Shadowed Paradise (32 page)

“
Possibly,” Phil mused, a gleam in her
eye as she spread black caviar on rye toast points, “but I suspect
it’s because she can’t find a replacement who measures up.” Phil,
who was discovering that Garrett Whitlaw was the only man who could
make her blush, took a large bite of caviar, effectively stopping
her runaway mouth. And yet, she was glad she’d said
it
. How about that, you reluctant
Romeo?

“
I have to concede,” Garrett said, not
bothering to conceal a rueful grimace, “that Brad is the stud of
the family.”

Phil chewed, swallowed convulsively. Her
Irish temper and stiff-necked pride were close to blowing something
very precious, a glimmer of a life beyond the carefully
circumscribed world she had constructed around herself. A diversion
was needed. Fast.

“
I’m sorry,” she breathed. “Stupid
remark. I have no idea what makes Diane tick. I only know she’s a
true bitch. I’m surprised Brad never throttled her. That woman
marched into the office today and staged a scene you wouldn’t
believe. Unfortunately, Claire’s far too much of a lady to fight
with anyone. At least in public. She turned pale as a ghost but
made a real effort, in that quiet voice of hers, to reason with
Diane. It was hopeless. The woman just ranted on and on. She
actually went so far as to say she was sure the killer would find
Claire a tasty morsel when he visited Amber Run. That’s when I had
Jake and Don throw her out. Bodily.”

“
Good God,” Garrett breathed, “why
didn’t someone tell me? I could have taken care of her quite
easily. We don’t need someone that unhinged coming into our living
rooms with the evening news. Tell Claire to rest easy, I’ll take
care of Diane Lake.”

Phil had no doubt that he would. The Whitlaw
power, not to mention Garrett’s seat on the County Commission,
reached into a lot of boardrooms. In fact, if she recalled
correctly, Garrett owned a hefty amount of stock in the local cable
TV company. Somehow the champagne and caviar suddenly doubled in
flavor.

Much later, when the sun had finished its
nightly spectacular and the short dusk had been followed by a cool
seabreeze and the gradual appearance of the brightest stars,
Garrett and Phil lingered at the galley table, sipping brandy and
reminiscing about their early years in Golden Beach. “You were all
of six,” Garrett recalled, “and there you stood, shoulder to
shoulder with Brad, taking on what must have been a half dozen
other first graders. It was my senior year, and I was walking by on
my way to the parking lot . . .”

“
And you grabbed us both by the backs
of our shirts, then ordered the other kids to get a move on. You
were my absolute hero from that moment on.”

“
Really?” said Garrett, astonished.
“What about Brad?”

“
Brad was my friend.
You
were my hero,” Phil admitted,
keeping her eyes on the dregs of her brandy. “You were like God.
Not only were you that ultimate achievement, a
senior
, you were captain of the football team,
and I’d heard the awe in my parent’s voice when they called you
the
Heir
. I could never think
of you as human, you know. You were an icon. Something to be
worshipped from afar.”

Garrett sank his head into his hands and
moaned.

“
And nothing ever changed,” Phil
continued relentlessly. “You were always up there on some magic
carpet above the rest of us. I remember being absolutely astonished
when Brad came back and you and I actually had a chance to talk. I
couldn’t believe you spoke plain English, drove your own car, and
honestly cared what happened to your hulking nephew.”

“
While I kept wondering if you and Brad
were going to get back together,” Garrett admitted.

Their eyes locked, the dawning light in
Phil’s chocolate depths confirming the meaning of her confession.
Garrett took the plunge. “Living down being a god is bad enough,
Phil, but when are you going to stop thinking of me as an
uncle?”

“
I stopped thinking of you in the
avuncular about a year after Lori died,” Phil admitted. “It was the
night I walked into the club and saw you dining with a girl half
your age. She was practically sitting in your lap.” Phil was so
busy watching the twirl of her nearly empty brandy glass in her
nervous fingers that she missed Garrett’s sudden gleam of
satisfaction. “When I got over the initial shock,” she continued,
“I had to admit that most of my outrage was sheer envy. That I
wanted you to be dining with me.”

She’d done it. She’d actually humbled her
pride enough to admit to a yen for her ex-husband’s uncle. If
Garrett had not signaled his interest so clearly, it would have
been humiliating. She was an independent businesswoman,
thirty-seven years old, for God’s sake. She should be well past all
this nonsense.

“
Damn it, Phil,” Garrett groaned, “you
were Brad’s wife. Ex-wife. I needed a hint, just some little sign
you were interested. You don’t know what I went through thinking up
an excuse to ask you out.”

“
Neither a Tierney nor a Blue ever
sucks up to a Whitlaw,” declared Phil, head high, struggling to
keep a surge of elation from sending her flying across the
minuscule table.

“
Proud, stiff-necked and prickly as a
porcupine.” Garrett chuckled. “But the walls are scalable. And so
are mine. I’m no icon, Phil. I’m very much flesh and blood.”
Garrett rose to his feet, holding out his hand. “And I’d very much
like a chance to prove it to you.”

By the time Garrett hauled anchor in
the wee hours of the morning, the tide was at low ebb and he was
forced to use his engines to plow a trough through the mud bottom.
While he inched his way back to the channel, he just kept smiling.
He was still smiling when he docked the
Lori
at the marina next to The
Pelican.

It had been one hell of a night.

Claire worked her last day at T & T on a
Friday and began her job as sole salesperson for Amber Run on
Saturday morning. The contrast in working conditions was glaring.
Until the first model was ready, she was sharing Brad’s office, a
wooden trailer built more like a fortress than habitable living
space. An eight by fourteen cell with two small windows, and a wall
air conditioner, it sported a variety of ugly and battered wood
furniture, which appeared to be mid-twentieth century rejects
resurrected from the dusty recesses of some derelict warehouse.

Claire stifled a moan. It wasn’t as if she
hadn’t known what she was getting into. This was Brad’s on-site
construction office, but visiting it, she discovered, was not at
all the same as being trapped inside this wooden sarcophagus for
six hours a day.

The small trailer, perched on two wheels and
a double stack of cement blocks, made an ugly brown splotch against
the white latticework that framed the garage area beneath the
largest of Amber Run’s model homes. Yet in spite of the drab
confinement, the clutter of papers on Brad’s desk, the rolls of
blueprints leaning against the wall, she never felt isolated. The
construction site hummed with life. The reassuring squeal of
electric drills, the steady rhythm of hammering, the occasional
shouts of the construction workers, the softer snatches of
conversation as the men setting windows into the wall along the
deck just above Claire’s head discussed their wives, lovers, dogs,
and the goddamn tourist traffic.

“
It’s only for two weeks, maybe less,”
Brad had assured Claire when he realized the model wasn’t going to
be ready by the time she began work at Amber Run. “As soon as the
carpet’s in, you can move upstairs. Meanwhile . . .” Brad’s pseudo
hang-dog look spoke volumes, as did the light that danced at the
back of his startlingly blue eyes. Charm was Brad Blue’s most
lethal weapon.

So . . . here she was in a godawful trailer
out back of beyond. Claire sighed and pressed the switch on the
surge protector, sending the computer whirring into life.
Immediately, she felt more comfortable. This at least was something
familiar. While the computer booted up, she investigated the
various drawers until she located a phone book, pens, pencils,
paper clips, ruler, legal pads, all the absolute essentials of an
office. Stacked on a wooden countertop at one end of the single
room she found sales brochures with floor plans, and most important
of all, sales contract forms. Claire sat down and began to
read.

Unfortunately, the words refused to make
sense. She kept hearing Diane Lake’s spiteful epithets, seeing the
shock and disbelief on the other faces at T & T. Echoes of
Diane’s shrill diatribe, so unlike her well-modulated tones on the
evening news, seemed to fill the tiny trailer, accusing, demanding.
Threatening.

And Claire Langdon had sat like a dummy and
taken it. No brilliant ripostes, no lethal counterattacks. Dignity
had been her only defense. When Jake and Don escorted Diane to the
door, she’d felt no triumph. She’d sat there like a lump, frozen to
her chair, too numb to move. Or think. She longed to tell Brad all,
but he’d just go charging off . . . Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
Enough fireworks. Let it end.

Claire jumped as the door swung open and Brad
appeared, all six feet two inches of blond and bronzed macho male.
Claire gulped for air as she examined his face. Had he heard about
Diane’s visit to T & T? Unlikely, as there was no sign of a
thundercloud marring his striking good looks. Sun shone in the sky
blue eyes topping the high rise of his cheekbones; his full,
sensuous lips tilted in an apologetic smile.

“
I’m sorry about this,” he said,
sweeping his hand to encompass the four walls of the trailer. “We
have to get all the cabinetry done plus the inside painting before
I can let the carpet people in.” He tilted Claire’s chin with one
finger and favored her with his most charming, most conning smile.
“You’re a good sport, Ms. Langdon. I promise I’ll make it up to
you.”

“
You must have an Irishman on the
family tree somewhere,” Claire grumbled.

“
The Russians are as gifted as the
Irish in that department, my dear,” Brad replied in his best Clark
Gable imitation.

“
Obviously, there’s a Russian version
of the Blarney stone,” Claire retorted. “Now suppose you show me
how your customer database works.”

For a moment Brad looked blank. Then
with a wicked grin he pulled out a drawer Claire had opened—and
just as promptly shut—when searching for office supplies. Inside
was a haphazard collection of scraps of paper, phone message notes,
envelopes with return addresses, and—glory be!—an inch-thick
printout of names and addresses from the Chamber of Commerce.
“Database,” Brad announced triumphantly. At the look on Claire’s
face, he added, “Well, what do you think I hired a marketing expert
for? Your good looks? Your charm? Because I love you?” He patted
the computer monitor, smiled benignly. “A little Langdon
magic
et voilà
. . .
database.”

Claire sighed. Well, of course, what else had
she expected?

“
To be perfectly truthful,” Brad said,
“databases are not top priority this morning.”

Instantly suspicious, Claire watched as he
settled himself on the corner of her desk. “You know,” he drawled,
“school’s going to start next week. It’d be a shame for Jamie to
start in one school and then have to transfer. Makes a lot more
sense if he could start where he plans to go on.”

Claire missed most of Brad’s carefully
planned subtlety. “Next week!” she choked. What do you mean next
week? This is the middle of August.”

“
Today is Saturday,” Brad said
patiently. “School starts in nine days.”

“
It can’t,” said Claire,
stricken.

“
Claire, wasn’t Jamie in school last
spring?” At her nod, Brad added, “Didn’t they tell you when school
started? Haven’t you seen all the bus schedules in the newspaper?
This isn’t New England. We start school the third week of
August.”

“
Oh, dear,” Claire wailed, “I thought
they were kind of early with all the school supplies in the stores.
I haven’t bought him any clothes, shoes, a new lunch box . . . Oh,
blast! How could I be so stupid?”

Brad took her face in his hands, placed a
gentle kiss on her forehead. “Do you think you may have had other
things on your mind?” he inquired, lips twitching. “Don’t panic. A
week is plenty of time.”

Claire moaned. “I’m hopeless. A monumental
mommy failure.”

“
That you’re not,” Brad assured her.
“Jamie’s one of the nicest kids around. Which brings me back to my
original point. If we set a date sometime in the next few weeks,
the school will probably let Jamie start at Golden Beach Elementary
rather than the school he was in last spring . . .” Brad waited.
The silence lengthened. Finally, with a quirk of his lips and a
stiff set to his shoulders, he stood up. “Think about it,” he said.
“Get Jamie in the right school, give Ginny a rest, and save
yourself the drive back to a lonely bed each night. I don’t know
about you, but it sounds like a plan to me.”

There was no reply. Claire sat at her desk,
head in her hands, shoulders slumped in dejection. Brad left,
closing the door behind him. Softly. Very softly.

After marathon sessions at Wal-Mart and
Target, Jamie made it back to school on time. At the same school he
had attended in the spring. Claire had married Jim Langdon for all
the right reasons only to have her world turn to disaster. She was
not going to be bowled over by love, lust, Russian charm, or
Whitlaw arrogance. The harder Brad bulldozed, the more Claire
balked.