Dark Paradise (59 page)

had chosen a simple modest turquoise tank suit, which she had felt

compelled to cover up with the white oxford shirt she'd taken out of

Will's end of the closet at home that morning. In the chair to her

right, Uma Kimball lay soaking up the rays wearing nothing but the

bottom portion of a yellow thong bikini, a scrap of fabric too small to

clean her sunglasses with. Uma's chest was as flat as a Cub Scout's, her

nipples tiny pebbles in coins of brown flesh.

"I have a built-in tan," Samantha said, feeling conspicuously

overdressed and far too conscious of her long limbed body. A direct

contrast to the people around her, who never seemed self-conscious about

anything.

Sharon sauntered up to Lucas and made a production of running an ice

cube along her lower lip, then dropping it in the glass he held. She was

slightly taller than he in her gold eelskin slings. Her bathing suit

looked like one long piece of black silk gauze that crisscrossed her

chest, wrapped down between her long, perfect legs, and disappeared

between the firmly rounded cheeks of her buttocks.

"Sam is modest," she said, her amusement as cool as the cube she'd

presented Lucas with. "Isn't that sweet, Ben?"

Uma rolled over onto her side, her glassy eyes bright with amazement as

she fixed them on Samantha. "So are you really like an Indian, or what?"

"Part," Samantha murmured.

"The kind from A Passage to India or the kind from Dances with Wolves?"

"The kind from Montana. My mother is Cheyenne."

"The singer?
 
How cool!"

Sharon breathed an impatient sigh. "Jesus, Uma, are you ever not on

something?"

The actress slid a pair of sunglasses down from the top of her head to

the tip of her pixie nose. She sent Sharon a look over the frames and

smiled slyly. "Are you ever not a bitch?"

Something like embarrassment crawled over Samantha as dislike charged

the air between the two women. She ducked her head down, hiding behind

her curtain of dark hair. Mr. Van Delien's words rang in her ears - You're

not one of them. . . .

"Reisa is setting out a light snack," Bryce announced walking blithely

into the thick of things. He was unaffected by the tensions in the air,

looking chic and relaxed in a pair of full-cut white gauze pants and an

open jungle-print shirt. His sun-bleached hair was swept back into its

usual queue. He smiled a pleasant, even smile, a flash of ivory in his

lean, tanned face as he regarded Sharon through the lenses of his

sunglasses. "Why don't you go sink your teeth into something that won't

bleed, cuz?"

"Join me," Sharon countered, holding his gaze. "We have business to

discuss."

"In a minute." Bryce dismissed her and started to turn back toward

Samantha.

Sharon touched his arm, wanting to drag him away.

Business always came first with him - unless he was smitten. "Bryce-"

"I said later," he said sharply.

Sharon bared her teeth at him and glided away with no outward sign of

the hurt or the uneasiness that churned inside her. Lucas followed with

Uma tagging after him, a finger hooked in the back of his swim trunks

and a towel slung over her shoulders to cover her token breasts.

"Have you worked up an appetite yet?" Bryce grinned.

Samantha's lips twisted in a wry little smile as she swung her endless

legs over the side of the chaise and sat up. Mona Lisa in Montana, Bryce

thought. If she ever realized the power she could wield over men with

those secret, amused smiles, she could be formidable. An irresistible

challenge. Of course, she was that already; she just didn't know it. The

irony only made her more desirable.

"This isn't considered work where I'm from," she said, swinging her hair

back over her shoulder.

Bryce eased himself down on the chaise to sit beside her. He nodded

toward Fabian. Oversize pecs glistening with baby oil, the blond male

model appeared in deepest concentration as he tilted his sun reflector

to direct the maximum rays to the underside of his lantern jaw.

"Don't tell him that. He'll make a million doing a calendar if he keeps

his tan even."

Uncertain whether or not he was teasing, Samantha gave him a look that

managed to combine skepticism and puzzlement. Bryce reached up and

stroked the back of his hand down her cheek, then tipped her chin up.

"You could make a million too, if you wanted."

She laughed. "Me?
 
I don't think so."

He frowned a little. "You could do anything, sweetheart. No limits-"

"-But the sky," she finished. "There's a lot of sky in Montana."

"And plenty of opportunities elsewhere. You're a beautiful young woman,

Samantha. You could be the toast of L.A. or New York. All you have to do

is believe in yourself."

"I can't go to L.A. I have a husband."

"Not in evidence," Bryce said, not bothering to disguise the disapproval

in his voice. She flinched, almost imperceptibly. He pressed harder on

the nerve he'd struck, without remorse or pity. "He treats you like a

second-class citizen. No, it's worse than that. He doesn't treat you

like anything at all."

Samantha bit her lip and looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the

glazed lapis tile that bordered the pool so he couldn't see the tears

fill her eyes. Bryce slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a

compassionate squeeze, pressing a phantom kiss to her hair.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's

just that it makes me angry to see the way he ignores you."

It amazed him a little that he felt so strongly about the girl, when

she had been nothing more than a chess piece a week before. He sat there

beside her with his arm around her and wanted good things for her. He

couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Years. Never.

His focus had always been ruthlessly on himself. Now he broadened the

scope a little to include Samantha. He could have everything he

wanted - the power, the land, Samantha - and give her things

too - opportunities, fame - and watch her blossom and know that he was

responsible. Heady stuff, playing the part of a magnanimous god. He

thought he just might grow to like it.

"You can have so much more than he's giving you," he murmured, pushing a

little harder, reminding her that Will Rafferty was giving her nothing

but heartache.

Samantha looked away to the shaded patio tables on the other side of the

pool. Uma was devouring a small mountain of fresh fruit. Across the

table from her, Ben Lucas dunked a strawberry in a glass of champagne,

popped it in his mouth, and flashed a smile. Sharon sat at a table

ignoring the others, ignoring the food, paging idly through

Cosmopolitan.

"I don't think your cousin likes me very much," Samantha said softly.

"Sharon?" Bryce shrugged, tightening his arm around Samantha. "Sharon

doesn't like anyone. She's very . . . territorial. And that's one of her

better qualities."

"Sounds like you don't like her very much."

He thought about that for a moment and sighed, stroking his hand

absently up and down her arm. "I'm tired of her theatrics, I suppose.

But we have a long history, Sharon and I. And she is, after all,

family."

Loyalty would appeal to Samantha, he thought, make him look kind and

good when he was generally neither of those things. And it was easier to

explain than the truth.

The truth would shock her, repulse her. She was too naive, had led far

too sheltered a life up here in the mountains, where people still

believed in quaint concepts like morality.

The French doors to the house swung open and Reisa, his housekeeper,

trundled out. The woman had the body of an oil drum and a face with the

shape and expression of a frying pan, but she could cook and she spoke

little English, two essential requirements for the job. Marilee Jennings

trailed in her broad wake. Bryce felt his interest shift and heighten,

like a bird dog going on point.

"Marilee!" he called, rising from the chaise and drawing Samantha up

with him. He herded the girl around the end of the pool to meet his

newest guest.

Marilee tried to muster a smile, a monumental task after spending two

hours in the company of Sheriff Quinn and his deputies. The sheriff had

been none too pleased to find her in the company of a corpse.

Bryce showed no outward signs of having received a distress call from a

buddy. If he knew anything about the judge's demise, then he was as

cold-blooded as the lizards that had given up their hides for his belt.

He graced her with his brilliant smile. The sun shone down like a

benediction on his high forehead.

"I'm glad you decided to join us after all," he said. "Have a seat.

I'll have Reisa get you something to drink."

"This isn't exactly a social call," Marilee said, her gaze skating

across the faces of the assembled personalities and coming back to rest

on Bryce. "I thought you should know - since you were a friend of

his - MacDonald Townsend is dead. He killed himself sometime last night."

Bryce's features folded into an appropriate expression of grim

disbelief. He jammed his hands at his waist.

"Jesus, you're joking."

"My sense of humor doesn't run that black. He's dead."

Ben Lucas shoved his chair back, legs scratching against the flagstone,

and rose to come stand beside Bryce. Shoving his sunglasses on top of

his head, he scowled at Marilee as if she had been the one to pull the

trigger. "Townsend is dead?
 
Christ, what happened?"

Marilee shrugged. Her hands found the pockets of her baggy jeans and

slipped in, fingers knotting into tight fists. A gentle breeze swept

across the terrace, blowing a chunk of hair across her face. She tossed

it back with a jerk of her head. "I couldn't say. I don't think he left

a note. I stopped by his place this morning because, well, he knew Lucy

and I thought we could just talk, you know. I found him in his study."

"That must have been terrible for you," Bryce murmured. He closed the

distance between them and hooked an arm around her shoulders, steering

her toward a seat at the table where Sharon sat stonefaced, her eyes

narrowed.

"Sit down." He looked over his shoulder at the housekeeper hovering near

the French doors. "Reisa, will you bring Ms. Jennings a cognac?"

"No, thanks," Marilee said. The scotch she'd consumed at Townsend's had

long since burned off. Her mind was achingly clear, and she intended to

keep it that way as long as she was in this snake pit. "Just a Coke

would be fine.

Bryce frowned a little, but nodded to the woman.

"I wonder if the police have called Irene," Lucas said to Bryce. He cut

a glance at Marilee, his mouth set in a tight line. "Mrs. Townsend," he

explained. Before she could acknowledge that in any way, he focused on

Bryce again.

"I'll call her. It's better if this kind of news comes from a friend."

"Yes, of course. Use the phone in my office," Bryce said, rubbing his

chin. "In fact, I'll come with you. I'd like to offer any help I might

be able to give."

The two disappeared into the house. Marilee curbed the urge to follow

them. She wasn't sure what she had hoped to gain by breaking the news.

Bryce didn't strike her as the sort of man who would break down under

the weight of an overloaded conscience, and confess. Nor was she about

to confront him with any of her nebulous suspicions. That would be a

good way to get dead if he turned out to be an evil overlord, a good way

to make herself a powerful enemy, in any event.

A strained silence descended on the pool-party crowd.