Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #1)(35)

Jesus, you’d think she’d never been kissed. She was a married woman, for Christ’s sake. Well, not really married, but married enough that she shouldn’t have been so disturbed by a kiss.

But she was. And that really, really stuck in her craw.

Professional ladies’ men like Luc LeJeune had no business putting the moves on women like her, especially when she wasn’t exactly in her best fighting shape. She cut the gas on the boat and coasted to a stop. Sinking down on her driver’s seat, she looked out over the bayou and took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind of the fog of Luc’s kiss, but her evil brain brought it all back to her in amazing Technicolor.

Luc’s lips, masculine and soft all at the same time, pressed against her own. All she could think of was how those lips would feel other places. When he’d slipped his tongue in her mouth, she’d almost melted on the spot. She couldn’t allow herself thoughts about that tongue going other places. There were just some lines you didn’t cross because you knew there was no returning afterward.

Her skin was still hot from his touch, so she stripped down to her sports bra, hoping the bayou breeze would cool her overstimulated skin. It was unnerving to be as old as she was and have this much loss of self-control. Even Hank hadn’t stirred her up this way, and he’d been a pretty good playboy himself.

Luc LeJeune had all the makings of trouble. More trouble than Hank. More trouble than she needed in this lifetime and certainly more trouble than she needed right now.

Before she could change her mind, she yanked her cell phone from her pocket and pulled out the small slip of paper tucked inside the case. She pressed in the numbers and waited while the phone rang over and over, finally rolling to voice mail.

“Christopher, this is Maryse Robicheaux,” she said when she heard the beep. “If you’re still interested, I’d love to take you up on that offer for dinner. Just give me a call.”

She flipped the phone shut, shoved it in her pocket, and eased her boat up the bayou. She was going to put Luc LeJeune out of her mind, even if she had to throw herself at another man to accomplish it.


Maryse docked her boat at her cabin early that evening in somewhat of a mild panic. Her workday had gone well for the state—she’d finally found that elusive Lady Slipper hybrid they were looking for, but she hadn’t located the plant she needed for her trials. She’d just about been ready to try yet another area of the bayou when Christopher had returned her call. Not only did he want to take her to dinner, but he wanted to take her to dinner that night. At Beau Chené, a first-class restaurant just on the edge of Mudbug.

As she yanked open her closet doors, she tried not to think that this was the second time in less than a week that she probably didn’t have anything nice to wear. After all, Christopher had already seen her one and only cocktail dress when she’d gone to the emergency room.

She pushed the clothes from one side to another, frowning the entire time. There had to be something that would work. Anything. She paused for a moment, and her brow crinkled in unpleasant memory. There was an outfit that Sabine had made her buy one year for a Christmas party. It was clingy and sparkly and she’d hated it at the time, but if she could find it, it would work perfectly for Beau Chené.

After going through every inch of her closet and each drawer of her dresser, it looked as though a hurricane had blown right through her tiny bedroom. She plopped onto her bed with a sigh. The tiny crunch of plastic when she flounced her entire body weight on her mattress brought her mind into focus, and she reached beneath the bed to tug out a plastic storage container. She pulled off the lid and heaved a sigh of relief as the offensive garment, complete with way-too-high and incredibly uncomfortable heels, lay resting inside.

Her problem of something to wear was solved. Her problem of something to say was still in the hopper.

Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of the shower and saw Helena perched on her toilet. Maryse bit back a scream and quickly wrapped a towel around her chest as she shook the water from her hair. “Damn it, Helena, I know you can’t knock, but you could at least yell or something. One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack. Then where would that leave us?”

Helena glared, the showgirl makeup still as thick and dark as it was the day she was buried. In fact, everything about her was exactly as it was in the casket. Bummer. If Helena found out who gave the funeral home that outfit and figured out how to move things, someone was in a boatload of trouble. Maryse almost felt sorry for them.

Then she took another look at the putrid pink polyester. Well, maybe not sorry.

Helena huffed. “You’re one to talk about leaving us in a bad situation. Based on the way you took off today, I figure you don’t give a damn anyway, so why should I?”

“Because it would be a pleasant change?” Maryse started to brush out her damp hair. “You know, you caring about something besides yourself? Who knows, you might have centuries to figure it out.” Maryse gave her a fake smile, fully expecting Helena to fly off the handle—or in this case, off the toilet—but Helena only looked at her with a sad expression on her face.

“I do care about other people…or did care…or hell, I don’t know how to explain it now that I’m dead. It feels like I still care, but I don’t know if that’s possible. Is my soul still here?”

Maryse studied her for a moment, not sure how to answer, but Helena looked so troubled she couldn’t stand holding out on her any longer. It was time to let the ghost in on her paranormal connection. “I told Sabine about you.”