Read Online Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) by Susannah Sandlin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susannah Sandlin
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nightmares.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the air conditioner.” He fished a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “And call me anytime. My cell number’s on the card.”
He found Jena waiting around the corner, obviously eavesdropping. She wore a smirk but kept her mouth shut until they climbed in the truck and got back on the highway.
“Call me Gentry,” she purred. “Call me anytime. My cell number’s on the card.”
He turned the AC fan on high and tugged down the bill of his cap, slumping in the seat and closing his eyes. “Shut the hell up, Red.”
CHAPTER 6
Ceelie stuck her head around the corner, watching Gentry Broussard follow his partner to a dusty black monster of a pickup truck. Nice ass.
Then again, there was something about a guy in a uniform most women found irresistible. Ceelie and Sonia had pondered this peculiar phenomenon over late-night glasses of moscato back in Nashville. They’d decided it had to be the belt and all the equipment that dangled from it when the guys walked, which not only was phallic but probably released extra sex pheromones into the air and turned women into nectar-seeking honeybees.
Which was exactly why it was dangerous for her to stay too long in Terrebonne Parish. It felt too comfortable. In fact, it felt damned good. It felt like home in a way Nashville never had. Staying would be too easy, and one day she’d wake up and realize she hadn’t left Terrebonne Parish in ten years, or twenty.
Plus, the men here were one of two types: either total losers or sexy and overburdened with testosterone. Too many of them, like Gentry Broussard, had a confident, unconscious sexuality that would bulldoze a woman into a single-wide with a half-dozen kids before she knew what hit her.
And a dog. A guy like that probably had at least one or two hunting dogs, and not cute little beagles, either. Big dogs.
Ceelie preferred cats and small dogs, although they tended to be eaten by alligators around here, as she recalled. Munchability wasn’t a desirable trait in a pet. She also didn’t like trailers, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want kids. Between having been abandoned by her mom and bullied by small-town mean girls, her own childhood had sucked; she wouldn’t have her own child subjected to it.
So yeah, a guy like Gentry Broussard left her feeling restless and needy and defiant, all at the same time. She was annoyed that she’d checked out his left hand for the wedding ring and had been pleased there hadn’t been one.
Weapon-belt pheromones. Had to be.
He did look familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. She’d been gone ten years, so if she’d seen him before, they’d both been a lot younger. If she’d recently seen that curly hair, those melted-dark-chocolate eyes and for-God’s-sake dimples, she would remember.
Other than awakening her libido, which she’d now have to beat back into submission, the visit hadn’t accomplished much. She wasn’t sure what she expected the game wardens to tell her that she didn’t already know, but it had been worth a try. And Gentry had confirmed her suspicion that nothing on Tante Eva’s throwing table had been touched.
Ceelie hadn’t touched it either, and she wasn’t sure she was ready. So first, she filled another bucket with water, mixed in some bleach, and got on her hands and knees with a sponge, scrubbing at bloodstains for at least the sixth or seventh time. The light coming through the open windows and door at different hours of the day kept revealing blotches she’d missed earlier.
After the bleach, she retraced her steps using the pine cleaner until the place reeked. At least it reeked of clean things and not death.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer; that shrine beneath the window whispered to her like some kind of dark siren. She stashed the cleaning supplies in the cramped cabinet under the sink, then approached the throwing table. Tante Eva had called it
“Let me know if you change your mind about the air conditioner.” He fished a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “And call me anytime. My cell number’s on the card.”
He found Jena waiting around the corner, obviously eavesdropping. She wore a smirk but kept her mouth shut until they climbed in the truck and got back on the highway.
“Call me Gentry,” she purred. “Call me anytime. My cell number’s on the card.”
He turned the AC fan on high and tugged down the bill of his cap, slumping in the seat and closing his eyes. “Shut the hell up, Red.”
CHAPTER 6
Ceelie stuck her head around the corner, watching Gentry Broussard follow his partner to a dusty black monster of a pickup truck. Nice ass.
Then again, there was something about a guy in a uniform most women found irresistible. Ceelie and Sonia had pondered this peculiar phenomenon over late-night glasses of moscato back in Nashville. They’d decided it had to be the belt and all the equipment that dangled from it when the guys walked, which not only was phallic but probably released extra sex pheromones into the air and turned women into nectar-seeking honeybees.
Which was exactly why it was dangerous for her to stay too long in Terrebonne Parish. It felt too comfortable. In fact, it felt damned good. It felt like home in a way Nashville never had. Staying would be too easy, and one day she’d wake up and realize she hadn’t left Terrebonne Parish in ten years, or twenty.
Plus, the men here were one of two types: either total losers or sexy and overburdened with testosterone. Too many of them, like Gentry Broussard, had a confident, unconscious sexuality that would bulldoze a woman into a single-wide with a half-dozen kids before she knew what hit her.
And a dog. A guy like that probably had at least one or two hunting dogs, and not cute little beagles, either. Big dogs.
Ceelie preferred cats and small dogs, although they tended to be eaten by alligators around here, as she recalled. Munchability wasn’t a desirable trait in a pet. She also didn’t like trailers, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want kids. Between having been abandoned by her mom and bullied by small-town mean girls, her own childhood had sucked; she wouldn’t have her own child subjected to it.
So yeah, a guy like Gentry Broussard left her feeling restless and needy and defiant, all at the same time. She was annoyed that she’d checked out his left hand for the wedding ring and had been pleased there hadn’t been one.
Weapon-belt pheromones. Had to be.
He did look familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. She’d been gone ten years, so if she’d seen him before, they’d both been a lot younger. If she’d recently seen that curly hair, those melted-dark-chocolate eyes and for-God’s-sake dimples, she would remember.
Other than awakening her libido, which she’d now have to beat back into submission, the visit hadn’t accomplished much. She wasn’t sure what she expected the game wardens to tell her that she didn’t already know, but it had been worth a try. And Gentry had confirmed her suspicion that nothing on Tante Eva’s throwing table had been touched.
Ceelie hadn’t touched it either, and she wasn’t sure she was ready. So first, she filled another bucket with water, mixed in some bleach, and got on her hands and knees with a sponge, scrubbing at bloodstains for at least the sixth or seventh time. The light coming through the open windows and door at different hours of the day kept revealing blotches she’d missed earlier.
After the bleach, she retraced her steps using the pine cleaner until the place reeked. At least it reeked of clean things and not death.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer; that shrine beneath the window whispered to her like some kind of dark siren. She stashed the cleaning supplies in the cramped cabinet under the sink, then approached the throwing table. Tante Eva had called it
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