Hah! She’d probably like it, Sylvie’s contrary mind quickly opined.
Sylvie stole a glance through lowered lashes at said bad boy. He wore neatly pressed jeans and a soft cotton denim, collarless shirt, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Although he hadn’t shaved, he smelled faintly of some piney soap. His thick hair was mussed a bit, and his black eyes stared straight ahead with solemnity, checking for danger.
Sylvie had been critical of Luc for many things over the years, but she’d never been able to deny his handsomeness. He was ten kinds of sexy… and then some. Truly, with his dark good looks and his roguish personality, the man was way, way too appealing to certain types of women—like Claudia Casale, no doubt. It was oddly disconcerting to discover at this inopportune moment that she was one of those women, too.
Why do I care about his relationship with other women?
Other women? Was she going crazy? What was it with this “other women” business? She didn’t have a relationship with him.
While her mind had been wandering, the keyless jeep, which had been shut off, was idling away noisily behind them… a crude, belching reminder of the image Luc liked to portray in their mutual hometown of Houma, which was situated at the heart of winding bayous and moss-draped oak trees. Houma was a sophisticated city, despite its earthy Cajun influence and its distance from decadent New Orleans, sixty miles northeast, and from the state capital, Baton Rouge, ninety miles northwest. For the first time, she wondered if perhaps Luc deliberately tried to mask his true self with his outrageous outward appearance. Could she have been wrong about Luc all these years? She’d always thought he had an attitude problem, but maybe… just maybe… she had a perception problem. Had she been viewing Luc all these years through prejudiced eyes?
No, she was just softening under all the stress today. He was the same rude, crude bad boy of the bayous as he’d always been. She wasn’t going to be tricked into changing her opinion at this late date, Cajun Knight or not.
“Nice place,” she commented, regarding the building in front of them. And she meant it. The structure was old… probably pre-Civil War… and had the charm and character of many of the South’s vintage structures. Not quite the choice she would have expected of Luc. A rusted-out trailer would have been more in line with his rusted-out Jeep. As the old joke went… tornadoes and Southerners going through a divorce have a lot in common… including the fact that someone’s going to lose a trailer.
Geez, there I go again. Basing my opinions on outmoded stereotypes. Why do I find it so difficult to give him the benefit of the doubt? What do I have to lose by granting him a few admirable traits?
Luc turned to her, and she noticed the surprise, then pleasure, on his face at her praise. “I call her The Buff Bimbo.”
“Huh?”
“You know how lots of old mansions and plantation houses are given feminine names, like The Grande Dame or The Pink Lady? Well, behold.” He waved a hand proudly in a ta-da fashion toward the two-story, pale-yellow edifice before them. “The Buff Bimbo.” He grinned at her then, but she could tell that he loved the place.
Why that should endear him to her, she could not say. But somehow she liked the fact that a maverick like him would appreciate the timeless beauty of faded bricks, picturesque ironwork, and time-rippled glass. It was almost as if he had to give the building a coarse appellation to hide his affection, which might be construed as sentimental. God forbid that The Swamp Solicitor might have a mushy spot or two.
“Do you own the building?” she asked.
He nodded. “Some construction crews were about to raze the site and put in an annex to that modern office complex next door,” he explained. “It used to belong to a sugar broker before The War, and I paid an overinflated price to save her.” He shrugged, not bothering to mention which war he was referring to. Everyone in the South knew which war was “The War.”