The Red-Hot Cajun Read Free Page A

over the place, but still he was able to see her dark Creole eyes, which flashed angrily.
    Against the duct tape, she screamed something that sounded pretty much like, “Flngukkk yuuuaauu!” It probably wasn’t Howdy.
    Grabbing a knife out of his toolbox, he walked over and lifted her off J.B.’s shoulder. She was unsteady on her high-heeled feet, but he managed to stand her against a tree and cut away the restraints.
    He saved the duct tape for last.
    Once the tape was off, the first thing she did was shimmy down her skirt. Then the fireworks began.
    “Rene LeDeux! I should’ve known you’d be behind these shenanigans.”
    “Hey, I had nothing to do with this.”
    “Save it for the judge, bozo.”
    Rene glanced over at the St. Jude statue and murmured, “Now would be the time to perform a miracle ‘cause I sure am feeling hopeless.”
    He could swear he heard a voice in his head answer back, You ‘re on your own, big boy.
     

CHAPTER TWO
    Once a rogue, always a rogue . . .
    When Valerie Breaux had lost her job last week as trial news analyst at TTN, she’d thought her life couldn’t get any worse. But being dropped, practically butt naked, practically in the lap of Rene LeDeux, her worst nightmare, well, that had to rank right up there with life’s defining moments of misery. She and Rene were the same age and had gone to the same Houma, Louisiana, schools for twelve years, every minute of which the rogue had chosen to torment her with his teasing ways. Then there had been that one humiliating incident, even more humiliating than this.
    Someone was going to pay.
    “You are going to pay, big-time, mister,” she told Rene, who stood there looking hunky and way too roguish, as usual, in his skimpy attire. And a tool belt! Holy moley, he looked like some model for a beefcake calendar. He had really broad shoulders and a really small waist and hips. Hell, her behind was probably bigger than his cute little butt. God above! I’ve landed in hell and I am looking at the devil’s butt. His black hair was over-long, and his dark Cajun eyes danced with wickedness. She was in big trouble, and it had nothing to do with being kidnapped.
    “I did not have anything to do with this, Val,” he said, smiling at her.
    “First of all, do not call me Val. Second, do not freakin’ smile. Third, whose property is this?” She gave a sweeping glance to the raised cottage-in-progress and the remote bayou property.
    “Mine,” he admitted.
    “Aha!” she said. “Two miscreants kidnap me off the Houma airport parking lot and deliver me to your property. Won’t even let me get my briefcase out of my car or use the ladies’ room first. I’m thinking they are the accessories and you are the perp. Take a guess how that would look in a court of law.”
    “Not so good, but I swear I had nothing to do with this.” His sincere-sounding words were belied by his grin. He was probably picturing her bare behind.
    “Good grief! I think the thunderbolt is hitting,” Tante Lulu pronounced dolefully. The old lady’s name was Louise Rivard, but everyone called her Tante Lulu. “The air’s practically sizzlin’ with electricity between you two. I shoulda never come here with the hope chest. I shoulda left St. Jude at home. I shoulda waited till next year to help you get a nice Cajun girl. St. Jude, iffen you forget that uppity snob ever came here, I’ll say five novenas... mebbe even ten.” Tante Lulu was sitting on an old stump, moaning her misgivings about thunder and saints or something. Dopey, as usual!
    “What is she blabbing about?” Valerie asked Rene. His great aunt—well-known throughout Southern Louisiana for her outrageousness—was true to form today, her tiny body encased like a teenybopper’s in an exercise outfit, despite her being older than dirt.
    “She thinks the thunderbolt of love has hit me and that you’re the one.”
    “The one what?”
    He waggled his eyebrows at her.
    “You’re