Hot Touch (3 page)

Her triumphant return to Louisiana didn’t feel that way at all.

Her visions of Scarlett and Rhett faded as soon as she saw the main house. This was Tara
after
the war.

“This is a punishment,” she said numbly. “I’ve been cursed.”

The driver set her luggage on the patio and waited expectantly. Caroline dabbed at her dewy face with a pink tissue and tried to forget what Dr. Belue had just done to her emotions.

Grande Rivage hadn’t been grand for at least fifty years. She leaned against the limousine, staring up at large columns devoid of paint and an upstairs gallery that sagged slightly on one side. Dingy, torn curtains fluttered in the windows. Peeling white shutters hung askew from the dormer windows on top.

But the ghost of majesty was still evident, and she couldn’t deny that it appealed to her. A parade of tall doors fronted the house on both stories, and most of them were open to let the breeze through.

The house was sturdily built of handmade red brick; the years couldn’t ruin such craftsmanship. A beautiful filigreed iron balustrade decorated the gallery, and huge azaleas nestled against the red-tiled patio that
skirted the bottom story. The first floor opened directly onto that ground-level patio.

Thick honeysuckle and jasmine climbed the trunks of overhanging oaks that must have been planted when the house was built. The paddlelike leaves of giant magnolias fluttered in the sultry air. Caroline searched for descriptions that would do the old home justice. Provocative. Romantic.

Then she tried to shrug off such whimsy. At least the lawn was cut—well, in the spots that still had grass.

“Caroline!”

She turned toward Frank’s relieved voice. He came across the lawn from a camper’s nightmare of trailers, vans, and utility vehicles clustered among a grove of trees in the distance. Beyond the grove she saw white outbuildings, fences, and pastureland dotted with tiny, striped ponies.
What?

Near the trailers a few members of the crew had set up a volleyball net and were sweating through a vigorous game. Frank trotted up to her, clapping happily, his sandy brown hair ruffled by a warm breeze. But he looked tense, like the movie producer he was, conscious of the minutes ticking his money away.

“Caroline, how was your trip?”

She smiled and returned Frank’s hug. Then she held him at arm’s length and didn’t mince words. “I just met Dr. Belue. He hates me. And I hate him.” She quickly told him about the encounter.

Frank’s happy expression fell ten feet. Then he shrugged. “I’m surprised it took so long.”

“Why does he want to get rid of me?”

“He thinks you’re a waste of time. He thinks his wolf will eat you alive. You’ll have to tread lightly.”

“I’m not worried about the wolf. I’ll get wolfie back to work for you, Frank.” She patted his back. “Just relax and stop having those migraines. Gretchen’s concerned about you.”

“I know. I’m overreacting. It has something to do with ten million dollars of investors’ money.”

“The wolf won’t be a problem,” she emphasized. “But I can’t stay in the same house with the mad doctor. Are you sure there isn’t a trailer available?”

“Sweetness, I had enough trouble getting the ones we have. We’re not exactly in the middle of civilization, you know.”

“An understatement. The road signs to this place ought to read
Nowhere
and
Oblivion.
”

“Very funny.”

She gestured toward the house. “You said it was charming. So are the ruins of Greece, but I wouldn’t want to live in them.”

“The torn curtains and peeling paint are our doing. The house was presentable before we dressed it for the film.”

“Haunted-house theme?”

“My dear, you obviously haven’t read the script I sent.
The Legend of Silver Wolf
is a kiddie flick about a wolf who rescues two children lost in the swamp. He leads them to this spooky old house where a hermit lives. The hermit is really a sweet, lonely old man. Silver Wolf saves everybody from some villains.”

She arched one brow. “I met one of the villains a few minutes ago. Terrific casting.”

Frank laughed wearily. “I like Blue,” he told her. “And I respect him. He’s operating this place on a shoestring. He runs an endangered-species habitat, and except for a few government grants, he’s pretty much self-supporting.”

“Oh? He protects the declining population of male macho mutants?”

“Panthers, Caroline. He’s trying to save a rare species of panther. He also works with ferrets and birds, not to mention half a dozen other things. He’s a very
private man and he doesn’t like having us around. But he needs the money.”

The sound of running hooves made them both turn quickly. The chauffeur hid behind a column. A half-dozen llamas trotted around the corner of the house and passed in front of them. A young man in khaki shorts trotted with them, waving a short stick.

He waved at Frank. Frank waved back. “Hi, Ed.”

Caroline brushed her hand in front of her face as dust rose in a cloud. “Who was that?”

“Ed Thompson. Zoologist. Works for Blue.”

“Llamas aren’t endangered.”

“Blue sells them as exotic pets. There’s good money in llamas. He also sells miniature zebras.”

Caroline looked toward the pasture. The striped ponies, of course. “This place has everything,” she added grimly, “Including one giant Cajun turkey.”

“Gobble-gobble,” a deep voice said behind her.

She turned slowly, gazed up into cool blue eyes, and smiled. The man was as provocative as his home. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Dolittle.”

If she sniffed one more time, he’d throw her out of his house on her designer-clad fanny.

She did it so delicately, barely making a sound. In fact, maybe the sniffing was his imagination. It was just the way she glided around beside him through the large, austere rooms, still wearing her sunglasses and scarf as if she were afraid of contamination. She kept her hands clasped behind her back.

She was conducting an inspection, and she made it obvious that his house wasn’t going to pass.

“Nice possibilities,” she said about the tall ceilings with their ornate molding.

“Great potential,” she said of the hardwood floors.

“Modern plumbing,” she noted of the kitchen. “Fascinating.”

That was the last straw. He turned toward her and uttered one earthy, concise word.

“I wouldn’t describe it as that bad,” she countered.

“If you don’t like it, get out.”

“There are cables and camera equipment all over the place. Every room but the kitchen is sprayed with fake cobwebs and dust. The furniture looks like rejects from a Victorian nightmare. Is the upstairs this way too?”

“The furniture was brought in for the movie. Upstairs is my domain. No one’s allowed up there. Especially you.”

She sighed elaborately. “And thus, where is my room?”

“Behind the kitchen.”

While she stared at his back in disbelief, he led her through the large, cheerful, amazingly clean kitchen to a tiny room with one window.

Caroline did a slow turn, taking in a twin-size metal bedstead and an ancient dresser.

“Is this the cook’s room? Is she on vacation, or did she break parole and go back to the comforts of prison?”

“There’s no cook.”

Her gaze stopped on the floor fan that sat atop the dresser. “There’s no air-conditioning!”

“Come back in five years. By then I might have a central unit installed.”

“There’s no phone!”

“Use the one in Frank’s trailer.” His blue gaze flickered down her body, pausing blatantly at her breasts and hips. “Since you and Frank are so close.”

Caroline had been considering setting fire to the drab little room in protest. Now she considered setting fire to Dr. Belue. His insulting once-over made her skin feel hot enough to scorch his throat when she strangled him. She pivoted on one heel and faced him, then
whipped her glasses off and stared straight into his eyes. “Are you insinuating something?”

Blue smiled wickedly. The madder he made this Beverly Hills bunny, the sooner she’d leave. “You look like the type who wouldn’t have any scruples about married men.”

Her eyes narrowed. He was only trying to provoke her. He wanted to get rid of her. She had to keep remembering that. Caroline scanned his naked chest and all the territory below it with nonchalant approval. “Ah, yes, married men are what I crave. Too bad you’re single. Otherwise I’d seduce you.”

“You’d walk bowlegged for a week afterward.”

Caroline clasped a hand to her heart dramatically. She ignored the sensual loosening his words produced in her lower body. He was a volcano—unpredictable but fascinating. “How lovely. There must be dozens of bowlegged women around here.”

“Hundreds.”

“Hundreds of women with bad taste. Amazing.”

“Hundreds of women with dazed smiles.”

Caroline tsk-tsked, shaking her head. “You’ll have to forgive me for ignoring an opportunity to join their ranks. Nothing personal. It’s just that I prefer not to mate outside my species.”

“And you wouldn’t want to make Frank jealous.”

Her grim amusement faded and her voice became somber. “Frank respects you. How can you accuse him of cheating on his wife?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Caroline felt bare as he looked deeply into her eyes.

“I’m not serious,” he admitted finally. “I just don’t understand why you took this job for him if you hate being here so much.”

“He’s been under a lot of pressure lately. Your manic-depressive wolf didn’t help his stress level any. He’s a
good friend. He was almost my brother-in-law once upon a time.”

“Hmmm. In a lucid moment Frank’s brother realized his folly and broke the engagement?”

“He had severe diabetes. He died on his thirtieth birthday from a heart attack. Satisfied?”

He was silent for a moment, studying her shrewdly. “I apologize for doubting your sainthood.”

“Spare me the alligator tears.”

Her breath short, feeling a little light-headed from their intense conversation and her proximity to his half-naked body—didn’t the man own a shirt?—she twisted back toward the room and swung out a disparaging hand. “I really must have a bedroom upstairs. Something bigger. With air-conditioning.”

“You’re out of luck unless you want to sleep with me.”

“Perish the thought. I’d rather cuddle a tarantula.”

“I can get you one. I’ll leave it in your bed.”

Goose bumps scattered down her spine. She could feel him still gazing at her. At the scar, undoubtedly. “Seen enough?” she demanded, shifting with anger.

“The scar, yes? I think it’s interesting, yes. Dramatic. Not so ugly as you think.”

Shaken by his frankness and insight, she blinked quickly and retorted, “I’m not self-conscious about it. I’m twenty-six years old and I’ve had the scar most of my life. You startled me earlier, that’s all.”
And for some insane reason, I wanted you to think I was beautiful
, she added silently.

“So why do you try to hide it?”

“So that rude boobs won’t ask me how I got it.”

“I’ve already failed the rude-boob test,
chère
. How did you get it?”

“Look, doc, I’m not desperate to share my life story with you. I’m probably the first woman you’ve met who
can’t be persuaded by your Cajun accent or your endearing little French terms. So cool the act.”

“This is the way I always talk,
pichouette
. You’re in Cajun territory now, and it’s nothing like the rest of the world. Get used to it.”

“Nothing like the rest of the world,” she echoed tersely. “Just clannish and backward.”

He grasped her forearms in a swift, angry attack, then lifted her to her tiptoes and stared down into her wide eyes. His expression was intense. “I’ll put you out of my house if I hear that kind of insult again.”

Her face pale, she pried his hands away and stepped back. “Apology offered. I’m not a snob. But just stay out of my way.”

With trembling hands Caroline jerked her scarf off and flung it on the bed. “I claim this barren territory in the name of civilization.”

She pointed to the door, giving him a stern look as she did. His eyes roamed over her hair and she knew it must be a crumpled mess from the scarf. Caroline resisted a near compulsive urge to straighten it. “Out, Dr. Dolittle,” she ordered. “Go get my luggage and leave it by the door. Don’t scratch it up. It cost a small fortune.”

He frowned at her imperious tone and started to make a pithy comment, but someone called his name at the front door. “I’ll be back,” he told her tersely.

“I shall alert the media,” she quipped in an English accent.

And the moment he got beyond the bedroom door, she slammed it.

Some people drank to forget their troubles, or ate too much, or developed other bad habits. Paul Belue played the accordion.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the moonlight,
squeezing a somber tune, his large fingers pressing gracefully into the enamel buttons that substituted for piano keys. His music, like his heritage, was all Cajun. The button accordion was a well-loved part of both.

Dieu!
Caroline Fitzsimmons would keep him up all night figuring out his emotions. She was a bossy, conceited, quick-tempered hellion, and he didn’t need to prove that he could tame that kind of woman.

He liked women; liked being friends with them, liked being nice to them and having them be nice in return. He was thirty-two years old and proud of the loving, long-term relationships he’d enjoyed thus far. There hadn’t been hundreds of women, or even dozens. In fact, he could count the number on his fingers and have fingers left over. Quality not quantity was his motto.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for this she-devil.

He’d given her the worst room in the house when he could have offered her something comfortable upstairs. He’d taken cruel delight in baiting her today.

Then she had removed her glasses and turned her fierce, mesmerizing gaze on him. Her eyes were green around the edges with sharply etched, nearly black perimeters. Near the pupils they were gold. He’d seen such strangely colored eyes in animals, but never in a human before.