Without hesitation, he swerved the Jeep off the highway, to the tune of blaring car horns, and into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour, drive-through daiquiri stand. Cutting the motor, which, of course, continued to run till it came to a sputtering halt, he pried Sylvie’s hands off the crash bar and Happy Meal box, setting the latter on the floor next to her briefcase. Then he dragged her across the gear shift and onto his lap. Not an easy task in the close confines of the Jeep’s cramped interior.
“Someone’s trying to kill us, Luc,” she said, weeping freely now.
No kidding.
“I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I feel like such a fool, crying like this. I never cry. My mother taught me to never be weak… never weep or whine… hold in emotion. Oh, God, I am such a weakling.”
Someone should have wrung the neck of Inez Breaux-Fontaine a long time ago. Lord, the woman really is made of ice, like everyone says. It would seem Luc and Sylvie were both scarred by a parent.
He hugged Sylvie tightly, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and running a comforting palm up and down over her quivering back, the whole time crooning soothing words of assurance. “Hush, chère, you can stay with me if you want. Guess you’re just like all the other women… sticking to ol’ Luc like suckers on a gater’s tail. Just kidding, just kidding. Ah, don’ be cryin’, babe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’ll see. I’m gonna be your Cajun Knight.”
Luc drove into a parking space in front of his building on Lafayette Street a short time later, and Sylvie breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had to admit that she was touched by Luc’s comforting words and arms when she had broken down so ignominiously a short while back. But riding in his open-air Jeep had quickly jolted her back to the reality of whom she was dealing with here, especially when his brother René was singing the most outrageous song on a demo tape in Luc’s tape player, “I Gave Her Tongue, She Gave Me Teeth.”
Some Cajun Knight Luc was turning out to be. Whoever heard of a brave protector riding in a broken-down jalopy, cursing a blue streak under his breath? She was pretty sure she was the object of some of those curses since she’d virtually latched onto him like Krazy Glue.
Still, her heart warmed in the strangest way at the idea that he would even suggest such an outrageous concept… her very own Cajun Knight. Okay, she admitted to herself, reluctantly, she liked the sound of it. And she sure as Louisiana rain qualified as a damsel in distress.
Even now, she cringed at the thought that she had offered to slow-dance in the nude in exchange for his protection. Having battled so many years to overcome her chronic shyness, she had probably set herself back a decade with that definitely-not-shy proposition. She didn’t want to even think about the fact that her palms sweated and her head pounded with anxiety now—clear signs of regression to her old shrinking-violet self. She wiped her free hand on her slacks in a nervous, repetitive motion.
Luc noticed, and slanted her a questioning look as he left the jeep. She got out, too, and handed him her briefcase. Clutching the Happy Meal box in one hand, she inhaled and exhaled several times… to settle her nerves.
Taking Sylvie by the other hand, he laced his fingers with hers and led her toward the door of the pale yellow brick, shotgun-style building that housed his office and private residence. His calloused palm pressed against hers… not what you’d expect from a sedentary lawyer… but not surprising for Luc. What was surprising was how good that rough skin felt next to hers. Sexy and comforting at the same time.
Did Claudia Casale get to feel that rough skin abrading her flesh? Did he offer to be her Cajun Knight, too? No, Sylvie immediately rejected that notion with a little smile. The more-than-fit private investigator was more likely to offer to be Luc’s protector. Sylvie would like to see what that independent woman’s reaction would be if the rude, crude bad boy of the bayou ever tried to comment on the shape of her behind.