Cajun Hot

Whispers Publishing
www.whispershome.com

Copyright ©

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. This material is meant for mature audiences!

Cajun Hot

A Whispers Publishing Publication

July 2007

Copyright ©2007 Nikita Black

Cover illustration copyright © 2007 Rene Walden

ISBN Not Assigned

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

Published by:
Whispers Publishing
, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

2001 Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence

2001 Write Touch Readers Award

2000 Rising Star Award

2001 Eppie Award

2001 Golden Quill Awards Finalist

Previous Works writing as Nikita Black www.NikitaBlack.com

From Cajun Hot Press

CAJUN HOT ISBN 0-977426912

THE RENEGADE'S WOMAN ISBN 0-977426904

SLAVE TO LOVE ISBN 0977426939

Writing as Nina Bruhns www.NinaBruhns.com

From Silhouette Intimate Moments, Silhouette Romantic Suspense, and Silhouette Nocturne

WRITTEN IN THE STARS, SRS March 2008

NIGHT MISCHIEF, Nocturne, October 2007

TOP-SECRET BRIDE, SRS September 2007

THE FORBIDDEN ENCHANTMENT, SRS Feb 2007

ROYAL BETRAYAL, SIM #1424, July 2006

ENEMY HUSBAND, SIM #1402 January 2006

HARD CASE COWBOY, SIM #1385, September 2005

BLUE JEANS AND A BADGE, SIM #1361, April 2005

GHOST OF A CHANCE, SIM #1319, September 2004

SWEET SUSPICION, SIM #1277, February 2004

SINS OF THE FATHER, SIM #1209, March 2003

SWEET REVENGE, SIM #1163, July 2002

WARRIOR'S BRIDE, SIM #1080, May 2001

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, SIM #990, February 2000

For Nikita and Nina's latest releases, news and info go to www.NikitaBlack.com www.NinaBruhns.com

Sahara Jensen glared up at the long, yellow silk thread hanging from the trunk of a slimy cypress tree and swore roundly. Spitting out a few drops of disgusting swamp water, she quickly hoisted herself back into the floating disaster the rental place had optimistically called a boat.

Falling into the swamp hadn't been one of her better moves. Cripes, she was lucky she hadn't been eaten by alligators or attacked by snakes, or leeches, or some other equally hideous creature while floundering in the black water.

Scowling at the accursed thread, Sahara pulled her drenched ponytail forward and attempted to wring it out. Greasy mud, bits of rotting foliage and duckweed clung to her everywhere.

Great.
Now, on top of everything else, she'd have to ride the bus back to the hotel in Lafayette looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon ... if she found her way back to the bus.

She rubbed her forehead. The relentless, high-pitched hum of insects ground on her nerves. The cypress tree with its silk thread hung over her boat like a street-hawker, mocking her, one of a multitude of ragged, moss-draped trees closing in from every direction—all identical.

This could not be happening. She couldn't be lost. Not in the smelliest, most alligator-infested swamp in all of South Louisiana. She refused to believe it, even when confronted with the stark evidence of her vanished trail of bread crumbs. Well, yellow ribbons, to be more accurate.

And she'd thought she'd been so clever.

Fucking orchids.

She eyed a suspicious-looking bumpy log that floated several yards from the boat and repressed a shiver. A drop of sweat oozed down between her breasts. Damn, it was hot.

Plucking at her T-shirt, she resettled herself on the plank seat of her small rented motorboat next to her precious bag of cameras—thankfully dry—and took a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this fetid-smelling hellhole of a swamp. There had to be.

She'd been cruising around in circles for hours, searching for the yellow ribbons she'd carefully tied to trees within sight of each other to guide her back to Gerroux, the tiny hamlet where she'd picked up the boat. She hadn't found a single ribbon. Only the bit of thread she was staring at now.

Silently, she cursed the whole ill-fated expedition. First, the guide she'd hired had backed out with no explanation. Then, setting out on her own, she hadn't even located any of the damned orchids she needed to find. And now this.

She
couldn't
be lost. Hell, it was Monday and she had a deadline to meet.

She'd promised Miles Landau at National Geographic a photo of the rare and illusive
orchidus clitorius
by Friday. This assignment was her ticket to the big-time, and she'd rather die in this god-forsaken swamp than lose her hard-earned opportunity.

A trickling sound brought her attention to the bottom of the flimsy craft. A good three inches of water sloshed there—about an inch more than an hour ago. Her eyes flicked uneasily to the floating log. Was it her imagination, or was it following her?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and swallowed the metallic tingle of fear blossoming in her throat, then looked around again desperately. Her attention was snagged by a sudden flash of light, sun on metal.

It was then she saw them.

Watching her.

Two men. Noiselessly floating in a shiny aluminum boat. Big, by the look of them. Dark. Both wearing jeans and T-shirts, one had a slim black mustache and black hair cascading over his shoulders. The other's hair was shorter, neater, no mustache, but he was no less dangerous-looking for that.

Sahara's heartbeat kicked up and she put a protective hand on her cameras. Two pairs of black eyes followed the movement, observing her from similar square-jawed, angular faces. They weren't smiling.

Then again, they didn't look exactly menacing either. More like ... appraising.

They glided closer, their motor a nearly silent thrum against the incessant song of the insects. The two men exchanged a glance. One of them nodded.

Her pulse shot up.

"
Comment ça va?
” the man with short hair said. “You lost?"

She licked her lips, debating whether or not to lie. She was alone, no weapon, and these two strangers were looking at her like she might be their next meal.

A huge black snake swam past her boat.
Oh, God.
She didn't think she could stay in this swamp much longer and remain sane.

"I don't know how it happened,” she said to the men. “I was so careful when I tied the ribbons. I'd be grateful if you could show me—"

"Fall in?” the long-haired man with the mustache interrupted, his gaze lingering on her wet clothes as the two came up alongside.

"What?” Her face flamed, realizing what he must be looking at. She folded her arms over her chest, struggling not to show her nervousness. “'Fraid so. Any chance you could show me the way to Gerroux? I have to make the eight o'clock bus back to Lafayette from there."

"Plen'y of time,” Mr. Mustache said in a soft Cajun accent. “Toss me your gear and climb in.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Alarm tingled over her scalp. She didn't care how sexy his accent was, climbing in wasn't an option. She'd heard about hot-blooded Cajun men.

She met his black eyes and, suddenly, it hit her how very attractive he was. She glanced at the other man and swallowed. How attractive they both were.
Mercy
. Her heart stood still, then zinged into double-time.

She didn't move.

"Come on in,
chère
,” the short-haired one said. “'Less you'd rather stay lost?"

"Couldn't I just follow you?” she asked anxiously.

"Dat boat, she looks like she goin’ down fast, an’ I can't tow it wit’ you in it."

Mr. Mustache tipped his head. “You have any idea just how dangerous the swamp is? For someone who don’ know it?"

"I—” She followed his gaze to one end of the bumpy log still hovering nearby, and, to her horror, a sinister yellow eye winked back at her. She almost jumped out of her skin.

Oh, Lord.
What could she do? She couldn't stay out here by herself. She'd be dead by nightfall for sure—either by some repulsive creature or from a heart attack. She searched the men's faces carefully and still saw no sign of ill intent.

Of course, neither had Jeffrey Dahmer's victims.

As if sensing her hesitation, Mr. Mustache slowly reached for the strap of her camera bag and said, “I'm Jacque Cherchat. Dis here's my brother, Quint. We'd be happy to get you to dat bus."

He smiled then. A smile that was sweet, sultry and guileless all at the same time. And indescribably erotic. The effect dazzled her senses. Eyes the color of black diamonds sparkled back at her, lips that would make a sculptor weep curved reassuringly. Lord, he was gorgeous.

Her reluctance foundered.

"Please, call me Jacque."

She'd probably regret this later, but it wasn't like she had a big choice at the moment. “All right,” she relented. “Thanks, Jacque. I appreciate your help. My name's Sahara. Sahara Jensen."

She let him take her camera bag. “Careful with that, though.” She stood to step into the other boat. “My whole livelihood is inside that bag."

"Don’ worry,” he said soothingly. “Quint an’ me, we'll take good care of you.” He grasped her by the waist and easily lifted her over the side, setting her on her feet just in front of him. “Real good care."

It was a good thing he didn't let her go right away, because for some inexplicable reason she couldn't get her knees to work properly. “Thanks,” she croaked and collapsed onto the narrow bench crowding the back of her legs. “I need to get back to Gerroux in time to arrange for another guide tonight."

Behind her at the rudder, she heard Quint grab the bow rope from her boat and tie it to the back of theirs. “Could be tough,” he remarked. When she threw a worried frown over her shoulder, he added, “Only official guide around, he was suddenly called away today.” He adjusted the throttle and the sleek aluminum craft cut through the water, steered along a sure path by her rescuer.

"Yes, I know,” she said wryly, remembering her frustration that morning upon hearing of the man's precipitous departure—which had gotten her into this predicament. “Surely there must be someone else who can guide me?” She turned from Quint to his brother.

"Now, dat depends on what you're looking for."

Handsome Jacque sat facing her on the forward bench, which was so close it barely left breathing space between them. His broad shoulders stretched a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, his biceps, arms and hands rippling with strength. His well-worn jeans covered iron-hard, muscular thighs. Suddenly she realized her legs were pinned firmly between them, her knees practically touching his—

"So, what
are
you looking for,
chère
?” The corner of his sexy mouth curled, letting her know he was fully aware of her body's position.

With difficulty, she resisted the urge to scoot back on her bench and sat perfectly still instead. “Orchids. I'm here to take photos of orchids."

"A photographer,” he said thoughtfully. “I see. You lookin’ for a particular kind of orchid?"

She nodded. “Yes,
Orchidus
...” She stammered to a halt.
Damn.
She'd never actually had to say the name out loud before. She felt her cheeks go hot. There was no way she could make herself utter the orchid's ridiculous Latin name in front of—

"
Orchidus clitorius
?” the rogue helpfully supplied, his lips curving even more disreputably. He lifted a brow.

She avoided his eyes and studied the passing foliage intently. “Yes."

"Now isn’ dat a coincidence,” Quint said from behind her. “Jacque an’ me, we saw a couple of them jus’ d'other day, didn’ we, Chat?"

"In full bloom an’ pretty as can be."

"Really?” She dared a glance at Jacque.

"
Mais
, yeah."

She ignored the amusement gleaming in his dark eyes and forced herself not to notice the coal black tendrils of hair that framed his face and shoulders. She'd always had a thing for wild black hair on a man. And this man was Cajun to boot. A fatal combination.