THE CAJUN DOCTOR
A Cajun Novel
by SANDRA HILL
Sandra Hill returns to the Louisiana Bayou, where
Tante LuLu (and, of course, Saint Jude) is ready to work some magic on the
LeDeux twins.
Back by
popular and fan demand, New York Times
and USA Today bestselling author Sandra Hill returns to the steamy
Louisiana Bayou with THE CAJUN DOCTOR
(Avon books, mass market; ISBN: 9780062566362 ; $7.99; on sale May
30, 2017). With her hallmark humor, Hill dives right back into the crazy Cajun
hijinks readers have come to love and expect of the LeDeux clan.
After the
ties keeping them in the wilds of Alaska are severed, twins Daniel and Aaron
LeDeux decide to head to the lower forty-eight to explore their Southern roots.
Their journey takes them deep into Louisiana, where they find themselves
tentatively reconnecting with their loud, voracious and quirky Cajun family.
The usually stoic Daniel, a burned-out pediatric oncologist, is especially
startled by the interfering LeDeux matriarch, Tante Lulu—bless her crazy heart—who
wastes no time in setting him up with local rich girl Samantha Starr.
Scarred by
a nasty divorce from a philandering New Orleans physician, Samantha has sworn
off men, especially doctors. But when Samantha’s step-brother gets into serious
trouble, she must ask Daniel for help. And when it rains it pours, as Samantha
finds herself in even more trouble when the handsome doctor casts his
smoldering Cajun eyes her way.
The steamy
heat of the bayou, along with the wacky matchmaking efforts of Tante Lulu, a
herd of animal rescue rejects, including a depressed pot belly pig, and some
world-class sexual fantasies create enough heat and humor to make both Daniel
and Samantha realize that love and laughter can mend even the most broken
heart.
ON SALE MAY 30, 2017
Avon Books
ISBN: 9780062566362
$7.99
e-ISBN: 9780062566348
$6.99
BUY LINKS:
Amazon | B&N | Books-A-Million | iBooks | GooglePlay
~*~*~*~*~
Excerpt:
She smiled at him as he stood to
follow her. There were no longer any tears in her eyes. Forget about sparkling emeralds,
he decided then. Her eyes were murky green pools designed to lure a guy in and
make him do things he didn’t even know he wanted to do. And he was the dumb
trout who’d taken her bait. Hooked, lined and hot damn sinkered!
It was probably some Southern
voodoo kind of crap. Maybe he should ask Tante Lulu for a spell to ward off Samantha’s
allure. He could only imagine the old bat’s reaction. She’d be calling for a fais
do do, a party down on the bayou, and the theme would be, “Daniel LeDeux Ain’t
Gay, hallelejuah!”
But then he watched Samantha’s
buttocks move in the red silky pants as she walked out of the room. Was there anything
prettier than a heart-shaped ass on a woman? And he decided, maybe not.
And those long limbs . . . man, what a creative male could do with those!
Hot damn hell! He decided he could
live with the spell or whatever the hell it was, thank you very much!
Any lewd thoughts he might have
been entertaining were interrupted abruptly by a loud pounding on the front
door. They looked at each other in question.
He arched his brows.
She shrugged.
The dog halted in its tracks toward
the kitchen.
The cougar cat stopped mid stretch.
The pig raised its head and sniffed
the air.
Then they all erupted with their
respective sounds of alert. Barking, growling, meowing, and oinking. A female squeak
of dismay, as in, “Oh, Rhett, the Yankees are comin’!” A male grunt of disgust,
as in “What next?” All of which alerted the bird to voice its opinion, and the puppies
and other cats to join in the chorus.
More pounding on the door.
“Let’s just ignore it,” she
whispered.
The German Shepherd let loose with
a wild howl that could probably be heard a block away, definitely through a measly
door. Then the old dog lay down on the floor, its muzzle between its front
paws, all tired out from the effort.
“I doubt whoever is there will just
go away. Let me handle it,” he offered, also in a whisper. I gotta get my
Rhett on once in a while, he joked with himself. Then, he added, “Do you
have a gun?”
“No. Damn, I knew I should have
bought a gun. Just this evening I decided to ask Tante Lulu if she had an extra
one. But I didn’t have a chance to call her yet.”
He gave her a glance of surprise; he
hadn’t been serious.
That’s all he . . . she . . .
needed. Southern belle with a pistol. She’d probably shoot her eye out. At the
least, everyone up and down the bayou would know about it, thanks to the Mouth
of the South.
Daniel was beginning to feel like
Alice in Wonderland . . . or rather, Alex in Wonderland . . . and he’d fallen down
some crazy-ass Southern rabbit hole. Forget Scarlett O’Hara. His Alice would be
wearing some silky red short shorts. And high heels. And nothing on top. And “Pretty
Woman” would be playing in the background.
He could hear Aaron laughing in his
head. Twins were like that sometimes. They shared long-distance thoughts and
feelings. In fact, some scientists claimed that even during sex . . . well,
never mind! Suffice it to say, it gave new meaning to multiple orgasms.
To the Aaron in his head, Daniel
said, Hey, it’s my fantasy. If I want bimbo Alice, I get bimbo Alice.
More Aaron laughter.
Daniel and Samantha walked softly
toward the front door where Samantha peeked through the security hole and
declared in a whisper, “I think it’s the mafia.”
“How can you tell?”
“Well, it’s not Nick. And there are
two of them. And they look . . . mafia-ish.”
He pushed her aside to look for
himself. What he saw was two men, their faces distorted through the fisheye lens
in the peephole. They were scowling with impatience at their knocking not being
answered. Definitely not Welcome Wagon, or Jehovah’s Witnesses, or a passing traveler
in need of directions. No Gone with the Wind Yankees, either. The short
one wore a tight “Sleep With the Fishes, Motherfucker” T-shirt over a muscular
chest and bulging biceps; there were tattoos on his neck and forearms. The
other dude . . . taller, but equally muscular. . . wore a T-shirt with the logo
“Pit Bulls Rule” under an open denim shirt. There was a livid scar on his cheek
that lifted one side of his mouth in a perpetual grin. The Mutt and Jeff of
creeps!
Daniel could swear he saw the shine
of a pistol under the denim shirt. He amended his assessment to “the Mutt and
Jeff of dangerous creeps.”
Okay, definitely mafia-ish.
“Samantha Starr! You in dere, chère.
We doan want no trouble here. Jist open the door, yes.” This from Mutt, the
short one.
Okay, definitely Dixie Mafia-ish.
“Call 911,” Daniel advised
Samantha.
She shook her head.
Daniel wasn’t convinced that her
way was the best way, but there was no time to argue. He kicked off his shoes,
toed off his socks, and used both hands to mess up his hair. He tugged out his
T-shirt that had been tucked inside the waistband of his jeans. As an added
touch, he undid the button on the fly of his pants and zipped down halfway.
“What are you doing?” she
asked in an undertone.
“Pretending I was in bed.”
“Why would you be . . . oh!” Her
cheeks bloomed with color.
He put a forefinger to his lips,
signaling silence, then put the security chain on the door and opened it
several inches. “Yeah? What do you guys want?” he snarled at the two figures on
the doorstep.
Surprised, they backed up a step.
They had to have seen him enter a short time ago, but apparently they hadn’t
been expecting a man to answer the door, or him in particular, as evidenced by
Mutt’s remark, “You ain’t Angus Starr.”
“No shit, Dick Tracey,” Daniel
countered, starting to close the door.
But the taller, scar-faced dude,
Jeff, stuck his booted foot into the opening. “Wait a fuckin’ minute. Where’s Samantha
Starr? Bet she knows where that stupid-ass brother of hers is, guar-an-teed.”
“Angus isn’t her brother, exactly,”
Daniel commented, as if that mattered. “He’s actually the son of one of her father’s—”
Scar-face made a growling noise.
“Why do you want Angus anyway?”
“None of yer damn bizness, you!”
Mutt said, putting his hand inside his pants pocket, as if reaching for a weapon.
“Hold on. I’ll go get her,” Daniel
said.
Stepping behind the door, he acted
quickly. Messing Samantha’s hair into a sexy mess, he pressed her up against
the wall and, before she could yell or kick him in the nuts, he leaned down to
kiss her, hard and deep, even nipping at her bottom lip so that she would open
for him.
~*~*~*~*~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sandra Hill
is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features
writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side
of even the darkest stories. She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of
four sons.
Connect with Sandra:
Website: https://www.sandrahill.net/
Facebook: @SandraHillAuthor
Twitter: @SandraHillAuth
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