Dark Paradise (11 page)

bauble that dangled from the lobe.

"What makes me so angry is the hypocrisy," Kevin said, his voice lowered

to keep it from traveling to the wrong ears. "Bryce pledges money and

land to the Nature Conservancy and then runs around killing everything

on the planet."

"It's not at all unusual to support conservation efforts," Drew argued.

"Their purpose is sport, not annihilations."

"I fail to see how anyone can derive pleasure from denying another

living creature of its life."

"Oh, bloody hell, here we go again."

"No." Kevin jerked his chair back from the table and rose. "Here I go

again." Drew rolled his eyes and dropped his head against one hand.

Kevin ignored him.

"Marilee, I'm sorry we couldn't have met under better circumstances."

He shot a look at the blond man approaching the table, his lips

thinning, then turned and headed for the lobby.

"Kevin still has his nose out of joint, I see," Bryce commented mildly.

Drew rose from his chair, looking as if the effort were physically

taxing. "Do forgive him Mr. Bryce. It's easier for him to blame someone

than to believe life can be so randomly senseless."

"He's forgetting that Lucy was a friend of mine as well as his."

"Yes, well, Kevin is young; he tends to think in absolutes."

Bryce's attention had already moved on from Kevin Bronson to Marilee.

She met his gaze, finding the Nordic blue of his eyes almost chilling,

but his smile was warm as he offered her his hand. She wiped the smear

of dillspeckled creme from her hand onto the bottom of her jacket and

accepted the gesture.

"Evan Bryce."

"Marilee Jennings. I was a friend of Lucy's, too, from when she lived in

Sacramento. In fact, I came here to spend some time with her at her

ranch."

He offered just the right amount of sympathy, the corners of his mouth

tugging down, concern tracing a little line up between his eyebrows.

"Lucy was too young to die. And so vibrant, so full of life. I miss her

as much as anyone. I hope you don't blame me for her death, as some do."

Marilee shrugged and shoved up the long sleeves of her jacket to expose

her hands again. "I don't know who to blame," she said carefully.

"It was an accident; there is no blame," he said, settling the issue, at

least in his own mind.

Marilee knew it would be days, weeks, months before she could resign

herself that way. It might have been easier if she hadn't come into the

play in the middle, if she had been here and lived through the

circumstances surrounding Lucy's death.

"Will you be staying long in New Eden?" Bryce asked.

"I don't know. I'm too shell-shocked to think about it yet. I just found

out about Lucy's . . . accident . . . last night."

He stroked his small chin and nodded in understanding. "I hope you'll be

able to enjoy some of your stay. It's a beautiful place. You're more

than welcome to come out to my ranch for a visit. It's not far. You seen

her place?"

"Last night."

"My place is just a few miles north of there.
 
I call it
 
Xanadu and

home. Any friend of Lucy's is welcome at any time."

"Thank you. I'll remember that."

He said his good-byes and left them. Marilee watched as he returned to

his table by the window. The others heralded him like a returning

monarch. She recognized two actresses and a supermodel among the

beautiful faces.

They were the kind of people Lucy would lean toward. Gorgeous, rich,

important or self-important depending on your point of view. In the chair

directly to Bryce's right sat a blonde like a stunning statuesque.
 
She

had strong brows. The most masculine features.
 
Lifting her wine glass

their eyes met as Marilee held her gaze evenly, casually lifted her own

wine glass and saluted, and tipped her head. Then she turned toward her

companion and the contact was broken, leaving Marilee wondering if she

had imagined the whole thing.

"Well, darling," Drew said, drawing her attention back to him. "I hate

to rush off, but I've got to see that all's well in the kitchen before

the dinner crowd arrives."

He lifted her hand from the tabletop and pressed it between both of his,

his expression earnestly apologetic.

"I'm sorry for all the unpleasantness."

Marilee shook it off. "I think I'd feel worse if everyone were

pretending nothing had happened. it's all just too 'twilight zone' as it

is."

"True."

"Thanks for the drink and the meal."

"Our compliments. And you'll stay, of course."

"Well, I-"

His brows pulled together as the thought hit him.

"Where did you stay last night?"

"The Paradise."

"Good Christ!" He screwed his face into a look of such utter distaste

that Marilee almost had to laugh. "The Parasite!
 
I hope to God you

didn't sit on the toilet seat."

"I didn't even lie on the sheets."

"Smart girl. No arguments now. You're staying here as a guest of Kevin

and myself. I'll tell Raoul at the desk on my way out."

"Thanks."

"The Parasite," he muttered, shuddering. "What Philistine sent you

there?"

There was a crash from the vicinity of the kitchen and a sudden burst of

Spanish that sounded as angry as a blast of machine-gun fire. Drew

muttered a heartfelt "Bloody hell," and rushed off.

Popping one last fry in her mouth, Marilee pushed her chair back from

the table and headed for the front door.

She had to go find her car. Then she would check in and crash. The idea

of sleep uninterrupted by the X-rated antics of Bob-Ray and Luanne

brought a smile to her lips.

No more nights in the Parasite Motel. As she left the Moose, though, her

thoughts drifted automatically and unbidden to the Philistine who had

sent her there.

Rafferty.

A dangerous kind of heat drifted through her. Residual feelings from

being pressed against him when she hadn't known whether he was friend or

foe, she told herself. It was some kind of weird pseudo-sexual response

to the combination of fear and the feel of a magnificently made man,

that was all. The rest of the uneasiness was the result of having too

many encounters with the name Rafferty in one twenty-four-hour period.

Her initial run-in with J.D., the awkward scene with his brother in the

Rainbow Cafe, the mention of a Rafferty finding Lucy's body. There was

something about it all that struck her as bad karma.

She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers found the

smooth black stone M.E. Fralick had given her and began rubbing it

absently. The image of J.D. lingered in her mind - a big, solid block of

blatant male sexuality with eyes the color of thunderheads. Her heart

beat a little harder at the memory of his fingertips brushing against

her breast.

She hadn't known whether he was friend or foe.

A tremor of realization snaked down her back.

You still don't know, Marilee.

"Do you think she knows anything?"

"It's difficult to say." Bryce twined the cord of the telephone around

his index finger, bored with the conversation.

He lounged on a Victorian chaise upholstered in soft mauve velvet. He

detested Victoriana, but the suite he maintained at the lodge had come

furnished and he preferred not to bother himself with it. He spent time

in it only when he didn't care to drive all the way to Xanadu after an

evening's entertainment or when he wanted a break from his entourage.

His attention was on the woman across the room.

Sharon Russell, his cousin. She wore sheer white stockings and a

virgin-white lace bustier that contrasted dramatically with her tanned

skin. She was a sight to stir a man's blood, her body long and angular

with large, conical breasts and long nipples that grew out of the

centers like little fingers, like small penises. The blatantly female

body contrasted almost perfectly with the strongly masculine features of

her face. The contrast excited him further.

He took a sip of Campari and turned back into the telephone

conversation. "She gave no indication of knowing anything, but they

were close friends. She has been to the ranch."

"We'll have to watch her."

"Hmm."

"You're certain you haven't found anything?"

"Of course I'm certain. There's nothing to find. The house was

thoroughly searched."

The voice on the other end of the line took on a truculent tone that

quivered with fear beneath the surface.

"Goddammit, Bryce, I mean it. Don't jerk me around. No more games."

Bryce rolled his eyes at the phone on the table, derision twisting his

features as he pictured the man on the other end of the line. Weakling.

He had no real power and he knew it. Bryce had only to snap his fingers

and he would wet himself. Without much more effort, Bryce could
 
crush

him, ruin him. He let the weight of that knowledge hang in the air as

silence crackled over the phone line.

"Don't be tedious," Bryce said at last, the edge in his voice as fine as

a tungsten blade. He didn't wait for a reply, but cradled the receiver

and turned his full attention to his cousin.

Sharon was the only person in his life who wasn't at least vaguely

frightened of his power, an attitude he rewarded by considering her to

be his equal in many ways. They were both ambitious, ruthless, ravenous

in their desires, not afraid to take or to experiment. Not afraid of

anything at all.

She sauntered toward him, her stiletto heels sinking into the mauve

carpet, her eyes glowing with lust. Bryce lay back on the chaise and

smiled as she straddled his naked body.

"He's afraid of this Jennings woman?" she asked, lightly raking her

fingernails through his chest hair.

"He's afraid of his own shadow."

"Well, I admit, I don't like her showing up here either," Sharon said

mildly. "There's no way of knowing what Lucy might have told her or what

she might suspect."

Bryce sighed and arched into her touch. "No, there isn't. We'll find out

soon enough."

"What's your game with the waitress?" she said. Her voice was nearly as

masculine as her features, low and dark and warm. It set his nerve

endings humming.

"Just testing the waters," Bryce assured her, reaching up to fill his

hands with her breasts. The plan was still too fresh in his head to

share; he wanted to savor it a bit first. "Don't concern yourself."

In a swift and practiced move Sharon twisted a length of black silk

around his wrists, jerking it tighter than was strictly necessary. She

pushed his hands above his head and fastened the tie around a decorative

wood scroll on the end of the chaise.

"No," she growled, smiling wickedly as she positioned above his growing

erection. "Don't you concern only with me. Only with this."

"Yes . . ." he whispered on an urgent breath, thinking he might explode

soon. Then she impaled herself on him, he didn't think at all.

J.D. worked the horse around the pen, stepping ahead of her to make her

turn, snapping a catch rope at her hindquarters when she slowed down.

The rhythm of it was as natural to him as walking. He could read the

mare's slightest body language, knew when she would try to turn away

from him, knew when she was most in need of a breather. He let her take

one now, stepping back slightly. She stopped immediately, her huge brown

eyes fixed on him.

She read his body language as well. J.D. knew that ninety percent of a

horse's communication was visual.

That was one of the few great mysteries to mastering a horse. He had

never been able to understand how anyone who had ever dealt with a horse

couldn't see that in five minutes. It was stupid simple.

He made a kissing sound as the mare's attention began to drift away from

him. Immediately she pricked her ears and faced him. He moved toward her

slowly, held a hand out for her to blow on, "That's a girl," he

murmured, rubbing the side of her face. "Good for you. You're all

right."

When he turned to walk away from her, she dropped her head and began to

follow. J.D. wheeled and chased her off, putting her back on the rail of

the round pen at a trot. This was one of the other great mysteries,

establishing his place at the top of her pecking order. Dominance had

nothing to do with force and everything to do with behaving in a way the

horse could understand. He was the boss hoss. She had to move when he

wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. She rested, he allowed it. She

learned to turn and face him, to concentrate on him, because if she

didn't, he would run her some more and she was already hot, tired, and

breathing hard.

He turned her in an easy figure eight with barely more than a shift of

his weight and the motion of a hand. She was a pretty mare. Small,

stocky - a quarter horse of the old style, built for cutting cattle. Her

coat was a dark gold, made muddy now by sweat and dust. Her mane and

tale were platin kunky, he called it
 
mix Of silver, white, and black.

Her forelock hung in her eyes and she tossed her dainty head flinging it

back. She would be a good ride for the child whose mother had hired him

to train the horse.

She was one of four outside horses J.D. had in training at the moment.

He enjoyed the work, and it brought in cash, something they never had

enough of, ranching being what it was.

J.D., letting the mare rest, sidled up to her and began stroking her.

"Nice mare, good mare," he murmured thinking of Marilee.

Marilee. . . Marilee. His mind drifted as he soothed the mare with his

hands patting the mare's neck and slicked a glove down her heaving side.

Marilee. What the hell kind of a snooty name was that?
 
Some kind of

California name. Well, by God, he wouldn't use it.

No reason to think he'd ever get the chance. She had come to see someone

who was dead. She'd stay a day or two, until the shock wore off, and

then she'd leave.

He tightened his jaw against the feeling that thought inspired. Will was

right, much as he hated to admit that.

He needed a woman. He'd gone too long without. He was feeling moody and

distracted.

In his mind he could see Lucy standing in the open door of the log house

wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a see-through blouse. She

leaned against the
 
jamb, completely relaxed, her eyes glittering with

an
 
expectancy and her brassy yellow hair tumbling over one shoulder.

How about it, cowboy?
 
Want to ride tonight?

He didn't like her, didn't respect her, thought she was a selfish,

mean-spirited bitch. She had a similar string of names and sentiments

for him as well, but they hadn't let any of that get in the way of what

either one of them had wanted. It had all been a game to Lucy. She knew

J.D. wanted her land and she had dangled it in front of him, a shiny,

empty promise she had no intention of making good on. The bitch. Now she

was gone for good. The land still teased him.

A glance at the sun sliding toward the back side of the Gallatin Range

told him it was quitting time for the day.

He needed to shower and shave and drive back down the mountain.

Damned waste of time, citizens groups. They got together and squawked

and bickered worse than a gaggle of geese, and nothing ever came of it.

They could make all the noise they wanted, but in the end the money

would talk and that would be the end of it. What the common man had to

say wouldn't matter. They would all be ground beneath the wheels of some

outsider's idea of progress.

Not the Raffertys.

That conviction was what pushed all other cynical thoughts aside. Not

the Raffertys, by God. The Stars and Bars wouldn't fall. He wouldn't let

it. That was the legacy left him by three prior generations of Rafferty

men: protect the land, keep it in the family. He took that to heart.
 
It

wasn't so much a chore as a calling.
 
It wasn't so much a sense of

ownership as a sense of stewardship for the land, for tradition. He had

been entrusted with a history, with the life of the ranch and everything

and everyone on it. There was nothing in him stronger than his sense of

personal accountability to that trust.

Forgetting about the mare, he wandered to the far side of the round pen

and laid his arms against the second rail from the top. From there he

could see for miles down the slope of the mountain to the broad valley

that was carpeted in green, studded with green. Pines stood shoulder to

shoulder, ranks of them marching down the hill sides. In the breeze, the

pale green leaves of the aspen quivered like sequins. He didn't know if

the shades of green here compared with those in the birthplace of his

Irish ancestors; J.D. had never been farther than Dallas.

But he knew each shade by heart, knew each tree, each blade of grass.

The idea that some outsider believed he had a better right to all of it

was like a punch in the gut.

The mare had come to stand beside him. She nudged him now, rubbed her

head against his shoulder, tried to reach around and twitch her heavy

upper lip against his shirt pocket. J.D. scowled at her. "Quit," he

growled in warning. She backed off a step, then tossed her head, eyes

bright, not intimidated by his show of annoyance.

He chuckled, pulled off a glove, and dug into his pocket for a butter

mint.

"Can't fool you, can I, little mare?" he mumbled, giving her the treat.

Little mare . . . Marilee . . . She reminded him a little of

Marilee - small and curvy with a tangle of streaked blond hair hanging

over wide dark eyes. Of course, the woman smelled a whole lot better.

The horse was a lot less trouble.

"Reckon you can get that citizens' commission to eat out of your hand

that way?"

J.D. looked across the pen to where Tucker Cahill stood with his foot on

a rail and a chaw in his lip. Tucker had a face that was creased like

old leather, small eyes full of wisdom and kindness, and a hat that had

seen better days. He claimed women told him he was a dead ringer for Ben

Johnson, the cowboy actor. Ben Johnson had seen better days too.

He was one of two hands kept on at the Stars and Bars, as much out of

loyalty as necessity. The other, Chaske Sage, claimed to be the

descendant of Sioux mystics. It might have been true or not. Chaske was

a wily old character. He had to be at least as old as Tucker, but had

warded off the rheumatism that plagued his cohort.

He attributed his stamina to sex and to a mysterious mix of ash, sage,

and powdered rattlesnake skin he took daily.

"Nope," J.D. said. "All together they don't have the sense God gave a

horse." He patted the little mare and headed for the gate. She followed

him like a dog. "Couple of them sure do resemble the back end of one,

though."

Tucker spat a stream of brown juice into the dirt and grinned his tight,

shy grin, showing only a glimpse of discolored teeth. "That's a fact,

son. A bigger bunch of horse's patoots I never did see." He swung the

gate open and stepped past J.D. to snap a lead to the mare's halter.

"I'll Cool her out. You better get a move on if you're gonna make that

meeting. Will already went up to the house."

"Yeah, well, he spends an hour in front of the mirror.If he spent as

much time with his wife as he does picking out his clothes-"

"Got that line of fence done up east of the blue rock." Tucker changed

the subject as smoothly as an old cowhorse changing leads. J.D. didn't

miss the switch.

Tucker had been on the Stars and Bars a lot of years.

He'd been a pal of old Tom, had stood by faithfully and worked like a

dog during all the years Sondra had made their life a misery. He'd been

a surrogate father to J.D. when Tom had been caught up in the agony of

heart break, and a mentor after Tom had died, leaving the ranch to J.D.

and Will when J.D. was only twenty. His role these days as often as not

was that of diplomat. He didn't like dissention among the ranks, and did

his best to smooth things between the brothers.

"You find Old Dinah?" J.D. asked as they walked across the hard-packed

earth of the ranch yard, their battered boots kicking up puffs of dust.

Tucker chuckled. "Yea. In the back of beyond with a big good-looking

bull calf at her side. She's got a mind of her own, that old mama cow,

just like every female I ever knew."

The little mare snorted as if in affront, blowing crud down the back of

the old man's shirt. He scowled at her, but kept on walking, grumbling,