It was Friday night, and Adam had finally gotten away from the house and was driving his Lexus up toward Thibodaux. He would have taken his bike, but it was supposed to rain later this evening. His dad would be doing babysitting duty until the wee hours. Time for some adult entertainment!
Between his busy work schedule and activities with his daughter, he didn’t have much spare time, though he did play racquetball on occasion, and he’d inherited his dad’s talent for poker, which he played once a month with some fellow lawyers. Adam had long outgrown clubbing; in fact, the only clubbing he’d ever indulged in had been more like bar hopping to meet chicks in college. And, although he loved his Harley, he wasn’t into the biker scene.
What Adam really liked was women. Cut to the bone, pun intended, he liked sex. And he was never one to deprive himself, not even when he’d been married. And, no, he hadn’t been one of those losers who complained that his wife didn’t understand him and therefore sought comfort elsewhere, blah, blah, blah. Believe it or not, Hannah had been the one responsible for that state of marital affairs, another pun intended. She’d been the horndog in their marriage. Horndog Hannah! He’d even called her that one time, and she’d just laughed. Later, she just became Hardhearted Hannah when it came to their daughter. Maisie’s well-being was the only reason he’d stayed.
Soon after they had married, Hannah, a psychologist who specialized in partner counseling (That should have been a clue.), informed him that she would be having sex with multiple partners and she expected he would do likewise. Why she hadn’t told him before the vows, or why he hadn’t suspected, was beyond him. She claimed he was just old-fashioned.
Now, some men might have been doing the Happy Dance, but he’d always been a monogamy kind of guy. Or at least serial monogamy, as in one relationship at a time. And he’d fancied himself in love. Foolish boy!
“Oh, Adam!” she’d said when he’d naively voiced that sentiment. “Everyone does it. As long as no one gets hurt!”
“Bullshiiit!” he’d replied.
So he’d stayed (in a separate bedroom), and there had been lots of women; no sense building a relationship when he was already married. In fact, he’d gained a reputation as a wild and crazy guy, despite his best attempts at discretion. A player. Nowhere near as bad as Hannah, but then, he’d stopped counting after their first anniversary.
And then Hannah died. But the marriage, dysfunctional as it had been, was worth it for Maisie’s sake. He’d adored the squirt from the moment she’d come squalling from Hannah’s overused love channel. That was mean! Shame, Adam, shame! And he had to give Hannah credit; she’d been a good mother . . . most of the time.
Now he was off to a date with Sonia Easterly, a yoga instructor from Baton Rouge. He’d been hooking up with the redhead for the past five months (a record for him), ever since they’d met at a party. Sonia was teaching him things about sex and yoga that boggled the mind. Who knew there were things he didn’t know about the dirty deed at his jaded age?
It was almost ten p.m. by the time he got to Sonia’s townhouse, which was making this feel more like a booty call than a date, which was not his intention. He would have taken her out to dinner first, if he’d been able to leave the house earlier, and then they would have enjoyed the booty call. Bad, Adam, bad! Was that what they meant by “putting lipstick on a pig?” That no matter how you painted it (with dinner, flowers, a movie, whatever), it was still a booty call.
He shrugged. He didn’t think Sonia was offended. He would ask her. Later. After he took care of her booty. Or was that his booty? Or both?
By midnight, he lay naked and depleted on her futon after a Frog aka Garland Pose sexcapade (Garland was a fancy name for a wide, low squat, if you asked him. Like a . . . frog.), followed by a wide-legged forward-from-the-waist bend with her hands locked on her ankles (no fancy name for this, unless you considered Downward Facing Dog as anything but down and dirty). After he regained his breath, he was going to try a Camel (these yoga folks had a thing about animals) which was pretty much a kneeling back bend. Whoa boy! He couldn’t wait.
“You still need to work on drawing your energy inside, instead of letting it all out in a rush,” Sonia told him, snuggling up with her red hair spread out over his chest and one knee over his thighs.
“By energy, you mean ejaculation?”
“Exactly. It’s more satisfying if you stop yourself from climaxing, and focus all that physical force into a spiritual buoyancy that will ripple through your body, and settle under your skin like a peaceful vibrancy.”
“If you say so.”
She slapped him playfully on the chest, knowing he wasn’t convinced. Slipping off the bed, she said, “Let me get us a smoothie, then we’ll see what else you can handle.” She tossed her mane of red hair over her shoulder and wiggled her hips as she sashayed out of the room, aware of his scrutiny.
She had a great body, an athlete’s body. Of medium height, but willowy thin, with muscle definition in her arms and legs. And her butt wasn’t too bad, either.
He leaned back against a stack of pillows, his arms folded behind his neck. It was amazing how sex could relax the body. He’d been tired and stressed when he got here. Not anymore.
When she came back, she was carrying a glass of green slime that he declined, graciously. He was ready to engage in another bout of sex, but she wanted to talk. “I’m getting out of Dodge. Moving on, and about time,” she told him. Turns out that she would be moving to California where she and her sister were going to open their own yoga studio in Malibu.
“Seems a little sudden.”
“Not really. Cindy and I have been talking about it for years, and the place where she works is up for sale at a decent price.”
He was already thinking, No more yoga sex. Damn!
“Don’t look so heartbroken,” she said with a laugh.
“What? I will miss you.”
“You’ll miss the sex.”
True. “I like you, Sonia. You never seemed to want more.”
“I don’t. Be honest, Adam, you’re not in love with me.”
“Are you in love with me?”
“Of course not.”
So, no harm, no foul. “When are you leaving?”
“In a couple of weeks. I still have time to teach you a few more yoga moves.” She placed his still full glass on the bedside table, then smiled seductively at him from where she stood next to the bed. No false modesty here. With hands on hips, she openly displayed all her assets for him to scrutinize . . . her smallish breasts with their big, kiss-swollen nipples, her navel with its winking gold ring, the runway-style trim to her red bush below.
With an inborn dexterity, he rose from the bed, grabbed her by the waist, tossed her to the mattress, and moved himself atop her. “Forget your loosey-goosey hippie crap,” he growled against her ear, adjusting his already burgeoning erection between her legs, “let me teach you a few Cajun moves. You could say we invented yoga. Have you ever heard of the Gator Slide?”
She laughed.
And then she wasn’t laughing anymore.
Red light, red light, red light! . . .
“This is either the best idea I ever had, or the worst,” Simone said, standing on the Houma sidewalk staring at the empty storefront. She was trying to picture the Legal Belles, Inc. sign, which would go above the double-door entrance next week, if plans proceeded.
“Stop being so negative,” Helene said, nudging her with an elbow. “This is going to be so much fun, working together.”
“It will be, won’t it? Still, you’re giving up a thriving practice, while I already gave my notice in Chicago.”
“I won’t be giving it up entirely. I’ll still work three days a week in my office, two days here. As business picks up, I can reverse those schedules.”
“Maybe you should start with one day a week here.”
“Si-mone!”
“Okay, okay, but it’s hard not to be a little scared. I practically emptied my savings account for this venture. Besides that, I swore I would never move back to Loo-zee-anna, and here I am, about to lock myself into a two-year lease on a business.”
“Honey, the only reason you’ve stayed away from Loo-zee-anna is to avoid your weakness, Cajun men. And what good has that done you? They follow you wherever you go. Case in point—the architect.”
“But the pool of temptation will be so much greater here.”
“Pool of temptation? I like that. You’re older and wiser now, Simone. You can resist. Anyhow, I’m here to warn you when . . . if . . . I see that certain gleam in your eye.”
“Maybe we should have a safe word.”
“Right. Whenever I notice you eyeballing some slow-talking Cajun devil, I’ll say ‘red light,’ and you’ll know to back off.”
They both burst out laughing, and Simone gave her good friend a hug. “You’re the best thing about coming home,” Simone said.
Once they stepped apart and were staring at the storefront again, Helene said, “The good news is there’s an apartment on the second floor, which will allow you to move out of The Gates.”
Simone rolled her eyes. “There is that. Did I tell you, my mother has become a walking commercial for Spanx? And she’s talking about forming a Kim Kardashian fan club called Embrace Your Inner Buttliness?”
“Noooo!”
Simone nodded. “I kid you not. And she’s on this kick where she wants grandkids, and she thinks I ought to set up a conjugal visit with Cletus Bergeron. She’s probably not serious, but still . . .”
“Isn’t he in Angola?”
“Yep.”
Helene giggled. Then, more seriously, she asked, “Well, we gonna do this thing?”
Simone hesitated, then said, “Hell, yes!”
They started to walk toward the law offices of Simone’s half brother Lucien LeDeux. It was a pleasant street, she had to admit, liking the feeling of this being her new home. There was a Sweet Buns Bakery on one side of the storefront they were about to rent and a boutique dress shop called Fancy’s on the other. The business space they were interested in had been occupied by an insurance agent, which suited them perfectly, with a small lobby and two separate office spaces, plus a small kitchenette and storage closets. It wouldn’t require much renovation, other than a little paint. Even some of the furniture remained—desks, filing cabinets, etc.
They were both good-looking women, and knew it, and flaunted it.
It was hard not to notice the attention they got as they walked down the street, both in business attire. Helene had an appointment in family court with a client later this morning, and Simone would be meeting with a graphic artist to design and print up brochures and business cards.
Helene, a mocha-skinned beauty with some Creole blood in her veins from her maternal grandfather, wore a short-sleeved, moss green suit with a peplum jacket and knee-skimming skirt and carried a slim, leather, over-the-shoulder briefcase. Even with black high heels and her reddish-brown hair piled high atop her head in designer disarray, she was still several inches shorter than Simone’s five-nine. But then, Simone was wearing heels, too. White strappy sandals that matched her white, sleeveless sheath dress, which was edged in red with a wide, red leather belt. Her dark hair was skinned back off her face into a chignon, low on her nape.
As they strolled, one or the other of them was recognized by people they knew. Invariably, the greeting would be, “Well, hello, there, Simone (or Helene). How’s yer Mama?” It was a Southern thing, which made Simone smile. It also made her smile to be among people she knew. Back in Chicago, anonymity was more the norm. Not a bad thing. But she was finding this sense of community oddly welcome.
When they got to Lucien’s office, a charming old Victorian-era home painted a bright yellow with green shutters, she noticed the brass plate on the door. LeDeux & Lanier, Esq. That was something new. Luc must have taken on a partner.
Luc’s secretary Mildred Guidry, a gray-haired matronly type woman, who’d been with Luc for at least twenty years, greeted them, and, yes, her greeting included a “How’s yer Mama?” Even before they sat down, Mildred said, “Luc will see you now.” They entered the open doorway. The door to the other office was closed.
As soon as he saw them, Luc rose from his chair behind the desk and came to welcome them with a handshake and kiss on one cheek. A handsome man, still in his prime despite being close to fifty, one side or the other, she wasn’t sure, he smelled as delicious as he looked thanks to a light, limey cologne. His tan suit jacket hung over a hall tree in the corner, but he wore a white, crisply starched dress shirt and a brown-and-black-striped tie, appropriate for a court appearance, which he’d told them was on his docket for later this morning, the reason they’d come into town so early.
They spent the next half hour going over and signing the paperwork that would incorporate their business and provide rental space for the next two years.
“You got a good deal on the rent,” Luc pointed out. He should know, since he also represented the owner of the building where Legal Belles would be located.
“Because we were willing to commit for two years, instead of one,” Helene pointed out.
“Right,” Luc said. “So, Legal Belles will be your name?” Luc smiled. “I still think Ball Busters would be a better title. It’s got a ring to it.”
“Why does everyone have a suggestion for our name?” Simone asked, not unkindly. “Even your aunt put her two cents in.”
“Tante Lulu is your aunt, too, chère. Sort of. So, what was her idea?”
“Beat the Cheat.”
He laughed. “That would work, too.”
Luc had also prepared several samples of contracts they might use with potential clients. He discussed the legal liabilities addressed in the various forms. “You need to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. Believe me, the most friendly client can turn into your worst enemy. Especially if they suddenly decide to make up with their offending partners, and you’re suddenly the bad guy . . . uh, girl.”
“That’s happened to you?” Simone asked.
Luc nodded. “More than once. That’s why I don’t do divorces anymore.”
“Luc is right,” Helene said. “That’s why I had him work up our contracts. I could have done most of it myself, but I wanted a second set of eyes. We have to be super vigilant in protecting not just our clients, but ourselves.”
“Right,” Luc agreed. “You know what they say about doctors not healing themselves. Same is true of lawyers. A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”
Once they’d completed all the paperwork and Helene had tucked their files in her briefcase, Luc walked them to the door. “I wish you all the luck, ladies, and you can be sure I’ll be referring customers to Legal Belles.”
“Thanks for all you help, Luc,” Simone said.
Helene was engaged in a soft conversation with Mildred, something about her niece who was attending Auburn University.
“Oh, have you met my new partner?” Luc looked toward the other office where the door was now open.
Following Luc’s lead, Simone saw a man sitting behind a desk, poring over a document. He wore rimless reading glasses, and his longish, dark brown hair was pulled off his face into a short ponytail low on his neck. He was deeply tanned, like many men in the South, and wore dress clothes similar to Luc’s—a navy blue suit, light blue dress shirt, and a red tie.
“Hey, Adam, you have a sec. I want you to meet my half sister Simone LeDeux and her partner, Helene Dubois, a lawyer. They’re forming that new business I told you about, Legal Belles. And, ladies, this handsome devil is Adam Lanier, my new partner . . . well, six months new.”
Adam stood, and Simone got an even better look at him. He had to be at least six feet tall, maybe six-one. Broad shoulders, slim waist accented by a thin leather belt, and narrow hips encased in navy slacks. A light scent of some musky cologne or aftershave wafted from his direction. Seductive.
He smiled and nodded. Helene had come in by now. But then, whoa! Adam removed his glasses. There was something about a man removing his glasses while he stared at a woman that was beyond sexy, sort of a signal that he was about to get down to serious business. Naughty business. Which was ridiculous. But, not so ridiculous, she realized when his gaze continued to hold hers, his head tilted slightly to the side, almost as if in question. His eyes were clear Cajun brown. Dancing eyes. Mischievous eyes. Dangerous eyes. And they were homing in on her.
Beside her, Simone heard Helene whisper, “Red light, red light, red light.”
But it was too late.
Thunderbolt, cupid’s dart, all the same thing . . .
Adam was poleaxed. No other word for it.
His heart raced. His stomach churned. And he felt a little light-headed, even though he was sitting down.
He couldn’t explain what had just happened. He was afraid to find out what had just happened.
Tante Lulu—Luc’s crazy-ass aunt—would say he’d been hit by some woo-woo Thunderbolt of Love nonsense. Which he didn’t believe in, and which he didn’t need at this point in his life, either, and which he absolutely, positively refused to accept. Not again. Yeah, he’d been in love at one time, and got himself doused in reality real quick.
But man! One look at Simone LeDeux, and his world turned upside down. He knew it, sure as he knew that he wouldn’t be seeing Sonia Easterly again, even if she decided to stay in Dodge.
One door opens, another closes.
Just so it wasn’t a trap door.
Now I’m a comedian. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!
Maybe it was indigestion. Please, God, let it down be a stomach ailment. That crawfish omelet he’d had for breakfast at the highway diner might have been a little off, but, no, that had been hours ago. It must be the woman.
Was this what they meant by love at first sight?
No, no, no. Lust, yes. Love, no.
He’d experienced lust on first meeting an attractive woman lots of times, and it had never felt like this. Maybe he had a clock ticking away in him like some women did . . . the maternal clock winding down, an urge to nest and procreate. But what would it be for a man? Surely he wasn’t looking to nest. Besides, it would be a mighty crowded nest with Maisie and his dad in there, too. Nope, he was thinking more of birddogging the woman, not birdnesting.
Ha, ha, ha! I am losing it here.
And Middle-Age Crazy didn’t cut it, either. First of all, thirty-five wasn’t middle-aged. Although I did clip those extra nose hairs last week. And second, a midlife crisis in men usually involved tomcatting, not settling down. I am tomcat, hear me roar . . . really.
“Oh, my God!” he muttered, putting his face in his hands. Why this particular woman? And why now?
Luc came back after escorting the two women out to the street. He leaned against the open door frame and asked, “You okay, cher?”
Adam shook his head. “What do you know about her?”
It was telling that Luc didn’t seem surprised by his question. Adam must look as stunned as he felt. Pitiful. “Well, Helene Dubois is an attorney. She works in a small private practice in Metairie, but now . . .”
“Not her. The other one.”
Luc’s eyes went wide and he came in to sit on the chair in front of Adam’s desk. Just to annoy him, Luc took all the time in the world to link his hands behind his neck and stretch his legs out, crossed at the ankle, all casual-like. “Adam, Adam, Adam. So, it’s my half sister Simone that has you lookin’ like you been Tasered.”
Adam sat down, too. Rather he sank, like a harpooned whale, or a gator down for the count on one of those Swamp People episodes. “You’re going to go all frickin’ big brother on me, aren’t you?”
“Depends on yer intentions.”
“I have no intentions.” Yet.
“Better be careful, my friend. Simone is a cop. At least she was until recently. She’s worked in Louisiana and various other states, most recently in Chicago. She could probably flip you over her shoulder and stomp on yer heart if you look at her the wrong way.”
“What’s the wrong way?”
“Kind of smolderin’, I would think.” Luc was enjoying the hell out of Adam’s situation.
“Pff! I wouldn’t know how to smolder if my life depended on it.”
Luc shrugged, unconvinced.
“A cop? She’s a cop?” Adam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Of all the women he’d had—model, waitress, realtor, teacher, rodeo rider, TV anchor, airline stewardess, yoga instructor, whatever—he didn’t think he’d ever done a cop before. Not that he’d done Simone. But he was hot damn thinking about it, and if that meant he smoldered, then so be it.
“And now she and her friend are forming a Cheaters-type agency down the street. The kind that catches slimeball men, and women, in the act of adultery or the intent to commit, then takes them to the cleaners in court,” Luc continued to explain while Adam’s mind had been wandering . . . or smoldering. “That’s not all they’ll do, of course, but I guarantee it’ll be a big part of their draw.”
Adam recalled Luc mentioning the new business to him a day or two ago. He hadn’t paid much attention then, but he was now.
“I know a few of our clients who could very well be in their crosshairs before long,” Luc said. “My dad, for one.”
Luc’s father, Valcour LeDeux, was a notorious womanizer, with legitimate and illegitimate children all over Louisiana, and beyond, including twins who’d arrived recently from Alaska. He’d been married for years to his second wife, Jolie, but that didn’t stop his fornicating with every female in sight, some of them rather young.
“Marcus Pitot, for another. His wife has been trying to get the goods on him for years. You know him, Adam. Wasn’t he a friend of your wife’s or something.”
Or something! If Luc only knew!
“Good thing you decided not to take him on as a client when you moved here, like he wanted you to. That could have become a conflict of interest if you do hook up with Simone.”
Marcus had been one of Hannah’s “friends.” No wonder Adam hadn’t wanted to do business with him, no matter the money he might have brought the firm. “Hook up with Simone? Whoa! That train hasn’t left the station yet.”
“Mais, oui! But I can hear the engine chuggin’ from over here,” Luc commented with a grin.
Adam ignored the teasing.
“Simone has been married a few times and is not too hot to walk the aisle again, or so Tante Lulu tells me.”
“Neither am I. So that’s a point in her favor, or my favor, depending on how you look at it. But what do you mean by a few times? What’s wrong with her?”
“Actually, if you want to know more about Simone, you oughta go talk to my aunt.”
“Not on your life!”
They both laughed, knowing that Adam would be opening himself up to the old lady’s matchmaking shenanigans if he showed signs of an interest in any woman, let alone one connected to her family.
Still, once Luc went off to court, and Adam was between appointments, he found himself Googling Simone LeDeux on the Internet. She was almost thirty years old, a graduate of Loyola University and the North Louisiana Criminal Justice Academy. She’d worked in two police departments in Louisiana, followed by a very short stint in Florida, and most recently in Chicago where she’d only recently made the rank of detective. A lot of moving around in eight years of law enforcement. Hmmm.
And she’d been married three times. Three times! Holy crap! He didn’t know what was worse. Spreading favors here and there, like his wife, Hannah, had been prone to do, while still married, or spreading favors through legitimate means, like within the bounds of marriage. Of course, she might have been spreading them outside, as well, his cynical mind noted.
He continued to scroll down the pages, nonetheless. Sort of a masochistic urge to inure himself to her allure. Her first husband, Cletus Bergeron, whom she must have married when she was a teenager, was currently in prison and had been in and out of the system his entire life, mostly felony robberies. Her second husband, Jeb Cormier, now deceased, had been a well-known Cajun musician, equally well-known for being a cokehead. Adam had one of his CDs in his car, which he played on occasion when he was in the mood for wild zydeco tunes. And her third husband, Julien Gaudet, a computer guru, had a Facebook page, which appeared rather perverted in terms of personal proclivities.
Great taste in men, Simone! The only similarity he could see about them was they were all Cajun.
He didn’t need the various photos to remind him of how she had looked, although she was especially hot in one where she was wearing a SWAT uniform. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to make love to a woman wearing boots, a police hat, and a flak jacket, and nothing else, except maybe a black thong. No, the image of her standing in this office was the best, the one imprinted on his testosterone-teeming brain.
Tall. Not too slender like many tall women were today. Model thin, they called it. More like Skinny Minnie. He’d had sex one time with a woman whose hip bone had given him a bruise on the shoulder that lasted for a week. Simone had more meat on the bone, and muscle, from her shoulders to her ample breasts to narrow belted waist to wider hips, and she had mile long legs, and in the middle, oh, my Lord, a butt to die for. When she’d turned to leave his office, he’d noticed the way her dress cupped her buttocks. He’d never been a butt man before, but he was becoming a convert.
She was Cajun, no doubt about that, but not the sweet, petite, brown-eyed, brunette southern Louisiana belle he was accustomed to. Her eyes were alert and intelligent, daring him, or any man, to say the wrong thing. I can think of about fifty inappropriate things right off the bat. With her police training, she probably had a pistol in her pocket or hidden in an inner thigh holster. God bless the male imagination. Her lips were full, and flame-red today. Sassy, he would guess, when she let herself go. Does she ever let herself go? She must, if she’s been married three times. And did he mention she had a world-class ass?
Later that day, Adam decided that he should buy some beignets to take home for dessert, and of course he headed to Sweet Buns down the street. That was the name of the bakery, not . . . well, never mind. It was a coincidence, of course, that the bakery was next door to the soon-to-be home of Legal Belles. Maybe he could get another look at Ms. Simone LeDeux, and see if his first reaction had been a one-off. Maybe he would notice something distasteful a second time around that would turn him off.
Even though it was a short distance, he drove his Harley, figuring he would go directly home from there. Dinnertime traffic was heavy and he would have made better time walking, but it gave him time to think. He felt a little creepy chasing after a woman, or at least uncomfortable. Would she think he was a stalker? No, he wasn’t stalking. But he was behaving out of character, and that was alarming. To him.
The prospect stopped him dead. What the hell was he doing? He shook his head to clear it and turned the cycle around, heading back to the office.
He would be more careful in the future. It was not a good idea to care too much about a woman. Not a good idea at all.
And next time his sweet tooth called, he would find some other bakery. Like Haydel’s in New Orleans which sold Cajunnolis, a trademarked specialty, which was Maisie’s favorite. Crisp shells filled with praline cream cheese and the ends dipped in chopped pecans. Better than beignets any day. To Maisie, anyhow. He would make a special trip there soon.
That was a close call, he decided later. One he was going to avoid at all costs. And he wasn’t talking . . . thinking . . . about pastry.