“Take off the bleeding coat,” he instructed. “Turn around and bend over. Let me see that ripe peach of an ass.”
“Be quiet, you Cajun fool.”
A darker ripple of crimson splashed her cheekbones, like a stain of cherry juice. Brine wasn’t really a Cajun – as far as he or anyone else knew-- and Flip almost certainly was aware of that. But he affected the speech and mannerisms when it suited him to do so, and he often resided among the former French-Canadian émigrés when not beneath the sea in his submersible, The Albatross, or holed up in his cove at Barataria. He slithered through the fecund, teeming swamps, maps of the moon-swallowing bayous etched into his brain like the intoxicating scent of Flip’s arousal. Which was the only thing that concerned him now.Her high color and the crack in her voice betrayed her.