Shadowed Paradise (20 page)

“
Good.”
Fifty
years
. Just an expression? Or was he
serious?

Couldn’t be. Not while he sat there like a
lump, doing nothing when she was about to plaster herself to him.
Without pausing to think, Claire plunged her hand down,
encountering a rod as stiff as the ceramic tub. She felt him
quiver, but he didn’t move. So . . . he was letting her make the
commitment. Accept the Florida farm boy, battle scars and all. Or
not. The choice was hers.

Closing her fingers around his pulsing
manhood, she rubbed her thumb over the swollen tip, circling,
stroking . . .

This time, he moaned. “Woman, if you don’t
stop, this evening’s going to come to an abrupt halt”

Claire’s lips skimmed his forehead, his nose,
his mouth. Lingered. As he reached out to pull her closer, she
rested her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself downward.

Brad’s powerful hands clasped her hips.
Encouraging. Helping. He threw back his head, his jaw went hard. A
stream of soft sounds escaped his lips, every last syllable
approving the slow exquisite pleasure of becoming part of her.

Control
. She’d
never had it before. She was queen of the mountain. A brand new
experience. Jim had been more adventurous in the boardroom than in
bed.

Claire slammed the door on the past.
This was now. And a pretty spectacular
now
it was.

This rugged stranger, this scarred
warrior, was inside her, filling her to the core of life. He raised
his head, searched her eyes with his, as if still wondering,
Are you sure, sure, sure?
He leaned
in, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m dying here, woman. This is
your five second warning. It’s my turn.” He slid his hands from her
hips to her buns, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Claire
nearly climaxed on the spot.

Fighting to keep the upper hand, she made a
small teasing move upward. And just that fast he seized control,
setting an erotically rhythmic pace, moving her through the dark
swirling water as easily as a chess piece, while water spilled onto
the ceramic floor, instantly changing color from black to
shimmering white.

It was over all too soon. Shock waves hit
Claire so hard only Brad’s firm grip kept her head above water. One
final thrust, and he followed her. But not before pulling out,
allowing his seed to spill into the tub’s steamy warmth.

Brad sank back against the edge of the tub,
cradling Claire against his chest. “Sorry,” he panted. “Damn stupid
of me to forget the condoms. Guess that shows what you do to
me.”

“
Guess that makes two of
us.”

Ah
. He liked
the sound of that. “We’ll do better next time.
Next time
. He liked the sound of that too. He’d
never admit it, but she had him by the balls. He was a
goner.

After long minutes of floating on a haze of
completion, they crawled out of the tub, wet and dripping, adding
to the pool on the already inundated white tile. Ruefully, they
surveyed the mess. “Evie will kill me,” Brad murmured.

“
Who’s Evie?”

“
Maid.”

“
You have a maid?” Claire was
incredulous. The maids in Golden Beach all worked for cleaning
services and made more money than she did.

“
Old family retainer. She only comes
twice a week. And tomorrow’s not her day. Not that this mess can
wait that long.” With a sigh Brad rummaged through the linen
cupboard until he found some old towels. He tossed her one, and
with a giggle from Claire and a grimace from Brad they went to
work. A chore made less onerous as they contrived to bump into each
other a not-surprising number of times, bare thigh to bare
buttocks, bare toes tickling other, more intimate
places.

When the floor was glistening tile
again instead of a pond, Brad retrieved two large fluffy
towels--one black, one white--and they started in on each other.
That was nicer yet. Brad went first, starting with Claire’s tousled
hair and moving gradually down to kneel before her, drying the
parts of her that were once again crying out to be touched. By the
time she did the same service for him, they were barely able to
stagger from the bathroom in time to fall onto the expanse of
Brad’s kingsize bed and reaffirm that love in the age-old game,
the
pas de deux
of life, is a
gift that can be given more than once in a lifetime.

That cataclysmic soul-shaking passion can
blossom into love, into the poignant, healing beauty of loving. And
being loved.

The atmosphere in T & T’s conference room
was solemn. Grim-lipped agents and staff members surrounded the
huge table, with latecomers clustered behind the others in an odd
assortment of chairs pulled in from desks in the outer room.

“
You’ve all heard about Paula Marks,”
Phil said. “You all know the implications.” She paused, the iron
woman of Golden Beach, visibly shaken. “Firstly,” she announced,
getting herself in hand, “there are no funeral arrangements yet.
We’ll let you know when . . . as soon as we find out.” The unspoken
words hung in the air.
As soon as the
police release the body
.

“
The Brokers are meeting this afternoon
at four at the Board,” Phil continued. “Until then, please consider
all Open Houses for this week canceled. Call your owners today.
Those up north won’t have heard the news and we want to be sure
they understand the situation.”

There wasn’t a single groan from the
assembled Realtors. For once, the usually volatile, and frequently
protesting, group had been shocked into silence.

“
I’d appreciate your input for the
Brokers’ meeting,” Phil added. “Should we consider a buddy
system—two agents for each Open House or cancel Open Houses
indefinitely?”

Don Andersen spoke up. “Isn’t a phone
enough?”

“
Nearly every room in that house had a
phone,” Phil countered. “We have to face the fact we have a problem
all the meetings in the world won’t solve. Most of us eat, drink
and sleep real estate, and it’s not easy to switch to Safety First,
but that’s the way it has to be. From now on, I want you to put
your personal safety ahead of every other
consideration.”

Phil’s gaze made the rounds of the room,
silently demanding eye contact from each of her agents and
employees. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m talking to the
men too! No matter how much you need the money, it’s better to lose
a few thousand than lose your life. Have we got that straight?”

“
Yes, ma’am!” Jake Spanos’s voice rose
above the general murmur of assent.

Phil turned sharply to her right to pin Vicky
DelVecchio with her glance. “What was that, Vicky?” she inquired
softly.

“
I said,” Vicky returned defiantly,
“that Mike’s getting me a gun. He’s going to take me to the
practice range out by the old Blue place and teach me how to use
it.”

“
That’s all we need,” Phil snapped.
“Some poor transferee from up north goes to your Open House looking
for a place for his family, and you shoot him. Frankly, Vicky, dead
customers are not high on my list of priorities.”

Phil, every inch the Boss, issued a decree.
“There will be no guns, is that clearly understood?” Though not
with grumbles, everyone nodded.

After they spent another twenty minutes
tossing around ideas for Realtor safety, the meeting broke up. The
only viable suggestion for Phil to take to the Brokers’ meeting
seemed to be a team approach to most basic aspects of real
estate.

Ordinarily Claire was so busy she had
to be reminded to go to lunch. Today the minutes dragged. She just
wanted
out
. She needed to
think. On the dot of 12:30 she was out the door. Her favorite
picnic spot was the Golden Beach jetties, just beyond the Pelican
restaurant where she’d dined with Brad. There she could count on a
seabreeze and a panorama of boats, birds, fishermen, and scenic
voyeurs like herself.

Her usual picnic table, perched on the edge
of the rocky revetment that lined the channel between the
Intracoastal Waterway and the Gulf of Mexico, was empty. With a
sigh of satisfaction, Claire settled onto the wooden bench facing
the water as a jet ski zipped through the channel, shooting a
glistening rooster tail behind. A pelican swooped down, stuck his
head beneath the water and emerged to fly off with Claire’s
curiosity unsatisfied, until she saw the bird toss its head and
swallow what had been momentarily stored in the great pouch beneath
its beak.

She unzipped her lunch bag, took out her
bottled iced tea and bagel with cream cheese and fresh vegies. A
dolphin surfaced directly in front of her, its charcoal back wet
and gleaming before it once again plunged under the water. Lunch
forgotten, Claire kept watch as the dolphin periodically resurfaced
on its race back out to the Gulf.

As she brought her attention back to her
lunch, Claire found herself almost eye to eye with a great blue
heron. The bird was standing on the top of the embankment not three
feet away, his dark eyes fixed on her bagel. “Didn’t anyone tell
you you’re a carnivore?” Claire inquired. “Next time they have lox
I’ll bring you some, but you won’t like this, I promise you.” The
bird ignored her, never taking his beady eyes off Claire’s lunch.
“Okay, okay,” Claire scolded, breaking off a piece of bagel, but
you won’t like it.”

The heron eagerly seized the piece she
threw to him, savored it. Dropped it. “Told you,” Claire said. The
heron, evidently labeling Claire unworthy of his attention, took a
couple of steps toward the edge of the rocks on his towering legs,
then launched himself out over the channel. His six-foot wing span
dwarfed the pelicans as he went in search of a more tasty offering.
This
is
paradise, Claire
insisted to herself. It really is. But the shadows wouldn’t go
away. Today’s meeting had jogged old fears. What did she really
know about Brad Blue? His life in Golden Beach seemed to be an open
book, but what about all those years he was elsewhere? There was
something dark in him. Shadows behind those brilliant blue eyes
that only another person who had known pain could see. A darkness
beneath the affability. He was one of
them
. By association, one of Jim’s
killers.

And she’d thrown herself at him. At this
dark-souled near-stranger. She’d humiliated herself. Feds did not
have hearts. He probably considered her little less of a pushover
than Diane Lake. Maybe worse. She was, after all, supposed to be a
respectable widow with a young son.

And that’s why he’s called you every day
since Saturday night. That’s why he’s threatened to come over
tonight and drag you out of your castle. Eat your bagel, Claire. Go
back to work. Stop fighting.

Actually . . . being dragged out of Virginia
Bentley’s stilted castle might be rather exciting.

If she could bear to face him after her
wanton behavior.

“
Hi.”

Claire’s embarrassingly satisfying vision of
being carted off, hanging over Brad’s broad shoulder, shattered.
Red stained her cheeks as she focused on the man standing at the
end of the picnic table. A familiar face, though he seemed
strangely different out of the office. Taller, better looking, his
innocuous features surprisingly attractive under the glare of the
noonday sun.

“
You work at T & T, don’t you?” he
inquired in a manner less diffident than Claire had come to expect.
“I’m Ken Millard, Phil Tierney’s accountant. Do you mind if I share
your table?”

“
Please . . . sit down.”

“
Do you come here often?” he asked,
stiffly polite as he seated himself on the far side of the picnic
table, his back to the water.

“
It’s my favorite lunch spot,” Claire
admitted. “Although my clothes always get strange looks from the
shorts and T-shirt crowd. I think most of them find it hard to
believe that anyone in Golden Beach actually works.”

While she talked, Claire sternly repressed a
smile as Ken unpacked his bag from Checkers with the precision of a
golfer lining up his tee. Hamburger and French fries precisely side
by side and just the proper distance from his paper drink cup. He
removed the plastic cover on his straw with surgical precision.
After studying the straw’s angle, he adjusted it with the tip of
his index finger. He flattened the checkerboard bag into a plate
for his hamburger, then neatly tucked his napkin under the edge of
the makeshift plate to keep it from blowing away.

Accountants are a special breed, Claire
reminded herself, lips clamped tight over a fit of the
giggles.
And wouldn’t we all be in serious
trouble if they weren’t so precise?

“
I’ve thought about getting a boat,”
Ken said, after giving his lunch a final inspection and evidently
deciding it was laid out to his satisfaction. “But it’s
considerably more economical to come down here and simply watch
them go by.”

Claire managed a suitable reply, even though
she had no idea if Ken was completely serious or exercising some
strange brand of dry humor.

A seagull swooped down, grabbed the piece of
bagel and cream cheese scorned by the blue heron and was out over
the channel, all in the blink of an eye. In an effort to make
polite conversation with her pedantic lunch companion, Claire told
Ken about the heron’s rejection of her offering.