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as a dutiful daughter to mix with the crowd. Sylvie had always failed in her mother’s eyes, in one way or another.
    As usual, Inez Breaux-Fontaine was decked out in understated elegance, from her Cartier diamond-stud earrings to simple pleated slacks of cream linen topped by a tailored, rose silk blouse. A lady never makes herself conspicuous, Sylvie Marie . Inez’s face was tight-skinned perfection that would do a forty-year-old woman proud, let alone one of fifty-five, thanks to a lifelong regimen of Erno Lazlo facial products and a few nips and tucks. Have you been out in the sun again, Sylvie Marie? Tsk-tsk. A real lady does not freckle . Not a single hair on Inez’s trademark chic black bob would dare be out of place or, God forbid, turn gray. When are you going to find a hair style that suits you, Sylvie Marie? Do you like being so plain?
    Sylvie and Blanche both stood, though they were a little wobbly on their feet, which drew another icy glare from Inez. Sylvie was bound to hear more about this indiscretion later. A lady never overindulges, Sylvie Marie .
    “Hi, Matt,” Sylvie and Blanche both said at the same time.
    Matt Sommese was a Times-Picayune reporter they’d met on innumerable occasions over the years. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Inez drifted off to perform her hostess duties. Inez had drifting down to an art form, while Sylvie still suffered inside from chronic shyness, a condition shefought to hide and overcome. Blanche excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
    After some small talk, Matt asked, “So, Sylvie, when you gonna let me examine that voodoo journal of your great-grandmother’s?”
    “It belonged to my great-grandmother many times removed,” she corrected. “And the answer is the same as it was last time you asked. Never. It’s a private family possession.”
    Matt was working on an in-depth series of stories about voodoo and its continuing existence in Louisiana. In fact, there had been two suspicious ritual-type deaths during the past year that locals attributed to powerful gris-gris. Matt probably hoped to get a Pulitzer Prize, the way his fellow journalists at the New Orleans paper had gotten one for a 1997 series on the failing bayou ecosystem. Well, he wasn’t going to get it with her family secrets…especially since she already had reservations about having used some of the information from the voodoo journal for her formula…especially since there was an unwritten family agreement that the journal’s contents were to be kept secret.
    “It’s a piece of Louisiana history, Sylvie, and you know it. Don’t you have any community spirit?”
    Sylvie was spared making an answer when Blanche returned, grinning from ear to ear. Sylvie made a mental note to cut off her friend’s supply of margaritas. But then Blanche jabbed her in the arm with an elbow and whispered, “Here comes boot-scootin’ trouble.”
    She peered toward the house through eyelashes that felt intensely heavy. Then she gasped.
    Lucien LeDeux .
    Uh-oh!
    Chugging down the last of her margarita, she tried to remember if she’d had two or three…whatever, it wasn’t enough.
    The brute had promised to stay away for a week. One day had passed, and already he’d broken his word.
    As to Blanche’s reference to “boot-scootin’ trouble,” well, trouble didn’t begin to describe the long, tall Cajun in jeans, white T-shirt, navy-blue blazer, and scruffy boots, headed in her direction with fire in his eyes.
    With hysterical irrelevance, Sylvie wondered how much crawfish fat he’d ingested over the years.
    “Sommese, Blanche,” Luc said, greeting the other two with a nod, then adding bluntly, “Get lost.”
    Matt and Blanche glanced at each other, then back to the spectacle about to unfold before them. “Hah!” they both muttered, not budging an inch.
    Directing his attention to Sylvie, Luc pulled her off to the side and got right to the point, barely able to keep his voice down to an outraged