Shadowed Paradise (24 page)

“
Shut up, Melanie,” he barked. “What I
have to say to you will be done in private. It’s your friend here I
want to talk to.” Claire shivered at the malevolence, cold and
hard, on Brad’s face.

“
You’re not my father,” Melanie
countered, though her bravado slipped a bit. “You have no right to
say anything. To either of us.”

Brad ignored her. Turning to her companion,
who had remained seated due to a callused hand pressed tight
against his shoulder, Brad’s manner suddenly switched to an affable
drawl. “How are you this evening, doc? May I ask what you’ve done
with Karen? Or is it Laura? Sorry, I just can’t seem to recall
which wife you’re on at the moment.”

“
Damn you, Blue, let me up!”

Brad appeared surprised to see his large
capable hand resting on the doctor’s shoulder. “Why, of course,
Tremaine,” he purred, raising both hands out and to his sides, “by
all means get up. Why don’t we take this little discussion right on
out the door?”

Dr. Todd Tremaine subsided into his chair,
not moving a muscle. “Look, Blue, my wife and I are separated. I’ve
moved into a condo, and I’m a free agent. Melanie’s past the age of
consent, so there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” He
turned a man-to-man smile up to Brad’s great stone face. “Christ,
man, I’ve only got a few years on you. Nobody who’s getting it on
with Diane Lake can possibly think men our age are over the hill.
So why don’t you just . . .” Todd Tremaine’s voice died as he
caught a glimpse of Claire hovering at Brad’s side. In sick horror
he watched the cold steel of Brad’s eyes flare into glowing
rage.

The doctor raised both hands before his face
as Claire grabbed Brad’s right arm. No matter what the provocation,
they were not going to be involved in a barroom brawl at Bud’s Fish
Camp. Not while Claire Langdon had breath in her body.

Her hand shone white against Brad’s tanned
right arm. Small, physically ineffectual. She felt the muscles in
his arm pulse as he considered tossing off her infinitesimal
restraint.

The moment stretched. Melanie Whitlaw,
no longer defiant, never took her eyes off Brad, while her doctor
friend’s face went from pale to sickly green. Neither seemed to
doubt Brad’s capacity for violence. After tonight, neither did
Claire. She watched in frozen suspension as Brad lowered his eyes
to her hand, then slowly placed his left hand over hers. The
gesture’s message was clear.
Okay, you
win.

But the incident was far from over. Claire
could feel the tension still radiating through Brad’s arm and
wasn’t surprised when he added, “Now listen carefully, Tremaine.
You can chase all the pussy you want as long I never see you
anywhere near Melanie again. It doesn’t matter a goddamn if I have
a legal right to say that or not. It’s just a simple fact. You’re
too old and too married. Go play somewhere else.” He raised his
eyes to his cousin and granted one small concession. “Can you
handle this, or shall I take you home?”

“
I can handle it.” It was a promise.
Word of a Whitlaw.

“
I’ll see you on site tomorrow,
Mellie,” Brad said, the steel creeping back to his tone.

“
I’m volunteering at the
hospital.”

“
Any time between seven and four, or I
come and get you. Staying at Garrett’s condo, are you?”

Melanie nodded. Too late to benefit his wife,
Garrett Whitlaw had purchased a modest-sized beachfront condo for
the enjoyment of his family. It featured a deadbolt lock with
which, on occasion, Garrett insured his own privacy. Since
Garrett’s liaisons were few and far between, his children were
seldom turned away from the door. And when they were . . . a
twenty-mile drive home was not, after all, the end of the world,
though both Melanie and Slade had had occasion to think so in the
wee hours of the morning.

“
Well?” Brad demanded, adding
ominously, “I’d rather not mention this to Garrett.”

“
I’ll come out on lunch break.” No
longer defiant, Melanie Whitlaw’s tone held a detectable quiver.
Claire, surprised, actually felt sorry for the girl.

Brad nodded a curt acceptance, scooped a hand
under Claire’s elbow and headed back to their table.

As the pickup jounced along the sandy road
back to civilization, Claire couldn’t dismiss the nasty episode
with Melanie Whitlaw. “Weren’t you a little hard on her?” she
asked.

“
Maybe. This isn’t my most
even-tempered night in memory. But in spite of what you heard,
Mellie and I have always had a good relationship. There may be a
big age difference, but we’re still first cousins, which makes us
compadres. We can say just about anything to each
other.”

They certainly could. Claire’s slight sniff
resounded through the cab, leaving little doubt about her reaction
to that little gem.

Brad swore silently. How could he blame
Claire for being confused by the odd love-hate relationships in the
Whitlaw family, when he had long since given up trying to
understand them himself? He simply went with the flow. Action.
Reaction. He supposed he ought to do something about it one of
these days. Or maybe he was. Wasn’t that something women did well?
Soothe ruffled feelings, smooth rough edges? If he had a wife . .
.

“
Melanie used to be such a sweet kid,”
Brad said, “but losing a mother is tough, and Garrett was already
so involved in politics as well as the ranch that he just couldn’t
handle it all.” He groped in the dark for Claire’s hand, seizing it
in a firm but gentle grip. “Look, Claire, I’m sorry about tonight.
I had such big plans, then everything got shot to hell. Mostly by
me. Any chance you’ll forgive me?”

“
I’m just grateful we’re not surrounded
by police and ambulances,” Claire retorted. “How did you manage
your old job with a temper like that?”

“
I mostly worked undercover. It was an
asset. Added to my image.”

Like the thin veneer of civilization that
hugged the coastal edges of the Florida peninsula, Brad Blue’s
outer image masked a wild interior. Dark, dangerous, passionate.
Could she live with a “Me Tarzan, You Jane,” relationship? What
she’d had with Jim had come all too close. If only she had
challenged Jim about his job, the source of their affluence. If
only she had made an effort to penetrate the secretiveness that
surrounded his role in InterBank’s transactions . . .

If only. The saddest words in the English
language.

She’d been a pushover for one dynamic
head-strong husband. No way was it going to happen again.

They were back to the edge of civilization,
the point where the dirt road changed to pavement. Brad braked the
pickup, leaned back in his seat, arms extended, gripping the
steering wheel. “Earlier today,” he said, “before everything went
to hell, I’d planned a surprise. Your choice—go home, or surprise
as planned?”

Some choice
.
Brad Blue was too dynamic, too volatile. Bad husband material. Very
bad. One word, and he would take her home. She’d be back at her
computer at T & T, Brad at his housing development, and never
the twain would meet. She could live lonely forever after. Bitter.
Wrapped in
ifs
and
might-have-beens
.

Or . . .

Temptation. Urgent. Insane.

You’re a fool, girl. Blind,
out-of-your-ever-lovin’-mind. Weak, gullible pushover of the
year.

“
The evening could use a better
ending.” If this was a pivotal moment—accepting Brad the Bad along
with Brad the Golden God—Claire could only pray she’d made the
right decision.

Abruptly, Brad downshifted and swung
hard left onto a deserted two-lane road that roughly paralleled the
Calusa River. There were no houses, no lights, no signs of life.
They cruised down the straight dark road at a speed that made
Claire wonder what happened if an alligator decided he preferred
the swamp on the far side of the road. The gator, though well
armored, might not survive the crash, but neither would the pickup.
And alligators did their prowling at night. Claire was back to
gritting her teeth and chanting to herself,
Uncle Sam’s Drivers’ Ed, Uncle Sam’s Drivers’ Ed . .
.

Far to the south, somewhere over the
Everglades, lightning flashed, flickering across the clouds like a
gigantic display of northern lights. There was no echoing rumble.
The storm was probably seventy or eighty miles away.

Brad braked, swung hard left, then slowed to
a halt. The pickup’s headlights revealed a broad well-paved road
that curved gently off into the wilderness along the river.
Obviously brand new, the road was curbed and guttered as if it had
strayed from the suburbs by mistake. Strategically placed cane
palms made a graceful frame on either side. A large sign
proclaimed, “AMBER RUN.” Painted beneath it was an elegant
three-story Key West home.

So this was it, Claire thought. Brad’s dream.
“Amber,” she mused. “For the river?”

“
That’s right. Couldn’t very well call
it ‘Tea Run.’”

Despite Brad’s nonchalance, Claire could feel
his pride. Amber Run might have broadened the rift with his
grandfather, but it would vindicate That Blue Boy in the eyes of
many skeptical old-timers. Amber Run was Brad’s baby, a
money-consuming monster that had already taken two years of his
life and, she suspected, every cent he had, plus all he could
borrow. He had brought her to his most special place. These acres
were a part of him. Would become a part of her if she came to work
for him.

If she continued to see him . .
.
If, if, if . . .

“
Great sign,” she murmured, “but how
are you going to get people out here to see it?”

“
Believe it or not, by day this is a
busy access road to the Interstate. And when the models are ready,
we’ll advertise.”

“
Are you close to having a model
ready?”

Brad grinned, pulled out his cell phone and
began punching numbers. A double row of carriage lanterns came to
life, their subtle glow just enough to light the dark winding road
without looking garishly out of place in their jungle setting. Brad
drove at a leisurely pace, allowing Claire to peer at the pines,
live oaks and cabbage palms dotting Wade Whitlaw’s former
pastureland. Within a mile the road divided, running north and
south into the darkness. Brad threw the switch for the spotlights
on the pickup’s roof, the lights that had terrified Claire the
night they met on the flooded bridge. The lazy swell of the river
leaped into focus before them. “We’ll have a common docking area
here,” Brad said.

Claire caught the swish of a raccoon’s tail
as it disappeared into the palmetto. A lumbering armadillo was
trapped in the glare, unsure of which way to waddle. “Look!” Claire
cried. “I’ll have to bring Jamie out here. I don’t think he’s ever
seen an armadillo.”

“
Place is lousy with them,” Brad said
in disgust. “They poke their damn snouts into every bit of grass we
have. Makes the place look like it’s littered with snakeholes. Not
that it isn’t,” he added judiciously.

“
Snakes?”

“
All over the place, but we’re working
on it. I mean, what can you do, they’ve lived here forever. Why
don’t we bring Jamie out on Saturday? Just be sure he wears boots.
You too.”

“
What kind of snakes?” Claire demanded,
not diverted by Brad’s casual tone.

“
Indigo . . . they’re harmless. A few
rattlers.”

“
Rattlesnakes?” Claire’s voice rose to
a squeak.

Brad’s grunt of assent oozed scorn and
defiance, leaving her in no doubt that real Floridians knew they
lived in Critter Territory. It was humans who needed to adapt.

“
So that’s why you’re building houses
on stilts,” Claire mocked.

Brad lost his attempt at insouciance. “For
god’s sake, Claire, most of Golden Beach is built on rattlesnake
country. “That’s one of the reasons most developers strip the land
down to dirt before they build. I didn’t do that. I saved every
tree I could, but it means lots of critters of every kind.
Including wild pig,” he added judiciously. “Got a whole slew of
wild pigs.”

Claire thought longingly of Central Park
East. Of the gently rolling hills of Bedford.

Brad jerked the pickup into gear and headed
down the road to the north, skidding to a stop before the towering
outlines of the home featured on the Amber Run sign. He leaped down
and strode around to Claire’s door, flinging it open, holding out
his hand to help her down.

“
I’m afraid to get out,” she told
him.

“
Okay”—Brad drew a deep breath—“let’s
just say we’re getting all the negatives over in one
night.”

Claire winced. His scowl could have rivaled
one of the gargoyles on Notre Dame. She’d stepped on his toes big
time. The Amber Run model was not supposed to be a negative. It was
his pride and joy. The surprise he’d brought her to see. And she’d
been flippant.

Because it was her only defense.

Without further protest, Claire let Brad help
her down and walk her toward the wooden staircase that led up to a
broad second-story deck remarkably similar to Virginia
Bentley’s.

In spite of herself, Claire was intrigued.
Shaggy clusters of pine needles quivered black against the charcoal
sky. On one side, the foot-thick branch of a giant live oak thrust
within inches of the deck railing, the upper branches of the
venerable tree extending beyond the third floor cupola to disappear
into the darkness far above. To build a three-story home with so
little disturbance to the environment cost time and money. Claire
gave credit where it was due. “I’m impressed,” she admitted.