Shadowed Paradise (2 page)

Long moments of fearful silence. “He’s in the
truck,” announced the disembodied voice from the back seat. “Now
it’s your turn. Just do what Jamie did and you’ll be fine.”

Impossible. There was no way she could get
out from behind the wheel, bump over the gear box, the raised hand
brake, and crawl through a four-inch gap. “I can’t,” Claire
protested hoarsely.

“
Look, lady, in case you hadn’t
noticed, your front tires are in the damned creek. Lucky for you
the break’s not too wide—your front bumper’s on the far side and
hanging on. But more pavement could go at any moment. So take those
little fingers of yours off the wheel and move it!”

Miserable Florida redneck. If Jim had ever
spoken to her like that . . .

Claire uncurled her fingers from the wheel
and began to hitch herself across the central gear box. Hard,
uncompromising pieces of metal and plastic bit into the most
sensitive parts of her anatomy. Propelled as much by discomfort as
by fear, she thrust herself backwards through the impossibly narrow
opening between the seats. Large, none-too-gentle hands grabbed her
in places she didn’t care to identify, and suddenly she was
sprawled, breathless, in the Toyota’s rear seat, her back pressed
up against a broad chest only slightly less firm than a boulder.
The side of her breast was squashed into an equally hard knee cap
as arms as strong as Mr. Clean’s steadied her against thighs of
steel. She was also embarrassingly aware of being pressed tight
against a more delicate portion of their rescuer’s anatomy.

The powerful arms that pinned her suddenly
let go. “You okay?” The baritone had slipped to bass.

“
Uh-huh..” The most articulate remark
she could manage.

“
Okay. Now get the hell out of here.
Slowly.”

As their rescuer swung the door open, Claire
crawled over the solid bulk of jean-encased legs and out into the
lessening rainfall. Beneath water that sloshed up to her ankles the
ground was solid. Beautifully, wonderfully solid . . .

Wrong. Beneath her feet was black, crumbling
pavement. They were far from safe. They were still on the bridge,
suspended over a relentless river. Claire leaned back through the
car door. “What about you?” she asked, frowning.

“
Move and I might be able to get
out!”

Stung, Claire stepped sharply back. What if
his considerable weight was all that was keeping the car from
tumbling into the river? What if it started to sink while he was
getting out? She planted herself firmly by the rear tire and
waited. Did she actually have delusions of being able to hold on to
that much male body hurtling into space? Who was she kidding?

A well-worn western boot topped by classic
blue denim jeans poked through the open door, slid slowly down
toward the water that flowed over the pavement. As a second boot
followed, the Toyota shuddered. The boots froze as the car
shimmied, then settled into a steeper angle. The gap in the bridge
had widened. “Get out,” Claire shouted. “Now!”

Out of the depths of the car a body unfolded,
gathering momentum as it moved toward the brilliant light behind
them, carrying Claire with it as easily as a fullback with a
football tucked against his chest. So much for her dramatic plan to
be helpful.

They ended up well back from the ominous
gushing black fissure, both breathing hard, Claire’s head pressed
against the stranger’s chest, where the thump of his heart against
her ear assured her that he wasn’t quite as unflappable as he
appeared. Even soaking wet, the stranger’s chest was the most
comforting resting place she’d experienced in a long, long time.
Claire gasped out her thanks, well aware her words were
ridiculously inadequate.

“
No problem.” As if cued by the laconic
response, the deluge shut off, dwindling into a light drizzle. An
onslaught of civilization broke the dark loneliness of the night.
Flashing blue lights stabbed the darkness on the far side of the
bridge as a county patrol car pulled up and parked sideways across
the road to block traffic from the south. A cacophony of sirens
sounded from the long winding stretch of road Claire had driven
from the theater. Wails, aa-oo-gahs, and banshee screams marked the
arrival of two more sets of flashing blue lights, the red and white
pulse of an ambulance, and the long bulk of a fire
engine.

“
I called 911 before I left the truck,”
admitted the voice above her on an almost apologetic
note.

Truck. Jamie. Oh, dear God,
Jamie!
Claire broke away from her
safe haven and ran toward the white light she could now see was
nothing more than the awesome power of four floodlights mounted on
a rack atop a bright blue pickup. Standard equipment in Florida for
those who liked to go where few had gone before.

Claire flung open the truck’s door. Halfway
up onto the high leather seat, she saw that it was empty. Her voice
rose to a wail. “Jamie!”

“
Damn it, I
saw
him get in!” Rough hands thrust her
aside.

Brad Blue peered between the front bucket
seats into the narrow space behind. Crouched on the floor in the
extension behind the passenger seat was a forlorn figure, his wet
blond head bent between his knees, hands pressed to his ears.

“
He’s here,” Brad called over his
shoulder, ignoring the woman’s frantic efforts to get past him.
Odd. It had been thirty years since he was this kid’s age, but to
the best of his recollection, most boys would be having the time of
their lives, noses pressed to the glass, awed or smugly satisfied
at their own part in an adventure that had turned out three patrol
cars, two ambulances and a fire engine.

And yet, the boy had been rock steady when
abandoning a car precariously balanced over a flooding river.

Brad instinctively reached out to give
comfort, but paused a scant inch from the glistening thatch of
hair. Slowly, he pulled back, his fingers moving instead toward the
floodlight switch, snapping it off. He backed out of the pickup,
gave the woman a boost up, then shut mother and son inside the
privacy of the cab. With a shout he headed off the rescue workers
who were inching their way toward the Toyota. No need to have to
rescue the rescuers.

Funny about the kid, though.

Brad fielded a barrage of questions, tossed
back a few terse replies. One of the deputies played his flashlight
over the crazily canted car, where water surged up and around front
wheels still wedged into the ominous black crack that split the
bridge in two. “Hey, Brad,” he called, ambling toward the pickup,
“what happened just now? That was one hell of a scream.” Twenty
years earlier Deputy Pat Farrell had caught passes from Brad Blue
during their years at Golden Beach High.

“
Woman thought her kid was missing. Tow
truck on the way?”

“
Lucky that’s all we need. Damnedst
thing I ever saw. Don’t think there’s been trouble with this bridge
since it was built.”

“
Never had this much rain
before.”

“
Sure didn’t.” Deputy Farrell glanced
at the pickup, then eyed the phalanx of emergency vehicles. “Think
we’re gonna need the medics?”

Brad cracked open the cab door. “Everything
okay in there? Need a medic?” The woman’s pale face appeared in the
opening between the front bucket seats. Somehow she had gotten into
the small space where the boy was crouched.

“
No. Send them home.” Claire bit her
tongue. What a stupid, ungracious remark. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.
“Please tell everyone thank you. But lights, sirens, people asking
questions would only make things worse. We just need to go
home.”

Her rescuer didn’t question her judgment. He
simply fished a notebook out of the glove compartment and a pen,
dripping wet, from his shirt pocket. “Name, address, phone. Twice.
I’ll have Pat—the deputy—give one to the tow truck driver. Then we
can go. Pat can wind up his report tomorrow.”

To the hypnotic accompaniment of flashes of
red, white and blue, the glow of gold from the fire engine, Claire
printed out the requested information, scrawled her signature
across the EMS release form; then, sick at heart, she turned back
to her son’s bent head. Jamie’s chin was sunk between his knees,
shoulders hunched forward in utter dejection. Had he relapsed into
memories of terror, or did he think he’d disgraced himself by
hiding from the flashing lights? Other than a steady murmur of
inane reassurances, words failed her. Either way, her son was
suffering agonies of the soul, and there wasn’t even room enough in
this miserable sliver of a cab extension to scoop him up and hold
him tight.

The voices outside died away. Cab doors
banged. Through the pickup’s rear window Claire watched the two
ambulances and the fire engine back off the causeway, reverse into
a side street, and head back up the road toward town, red
taillights casting a glow on the glistening pavement.

Jamie didn’t see them. He never raised his
head.

Brad slid behind the wheel of the pickup and
paused, contemplating his options. Should he leave the woman in
that cramped little space or stick his nose in where it didn’t
belong? Well, hell, no one had ever accused him of having a passive
personality.

“
Hey, Jamie, do you know what a jump
seat is? . . . Jamie?”

“
Uh-uh.”

“
I’ve got two of them in that little
space back there. If your mom comes up front, I can show you how
they work.”

“
I’d better stay back here,” the woman
stated firmly.

“
It’s better than being scrunched up
like an accordion until you get home.”
Back
off, Mom. Give the boy some breathing space.

“
It’s okay, mom,” Jamie said. “You’re
too big for back here.”

Swallowing a surge of irrational
resentment—what did this stranger know about Jamie’s special
needs?—Claire conceded the point. The largest part of her anatomy
was as tightly wedged in the tiny space behind the seats as the
Toyota’s tires were in the crack in the bridge. She was going to
need a tow truck of her own to get out.

After giving Jamie an awkward hug, she
contemplated the problem. There was, she decided, no dignified way
to climb from the rear of an extended truck cab into a front bucket
seat. For the second time in one night she was going to make a
display of herself. In front of what she was beginning to notice
was a hunk who made the Rock look like a wimp. Better to stay in
this impossible position until their rescuer was as far away as
possible. Preferably in the next county.

“
Take my hand,” said the now-familiar
baritone. It was not a request. Nor was it unkind. There was
exasperation, a dash of impatience, a hint of long-suffering. But
not insensitivity to either of her dilemmas—motherhood or
vanity.

Claire accepted the hand that thrust through
the opening between the bucket seats. A callused hand. Large,
strong. Reliable. Tears threatened. It had been a long time since a
man had given Claire Langdon a hand with anything. In a matter of
moments she was in the front seat arranging her splayed arms and
legs into some semblance of order.

Brad made no pretense of not looking. A pair
of fine legs, minimally covered by denim shorts, with ample curves
above and below, were too much temptation for any red-blooded male.
Nice, very nice. Even dripping wet.

He reached back and unfastened the jump seat
behind him. “How d‘you like that, Jamie?” he inquired amiably.
“Kinda neat, right?” Out of the corner of his eye he watched the
small shadow still crouched behind the passenger seat. He kept his
voice calm, matter of fact. “We have to use another bridge, so
there’s a lot of miles before you get home. You might want to give
the seat a try. Be more comfortable.”

Slowly, Jamie inched forward on his knees,
reached out a tentative hand to touch the child-size jump seat. He
rubbed his fingers across the leather, moved a few inches closer.
With a nod of approval, he crawled into the seat, settling his back
against the side of the cab.

“
You all set?” Brad tossed the words
toward the back.

“
Sure.” The nonchalant bravado of a boy
who rode in jump seats in the back of truck cabs every
day.

Claire swallowed hard. It was going to be
okay. She allowed herself a peek at the man sitting next to her.
Even in darkness lit only by the blue lights of the patrol cars,
she caught the reassuring flash of his eyes. Something passed
between them that she refused to identify. Sympathy? Fellow human
compassion?

More than that?
Come on, Claire. Get real. The man’s nearer forty than thirty.
He’s not only married, he probably has kids in high
school
.

But there was something about the look
he’d just given her . . . something more than,
Are you okay?
An appraisal. Speculation.
Definitely the most flattering look she’d had in the two years
since Jim’s death. There’d been altogether too many speculative
glances, a few predatory gleams, an occasional glimpse of genuine
sympathy. And regret. In the world in which she had once moved and
lived, Claire Langdon was no longer the best person to know. No
longer socially acceptable.

Which was why Claire and Jamie were living in
Florida on her grandmother’s charity.

Her rescuer held out his hand. “Name’s Brad
Blue. Nice to meet you.”

Claire grasped his hand. Heat surged. Her
pulse rate rocketed higher than the moment the Toyota sank into the
gap in the bridge. She stammered her thanks.