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wife?”
    He didn’t answer for a moment. Caroline felt bare as he looked deeply into her eyes.
    “I’m not serious,” he admitted finally. “I just don’t understand why you took this job for him if you hate being here so much.”
    “He’s been under a lot of pressure lately. Your manic-depressive wolf didn’t help his stress level any. He’s agood friend. He was almost my brother-in-law once upon a time.”
    “Hmmm. In a lucid moment Frank’s brother realized his folly and broke the engagement?”
    “He had severe diabetes. He died on his thirtieth birthday from a heart attack. Satisfied?”
    He was silent for a moment, studying her shrewdly. “I apologize for doubting your sainthood.”
    “Spare me the alligator tears.”
    Her breath short, feeling a little light-headed from their intense conversation and her proximity to his half-naked body—didn’t the man own a shirt?—she twisted back toward the room and swung out a disparaging hand. “I really must have a bedroom upstairs. Something bigger. With air-conditioning.”
    “You’re out of luck unless you want to sleep with me.”
    “Perish the thought. I’d rather cuddle a tarantula.”
    “I can get you one. I’ll leave it in your bed.”
    Goose bumps scattered down her spine. She could feel him still gazing at her. At the scar, undoubtedly. “Seen enough?” she demanded, shifting with anger.
    “The scar, yes? I think it’s interesting, yes. Dramatic. Not so ugly as you think.”
    Shaken by his frankness and insight, she blinked quickly and retorted, “I’m not self-conscious about it. I’m twenty-six years old and I’ve had the scar most of my life. You startled me earlier, that’s all.”
And for some insane reason, I wanted you to think I was beautiful
, she added silently.
    “So why do you try to hide it?”
    “So that rude boobs won’t ask me how I got it.”
    “I’ve already failed the rude-boob test,
chère
. How did you get it?”
    “Look, doc, I’m not desperate to share my life story with you. I’m probably the first woman you’ve met whocan’t be persuaded by your Cajun accent or your endearing little French terms. So cool the act.”
    “This is the way I always talk,
pichouette
. You’re in Cajun territory now, and it’s nothing like the rest of the world. Get used to it.”
    “Nothing like the rest of the world,” she echoed tersely. “Just clannish and backward.”
    He grasped her forearms in a swift, angry attack, then lifted her to her tiptoes and stared down into her wide eyes. His expression was intense. “I’ll put you out of my house if I hear that kind of insult again.”
    Her face pale, she pried his hands away and stepped back. “Apology offered. I’m not a snob. But just stay out of my way.”
    With trembling hands Caroline jerked her scarf off and flung it on the bed. “I claim this barren territory in the name of civilization.”
    She pointed to the door, giving him a stern look as she did. His eyes roamed over her hair and she knew it must be a crumpled mess from the scarf. Caroline resisted a near compulsive urge to straighten it. “Out, Dr. Dolittle,” she ordered. “Go get my luggage and leave it by the door. Don’t scratch it up. It cost a small fortune.”
    He frowned at her imperious tone and started to make a pithy comment, but someone called his name at the front door. “I’ll be back,” he told her tersely.
    “I shall alert the media,” she quipped in an English accent.
    And the moment he got beyond the bedroom door, she slammed it.
    Some people drank to forget their troubles, or ate too much, or developed other bad habits. Paul Belue played the accordion.
    He sat on the edge of his bed in the moonlight,squeezing a somber tune, his large fingers pressing gracefully into the enamel buttons that substituted for piano keys. His music, like his heritage, was all Cajun. The button accordion was a well-loved part of both.
    Dieu!
Caroline Fitzsimmons would keep him up all night