Hot Touch (10 page)

She gazed at him in surprise when he heaved a sigh of relief. “I see,” he said succinctly, as if he’d just figured out something new about her. Then he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and smiled as if she were a wayward child.

“Come on, llama mama. And cut the crap.” He ambled down the walkway toward the Corvette and waved one hand in a nonchalant “follow-me” gesture.

He hadn’t bought the nasty routine at all. He could see right through her and he knew she was running scared.

Her face burning with embarrassment, Caroline followed him.

It was a typical Friday night, and half the parish seemed to be at Beaujean’s, a dance hall and restaurant on the outskirts of a hamlet some Cajun with a sense of humor had named Breaux LaMonde. Paul always thought that the name made Breaux LaMonde sound bigger and fancier than it was.

There was nothing fancy about Beaujean’s long, low building with its neon alligator sign, but there didn’t need to be. The appeal was intangible, but like most things Cajun, it would charm anyone who gave it a chance.

Paul guided a rather subdued Caroline inside a noisy dining room where the decor featured paneled walls dotted with beer signs and practical wooden chairs and tables covered with plain white cloths.

Waitresses swayed among the tables, balancing plates of steaming seafood and pitchers of beer. In one corner a four-man band was testing sound equipment.

One band member raised a mug and yelled, “Ah do ba-lieve it’s Monsieur Belue, the movie star! How you doin’,
cher
?”

“
Comme-ci, comme-ça,
” he answered, grinning.

Out of the corner of her mouth Caroline said to him, “Is that good?”

“Fair to middlin’.”

The crowd included young and old, families and couples, all neatly dressed, which gave the raucous atmosphere a wholesome touch despite the copious amounts of beer. A mural on one wall depicted a bayou surrounded by cypress trees. On the dock of a levee an old man sat fishing.

Painted across the bottom of the mural in big, flowing script were the words
Laissez le bon temps rouler!

Caroline pointed to the words. “Shop at Fred’s fish market?”

Paul laughed, “Let the good times roll. You’ll hear that a lot around here.”

He watched as Caroline’s sleek black outfit drew stares from everyone. The off-the-shoulder sweater was modest by most standards, but it exposed a tantalizing portion of her upper chest and molded itself to pretty breasts no man could resist studying. She had long, slender legs, and the black slacks were a perfect way to show them off.

By the time she slid into the chair Paul held out, her face had the shuttered look he was getting to know so well. “They’re staring at me,” she whispered. She sat very straight and casually let a swathe of red-gold hair cover her scar.

He sat down across from her and leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. “They think you’re a movie star.”

“Hah.” She glanced around. “It’s very, ummm, down-home. Everyone looks like they just came from a PTA meeting.” She paused, frowning. “They look friendly, but I wish most of them weren’t speaking French.”

He took her hand. It was icy. “Relax, Caroline. How about some beer?”

“
Oui
.” She nodded almost desperately. “Oh, oui.”

Two beers later she had her elbows on the table and her hair shoved behind her ears. Paul coaxed her to tell stories about her work with famous animal actors and blessed his intuition when eagerness came into her eyes. He loved listening to her voice and watching her face.

Each time she laughed or smiled he caught his breath a little. A world of kindness lay deep inside her, and it showed as she talked about her work with animals.

When dinner came she stared down at it, and her humor faded. “What did you order for me? Where’s the
person who’s supposed to help me eat it? Why are those crawfish so red? Are they embarrassed? They ought to be, because this is an outrageous amount of food.”

“
Dieu!
” he exclaimed, laughing. “Look, it’s a combination.” He pointed to different specialties. “Fried ’gator, fried catfish, boiled crawdads, stuffed crab, jambalaya, and a cup of gumbo. Be careful. It’s all spicy.”

She took a bite of crab and her eyes watered. He handed her a glass of beer; she swallowed a gulp of it and sighed. “I like it.”

“
Bien!
Can you finish it?”

“Sure. The first bite nuked my taste buds. They’re numb.”

By the time they finished dinner, the band cranked up its first song, a rousing tune that got many of the diners on their feet. The singer belted the French lyrics out in a nasal yodel.

“Sounds as if he’s hollering for help,” Caroline observed drolly, but her fingertips were keeping time on the table.

“It’s ‘La Porte en Arrière.’ It’s very popular—sort of a Cajun national anthem.”

“
Bien
!” she said loudly.

He looked at her with amusement. She gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve had too much beer. I don’t usually drink.”

“Say something else in French.”

She thought for a moment, then drew herself up proudly and pointed toward the mural. “
Latex la bon tom Rolaids.
”

Paul laughed until his stomach hurt. When he finally managed to stop he noticed that her smile had faded into a pensive look.

“I don’t drink much because my mother’s drinking was responsible for this.” She gestured toward her scar.

He grimaced. “Oh, no,
chère
, this isn’t a night for brooding, no. Forget about your mother. Come on.”

Before her mood could turn darker, he led her to the dance floor. The music was a twangy mixture of accordion, guitar, fiddle, and drums with a fast rhythm.

“Can you two-step,
chère
?”

“Certainly!”

“Ow. I said two-step, not toe-step.”

“Sorry. Keep your feet out of my way.”

“My feet are supposed to lead, you she-devil. I’m the boy, you’re the girl, and—”

“Okay, okay, quit beating your chest and hold me against it. I’ll do whatever you do.”

That offer was too good to tamper with, so he pulled her to him and suffered her stomping gladly. Several songs later she had mastered both the two-step and the waltz, and then she looked up at him with excited, half-shut eyes as if she were experiencing something new and much more delicious than dancing.

“I absolutely love this.”

Paul nearly groaned. “I can’t concentrate if you look at me that way,” he warned in a solemn voice.

“What way?”

“What way? she says. Don’t the men in Beverly Hills tell you how sexy you look when you dance?”

“Sure. All the time.”

“Lots of men, yes?”

Her guarded look came back. “Several.”

“Anyone special?”

“They’re all special, each in his own way.”

“Tell me about them.”

She laughed, sounding a little awkward. “They’re all handsome and wealthy.”

“You’re not talking, right?”

“Right.”

Paul wondered if she had someone important in California, or at least someone she cared about. Nah. Why
would the brutally honest Caroline be evasive when he asked her about it?

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

She smiled wickedly. “Crying.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll come back?”

“Oooh, mean!”

She slapped his cheek playfully; he turned his head and caught her thumb between his teeth, then sucked it for a second before he turned loose. Her lashes flickered and a languorous pink mist crept over her face.

Paul nearly groaned. He looked away from the tempting sight and wished for several things—first, that they were in his bedroom; second, that she weren’t tipsy, because he wouldn’t want her to regret anything after she sobered up; and third, that he could think of an excuse to avoid the slow dance the band would probably play next.

Holding her closer would be torture. Wanting her was a special hell because he knew that she wanted him, too, but not the people or the place that he represented. He was certain that he could win her over and bring to light all the tenderness she tried to hide, but he needed more time.

“I have to go play the accordion,” he murmured as the band finished its song.

The band leader announced in a low, wicked tone, “We gonna do one of them snugglin’ songs next.”

“You have to play the accordion now?” she asked gruffly.

Her yearning tone only added to his distress. “Now,” he told her firmly, as if world peace depended on it.

Paul took her hand and they went to the band’s corner. He motioned to the man who’d greeted him earlier. “Hey, Felix, I’m ready to take over.”

“Huh?” Felix looked at him blankly.

Paul glared at him. “Caroline, meet Felix Chavis. Felix, Caroline Fitzsimmons. Felix, ma ladyfriend is waitin’ to hear me play the accordion.”

“Oh!”

Felix had finally caught on, thankfully. With a great sigh of relief Paul found Caroline a chair near the band, grabbed the accordion from Felix, and held it low in front of his body. The accordion made a great screen for a man’s dignity, he thought.

He played several songs with the band, and her incredulous smile told him that she was caught up in the music and impressed by his skill. The music was charged with emotion; it wailed, coaxed, wept, and laughed heartily, conveying both the sadness and the joy of Cajun history.

Paul’s gaze kept meeting Caroline’s; each time the atmosphere between them pulsed with excitement. When the band took a break, he walked to her slowly, never giving her a moment’s respite.

Breathing between parted lips, her face flushed sexily, she stood up and motioned for him to bend his head. Her breath was warm on his cheek, and the scent of her skin and hair was a potent aphrodisiac. He’d bet money that her perfume had one of those provocative names.

She whispered, “You’re great with that thing.”

He gave her a slow, intimate look. “I’ll be glad to play anytime you want.”

She laughed shakily. “You make the music come alive.”

“The look on your face gives me inspiration,
chère
. I could make music all night for you.”

“You play much better with clothes on, but it’s not as interesting to watch.”

They grinned like old friends, and he realized that he was having the time of his life. With a certainty that amazed him, Paul knew that he and this woman could turn the world inside out for each other.

• • •

The next morning he got up early, glad that it was Saturday and there was no movie work scheduled. He pulled a pair of cutoffs on and hurried down the long, creaking staircase, planning to surprise Caroline with a big breakfast.

The last time he’d seen her she’d had her shoes in one hand and a daffy smile on her face. She’d been leaning against her bedroom door and blowing him sleepy good-night kisses.

This morning Wolf—who usually slept in Paul’s bedroom—met him at the bottom of the stairs, his ears and tail drooping. Paul gave him a shrewd look, cursed loudly, and ran to the kitchen.

On the far side, the door to the small bedroom stood open.

While his breath stalled in his throat, Paul walked into the room. The air conditioner was turned off. The bed was neatly made. Her things were gone. She was gone.

He’d never felt more alone.

Paul cuddled the miniature zebra’s head in one hand and carefully put drops in her infected eye with the other. She was just a baby, barely four months old, and no taller than his knees. Her dam stood nearby in the small paddock, watching intently.

“There,
ma petite fille
, you’ll be fine.”

The foal drew a lungful of fragrant morning air, then exhaled it in a playful snort. Paul tucked the bottle of antibiotic drops into a pocket of his work shirt and stroked her ears as he straightened wearily, his body stiff from two nights of camping out on a marsh island.

“Blue, come look at something. I don’t know what to make of this. The ferrets have turned into little zombies.”

Paul turned and found Ed frowning by the pen’s gate.

“I know how they feel.”

Paul left the pen and walked with him through two barns, crossed an open area in the compound, and stopped at the ferrets’ habitat. Despite his fatigue and bad mood, he stared at the small animals with fascination.

All two dozen of them sat upright by the wire fence, their tiny paws tucked against their chests, their manner
expectant but not alarmed, their sharp, dark eyes trained on some invisible something beyond the staff buildings.

Ed scratched his head and sighed. “Cat came out of the woods a minute ago. He’s lying by his moat. Waiting. Just like the ferrets. The llamas are all lined up by the pasture fence, like some sort of reception line at a party.”

“Think we’re about to have an earthquake or something?”

“No. But what?”

Paul scanned a peaceful panorama of marsh and woodland, then raised his gaze to a magnificent blue sky. “Couldn’t be the weather.” He frowned. “Seen Wolf lately?”

“No.”

“If there’s a good reason for everything to be upset, he’ll be that way too.”

Ed shrugged, his dark eyes intrigued. “They don’t look upset. They look excited.”

“I’ll find Wolf.” Paul walked quickly toward the house. He climbed a small rise, passed along a path bordered by a wooden fence covered in honeysuckle vines, and strode under the giant oaks that surrounded the main grounds.

He spotted Wolf in the grass at the edge of the driveway, his posture quiet and sphinxlike as he gazed down the shadowy corridor of oaks that canopied the road. Paul watched him curiously. What in the world was going on here?

“Wolf.
Venez! Marchons!
”

Wolf stood at the orders, looked over his shoulder at Paul, wagged his magnificent plumed tail tentatively, then looked back down the road. Paul went to him and knelt, running a hand over Wolf’s thick silver ruff.

“What are you expecting,
ami?
”

Paul glanced up and saw a long black limousine pull
into sight at the distant curve in the drive. He drew a sharp breath. It was only eight
A.M
., but this must be Caroline returning from the weekend.