou outside Houma when I first moved in with him. But then, I turned sixteen and had other interests.”

  “Boys?”

  “No, tree stumps.”

  He grimaced. Her sarcasm had a bite to it. But then, he was getting his own back at her, in a more silent way. Every time she leaned forward to dip her paddle into the water, her butt lifted up slightly off the seat, straining the fabric of her shorts so that he got an up close and personal view of two perfect half moons. Even better, the whole rhythm thing . . . dip, stroke, lift, dip, stroke, lift, over and over, reminded him a little bit of another exercise. Okay, maybe his mind was working overtime, seeing as how he’d been celibate for a long time . . . one whole month.

  But then, he noticed something. Tapping her on the shoulder, he indicated that she should put down her oar and look to the left bank. He moved forward carefully so that he knelt behind her, banking the pirogue slightly in the muddy edge of the stream so it wouldn’t move. She turned in her seat; they were shoulder to shoulder.

  “Isn’t that amazing?” he whispered.

  A huge mama alligator, at least eight feet and ugly as sin, was ambling along the muddy bank with three of her young’uns riding her back. They were probably headed toward their nest, a raised platform of mud and sticks.

  “They are so cute,” Celine whispered back.

  “Oh, yeah, cute as a chain saw in a kindergarten. Even those babies have teeth that could chomp off a finger.”

  “I know, but they’re still cute.”

  “Speaking of cute, you’re lookin’ pretty cute yourself today,” he remarked, knowing full well that it would annoy her.

  She was wearing sunglasses, a pink baseball cap, probably one of those breast cancer awareness things, a pink short-sleeved T-shirt proclaiming “I’m a Saint,” in honor of the beloved New Orleans Saints football team, black thigh-length, spandex running shorts, along with hiking boots, a necessity when bee-bopping through the swamps, as they would be today. “Enough with the fake compliments! Do you see me making personal remarks about your appearance?”

  “You can if you want to.”

  She removed her sunglasses and gave him a full-body survey, then said succinctly, “Cute,” and not as a compliment.

  Okay, he would let that semi-insult ride. “Anyhow, that’s not what I wanted to show you. Look up there.” He removed his sunglasses, as well, and pointed to a half-submerged bald cypress limb rising out of the waters, the knobs of its roots rising up here and there like knees. On one of its limbs, faintly obscured by the hanging moss of a nearby live oak, sat two herons, their necks intertwined, like a braid. They stayed unmoving in that intimate position for a long time, then unwound themselves and just stared ahead. Soon, the male was wrapping himself around the unprotesting female again. “The male is trying to seduce the female into mating,” he told Celine.

  Instead of her making her usual sarcastic reply, she sighed. “They’re beautiful. Thank you for showing me.”

  He and Celine remained still, watching, she half-turned on the low seat, he on his knees. The bayou surrounded them, like a cocoon. The silence, the lush beauty, the rich scents of a hundred different flowers and plants, the warmth of the sun.

  John couldn’t help himself then. With the fingertips of his left hand, he coaxed her chin a little more so that she was facing him. Now would be the time for her to tell him to buzz off or for her to shove him overboard, but instead her eyelids were already drifting closed and her lips parting.

  Oh, man, this is so not a good idea.

  His kiss was gentle but open-mouthed, wanting to take all of her in, laving her lips to wetness with his tongue. Then, still gentle, he moved his mouth back and forth over hers in changing patterns, learning the shape of her lips. And, worst of all, or best of all, she allowed him to coax her into pliancy and began to kiss him back.

  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

  Just another day, down on the bayou . . .

  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.

  I
t 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?”