Paradise Burning (25 page)

A curtain twitched. A vertical blind swayed.
A few steps beyond, a face, openly curious, flattened against the
window glass.

“’
Evening.” Knowing eyes gleamed as a
white-haired gentleman passed them, walking his dog.

“
A-ah,” Peter breathed, catching the
atmosphere, “are we on stage?”

“
Afraid so. Sorry.”

A hitch in his walk, a small huff of breath,
then silence. Well, good. He’d gotten the message. She was
surrounded by chaperons. It was going to be dinner, birthday cake,
and sayonara.

The fact was, the invitation had slipped out
without planning and most definitely without her usual meticulous
analysis. The nuances, the inherent implications of the invitation
had not reared their dangerous heads until later. So, fine, at this
crucial moment Mandy needed all the chaperons she could get, lest
she succumb to the tumult of emotions that raged inside her,
threatening to overwhelm the Kingsley-Armitage cool.

Fortunately, realizing every eye was on them,
avidly waiting to see what happened next, was enough to dampen the
ardor of Casanova, let alone a couple whose relationship was as
fragile as a mayflower hiding in leafy undergrowth in a New England
woods. No problem. She’d be able to throw a private birthday party
for her husband in the intimacy of her RV with no unexpected
consequences.

“
This is it,” Mandy said brightly,
waving her flashlight over the side of her sleek RV. “And next
door,” she added more softly, nodding toward the giant fifth wheel
fifteen feet away, “is the campground’s biggest gossip.”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Great,”
he ground out. “So let’s see the inside of this torture chamber of
yours.” In the looming shadows between the two massive recreational
vehicles his familiar features seemed to have sharpened into those
of a hulking predator. A frustrated hulking predator.

Inwardly, Mandy groaned. He
had
expected more than birthday cake
for dessert.

“
Mustn’t let dinner dry out,” Mandy
mumbled and bounded up the RV’s steps, Fate striding hard on her
heels.

Somehow, in the few minutes since she’d gone
to meet Peter, the RV had shrunk. It simply wasn’t big enough for
both Mr. and Mrs. Pennington. Maybe if Peter wasn’t completely
filling the narrow aisle . . .

“
Sit.” With an imperious wave of her
hand, Mandy indicated the bench seat on one side of the dinette
table. He sat. Turning abruptly away, she retrieved a bottle of
wine from the small refrigerator, then grabbed a winged corkscrew
off the counter where she had carefully positioned it. She shoved
both into his hands.

There! That should keep him occupied for a
few moments.

She tried to breathe, but managed only a
ragged gasp. Damn! This wasn’t going well.

Peter looked at the wine bottle, looked at
Mandy. Her face was approaching the color of a boiled lobster.
Evidently, the torture wasn’t one-sided. Maybe there was hope yet.
He set the wine and the opener on the table, taking care not to
knock over the place settings and wine glasses that took up most of
the surface. With seeming nonchalance, he examined the interior of
the RV. “Nice. But isn’t it a bit small for a girl raised on a
hundred-acre estate?”

Small.
Minuscule
. Closing in with every ragged breath she
took. “Maybe that’s why I like it,” she managed.

Peter nodded toward the door at the rear of
the RV. “Bedroom?” he asked, raising one dark brow.

“
You can take the grand tour after
supper.” She couldn’t have said that! “Peter . . . open the wine.
The chicken’s drying out.”

“
A personally conducted tour?” he
inquired hopefully.

Mandy’s green eyes flared. “This RV’s thirty
feet from nose to tail. I think you can find your way.”

“
Well, Happy Birthday to me,” he
sighed, and turned his attention to the bottle of Pinot
Grigio.

Mandy winced. Score one for Peter. Not that
she hadn’t wished him Happy Birthday that morning, but tonight
she’d been so caught up in a disastrous case of the sexual
flutters, compounded by what-will-the-neighbors-think? that she’d
flunked Hostessing 101. Cooking wasn’t enough. She should have
taken a course in people skills.

The way to a man’s heart is
through his stomach
. Wasn’t that why she’d learned to
cook? Yet now, at the moment of truth, she was running scared.
Peter had thought she was offering herself along with dinner . . .
When she, quite deliberately, had refused to think beyond the iron
curtain of cake and candles.

Food. Concentrate on the
food.
On the small triumph of proving she really could
cook. If Peter dared sneer at her offering, she was going to
shatter into a thousand pieces.

No she wasn’t. She’d boot him head first down
the RV’s steps. Good riddance!

Food. Think food.

Not wanting to push her rarely used knowledge
to greater heights than she could manage, she had stuck to the
relative simplicity of Chicken Cordon Bleu, pilaf with toasted pine
nuts, a green salad that had not come out of a bag, with fresh
herbs and a vinaigrette dressing she made herself. And, thank God,
Peter was not only making all the appropriate noises, he actually
seemed to be chewing with relish.

Not that she really wanted to worm her way
into his heart, of course. Pride demanded this triumph. He’d never
be able to tease her about her cooking again.

She was
such
a liar.

Intellectually, Peter knew great French chefs
had no need to fear the competition of Chef Mandy, but, personally,
he’d never tasted more delicious food. She’d done good. But what an
ass he’d been in the past. How many times had he hurt the feelings
of his little Mouse, who couldn’t help the way she’d been
raised?

What the . . . ? While he was refilling their
wine glasses and thinking deep thoughts, Mandy had disappeared. He
was facing the RV’s entry door, and she hadn’t gone that way, so
she must have gone into the bedroom in back.

Bedroom
. Was he
supposed to follow? Was this dessert? Somehow he doubted it, even
though blood was rushing to his groin, completely oblivious to
cool-it signals from his brain.

A long fifteen seconds later, Mandy
reappeared, clutching a colorful gift-wrapped package, large enough
that she had to turn it sideways to get it through the door. In
spite of a glittery bow, trailing a stream of curling ribbons, the
package had that hand-wrapped look. That did it. He almost groaned
aloud. Mandy had cooked him a gourmet meal. She’d bought him a
present, wrapped it herself. He could actually feel his insides
warming, years of accumulated hard edges sloughing off. Guilt,
arrogance, even defensiveness drained away, turning his brain and
heart to sentimental mush. Except for one vital part of his anatomy
that had gone in the opposite direction. He was hard as the
proverbial rock.

The neighbors. Remember the nosy damn
neighbors!

Peter tore off the wrapping paper, sucked in
his breath as he saw the misty greens and browns of a Florida
jungle surrounding a dark, slow-flowing river. In minimal brush
strokes the artist had indicated the snout of an alligator, the
rings left by a jumping fish, and a great blue heron poised on the
bank.

“
I suppose it’s silly to give you a
painting of the view you see every day,” Mandy said, “but it was so
well done, and beautifully framed . . .”

“
I love it. Thank you.” He didn’t dare
say another word. He was walking through a mine field, with no idea
of where to step next. But he squeezed her hand as she took the
painting from him and propped it up on the sofa.

Once again she disappeared into the bedroom.
Maybe this time he was supposed to follow . . ? His erection was
painful, demanding attention. It had been so damn long. Two whole
years since that ill-fated reunion in Manhattan.

So what was she doing back there? Slipping
into something slinky? Getting naked?

Get real,
Pennington
. That wasn’t the dessert his Mouse had in
mind. She was probably lighting thirty-seven candles. Or, more
likely, preparing a
bombe
surprise
. Something designed to blow up in his face.
She couldn’t actually be giving in at last. Unless . . .

Stud service. That’s what she wanted. Not a
full-time genuine husband, but stud service. Nothing else explained
her sudden about-face.

Shit!

Mandy came through the rear door singing,
“Happy Birthday,” her expression more determined than festive, a
nominal number of candles twinkling before her. As she set the cake
in front of him, her voice wobbled. Had she run out of breath, he
wondered, or lost her nerve?

Peter forgot everything as he looked down at
the cake. He gaped.

“
I didn’t do it,” Mandy said hastily.
“I ordered it from the bakery.”

Sure she had, but he knew who had
orchestrated the design. Although traditional pink roses clung to
the rectangular sides of the cake, most of the top was covered by
the outline of a book cover. Written on it in black icing was the
title of his latest novel and his name on two lines at the
bottom.

“
Mandy . . .” He was
speechless.

“
Blow out the candles.”

Automatically, he complied. Was this
forgiveness? Calculated seduction? Or was she just waiting for him
to make a pass and then she was going to slam him to the floor?

She was the only child of Eleanor Kingsley
and Jeffrey Armitage. Deliberate torture seemed the most likely
scenario.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

She removed the candles, set two dessert
plates beside the cake, handed him a serrated knife. “Cut the cake.
I’ll get the ice cream.”

“
Yes, ma’am.”

Keeping his eyes on the cake and his lips
zipped, he cut two portions and watched as Mandy put the just the
right amount of Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Bean on each. After all these
years, she’d remembered.

Great cake, his favorite ice cream, but his
tastebuds had gone as numb as his brain. Was Mandy giving him a
preview of the future, the two of them living together in cozy
harmony? Or was she demonstrating what might have been if he hadn’t
been such an idiot?

If he’d been wiser. Less arrogant.

If Mandy hadn’t been tied to the family apron
strings with chains of steel?

Peter’s mind snapped back into focus,
and he caught her staring at him, green eyes wide with something
that looked remarkably like panic.
What the
hell?
He couldn’t have hit any hot buttons while
eating cake and ice cream.

Mandy laid her fork on her plate, gritted her
teeth, and plunged her hands into her lap to conceal their shaking.
It was bad enough before, with Peter’s presence filling the room,
but now that the meal was over, the RV had become a trash
compactor, the walls inexorably squeezing in, forcing two disparate
personalities into one. She was truly reduced to Mandy Mouse, a
small trapped thing, frozen in place, unable to escape.

Or perhaps simply unwilling?

She had to move. Box up the cake, rinse and
stack the dishes. Find a way to ease Peter out the door.

She inched off the bench seat as if her
weight had burgeoned to two tons, levered herself to her feet,
gathered up the cake plates and utensils, moved the few steps to
the sink.
Think about something
else!
Think of sharing cake tomorrow with Claire,
Jamie, and Bubba. With Glenda and Ed—

“
I’ll wash up,” Peter said, his mouth
somehow close to her ear, his solid bulk pressing in behind
her.

Startled, Mandy jumped back, straight against
the length of him. The fully aroused considerable length of him.
His arms enveloped her. A gentle home-at-last hug. She was quite
certain nothing had ever felt so good. So warm and comforting. So
right.

So utterly insane.

“
Great dinner,” he whispered, his lips
brushing her cheek. “Thank you.”

“
Peter . . . I—”

“
Look, I know you haven’t forgiven me,
and I can’t say as I blame you. I even respect your determination
to be independent. Working for AKA is like being attached to some
kind of hydra-headed dragon. No matter what you do, it keeps
rearing one more ugly head. It was stupid to think you’d leap from
one prison into another.” Peter released his hold, stepped back as
far as the narrow aisle would permit.

Mandy, keeping her back to him, worked hard
to stifle a whimper.

“
But,” Peter added, “there’s absolutely
no reason we can’t enjoy ourselves simply as two consenting adults,
now is there? Why pussy foot around each other when we have the
means, opportunity, and inclination to see if the old spark is
still there? Why torture ourselves, don’t you agree?”

Mandy clutched the edge of the sink, hung on
tight. “You just want to get laid.”

“
That too.”

“
And just what do you think that will
do to our professional relationship?” she inquired, struggling for
lofty indifference to the firestorm within.

“
Add a bit of spice?”

Mandy closed her eyes, gripped the stainless
steel sink even harder. Where was logic when she needed it? Peter’s
argument was fatuous at best. Self-serving. Typical male
bullshit.

“
We’re married, Mouse.”