The Red-Hot Cajun

  They’d been fifteen. There’d been a party. He’d been perpetually horny, like most teenagers. She and her girlfriends had been sucking up sickeningly sweet Slo Gin Fizzes. Suffice it to say, he’d somehow found himself naked with Val in someone’s bedroom. Suffice it to say, he became a member of the Hair-Trigger Club that night. Suffice it to say, she still retained her virginity after the fiasco. If all that hadn’t been embarrassing enough, she’d jumped off the bed afterward and spewed pink barf all over his instrument of non-pleasure. Teenage hell, for sure!

  He blushed just thinking about it, and he hardly ever blushed.

  Could life get any worse?

  Yep!

  J.B. had waded out to his water plane and was now carrying the “answer to their prayers” over his shoulder. She was squirming wildly but unable to say anything because, of course, the goofballs had duct-taped her mouth shut. That should merit at least one felony count, on top of the others for the restraints that bound her wrists behind her back and her ankles together.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing of all... or best thing of all, depending on one’s viewpoint. And Rene’s viewpoint right now was fixed on Valerie Breaux’s bare white behind.

  She was going to kill them all for that indignity alone, after she’d filed every legal charge in the world against them.

  The Trial TV celebrity wore what could probably be called a Sex and the City-type power suit, which meant it had a very short skirt. A very short skirt that had ridden up with all her struggles, exposing her thong panties.

  And thus the sun shone bright on Valerie Breaux’s buttocks.

  Very nice buttocks, by the way.

  “Is she moonin’ us?” Tante Lulu wanted to know.

  “I never could figure out why women want to wear those thong thingees,” Maddie mused. “Seems to me they’d be mighty uncomfortable, up in your crack and all.”

  “I like ‘em,” J.B. said.

  Maddie probably would have hit her husband if he hadn’t had his hands full of Valerie. Instead, she suggested, “You wear ‘em then, honey.” Honey was not said as an endearment.

  Rene felt like pulling his hair out, one root at a time, over the irrelevance of this chitchat. Meanwhile, Valerie’s tempting tush was waving in the wind.

  J.B. turned slightly and Rene got a good look at Valerie’s face. Her shoulder-length, wavy black hair hung lose all over the place, but still he was able to see her dark Creole eyes, which flashed angrily.

  Against the duct tape, she screamed something that sounded pretty much like, “Flngukkk yuuuaauu!” It probably wasn’t Howdy.

  Grabbing a knife out of his toolbox, he walked over and lifted her off J.B.’s shoulder. She was unsteady on her high-heeled feet, but he managed to stand her against a tree and cut away the restraints.

  He saved the duct tape for last.

  Once the tape was off, the first thing she did was shimmy down her skirt. Then the fireworks began.

  “Rene LeDeux! I should’ve known you’d be behind these shenanigans.”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Save it for the judge, bozo.”

  Rene glanced over at the St. Jude statue and murmured, “Now would be the time to perform a miracle ‘cause I sure am feeling hopeless.”

  He could swear he heard a voice in his head answer back, You ‘re on your own, big boy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once a rogue, always a rogue . . .

  When Valerie Breaux had lost her job last week as trial news analyst at TTN, she’d thought her life couldn’t get any worse. But being dropped, practically butt naked, practically in the lap of Rene LeDeux, her worst nightmare, well, that had to rank right up there with life’s defining moments of misery. She and Rene were the same age and had gone to the same Houma, Louisiana, schools for twelve years, every minute of which the rogue had chosen to torment her with his teasing ways. Then there had been that one humiliating incident, even more humiliating than this.

  Someone was going to pay.

  “You are going to pay, big-time, mister,” she told Rene, who stood there looking hunky and way too roguish, as usual, in his skimpy attire. And a tool belt! Holy moley, he looked like some model for a beefcake calendar. He had really broad shoulders and a really small waist and hips. Hell, her behind was probably bigger than his cute little butt. God above! I’ve landed in hell and I am looking at the devil’s butt. His black hair was over-long, and his dark Cajun eyes danced with wickedness. She was in big trouble, and it had nothing to do with being kidnapped.

  “I did not have anything to do with this, Val,” he said, smiling at her.

  “First of all, do not call me Val. Second, do not freakin’ smile. Third, whose property is this?” She gave a sweeping glance to the raised cottage-in-progress and the remote bayou property.

  “Mine,” he admitted.

  “Aha!” she said. “Two miscreants kidnap me off the Houma airport parking lot and deliver me to your property. Won’t even let me get my briefcase out of my car or use the ladies’ room first. I’m thinking they are the accessories and you are the perp. Take a guess how that would look in a court of law.”

  “Not so good, but I swear I had nothing to do with this.” His sincere-sounding words were belied by his grin. He was probably picturing her bare behind.

  “Good grief! I think the thunderbolt is hitting,” Tante Lulu pronounced dolefully. The old lady’s name was Louise Rivard, but everyone called her Tante Lulu. “The air’s practically sizzlin’ with electricity between you two. I shoulda never come here with the hope chest. I shoulda left St. Jude at home. I shoulda waited till next year to help you get a nice Cajun girl. St. Jude, iffen you forget that uppity snob ever came here, I’ll say five novenas... mebbe even ten.” Tante Lulu was sitting on an old stump, moaning her misgivings about thunder and saints or something. Dopey, as usual!

  “What is she blabbing about?” Valerie asked Rene. His great aunt—well-known throughout Southern Louisiana for her outrageousness—was true to form today, her tiny body encased like a teenybopper’s in an exercise outfit, despite her being older than dirt.

  “She thinks the thunderbolt of love has hit me and that you’re the one.”

  “The one what?”

  He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m warnin’ ya, Rene, honey, iffen ya warm up a snake, it’s gonna turn ‘round and bite you, sure as shootin’.”

  “I have no intention of warming up anything,” he protested.

  Tante Lulu gave Valerie a disgusted look of resignation. “Well, if yer the one, yer the one. Doan suppose ya have a bride quilt yet? No. Tsk-tsk. Guess I’ll hafta start sewin’.”

  It was hard following the train of Tante Lulu’s thoughts, if she did in fact ever think in a logical manner.

  “On the other hand, mebbe I should stay here and try to break the love spell. Guess I better call Remy and tell him not to come fer me today. Holy sac-au-lait! It’s hottern ‘n a goat’s butt in a pepper patch t’day.”

  She was already reaching for Rene’s satellite phone on the porch. “Lordy, Lordy, Valerie ‘I am perfect’ Breaux in my family! Charmaine’ll eat ‘er alive. Or mebbe she’ll eat Charmaine alive. We gotta stop this thing afore it explodes.”

  It took several moments for Valerie to digest everything the old lady rambled on about. When Tante Lulu ended her phone call to Remy with a “Bye-bye, sweetie,” Valerie wagged her forefinger at the looney-bird. “Old lady, don’t you dare sew anything for me. As for love spells, forget about it. I am immune.”

  “No one is immune once the thunderbolt hits,” Tante Lulu pronounced.

  To J.B. and Maddie, who cowered in the background trying to be invisible, Valerie ordered, “Take me back to Houma immediately... right after I use the bathroom.” Before they had a chance to balk, she inquired of Rene, “You do have a toilet in this dump, don’t you?”

  He nodded, not at all pleased by her reference to
his home as a dump, which was mean of her. But she was in a mean mood.

  “Please don’t tell me it’s an outhouse. That would be the final indignity.”

  He sneered and said something foul under his breath. But he steered her up the steps. He was probably ogling her butt; humiliating as that prospect was, she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of checking.

  The inside of the cabin was one large room with very little furniture. Exposed log walls and open rafters. Hardwood floors. Basic kitchen. Unfinished loft. Great ambience if you liked rustic, which Valerie did not. She thought of her small apartment back in Manhattan with its doorman, its elegant antiques, and access to all the amenities the city had to offer.

  The contrast in their abodes correlated to the differences in their personalities. He had always been earthy, raw, and wild, while she’d been poised, ambitious, and in control, even at a young age.

  Iwasn’t always that way, she thought all of a sudden, surprising herself. There was a time when I would go fishing on the bayou with Papa. Lazy days spent lolling about. Eating our catches over an open fire with crusty French bread we bought on the way at a roadside mark et. Coming home late, grubby and tired. But so very, very happy. Even when Mother launched into us when we returned to her nice pristine house. That was before she turned eight. Before her father, Henri Breaux, had left her and her mother behind in Louisiana and hightailed it off to France to lead the good life. He never came back.

  The next eighteen years, till she’d graduated from law school, had been spent under the thumb of her rigid, and sometimes abusive, mother, Simone Fontenot Breaux, a Houma realtor. All of the Breaux women, whether they were Breauxs by blood or marriage, were ambitious, perfect, and cold as ice. If they weren’t born with the ice gene, it was beaten into them. Val knew that all too well.

  All men are pigs, Valerie. Stop whining over your no-good father. All men leave in the end. Beindependent. Work hard. Keep your emotions in check . Stop being a baby. You are a Breaux. Act like one.

  My God! Why was she thinking about all that now? Water under the bridge. Such maudlin thoughts just because Tante Lulu pushed her buttons! She shook her head, calling herself back to the present.

  Rene pointed her toward a closed door. Once she’d relieved herself, she washed her hands. Glancing at her image in the mirror over the sink, she couldn’t help a little squeal of distress over her appearance.

  Rummaging in the drawer of the sink vanity, she found dozens of foil packets—disgusting man!—under which she discovered a brush and rubber band. She made quick work of pulling her hair back tightly off her face into a high ponytail. She had no makeup to cover the red marks around her mouth caused by the duct tape. Brushing the wrinkles out of her gray silk Donna Karan suit, she sighed. It was the best she could do.

  There was a saying in the South that animals sweated, men perspired, and women glistened. Well, in this 115-degree heat, with about 90-percent humidity, it felt like a hothouse, and Valerie was glistening like a greased pig. Not a nice picture!

  When she emerged, Rene stood at the kitchen counter pouring two glasses of iced sweet tea. He handed one to her, taking in her appearance with a disconcerting, way-too-wicked, head-to-toe scrutiny.

  That’s the way he’d always been. Wicked. Crude. Disconcerting.

  He’d probably looked at her the same way when they were teenagers. Why else would she have let him talk her into having sex with him? Hah! Who am I kidding? I was probably the one who propositioned him, fortified with all that booze.

  He leaned back against the wall, still watching her closely. As if he could read her mind. Good Lord, I hope not.

  She sat down in one of the folding chairs, making sure her skirt didn’t ride up too high in case he noticed.

  Yep, he did. His eyes fixed on her legs.

  “I liked your hair better loose,” he said lazily.

  “Well, golly gee, that will certainly make me let loose,” she replied. “Should I run back in and change it for you?”

  He ignored her sarcasm and switched subjects. “So, what’s new, babe?”

  “Not much, babe . . . other than being kidnapped.”

  “Still working for Trial TV?”

  “Nope.” She took a sip of the cool beverage. “You still working as a lobbyist?”

  “Nope.”

  “This is some conversation.” She set her glass down on the counter. “Why aren’t you still working in DC for the Shrimpers Association?”

  He shrugged. “I quit.”

  Now, that surprised her. She’d never expected Rene to amount to much. Over the years, when she came home on occasion, she heard of his being a shrimp fisherman, an accordion player in a low-down bar band, lots of dead-end jobs. Then, a few years ago, she’d been shocked to hear about his working as an environmental lobbyist. She had to admit, she’d been impressed. She didn’t ask him for details of his resignation now, though, because she didn’t want him to think that she cared.

  Not that he volunteered any further information. After a long silence, he said, “Why aren’t you still with Trial TV? I would think that’s a primo spot for a girl like you.”

  She bristled. “One, I am not a girl anymore.”

  He grinned in the most sinful way as if to say that he knew very well she wasn’t a girl anymore... and that he liked the woman she’d become.

  “Two, it was a primo spot. Three, screw that ‘girl like you’ crap. And four, I got fired.”

  “Oh, hell! I’m sorry, Val.” She must have glared because he immediately said, “I mean, Val-er-ie.” She would have been better off with his calling her Val, because the way he said Val-er-ie sounded silky and sensual on his tongue—the way a man might murmur her name in the midst of hot sex. Not that she’d had hot sex in a long, long time. If ever.

  “What happened?”

  A younger legal eagle was waiting in the wings to take my place. I refused to compromise on anethical issue. I have an attitude problem. The ratings are down. Pick one. That’s what she thought, but what she said was, “It’s all part of the game.”

  He wasn’t buying it, she could tell.

  “Well, this has been fun,” she said, standing. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  Just then a loud motor roared outside.

  She looked at Rene, and the expression on his face immediately alarmed her.

  “They wouldn’t!” he bellowed with disbelief and ran for the door. She followed closely behind.

  The water plane was taking off, up into the air, and Tante Lulu was standing on the stream bank waving them off.

  “Come back here! You have to fly me back to Houma,” Valerie shouted, her voice shrill in her own ears.

  “You ain’t the boss of this op,” Tante Lulu said, then explained, “Op is short for operation amongst government agents. Not that we’re government agents. We’re our own agents. Fer protectin’ the bayou.”

  She beamed as if she’d just been named CIA Jane.

  “I... want... to... leave,” Valerie said, real slow so her message would get through to Tante Lulu.

  “You . . . ain’t. . . gonna,” Tante Lulu said just as slowly.

  Valerie shrieked her outrage.

  “Now, don’t get excited, chère. I’ll call my brother Remy to come for you,” Rene assured her. He was searching around the porch, swearing something about “killing” and “dingbats” and his “worst nightmare”.

  Hah, she had dibs on the “worst nightmare.” “Quit dawdling around. Where’s your damn phone? Give me the thing, for God’s sake. I’ll call someone to come get me. I don’t want anything more to do with you or your wacko family or friends.”

  “Oops!” he said finally, after walking up and down the length of the porch.

  She did not like the sound of that “Oops!” Nor did she like the weak, apologetic smile he cast her way.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “They must have taken my phone.”

  “I told you not to tell me.
I swear, you are going to be on a chain gang for years when I’m done with you.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “I am going to sue the ass off all of you.”

  Tante Lulu walked up to them. “Not to worry, Valerie. They’ll come back fer you once ya agree to help us.”

  “Us?” Rene asked. “Us? Since when did you get involved, Tante Lulu? Or me, for that matter?”

  She ignored his question and slapped her knees with delight. “Holy crawfish! This is almost as much fun as watchin’ a Richard Simmons show. Is anyone in the mood fer gumbo? I’m thinkin’ I’ll go in an’ make us a pot of gumbo fer supper. Bein’ an agent makes a body hungry.”

  Valerie was not going to ask what she meant about Richard Simmons. And she was not going to discuss some freakin’ bayou menu choice, either, or Tante Lulu being an agent, secret or otherwise.

  “You know, Valerie, yer gonna get grumpy lines around yer eyes and mouth if ya keep frownin’ like that,”

  Tante Lulu offered as she walked past them and into the cabin.

  “Grumpy? Killing is a legal defense in some parts of Louisiana, you know!”

  Tante Lulu just laughed.

  Valerie raised her hands into claws behind the woman’s back.

  “Holy crap, Val! You look just like Lizzie Borden must have just before she raised her axe.”

  She took several deep breaths. As good as it might feel, losing control was not the answer. Calm down, Valerie, the voice of Simone Breaux echoed in her head, like a toothache that would not go away.

  Temper tantrums gain you nothing. Perhaps an hour in the closet will help you control youremotions. Maybe next time you’ll get an A in math. We do not settle for B’s in this family. Inhaling and exhaling, Valerie finally got her racing heartbeat back to normal.

  Slowly, she turned and bared her teeth at Rene”, who was the only half-normal person in this schizo-drama, and that wasn’t saying much. “How do I get out of here?” she asked.