Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  She couldn't stand it any longer.

  Gayla lifted her long, elegant legs and folded them across his back, hugging his pumping hips tightly. She made a moaning, passionate sound that was a tragic parody of the sighs she had once moaned against Jimmy Don's strong, hard, smooth chest.

  Her feigned passion worked. Jigger Flynn climaxed, throwing back his ugly, flat head and braying like a jack­ass. He collapsed on top of her before rolling off, precar­iously rocking the bedsprings. He lay on his back, as white and plump and slimy as a slug.

  Gayla turned to her side away from him and gathered her limbs against her body protectively. She held herself still, grateful that it was over and that she had suffered no more tonight than a wallop in the lip and a kick in the rear end.

  But she didn't cry until Jigger was snoring beside her. Then she cried silently. While she mouthed her prayers, her tears, remorseful, bitter, and hopeless, slid noiselessly down her satiny cheeks.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "There was a telephone call for you while you were out," Mrs. Graves informed Schyler. "I put the message on Mr. Crandall's desk in the study."

  "Thank you."

  Schyler's footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors in the wide central hall as she went toward the back of the house to the small, square room that was tucked behind the sweeping staircase.

  The paneled room was dominated by a massive desk. Schyler dropped her handbag and car keys on top of the mounting pile of unopened mail and settled herself in the tufted leather chair. It resembled the one in the office at the landing, but not as many treasured memories were asso­ciated with it. Cotton hadn't used this chair as often.

  Macy didn't want the girls' heads to be cluttered with talk of timber and its various markets. She had objected to frequently finding Schyler enclosed in this den talking shop with Cotton, so he had done his tutoring at the landing instead. That had helped maintain peace in the household.

  Schyler's thoughts focused on her father now. There was still no change in his condition. Less than an hour earlier, the cardiologist had told her that was something to be glad about.

  "It's like a the score, like kissing your sister," he had said. "His condition is nothing to cheer about, but we can be glad he's not getting any worse."

  "You still have no idea when you'll be able to do the surgery?"

  "No. But the more time we give him to build up his strength, the better. In this case, each day we delay is to our advantage."

  After a brief visit to Cotton's ICU, she had returned home. She was dispirited. She missed Mark. The heat was oppressive. She was starved for something good to eat. She was tired of Ken's and Tricia's incessant squabbling. She longed for a good night's sleep.

  As she punched out the telephone number Mrs. Graves had jotted down for her, she acknowledged two of the prevalent reasons she hadn't been sleeping well. One was Gayla Frances. The other was Cash Boudreaux.

  "Delta National Bank."

  Schyler realized her call had gone through. "Uh, par­don?"

  "Delta National Bank. May I help you?"

  She hadn't expected the call to be of a business nature. On the notepad in front of her was written an individual's name. She referred to it now. "Mr. Dale Gilbreath please," she said with a shade of inquiry in her voice.

  "His line is busy. Do you care to hold?"

  "Yes, please."

  While she waited, Schyler slipped off her shoes and ground her numb toes against the carpet to restore circula­tion. Tomorrow she would revert to wearing sandals. In this heat, pantyhose and high heels were masochistic.

  Who die devil was Dale Gilbreath? The name didn't ring any bells. She searched her memory but couldn't come up with a definite recollection, so she gave up trying and turned her thoughts to matters more pressing.

  She had to do something about Gayla. But what? The tale Cash had told her was too outlandish not to be true. He was probably right about Gayla not welcoming her interfer­ence. Still, something had to be done. Gayla couldn't con­tinue living with that wretched excuse for a man. The insulting way he had spoken to her was indicative of how horrid her life with him must be. Schyler couldn't stand by and do nothing. The problem was in deciding what to do and how to go about it in a manner that would be accept­able to Gayla. For the moment, she shelved that dilemma, too.

  Cash Boudreaux. Lord, what should she do about him? On the surface she could answer that question with, "Noth­ing." Do nothing. He'd been living on Belle Terre all her life and she'd barely known he was there. Why was it starting to bother her now? So he had kissed her. So what? Forget it.

  The problem was that she couldn't forget it. It was like an itch coming from an undetermined source. She didn't know where to scratch to relieve herself of the memory. She shouldn't have liked the kiss. But she had. She couldn't leave the memory of it alone until she had figured out why every time she thought about his kiss, she got a sexual thrill.

  "I can ring Mr. Gilbreath now."

  Schyler jumped. "Oh. Oh, thank you."

  "Gilbreath."

  "Mr. Gilbreath? This is Schyler Crandall returning your call."

  The tonal quality changed drastically. It went from brusque to ingratiating in a heartbeat. "Well, Miss Cran­dall, a pleasure to talk to you. A real pleasure. Thank you for calling me back."

  "Do I know you?"

  He laughed at her straightforwardness. "I've got you at a disadvantage. I've heard so much about you I feel like I know you."

  "You're with the bank?"

  "President."

  "Congratulations."

  Either her sarcasm was lost on him or he chose to ignore it. "Cotton and I do a lot of business together. He told me you've been living in London."

  "That's right."

  "How is he?"

  She related the latest doctor's report. "All we can do at this point is wait."

  He made a commiserating sound. "Things could be worse."

  "Yes, much worse." The conversation lagged. Schyler was anxious to get off the phone and take an aspirin for her nagging headache. "Thank you so much for calling, Mr. Gilbreath. I'm sure Cotton will appreciate your asking about him."

  "This isn't strictly a courtesy call, Miss Crandall."

  She could have told that by another sudden switch in his inflection. He no longer sounded like he was bending over backward to be cordial. "Oh?"

  "I need to see you. Banking business."

  "With me? Surely you're aware that my brother-in-law handles—"

  "The financial affairs of Crandall Logging, certainly. But since this matter could directly affect Belle Terre, I thought I ought to consult you. As a favor."

  More than a headache caused her brows to pull together and form a deep crevice. "What matter is that?"

  "An outstanding loan. But look, I think we should dis­cuss this in person."

  She didn't like him. Instinctively she knew that. His def­erence was phony. She wanted nothing more than to tell him to go to hell. Well, not quite. What she wanted most was to undress, take a tepid shower, and lie on the cool sheets of her bed until supper, maybe nap off her headache. But all thoughts of relaxing were tabled. "I'm on my way."

  "But I haven't got time this—"

  "Make time."

  An hour later Schyler entered the fake pink marble foyer of the Delta National Bank. The building was new to her and now took up a whole block right downtown where the five-and-dime had once been. It was a shame that a vault now stood in the spot where the soda fountain had been, that credit applications were dispensed instead of lemon Cokes and triple-decker club sandwiches. She was swamped with homesickness for the old bank lobby that had been paneled in dark wood and filled with subdued furnishings. One could almost smell the currency.

  In her opinion this stark, modern lobby was hideous. It was as sterile as an operating room, and as clinical. It had no character or personality. Islands of chrome chairs with stiff mauve cushions floated on a carpet of sea green. Cot­ton had often said t
hat no chair was worth its salt unless the wood creaked a little when you planted your butt in it. Schyler was of the same mind.

  She was led to one of these chairs by a smiling recep­tionist who was a stranger to her. After situating herself, she glanced around and spotted a few familiar faces. They smiled at her from glass cubicle offices and tellers' win­dows. She drew encouragement from each familiar face. The words "Belle Terre" and "outstanding loan" kept cir­cling in her head like buzzards waiting for helpless prey to succumb.

  "Ms. Crandall, please come this way."

  She was led across the lobby and into one of the gold fishbowl offices, this one occupied by Mr. Dale Gilbreath, president of Delta National Bank. He smiled unctuously as they shook hands.

  "Miss Crandall, you were lucky I was able to work you in. Sit down, please. Coffee?"

  "No thank you."

  He bobbed his head to the receptionist and she withdrew. He took a seat behind his desk in the reclining chair and linked his hands over his stomach. "It's a pleasure to fi­nally meet you."

  She wasn't about to lie and say, "Likewise." She replied with a cool, "Thank you." Her intuition had proven right. She despised him on sight. He was going to bring bad tidings, cause her trouble.

  He assessed her for a moment longer than was flattering. It verged on being insulting. "Well, what do you think of our new bank?"

  "Impressive." It had made an impression on her, ail right. She didn't feel inclined to expound.

  "It is, isn't it? We're proud of it. It's about time down­town Heaven got a facelift, don't you think?"

  "I'm sentimental."

  "Meaning?"

  The man didn't know when to quit. "Meaning that I liked downtown the way it was."

  His smile deflated and his reclining chair bounced to an upright position. "What a surprising attitude for a modern woman like you."

  "I confess to having an old-fashioned streak."

  "Yes, well, there's something to be said for antiquity, but I always think there's room for improvement."

  Schyler was savvy enough to know when she was being baited. Rather than enter into a difference of opinion with a man she didn't know and whose opinion was of absolutely no interest to her, she declined his subtle invitation to spar by picking a nonexistent piece of lint off her hem.

  Gilbreath pulled on a pair of eyeglasses and opened a folder lying on the desk. "I regret having to call you, Miss Crandall." Intimidatingly, he glanced up at her over the rim of the glasses. She met him eyeball to eyeball over the glossy surface of the desk and didn't even blink until he looked down to refer to the contents of the folder again. "But it's my responsibility to protect the interest of the bank, no matter how unpleasant that responsibility might sometimes be."

  "Why don't you get to the point? No matter how un­pleasant."

  "Very well," he said briskly. "I wondered if Cotton's unforeseen illness would have any bearing on the payout of the loan I extended him."

  Buying time, Schyler recrossed her legs. She tried to maintain her composure, though any time a shadow fell on Belle Terre, she got a sick, sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. "I don't have any knowledge of the loan. Exactly what were the specified terms?"

  He angled his reclining chair back once again. "We call it a balloon note. In this case, Cotton borrowed three hundred thousand dollars a year ago. We set it up for him to make quarterly interest payments. All were made on time."

  "Then I fail to see the problem."

  Leaning his forearms on the desk, he gazed at her with the earnestness of a funeral director. "The potential prob­lem, and I stress potential, is that the balance of the note, in addition to the final interest payment, comes due on the fifteenth of next month."

  "I'm sure my father is aware of that and has the money set aside. I can authorize a transference of funds, if that's what you want."

  His sympathetic smile did nothing to calm her jittery stomach. "I wish it were that easy," he said, making a helpless gesture. "Cotton's personal account won't cover the amount of the loan. Not even the interest."

  "I see."

  "Nor will the Crandall Logging account."

  "The bank couldn't be that much at risk. I'm sure a loan of that size was collateralized."

  "It was." She held her breath, but she knew what was coming. "He put up Belle Terre as collateral."

  She saw stars, as though she'd been struck in the head. "How much of it?"

  "The house and a sizable amount of the acreage."

  "That's ridiculous! The house alone is worth far more than three hundred thousand. My father would never have agreed to that."

  Again Gilbreath made that helpless little gesture, a lift­ing of his pale hands and a shrug of his shoulders. "At the time he applied for the loan, he had no choice. He was suffering a severe cash flow problem. Those were the best terms I could give him. He did what he had to do. I did what I had to do."

  "Usury?"

  He made a wry face. "Please, Miss Crandall. I want to make every effort to keep this friendly."

  "We're not friends. I seriously doubt we'll ever be friends." She stood up and looked down at him. "Rest as­sured, I'll see that the loan is paid off in time."

  Coming to his feet, he frowned. "I don't blame you for getting upset. You don't need any more bad news. But you can't blame me for being worried in light of Cotton's ill­ness and the shutdown of the business. That could go on indefinitely."

  "There is no cause for alarm on either account," she said, wishing such were the case. "The loan will be paid off in time."

  Her smile was as fraudulent as the watercolor painting hanging on the wall behind his desk. Schyler wasn't de­ceived by either. "It would be a tragedy if we had to fore­close."

  "Never." Her smile was no more genuine than his. "And you can engrave that on one of those phony pink pillars in your tacky lobby. Good-bye, Mr. Gilbreath."

  Chapter Sixteen

  What Dale Gilbreath had told Schyler was the dismal truth. She spent the remainder of the afternoon in Cotton's study at Belle Terre, checking the balances in all his bank accounts. He had virtually no cash at his disposal, not any­where close to three hundred thousand dollars.

  She was staring down at the alarmingly low total at the end of the adding machine tape, when Ken breezed in. "Drinks before dinner now being served on the veranda."

  During the first few days following the pit bull fight, Ken had been sullen and crotchety. Recently, he'd had a turnaround and had gone out of his way to be jocular. That jocularity grated on her now like a pumice stone.

  "Ken, I need to talk to you." She tossed down the pencil she'd been using and linked her hands together over the desktop. "Why did you cease operation of Crandall Log­ging when Daddy had his heart attack?"

  Ken's wide grin faltered and showed signs of deteriora­tion in the corners, but he managed to hold it intact. "Who told you that?"

  "What difference does it make who told me? I would have found out sooner or later. Why, Ken?"

  "What brought this on?"

  She sighed in resignation. "A phone call from Mr. Gil­breath at Delta National Bank."

  "That asshole. He had no right to—"

  "He did have a right, Ken. We owe his bank a lot of money. And I have a right to know what the hell is going on around here, which I'm waiting for you to tell me."

  "Well, I have a right to know what you've been up to lately, too." For one heart-stopping moment she thought Ken had found out about her visit to Cash's house on the bayou, possibly even about the kiss. It was almost a relief when he said, "The big news around town is that some­body shot up Jigger Flynn's kennel and killed three of his dogs. He's foaming at the mouth to find out who did it." His eyes narrowed on her. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

  "When did it happen?" she asked, stalling.

  "Sunday night."

  "I went to bed early, remember?"

  He sat on the corner of the desk and carefully gauged her facial e
xpression. "Yeah, I remember." He picked up a brass paperweight and shifted it from hand to hand. "Ac­cording to Jigger, a pickup truck came barreling down the road like a bat outta hell and picked up the fellow who shot his dogs. He says he fired at the track with his pistol and hit it on the passenger side." He crossed his arms over his thigh and leaned down low, whispering, "Now guess whose track is sporting a fresh bullet hole?"

  "Whose?"

  "Cash Boudreaux's."

  "Is Mr. Boudreaux responding to any allegations that he was responsible?"

  "Yeah, he's responding. He says he got shot at while fleeing a married man's bedroom, or more specifically, fleeing a married man's wife inside the bedroom."

  "Nobody can dispute that."

  Ken flashed her a grin. "Not the probability of it any­way. But you know what I think?" Stubbornly and calmly she waited him out. He lowered his voice another decibel. "I think you killed those dogs and that Boudreaux helped you. What I'm wondering is what kind of currency you exchanged, 'cause that Cajun doesn't do anything for noth­ing."

  She came out of her chair like a shot and, feeling trapped, circled the end of the desk. "You're changing the subject."

  He grabbed her wrist. All pretense disappeared. His face had turned ugly. "I thought I told you to steer clear of him, Schyler."

  She pulled her wrist free. "And I told you that I don't need a keeper. But apparently you do, or my father's busi­ness wouldn't be in the shambles it's in."

  "It's my business, too."

  "Then why did you shut it down?"

  "For godsake, what is all the shouting about?" Tricia entered the room, exuding Shalimar and petulance in equal strengths. "Kindly keep your voices down." She closed the door behind her. "Mrs. Graves doesn't talk much around here, but she's probably a blabbermouth when it comes to spreading gossip. Now, what's going on?"

  "Nothing you need to concern yourself about," Ken snapped.

  "It is something she should concern herself about," Schyler contradicted. "She lives here. She should know that Belle Terre is in jeopardy."