But the woman just cocked a hip and grinned at Luc, as if they shared some joke.
Luc pulled Sylvie even closer then, and tucked her flush against his side with an arm looped over her shoulder. Then he turned so they faced the floozy, who, Sylvie had to admit, was a very attractive woman of about twenty-five or so. Darn it! The big-toothed, pure-white smile the floozy flashed Sylvie’s way further infuriated her. She was pretty sure the low, growling sound came from her throat, and not the band, which was now doing a cat-purring rendition of “Tiger in the House.”
“I’d like you to meet someone, Sylvie chère,” Luc began.
Sylvie wished she could sink into the floor. Luc was actually going to introduce her to his girlfriend, and if the twinkle in his dancing eyes was any indication, he must suspect that Sylvie was jealous. Oh, it was so embarrassing!
“This is Sylvie Fontaine, the chemist friend I was telling you about,” Luc told his bimbo, who nodded vigorously in understanding. Her well-lacquered hair didn’t move a bit.
“And you, sweet thing,” he said, chucking Sylvie under the chin. “I want you to meet Charmaine.”
Charmaine. That figures. A perfect bimbo name. Oh, God, when did I turn so mean and condescending and—
“My sister.”
Chapter Eight
Leaning against the bar, Sylvie decided that she needed a drink. Something to wipe away her humiliating rush to The Swamp Shack to save Luc’s worthless hide, followed by her humiliating misconception about Luc and what she’d thought was a barroom floozy, not to mention her humiliating jealousy—her second bout that day with the green-eyed monster.
I was jealous. Jealous! Maybe this is one of those Stockholm Syndrome kind of things where a victim falls in love with her captor. Aaarrgh! I wasn’t captured by Luc. And I’m certainly not in love with him, God forbid!
She was sandwiched now, like a hot dog on a bun, between Luc and said “floozy,” his sister, Charmaine, at the crowded bar.
Yep, that’s me. The world’s biggest weenie.
Sylvie recalled now that Charmaine Devereaux, illegitimate child of Luc’s father and a Baton Rouge stripper, had been Miss Louisiana a few years back. That less-than-proper family background had provided much fodder for the gossip-mongers back then. She also vaguely remembered that Charmaine operated a posh beauty salon over in Thibodaux. That would account for the Texas-style hair. Sylvie suspected, on the other hand, that her own hair lay limp and lackluster after all she’d been through that day.
“I’ll have a pink zinfandel,” Sylvie told the bartender, a huge giant of a man with a bald head and a thick mustache. A gold hoop ring sparkled in one ear, giving the impression of a scruffy pirate.
“Say what?” Blackbeard was obviously harried by a sudden rush of dance-heated customers and not in the mood for fancy drink requests.
Not that hers had been fancy. Geez! “A pink zinfandel. That’s wine,” she explained.
“Lady, I know what zinfandel is,” the bartender grumbled in a weary drawl. “We got red wine and white wine, chère. You want pink, how ’bout you order a glass of each and dump ’em together?”
Sylvie’s upper lip curled. “I am in a bad mood, mister, and I am not amused by your attitude. Remember one thing,” she snarled. ” ‘He needed killin” is a legal defense for murder in Louisiana.”
“You a lawyer, too?” the bartender asked with a laugh, nodding toward Luc.
“No, I’m not a lawyer, you dunce. I’m a chemist.”
“Ah, well… me, I feel much better, then. You gonna kill me with some chem-i-cal, ‘stead of bullets?” The whole time he was expeditiously filling orders for other customers… mostly beers without glasses for the no-frills crowd.
Luc snickered and chugged down the last of his beer.
Charmaine ignored both the bartender’s snippy remark to Sylvie and her equally snippy retort, as well as Luc’s snicker.
“Can I have a glass of ice water, Gator?” Charmaine batted her false eyelashes at the burly man, who was suddenly not in such a bad temper. In fact, Gator smiled at Charmaine, flashing a gap-toothed, David Letterman-style smile, and said, “Anytime, sweet cakes.”