THE LOVE POTION By Sandra Hill

Sylvie was too stunned to scream or cry, even though one of her palms was grinding against a sliver of glass… even though Luc was lying on top of her with his full weight.

“Oh, I forgot,” she said in a panic. “Samson and Delilah. I left them by the front door.” Sylvie shoved him off her and proceeded to turn and make a snakelike path back through the living room.

He grabbed her by the back collar of her blouse, halting her progress. “Are you nuts? You can’t go back there… not yet. And who in blazes are Samson and Delilah?”

“Rats.”

“Rats?” he repeated incredulously.

“Yes, I brought Samson and Delilah, my two main lab rats, with me yesterday when I left the company.”

“Holy shit!” he muttered. The woman was risking her life for rats.

She stared at him, wide-eyed with unspoken supplication.

Oh, hell! He was the one doing a snake dance then, making his way on his belly to the foyer, then back again carrying a Happy Meal carton that made tiny squealing noises. He handed it to Sylvie, who checked to see if the occupants were okay. The two little rodents squeaked with delight, but he wasn’t sure if it was because they were happy to see Sylvie, or happy to be able to hump in peace once again.

Sylvie was making cooing noises at the animals as they shook the wax paper in their usual erotic frenzy. They were real sex machines, these two were… a regular X-rated Mickey and Minnie.

“You are really weird, Sylv. No kidding.”

The most important thing, though, was that there were no more shots. He pushed the Happy Meal carton to the wall and motioned for her to follow him, crawling on his belly to the far side of the room. Finally, they made it to the dining room, still lying low on their bellies, and gazed at each other in amazement.

It was the craziest situation Luc had ever been in… and there had been a few humdingers. He propped his elbows on the floor and braced his chin in his hands, staring at the witch who’d conjured up this unbelievable plot.

“Why is someone shooting at us?” Sylvie, also propped on her hands, was wearing black pleated trousers and a white silk blouse. The top few buttons of the wispy shirt must have come undone when he’d thrown her to the floor at the first gun-shot, or when he’d pulled on her collar. Not that he noticed her exposed skin. Or cared. Or even looked.

Hah!

“Not us, necessarily. It could be me. Maybe someone followed me here,” he suggested.

She tilted her head in puzzlement, causing the blouse to gape wider.

I’m not looking. I’m not looking. “They would have no reason to shoot at you, Sylv. They’d never get the formula, then. Me, on the other hand,” he said, with a shrug. “They’re banking on the fact that the fishermen might give up without an advocate. They’d probably never find another lawyer dumb enough to represent them.”

She thought for a moment, worrying her bottom lip with her small, even, white upper teeth. She had really nice teeth… thanks to a good orthodontist, no doubt. And really, really nice lips. Not that he noticed. Or cared. Or—

“Luc?” Sylvie prodded.

“Huh?” She must have been talking to him while his mind was on… other things.

“I said, how about the gris-gris doll? That was surely a threat to me.”

“Yeah, but voodoo practitioners are more likely to use poison. Or kidnap you and employ slow torture with a knife during one of their rituals. Or drop you in a snake pit.”

“You’re making that up.”

Despite her accusation, he saw a flicker of fear in her wide blue eyes. She had really nice eyes. This was the second time he’d noticed how pretty her eyes were. Stop it, he chastised himself. Stop noticing nice things. Hate Sylvie like you always do. Hate, not like. Or love. Definitely not love. He answered her, then, with the definitive male response: “Am not.”

“God, you are so juvenile!”

“Some women like a man with a sense of humor.”