Cajun Magic 01 - Voodoo on the Bayou by Elle James Page A

dock, and the bayou. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
    “Do…do you have a life vest?” she whispered.
    “Yes, of course.” Craig dropped her hand and reached under a seat for the regulation orange vest. He pressed it into her fingers, and leaned forward to grab her bucket and stow it in the boat.
    When he looked back, she stood exactly as she had when he’d handed her the vest, staring at the water, her eyes wide and worried.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked irritably. Then he noticed her trembling hands, clutching at the vest. She was petrified. But not by him, it seemed.
    “I don’t think I can do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
    He jumped at the reprieve. “You don’t have to. You could go home. I have other things to do.”
    His tone must have cut through her fear, because she stiffened her spine. Her lips drew into a tight line. “No. I have to do this.”
    “It’s your choice. But if we’re going, you have to get in the boat. Preferably sometime this century.”
    She stared down at the life vest and back at him.
    “For Pete’s sake.” He climbed out of the boat. “Give me that.” Grabbing the vest, he hooked it over her head. The subtle scent of flowers wafted in the air. He didn’t know what he’d expected—formaldehyde or rubbing alcohol, maybe. But not the hauntingly familiar scent of wildflowers. He withdrew his hands and noted her skin was as smooth and delicate as silk.
    When he realized he was holding his breath, he forced air into his lungs. At that point he should have backed away. But of their own volition, his hands moved forward to lift her hair clear of the vest. The strands cascaded through his fingers to lay wild and soft against the orange fabric. He wanted to gather it up again and bury his face in the shiny tresses.
    “Does this strap do something?” she asked, her breath warm against his ear.
    A river of awareness coursed through his veins and into his groin. He had to get control of himself before he did something both of them would regret. Elaine Smith wasn’t his type. He preferred the tough as nails, what’s-in-it-for-me kind of woman. A woman who could hold her own against his cynical views and single lifestyle. Elaine, however, was— He groped for the right word to best describe his impression of her. Soft? Vulnerable? Passionate?
    The last word that sprang to mind struck him. Why would he think of her as passionate? Was it her full lips and wide eyes? Or was he only projecting his own carnal thoughts onto her?
    He gathered his diminishing willpower and set her away from him. Then he looked down at the strap in her hands. “That hooks around your waist.” As he reached for the strap, blood sang in his ears. Before he could take it from her, he stopped himself. His sense of honor warred with his lust. If he touched her again, lust might just win. He pointed at the strap and said, “It hooks around your waist and buckles there.”
    He did an about-face and practically leapt back into the boat, causing it to rock violently. He fought to stay on his feet, thankful for the distraction.
    When he turned back toward Elaine, her face was white.
    “Will it do that when I get in?” she asked.
    “Do what?”
    “That rocking thing.” She swayed her hand back and forth, and her face paled even more.
    Ah .
    Around boats all his life, he hadn’t considered she might be afraid of the pirogue. And all this time, he’d thought she must be afraid of him .
    He smiled up at her. “No, I’ll keep it steady. You just hold my hand and step in slowly.”
    Reaching up, he grasped her hand and tugged gently. At first she didn’t budge. Then, one foot at a time, she inched toward the boat. When both her feet were at the edge of the dock, she looked down into his eyes.
    As if he were her anchor, she kept her gaze fixed on his and stepped down into the little skiff.
    The pirogue rocked gently and she threw her arms around his neck in a stranglehold.
    He would have