I wonder how many of those watermelon margaritas she’s downed.
I wonder if I should chug down one or two… or ten myself.
Nope, I need a clear head for my big plan… big being the operative word.
No one had even noticed his absence. That wasn’t quite true. Charmaine had her head tilted to the side in question, but maybe it was just the effect of the margaritas. She was on the dance floor—the open area of the backyard where the tables had been pushed back—and she was dancing alone. Well, not quite alone. Luc and Sylvie’s three little girls were dancing around her, all of them moving to the music in a way that caused their skirts to twirl about. Each time Charmaine twirled, a little more of her bare calves were exposed.
Man oh man, I really like to run my hands over those calves. The skin is so soft. Charmaine has really nice calves, trim and muscle toned. Her ankles aren’t too shabby either, and her thighs, and…
The girls looked up at her adoringly as she taught them some silly dance steps that involved shifting from foot to foot and moving their hands and shoulders in a swaying motion.
It was seductive as hell coming from Charmaine, and he didn’t need much seducing at this point.
Luc and Sylvie, Remy and Rachel, Dirk and Fleur, Tee-John and Tante Lulu were out there dancing, too, to “Cochan du Lait.” A semifast Cajun two-step that involved some fancy footwork and swinging of the women under the men’s arms. They were all smiling at each other and laughing and having a grand ol’ time. Family, he realized in that instant. This was how real families behaved when they were together. An experience he’d never known he’d missed… till that very moment.
He tried to remember any Thanksgiving celebration in his past. There had been some, but nothing like this. Plain turkey dinners with his dad and Clarence and Clarence’s late wife were the closest he could recall, but they had been preceded and followed by ranch work. No daylong hoopla. No family joy.
Next the “band” began to play that raucous “Knock, Knock, Knock,” which had an even more upbeat tempo. The kids didn’t understand the lyrics about a Cajun fellow in the doghouse with his wife again, but they loved the bouncing about and yelling out the refrain “Knock, Knock, Knock” at René’s urging to the group.
Tante Lulu, bless her heart, was having the most fun of all. She kept one hand on her blond wig as she whirled about and another hand on the waistband of her black slacks, which kept slipping down over her nonexistent butt as she shimmied and danced.
After that, the “band” segued into “Louisiana, the Key to My Soul,” a much slower ballad, which Raoul took as his cue, especially when René looked his way and nodded. With a deep inhale for courage, Raoul walked up to Charmaine, held out his arms, and said, “Chère?”
She hesitated, that odd hurt look back in her eyes. It was the same stricken expression he’d seen earlier in her bedroom when she’d tossed his money aside. He didn’t yet understand what that had all meant.
Raoul’s heart stood still at her hesitation, but then she stepped into his arms, and he let loose the breath he’d been holding. She looped her arms around his shoulders and rested her face in the crook of his neck. He twined his hands together behind her waist and tugged her closer. Her hair was a cloud of black silk teasing his senses. He fancied that her filmy dress twined itself about his jeans and that she pressed herself even closer to him, breast to chest, belly to belly, groin to groin. Probably wishful thinking, but what the hell! He also felt enveloped by her perfume, Obsession, which she must have sprayed on her hair and neck.
Dancing with Charmaine was a trip to the past. A form of foreplay. An exercise in wonderful torture. Raoul was confident in his dancing abilities. He was no expert, but he was Cajun, and Cajun men were born with a rhythm gene that the rest of the male population hadn’t discovered yet. And they didn’t mind admitting that they loved to dance.