Tall, Dark, and Cajun

  “Hey, I have nuts,” he pointed out, chucking her playfully under the chin.

  “Don’t I know it!” She laughed again.

  They sat side by side, naked, on the massage table with Remy’s arm around her shoulders and Rachel tucked under his arm, her cheek resting on his oily chest.

  “What we need is a shower, babe. I assume this spa has a shower.”

  “I’m not getting into a shower with you. I know where that would lead.”

  “Where?” he inquired with mock innocence, the whole time ogling her breasts.

  “I’m turning into a slut,” she said on a groan, as she realized just how much she liked the fact that he liked her breasts.

  “I like sluts.”

  “Aaarrgh!”

  “Well, it’s your choice as to the shower, Ms. Slut, but I told Luc and Sylvie we would come to the crawfish boil at her mother’s place tonight, if you agreed. Her mother is a big-shot politician, and she’s having some kind of fundraiser at the Breaux family digs. Do you want to go smelling like sex and candy bars?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I’ll get the soap. You get the towels,” she said, sliding off the massage table and heading toward the showers.

  “That’s what I like, an easy woman.” Remy slapped her on the butt as he caught up with her.

  Yep, Rachel was feeling very easy.

  And she liked it.

  As they opened the shower door, she told him, “No touching.”

  He just grinned, slow and sexy.

  Rachel wondered where she might find a twelve-step program for slutism.

  Blowing the afterglow

  An hour later, as they were driving to the outskirts of Houma for Inez Breaux-Fontaine’s party—and, yes, they spent an hour in the shower—Remy remembered something.

  He looked over at Rachel on the bench seat of his Jeep, real close. She still smelled slightly of coconut, and he probably still reeked of chocolate, despite their having scrubbed each other raw . . . and screwed each other raw, as well.

  She wore a knee-high denim skirt with a little slit up the middle and a stretchy, white T-shirt which—she would no doubt die if she knew—showed off her nipples, much distended, thanks to his enthusiastic attentions of the past two hours. Skimpy sandals covered her mostly bare feet. She sat demurely with her hands folded in her lap, but he thought she looked sexy as sin.

  But that was beside the point. He’d totally forgotten the call Rachel had made to his cell phone today. Could a man die of too much testosterone? He doubted it, but, man, what a way to go! “You never told me why you called me this afternoon. What was the important thing you needed to discuss?” he asked.

  “Oh! I can’t believe I forgot. You really do scramble my brains, Remy. I’ve got to stop letting you do that to me.”

  Remy kind of liked the idea of being able to scramble Rachel’s brains.

  “Your aunt took me into the swamps to pick some herbs and we came across some guys sinking a big coffin into the stream. Her cell phone went off, which alerted them that we were there, and that’s when they shot at us. We escaped just in time. Whew! Who would have thought your aunt could run so fast? Who would have thought I could run so fast? I wasn’t even afraid of the alligators after that.”

  Remy slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. Car horns beeped behind him, and one redneck in a rusted-out pickup, which flew by, gave him the finger while yelling obscenities about his mother and his driving skills. But Remy couldn’t be concerned about all that. Swamp? A coffin? Shooting? Alligators? He shouldn’t be surprised. Everywhere his aunt went, trouble seemed to follow. But now, she’d involved Rachel, and he couldn’t allow that.

  “Start from the beginning,” he ordered. “Why were you with my aunt, to begin with?”

  “Darned if I know! She came to my grandmother’s house and insisted I accompany her on her rounds, but first she had to go get some herbs in the swamp.”

  “Why did she want you to go with her?”

  “Beats me! I think she was casing me out. She has this outrageous idea about you and me getting married.”

  What’s so outrageous about that? Not that I’m interested in getting married. But why is marriage to me so outrageous? “Just ignore her marriage chatter. She does that with everyone. What I can’t understand is why you’d go with her.”

  “I had this notion that maybe I could incorporate some of her herbal expertise into my Feng Shui decorating. Don’t look at me like that. It’s possible.”

  He couldn’t imagine Rachel and his aunt working together, but he supposed stranger things happened. “So, you went into the swamps with her, and. . .? Please don’t tell me you went by boat.”

  “Yep, a little outboard motorboat. Geesh, it was so small we could’ve been eaten, boat and all, by those alligators who were guarding their nest. They were big as SUVs, honest to God.”

  Remy put his face between his hands. Gators were not often aggressive, except when they were threatened by someone entering their territory. A gator nest was definitely their territory. As for them being as big as SUVs, well, alligators lived thirty or more years and could easily reach twelve to fifteen feet. She might not be exaggerating.

  “Go on,” he said when his blood pressure went down a notch.

  “We went to this really out-of-the-way bayou. Well, it seemed out-of-the-way to me. Your aunt was picking herbs and moss and stuff, and I was avoiding snakes and spiders and stuff, when we heard men’s voices. Some of them spoke Spanish, but at least one guy appeared to be Cajun, according to your aunt, especially since he was called by the name Sonnier. That’s a Cajun name, isn’t it? Anyway, we crept up close and saw them lower this big metal box down into the bayou stream with a strap still attached to a tree on the bank. It looked like a giant coffin, twice the size as usual.”

  Pour Vamour de Dieu! Her rambling sounds just like Tante Lulu. Is my aunt’s ditziness wearing off on Rachel?

  But then, Remy’s body went cold and his hands literally shook as the full impact of her words hit him. A metal coffin? Sonnier? It appeared that his aunt and his lover had accidentally caught employees of the cartel in the act of hiding drugs on U.S. soil. And Rachel had referred to a big metal coffin. That was the first clue they’d had as to size. These hidden caches might be worth several million each, which meant they would kill anyone who dared to interfere with their plans, including two dingbat women picking posies.

  “What did the police say when you reported this?”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly report it, yet.”

  “What?”

  Rachel looked everywhere but at him.

  Well, hell’s bells, she ought to feel guilty. Remy exhaled with a mixture of exasperation and relief. Exasperation, because they’d placed themselves in danger and hadn’t sought help. Relief, because this was a matter better handled by the DEA. He would have to call Pete the first chance he got for privacy.

  “Why didn’t you report it, yet?”

  “Your aunt thought it would be better to tell your brother Luc first, and let him decide what course of action to take— him being a lawyer and all, and presumably having police contacts.”

  He nodded. Good idea. Keep it quiet as much as possible. Although Tante Lulu has probably already told half the congregation of Our Lady of the Bayou Church. Hopefully, they’ll discount it as the rantings of a fuzzy-headed senior citizen. “I’ll talk to Luc about it tonight.” And my aunt, too.

  “Of course, that was before your aunt got a speeding ticket. Luc was really angry about that. Good Lord, Remy, do you and your brothers realize what a maniac she is behind the wheel?”

  I will definitely be talking to Tante Lulu. She is getting totally out of hand.

  He put his hands on each side of her face and kissed her gently. “You could have been hurt.”

  “I know. I will never get in a boat or a car with her again, and I told her so, too.”

  I meant dan
ger from the cartel. Yep, my aunt’s flakiness must be wearing off on you.

  “A raving lunatic, that’s what she is. And she had the nerve to tell me she never raved in her life. Talk about homing in on the most irrelevant word! I swear, I had to restrain myself from doing her bodily harm, and I’m not a violent person.”

  He smiled at the vehemence of her response. He would have liked to be there when she’d been telling his aunt off.

  “And do you know what your goofy aunt said when I was done with my tirade against her?”

  Don’t ask. “What?”

  “She asked what colors I wanted in my bride quilt!”

  It wasn’t funny. Really. Still, Remy had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.

  “Do you know, she was wearing a pith helmet today?”

  His jaw dropped open, then clicked shut.

  “Why does your aunt keep changing outfits and hair colors?”

  Beats me. “I think she’s trying to find herself.”

  “Do you think those men were Mafia?”

  That knocked the laughter impulse right out of him.

  “Mafia?” he choked out. Where did she get such an outlandish idea? Hah! Probably from his aunt.

  “Yeah. You know, hit men getting rid of their hits.”

  “Maybe.” Babe, you ’ve been watching too much of the Sopranos. Best to let her think that, though. Divert her attention away from the real culprits.

  “Remy, it was a harrowing experience today, but I’m confident that Luc, or you, or the police will take care of it. I’m more concerned about some personal issues bothering me right now, things we need to discuss.”

  Uh-oh!

  Rachel turned on the bench seat so she was facing him directly. Her sober expression portended what would probably be an unwelcome subject for him.

  “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  “Yes. Yes, we do.”

  He sighed, recognizing that there would be no stopping her. When women got a bit between their teeth, they never let go.

  “We’ve got to slow down this relationship, Remy.”

  I can’t argue with that, but how do you stop a runaway train? That’s just how I feel, out of control and headed for a collision. “I agree, babe, but holy hell, how are we going to do that? It’s like a hooker deciding she’s going to become a virgin again. There are some things you can’t undo.”

  “I’m not sure I like your analogy.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I’m not asking to undo what’s happened with us so far, even though it’s too much too soon. It’s been beautiful, Remy, to me anyhow and I wouldn’t erase the memory of any of it.”

  “But. . . ?”

  “But you make me breathless every time I look at you,” she admitted.

  Hot damn! He smiled. “And that’s bad?”

  “Yes, it’s bad. I mean, it’s good, but I can’t think when you’re around. My brain turns to pudding with hormone overload. I don’t know if I’m making logical decisions or not. And stop smiling at me like that.”

  You should not be telling me this stuff, honey. I will use it against you, sure as summer lightning. Whoo-ee, I see more “perversions” on my male radar screen. I’ll show you breathless, baby. Breathless in Loo-zee-anna. “Maybe it’s just the heat. Some people react strangely to the high humidity.” Dieu, I can barely keep a straight face.

  She gave him a look that pretty much put him in the same class with the brain deficient. “For sure, I’m turning into a slut,” she concluded with a big sigh.

  What’s wrong with sluts? “You are not a slut.”

  “I am where you’re concerned. Where are my morals? Where is my good sense? Remy, I’ve known you little more than a week, and I’ve hopped in the sack with you any number of times.”

  “Seven to be exact, not that I’m counting. That’s assuming that you count oral sex as sex, which I do—Bill Clinton notwithstanding.” He grinned at her, hoping to break the mood.

  But she plodded on somberly. “I have trust issues, Remy. Hard to hide that fact. They probably started long before David. A lot of people have let me down, starting with my mother.”

  “Why look for trouble, sweetheart? You should be happy that you found me,” he teased.

  “It’s just so out of character for me, and I’m scared that I’m making decisions for all the wrong reasons.”

  He was afraid, too, that they were rushing at warp speed into a relationship—a committed relationship, for the love of St. Jude! But he was more afraid that she was going to end the relationship, committed or otherwise, before it even began. Quickly, he took both of her hands in his and tried his damnedest to state his case. “Men don’t analyze things the way women do. If we’re lucky enough to get laid—I mean, have good sex, we thank the gods for it, even if that good sex occurred on the first night. Hell, especially if it occurred on the first night—which it didn’t with us,” he was quick to add. “Love at first sight is something that happens in books or women’s magazines, not in real life. At least, that’s what I thought before I met you.”

  Rachel cocked her head and studied his face. “What are you trying to say?”

  “We’ve been handed a gift, Rachel, like a special flower. I don’t just mean the sex. You and I both know this is way more than sex. I think we should handle this gift with care, stop questioning why it happened and whether we should give the gift back, and just see whether it blooms or withers on the vine.”

  She pondered his words for what seemed an eternity. “So, you don’t think we should step back for a breather. Stop seeing each other for a while.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “How about we see each other, but no sex. Get to know each other without all that extraneous matter clouding our brains.”

  Extraneous matter? That’s a new way of referring to

  good ol’ hot sweaty rolling in the hay. “You’ve got to be kidding. I want you too much, babe.”

  “Same here.”

  Whew! Then why are we discussing this to death? “What do you want, Rachel?”

  “Trust,” she said, then immediately amended it to, “Love and trust.”

  “Bottom line, it’s up to you. I can’t make any promises about tomorrow or next week, not yet. Maybe never. But I’m willing to take a risk. Are you?”

  Without hesitation, she nodded.

  Thank God! He gave her a gentle kiss on the lips, then smiled at her. “Well, then, lady, let’s go party. If there’s one thing we Cajuns know how to do, it’s party. Laissez les bon temps rouler. Let the good times roll.”

  “I can think of other things you Cajuns do well.”

  He just smiled at her.

  Chapter 12

  And then the you-know-what hit the fan

  Rachel was stunned by the opulence of Inez Breaux-Fontaine’s “family digs,” as Remy had called it, on the outskirts of Houma.

  Sylvie’s mother stemmed from an old Louisiana Creole family, the Breauxs, and she was, after all, a U.S. Congresswoman. Still, except for the hundred or so cars lined up in the vast semi-circular driveway and on the street below, it was like stepping back in time. Although it didn’t have the huge grounds that would have gone with a Tara, this monument to excess was nonetheless a grand plantation house, complete with columns and sumptuous landscaping.

  Hard to believe that a woman as down to earth as Sylvie had grown up in a place like this. And she was a working woman, too—a chemist—or so Rachel had been told, not a pampered Southern Belle.

  “It’s something else, isn’t it?” Remy commented as he looped his arm in hers and they began the trek up the driveway.

  “I’ll say.”

  “I wouldn’t be invited within a mile of this place if it wasn’t for Sylvie. My brothers, neither.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow at him in question. “You three are professional men, nothing to be looked down upon.”

  “We’re not high-born. Nor do we have the money or influ
ence that matters to Inez, which might counter our low social status. You’ll see what I mean. I swear, that lady could freeze a person with just one look down her condescending nose. That’s why they call the women in her family the ’Ice Breaux.’”

  “Why are we here if she treats you all so rudely?”

  “Family,” he answered in one word. “We’re here to bolster my brother and his wife.”

  Luc and Sylvie must have been watching for them because they emerged onto the front veranda and were coming down the marble steps to greet them. Luc appeared to be walking gingerly. Their three little girls in matching pinafores with Mary Jane shoes were playing tag around the wicker furniture, a nanny standing in the background supervising their play. Actually, the littlest one, only a year old, was just holding on to a wicker chair arm, squealing with delight at her sisters’ antics.

  Luc wore jeans and a soft plaid shirt. With his black hair and dancing eyes, he was almost too good looking for a man. And Sylvie was no slouch, either. She wore a sleeveless, gauzy sundress over a nicely rounded figure. Her dark Creole features provided a wonderful complement to her husband’s appearance.

  But the only thing that mattered to Rachel was relief that she wasn’t underdressed. Remy had assured her that she wasn’t, that even the famed Inez knew how to throw a low-down, casual affair, but what did men know about such things? Once, David had invited her to a garden party, which turned out to be a White House garden party, posh to the nth degree.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Sylvie said, giving Rachel a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. Luc did the same.

  “Where the hell have you been all this time?” Luc asked Remy. “I talked to you two hours ago, and you said you were on your way to pick up . . .” Luc stopped mid-sentence and grinned. Then, he sniffed in an exaggerated fashion. “I smell chocolate.”

  “No, it’s coconut,” Sylvie disagreed.

  “Hah! It smells like S-E-X,” Luc spelled out in deference to his children, still grinning at his brother.