Page 83 of Frankly, My Dear

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, standing. Abruptly he whisked all of the papers and his empty glass off his desk with one wide sweep of his hand. “Let’s pretend, instead, that I lie on my back on this desk and you straddle my hips with those very long legs of yours. And then let’s pretend that you teach me how to do…what do you call them?…pelvic thrusts.”

Touché, James, she thought, repeating his earlier remark to her. Her blood raced, heating her face, swelling her breasts, pooling at the apex of her thighs. She tried, but could not erase the vivid image his husky words evoked. He was teasing her, she knew. He didn’t really mean what he suggested.

Did he?

But then suddenly Selene realized his game. Somehow he’d discovered her plan to make him grovel for her affections, to make him want her so badly that he would be sorry when he sent her away. He was turning the tables on her, good and well.

Hah! Two could play that game.

Leaning against the back of a chair to steady her wobbly legs, she pondered aloud, “Hmmm. That sounds interesting. But I know an even more interesting exercise we could practice. Your penis would have to be inside my body, of course—”

“But of course,” James choked out, his eyes almost bug-eyed with shock.

“—and then I could employ the Kegel Muscle drill,” Selene said conversationally, trying to remember the details of that particular exercise. “That’s the one where the woman practices tightening and relaxing her internal muscles so that eventually she can do a sort of milking action. It’s hard for the man to remain passive, but his immobility is critical if—”

“You lie. I don’t believe any of this.”

But Selene could see that he was clearly intrigued.

“Well, you’ll never know, sweetheart,” Selene said, drifting toward the doorway with what she hoped was a dramatic flourish and not a stagger. She fought desperately against her own heightened passions not to turn and rush into his arms. “Because I’ll be long gone from Bayou Noir. At your stupid command.”

His ragged breathing was the only sound in the silent room.

“And you can think about it for the rest of your stupid, stubborn life. What you might have had and threw away.”

“Touché again, Selene,” he called after her with a laugh. “But be careful, chérie, I am not checkmated yet. And I never lose a battle once I set my course.”

Selene stood in the hall, shivering with foreboding. And anticipation.

Chapter Fourteen

“Shhhhh! You’re makin’ too much noise,” Etienne hissed.

Hah! There was no way she was going to tiptoe through this snake wonderland with Indiana E.T. Even with the clunky leather brogues Blossom had given her Selene knew there must be a million of those slimy suckers just waiting to pounce on her.

Oh, Lord, do snakes even pounce? she wondered, her nerves overwrought with tension. Then she thought of something else. Probably that monster snake that had “attacked” her on the flatboat had followed her to Bayou Noir. Yep, that Jurassic reptile was a marathon swimmer if she ever saw one.

“Let’s go back, E.T. This is way too far from the house.”

“Why? Are you afraid?” he sneered, looking back at her over his shoulder.

He was carrying a big stick to clear their way through the thick bayou undergrowth. A stick, for heaven’s sake! She shook her head at the insanity of her blithely following a three-foot gremlin whose only ammunition against the snake from hell was a measly stick.

“Besides, we’re almost there,” he added, letting the thin branch of a sapling…probably poison something-or-other …swing back and catch her pony tail.

With a grunt of disgust, she held her biology book tucked under her chin and combed her fingers through her hair, re-tying the ribbon at the nape of her neck.

They had almost reached the edge of a bayou stream when Etienne turned and put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Then he began to climb the split trunk of an ancient cypress tree, motioning for her to follow him onto a wide, almost horizontal branch that spread out about eight feet above the water. It was a good thing she’d worn her exercise outfit—men’s pants and a buttoned shirt.

When she sat next to Etienne, he gestured again for quiet. Actually, it was quite nice sitting beside Etienne, listening to the myriad sounds of the bayou’s never-ceasing orchestra—croaks and chirps, hisses and grunts, snaps and thumps, splashes and drips.

Etienne pointed, and at first Selene thought he wanted her to look at the muddy bank where a mole burrowed busily through the spongy ground in his species’ endless search for worms and grubs.

But, no, he jerked his head toward the edge of the stream, where an odd combination of mud, soggy vegetation, and chunks of fresh reeds formed a platform about six feet in diameter and three feet high. In its center lay about thirty elongated eggs, covered with a layer of mud and more plant material, no doubt intended for camouflage. The eggs were no wider than chicken eggs, but at least three inches long. This must be the nest for some bayou waterfowl. Selene held her biology book at the ready.

But then the proud mama came ambling along the muddy bank, carrying more mud and reeds in its mouth for the large nest. And it was definitely not a bird.

Without thinking, Selene shrieked and almost slipped off her tree branch. Etienne caught her and pulled her back up to her precarious perch, but her book fell with a clunk to the ground.