Cajun Magic 01 - Voodoo on the Bayou (3 page)

The man glanced down, a faint red staining his cheeks. He folded his arms across his chest and quickly leaned forward against the counter. “Can I help you?”

It took her several seconds to locate her tongue before she could reply. “I need you,” she stammered.

The man smiled and a wicked eyebrow rose up under the stray lock of hair that had fallen back over his forehead. He didn’t comment, nor did he move, staying firmly in place, the counter covering him from the waist down. “You need me?”

Heat crept up her neck and into her face when she realized what she’d said, and what she’d tried to see. “I mean, I’m here about the bed.”

His smile broadened.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, her mortification complete. Where had her intellectual vocabulary and scientific mind gone? She felt like a giddy, hormonal teenager instead of a respected scientist with numerous research articles and a book under her belt. “Oh, good grief, let me start over.”

“Perhaps you should.” His words seeped into every pore of her skin like butter on a hot potato. He could have mocked her sudden inability to articulate. Instead, he graced her with an encouraging grin.

Her mouth opened, but her brain refused to engage. She had the overwhelming urge to run her tongue over his lips to taste his next sentence.

He cleared his throat. “Are you, or are you not, going to start over?”

She gulped, then stammered, “I-I’m Elaine Smith.” Wiping the sweat from her palm, she stuck her hand out.

“Craig Thibodeaux.” His rough hand enveloped hers. The simple gesture sent tingles through her digits, reminding every cell in her body she was female, single, and over twenty-one.

Myriad sensations raced from her fingertips to her lower extremities, moistening places that had no business being wet in the company of a strange man…a sexy-as-hell, strange man. Maybe shaking hands with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.

When her senses returned, she jerked her hand back and rubbed it against her khaki slacks to still the spread of electrical impulses triggering an entirely chemical response throughout her body. Her reaction was pure physics and chemistry, nothing more, nothing less, she told herself. Besides, hadn’t she just broken off an engagement?
Get a grip.

“Mr. Thibodeaux, I spoke with you on the phone about renting a cottage for three weeks.” She chose her words carefully, rather than uttering embarrassing nonsense as she had earlier.

“You must have spoken to my Uncle Joe. He owns the place.”

“Oh, I see.” She dragged her gaze from the vicinity of his chest and scanned the interior again. “Where can I find him?”

“I think he’s out on the dock. Why don’t you go see?” The man—Craig—didn’t make a move from behind the counter. “I’d take you out there, but I have something I need to do first.”

The thought of the dock paralyzed her. Docks were generally built around water. “I can wait,” she said, quickly. “Go ahead and finish what you were doing.”

Craig frowned and glanced away. “No, really, I don’t want to hold you up. Just go on outside. He’s sure to be within shouting distance. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

“Oh. Okay.” She stared at the door he indicated with all the anticipation of one heading for a guillotine. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait?”

“Positive. Please, go on.”

Geez
. He sure was in a hurry to get rid of her.

Good
. She didn’t have time for men. Remember? Besides, she couldn’t possibly have anything in common with an uneducated fish boy like Craig Thibodeaux. She was better off sticking with her scientific studies. She could have much more interesting conversations talking to herself. At least with her own company, she knew where she stood.

A little voice popped into her head,
yeah, hiding behind a microscope
.

She liked to think she was moving at a swift walk toward the door. If she was honest, it was more like a snail’s pace. But she didn’t stop, she kept right on going. Even though the dock was scary, the marina owner’s nephew left her more unsettled than the murky swamp around her. She reminded herself that she’d come to study frogs, not the mating habits of the Cajun swamp dwellers. The less she saw of Craig Thibodeaux, gorgeous body and all, the better off she’d be.

Chapter Three

Once outside the bait shop, Elaine stood with a hand pressed to her chest and breathed deep, calming lungfuls of the sticky, warm air.

What had come over her? The sight of one bare-chested male shouldn’t cause her to take leave of her senses. Even if he was one of the most beautiful specimens of hot, spicy Cajun males she’d ever seen. With those piercing blue eyes and more than his share of dark curly hair on his head…and on his chest…

She fanned the rising heat spreading up her neck into her face. Beads of perspiration sprang out on her forehead and upper lip.

No man had ever had this effect on her, not even Brian. And, frankly, it scared her.

Elaine Smith was a scientist, not a driven-by-her-hormones teenager prone to mooning over attractive guys. Pushing loose tendrils of hair back from her damp forehead, she scanned the dock, looking for Mr. Joe Thibodeaux—hopefully a much older gentleman with less sex appeal than his nephew.

Darkness had cloaked the landscape and the water was even murkier and more menacing now than in the daylight. A boardwalk ran approximately fifty yards to either side of the bait shop with short piers jutting out at thirty-foot intervals to allow boats to pull alongside for refueling or overnight docking.

Lights dotted every other pier, providing a safe port for returning fisherman. At the end of the long boardwalk stood a grizzled old man in baggy tan shorts and a tattered T-shirt. He was deep in conversation with another equally aged man sitting in a fishing boat.

Anxious to get settled in the cottage, Elaine focused on her goal, not the water. Thank goodness she couldn’t see through the boards to the swamp below.

You can do it, one step at a time. Don’t look at the water to your right or left, just look to the next board in front of you
. Thus schooling herself, she marched the length of the dock, slowing as she approached the men. She hung back far enough not to interrupt their conversation, but close enough for them to see her, and for her to overhear their words.

“I don’t know what done it, Joe,” said the man in the boat. “But, I tell you there musta been twenty or so fish floatin’ belly-up.”

“Now, Bernie, you sure you didn’t see any sign of city folks in their flashy boats?” Joe scratched his scraggly whiskers. He lowered his hand to pat the faded picture of a leaping fish displayed across his shirt. “Sometimes they fish all day just for the sake of catching. Then they dump all those dead fish before they leave.”

Bernie shook his head. “I thought about that, but not a one of ‘em showed signs of having swallowed a hook. That’s when I found this.” He reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out a small alligator not much bigger than a baseball bat. Its body was already beginning to bloat and a milky film had formed over its eyes.

Elaine’s heart sped up and she stepped forward. “May I see that?”

Two startled heads turned in her direction.

She inhaled the scent of decaying fish. Despite the rotting stench, she could barely contain her excitement. She held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Elaine Smith. Are you Mr. Joe Thibodeaux?”

“That’s me.” Joe took her hand. “You that doctor from Tulane who called about the house for rent?”

“I’m the one,” she responded with a smile.

Joe frowned. “I thought you’d be older.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Is that going to make a difference?”

“No. Your money spends the same.”

Bernie tossed the dead alligator onto the wooden dock and climbed out of the boat. “What’s a pretty lady want with a dead ‘gator?”

“I’m a scientist. I came to study the effects of pollution on the creatures that live in the swamp.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and squatted next to the alligator on the wooden planks. “Where did you find it?”

“He found it in the swamp about five miles from here,” Joe said.

Bernie frowned and stepped between Joe and Elaine, shooting a hard look over his shoulder at Joe. “I got a tongue. I can speak for myself.” He faced her and pulled his fishing hat from his head, displaying oily, white “hat hair” and a gap-toothed smile. “Like Joe said, I found that ‘gator and some dead fish in a lagoon about five miles from here. Durn shame, too. Used to be my favorite fishin’ hole.”

Blood pounded through her veins. She put her hand on Bernie’s arm. “Would you take me there?”

His face flushed red and he twisted the hat in his gnarled hands. “Now, I’d like nuttin’ more dan to take you dere, but my wife, Lola, would skint me alive if she found out I took a pretty young tang out to de swamp. She’d skint me alive and feed my flesh to dem ‘gators.”

She turned to Joe. “Don’t you rent out boats?”

Joe held his hands up. “Now, don’t get some fool notion of going off on your own to find them dead fish. You’d get lost as soon as you left the dock. Besides, the swamp ain’t no place for a lady.”

“I’m no lady. I’m a scientist.” She winced belatedly at her choice of words.

“Scientist or no, I don’t rent my boats out to people I don’t think can bring ‘em back.”

“Then perhaps you could take me?” She lifted the corners of her lips. “I’ll need to hire someone for the next few weeks to take me out to gather frogs and fish for my studies.”

“Folks around these parts do their frog-giggin’ at night when the frogs are most active. If you’re wantin’ frogs, you’ll have to go out at night to get ‘em. I’m no night owl, but I know someone who is,” Joe said, looking over her shoulder. “Here’s your man. My nephew, Craig, can take you.”

Fingers of sensation trickled down her spine. Without having to look, she knew he stood behind her.

“Craig can take who where?” His voice was as sultry as the humid air, oozing sex appeal with every syllable.

How did he do that? Did he have some way of emitting testosterone that, combined with her long-dormant hormones, caused spontaneous combustion in her lower abdomen?

She refrained from fanning her face, braced herself for impact, and executed a slow turn. The half-naked man from the marina stood in faded blue jeans, bare feet, and a cotton shirt, untucked and hanging open. This unkempt man had no right to look good enough to eat, one lick at a time, like a very tall ice cream cone on a hot day.

She was determined not to react as idiotically as she had previously. “No thank you. I’ll eat another guide.”

All three men gaped at her.

She clapped a hand to her mouth when she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I’ll get another guide, or go alone.”

Joe shook his head. “Dr. Smith, you don’t seem to understand. Craig’s your best bet as a night guide. And my rule is no guide…no boat.”

“What are you more afraid of, the swamp or me?” Craig dared her with a half-smile and a hiked eyebrow.

She frowned. This was the second time a man had accused her of being afraid. She’d be damned if she’d take that lying down. Although, with him, lying down held a certain appeal.

Jumpin’ genetics, what was she thinking? Heat surged up her neck and into her cheeks. Thank God he couldn’t read minds. Squaring her shoulders, she stared straight into his eyes and replied, “Neither.”

“So, when do you want to start?” Joe asked.

Boy, he moved fast. She felt a little out of breath. Although she struggled, she congratulated herself on keeping her inner turmoil from showing on her face. “I hope to have my lab set up by tomorrow night. Can you handle that, Mr. Thibodeaux?”

“Lady, I can handle anything you’ve got.” He ran his gaze from the top of her curly brown hair, over her crisp white, oxford cloth shirt, down her neatly ironed khaki slacks, to the tips of her sensible Birkenstocks.

She gulped, forcing her chin to a defiant angle when she’d rather run like a scared rabbit in the face of a hungry wolf. “Good,” she said, her voice squeaking. She cleared her throat and assumed her best professor voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow at dusk. Please be on time and—” she eyed his open shirt, and raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a disdainful look “—fully dressed.”

“At your command, Dr. Smith,” Craig said with a sweeping bow and several rolls of his wrist.

She turned to the elder Thibodeaux, who’d remained quiet throughout the exchange. “May we go to the house, now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He popped a smart salute, immediately softening it with an impertinent wink. Joe turned to his nephew. “You take care of Bernie’s boat while I help Miss Smith with the rental house.”

“Sure, but when you get back, we need to talk,” Craig said, his expression serious.

She stared from the older man to the younger one. What was that all about? She didn’t know, but she’d do well to keep a close eye on the younger Thibodeaux…and keep her hands and thoughts to herself.

…

An hour later, Craig had tied up Bernie’s boat, topped off the gas tanks, and cleaned the seats and floors of all trash. Although it had been eight years since he’d visited his uncle, the activities were still second nature from all the summers he’d spent helping at the marina.

When Uncle Joe still hadn’t returned, Craig paced the length of the dock. At every light pole, he stopped and held an arm up in the circle of light. He batted away moths and mosquitoes to get a glimpse of his skin to make sure he wasn’t turning green. Occasionally, he ran a hand through his hair to reaffirm it was still there.

“What bug have you got up your butt, son? You’re as twitchy as a trapped ringtail.”

Craig spun to face his uncle, all the pent-up emotions of the past twenty-four hours gushing out in four words. “I’m in deep shit.”

“Your daddy comin’ down here?” Uncle Joe asked. “’Cause if he is, I’m leaving. I can’t take two minutes of his high-and-mighty bullshit.”

“No, it’s worse.” Craig said.

Uncle Joe scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “Can’t think of anything worse than that stiff-necked brother of mine comin’ for a visit. So, spit it out.”