He was gaping at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You’re going to do a hard-on graph of me?”
“Well, that could be one of the graphs. But I certainly wouldn’t describe it so crudely.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t, babe.” He shook his head in wonder that she actually thought he’d participate in such a bizarre experiment. “That’s all I need… to be known as The Swamp Solicitor and The Happy Penis.”
“This is serious business, Luc. I’m a chemist. We could be making scientific history here.”
He had to laugh at that. “My cock a scientific wonder? I… don’t… think… so.”
“Where are you going?” she said in a panicky voice. He was sliding along the Naugahyde bench, preparing to stand.
“Out. I need a beer.”
“Wait. I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head. “No. You stay here. Lock the door after me. Remy will be here about five a.m. with the copter.”
“But—”
“I need some time alone, Sylvie.” He was already walking toward the door, tucking the gun into his back waistband.
“But—”
Speaking over his shoulder, he snapped, “Unless you plan on doing something about these erections you’ve caused with your love potion, and with all your damn questions about them, I suggest you put a mile between your sweet self and my erections.”
Silence.
Curiosity got the best of him, and he peeked back over his shoulder. Her pen was flying over the notebook.
He didn’t need to ask what she was writing. “Diary of a Penis,” no doubt. Mon Dieu!
It was midnight, and Luc still hadn’t come back to the houseboat.
Sylvie was bored. And worried. And just a little bit angry.
Where was he?
What if he’d dumped her here? No, her instincts told her that Luc wouldn’t do that. Certainly not without first providing for her protection. Like calling her mother for bodyguard service. Oooh, she would kill Luc if he’d done that to her.
But what if something had happened to him? He’d said not to worry… that they were safe here, at least for a short time. His youngest brother Remy, a pilot for a North Louisiana ranch conglomerate and a Desert Storm Air Force veteran, would be coming to take them to some hideout in a far-off bayou, accessible only by air or a long, long trip in a pirogue. But maybe the bad guys had pounced on him anyhow. Maybe he was even… Oh, my God! . . . dead.
Sylvie shot to her feet, her notebook and pen falling to the floor. She made quick work of unlocking the door, in a hurry to find Luc, to rescue him, or… or… She wasn’t sure what. She just knew she had to find Luc.
Her eyes darted about the room, searching for a weapon—just in case. Not a gun, or switchblade knife, or even a baseball bat in sight. Just a battered fiddle that had seen better days. Well, it would have to do. She grabbed the old instrument by its neck and was out the door, making sure to lock up after herself. After all, her briefcase was still inside—albeit hidden inside a fishing tackle storage closet—and the lab rats, too.
That was when the band started up again.
Sylvie had been hearing René’s band, The Cajun Swamp Rats, playing off and on all night. They did loud renditions of both traditional and modern Cajun music, from the slow, evocative melodies passed through generations of French Acadians, to the more upbeat, lively, sometimes raucous, modern versions, including zydeco.
As the band launched enthusiastically into the well-known “Big Mamou,” a song about one of Louisiana’s largest lakes, and she made her way determinedly toward the tavern, other thoughts entered her mind. Anyone listening to Cajun music soon ended up smiling. These Cajuns were such a fun-loving people, and they enjoyed a good laugh, even when the laugh was on them. That jerk Luc probably wasn’t hurt at all. He was probably in the tavern having fun—drinking, dancing, flirting with some barroom floozy.
Forget about killing Luc, she was going to whack off his favorite body part. With a fiddle.
Sylvie stormed right up to the tavern and past the big galoot at the door, who was a cross between a WWF wrestler and Godzilla. He gave the fiddle in her hand a cursory glance, then shrugged, muttering something about crazy musicians.