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?”