“You are pickled, babe,” he murmured against her ear.
Sylvie felt the soft flutter of his breath all the way to her toes and a dozen not-to-be-mentioned-in-public places in between. She wasn’t drunk, though… just a little off balance. Was that why Luc was having this odd effect on her? “I’m just a little woozy. It’ll pass in a moment.”
“Well, Ms. Woozy, can I have this dance?”
“I don’t want to dance,” she declared, digging in her heels. “And I’m tired of you bringing up that dancing business with me all the time. I’m not twelve years old anymore. I’m not so easily shocked.”
He appeared taken aback at her vehement response. Then he winked at her. God, she hated it when he winked at her. Well, truth be told, she liked his winks, and that was why she hated them.
“Mais out, but I’m not talking about that other kind of dancing now… the kind you so graciously offered to me earlier today, I might note. A little Cajun two-step, that’s all. Regular dancing.”
“Hah! There’s nothing regular about you.”
Luc grinned at her, as if she’d given him a compliment. “Was that a compliment, chère?”
Looking around, she was startled to find herself in the center of the postage-stamp-sized dance floor. Luc must have steered her there while they’d been talking. She ignored his question and brought up one of her own. “Shouldn’t we worry about being in such a public place? Aren’t we making ourselves easy targets here?”
He shrugged with unconcern. “The bouncers at the front and back doors have been alerted to watch for any strangers. This is an out-of-the-way tavern, frequented mostly by local people who know each other, especially on a weekday. There’s no real danger… yet.” Still encouraging her to dance with him, he held his hands out to her, as if she would willingly step into his embrace.
She shook her head stubbornly and ignored the dancers who occasionally brushed against them in the brisk Cajun two-step… a dance that wasn’t quite fast and wasn’t quite slow.
The band was playing an upbeat version of that Joel Sonnier song, “Knock, Knock, Knock,” about a bayou rogue who’s in the doghouse with his wife once again. Every time the band came to the refrain, René—who wielded a mean accordion, alternating with an over-the-shoulder washboard to give a zydeco touch—yelled out the foot-stomping lyric “Knock, knock, knock,” and the house joined in raucously.
Meanwhile, Luc’s arms were still open wide, his fingers beckoning, his hips swaying slowly to the beat.
She forced her eyes upward.
Luc winked at her knowingly. “Don’t you want to ask any questions about my… uh, body parts? Did you bring your notebook with you?”
“No, I didn’t bring my notebook.” She hesitated. “Although … if there’s some reaction you’re experiencing, of course I want to hear about it.”
He laughed out loud at that. “I’d rather show you.” Now he was circling her, snapping his fingers in rhythm, waiting for the most opportune moment to pounce on her, no doubt.
Sylvie was getting dizzy trying to watch Luc, who couldn’t seem to stand still. “Oh, all right,” she agreed churlishly. “Let’s dance and get it over with.” She stepped into his arms, putting one stiffened left arm on his right shoulder, holding him at arm’s length, with her right hand in his left one, forcing it out and away from her body.
Now, that wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. With no essential parts touching, her body swayed to the beat along with Luc’s. The band moved seamlessly into its next song… a plaintive, twangy rendition of “Jolé Blon.”
Luc laughed softly. “I can’t dance like this, Sylvie. I can hardly feel your rhythm from way over there.”
“My rhythm? What do you mean? Oh… no… what are you doing?”
Luc placed one hand on each of her hips and yanked her flush against his body. Then he forced her arms up and around his neck, meanwhile lacing his hands behind her waist.
She didn’t need to ask about his bodily reactions now.
To say they were acutely conscious of each other was the understatement of the millennium.