Shadowed Paradise (10 page)

Diane was no slouch when it came to male
psychology. She had paused her striptease just short of the final
scrap of black lace. Brad couldn’t take his eyes off that tiny
triangle as she sauntered around the couch and insinuated herself
beside him, her knees tucked under her, each rounded kneecap hard
against his left thigh. Her smile blatantly seductive, she reached
out to loosen his tie.

He should force his hands to move, put her
aside. Fight for some semblance of dignity. He should scramble
through his addled wits for the words he’d come here to say.
Instead, one hand seemed to move of its own volition, slipping
under the black lace to the dark curls that lay beneath. As he
feathered his fingers through the soft hair, moving ever closer to
the seat of her desire, Diane tugged at his tie until she sent it
to join the garments scattered across the expanse of the white rug.
When he cupped her in his large work-roughened hand, she gasped, as
if it were the very first time.

With the skill of long experience Diane
popped the buttons on his shirt, peeled back one side and lowered
her head to nip at his soft blond mat of hair, tugging at the silky
strands with her teeth. When she ran her tongue over a heavily
tanned nipple, his whole body quivered
.
Fuck!

No fuck, no fuck! That’s why
he was here.
Except his brain had gone on
hold.

While her luscious pouty lips held his
attention, Diane’s roving fingers moved to his lap. She flashed a
feral smile of satisfaction at what she found. Her long fingers
with their perfectly sculptured nails moved back to the row of
shirt buttons.

He sat there like an idiot while she skivvied
him out of his shirt and sent it flying. Removing his belt required
sinuous twists and turns, soft murmurs of effort. A work of art in
itself.

He’d always liked art. A shame to
interrupt.

She’d reached his zipper.

Hypocrite of the Year
Award
. He’d win hands down.

Brad moaned—he couldn’t help it—as his
ramrod-stiff cock sprang free. Part relief. Mostly
self-loathing.

Diane twisted out of her lacy black G-string,
lowered her head to take him in her mouth.

Brad grabbed her arms, held her off.

“
You know, don’t you?” he demanded.
“You know why I’m here. This is your way of dealing with it, and I
nearly went for it. Show good old Brad a bit of tail, and he’ll
pant like Pavlov’s pet pooch.”

Diane’s eyes flashed. Her lips sneered, as
she hissed, “Little Boy Blue, I can blow your horn any time I damn
well please.”

Brad fisted a hand in her hair. “I thought if
I paid the check I wasn’t a toyboy,” he drawled, “but I guess I was
wrong. My apologies to all the two-bit whores down through the
ages. Now I know how they felt. Guess what? I actually feel guilty
because I can do something most of them couldn’t. I can afford to
walk away.”

“
Don’t you dare!” Diane hissed as he
set her aside and stood up in one long fluid movement. “Nobody
walks out on me.”

“
I don’t intend to just yet,” he
replied coolly, adjusting his briefs and tugging up his zipper. He
noted with satisfaction that his body was well on its way to
joining his mind’s loss of interest. While Diane swore at him with
a fluency which never ceased to amaze him, Brad retrieved a black
silky robe from the bedroom closet and tossed it at her. “Put that
on, and then we’ll talk. And no more tricks. You’re an icon to half
of Southwest Florida. For just this once, try to maintain the image
off-screen.”

The long drive back to Golden Beach—at a rate
of speed that caused the dark Florida landscape to blur into
nothingness—gave Brad ample time to contemplate his sins. He should
feel guilty, but all he felt was unclean. For a moment there, he’d
almost lost it. And himself. He could count on the fingers of one
hand the times he had lost control of his adult life. At the top of
the list was his breakup with Phil. And the moment nearly three
years ago when he had discovered he was not immortal, that bullets
didn’t bounce off the supposed man of steel. He’d spent six months
in the hospital before turning down the offer of a desk job and
limping back to his roots in Golden Beach.

And tonight? Tonight he’d nearly become
something worse than a whore or a toyboy. They, after all, were
just engaging in business. He, macho he-man Brad Blue, had come all
too close to being a slave to physical desire. He was an imbecile,
a moron, a dimwit. A fool beyond price.

Since it was three in the morning and a time
when everyone’s sins come home to roost, Brad recalled all the
women in all the other beds and odd places he had known. If he’d
been in such damn control, did that make them whores? Or had he
always been a toyboy, a slave to his own desires, the women smug
and smiling because they knew where the control really lay?

Shit! On top of everything else he was a
fatuous ass. He’d known some fine women. From pros to society
darlings. He’d been responsible, taken precautions, never aroused
expectations of a long-term relationship. There was no one to blame
for tonight’s stupidity but himself. Diane had as much right to
fight for what she wanted as he had to leave her.

But now that he’d made the break, an
unexpected problem loomed. If he showered and scrubbed for a week,
he still wouldn’t be clean enough for a woman like Claire
Langdon.

Claire scowled at her computer screen. No bad
news from the Board of Realtors today, but it reminded her of her
latest exercise in masochism: watching the evening news with Diane
Lake. A whole week since Brad had said he would cut himself free,
yet nothing . . . not a word. Not even a wild office rumor.

For a few blissful, delusional moments, she’d
allowed herself to dream, but compete with Diane Lake? Sheer
insanity.

Vicky DelVecchio breezed through the front
door and paused by Claire’s desk. “If the Ghost comes by, just send
him back to my office.”

“
Ghost?”

“
Sorry. Unkind inside joke. That’s what
we call Ken Millard. He’s due to pick up the accounts today. Twice
a month, regular as clockwork.” Vicky paused, pursed her lips,
eyeing Claire thoughtfully from under her long dark lashes. “He’s
no Brad Blue, Claire, but he’s single and not bad looking. More of
a home boy, if you know what I mean.”

Claire’s computer squawked a protest as she
entered an invalid command. “Thanks, Vicky, but I’m not really
looking.”

Vicky shrugged. “Just thought I’d mention
it.”

Well, it was true, Claire grumbled to
herself. She wasn’t looking. She’d already found what she wanted.
Brad Blue or bust.

Unfortunately, it looked like it was going to
be bust.

Twenty minutes later, Claire looked up
from the seasonal rental database long enough to sneak a good look
at the man Jody was greeting with the familiarity of an old
acquaintance.
Ghost
was an apt
description. Claire had seen Ken Millard several times before, but
she’d never really
looked
at
him. Now . . . okay, maybe Vicky DelVecchio’s intentions weren’t as
facetious as she suspected.

Ken was in his mid-thirties, a slim man an
inch or so under six feet with no sign of incipient middle-age
paunch. In the blazing heat of the first of July he wore the
Florida businessman’s summer uniform of sparkling white shirt and
formal tie, no jacket. His smile, from a mouth slightly too large
for a nicely proportioned face, added animation to a manner that
was naturally diffident. His pale blue eyes, under straight brown
hair, reflected not only keen intelligence but a pleasing shyness
as he turned to murmur an obligatory greeting to Claire. Ken
Millard, she decided, was one of those comfortable,
salt-of-the-earth types who should have a lineup of sensible women
vying for his attention.

And yet she had no desire to be one of
them
. You never learn, Claire. Once a fool,
always a fool.

“
He’s such a doll,” Jody hissed as Ken
disappeared into Vicky’s office. “The sweet, shy type. I know
Brad’s to die for, Claire, but Ken’s steady. Reliable.” Pink
suffused Jody’s cheeks. “Sorry,” she muttered and slid her chair in
a fast wheelie back to her own computer.

So even Jody knew Claire had not heard
from Brad Blue
. Damn!

“
Claire, could I see you a moment?”
Phil’s disembodied voice emerged from the speaker phone later that
afternoon.

“
I have a problem,” Phil said, waving
Claire to the chair in front of her desk. “With the holiday coming
up, we’re making a big push on Open Houses this weekend. Don in
particular has so many listings our agents can’t possibly cover
them all.”

Claire, sensing what was coming, felt a surge
of hope. At last, an opportunity for something more challenging
than her usual routine.

“
Would you consider doing two to five
Sunday at one of Don’s listings? Time and a half,” Phil added, her
rich brown eyes widening in appeal. It’s perfectly legal as long as
you don’t do more than be charming and hand out the info
sheets.”

“
Of course. I’d be glad to help
out.”

“
Good.” Phil plunged ahead in her
customary brisk manner. “We’re unlikely to have someone who wants
to make an offer on the spot. If you do, you can always call me.
I’ll be at a meeting of the Library Expansion Committee. Sunday
afternoon was the only time the mayor and Jordan Lovell could make
it. Your grandmother will be there too, Claire, so I’ll arrange for
Jody to babysit. Naturally, T & T will pay.”

Phil paused, managed a deprecating smile. “If
that’s acceptable, of course.” Numbly, Claire nodded. After a brisk
nod, T & T’s broker studied the Open House list on her desk.
“Don wants you to sit the house in Calusa Estates. It’s on eight
acres out by the Interstate, but it’s vacant. You’ll need to take
your cell phone.

“
I—I haven’t set up cell service since
I moved.” She had to be the only person in Calusa County without a
cell phone, and to have her boss know it made her lack seem that
much worse.

Thoughtfully, Phil beat a tattoo against the
Open House list with her elegant gold pen. A sly smile lit her
face. She reached for the phone. “Brad, it’s me. I have a problem .
. .”

Claire sat in stunned silence while Phil—with
all the smug satisfaction of a person killing two birds with one
stone—arranged Claire’s Open House and her life along with it.

“
He’ll meet you there at quarter of
two,” Phil said after hanging up the phone. “Do not, repeat
do
not
, go inside until Brad
gets there. He was very specific about that, and I wouldn’t go
against his instincts, Claire. He’s had experience with that sort
of thing.”

Not a surprise. Somehow she’d
recognized Brad’s expertise from that first authoritative snap
of
What’s your name, son?

Claire floated out of Phil’s office on
a surge of hope tainted by a strong dollop of mortification. Phil
had manipulated Sunday’s arrangement. Brad was just being kind.
That’s all.
Noblesse
oblige
.

Diane Lake’s toyboy dispensing charity.

Expect nothing, get
nothing
. Claire’s lips curved into a wry smile. Sunday
could be a big day or the death knell of dreams scarcely
begun.

He’d tried so hard to be good. His mother
would have been proud. But it was Sunday. And he couldn’t stop
thinking about Kim Willis. And Betty Siffert. How they tasted. How
it felt to be able to do anything he wanted. To touch soft young
flesh, the tight brown curls that camouflaged their innermost
secrets. How it felt to be inside. Just the memory made him
hard.

There was a word for what he’d discovered he
liked. Necrophilia. Had a nice ring to it, necrophilia.

Sure rang his bell.

Hunting season . . .

Soon.

“
Hi.” Brad slid out of his pickup.
“Good job on the Open House signs. I followed them all the way
here.”

Claire swallowed hard. One look at Brad Blue
standing tall, bronzed, and powerful, his pale gold hair nearly
white in the summer sun, and parts of her body she had been
ignoring for years were clenching in blatant arousal. She could
only hope he’d attribute her flushed face to the blazing heat of
the July afternoon.

“
That’s what I like about the rainy
season,” she returned blandly. “Nice soft earth. No problem getting
the signs into the ground.”

As if either one of them was paying attention
to the inanities coming out of the other’s mouth.

“
Got the key?” Brad asked, holding out
his hand. “We’ll fry if we stay out here.”

And wouldn’t Brad Blue expect to open the
door for her, Claire thought. And why not? A little old-fashioned
gallantry was not to be scorned.

“
You get the drapes, I’ll get the air,”
Brad instructed as they entered the darkened house. “A little
light, a little cool, and you’re in business.”

He was right. In five minutes the house was
transformed into an expanse of airy openness, sunlight turning the
custom-designed house into the rural dreamhome of some doctor,
lawyer or business executive. The warm stale air gave way before
the cool waft of the air-conditioning system.

“
Not bad,” Brad approved, slowly
inspecting the living room that was open to a gallery on two sides
of the floor above. At one end of the large room the cathedral
ceiling rose in towering panels of glass overlooking a small lake
and fenced pastureland beyond. A fourth wall was dominated by a
massive fieldstone fireplace. In addition to a gleaming white
kitchen, the house also boasted four bedrooms, a recreation room, a
caged pool, three-car garage and a five-stall stables.