Page 52 of The Cajun Doctor

There was a sepia-toned, framed photograph on one wall of a Civil War officer. Robert E. Lee or someone equally important, he guessed. “One of your ancestors?”

“Pfff! My ancestors were running around the highlands in kilts chasing sheep during the American Civil War. What are you doing here, Daniel?”

He didn’t like her tone. Not one bit. And decided to ignore her rudeness. “Oh, that’s right. I heard about your family’s Scottish ancestry. In fact I met your father at one of the Hope Foundation board meetings. He was wearing a kilt. At the time, I thought it was odd, but then I’ve seen odder in the French Quarter on a Saturday night.”

“Hah! You see lots odder just being around Tante Lulu,” she remarked.

“You have a point there.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“You better not be thinking of a bootie call, just because we shared a few dreams.”

What the hell? Talk about a hit from the left! “More like sexual fantasies. And the thought of a sexual encounter never occurred to me,” he said defensively, but then added, “But now that you mention it . . .”

She put her hands on her hips in consternation and tapped her bare foot with impatience.

But then he noticed her attire. Flame red pants with a black camisole type top (sans bra), edged in red. Both in some kind of silky material, that moved when she did, delineating her buttocks and the curve of her breasts right down to the nipples. Her dark red hair was down, spilling over her shoulders in disarray. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in anything other than a sophisticated upswept hairdo. She must have been in bed, or getting ready for bed.

Oh. My. Dormant. Libido! Daniel thought, then immediately amended. Not so damned dormant!

“What are you grinning about?” she asked, pivoting as she motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs, while she dropped down into a low sofa.

Just to be contrary, he sat down next to her.

She frowned but said nothing.

“Was I grinning?” he said in answer to her question. “Maybe I’m just happy.” Good Lord, Jimmy Fallon must be rubbing off on me.

“You? Happy? That would be a switch. Why?” she scoffed.

Ooh, she was going to pay for that insult. “To see you, Samantha darlin’.” Holy hell! Am I developing a Southern accent? “In all your sexy clothes.” And, yeah, she does look damned sexy. “Were you expecting to greet my brother like that? All decked out and ready for . . . whatever?” Not if I can help it. He waved a hand as if lost for words. “Sexy lady.”

“Holy shit!” a male voice said from one of the other rooms.

“Another visitor?”

“No, it’s Clarence. A bird. Another rescue I can’t get rid of. Mainly because that’s the only thing it can say, and people won’t adopt him because of the bad language around kids.” But then she addressed his observation. “Are you crazy? This is not sexy. It’s a sleep outfit, for heaven’s sake,” she said, glancing downward. Then, “I am not sexy.”

“Believe me, Samantha, you are sexy.”

Her face bloomed with color matching her attire, which, incidentally, hugged her body as she sat. Pulling taut over her breasts. Outlining her belly and thighs.

He ran a fingertip over her bare skin from her shoulder to her wrist, and grinned some more. Just to tease her. Or was it to test if her skin was as soft as it looked.

She shrugged his hand off before it could make a return foray and made a tsk-ing sound, which he found seductive in a contradictory sort of way. Prim and proper on the outside, wild and wanton inside.

Well, he could hope. Not that he really wanted a relationship with Samantha. On the other hand, there were those arousing wet dreams he’d been having of her. But then an unwelcome thought hit him. “You haven’t been having sex dreams about my brother, have you?”

“Holy shit!” Clarence said.

“Get real!” Samantha said.

“Does that mean you don’t have the hots for Aaron?”

“Get real,” she said again. Then, “Speaking of your brother, why isn’t he here? I called him, not you.”