The Red-Hot Cajun by Sandra Hill Page A

stone-cold sober, the implications of what he might have done with Val scared the crap out of him. He’d dodged a bullet big time.
    But wait a minute.
    The bullet—dressed in a white T-shirt of his that reached only mid-thigh—sashayed out onto the porch, down the steps, and headed toward the stream. Mon Dieu! Was she sleepwalking or what?
    As quick as he could, he scrambled out of his net tent and called out to her, “Val! Wait a minute.” But she was already dipping her bare feet in the stream, about to step in. “Are you crazy?” he yelled just as she hit the water.
    She pulled off the T-shirt, then dunked herself under the thigh-high water and came up soaked all the way to the ponytail atop her head. She put the T-shirt back on, which molded to her wet body like a Frederick’s of the Bayou piece of erotic lingerie.
    “Did you say something?” she asked, reaching up to whisk back loose tendrils off her face. With that action, her breasts became more prominent and the indentation of her waist and flare of her hips were accentuated. With his excellent night vision, aided by the full moon, he took it all in. And his once-banked lust jump-started back to full-tilt boogie.
    “Yes, I said something. You can’t go traipsing out to the water in the middle of the night.” Especially looking like you do. Especially with me looking at you looking like you do.
    “Why not? It’s blistering hot inside that cabin.”
    “Because you might bump into an alligator or a water moccasin.” Or me.
    “Oh.”
    “Oh? That’s all you can say?” Holy crawfish! I can practically see through that wet shirt. “Are you still drunk?”
    “No. Well, maybe a little.”
    More like a lot. Oh, great! Now I can’t hit on her. Not that I would do that. Note to me: nohitting on Valerie Breaux. “A little bit drunk is like being a little bit pregnant,” he muttered as he reached out a hand and helped her up the bank. Immediately, the mosquitoes started to attack.
    “Oh my God! They’re biting me all over, even with that Skin-So-Soft stuff of Tante Lulu’s slathered all over me.”
    Why that slathering image turned him on, he had no idea. But it did. Man, I am pitiful. Two week s of celibacy will do that to a guy. “Hurry. Get inside the mosquito netting.”
    They both ran for the steps. Unfortunately—or fortunately, considering his lust mode—Val thought he’d meant his mosquito netting, not the one where she slept with his aunt.
    He stood outside the netting for only a bug-biting second before he scooted inside, too. It was a cramped space for the two of them.
    “This is a bad idea, Val. A very bad idea.” But, man oh man, it sure feels like a good idea.
    “Why?” she asked, pulling his T-shirt over her head and using it to blot her hair and whisk over the itchy bites on her arms and tummy.
    He stood glued to the spot.
    Valerie Breaux was standing before him, bare-assed naked. Well, bare-breasted naked, considering the frontal view he was getting. And, yeah, he was viewing it, all right. Full breasts. Small waist. Long legs.
    And that enticing scrap of tiny fabric in between. Mercy, mercy, mercy!
    “Will you dry my back?” She handed him his T-shirt and turned around.
    You would think he would be disappointed to get only the back view now, but hot damn, Val had the sweetest upside-down-heart-shaped ass in the world.
    “No,” he said as emphatically as he could.
    “Huh?” She started to turn around.
    “No, no, no. Do not turn around again. Oh, jeez! Oh, hell! Okay, I’ll dry your damn back.” With those words of surrender, he began to dry her off with the T-shirt, but only as far as her waist. And he wasn’t looking any lower, either. In fact, he threw the shirt down and faced away from her, giving her time to get decent.
    “You are acting really weird.”
    “No, Val, weird is when a woman who hates me shucks down to practically nothing. That’s really weird.” He still refused to look at her.
    “You’re afraid