Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (10 page)

Way more information than I need to know!

“I’ve embarrassed you. I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m too candid. It’s just that Lance makes me so mad.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I wasn’t embarrassed.”
Much.

“Yeah, right. How about your ex?”

I should have known this conversation would lead to Jake. Can I talk about him? Hah! Why not?
“It wasn’t a sex problem with us,” Veronica revealed with more candor than usual. “Sex does not a marriage make, though.”

Brenda appeared unconvinced about that. “Even so, girl, what were you thinking, marrying and divorcing the same man four times? If he was good in the sack, he must’ve been a world-class two-timer.”

“Actually, I don’t think Jake ever cheated. While we were married, anyhow. He had plenty of women in between, though.”

Brenda tilted her head at her. “Who left who?”

“Jake always leaves. Yeah, I do a bang-up job of provoking arguments and prolonging them, but, dammit, he should stick around until we can resolve things. The arguments were mainly about his poker. But also about me and . . .” Her words trailed off. She really didn’t want to talk about Jake.

Brenda seemed to understand and dropped the subject. “Anyhow, I have a five-year-old daughter, Patti. So, one good thing came out of all that pain.”

“A little girl? How wonderful!” Veronica frowned then.

Brenda read her silent question and answered, “She stays with my mother in Perth Amboy when I’m out of town.”

Veronica was seeing Brenda in a new light, and she liked what she saw.

“Gotta get back to work,” Brenda said, draining the last of her coffee and standing up. “By the way, did I see Famosa coming out of here a while ago?”

“He asked me to dinner tonight.”

Brenda wagged a forefinger at her. “Be careful, toots. Famosa and my ex come from the same hound dog mold. Womanizers to the bone. And you know exactly which bone I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Yeah. She did.

Chapter
9

Laying it on thick, Cajun style . . .

John LeDeux sat in a booth at Dirty Doug’s with Adam Famosa and Caleb Peachey, trying to be heard over the three-piece band blasting out country rock ballads.

He and Caleb were drinking cold beers and inhaling roasted oysters—a house specialty cooked on the barbecue pit out on the deck. Adam was waiting for Ronnie to arrive for their dinner date. Brenda had gone home to be with her daughter overnight.

While Adam and Caleb—also known as Peach, a nickname from his Navy SEAL days—talked about some diving expeditions they’d been on in the past, John looked around the tavern and sighed.
What the hell am I doing here?

John was a Southern boy, Cajun to the core. He felt out of place, disoriented, here in the North. Anywhere, for that matter, when he was away for long from the bayous he loved. Oh, there was a good reason for his being this far North; well, not so good, but a reason just the same. He’d lost a bet with his best friend from college, Harry “Hoot” MacTavish, who had demanded as his prize that John take a job as a stripper for two weeks. Since Hoot lived in Jersey, he had a friend of a friend with connections to a casino in Atlantic City. Never one to back down, John had agreed.

He was there two weeks as one of the “Ten Dudes from Dallas,” not that any of them were from Dallas, except the manager of the group. To his surprise, he had already become bored, despite the female attention, something he usually lapped up whenever he could get it. Hey, he was twenty-two years old;
testosterone
was his middle name.

Then Tante Lulu had shown up, with great timing, to drag him off the premises. When he’d seen her in the Oasis club walking through all the women waving five-dollar bills, he’d about swallowed his tongue. Tante Lulu was a real corker, and he would do anything to please her; everyone in his family felt the same way. So it wasn’t a shock that he’d gotten this summer job on a diving boat due to her contact with Henri Pinot, who had been hired as captain, until he had developed some medical problems.

Which all led to his point of confusion. He had graduated recently from Tulane with a degree in criminal justice. But he had no clue what he wanted to do next. Get a job on a police force somewhere in Southern Louisiana. Apply for the FBI’s training program. Or go to law school, like his half brother, Luc. The stripping had been only a lark. The diving would be a fun diversion. But his future . . . ah, his future . . . That required a serious decision. And yet he was currently buried in a cloud of uncertainty.

Everything moved too fast here in the North. The music, for example, was nothing like the Cajun and zydeco songs of his culture. Yankees didn’t understand ordinary daily expressions like “Sit a spell” or “Over yonder” or the bawdy “Shuck me, suck me, eat me dry,” which everyone knew referred to crawfish. The people were always in a hurry, unlike his Southern comrades who knew there was no point in rushing. The food was bland, not enough spices or Cajun lightning. And they talked too fast. A slow, Southern drawl was much more attractive—and effective, with women, in his experience.

“Rhett, you are so full of it,” Famosa said, jabbing him with an elbow. “Like a drawl is going to get you jack shit with a woman . . . any woman over the age of sixteen, anyhow.”

Apparently, he spoke that last thought aloud, which was a mistake, of course. These two guys, who were ancient—in their thirties, he would guess—liked to tease him about his age and his Southern roots. At least, Famosa did. Peach probably thought it.

“Enough with the Rhett jokes. I live in Louisiana.
Gone With the Wind
took place in Georgia.”

Yankees, Famosa in particular, couldn’t care less whether he came from Tara or Tallahassee; it was the same thing to them.

“You guys think you know so much just because you’re older than me. Well, let me tell you, we Cajuns know stuff from the time we grow hair in our armpits, stuff that makes us more virile than the average Yankee man.”

Peach just shook his head, but Famosa asked, “Yeah? Like what?”

“Most men don’t like to dance. We Cajuns do. Women love men who can dance.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Peach remarked. “I used to be in the Navy SEALs. Women are drawn to them like ants on a”—he grinned—“peach. Didn’t matter if the men could walk straight, let alone dance.” Peach didn’t talk much, and John was surprised that he’d volunteered so much information.

“If dancing is all you Southern boys know how to do well, Bubba, I’m not impressed. Besides, Cubans aren’t bad dancers.” Famosa was speaking now.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! Bubbas come from Texas.”

“Redneck, then,” Famosa razzed him. “Or cracker.”

John shook his head. “Nope, those are usually from Arkansas or Alabama,” he replied with a straight face. “Anyhow, back to Cajun expertise—I didn’t want to say anything, but there is other stuff we Cajun men have that the rest of you don’t.”

“You’re pulling our legs,” Famosa scoffed, but then repeated his previous question, “Like what?”

“Like JuJu tea. Whoo-ee, a daily dose of that and you are one happy stud.”

“I’ll probably regret this, but what is JuJu tea?” Famosa asked him.

“It’s a secret. Honest, ask anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line if Cajun men are sex personified. Some people claim it’s ’cause we eat so much crawfish, fat and all, but we know better. You’ll never find a Cajun man taking Viagra, I’ll tell you that. Yep, JuJu tea.” He sat back, took a long swig of beer, and just waited.

“Are you bullshitting us?” Peach piped in.

He grinned. “My sister-in-law’s family mass-produces the stuff. Ships it out by the truckloads. I can get you some if you want.”

“I don’t need it,” Famosa bragged.

“Me neither,” Peach added.

But John could tell they were interested. They’d probably Google it on their computers when they got home tonight.

“Actually,” Peach offered, “I’ve always thought the best aphrodisiac for a man is a naked woman.”

They all agreed on that.

“Let me ask you this,” John said, and took a long draw on his beer to make sure he had their attention. “Do you know what a woman says after her fifth orgasm?”

Peach stifled a grin, sensing what was coming next. But Famosa said, “What?”

“You have to ask? You mean, you don’t know?” John laughed. “My point exactly. Yankee men could learn a lot from us Cajuns.”

Famosa and Peach both groaned.

After taking a long drink of beer, Famosa said, “I saw a guy wearing a T-shirt yesterday that said, ‘Most women fake orgasms; most men don’t care.’”

John’s mind was boggled by that idea. Then he shook his head. “He couldn’t have been a Cajun. We know better.”

“I was just joking, for chrissake.”

John wasn’t so sure about that.

Just then, John noticed a girl who was standing near the bar with her girlfriends. She wore tight white jeans, a fringed shirt, cowboy boots, and bright red lipstick. Plus, she was blonde. His kind of girl!

“Learn from an expert, boys,” he said. Shoving Famosa to let him out of the booth, he stood, then pretended to crack his knuckles in preparation. Once he walked across the short dance floor and cut the girl from her girlfriends’ herd, he stood in front of his target and said, “Hey, darlin’.”

She smiled like a cat who’d just been offered a saucer of cream.

Yep, a good drawl would do it every time.

Jumping headfirst into the deep end of the dating pool . . .

It was dark by the time Veronica arrived at Dirty Doug’s, where Adam was waiting for her in a booth with Caleb Peachey. She saw John LeDeux out on the small dance floor with a cute blonde, and holy cow, the boy could dance!

She was a little late, having tried on five different outfits, finally settling on black jeans; low-heeled shoes; and a filmy, almost transparent, gold metallic blouse that tapered at the waist and floated over her hips, providing a hazy view of her black bra and bare abdomen. Vacillating over clothing choices was a new experience for her, which pretty much proved her grandmother’s contention that they were alike. Tailored suits had been the garment du jour for them both. Not anymore for Veronica, though, she promised herself.

Loud country and rock music, provided by a three-piece band on a dais, filled the room, making it difficult for people to carry on a conversation. Although she much preferred groups like Aerosmith—being from Boston, that was almost a given—Veronica liked some country songs, much to her grandmother’s consternation and Jake’s amusement. If it wasn’t classical music, her grandmother considered it trash. If it wasn’t Sting, Jake wasn’t interested. In particular, she liked Kenny Chesney and K.D. Lang. And Sheryl Crow’s version of “The First Cut Is the Deepest”—a concept Veronica didn’t entirely buy. She knew from experience that all cuts went deep . . . all four of them, in her case.

Adam stood when he noticed her walking toward him.
Good heavens, are those leather pants he has on?
While he waited with a smile on his face, his eyes traveled over her body.
Yep, the gold slut blouse had been the right choice.

“Hi, Adam,” she said.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he replied, which was a too-obvious line she found distasteful. Caleb must have, too, because he cringed.

“I’m really glad you came,” Adam added, squeezing her shoulder.

She slid into the booth, and he followed after her, his hip pressed deliberately against hers. Across the table Caleb just watched the two of them, a serious expression on his face.

“Hi, Caleb,” she said.

“Ronnie.”

She saw Adam give Caleb a look, which she interpreted to mean, “Get lost.”

Caleb pretended not to notice, and studied his beer bottle when he wasn’t studying her.

Adam tried to get the waitress’s attention then, but the place was so busy, it didn’t look promising. “I’ll go to the bar and get our drinks. What would you like, Ronnie?”

“White wine?”

“Sure.” Adam glanced at Caleb and asked, “Wanna come with me?”

Caleb didn’t even blink when he answered, “No.”

She and Caleb were left alone then.

Veronica was kind of glad that Caleb had stayed. Adam came on a bit too strong, and she might need a “chaperon.” The thought made her smile. A Navy SEAL chaperon? Oh, yeah!

“Are you and Adam an item?” Caleb asked, stone-cold serious.

Did the man ever smile?

“An item?” She laughed.

“Exclusive,” he explained.

She realized something in that instant. Even though Caleb hadn’t said anything or acted in any obvious way, she sensed that he was interested in her . . . as a woman.
Two men in one day. Do wonders never cease?

“I don’t even know Adam. This is just a first date.”

“So, the answer is no?”

“Yes, Caleb, the answer is no.”

He showed no expression at that news, not pleasure or distaste. But the interest was definitely there.

Possible involvement with Caleb scared her . . . almost as much as reinvolvement with Jake. Adam she could handle, because she knew it would be a fling. Not so with Caleb. The guy had red neon signs flashing “Danger” all over him. Same with Jake.

“Do you ever smile?” she blurted out.

Her question caught him off guard. But then he did smile, and Veronica almost reeled at the impact. The man was drop-dead, come-here-baby gorgeous. She’d known he was attractive before, in a silent, brooding sort of way, but when he smiled . . . whew! The temperature in the room went up a few degrees. She needed to change the subject, quick, lest she do something foolish, like ask him for a date.

“Is it true that you’re Amish?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is your family still Amish?”

“Yes, well, I assume they are. I haven’t seen or heard from them in fifteen years.”

She tilted her head, confused. He said the words flatly, as if they didn’t matter, but something in his whiskey brown eyes said different.

“I’m being shunned.”

Veronica thought she knew what that meant. “Your family can’t be in contact with you?” Reflexively, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand in sympathy.

He just stared at her hand on his, as if it was something he did not understand or was unaccustomed to.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Why are you being shunned? When did you leave the clan? Is there some girl you left behind? What made you become a SEAL? Aren’t Amish pacifists? Why did you opt out of SEALs?

But he was clearly annoyed at her intrusive questions. That was proved true when he pulled his hand out from under hers and asked, “How is it that you married and divorced the same man four times?”

She felt her face heat with embarrassment. “Touché!”

He nodded at her backhanded apology.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, so she rattled on. “What do you do for a living now? Wreck diving?”

He shook his head. “I’ve only been out of the teams for six months. I do a little commercial diving—oil rigs, bridge abutments, that kind of thing. Not sure what I want to do next. I’m sort of drifting.” That was a long spiel for Caleb, and his face reddened as a result.