The Love Potion

  “Why? Are you taking notes?”

  “Mmm.”

  He bit her bottom lip lightly in punishment.

  “I’m too excited to give you logical answers now, Sylv. All I know is I want you. I want you, I want you, I want you,” he groaned out…a painfully sweet sexual litany.

  His fingers were no longer interlaced with hers, but still she held onto the showerhead for support. Otherwise, her legs would probably give way with the scandalous things his mouth and hands were doing to her.

  But he had an even bigger problem now. He was having a helluva time undoing the wet zipper on his jeans. The damned metal tab just wouldn’t move. Where was Houdini when he needed him? With a howl of frustration, he grabbed for a cake of soap and rubbed it over the zipper, up and down. Voila! He was free. Well, almost free. He had the same problem with the laces on his sneakers. By the time he rolled out of his jeans, like a banana out of a tight peel, he was feeling more like a…well, cucumber. Whatever. He now stood naked before Sylvie.

  He looked up to see her smiling. Smiling? Hey, at least she wasn’t still crying.

  Then her eyes traveled down his body and stopped dead-on…dead on the cucumber, that is. To say she was impressed was probably an understatement. Hell, he was impressed, and he’d been living with that body part for thirty-three years.

  Somewhere, somehow, sometime…whether from a love potion, lack of use, or a zipper soap-rubbing…his organ had taken on a huge, vein-popping, tumescent life of its own.

  He shrugged ruefully. “Sometimes you get a blue steeler. And sometimes you don’t.”

  She laughed…a soft, ripply sound. “Sort of like an Almond Joy?”

  “Exactly.”

  She was still standing under the streaming water with her hands extended over her head, clutching the showerhead. She began to lower her hands…to embrace him or take the ol’ bar of LeDeux Joy in hand, he wasn’t sure which…but he protested immediately, forcing her hands back upward. He wanted to savor this picture of Sylvie standing before him thus.

  “Let me,” he begged, and took a container of liquid body wash in hand. Squirting the fragrant fluid onto his palms, he began to work it into her neck and arms and underarms.

  “I’m mad at you,” she said weakly, squirming under his touch.

  “I know.” He bypassed her breasts and lathered her sides and buttocks, her abdomen and flat belly. Going down on one knee, he concentrated on her thighs and calves, as well, even the arches of her feet, and toes.

  “Sex doesn’t solve everything, Luc,” she protested, but her voice was breathy and uneven as she spoke.

  “I know,” he agreed once again, standing to refill his palms with the slick soap. He couldn’t help chuckling when he added, “But it’s a helluva start.”

  He lathered her breasts over and over with wide, circular kneading motions. Then he used his soapy fingertips on the peaks, over and over and over and over, till she was mewling continuously with pleasure and the need for fulfillment. He let the shower wash the soap off her then, and replaced his fingers with his lips and tongue and teeth, suckling her ravenously.

  She was probably crying again, but he didn’t care now because it was for sexual need of him. That had to be a good thing.

  When he moved his ministrations lower to the dewy curls and hot wetness between her legs, she let herself go limp, the only thing holding her up being her grip on the showerhead. He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin, forcing her glazed eyes to meet with his.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  He hadn’t known he was going to say that, and he was as surprised as Sylvie. But it was the right thing to say and the right time.

  “I love you, chère. Remember that, always. I don’t deserve you. I may never have you. But don’t ever doubt that I love you.”

  “Luc, I—”

  Before she had a chance to say anything, he turned off the water and took her in his arms, carrying her to the bedroom. Uncaring of their wet bodies, he laid her on the coverlet, then came down on top of her.

  For what was probably only a half hour, but seemed like forever, Luc made slow, endless love to Sylvie. And it was so good, he wept, too.

  Whoever said, “Ain’t love grand?” didn’t know the pain it could bring, in Luc’s opinion. Even as he basked in the joy of loving Sylvie, Luc sensed the agony to come.

  And so he left.

  When Sylvie awakened several hours later, Luc was gone. She wasn’t overly alarmed, though, even when she read his terse note on the kitchen counter, next to Samson and Delilah.

  Sylvie:

  I cleaned the rat cage. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.

  Love,

  Luc

  The reference to cleaning the cage had to mean that he’d taken the hidden Cypress Oil documents that Remy had intended to take earlier, but had forgotten. And as to telephone calls, she assumed all their lines were bugged at this point.

  The thing that gave her hope—and perhaps it was a sign of how pathetic she’d become—was that Luc had underlined the word love. She was hoping that was his secret message to her, reinforcing what he’d told her earlier, that he loved her.

  There was such joy in her, knowing that she loved Luc, and that he loved her in return. Even though she hadn’t confessed her feelings to him yet, she was certain he must know.

  Throughout the afternoon, she held that joy close to her heart, refusing to let anything pull her down, even when she started a list of all the people she would need to talk to or make appointments with: Charles, Aunt Margo and Aunt Madeline, her lawyer, Claudia, Blanche, Matt Sommese, her mother. She grimaced upon writing that last name on her notepad, but really, she and her mother had some serious issues to resolve…ones that had been festering for years.

  But first things first. She suspected that Luc, even while he’d been in jail, had already begun the process of discovering who had been shooting at them in her apartment. Between him and Claudia and the police, she was certain the culprits would be caught and her safety ensured. But there was another danger she could work on herself…the voodoo curse.

  She leafed through the telephone directory, then picked up the phone on the kitchen wall and punched in a series of numbers.

  “Hello. Tante Lulu?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sylvie Fontaine.”

  “I know that, dear. Is Luc there?”

  “No, he left some time ago.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s wonderful…with Luc, that is.”

  “Hallelujah. You’d better say a little prayer to St. Jude, honey.”

  “I will,” Sylvie said with a smile. “But that’s not why I called. I have to ask a favor of you. Do you happen to know any…uhm, ah…well, voodoo people?”

  “Why? You wanna get a love charm? Ha, ha, ha. I know some good love charms for you to nail that Luc down good and proper. Alls you gotta do is buy a pure white beeswax candle and under it you place a piece of paper with Luc’s name on it. Then you burn that candle down till the name is completely covered with wax so that no one can ever read the name. Oh, and did I tell you the name has to be written in dove’s blood?”

  “Dove’s blood? Where would I get dove’s blood?” Sylvie laughed then. “That’s not why I need a voodoo practitioner.”

  “It’s not?” Tante Lulu said hesitantly.

  “No. I need to have a voodoo curse removed.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  A pregnant silence followed.

  “Tante Lulu?”

  “I’m here, but I don’t like messin’ with no evil spirits, child. No, I don’t.”

  “I suppose I could go over to the French Quarter in New Orleans. There are a couple of shops that claim to be run by voodoo priestesses.”

  Tante Lulu made a tsk-ing sound. “Those quacks! They’re crooked enough to make ol’ Marie Laveau turn over in her grave, I reckon. Let me think on this a minute.” After a brief pause, she continued. “Le
t me ask you a question. Would this be between you and me? Private-like?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tante Lulu sighed in resignation. “Meet me at Mildred’s Gun Shop on Highway 90 tonight at nine.”

  Oh, Lordy!

  “Dress in black.”

  Oh, my God!

  “It would help if you brought one of your chickens. Or two.”

  Sylvie couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

  “The ritual sacrifice.”

  “Oh, my!” was her first thought, inadvertently spoken aloud. The second was, “Luc is going to kill us.”

  “Guar-an-teed!”

  Luc was sitting at the conference table in his Houma law office. Also attending the meeting were his personal attorney; Clovis Dupree; Clovis’s two partners; René three of his shrimp fishermen friends; Claudia; and five Cypress Oil attorneys from Dallas, Baton Rouge, and Washington, D.C., including Joe VanZandt.

  There was also Dixie Breaux, Sylvie’s grandmother, a longtime federal lobbyist for various oil companies, including Cypress. She was a neatly coifed, white-haired lady who had to be at least seventy years old, despite her tight-skinned, perfectly toned complexion. The navy suit and white pearls she wore had probably cost as much as most people’s cars.

  They’d been going at it for over two hours, Luc realized as he looked down at his watch. Nine P.M. By now everyone’s cards were on the table.

  Cypress Oil contended they were pretty much going to whip his ass.

  He contended the shrimp fishermen were pretty much going to whip their asses.

  Needless to say, they were at a stalemate. Time to pull out his trump card.

  “Gentlemen…and ladies,” he said, nodding to Dixie and Claudia, “unless we come to some settlement within the next half hour, I’m going to have to call a press conference.”

  “Why? To give a running account of your love-potion activities?” VanZandt sneered. “There are some men who need a boost in that department and some who don’t.”

  All the Cypress people smirked at his not-so-veiled innuendo that Luc needed a boost in sexual energy.

  He gritted his teeth and snapped, “Get a life, VanZandt.” To the others, he continued. “I think the press would be interested in knowing that there’s new research on the effect of oil pollutants, like the ones being discharged into the freshwater supply by Cypress Oil.”

  “Oh, please, you’re going to start that cancer scare again,” Dixie said in her ultra-refined voice that implied she was better than the rest of mankind…or at least a nobody Cajun lawyer. “People just don’t buy it, Mr. LeDeux, or they are willing to take the risks. Oil feeds the local economy here. So, give up that argument.”

  “Well, actually, I think cancer is serious business, but that’s not what I’m alluding to. No, actually, I’m talking about the fact that oil pollutants cause sperm counts to go down in fish.” He tapped his pen on the table for dramatic effect, then added, “I wonder if that means oil pollutants affect human male virility as well.”

  He saw awareness bloom in Dixie’s intelligent eyes. She would know immediately what the public would do with this kind of threat. Close down Cypress Oil, that’s what.

  VanZandt jumped to his feet. “You have no proof of that.”

  “Don’t I?”

  The other four Cypress lawyers chimed in as well:

  “Do you have chemical data to back up that claim?”

  “If the public isn’t scared by all the cancer propaganda, what makes you think this sperm-count business will matter one iota?”

  “Who’s your research company?”

  “You’re not using Sylvie Fontaine for your researcher, are you? Is that the connection between you two?”

  “Wait a minute,” Dixie Breaux said. The authority in her voice caused everyone, including Luc, to defer to her. “No one is bringing my granddaughter into this discussion. Mr. LeDeux, if you have research material you’d like to show us, I think it would behoove Cypress Oil to listen.”

  Thus chastened, the Cypress lackeys all sat down.

  “Oh, and did I mention one other thing?” Luc tapped his head with a forefinger as if he were forgetful. “There is the issue of this Cypress Oil document.” With that, he passed a dozen copies of the papers Tee-John had pilfered around the table.

  There were several subtle gasps as the lawyers began to read.

  Just then, the phone in the outer office rang. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Luc said.

  It was perfect timing, really, Luc thought as he closed the conference room door, and picked up the telephone.

  “Luc, is your meeting over yet?” Remy asked in a decidedly worried voice.

  “Just about.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing settled, but looking good.”

  “Uh, we have a wee bit of a problem.”

  “Involving?”

  “Sylvie and Tante Lulu.”

  He inhaled too fast and went into a choking fit. When he regained his composure, he inquired, “Together?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you meet me at Mildred’s Gun Shop, ASAP?”

  “Mildred’s Gun Shop!” he shouted into the phone. “Remy, what’s going on?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Let’s just say this. Do the words voodoo, live chickens, a love potion, and two dingbat females riding a Harley mean anything to you?”

  Luc pulled his jeep in front of Sylvie’s house and turned off the ignition. The motor, of course, continued to rumble till it came to a sputtering halt.

  He hadn’t spoken since he’d hauled her and Tante Lulu out of a voodoo ritual ceremony in the swamp behind Mildred’s Gun Shop. Remy, who couldn’t stop laughing, had driven their aunt home, and René had been only too glad to take possession of the motorcycle.

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the decrepit vehicle, Sylvie attempted to soothe his ruffled temper. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”

  “Overreacting? Overreacting?” Both of his hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and his teeth were gritted. “Screaming at you might be overreacting, though I was sorely tempted. Putting you over my knee and paddling that heart-shaped butt of yours might be overreacting, though the thought is appealing. Stopping you from actually drinking that chicken blood during the voodoo ritual might have been overreacting, but it would have served you right.” He turned and stared at her. “Babe, you haven’t seen overreacting…yet.”

  Should she try to explain to Luc? Or was it a losing battle in his present mood?

  “Listen, Luc, you and I might snicker over voodoo and pretend that it’s all just hocus-pocus, but we both know it can’t be dismissed so easily. Strange, unexplainable things happen when voodoo is involved.” She took a deep breath and tried to lighten his mood. “Luckily, they’d already finished the ritual to remove the curse before you got there. So, no more worries in that regard.”

  He stared at her as if she’d flipped her lid. Maybe she had. “How could you?” he asked finally.

  “How could I not?” she answered stubbornly. “I needed to have that voodoo curse removed, and that’s what I did.”

  “With dead chickens?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Why did you involve Tante Lulu?”

  She ducked her face guiltily at that. “She was the only person I could think of who might know a voodoo person. Besides, you told me not to call you.”

  “What kind of half-assed logic is that? I’m trying to protect you, Sylvie, and you’re making it damn hard. First, you release me from jail when I don’t want to be released. Then, you drag my aunt into some harebrained scheme that could endanger you both.”

  She bristled. “You are the most ungrateful bastard! I’ve taken care of myself for most of my life, and somehow I’ve survived, harebrained as you seem to think I am.”

  “Sylvie, I was in th
e middle of a meeting with the Cypress Oil lawyers when Remy called me. I do not need any more problems now.”

  “Oh, really. And who else was at this meeting?”

  He was surprised at her question, but detailed all the parties involved. “Why do you want to know?”

  She was unable to keep the hurt from her voice. “Whv wasn’t I there, Luc?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. You’ve gone to great lengths to get me to help you with the water and soil samples. I agreed to send the samples to a chemist friend of mine who specializes in oil pollutants. You made me promise to testify in court, if necessary.”

  “And?”

  “And now you exclude me, you jerk.”

  “Don’t you turn this on me, Sylv. Why couldn’t you just stay put for a few days and let me handle things?”

  “S-stay put?” she sputtered. “You mean, like a good little girl? You mean, like I’ve behaved all my life? You mean, like other people are more competent to do the job than me? Ooooh, I’d like to give you ‘stay put.’”

  Luc’s eyes went wide at the vehemence of her response. “I just want you to be safe.”

  She was so angry she was shaking. Jumping out of his Jeep, she stomped up to her house. At the last minute, she turned and told him, “All my life, I’ve done what’s safe. And I’ve been miserable. I thought you were different, Luc.” Her voice broke before she repeated, “I thought you were different.”

  She had to give Luc credit. He did come after her, pleading, “Sylvie, be reasonable,” but she’d already slammed and locked the door in his face.

  A week went by without Sylvie seeing or hearing from Luc, and her temper had cooled.

  She wasn’t even upset with him for breaking off communication because she assumed he was either in the process of preparing for a court battle with Cypress Oil, or in the process of negotiating a pre-trial settlement. Besides, she had enough on her plate to worry about without being involved in the shrimpers’ fight. And despite her protests to the contrary, it was really rather sweet of Luc to be so protective of her.

  The only niggling doubt in her mind regarded the love potion. Had it worn off yet? Did Luc still harbor feelings for her now? Did he want her anymore?