“He’s bringing a visitor.”
A door-to-door salesman is a visitor. The Three Wise Men were visitors. We do not get visitors at the ranch. “Would you just spill it, Charmaine? What is all this mystery about? Who’s coming?”
“Tante Lulu.”
He put his face in his hands and groaned.
“And—”
There was a long, telling silence till he raised his head and asked, “And . . . ?”
“And I think Remy might be bringing his new wife, Rachel, with him. She’s a Feng Shui decorator.”
“And that is relevant to me how?”
“She’ll probably have some ideas for Feng Shui-ing the ranch. She did a great job on my spa in Houma.”
Her wacky aunt and a wacky decorator! I think I’ll go slit my wrists now. “Aaarrgh! You call your aunt right now and tell her not to come. I don’t want a helicopter here. I don’t want your interfering aunt here. And I sure-as-hell don’t want a Feng Shui nutcase here either.”
“Tante Lulu hung up on me, and she hasn’t answered her phone since then. Don’t worry. They probably won’t come till tomorrow or the next day.”
Raoul stood and started to stomp off toward the front of the house.
“Rusty? Where you going?”
To the nearest cliff. Where I hope to jump off. “To find that St. Jude statue.”
“Why?”
“To pray. If ever there was a hopeless cause, it’s me.” And I’m getting hopelesser by the minute.
“Pray for me, too,” Charmaine called out, which he thought really odd. “I’m gonna need it.”
He wasn’t about to ask why. He was no moron.
Chapter 6
It was hot and wet and slippery . . .
Rusty was washing dishes and Charmaine was drying, at his insistence. Who knew dishwashing could be an erotic experience?
Every time Rusty dipped his hands in the sudsy water and ran a soapy sponge over a plate, Charmaine couldn’t help but admire his long fingers and the gentle way he handled the slippery plates. She remembered a time when Rusty’s fingers had been just as wet and sudsy and gentle, working their magic on her, in a bubble bath back in their tiny apartment. At the sweet memory, her nipples went hard and a soft pulse began between her legs, like a heartbeat.
Sometimes being a twenty-nine-year-old virgin is damned hard. Especially a twenty-nine-year-old virgin with a carnal memory. I better get out my born-again virgin vow and repeat it again . . . and again . . . and again. I will be pure. I will be pure. I will be pure. Charmaine smiled to herself at her impure thoughts.
“Charmaine! What are you dreaming about?” Rusty was staring at her, half-shocked, half-amused. Actually, he was staring at the front of her blouse, where her arousal must have been evident.
“Nothing,” she said, averting her face from his too-knowing eyes. Nothing that I want you to know. You’d pounce on me like a Cajun on a mudbug. “Tell me more about Jimmy and why he behaved so badly tonight.” Safe subject. Whew!
“He’s a troubled kid. He wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Rusty said, wiping his hands on a dish towel and leaning back against the sink. “At the least, he’s got ADD, an inability to concentrate very well without medication, and at worst, he’s emotionally disturbed.”
Charmaine nodded. “I understand, somewhat, but that doesn’t explain his outburst.”
“Frustration, pure and simple. I’m no psychiatrist, but my guess is he has difficulty succeeding in school. Not that he’s dumb or anything, far from it. Just that he learns differently, and some schools just aren’t equipped to handle special needs kids. Written tests, for example, are a major problem for him. Add to that, his mother dying.”
“So you offered to help?”
“Clarence asked for my advice, and we agreed to give it a shot.”
“Wasn’t that a lot to take on, with all that you have on your plate right now?”
He shrugged. “The boy is the least of my problems. It was worth a shot. If it doesn’t work out, he’s out of here. His father’s responsibility.”
“I’m surprised his dad hasn’t visited.”
“He will, eventually. Probably this weekend. It was agreed, by everyone, that he had to step out of the picture for a while.”
“He seemed like such a good kid the first time I met him.”
“He is a good kid. Just a little mixed up. Give him a chance.”
“Oh, I will. In fact, I have some ideas how I might help him redirect some of his anger.”
Rusty turned around and began scrubbing the pots and pans with a steel wool pad. “So, why does a born-again virgin need birth control pills?” he asked all of a sudden.
“I beg your pardon.” She glowered at him. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Hard not to notice when your stuff is spread all over the place. I was looking for aspirin.”
“Likely story. I take birth control pills just in case.”
“Just in case?” He smiled and her heart flipped over. God must have been playing a joke on womankind when He gave Rusty a smile like that. “Just in case what?”
“I get tempted.” And that is the God’s honest truth.
“By me?” He smiled even wider.
The too-perceptive lout! “No. By some drop-dead- gorgeous hunk who drops by one day to deliver fertilizer, or a door-to-door salesman with a pitch to die for, or the butcher at the supermarket whose meat turns out to be extra tempting.” Or a Cajun cowboy with a grin and wink that would melt the most fervent vows.
“You’re afraid of being tempted by me,” he insisted.
Bingo! “Am not.”
He looked pointedly at her nipples, which were pointing.
Sometimes women are just as bad as men when it comes to body parts giving them away. “Stop that. Stop it right now.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to Rusty or her nipples. Neither of them paid any attention to her orders.
“Stop what?”
Like you don’t know! “Smoldering.”
His head jerked up with surprise. “Was I smoldering?”
Like the coals in a pig roast pit.
“Clarence says I should smolder more,” he said.
Uh, I don’t think so.
“I didn’t even know I could smolder. Who knew?” He appeared really pleased with himself, that he could smolder.
“Clarence? Don’t tell me. He’s giving you more romance advice.” I could use a little romance advice. Like, how to withstand a smoldering cowboy.
“Yep. Bowlegging you and smoldering you. Surefire winners in his seduction book.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She laughed and shook her head from side to side. “We are a sad pair, us two. The Lady on the Lam and The Smoldering Cowboy.”
“Yep,” he said again, still idly scrubbing away at the pots and pans and the baking dish.
“Rusty, we have got to clear the air about something.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You really, really tempt me, but—”
“—but we are not going to make love,” he finished for her with an exaggerated sigh.
“Exactly.” Unfortunately.
“I tempt you?” he asked, homing in on the least relevant thing she’d said. Well, it was relevant, but only to the no-sex conclusion.
“Tsk-tsk!” She figured that was answer enough.
“Why? I mean, why the no-sex rule?”
Setting her dish towel down, she gave him her full attention. “I know you think my born-again virgin vow is a hoot, just a lot of nonsense. It is funny, considering my history, I admit that, but it’s significant to me.”
“Hell, it’s significant to me, too.” He winked at her.
“Listen, I’m serious here. I’m not good at relationships. Whether they were valid or not, I’ve been married four times, and all four of them failed for one reason or another. And I’ve been involved with a few other men, and those didn’t last either.”
“A few?”
“
A few.”
“Charmaine, you and I have the hots for each other. We always did, probably always will. Why do you have to analyze things to death? You’ll be here a few weeks. What’s wrong with enjoying each other while you’re here?”
“And then?” Her blood suddenly turned cold.
“We get a divorce.” At least he had the grace to blush when he said that.
I feel like crying. I really do. She couldn’t get mad at him, though. Other than sex, after ten long years, they had no basis for a marriage. “See, that’s where we’re different. You want a fling. I want forever.”
That got his attention. “From me? You want forever? From me?” His voice was shrill with shock.
You would have thought she’d asked him to cut off his balls and wrap them in a gift box. “No. I mean, not necessarily. Probably not. Aaarrgh! Stop confusing me.”
He grinned, as if confusing her were a good thing . . . or as if confusion was her normal state.
“Bottom line. Next man I get involved with, it won’t be a fling.”
“In other words, back off?”
She nodded. “I know why I don’t want to get involved with you again, Rusty, but what’s your problem? You moved beyond bimbos?” God! How much more pathetic can I get?
“Charmaine, what is it with you and the bimbo crap? You go for the image, rub it in people’s faces, then get offended if they take you for what you are.”
Look beyond the facade, Dumbo. Care enough to know me. That’s what I want. “I am what I am,” she said stubbornly, though that didn’t really answer his question.
“Yeah, well, I am what I am, too.” Rusty could be stubborn, too. “Truth to tell, honey, there’s a lot of my father in me. Once my mother did a job on my father, he shut himself off emotionally. To everyone, including me. He never wanted to risk himself again. He became a bitter shell of a man. I have no desire to get married again. Once burned and all that stuff.”
“Your father was as misunderstood as I am.”
“I haven’t a clue what that means.” He shrugged. “So, I’m a bitter young man.”
It was a sad picture Rusty painted of himself.
“And that’s all you want?”
Rusty stood with his hands in the water for several long moments before he turned to her and suddenly placed his wet hands over her breasts. “Nope, that’s not all I want.”
Did the man hear one single word I just said? She blinked with shock at the wet hands cupping her breasts.
Before she had a chance to shriek, or bop him on the head with the soup ladle sitting in the draining rack, he moved his hands and fingers over her breasts so that the fabric of her blouse stuck wetly to her. Only then did he step back and look at her.
“Wha . . . why did you do that?”
“Oh, darlin’, I’ve wanted to do that since I stepped into this kitchen tonight and saw you in that see-through shirt. I figured with the no-sex line you just drew in the sand—uh, linoleum—this would be my last chance.”
He is incorrigible. “It’s not a see-through shirt,” she said indignantly, then looked down to see herself clearly outlined as if the white blouse and nude-colored bra were nonexistent. “At least it wasn’t see-through before.”
“If you’re going to slap me, you better do it quick before I kiss you.”
Kiss? Oh, no! If he kisses me, I am a goner. “This is a bad idea,” she said, even as she allowed him to back her up against the wall.
“It’s the best damn bad idea I’ve had in ages.” He nuzzled her neck and nibbled a line from her ear to her chin, then back again. “Uhmmm,” he whispered into her ear as he licked and blew and about shattered every resolution she’d ever made not to get involved with him—or any man—again. Four broken marriages and a dozen failed relationships over the past ten years had finally sunk in, or so she’d thought until now.
“Remind me again why you’re doing this.” She moaned even as she spoke, so intense was the pleasure of his mouth brushing across hers.
“Because you heat my blood and melt my bones. Because you turn me breathless. Because you tempt me.”
Sounds good to me. He lifted her by the waist so she stood on tiptoes. Then he used his knees to spread her legs and nest himself against her groin. His erection fit perfectly between her legs. Even with her slacks and his jeans, she felt him. And she wanted him.
He closed his eyes and groaned, a deep, masculine sound, accentuated by the arch of his neck and the press of his belly against her belly. His thick eyelashes lay like jet-black fans on his tanned skin. What an odd thing to notice when her blood felt like molten roux moving through her body!
Opening his eyes slowly, he gazed at her. His dark eyes were hazed with arousal. “Come to bed with me, sweetheart,” his voice rasped out, thick and raw.
Does he have to talk? Did he have to ask for my permission? Couldn’t he just carry me off like some Cajun caveman, and then later I could say I hadn’t actually consented?
“Please.”
Oh, God! He had to throw in the please card. She moaned and hesitated just long enough for Rusty to realize that she wasn’t falling into his bed. Not that easy.
He stepped back an inch or two and let her lower herself from tiptoes to stand on the floor. Her knees were shaky, but she managed to stand upright.
“I’m sorry, Rusty. It’s just that I can’t do this again. Not without—”
He put a hand up, halting her words. “I get it, Charmaine. I get it.” Turning away from her, he adjusted his pants and walked toward the door that led to the back porch. When he got there, he breathed deeply several times, then said, “You might consider going back with Remy and your aunt when they come here. Luc will find another safe place for you.”
Tears were running down her face. Not for herself, but for Rusty. Somehow, she had hurt him, and she didn’t know how to fix the pain. With a catch in her voice, she asked, “Why?”
“Because if you stay here, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you, born-again cupcake or not.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“That’s not a threat, darlin’. That’s a promise.” With those ominous words, he moved out into the darkness beyond the porch.
Hot stuff . . . and then some!
It was Saturday night, and Raoul was more than ready to paint the town . . . or a small portion of Lake Charles.
He heard Amelie’s horn just as he came out of his bedroom and she pulled into the front yard. He gave only a cursory glance at Charmaine’s closed door. Let her sulk. She’d been avoiding him for two days, ever since he’d advised her to leave the ranch when Remy and her aunt arrived, which should be tomorrow. He didn’t know if her silence meant she was going to leave or if she was digging in her heels. She’d been warned.
And he didn’t want to examine too closely the near panic that overcame him every time he contemplated her actually leaving. He also wasn’t examining too closely their explosive almost-sex encounter in the kitchen two nights ago. Whoo-ee! The two of them were like flint on dry tinder. They had to put distance between them, painful as it would be . . . at least, for him.
When he went out on the porch and down to the yard, Amelie waved and got out of her red Volkswagen van with ANCELET VETERINARY CLINIC printed on the side. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and hugged him warmly.
“You’re lookin’ good, buddy. No more prison pallor.”
“You’re lookin’ pretty good yourself, darlin’.”
Amelie was a fine-looking woman, short and small-boned, with dark Cajun hair. They’d met in vet school. She’d stuck by him at his trial and the whole time he was in the slammer, with frequent visits. He owed her a lot. But it was true what he’d told Charmaine. Amelie was a good friend. That was all.
Amelie waved at Linc and Clarence, who were sitting on rockers on the front porch, all spiffied up in clean jeans with ironed pleats, thanks to Charmaine, cowboy shirts with snaps instead of buttons, and string ties. He wore jeans, also sporting
the freakin’ pleats, a light blue T-shirt and a navy blue blazer. That was as dressed up as he got these days.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” he asked, draping an arm over Amelie’s shoulder.
It was Linc who answered. “Goin’ to The Horny Bull fer a little beer and dinner. Mebbe some dancin’, if I can find a gal who’s willin’. Jimmy’s father picked him up fer an overnight visit, so we’re just a couple of wild and crazy guys tonight.”
“So what are you two waiting for?”
Linc looked at Clarence. Clarence looked at Linc. Then the two of them looked at him guiltily. “Waitin’ fer Charmaine,” Clarence finally disclosed.
“What?” Raoul practically yelled. “Charmaine is supposed to stay in hiding, to be inconspicuous. What could she be thinking? The Horny Bull? I . . . don’t . . . think . . . so.”
“Are you talking about me?” Charmaine asked sweetly, coming out onto the porch. “You must be the famous Am-el-ie.” She gave a little wave to Amelie. Then her eyes latched on to his arm on Amelie’s shoulder, and he could swear she growled. “Good friends, indeed!” she muttered under her breath.
Four jaws had dropped open at the sight that Charmaine presented. She wore skintight, white jeans and red high-heeled cowboy boots, which matched perfectly her red lipstick and red fingernails. From her ears dangled a god-awful bunch of shiny things that looked like fishing lures. Her dark hair was poufed up and out and over her shoulders in a mass of curls designed to look as if she’d just fallen out of bed, but had probably taken an hour to perfect. On top . . . oh, my God . . . on top, she wore a stretchy white, long-sleeved shirt, tucked into her jeans. It was covered with red and gold sequins that would no doubt glow in the dark and sported the logo I AM A TEASER.
In essence, Charmaine represented every man’s fantasy of a sex kitten. A wet dream in the flesh.
And Charmaine did it on purpose. She had deliberately made herself into a bimbo. It pretty much said, “In your face, bozo.” In the face of everyone, for that matter. Like it or leave it, was the message she proclaimed with this attire, like a blinkin’ red light.
“Uh . . . nice outfit,” Amelie said, which was laughable coming from her since she wore a very demure jeans skirt down to midcalf and a long-sleeved plaid shirt. Makeup on her was at a minimum. Belatedly noticing the little smirk on her face, Raoul decided that she’d meant her comment to belittle, not compliment. How unlike Amelie!