Shadowed Paradise (23 page)

This time Brad’s profanity was more creative.
“You know what I meant,” he ground out. “Diane’s been . . .
reluctant to let go. You’re playing least in sight, and to top it
all, I’ve had my arm twisted into being a consultant on an
interagency task force being set up by Calusa and Benton
counties.

“
I don’t want to go back to the old
life,” he added, the lines of his scowl showing sulky edges. “Not
as some damned consultant. I don’t want Diane. I
do
want you. Today, I found myself
batting zero. Three strikes, and my life is what’s out. And just to
make the situation juicier, I’m mad as hell because I want you to
work for me at Amber Run, and if you do you’re in danger. I’d like
to play Mr. Macho and tell you not to worry about a little thing
like a killer—just let all us professionals do our jobs and don’t
worry your pretty little head none about it, ma’am—but life doesn’t
seem to work that way any more.”

Brad grabbed Claire by the shoulders, his
fingers clamping into her flesh. “Do you understand what I’m
saying, woman? The Realtor who was found dead two years ago was
raped. So was the Siffert woman in Manatee. And now Paula Marks.
Most rapists don’t murder their victims. It would appear we may
have a real nut case on our hands. A nut case with a yen for
Realtors. Dead Realtors. Are. You. Listening to me, dammit? We’re
talking necrophilia here. And you wonder why I’m up tight! Don’t
you realize I’d have to be crazy to let you sit my models? Yet I’m
out close to a cool mil if they don’t sell.”

“
Of course you have to
sell—”

Brad cut off her protest. “And then
there’s the
minor
problem,” he
continued grimly, “of my new girlfriend who gives every evidence of
being sexy and eager as hell, who gets me all hot and panting for
more, then turns me off like a tap of cold water. That little
experience, I can tell you, has not improved my disposition one
little bit. So come down off your high horse, Ms. Langdon, and
allow me my moment of temper.”

“
Moment!
I’ve
just spent twenty of the more hair-raising minutes of my
life.”

“
Fifteen. And kindly remember how I met
you. You’re supposed to trust me.”

“
Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Claire
grumbled, bested at last. She flung open the truck door and stalked
out, never looking back. There was no sound from the other door. He
wasn’t following her.

Music drifted from a large wooden building
perched on a shallow bank only a few feet above the river. Its
venerable age and utilitarian design were nicely camouflaged by a
two-story display of hot pink bougainvillea that covered the
western wall and by the wild, jungle-like beauty of the setting. No
doubt Vietnam veterans, on seeing the Calusa River experienced a
nasty shiver of recognition. For here, less than ten miles from
posh waterfront living, Bud’s Fish Camp was a last outpost of
wilderness Florida, a place for the natives to hide out from the
tourists, to mourn the good ol’ days over a pitcher of draft beer.
And tell tall tales of gators and rattlesnakes and the snook that
got away. Bud’s was, unfortunately, not the best kept secret in
Golden Beach. Tonight, even in the heat of high summer, it was
business as usual, the parking lot three-quarters full.

Across the river from the fish camp was,
quite simply, nothing. Just jungle. Pristine Florida wilderness
stretching along the Calusa as far as the eye could see.

Fascinated by her first glimpse of Florida as
the early settlers saw it, Claire simply stood and stared, noting
that this side of the river was almost as wild. An impenetrable mix
of palmetto, palms, live oaks, pines, Brazilian pepper, carrotwood
and wild vines surrounded a clearing just wide enough for the
restaurant, a modest space for parking and a small cluster of
equally ancient wooden cottages. The river itself was the color of
strong tea, dyed by leaves from the oaks that overhung its
banks.

“
They used to film the old black and
white Tarzan movies here,” said a voice just behind Claire’s
ear.

“
Really?” Their quarrel not quite
forgiven, Claire kept her gaze fixed on the river.

“
Honest Injun,” Brad declared, raising
his right hand, palm open. “Me Tarzan, You Jane.”

“
You’re mixing your genres.”

“
Well, according to local lore, there’s
a small island just upriver from here that was transformed by the
magic of the camera lens into Tarzan’s jungle. Bud will be happy to
point it out on one of his boat tours. You ought to take Jamie
sometime. Just don’t let him put his feet in the water.”

“
Oh?” Now what tall tale was
forthcoming? Claire wondered.

“
These waters are crawling with gators
and water moccasins. No one swims in the river.”

Brad was confirming what Ken Millard had told
her. She should be cringing, revolted by Florida’s wild underbelly.
But he was so close. Close enough to feel the hard length of him.
The river faded, the heat remained. Brad’s bathroom all over again.
Without turning her head she could feel every inch of him. Her
pulse raced, her body quivered. How could she quarrel with the man
when his proximity turned her brain to mush? Meekly, she allowed
Brad to steer her to a picnic table on a low deck only a few feet
from the river’s dark edge. To their left a dozen canoes lay neatly
stacked along the bank. A sign proclaimed: “No canoe rentals after
4:00 p.m.”

“
Gator bait prevention,” Brad commented
cryptically. “Best not to be on the river when it’s feeding
time.”

Claire shivered, frowning at the river’s
slow-moving brown water. Something was wrong, and not just the
color of the river. She pictured the large map of Golden Beach that
hung on the wall at the office. “Am I crazy, or is the water
flowing upriver?”

“
Tidal.”

“
But we’re
miles
inland!”

“
It’s a long way to the gulf,” Brad
conceded, “but we’re only fifteen or twenty miles upriver from the
second largest harbor in Florida. All the cowhunters had to do was
drive their cattle to a dock downriver a ways and ship them out to
Cuba, which was the big market in the old days. There’s a road near
the mouth of the river that’s still called Cattle Dock Road, though
it’s a good bet most people don’t know why.”

“
How do they ship beef now?” Claire
asked, intrigued in spite of herself.

“
Just pop ‘em in a truck and ship ‘em
out. Makes it pretty easy for rustlers too,” Brad added, eyeing her
from under his thick fringe of golden lashes.

Gauging her temper, Claire supposed. Trying
to guess if his harmless tourguide routine had softened her
attitude. Rustlers indeed. He had to be kidding. With some
reluctance she decided to let that one go. Just one of Brad’s
little tales for the gullible girl from New England.

Since they seemed to be fashioning some kind
of truce, Claire indulged herself, lingering over a head-to-toe
examination of her enigmatic companion. She nearly moaned out loud.
Vibrant, all male, Brad Blue radiated sex appeal like some glowing
golden womantrap. He was wearing the blue chambray shirt, jeans,
and scuffed western boots he had worn the night they met. The jeans
were skin tight, the shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal a soft
nest of golden hair. Strands of pale gold had escaped from his
tight cue to fall in loose waves over his tanned forehead and
well-shaped ears. His eyes—those deep-set incredibly blue
eyes—looked almost . . . wistful. The naughty puppy seeking
forgiveness.

Damn him!
He
was at home here. Brad Blue, the roughcut diamond in his natural
setting. Tonight they had driven eight miles . . . and dropped off
the edge of the world. This outpost on the edge of the river was
his turf. He’d been raised in a world wholly apart from the
towering condominiums, stuccoed pink Florida ranches, and manicured
lawns of Golden Beach’s Chamber of Commerce façade. This river and
the land along it
were
Brad
Blue. Wild, primitive, dark and dangerous. A world to be treated
with caution. And respect.

A world that grew back to jungle faster than
people could tame it.

Strains of “Stormy Weather” drifted out from
the jazz band inside. Stormy weather, indeed.

“
They’re good,” Brad commented, swiftly
picking up on Claire’s shift of attention. “Want to go inside? A
lot of old-time jazzmen retired around here, and they get together
to jam one night a week. During the Season jazz night is so popular
you have to bring your own chair and it takes hours to get any
food.” He leaned closer to whisper, “Weekends get the younger
crowd. Tonight, we may be the only people here under
sixty.”

As curious as Claire was about the quality of
the sounds wafting through the tightly shut windows, she welcomed
an escape from the blatantly sexual responses that threatened to
overwhelm her. Nothing like a crowd of people to protect her from
herself.

Claire hadn’t realized how hot she was until
she was enveloped in the restaurant’s cool, dark interior. Of
course, she had to admit not all the heat had been caused by the
Florida summer.

Brad was right. They were Bud’s youngest
patrons by at least twenty years. There were gray heads, grizzled
heads, white heads, carefully dyed heads. The country club crowd
sported designer shorts and polo shirts. More modest retirees wore
less stylish cuts of the same uniform—shorts and cotton knit tops
in every shade from classic natural to garish neon. The clothes
hung on shapes that ranged from trim golfer to overhanging paunch,
from blow-away wisp to Mrs. Blimp. Claire felt seriously
overdressed in her pleated beige linen slacks and lace-trimmed
shirt, the outfit she had worn to work that day.

Even in the doldrums of mid-summer the room
was nearly full. They maneuvered past a couple attempting to dance
in the narrow aisle that led to the restrooms and found two seats
at a long trestle table covered in teal blue vinyl. They turned
their attention to the band, where a pert sixty-something chanteuse
was just beginning a rendition of “My Funny Valentine.” Unlike the
atmosphere in most clubs, bars, or restaurants, the patrons of
Bud’s gave the music their nearly undivided attention.

As the applause—and a cheer or two—died away
at the end of the song, the band segued into “Peg o’ my Heart,” a
bit of nostalgia aimed straight at the hearts of an audience who,
with reminiscent nods and wistful smiles, associated the old tune
with their first dance, first love, or teenage heartbreak.

A pitcher of beer appeared, along with a
flurry of conversation with others at their table. Respite. Giving
tempers time to cool.

The food at Bud’s, Claire discovered, was
guaranteed to warm the stomach even as it clogged the arteries. She
worked her way through fried okra and onions, corn fritters, cheese
sticks, followed by barbecued ribs and baked beans. Impossible not
to mellow by the time she got to Key Lime pie and coffee.

Brad seemed to have mellowed as well. His
smile glistened with charm. His humor was dry, his wit keen. A bad
beginning turning into a great night. Until she heard him bark,
soft but explosive. “Shit!”

The metal legs of his chair scraped against
the battered linoleum and he was gone, striding with determined
purpose around tables, haphazardly sprawled patrons, and a waitress
clutching four pitchers of draft beer. Claire, tracking Brad’s
direction, saw that she was no longer the youngest person in the
room. A strikingly lovely blond of little more than legal drinking
age stood poised in the doorway between the bar and the restaurant.
Her shoulder-length hair gleamed with multicolored iridescence
reflected from the bulbous old-fashioned Christmas lights strung
overhead. Her patrician features were more suited to a debutante
cotillion at The Breakers in West Palm than Bud’s Fish Camp on the
edge of nowhere, her delicately flowered mini dress, the product of
a designer who believed in a minimum amount of yardage for the
maximum amount of money. The man standing beside her, his arm
draped possessively about her shoulders, was also impeccably
dressed in white slacks and banded-collar black shirt.

Though handsome, in what Claire considered a
slick soap opera style, the young woman’s escort was clearly old
enough to be her father. As the newcomers scanned the room to find
a table, they didn’t see Brad, who was hidden by the waitress
heroically balancing four pitchers of beer high over her head to
allow the whirlwind that was Brad Blue to pass through the narrow
aisle. Although apprehensive about Brad’s intentions, Claire
couldn’t help but be impressed by the waitress’s remarkable feat of
strength and dexterity.

When the two representatives of Golden
Beach’s beautiful people started toward a private table in the far
corner of the room, Brad changed direction in mid-step and charged
after them. Claire, fearing the worst, took off in Brad’s wake. She
had no idea what was about to happen, but it looked like a calming
influence would come in handy.

She arrived in time to witness the look of
horror, followed by burgeoning fury on the young woman’s
aristocratic face as she looked up to find Brad glaring at her with
all the wrath of an old testament prophet.

“
Don’t say it!” the girl snapped. “I’m
nineteen, Brad. I can vote and drink and fuck and all those good
things. So be a good cuz and just go away.”

Claire had never felt so old. This beautiful,
elegant foul-mouthed child was related to Brad?