Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (11 page)

“Ronnie’s right,” Jake said. “I want this to be private. Our wedding.”

If she didn’t already love this guy, she would now, for understanding. “I don’t mind a bit of outrageousness, but let it be
our
outrageousness, okay?” she said to Tante Lulu.

The old lady nodded, but her brain was probably already in woo-woo land planning stuff. Veronica would worry about that later.

“Hey, we could call this the Pirate Marriage,” she said to Jake. They’d given names to all their previous marriages: the Sappy Marriage, the Cowboy Marriage, the Tequila Marriage, and the Insanity Marriage.

“Nope. Remember, honey, I told you that the next time we get married, it was going to be called the Forever Marriage.”

She kissed him then, despite their audience.

It was absolute chaos then as everyone had congratulations and opinions to offer.

From Caleb: “Hey, best of luck. Just don’t let her talk you into a farm.”

From Adam: “Hey, I have a cousin who plays in a Cuban salsa band. I could see if he’s available to play at your wedding.”

From Tante Lulu: “Salsa? I thought salsa was some kinda hot sauce. Nope, René’s band will play Cajun music, and that’s that.”

From John: “You guys have been together a looong time. Betcha need to spice up the dirty. Not to worry. I can help with the honeymoon. I have a friend who owns a sex toy company, and—”

Celine snorted.

John winked at her and continued, “I could get you a special deal on some items which would juice up your sex life.”

“Tee-John LeDeux! Shush yer mouth!” Tante Lulu reached over and swatted him on the head with a palmetto fan.

“Our sex life has plenty of juice, thank you very much,” Jake told John.

From Brenda: “It better be soon. I’m not walking down the aisle wearing one of those god-awful bridesmaid gowns with a big belly. And, no, Tante Lulu, I’m not going to be a female pirate with a big belly, either.” Even when she wasn’t pregnant, Brenda had an obsession with her weight and was always on a diet. She refused to believe that men loved her voluptuous figure. And, hey, who said anything about a big wedding that would require bridesmaids . . . or even an aisle, for heaven’s sake?

From Celine: “I could do a nice write-up about the wedding for—”

“No!” every single other person yelled.

Veronica could only imagine what that article would involve. “Love: Better the Fifth Time Around.”

But then Tante Lulu went off on a long-winded ramble, “I’m thinkin’ a five-tiered cake. Do ya prefer lemon or raspberry or praline fillin’? We gotta move lickety-split if we’s gonna reserve the hall fer another day that week. Okay, okay, mebbe not so soon. Still, we gotta plan. Mebbe I should call yer grandmother up in Boston and see if she wants ta help. When ya get a chance, Ronnie, could ya give me a guest list? ’Cause this is yer weddin’. I wouldn’t wanna be takin’ over or anythin’.”

Veronica stopped listening after Tante Lulu mentioned her grandmother. The thought of the Cajun dingy and her uptight lawyer grandmother was enough to give Veronica a stroke. Jake winked at her, having experienced her grandmother’s “help” in the past.

It was a half hour and three aspirins later before Veronica was able to pull the meeting back to order. Tante Lulu had gone into the cook tent to gather up her belongings for the return trip to the cabin. She wasn’t going back to Houma, like she and Jake, but, instead, would remain at the cabin ’til the others came back this evening, probably preparing enough food for an army. Glancing at her wristwatch, she noticed that time was flying. Remy would be at the cabin in an hour, and they needed to be at the New Orleans Airport by four P.M. for their return flight to Jersey.

“Okay, let’s discuss today’s operations. We watched your progress on camera feed to the computers, of course, but that’s not the same as firsthand experience,” Veronica said. “You first, Adam.”

“We used the magnetometer along with high–grade metal detectors over four grids, covering roughly five hundred square feet. All we’ve come up with so far are a fishing rod, two beer cans that probably came in from a more populated area, and a rustic skinning knife which might very well have some historic value. Houma Indian provenance, maybe.”

“Diving in the bayou is totally different from our ocean dives,” Caleb pointed out. “Here, depth and possible narcosis aren’t issues, but visibility is. Man, it’s like swimming through a cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, but visibility is still possible in that kind of water, and it’s pure water, too,” John contended. “The problem isn’t the clarity of the stream, but raking up mud at the bottom. Every time we even touch the bottom we ruin that site for at least a day ’til it settles down.”

“If there’s one thing my grandfather taught me, it’s that every treasure hunt runs into unforeseen problems. You have to adapt as you go,” Veronica said. “So we adapt. We’ll look at the maps again. Instead of following consecutive grids . . . in the lawn mower pattern . . . we’ll start with an X-pattern, bottom left to top right, then bottom right to top left. Only after we’ve completed those spots will we try the remaining squares. Do you follow me?”

Everyone agreed, some offering opinions.

“There’s something else,” John said, rubbing a hand over his mouth as if in deep thought. “I’m not so sure that the treasure is underwater. Yeah, I know Tante Lulu’s map would indicate that it is, but who knows? If this water grid doesn’t work out, I don’t think we should enlarge it to encompass more of the stream. Nope, I think we should hit the land on either side.”

“Do we have enough shovels for those kinds of digs?” Caleb asked.

“I think so,” Veronica said, “but if we don’t, we can order more through Remy.”

After discussing other aspects of the day’s search and what would be done that afternoon, she concluded, “That’s it, then. Jake and I will be back soon. Call if you have any problems. Anything else?”

Caleb raised his hand. “Do we have enough snake antidote?”

Chapter
10

John was dirty, exhausted and about to be reamed by Celine when she found out that she was going to be forced to stay here at the work site with him tonight. Alone.

Ronnie, Jake, Julie Ann, and Tante Lulu were long gone, and Peach, Famosa, and Brenda were preparing to return to the cabin in two pirogues. It would be a shorter trip back since they would be riding with the current. But someone needed to stay behind and guard the site and all the expensive equipment, which meant him. And Celine, according to Chief Pinot’s orders.

At the last minute, he took Celine by the upper arm and drew her back. “What . . . what are you doing?” she asked as the two pirogues took off without her. “Let me go. That’s the last of the pirogues.” Jerking away from him, she ran several yards down the bank, slipping and sliding in the mud. “Hey! Wait for me!” she yelled.

No one bothered to stop. In fact, Famosa—ever Mr. Clueless—waved to her.

Sputtering with rage and tossing out a few expletives that would do a Bourbon Street pimp proud, she finally accepted that she was going to be staying here, unless she was up to a really long walk through what would soon be evening in the swampland. Slowly, she turned, inch by inch, to confront him. She was so angry she practically had smoke coming out of her blazing eyes.

He stood up by the cook tent, munching on an apple. His aunt had left them fresh fruit and vegetables, along with a large cooler full of perishables.

“I can explain,” he said.

“I doubt it.”

“There’s a good reason for you to stay.”

“I doubt it.”

“Chief’s orders.”

“And you knew this . . . when?”

“This morning.”

She made a low growling sound as her hands moved into claw formation, about to launch herself at him. The problem was, she had been standing in the mud pudding too long, and she’d sunk down to the tops of her leather boots. Launching herself was out of the question as moist sucking sounds filled the air with each of her plodding steps.

He thought about laughing, but then decided not to be totally stupid. Tossing the core of his apple aside, he walked over to the edge of the clearing, avoiding the mud. “Do you need my help?”

She gave him a killing glance.

Still, he held a hand out to her.

In her attempt to avoid contact with his hated self, she backed up, slipped, and fell on her butt with a wet splatting noise. Mud spattered everywhere.

“You’re a mess,” he remarked idly.

“Bite me,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied and stepped into the mud. Picking her up by the waist, he walked over to the stream, with her kicking and screaming. Stepping carefully into the shallows ’til he was up to his knees, he dropped Celine.
Kerplunk!

Surprised, she sank under the water, like a dead weight.

Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her back up.

Sputtering and spitting out a combination of mud and water and various descriptions of his character in not-so-complimentary language, she staggered, trying to regain her balance. “Where are you going, you low-down, sneaky weasel?” she asked.

Okaaay. Friendly, I am not gonna get.
“I’m gonna get some of that environmentally friendly soap that René sent. We both need a bath.”

“Oh, great! Leave me to be eaten by an alligator or snake or something.”

He laughed. “Honey, you’ve scared off every animal within a one-mile radius with all your squawking.”

Oops, maybe squawk wasn’t the right word.

She made a hissing noise.

Note to self: do not use the word squawk again.

She was dunking her body underwater, for the fourth time, when he returned. Placing two towels on a dry section of the bank, he shucked his shirt, shorts, boots, and socks, leaving only his black boxer briefs. If that offended her, so be it. Her bad mood was rubbing off on him. He smelled like sweat and mud and his skin itched. And she was annoying the hell out of him.

He sent the soap floating toward her, then dived underwater. The bottom had been stirred up here; so he swam underwater ’til the water was more clear. Crawfish scampered out of his way along with a sac-à-lait, three catfish, and a bream. He would try his hand at fishing later. The thought of fish cooked over an open fire caused his empty stomach to rumble.

Lungs bursting, he finally rose up straight out of the water with a big splash. Orca couldn’t have done it better. He stood and combed his hair back off his face. She was about twenty feet away, shampooing her hair.

For one brief second he allowed himself the luxury of taking in a Celine like he’d never seen before. Her arms were raised as she combed her wet hair back off her face. Her posture caused her breasts and the hint of nipples to be prominent under the skin-hugging T-shirt.

He’d have to be made of stone not to react to the sensuality of her pose. Hard-core arousal shot through his body and lodged in lust central. Brain-dead under testosterone overload, he started to walk toward her in the thigh-deep water, but stopped abruptly, calling himself ten times a fool.

Then she raised her T-shirt over her head, and shimmied out of her shorts.

He went still, his heart thundering so hard he could barely breathe.

Oblivious, she used the bar of soap to wash her clothing. Was she crazy? He was a man, and they were alone. She had turned now, and all he could see was her back and the band of a flesh-colored bra.

“You don’t have to wash those,” he said weakly.

She swung around with surprise.

Despite using sunscreen, her face had a healthy glow, framed by hair that appeared black with wetness, accentuated by the incredible blue of her eyes. How could he not have seen how pretty she was before?

“You are a pig,” she said, noticing the direction of his stare.

Maybe not so pretty. And certainly not friendly.

She resumed soaping up her shirt and shorts.

“Why are you doing that?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking why she was washing her clothes or why she was standing there, practically naked, tantalizing him.

“I refuse to spend the night in filthy clothes.” She slanted him a glance which told him loud and clear that she knew the effect she was having on him.

He dived underwater again, coming up about five feet in front of her. “There are clean, dry clothes in your duffel bag up in the equipment tent,” he said, making sure he didn’t look below her chin. “And you better get them on pretty damn quick before I do something really stupid.”

“What?”

“Brenda packed up your stuff for you.” He ignored her real question.

“And you waited ’til now to tell me?”

“When would I have had a chance? You were too busy squa . . . I mean, yelling at me.”
And tempting the bejesus out of me.

She threw the soap at him.

He caught it and began to soap up his chest, arms, underarms, hair, and then face, dipping himself under the water to wash off. Noticing that she was watching him, he slowed down, making sure she got a good show.

When she realized what he was doing, she snorted with disgust and continued to rinse off her clothing.

Once he was sufficiently clean, he glanced her way again, giving himself the treat of seeing a semi-clad Celine crawling up the bank. Whoo-boy! It was well worth the slap which was sure to come later if he was caught mid-ogle. The flesh-colored bra was pretty well transparent when wet, showcasing full breasts with up-tilted pink nipples, and the panties were outlined by two perfectly round buttocks. He whistled his appreciation.

She froze, half-turned, like a deer in the headlights, her nipples getting even harder and more visible as the seconds ticked by like hours. Shaking her head to clear it, she resumed climbing up the bank, saying, “We are not having sex,” whether to him or herself, he wasn’t sure.

“I never thought we were,” he said to her back.
Liar!

“Pfff! You didn’t have to say it. It was in your eyes.”

“I can’t help what’s in my eyes,” he argued.
Or down below.

But then she stepped onto the bank, and he got a full-blown view of her ass in low-riding, flesh colored panties, and of the backs of her knees—
What is it with me and knees lately? Jeesh!
—which were really, really . . . um, interesting, and the small of her back which was also . . . um, interesting.
Is that a tramp stamp there? Oh, God, I am lost, lost, lost if she has a tattoo almost riding her butt.
No, it was just a piece of grass.

Unapologetically, he watched her walk up the slight incline before the tents. Up, down, up, down, up, down, went her buttocks. She had the beat down pat. It was better than an X-rated video.

But he was a gentleman.
Most of the time.
He would keep his mouth shut.
For now.
He would give Celine time to dress.
Five minutes max. Then, here I come, ready or not.
He would talk to her then, explain why the situation had to be this way, and everything would be peachy keen.
Ha, ha, ha.

He decided it was better if he stayed in the water for a while longer. His brain, and that other organ, needed a good talking to.

Celine had refused to speak or listen to John for the past hour until her temper calmed down. Since that didn’t appear to be on the horizon anytime soon, she walked downstream to where he was fishing with a makeshift pole.

“John . . . ?”

Without turning to her, he snapped, “What?” Then, more softly, “Now you’re gonna talk to me?” He actually had the nerve to sound hurt.

“Don’t you think I have reason to be upset?”

He shrugged. “You knew comin’ into this project, uninvited, that there might be problems.”

“Problems, yeah. Kidnapping, no.”

He turned. “Not kidnapping. Protective custody. Sort of.”

“Bull!”

“Hey, it’s either this or go back to Houma where you’ll immediately be picked up by the authorities. The chief says you need to be watched 24/7 ’til the trial is over. He’s suspicious of your obsession with me and this project.”

She inhaled sharply. “I am
not
obsessed with you.”

“I’m just sayin’, darlin’,” he drawled.

She hated it when he drawled. Or was it that she hated it that she liked it when he drawled.
Aaarrgh!
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You are a major liability now, babe.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. My partner, Tank Woodrow, was winged by a sniper, and he was five frickin’ miles out on the Gulf in his boat. Right now, he’s in temporary witness protection. Two other witnesses in the Playpen bust have been receiving death threats. And the word on the street is that the Lorenzo family has ordered a hit on me.

“Plus, the security alarm at my house has gone off six times since I’ve been gone. Vanguard is threatening to drop me as a customer.”

“Oh, my God!”

“I don’t think anyone can connect me with René or Luc’s cabins, but it’s a chance I can no longer take for me . . . or for you. Besides, it’s out of my hands.”

She let out a whooshy exhale. “I’m a mother, John. I can’t cut myself off from Etienne and my grandfather.”

“You told me they were out of town.”

“They are, but I have to keep in touch. I call my son every night. My cell phone doesn’t get a signal out here.”

“It doesn’t get a signal at René’s cabin, either.”

“John, I have to keep in touch. What if there were an emergency?” She gulped. “This is a nightmare.”

“All we can do is make the best of it.”

“I am not having sex with you.”

He laughed. “I meant that we can agree to be amicable ’til this situation is resolved.”

“Oooh, oooh, look. You have something on your line.”

His rod was bent over in the middle with the force of his catch. With an expertise born no doubt of years on the bayou, he played the line . . . first tugging the fish in a bit, then giving it some lead, each time pulling it in a closer ’til finally he had it dangling over the water’s surface.

He had nice hands, she thought. Long, thin fingers which would probably be just as expert at . . .
no, no, no, I am not going there.

“Look at that sweetheart,” John said, smiling at her.

Only belatedly did she realize he was referring to the fish as sweetheart, not her.

It was a big, ugly catfish with beady eyes and bristly whiskers. Frankly, she was more interested in his sexy smile.
What’s happening to me? I must still be feeling the effects of that blasted juju tea.

“Fish on the menu tonight, darlin’,” he crooned.

In her hormone-warped brain, Celine thought at first that he had said, “Sex on the menu tonight, darlin’.”

Could it possibly be wishful thinking on my part?

Impossible! It must be the Louisiana sun melting my brain.

Disgusted with herself, she sank down to a grassy spot and watched in silence as he continued to fish, sometimes wading carefully into the water. It was a companionable silence she felt no need to disturb.

Like the area surrounding René’s cabin, it was beautiful here. Lush and serene. The air was heavy with floral scents, which could be almost anything in this tropical atmosphere; close by, she saw spider lilies, wild iris, and verbena. Birds chirped in the thick trees, one strain in particular sounded mournful, almost like a cat crying.

Noticing her head tilted in question, John told her, “Doves.” Then added, with a wink, “Lovebirds.”

Celine felt her cheeks burn, and not from the sun. How pathetic, that she was being turned on by a wink from that devil John LeDeux, who probably winked at grocery store baggers as easily as women he was attracted to. Not that she was in the latter category. He was just playing her . . . like the fish.

Resting her chin on her upraised knees, her hands folded in front of her calves, she continued to watch him, trying to figure out why she was suddenly attracted to such an unlikely man for her. Well, not so suddenly. She had always considered him good-looking from when she’d seen him on entering high school in Houma for the first time. He’d been surrounded by a group of equally good-looking girls.