Cajun Hot Read online

  CAJUN HOT

  by

  Nikita Black

  In the primitive wilds of the South Louisiana swamps, the hot-blooded Cajun Cherchat brothers take lost photographer Sahara Jensen captive, planning to use her soft, warm flesh for their—and her—sexual pleasure. But when one of them unwittingly falls in love with the woman, who then is the captor, and who is really the prisoner...?

  Contents:

  Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Epilogue

  Excerpt from SLAVE TO LOVE

  Excerpt from CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

  Previous Titles Website

  Published by Cajun Hot Press

  ISBN 0977426920

  Kindle Edition

  11th printing

  June 2011

  CAJUN HOT

  All rights reserved

  Copyright© May 2000 by Nina Bruhns

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Cover art designed by Nina Bruhns

  CAJUN HOT

  by

  Nikita Black

  Chapter One

  Sahara Jensen glared up at the long, yellow silk thread hanging from the trunk of a slimy cypress tree and swore roundly. Spitting out a few drops of disgusting swamp water, she quickly hoisted herself back into the floating disaster the rental place had optimistically called a boat.

  Falling into the swamp hadn't been one of her better moves. Cripes, she was lucky she hadn't been eaten by alligators or attacked by snakes, or leeches, or some other equally hideous creature while floundering in the black water.

  Scowling at the accursed thread, Sahara pulled her drenched ponytail forward and attempted to wring it out. Greasy mud, bits of rotting foliage and duckweed clung to her everywhere.

  Great. Now, on top of everything else, she'd have to ride the bus back to the hotel in Lafayette looking like the creature from the black lagoon... if she found her way back to the bus.

  She rubbed her forehead. The relentless, high-pitched hum of insects ground on her nerves. The cypress tree with its silk thread hung over her boat like a street-hawker, mocking her, one of a multitude of ragged, moss-draped trees closing in from every direction—all identical.

  This could not be happening. She couldn't be lost. Not in the smelliest, most alligator-infested swamp in all of South Louisiana. She refused to believe it, even when confronted with the stark evidence of her vanished trail of bread crumbs. Well, yellow ribbons, to be more accurate.

  And she'd thought she'd been so clever.

  Fucking orchids.

  She eyed a suspicious-looking bumpy log that floated several yards from the boat and repressed a shiver. A drop of sweat oozed down between her breasts. Damn, it was hot.

  Plucking at her T-shirt, she resettled herself on the plank seat of her small rented motorboat next to her precious bag of cameras—thankfully dry—and took a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this fetid-smelling hellhole of a swamp. There had to be.

  She'd been cruising around in circles for hours, searching for the yellow ribbons she'd carefully tied to trees within sight of each other to guide her back to Gerroux, the tiny hamlet where she'd picked up the boat. She hadn't found a single ribbon. Only the bit of thread she was staring at now.

  Silently, she cursed the whole ill-fated expedition. First, the guide she'd hired had backed out with no explanation. Then, setting out on her own, she hadn't even located any of the damned orchids she needed to find. And now this.

  She couldn't be lost. Hell, it was Monday and she had a deadline to meet.

  She'd promised Miles Landau at National Geographic a photo of the rare and illusive orchidus clitorius by Friday. This assignment was her ticket to the big-time, and she'd rather die in this god-forsaken swamp than lose her hard-earned opportunity.

  A trickling sound brought her attention to the bottom of the flimsy craft. A good three inches of water sloshed there—about an inch more than an hour ago. Her eyes flicked uneasily to the floating log. Was it her imagination, or was it following her?

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and swallowed the metallic tingle of fear blossoming in her throat, then looked around again desperately. Her attention was snagged by a sudden flash of light, sun on metal.

  It was then she saw them.

  Watching her.

  Two men. Noiselessly floating in a shiny aluminum boat. Big, by the look of them. Dark. Both wearing jeans and T-shirts, one had a slim black mustache and black hair cascading over his shoulders. The other's hair was shorter, neater, no mustache, but he was no less dangerous-looking for that.

  Sahara's heartbeat kicked up and she put a protective hand on her cameras. Two pairs of black eyes followed the movement, observing her from similar square-jawed, angular faces. They weren't smiling.

  Then again, they didn't look exactly menacing either. More like... appraising.

  They glided closer, their motor a nearly silent thrum against the incessant song of the insects. The two men exchanged a glance. One of them nodded.

  Her pulse shot up.

  "Comment ça va?" the man with short hair said. "You lost?"

  She licked her lips, debating whether or not to lie. She was alone, no weapon, and these two strangers were looking at her like she might be their next meal.

  A huge black snake swam past her boat. Oh, God. She didn't think she could stay in this swamp much longer and remain sane.

  "I don't know how it happened," she said to the men. "I was so careful when I tied the ribbons. I'd be grateful if you could show me—"

  "Fall in?" the long-haired man with the mustache interrupted, his gaze lingering on her wet clothes as the two came up alongside.

  "What?" Her face flamed, realizing what he must be looking at. She folded her arms over her chest, struggling not to show her nervousness. "'Fraid so. Any chance you could show me the way to Gerroux? I have to make the eight o'clock bus back to Lafayette from there."

  "Plen'y of time," Mr. Mustache said in a soft Cajun accent. "Toss me your gear and climb in." He held out his hand expectantly.

  Alarm tingled over her scalp. She didn't care how sexy his accent was, climbing in wasn't an option. She'd heard about hot-blooded Cajun men.

  She met his black eyes and, suddenly, it hit her how very attractive he was. She glanced at the other man and swallowed. How attractive they both were. Mercy . Her heart stood still, then zinged into double-time.

  She didn't move.

  "Come on in, chère," the short-haired one said. "'Less you'd rather stay lost?"

  "Couldn't I just follow you?" she asked anxiously.

  "Dat boat, she looks like she goin' down fast, an' I can't tow it wit' you in it."

  Mr. Mustache tipped his head. "You have any idea just how dangerous the swamp is? For someone who don' know it?"

  "I—" She followed his gaze to one end of the bumpy log still hovering nearby, and, to her horror, a sinister yellow eye winked back at her. She almost jumped out of her skin.

  Oh, Lord. What could she do? She couldn't stay out here by herself. She'd be dead by nightfall for sure—either by some repulsive creature or from a heart attack. She searched the men's faces carefully and still saw no sign of ill intent.

  Of course
, neither had Jeffrey Dahmer's victims.

  As if sensing her hesitation, Mr. Mustache slowly reached for the strap of her camera bag and said, "I'm Jacque Cherchat. Dis here's my brother, Quint. We'd be happy to get you to dat bus."

  He smiled then. A smile that was sweet and sultry and guileless all at the same time. And indescribably erotic. The effect dazzled her senses. Eyes the color of black diamonds sparkled back at her, lips that would make a sculptor weep curved reassuringly. Lord, he was gorgeous.

  Her reluctance foundered.

  "Please, call me Jacque."

  She'd probably regret this later, but it wasn't like she had a big choice at the moment. "All right," she relented. "Thanks, Jacque. I appreciate your help. My name's Sahara. Sahara Jensen."

  She let him take her camera bag. "Careful with that, though." She stood to step into the other boat. "My whole livelihood is inside that bag."

  "Don' worry," he said soothingly. "Quint an' me, we'll take good care of you." He grasped her by the waist and easily lifted her over the side, setting her on her feet just in front of him. "Real good care."

  It was a good thing he didn't let her go right away, because for some inexplicable reason she couldn't get her knees to work properly. "Thanks," she croaked and collapsed onto the narrow bench crowding the back of her legs. "I need to get back to Gerroux in time to arrange for another guide tonight."

  Behind her at the rudder, she heard Quint grab the bow rope from her boat and tie it to the back of theirs. "Could be tough," he remarked. When she threw a worried frown over her shoulder, he added, "Only official guide around, he was suddenly called away today. "He adjusted the throttle and the sleek aluminum craft cut through the water, steered along a sure path by her rescuer.

  "Yes, I know," she said wryly, remembering her frustration that morning upon hearing of the man’s precipitous departure—which had gotten her into this predicament. "Surely there must be someone else who can guide me?" She turned from Quint to his brother.

  "Now, dat depends on what you're looking for."

  Handsome Jacque sat facing her on the forward bench, which was so close it barely left breathing space between them. His broad shoulders stretched a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, his biceps, arms and hands rippling with strength. His well-worn jeans covered iron-hard, muscular thighs. Suddenly she realized her legs were pinned firmly between them, her knees practically touching his—

  "So, what are you looking for, chère?" The corner of his sexy mouth curled, letting her know he was fully aware of her body's position.

  With difficulty, she resisted the urge to scoot back on her bench and sat perfectly still instead. "Orchids. I'm here to take photos of orchids."

  "A photographer," he said thoughtfully. "I see. You lookin' for a particular kind of orchid?"

  She nodded. "Yes, Orchidus..." She stammered to a halt. Damn. She'd never actually had to say the name out loud before. She felt her cheeks go hot. There was no way she could make herself utter the orchid's ridiculous Latin name in front of—

  "Orchidus clitorius?" the rogue helpfully supplied, his lips curving even more disreputably. He lifted a brow.

  She avoided his eyes and studied the passing foliage intently. "Yes."

  "Now isn' dat a coincidence," Quint said from behind her. "Jacque an' me, we saw a couple of them jus' d'other day, didn' we, Chat?"

  "In full bloom an' pretty as can be."

  "Really?" She dared a glance at Jacque.

  "Mais, yeah."

  She ignored the amusement gleaming in his dark eyes and forced herself not to notice the coal black tendrils of hair that framed his face and shoulders. She'd always had a thing for wild black hair on a man. And this man was Cajun to boot. A fatal combination.

  She attempted to focus in on the ray of hope that had unexpectedly opened in her abysmal mess of a day. "Would you be willing to show me those orchids? Tomorrow, say?"

  He looked at her, considering. "Oh, I don'—"

  "I'll pay you," she rushed to explain. "Not a lot, you understand, but what I was going to give the other guide. I—"

  "Not interested in your money," he said with a shake of his head, then looked over her shoulder at his brother. "You interested in her money, Quint?"

  "Mais non. "She could hear the gallic shrug in Quint's voice. "But mebbe we could show her anyway. Jus' to be neighborly. What'ya say, mon frère? Got anythin' goin' tomorrow?"

  "Well..."

  She gazed hopefully at Jacque, her whole future riding on the whim of this stranger.

  Hell, she wasn't above begging. "Please?" She gave her eyelashes a bat for good measure.

  To her relief, he smiled. "C'est bien. I expec' we can work somethin' out."

  She decided not to think about what he meant by that remark. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me. I have a deadline Friday, and I really need those pictures."

  "You on assignment?" he casually asked, his eyes wandering over her body.

  "National Geographic. Freelance." It felt strange in her mouth, saying the unfamiliar words, but it was a huge rush, embodying all she'd ever wanted from life—money, prestige, security. Nobody would ever laugh at her again. All hinging on this one assignment.

  "Mais, I'm impressed, me."

  She bit her lip. "But only if I get these orchid photos. Otherwise, it's right back to the Daily Courier."

  "Important assignment. I suppose that's why you came out all by yourself?"

  She nodded. "I didn't have a choice."

  He pinned her with a look. "Risky thing, wanderin' 'round the swamp on your own. Real risky. People get lost all da time. Disappear, even." Jacque's calm demeanor took most of the threatening edge off his words, but not entirely.

  "Then it's lucky you were here to rescue me," she said, shifting nervously. Her trapped knees knocked against the insides of his powerful thighs.

  A smile spread across his sensuous mouth and, for a split second, his legs tightened against hers. "Our pleasure."

  A shiver vibrated through her whole body at the sudden prospect of being carried off and ravished by these two handsome strangers. Or maybe it was the prospect of being carried off and ravished by these two handsome strangers and liking it.

  Oh, God.

  She scrambled for something to say to send her mind in a different direction than the one in which it was straying. "I tied markers to trees so I could find my way out of the swamp. I can't imagine what happened to them all."

  She felt a gentle tug from behind as Quint pulled the loose ribbon from her ponytail. "Dey all look like dis?"

  Her hand went instinctively to her hair, still wet and no doubt filled with twigs and duckweed. She didn't even want to think about what an unsavory mess she must look like.

  Quint dangled the ribbon over her shoulder and Jacque took it, shaking his head. "No wonder they disappeared."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Luke Thibodeaux," Quint said, as if that made everything clear.

  Jacque tapped his forehead. "He's a bit slow, him. But he loves his fille . And dat girl, she likes buttons and bows and pretty things like silk ribbons in her hair. Guess he didn' see the harm in helpin' himself."

  She gasped, scandalized. "But I could have died out here!"

  "Ah, mais non, chérie," Jacque said with a grin. "Luke, he tol' everyone he saw how he come by dem." He leaned forward and put his arms around her neck to retie the ribbon in her hair. Her skin sizzled from the contact. "Quint an' me, we figured somebody'd be pretty ticked off when they found dem ribbons missin', an' came out to have a look. Imagine our surprise when we found a jolie fille in need of rescuing."

  His face shifted closer to hers. Close enough to feel his warm breath on her cheeks. Close enough to see his long, dark lashes and the little crinkles at the corner of his black, expressive eyes.

  Close enough to kiss.

  "Usually it's IRS or ATF agents."

  "Huh?" She blinked, no idea what he was talking about.


  "Ah, here we are. Home."

  Sahara gave herself a mental shake and looked in the direction he was pointing. A rickety wooden jetty stuck out precariously into the swamp. Tucked into the trees behind it was a small, ancient house on stilts. Made of neatly whitewashed clapboard, it was surrounded by a wooden gallery, its roof pitched in the distinctive Cajun style. The cabin was something straight out of National Geographic.

  Or, take away the stilts and gallery and put it in the middle of the desert, and the tiny grizzled structure could be something right out of her own past. She felt instantly claustrophobic.

  The sensual spell Jacque had woven shattered, replaced by alarm. "What's this? I thought you were taking me to the bus?"

  Jacque looked at her placidly. "Bus won' be there for ages. You can get cleaned up here. Play your cards right, I might even make you some of my world-famous gumbo for supper. Nothin' to eat at dat bus stop."

  She looked uneasily from him to Quint, who'd hopped onto the jetty and was busy tying up the boats. She glanced at the shack. Despite its age, it looked well-kept and welcoming. White curtains fluttered behind bright blue shutters and a pair of rockers sat invitingly to one side of the front door. A wind-chime tinkled softly from the porch ceiling. Not exactly the sort of place a pair of serial killers would live.

  She hoped.

  Besides, she really could use a bar of soap and a washcloth. The gumbo didn't sound bad, either.

  Against her better judgment, she assented. "Okay. Just as long as I make that bus."

  ***

  Skittish. Very skittish.

  Jacque watched the bathroom door close behind pretty Sahara Jensen and counted to ten, more than half expecting it to fly open once she discovered there was no lock.

  Non, mais non. She was nothing like the women he and Quint had occasionally brought home in the past. Those women had all been eager, enthusiastic participants in the seduction game, looking forward to a night of unparalleled pleasure and kinky sex with the infamous Cherchat boys.

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward. This could be fun.

  It was amazing that she was on assignment for National Geographic. He'd have to give his old friend Miles Landau a call. Put in a good word for her. By the time they let her go, he'd surely owe her at least that much.