Hot Touch

“
I can’t concentrate if you look at me that way,” Paul warned
.

“What way?” Caroline asked innocently.

“Don’t the men in Beverly Hills tell you how sexy you look when you dance?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, teasing him. “Lots of men. All handsome and wealthy.”

“So what are they doing while you’re in Louisiana?”

She smiled wickedly. “Crying.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll come back?”

“Oh, you’re mean,” she said, tapping his cheek playfully.

Paul turned his head and caught her thumb between his teeth and nibbled for a moment before he turned her loose. Caroline’s lashes fluttered, and he was irresistibly tempted. He knew she wanted him, and that he could win her over, but he needed time. And the band was starting to play a slow dance.…

Paul Belue slammed both large, sinewy fists onto the tabletop with a force that sent a shiver through the crowded trailer. He was happy to note that everyone from the producer to the script girl jumped.

“Nobody works with Wolf but me! He doesn’t need another trainer, no! He doesn’t need stress reduction or better vibes! Look, I’ve had enough! I let you film in my house, and you’ve turned the whole bottom floor into an obstacle course! I nearly kill myself going to the kitchen! Enough! You’re not bringing some silly woman in here to use some sort of silly California techniques on my timber wolf!”

“Dr. Belue, you’re yelling again. We agreed that you wouldn’t yell,” the director said firmly.

Paul glared at a spike-haired young woman, then at Frank Windham. “Cajuns yell!” he bellowed, waving his hands. The crowd of people leaned back, their faces chalk white.

Their silent reaction was what he’d come to expect. Movie people,
poo-yie!
They didn’t know how to have a good, loud, soul-satisfying fight. That’s why Frank, the producer, suffered from tension headaches. Even now
Frank was rubbing his fingers against the silver-streaked brown hair at his temples.

“We have a contract, you prickly s.o.b.,” Frank reminded him smoothly. “And I’m losing thousands of dollars every day that your mutt refuses to work. You have no choice. If you don’t let me bring a professional trainer here, I’ll sue you up one side of the bayou and down the other.”

Paul leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and eyed the producer lethally. “I see.”

“A lot of producers swear by this trainer. She’s worked with the biggest names in the business—Spuds MacKenzie, Benji, Morris the Cat. Her effect on animals is almost eerie.”

“Bien,” Paul retorted dryly. “A Beverly Hills witch.”

“You’ll like her. I promise.”

Frank was proud of his skill in diplomacy, but he knew he’d just told a whopper of a lie. Inside her small circle of friends Caroline was respected and adored. Outside that circle she was merely respected. He’d seen her reduce troublemakers to shreds, and she was already in a foul mood over this job.

Paul Belue commanded respect in general and something more where women were concerned—slavelike devotion. Every female on the set thought he was part Clark Gable, part Cajun Gypsy, and all stud.

But Caroline wasn’t a typical woman. When she got through with him, he’d carry his hide away in little pieces.

“Wolf won’t obey anyone but me,” Paul informed him.

“Then why won’t he pay attention to your commands anymore? You’re a veterinarian. Why don’t you give him an antidepressant or something?”

Paul rose to his feet slowly, his exuberant anger turning quieter, more deadly. “I’d rather stuff
you
with antidepressants. Wolf doesn’t need them. Just give me time to figure him out. He’s not as simple as a dog.”

“He’s half Labrador retriever. Figure that half out while the trainer takes care of the rest.”

“Or you’ll sue me for breach of contract?”

“Does an alligator have fins?” the producer retorted sarcastically.

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Whatever. I want Wolf back to peak performance as soon as possible. Come on, Paul, he’s going to be a
star
. He’s going to make a bundle of money for you. Don’t throw it all away because of pride.”

Defeat and frustration coiled inside Paul’s chest. He needed Frank’s money too badly to argue. Damn, the money problem was like a sharp knife always jabbing at him. His temper was frayed because of it.

“All right, mon ami,” he said in a low voice, his jaw clenched. “Bring on the lady trainer, but you be responsible when Wolf chews one of her hands off. And if she causes any trouble, Wolf will be the least of her worries.”

Hell would have been cooler.

Caroline Fitzsimmons stared out the limousine’s window at steam rising off the ghostly, moss-draped forest from a recent rain. How could a state be so ethereally beautiful and so hot at the same time? She tapped the intercom button imperiously.

“Driver?”

“Yes’m, what can I do for you?” The chauffeur had a thick drawl that grated on her nerves. It was actually a pretty accent with all those lazy vowels and dropped g’s, but it stirred up odd sensations that disturbed her because she couldn’t quite recall the memories behind them.

“Is everything here covered in some sort of growing vegetation?” she demanded. “If I stand outside too long, will I sprout leaves?”

“Ma’am?”

He had missed the joke. “Spanish moss, vines, etcetera. Is it all like this?”

“Oh. Yes’m. The Cajun country’s semitropical. That’s why it’s a great place for growing sugarcane and rice.”

“Lovely,” she muttered under her breath. “Sweets and starch.” To the driver she said, “What’s the temperature this morning?”

“Only seventy degrees. Perfect fall weather.”

“What’s the humidity?”

“About eighty percent.”

“Perfect fall weather if you like to live in a sauna,” she muttered. “Thank you.”

Caroline flicked the intercom off, slipped a Walkman headset over her ears, and listened to a tape of soothing ocean sounds. Here she was, three hours from the civilization of New Orleans, speeding through a moody, junglelike land of swamps and marshes, while her permanent went limp even in the air-conditioned limousine.

If the wolf didn’t respond quickly, she’d bite him
.

Big Daddy regularly wandered out of the swamp that adjoined Grande Rivage to nap in the plantation’s long gravel driveway. Paul suspected that he enjoyed the warm gravel and the shady canopy of oak trees. Or maybe he just liked to hear colorful Cajun curses.

“Lousy ’gator, I should have you stuffed and mounted out here,” Paul threatened.

“Where does a twenty-foot alligator sleep?” Ed Thompson asked as they circled the big reptile carefully. “Anywhere he wants to.”

“Let’s grab his tail. On the count.
Un, deux, trois.
”

They latched onto Big Daddy’s tail and spent the next two minutes hopelessly trying to budge the alligator. Paul glanced up at the wiry young black man pulling beside him. Sweat streamed down Ed’s bare chest
and soaked the waist of his khaki shorts. His face was contorted with effort. “Ed, this is like a pair of flies trying to drag the Loch Ness monster. Let’s go get the tractor.”

Ed nodded. “They never told us about this in college. Zoology was supposed to be glamorous.”

“Nothing glamorous about ’gator rasslin’,
mon ami
.”

Paul heard the sound of a car in the distance. He looked down the driveway, and after a stunned moment cursed loudly.

It must be the animal trainer. In a limo. A limo. Even the brat-pack types in the movie had come down from New Orleans in a chartered bus.

“Definitely impressive,” Ed commented.

“Ridiculous.”

An idea occurred to Paul, and he perused Big Daddy thoughtfully. “Leave him, Ed. Go feed the panthers. I’ll take care of this.”

“Fine.” They dropped Big Daddy’s massive tail and danced away as the alligator flipped it from side to side. “Are you just going to let him stay here like an ugly speed bump?”

“I’ll think of something.”

Ed nodded again, then headed for the trail to the wild animal compound.

Caroline looked up from reading
Vogue
as the limousine came to a stop. She peered out the window and gasped in awe at the magnificent trees that lined the drive. Their massive, gnarled trunks proclaimed great age. She could almost picture Rhett and Scarlett driving past them in a horse-drawn carriage.

She drew her earphones off and punched the intercom button. “Is this the Grande Rivage plantation?”

“Yes’m. The driveway, anyhow.”

“It’s magnificent. But why are we stopping?”

“There’s a man and an alligator in the middle of the road.”

Caroline lifted her brows drolly. “They’ve been run over?”

“No, ma’am. At least—I’m not sure about the alligator, but the man’s okay. He waved for me to stop.”

“Well, please tell him to move his walking handbag out of the way. I’m in a hurry.”