Cajun Crazy

  True. “I like you, Sonia. You never seemed to want more.”

  “I don’t. Be honest, Adam, you’re not in love with me.”

  “Are you in love with me?”

  “Of course not.”

  So, no harm, no foul. “When are you leaving?”

  “In a couple of weeks. I still have time to teach you a few more yoga moves.” She placed his still full glass on the bedside table, then smiled seductively at him from where she stood next to the bed. No false modesty here. With hands on hips, she openly displayed all her assets for him to scrutinize . . . her smallish breasts with their big, kiss-swollen nipples, her navel with its winking gold ring, the runway-style trim to her red bush below.

  With an inborn dexterity, he rose from the bed, grabbed her by the waist, tossed her to the mattress, and moved himself atop her. “Forget your loosey-goosey hippie crap,” he growled against her ear, adjusting his already burgeoning erection between her legs, “let me teach you a few Cajun moves. You could say we invented yoga. Have you ever heard of the Gator Slide?”

  She laughed.

  And then she wasn’t laughing anymore.

  Red light, red light, red light! . . .

  “This is either the best idea I ever had, or the worst,” Simone said, standing on the Houma sidewalk staring at the empty storefront. She was trying to picture the Legal Belles, Inc. sign, which would go above the double-door entrance next week, if plans proceeded.

  “Stop being so negative,” Helene said, nudging her with an elbow. “This is going to be so much fun, working together.”

  “It will be, won’t it? Still, you’re giving up a thriving practice, while I already gave my notice in Chicago.”

  “I won’t be giving it up entirely. I’ll still work three days a week in my office, two days here. As business picks up, I can reverse those schedules.”

  “Maybe you should start with one day a week here.”

  “Si-mone!”

  “Okay, okay, but it’s hard not to be a little scared. I practically emptied my savings account for this venture. Besides that, I swore I would never move back to Loo-zee-anna, and here I am, about to lock myself into a two-year lease on a business.”

  “Honey, the only reason you’ve stayed away from Loo-zee-anna is to avoid your weakness, Cajun men. And what good has that done you? They follow you wherever you go. Case in point—the architect.”

  “But the pool of temptation will be so much greater here.”

  “Pool of temptation? I like that. You’re older and wiser now, Simone. You can resist. Anyhow, I’m here to warn you when . . . if . . . I see that certain gleam in your eye.”

  “Maybe we should have a safe word.”

  “Right. Whenever I notice you eyeballing some slow-talking Cajun devil, I’ll say ‘red light,’ and you’ll know to back off.”

  They both burst out laughing, and Simone gave her good friend a hug. “You’re the best thing about coming home,” Simone said.

  Once they stepped apart and were staring at the storefront again, Helene said, “The good news is there’s an apartment on the second floor, which will allow you to move out of The Gates.”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “There is that. Did I tell you, my mother has become a walking commercial for Spanx? And she’s talking about forming a Kim Kardashian fan club called Embrace Your Inner Buttliness?”

  “Noooo!”

  Simone nodded. “I kid you not. And she’s on this kick where she wants grandkids, and she thinks I ought to set up a conjugal visit with Cletus Bergeron. She’s probably not serious, but still . . .”

  “Isn’t he in Angola?”

  “Yep.”

  Helene giggled. Then, more seriously, she asked, “Well, we gonna do this thing?”

  Simone hesitated, then said, “Hell, yes!”

  They started to walk toward the law offices of Simone’s half brother Lucien LeDeux. It was a pleasant street, she had to admit, liking the feeling of this being her new home. There was a Sweet Buns Bakery on one side of the storefront they were about to rent and a boutique dress shop called Fancy’s on the other. The business space they were interested in had been occupied by an insurance agent, which suited them perfectly, with a small lobby and two separate office spaces, plus a small kitchenette and storage closets. It wouldn’t require much renovation, other than a little paint. Even some of the furniture remained—desks, filing cabinets, etc.

  They were both good-looking women, and knew it, and flaunted it.

  It was hard not to notice the attention they got as they walked down the street, both in business attire. Helene had an appointment in family court with a client later this morning, and Simone would be meeting with a graphic artist to design and print up brochures and business cards.

  Helene, a mocha-skinned beauty with some Creole blood in her veins from her maternal grandfather, wore a short-sleeved, moss green suit with a peplum jacket and knee-skimming skirt and carried a slim, leather, over-the-shoulder briefcase. Even with black high heels and her reddish-brown hair piled high atop her head in designer disarray, she was still several inches shorter than Simone’s five-nine. But then, Simone was wearing heels, too. White strappy sandals that matched her white, sleeveless sheath dress, which was edged in red with a wide, red leather belt. Her dark hair was skinned back off her face into a chignon, low on her nape.

  As they strolled, one or the other of them was recognized by people they knew. Invariably, the greeting would be, “Well, hello, there, Simone (or Helene). How’s yer Mama?” It was a Southern thing, which made Simone smile. It also made her smile to be among people she knew. Back in Chicago, anonymity was more the norm. Not a bad thing. But she was finding this sense of community oddly welcome.

  When they got to Lucien’s office, a charming old Victorian-era home painted a bright yellow with green shutters, she noticed the brass plate on the door. LeDeux & Lanier, Esq. That was something new. Luc must have taken on a partner.

  Luc’s secretary Mildred Guidry, a gray-haired matronly type woman, who’d been with Luc for at least twenty years, greeted them, and, yes, her greeting included a “How’s yer Mama?” Even before they sat down, Mildred said, “Luc will see you now.” They entered the open doorway. The door to the other office was closed.

  As soon as he saw them, Luc rose from his chair behind the desk and came to welcome them with a handshake and kiss on one cheek. A handsome man, still in his prime despite being close to fifty, one side or the other, she wasn’t sure, he smelled as delicious as he looked thanks to a light, limey cologne. His tan suit jacket hung over a hall tree in the corner, but he wore a white, crisply starched dress shirt and a brown-and-black-striped tie, appropriate for a court appearance, which he’d told them was on his docket for later this morning, the reason they’d come into town so early.

  They spent the next half hour going over and signing the paperwork that would incorporate their business and provide rental space for the next two years.

  “You got a good deal on the rent,” Luc pointed out. He should know, since he also represented the owner of the building where Legal Belles would be located.

  “Because we were willing to commit for two years, instead of one,” Helene pointed out.

  “Right,” Luc said. “So, Legal Belles will be your name?” Luc smiled. “I still think Ball Busters would be a better title. It’s got a ring to it.”

  “Why does everyone have a suggestion for our name?” Simone asked, not unkindly. “Even your aunt put her two cents in.”

  “Tante Lulu is your aunt, too, chère. Sort of. So, what was her idea?”

  “Beat the Cheat.”

  He laughed. “That would work, too.”

  Luc had also prepared several samples of contracts they might use with potential clients. He discussed the legal liabilities addressed in the various forms. “You need to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. Believe me, the most friendly client can turn into your worst enemy. Especially if they suddenly decide to make up w
ith their offending partners, and you’re suddenly the bad guy . . . uh, girl.”

  “That’s happened to you?” Simone asked.

  Luc nodded. “More than once. That’s why I don’t do divorces anymore.”

  “Luc is right,” Helene said. “That’s why I had him work up our contracts. I could have done most of it myself, but I wanted a second set of eyes. We have to be super vigilant in protecting not just our clients, but ourselves.”

  “Right,” Luc agreed. “You know what they say about doctors not healing themselves. Same is true of lawyers. A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”

  Once they’d completed all the paperwork and Helene had tucked their files in her briefcase, Luc walked them to the door. “I wish you all the luck, ladies, and you can be sure I’ll be referring customers to Legal Belles.”

  “Thanks for all you help, Luc,” Simone said.

  Helene was engaged in a soft conversation with Mildred, something about her niece who was attending Auburn University.

  “Oh, have you met my new partner?” Luc looked toward the other office where the door was now open.

  Following Luc’s lead, Simone saw a man sitting behind a desk, poring over a document. He wore rimless reading glasses, and his longish, dark brown hair was pulled off his face into a short ponytail low on his neck. He was deeply tanned, like many men in the South, and wore dress clothes similar to Luc’s—a navy blue suit, light blue dress shirt, and a red tie.

  “Hey, Adam, you have a sec. I want you to meet my half sister Simone LeDeux and her partner, Helene Dubois, a lawyer. They’re forming that new business I told you about, Legal Belles. And, ladies, this handsome devil is Adam Lanier, my new partner . . . well, six months new.”

  Adam stood, and Simone got an even better look at him. He had to be at least six feet tall, maybe six-one. Broad shoulders, slim waist accented by a thin leather belt, and narrow hips encased in navy slacks. A light scent of some musky cologne or aftershave wafted from his direction. Seductive.

  He smiled and nodded. Helene had come in by now. But then, whoa! Adam removed his glasses. There was something about a man removing his glasses while he stared at a woman that was beyond sexy, sort of a signal that he was about to get down to serious business. Naughty business. Which was ridiculous. But, not so ridiculous, she realized when his gaze continued to hold hers, his head tilted slightly to the side, almost as if in question. His eyes were clear Cajun brown. Dancing eyes. Mischievous eyes. Dangerous eyes. And they were homing in on her.

  Beside her, Simone heard Helene whisper, “Red light, red light, red light.”

  But it was too late.

  Thunderbolt, cupid’s dart, all the same thing . . .

  Adam was poleaxed. No other word for it.

  His heart raced. His stomach churned. And he felt a little light-headed, even though he was sitting down.

  He couldn’t explain what had just happened. He was afraid to find out what had just happened.

  Tante Lulu—Luc’s crazy-ass aunt—would say he’d been hit by some woo-woo Thunderbolt of Love nonsense. Which he didn’t believe in, and which he didn’t need at this point in his life, either, and which he absolutely, positively refused to accept. Not again. Yeah, he’d been in love at one time, and got himself doused in reality real quick.

  But man! One look at Simone LeDeux, and his world turned upside down. He knew it, sure as he knew that he wouldn’t be seeing Sonia Easterly again, even if she decided to stay in Dodge.

  One door opens, another closes.

  Just so it wasn’t a trap door.

  Now I’m a comedian. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

  Maybe it was indigestion. Please, God, let it down be a stomach ailment. That crawfish omelet he’d had for breakfast at the highway diner might have been a little off, but, no, that had been hours ago. It must be the woman.

  Was this what they meant by love at first sight?

  No, no, no. Lust, yes. Love, no.

  He’d experienced lust on first meeting an attractive woman lots of times, and it had never felt like this. Maybe he had a clock ticking away in him like some women did . . . the maternal clock winding down, an urge to nest and procreate. But what would it be for a man? Surely he wasn’t looking to nest. Besides, it would be a mighty crowded nest with Maisie and his dad in there, too. Nope, he was thinking more of birddogging the woman, not birdnesting.

  Ha, ha, ha! I am losing it here.

  And Middle-Age Crazy didn’t cut it, either. First of all, thirty-five wasn’t middle-aged. Although I did clip those extra nose hairs last week. And second, a midlife crisis in men usually involved tomcatting, not settling down. I am tomcat, hear me roar . . . really.

  “Oh, my God!” he muttered, putting his face in his hands. Why this particular woman? And why now?

  Luc came back after escorting the two women out to the street. He leaned against the open door frame and asked, “You okay, cher?”

  Adam shook his head. “What do you know about her?”

  It was telling that Luc didn’t seem surprised by his question. Adam must look as stunned as he felt. Pitiful. “Well, Helene Dubois is an attorney. She works in a small private practice in Metairie, but now . . .”

  “Not her. The other one.”

  Luc’s eyes went wide and he came in to sit on the chair in front of Adam’s desk. Just to annoy him, Luc took all the time in the world to link his hands behind his neck and stretch his legs out, crossed at the ankle, all casual-like. “Adam, Adam, Adam. So, it’s my half sister Simone that has you lookin’ like you been Tasered.”

  Adam sat down, too. Rather he sank, like a harpooned whale, or a gator down for the count on one of those Swamp People episodes. “You’re going to go all frickin’ big brother on me, aren’t you?”

  “Depends on yer intentions.”

  “I have no intentions.” Yet.

  “Better be careful, my friend. Simone is a cop. At least she was until recently. She’s worked in Louisiana and various other states, most recently in Chicago. She could probably flip you over her shoulder and stomp on yer heart if you look at her the wrong way.”

  “What’s the wrong way?”

  “Kind of smolderin’, I would think.” Luc was enjoying the hell out of Adam’s situation.

  “Pff! I wouldn’t know how to smolder if my life depended on it.”

  Luc shrugged, unconvinced.

  “A cop? She’s a cop?” Adam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Of all the women he’d had—model, waitress, realtor, teacher, rodeo rider, TV anchor, airline stewardess, yoga instructor, whatever—he didn’t think he’d ever done a cop before. Not that he’d done Simone. But he was hot damn thinking about it, and if that meant he smoldered, then so be it.

  “And now she and her friend are forming a Cheaters-type agency down the street. The kind that catches slimeball men, and women, in the act of adultery or the intent to commit, then takes them to the cleaners in court,” Luc continued to explain while Adam’s mind had been wandering . . . or smoldering. “That’s not all they’ll do, of course, but I guarantee it’ll be a big part of their draw.”

  Adam recalled Luc mentioning the new business to him a day or two ago. He hadn’t paid much attention then, but he was now.

  “I know a few of our clients who could very well be in their crosshairs before long,” Luc said. “My dad, for one.”

  Luc’s father, Valcour LeDeux, was a notorious womanizer, with legitimate and illegitimate children all over Louisiana, and beyond, including twins who’d arrived recently from Alaska. He’d been married for years to his second wife, Jolie, but that didn’t stop his fornicating with every female in sight, some of them rather young.

  “Marcus Pitot, for another. His wife has been trying to get the goods on him for years. You know him, Adam. Wasn’t he a friend of your wife’s or something.”

  Or something! If Luc only knew!

  “Good thing you decided not to take him on as a client when you moved here,
like he wanted you to. That could have become a conflict of interest if you do hook up with Simone.”

  Marcus had been one of Hannah’s “friends.” No wonder Adam hadn’t wanted to do business with him, no matter the money he might have brought the firm. “Hook up with Simone? Whoa! That train hasn’t left the station yet.”

  “Mais, oui! But I can hear the engine chuggin’ from over here,” Luc commented with a grin.

  Adam ignored the teasing.

  “Simone has been married a few times and is not too hot to walk the aisle again, or so Tante Lulu tells me.”

  “Neither am I. So that’s a point in her favor, or my favor, depending on how you look at it. But what do you mean by a few times? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Actually, if you want to know more about Simone, you oughta go talk to my aunt.”

  “Not on your life!”

  They both laughed, knowing that Adam would be opening himself up to the old lady’s matchmaking shenanigans if he showed signs of an interest in any woman, let alone one connected to her family.

  Still, once Luc went off to court, and Adam was between appointments, he found himself Googling Simone LeDeux on the Internet. She was almost thirty years old, a graduate of Loyola University and the North Louisiana Criminal Justice Academy. She’d worked in two police departments in Louisiana, followed by a very short stint in Florida, and most recently in Chicago where she’d only recently made the rank of detective. A lot of moving around in eight years of law enforcement. Hmmm.

  And she’d been married three times. Three times! Holy crap! He didn’t know what was worse. Spreading favors here and there, like his wife, Hannah, had been prone to do, while still married, or spreading favors through legitimate means, like within the bounds of marriage. Of course, she might have been spreading them outside, as well, his cynical mind noted.

  He continued to scroll down the pages, nonetheless. Sort of a masochistic urge to inure himself to her allure. Her first husband, Cletus Bergeron, whom she must have married when she was a teenager, was currently in prison and had been in and out of the system his entire life, mostly felony robberies. Her second husband, Jeb Cormier, now deceased, had been a well-known Cajun musician, equally well-known for being a cokehead. Adam had one of his CDs in his car, which he played on occasion when he was in the mood for wild zydeco tunes. And her third husband, Julien Gaudet, a computer guru, had a Facebook page, which appeared rather perverted in terms of personal proclivities.