He blushed. He actually blushed. And Sylvie once again felt that odd tugging in the region of her heart. And a sense of guilt that she might have misjudged him these many years.
His street-front law office was on the first floor with a “Closed for Vacation” placard in the many-paned, leaded glass window. A low, black wrought-iron fence in the form of twining acanthus leaves encircled the small yard in front. He lived in an apartment on the second floor.
“Well, at least your office seems to be intact. No sign of forced entry,” she remarked as they entered the door to the left and then the corridor, off of which was another door to his office and up ahead a staircase leading to the second-floor apartment.
Luc nodded in agreement. “Perps wouldn’t dare break in through the window, fronting on a busy street as it is. It’s patrolled heavily by police. Not that burglars don’t try to break in on occasion,
coming through the back entrance,” he noted, pointing to pry marks on the heavy oak double door to the right, with the brass nameplate “Lucien LeDeux, Attorney at Law.” “But this door has enough dead-bolt locks to secure the federal mint. Doesn’t stop the everyday criminal from tryin’, though. They seem to think we lawyers have a bundle of cash stashed in our desks. Too much Court TV and gold-chained Johnny Cochrans are ruining our image.”
Luc steered her with a hand on her elbow up the narrow stairway with its wonderfully carved cypress wainscoting and handrail. The upper walls were papered in a reproduction antique stripe of beige and burgundy offset with green acanthus leaves. Here and there were framed etchings of famous bayou settings. Astonishingly tasteful.
But Sylvie had something else on her mind. She hesitated at the top of the steps and turned to Luc. “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. You should not have been subjected to my embarrassing…”
“Sylvie Fontaine, don’t you dare apologize for behaving like a normal human being. You’re upset and scared, with good cause. Hell, I’m sure-God scared, too.”
She blinked at him with disbelief. “You don’t act scared.”
“
Dieu
, why do you think I was holding on to you so tightly back in the Jeep?” He winked at her then, causing her heart to skip a beat.
Even though she recognized that he was just being kind, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Oh, darlin’, you should not do things like that to me.” He was shaking his head at her.
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the Genie to come out. Because it tempts me to kiss you back,
chère
, and not on the cheek either. Because, if you knew the impure thoughts I’ve been having about you, you’d put a Mississippi mile between us, not a kiss.”
She still clutched her Happy Meal carton in one hand, and her other hand was still twined with his, but Luc leaned down, ever so slowly, and pressed his lips against hers. They were a perfect fit.
Sylvie closed her eyes, the lids of which suddenly felt heavy. It was amazing that, in the midst of all the danger, they stood in a hallway smelling of old wood and a century of beeswax polish, kissing. And it felt so very right.
He moved his lips back and forth across hers—a restrained, non-threatening whisper of a kiss. And yet it was all the more powerful because of its restraint and, for a certainty, it threatened everything that Sylvie had ever been or ever dreamed. He moaned deep in his throat, and that was her undoing.
She pulled back abruptly. Breathing heavily, she struggled to find some explanation for this strange chemistry whirling about them, connecting them in a most compelling way. She could see by the stunned expression on Luc’s face that he was equally touched.
“You have no idea how good your chances are with me right now,” he whispered huskily.
“Is it the love potion?” she asked.
He thought a moment. Then a quicksilver grin tugged at his lips. “Mus’ be.”
Sylvie was oddly disappointed at that response. But why, she couldn’t imagine. Did she want him to be attracted to her, on her own merits…as she obviously was to him, since she couldn’t blame the influence of a love potion?
Another thought occurred to Sylvie then. This forced confinement with Luc would be the perfect opportunity for her to study the effects of the love potion formula. Her first human trial run, in a way. Well, finally, there was some good news in this crazy scenario.
Another moan broke the charged silence, but this time it didn’t come from Luc, who had been staring at her hotly. Luc exchanged a startled look with her; then they both turned toward his closed apartment door, where yet another moan emanated, followed by a loud bang, as if someone was kicking against wood.
“Sonofabitch!” Luc muttered as he dropped her hand and rushed to his door, key in hand. But the key was unnecessary, since the door was unlocked…presumably not the way he’d left it earlier that day. In retrospect, she would guess that some of those pry marks on the office door downstairs were new.
When they entered Luc’s apartment, both came to a screeching halt.
Sylvie gasped.
“I’ll kill him. Whoever did this…I swear, I’ll kill him.”
His apartment was in even worse condition than her town house had been. She could see that it
would be a lovely apartment, under normal circumstances. Sparsely furnished with vintage Louisiana cottage pieces that highlighted the random-plank Cypress flooring and fine natural-grain woodwork. But now, the furniture was upended, drawers pulled out and their contents tossed to the floor, dozens of dry-cleaners’ packets containing shirts, underwear, socks, and pants tossed here and there. Did the man dry-clean
everything?
And most unusual, there were numerous crocheted, embroidered, and hand-woven bed linens, tablecloths, napkins, towels, and other household items. Some of them were made of the yellowish-brown cotton the Cajuns grew and wove themselves, which they called
coton jaune
, once referred to as slave cotton. Still other items came from the complex Acadian method of weaving called
boutonne
, with the intersecting checks and woof threads raised and tufted to make the intersections stand out. The most elegant Cajun bedspreads were made this way with borders of handmade, hand-tied lace…like the one on the floor over there. But all these exquisite handicrafts were tossed aside now, some of them brutishly slashed or ripped apart.
Sylvie had no time to ponder all this. She set down her box, and Luc dropped her briefcase, already opening a closet door in his bedroom where a straight-back chair had been propped under the doorknob and from which muffled groaning issued forth.
“Oh, no!” Luc exclaimed as he opened the door and pulled out a short woman with curly blonde hair whose hands and feet had been duct-taped together, with a piece of tape slapped over her
mouth. “Tante Lulu! What are you doing here? I thought you left when I did. What happened? Are you hurt?”
Within moments, the diminutive old lady was free. Instead of falling into his arms hysterically the way most women would, especially one of her advanced age, his aunt slapped away Luc’s concerned hands, which were fluttering about her body, checking for injury. “No, I’m not hurt, but someone’s gonna be,” she raged angrily. “I came back here after you left to get the knitting needles I forgot, and those hoodlums jumped me.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“No, but I know it was that Valcour who was at the bottom of these shenanigans.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause one of the men referred to me as ‘the ol’ bitch.’ That’s what your father called me all the time.”
“Maybe I should take you to the emergency room, just to make sure you’re not hurt.”
“I tol’ you I’m okay.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “It took you long enough to come back here, though. I coulda starved to death in that closet while you been off doing God knows what. Oooh, lookee there at that Happy Meal box. You been to McDonald’s. And did you think of me? I’m just a sixty-five-year-old lady who needs her energy. Whatchou doin’ eatin’ that junk food anyways when I make you good Cajun food anytime you ask?”
Luc cast Sylvie a hopeless look. The silent message inferred there was no interrupting Tante Lulu once she got started.
“And, Lordy, my behind is so numb from sittin’
so long in that closet that I can’t hardly feel it at all. Why…” Her words trailed off as she seemed to recall her manners in the presence of a stranger. She addressed Sylvie. “Hello.”
Her eyes darted between Sylvie and Luc; then she smiled…a ludicrous expression with the lower half of her face reddened by the duct tape. She made a quick sign of the cross, then inquired, “Could this be the one, Luc? Finally?”
“No!” he said. “Definitely not.”
“The one what?” Sylvie asked.
“Don’t ask,” Luc advised.
“The one and only.” Tante Lulu beamed. “Think thunderbolts.”
Luc groaned.
Sylvie’s mouth dropped open. “Me? No, no, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Sylvie Fontaine, a…uh, friend of Luc’s.” She stepped forward, hand extended.
To Luc, Tante Lulu said, “
Jolie fille
. Pretty lady. She really should see Charmaine about that hair, though. A good oil treatment will tame it down. But you done good, boy.”
To Sylvie, she said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Luc’s great aunt, Louise Rivard, his mama’s aunt, but you can call me Tante Lulu.” The woman, who couldn’t be more than five feet tall, glanced upward as she spoke. Then the old woman shook Sylvie’s hand vigorously. “Welcome to the family.”
The family? What does she mean?
Luc rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he reached into the secret back panel of an open armoire, took out a pistol, and checked for ammunition.
“Well, if it isn’t Wild Bill LeDeux,” Sylvie said
mockingly to hide her concern over the need for a weapon.
“Hey, babe. If I’m Wild Bill, you’re damn sure gonna be my Annie Oakley,” he countered with a grin. Then he turned serious. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told them both. “Tante Lulu, you can tell us what happened on the way.”
“On the way where?” She was rubbing her sore wrists.
“Bayou Noir.”
“Bayou Noir! I can’t go there. I have a baby to deliver in Chacahoula…could be this evenin’.” She turned to Sylvie and informed her, “I’m a
traiteur
, sweetie. A folk healer. Have been for nigh on fifty years. Lots of women still likes me to act the midwife for them. Maybe someday I’ll catch one of your
bébés
, yes?”
Sylvie’s face heated up at that suggestion, while Luc just chuckled. The clod.
“You got any French fries in that box?” Tante Lulu’s question contradicted her earlier implication that she wouldn’t eat junk food.
“No,” Luc stated dryly. “Just rats.”
“Rats?” his aunt shrieked, jumping backwards and almost falling over. Having a second thought, though, she peered forward as Luc picked up the Happy Meal container and showed his aunt the contents.
“There is a sick side to you, boy,” Tante Lulu commented with a shake of her head. “Reminds me of the time you collected toads when you was a little one. Had thirty-seven of them slimy buggers, as I recall…till your daddy found out.” Her eyes went dark then at some remembrance. Sylvie suspected it had something to do with a beating Luc’s
father might have administered for that misdeed. “Used up all my wart remedies on you that time. Seems to me you even had a wart on your—”
“They’re not
my
rats,” Luc informed her with a laugh. “They’re Sylvie’s pet lab rats.”
“What are they doing in that box…why are they making all that noise?”
There was a brief silence as Luc looked at Sylvie to answer, and she looked at him to answer.
He gave in. “Boinking.”
“Boinking? What’s boinki…oh, I get it.” Tante Lulu sliced Luc a condemning glare. “You gettin’ a foul mouth on you. Don’ be thinkin’ you too old for a taste of my homemade lye soap.”
Tante Lulu seemed to think of something else then and cocked her head to the side…a head covered with the most outrageous blond curls, almost as outrageous as the purple spandex biking outfit she wore. His aunt glanced up at Sylvie, then over to the lab rats, and back up at her again. “
Sylvie Fontaine
. Are you the chemist with the love potion?”
“Yes,” Sylvie said, face heating with embarrassment. “I’m a chemist.”
“Your newspaper pictures don’t do you justice, dear.”
“Well, thank you.” Sylvie’s face grew even hotter. Accepting compliments had been one of the hardest things for her to learn in shyness therapy. Compliments called attention to a person, whereas the timid person would much rather be invisible.
“Is it working?” Tante Lulu asked out of the clear blue sky.
Sylvie knew instinctively what
it
she referred to. The love potion, of course.
Luc answered for her. “Hell, yes, it’s working.”
“Lu-u-uc,” Sylvie chided. “You can’t tell your aunt things like that.”
But Tante Lulu looked as if her nephew had just handed her a pot of gold. She made another sign of the cross. “Praise God. My prayers are answered.”
“Not
that
kind of working, Tante Lulu,” Luc intervened quickly, raking the fingers of his right hand through his hair. The left hand still held the pistol. “The
other
kind.”
“What other kind?” Tante Lulu’s eyes slitted at him, then went wide with understanding. “Don’t you be givin’ me that lust-not-love business. Who said anything about that hop-skip-and-go-naked kind of love? I never said anything about oinking.”
“Not oinking. Boinking,” Luc corrected.
“Whatever!” His aunt threw her hands up in an exasperated manner. “I’m not so old I don’t remember the difference. You been given a love potion, boy, not a lust potion. Ain’t that right, sweetie?” The last was for Sylvie.
“Well, that’s technically right,” Sylvie sputtered, her face flaming with discomfort. What a conversation to be having with this elderly woman!
“See, Luc, I was right,” Tante Lulu said. “Lordy, there are so many things to do.”