Cajun Magic 01 - Voodoo on the Bayou (11 page)

“Mr. Thibodeaux?” She didn’t see anyone moving about. The place looked empty.

“Yo. Back here,” Joe Thibodeaux’s voice called out, and he emerged from behind the back counter. “Can’t find a damn thing in this place.”

“Hello, Mr. Thibodeaux. Are you taking me out in the boat this evening?”

“No. Craig’ll be takin’ you when he gets back.” Joe ducked below the counter again.

“Oh, he’s not here?” A lump settled in her stomach.

“No, just left.”

“Was that him in the sports car?” Somehow, she hadn’t pictured Craig owning a sports car on his income. Let alone a suit…

“Yeah.” Joe answered from behind the counter. He surfaced with a box. “He had an appointment to keep before he could take you out on the swamp. He’ll be a couple hours.”

Disappointment warred with relief. Hours? “Couldn’t you take me out, Mr. Thibodeaux?”

“Nope.” Joe set a box full of assorted fishing paraphernalia on the counter. “Don’t do much fishin’ in the dark. Gave it up on account of my night vision pretty much stinks. Don’t worry, he said to tell you he’d be back.” He rifled through the box without looking up. “Can’t find my favorite filet knife.”

She reached into the box and pulled out a long thin knife. “Is this it?”

Joe made a face. “If it had been a snake, it woulda bit me.” He looked up. “You’re welcome to hang out in the bait shop until he gets back. Although, I’m not much entertainment.”

“Thanks, but I have work I could be doing back at the cottage. Mind if I leave my things here for now?”

“Not at all. Set them behind the counter.” Joe pointed with his knife.

She piled her bucket, nets, and satchel on the floor and turned to leave.

“Craig treatin’ you right out there on that swamp?” Joe casually shaved a fingernail with the filet knife.

Warmth spread up her neck and into her cheeks as she relived the feel of Craig’s hands on her breasts and the touch of his lips to hers. “Oh, yes. We’re finding specimens.”

“Good, good.” Joe peeled off another fingernail, then looked up. “Did the boy get around to askin’ you out?”

Her cheeks burned. “No. Of course not. I’m not here to date, I’m here to conduct research.”

“Yeah.” Joe hefted the knife. “A woman as smart as you has gotta be pretty dedicated to her work. Not much time for fun and dating.”

Ouch
. His description hit the nail square on the head. Actually, it made her sound just as Brian had described—without a life. “I like to have fun.” Damn, she sounded defensive. She didn’t want to give Joe the impression she was a pathetic recluse.

“Craig’s been known to be serious about his work, too, something you can appreciate. But he’s got a sense of fun buried in there. He, Mo, and Larry used to pull some pretty wild stunts around here during the summers.” Joe’s hands stilled and he glanced up. “Not that he does that anymore.”

“No?” A smile curved her lips. She could picture a younger Craig racing through Miz Mozelle’s peach orchard raising hell. Even then, he had to have been a complete heartbreaker with those dark good looks and ice-blue eyes. “Does your nephew always wait on customers in the…um…” She coughed, suddenly embarrassed.

“In what?”

She studied the corners of the shop as her face heated. “Nude. Does he always serve the customers in the nude?”

“Huh?” Bushy brows disappeared into the white thatch of hair hanging over Joe’s brow.

She waved a hand. “Never mind.”

The old man’s face split in a grin. “Don’t know if he serves customers in the nude, but Craig does have a way with the women.”

Her smile faded. “I bet he does.” Women. Plural. As in, more than one. Just like Brian.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Joe stared into her eyes. “The women always liked him right back.”

“So he’s dated a lot of women, then?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Yeah, but the boy needs to settle down.” Joe ducked his head and whittled at another nail.

That surprised her. “He does? Why?”

“He needs someone to love him.” Despite Joe’s attention to his hands, the conviction came through loud and clear in the tone of his voice.

What was the old man up to? Why was he trying to get her to go out with his nephew? “And are you saying I’m the one who should?”

“Yeah. He needs a serious, settled woman to ground him in reality.”

She coughed to hide her immediate denial.
Settled woman?
That made her sound old and not at all alluring. With her ego beaten to a pulp, her self-opinion began to smell worse than the dead fish in her freezer. “If your nephew is such a ladies’ man, why would he want to “settle” with a woman like me?”

“Because the other girls don’t matter to him. They never did.”

“Then why should I?” She couldn’t believe she was discussing Craig’s love life with his uncle.

“Because, despite what he might think, he needs someone like you.”

“Settled,” she said, her voice flat. Not intelligent, or pretty, or interesting, or sweet. But
settled
.

“Yeah, settled.” Joe’s words slowed. “Not in an ugly way. What I mean is, not flighty.”

“Sounds more like he needs a mother, not another date,” she muttered, and turned toward the door. “You can count me out of that equation.”

“Dr. Smith.” Uncle Joe laid a hand on her arm. “I’m afraid you got me all wrong.”

She stared into Joe’s face assessingly. “Your nephew sounds like a womanizer incapable of committing to a relationship. Any sane woman would run screaming at such an attitude from a man.”

The older man’s hand dropped to his side. “Maybe so, but he’s changing his ways.” In a low murmur he added, “He has to.”

“And you want
me
to help him change his ways?”
Unbelievable.

“Yeah.” An implied “please” emanated from Joe’s anxious face.

“I don’t have time to tame a wildman, Mr. Thibodeaux.” Although, the idea had its appeal. Her heart jolted before she could rein it in again. “I’m here to study the swamp, not your nephew.”

“But he really is a nice young man.”

“And a ladies’ man who can’t take women seriously.”

Uncle Joe grimaced. “Did I say that?”

“Pretty much.”

His lips curved downward. “That’s not exactly how I meant it to come across.”

“Nevertheless, I’m not interested in your nephew, his women, or his needs. I’m only interested in the swamp.” She turned toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the cottage until Craig shows up to take me out.”

“I screwed up, didn’t I?” The corners of his mouth dipped.

Elaine couldn’t be mad at the well-meaning man. He reminded her of a sad basset hound. She smiled despite herself. “Depends on what you were aiming to accomplish.”

“I want you to go out with my nephew.”

“Okay, I will.”

Joe glanced up hopefully. “Really?”

She continued, “I’ll go out with him in the boat. But I won’t go out on a date. Frankly, he’s not my type.” Who was she kidding? That was exactly the reason why she gravitated toward him. That bad boy aura intrigued her.

“Now, don’t let my words turn you off. He’s got a good heart.”

“I’m sure he does.” But he liked women. Lots of them. How could she compete with others who had to be more comfortable with flirting and small talk? Did she even want to? “Mr. Thibodeaux, I’m really not interested in your nephew.”

Liar.

“Maybe you aren’t right now, but if he asks, will you at least think about it? That’s all I’m going to say. I’ll keep my big mouth shut from now on.”

Elaine stared at Mr. Thibodeaux. She could see how much he meant his request. What the heck. Craig would never ask her out, so why not make the old man happy?

“Tell you what,” she said with a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Eleven

“I want a firm I can trust to represent my interests both here in Cypress Springs and in New Orleans.” Jason Littington tossed his napkin on his plate and sat back.

“That’s why I’m here, Mr. Littington.” Craig twirled the stem of his wine glass. “I’ve read about Littington Enterprises. You’ve built quite an empire on oil refineries in southern Louisiana.”

“Yes, and it hasn’t been easy. Maintaining a delicate balance between the EPA, tree-huggers and local unions gets tricky. Do you realize the Cypress Springs factory employs over four-hundred locals? That’s four-hundred possibilities for lawsuits from Bayou Miste to Morgan City.”

“I’d like to think Littington is one of the largest and most responsible employers in the surrounding parishes.” Craig’s expression challenged the other man to dispute his words. He didn’t. “Why did you choose our firm?”

“Your father and I go back to Tulane. We were roommates. I still consider him a friend.”

Craig nodded. “He would have come himself, but he’s tied up in several high-profile suits in New Orleans.” He tapped his fingers on the wine glass. “Are you having any legal difficulties at this time, Mr. Littington?”

“Oh, the usual. An occasional disgruntled employee, balancing emissions standards and costs and legal waste disposal. Face it, people want jobs, they need gas to run their cars, but no one wants the refineries in their back yard. With all the state and federal regulations, it’s hard for a corporation to make a profit.”

With a slight nod, Craig tried to appear sympathetic. Littington didn’t look like he suffered from financial constraints. His Armani suit and Rolex watch showed no signs of wear.

Craig stole a glance at his own watch. He’d already been with Littington for an hour and a half. Normally, he spent that and more if the client’s financial worth warranted the effort. But tonight, he could only think of Elaine and going out on the swamp.

Time crawled. Littington gave him the same background information he’d heard a hundred times before from other wealthy clients. Started with nothing, built a huge empire with the help of a few political aces played along the way. Yada, yada, yada. With a stifled yawn, fifteen minutes later Craig glanced at his watch again. “Mr. Littington—”

“Call me Jason.”

“Jason.” Craig smiled. “I can have the paperwork drawn up by Wednesday. Do you mind if we meet at the same time and place? I’m unavailable during the day.”

“Not at all. Evenings work better for me, as well.” Littington pushed away from the table and stood. “Tell your father I said hello.”

Craig rose and shook hands with his father’s friend. The man’s smooth white hair, tailored suit, and manicured nails reminded him too much of his father. Almost a carbon copy. Hell. Would Craig look like that in twenty years? Would the bottom line be all that mattered to him? He brushed aside his wanderings. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Littington.”

The drive back to Bayou Miste raced by in a blur. The smooth-running engine and sound insulation left Craig twenty uninterrupted minutes to think. And what did he think about?

Elaine.

Barring the frog curse crisis, they’d come to Bayou Miste for completely different reasons, the irony of which was not lost on Craig.

He’d come to secure a deal with a wealthy client bent on lining his pockets and finding loopholes in EPA regulations. Possibly helping to leave that client’s refineries clear to dump more pollutants into the environment.

Elaine had come to Bayou Miste to research pollutants and save the environment from would-be “killers”. And she thought he was nothing more than the uneducated nephew of the marina owner. What would she think of him if she knew the truth?

His foot lifted from the accelerator and the car slowed. A hard, sickish lump formed in his gut. Did her opinion matter? He’d only known her two days, for Pete’s sake.

He jammed the gas pedal to the floor again, and the BMW shot forward, taking the curvy roads much faster than what was legal or safe. He didn’t care. Some situations called for rule breakage.

If he dissected—he shivered at the unfortunate word choice—his thoughts over the entire evening, he’d discover they centered around one dark-haired scientist with her heart in her work.

He should be worrying about how to solve his amphibian love dilemma.

Note to self: Concentrate on your priorities.

With a mental kick in the butt, he forced his mind back on track, straightened his shoulders, and focused. Cassandra was out of the country for who knew how long. He could look up DeeDee DuBois, Maddie Golinski, and Lisa LeBieu. Craig sighed. Holy crap, he was in deep shit. DeeDee and Maddie gave him the hives, they were so…so…well, not his type. Lisa chilled him to the bone with her Voodoo grandmother. He’d already thought of Josie, yet somehow thoughts of Elaine kept pushing Josie to the back of his mind. Representing high-dollar divorce and corporate law cases seemed a snap compared to finding someone to love him. Limited to the night made the difficulties even more pronounced. He was a man for the few hours a night when most people slept. How could he woo someone so quickly in the narrow timeslot allowed?

For one, he could get that someone into bed as soon as possible. If his love candidate could be lured under the sheets, he could keep her awake into the wee hours, getting her to know and love him. Or he could hunt for an insomniac, hang out in bars, or engage in all-night dinners. These last options seemed too risky and may take more time—a commodity he didn’t have much of. Craig parked the BMW at Uncle Joe’s house and trotted back to the marina where he slipped out of his suit and into jeans, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and deck shoes. He entered the bait shop.

“That you, boy?” Uncle Joe called out.

He and Bernie sat at a rickety card table with a chessboard between them.

“Elaine come by?” Craig asked.

“Sure did, about two hours ago.” Joe’s fingers lingered over a black knight as he studied the board. He moved the piece forward and to the left, removing a white pawn from the game. “She left her things behind the counter. Wanted you to come get her when you got back.”

“Thanks.” He located the familiar bucket, satchel, and net, swept them up in his hands, and headed for the front door.

“What’s this about you serving customers in the nude?” Uncle Joe called out. “Can’t afford a sexual harassment suit against the marina.”

Craig’s face warmed but he kept going. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll talk later.”

When he cleared the door, he trotted down to the dock and tossed the items in the boat. Adrenalin shot through him as he walked up the steps to the road and aimed for Elaine’s cottage. Memories of their last kiss, and of Elaine in a towel, replayed in his mind.

In human form, the correct body parts responded, causing him significant discomfort. If he didn’t get a grip before he got to her door, further movement would prove difficult. He’d be tempted to throw her to the floor and—

Don’t go there, buddy. Remember Josie? Your plan? Is Elaine anywhere in your plan?

No.

Regret formed a tight knot in his chest and he questioned his decision to exclude Elaine from the list. Of all the candidates, she interested him the most—which scared him down to his toes. Perhaps he had a masochistic tendency to deny himself pleasure.

Lights from the cottage windows shone into the night, illuminating his steps. He searched through the panes until he spotted Elaine’s silhouette in the living room, bent over something.

As he knocked on the door, blood pounded in his veins. To get his physical reactions in check, he rotated his shoulders, and stamped his feet. His upper lip broke out in a sweat, as it had on his very first date at the tender age of sixteen.

At the ripe old age of twenty-eight, he shouldn’t be feeling so overwhelmed with lust. Elaine was just a woman. True, a woman with a to-die-for body disguised in khaki. She was the only female he knew who’d go out on a boat in light-colored, ironed slacks.

The door opened and Elaine stood there in her neatly-pressed white oxford shirt and khaki slacks. Although she was covered from head to foot in starched clothing, Craig could still envision her in the bath towel, her hair slicked back in neat, wet waves down her back, a rosy hue to her fresh-washed cheeks.

“Ready?” he asked, staring into green eyes made even bigger by her tortoise-shell owl glasses.

“Yes,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

“Me too,” he said, and turned away before she could see how ready he really was.

…

Elaine sat back in the boat, smearing bug repellent on her neck, hands and ankles.

Craig hadn’t spoken more than two words since he’d helped her into the boat. He kept a distance between them, and made their brief contacts short and impersonal.

Now he sat in brooding silence, guiding the pirogue through the black waters, his attention fully focused on the channel ahead.

What had happened to the easygoing man from last night?

She couldn’t stand the silent gap widening between them. “I identified the frog we caught yesterday as a
rana sphenocephala
.”

A frown dipped between Craig’s brows.

The frown made her all the more determined to get him to talk. “It’s more commonly known as a Southern Leopard Frog.”

He looked at her, briefly. “How can you tell them apart?”

Not exactly a warm response, but open-ended. Encouraged by his question, she decided to give him an answer. For most people she’d keep it short, but she wanted to see his reaction to detail. “We can identify the different species by location, coloring, shape, and sounds. The leopard frog, found in Southern Louisiana, is an orange-brown color and makes a low-pitched guttural sound, similar to a chuckle.”

A smile tilted the corner of Craig’s lips. “Laughing frogs. Did you stay up all night waiting for the leopard frog to chuckle?”

Elaine returned his smile, warmed by his response. “No. But did you know Dawg has a pet bullfrog?”

Craig’s body stiffened and he shot her a glance. “Oh?”

Confused by his tense reaction, she leaned forward. “Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all. Dawg makes friends with everyone. It really doesn’t surprise me that he’s made friends with a frog.” Craig negotiated a turn before he spoke again. “Are you going to dissect him?”

“Dawg?”

“No, the frog.”

“No, I don’t think Dawg would appreciate my cutting on his pet frog.” She chuckled. “Funniest thing I’ve ever seen, though. A canine protecting a bullfrog.”

“Like you said, strange things happen in the bayou.”

“Did I say that?” She knew she’d said those very words to Dawg earlier that morning, but not to Craig.

“Must have heard it somewhere else.” He nodded ahead of them. “Duck.”

This time out, she didn’t hesitate. She pushed aside the drooping Spanish moss as they’d entered the same lagoon where they’d found the dead fish.

When he cut the engine, the boat skimmed silently through the water.

She strained her ears to listen. “Hear that?”

“What?” He lifted the oar from the bottom of the boat and dug into the water to slow the craft.

“Exactly. Nothing. I don’t hear another motor. Hopefully, we’ll have plenty of time to collect as many specimens as we want.”

“Get your net ready, we’re about to bump into a small island.”

As the boat slid into the bushes and vines crowding the shore, she braced herself. A rounded bump in the water loomed ahead of her. Her heart skittered to a stop. “What’s that?”

Craig shone a flashlight beam at the dark brownish-black knob about the size of the dog’s head. “You’re a scientist, don’t you know a cypress knee when you see one? They grow out of the roots of the cypress trees here in the swamps.”

Embarrassment rose in her cheeks as she realized how stupid she must appear. But her chagrin was short lived as frogs hopped into the water, diving deep to escape the massive beast of a boat disturbing their evening song.

With her heart pounding in her chest, she readied her net and leaned over the side of the boat. Her face stared back at her in the reflection of light from the boat lanterns. The inky black depths mesmerized her until her head spun and her vision blurred. The familiar panic and fear of water rose up into her chest, threatening to overwhelm her calm.

Craig leaned across and touched a hand to her knee. “Do you want me to do it?”

With conscious effort, she ripped her gaze from the reflection and stared down at the hand warming her skin through the khaki fabric. When she didn’t respond, she felt his hand squeeze gently.

“Elaine?”

She glanced up into eyes so blue she fell right in, drowning in their depths. He’d called her by her first name. How resonant and beautiful his voice made it sound.

“Do you want me to help?” He smiled into her eyes and warmth spread from his hand up her thigh to throb gently in her center.

Molten blood coursed through her veins, scorching her insides and making her body tingle with awareness—awareness she’d sworn to ignore. “No.”

“No?”

She straightened away from him. “I can do this.” All she needed was to focus on the task. She stared at the water, again, and completely forgot why. All her consciousness centered on the dark-haired Cajun mere inches away. Like a celestial body drawn to the sun, her body gravitated toward him.

The boat tilted as he shifted to straddle the bench seat. A leg appeared on either side of her and she leaned back against his chest, his heat enveloping her.

“I want to help,” he whispered into her hair, his breath stirring the tendrils around her ears. “Don’t deny me the opportunity to be macho.”

She stilled, her body a racing engine, heating to dangerously explosive levels. She’d never felt this alive and aware of her own sensuality.

“Look.” Craig reached around her and pointed to a frog swimming in the water close to the skiff. He wrapped his fingers around her hand with the net and leaned into her until the mesh rested in the water. Together, they waited until the frog moved closer.

Unable to breathe for fear of moaning, she basked in the solid muscles pressed against her back. A brawny arm wrapped around her middle and his hand cupped hers, guiding the net through the water.