Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "I've asked you not to call me that."

  "That's right. You have." Grinning like a sinner who had no plans to repent, he drained another glass of water. "Sure you don't want a drink?"

  The water looked delicious, and so did his cold, wet lips. "Okay, all right. Thanks."

  He dipped the glass into the top of the thermos again and passed it to her. She took it from him but didn't drink right away. Instead she gazed dubiously at the dripping glass in her hand. Cash's brows drew together angrily.

  "My tongue has been halfway down your throat," he growled. "It's too late for you to worry about drinking after me."

  She had never gotten so angry so fast in her life. With one vicious flick of her wrist she threw the entire icy con­tents of the glass onto the ground. "You are scum."

  "That's a British word. Around here people like me are referred to as white trash."

  "And worldwide you're called bastards." A muscle in his cheek twitched. A vein in his temple popped out. Schyler immediately regretted her choice of words. "I didn't mean it that way. Not literally." She felt an impulse to reach out and touch him in conciliation, but she didn't. She was afraid to.

  He grabbed the glass away from her and tossed it into the pickup's bed. "You came all the way out here, in this heat, to call me names?'

  She shook her head. "I came on business."

  "Who do you want me to kill this time?"

  She deserved that, she supposed, so she disregarded it. "I want you to come back to work for Crandall Logging."

  "Why?"

  "Because I need you." His eyes snapped to hers. They were disconcertingly incisive. She plunged on. "I've re­opened the business. I can handle the paperwork because I used to do it for Cotton."

  She tried to wet her lips, but her tongue, like the inside of her mouth, was arid. "But I don't know how to organize the loggers. I don't know where to tell them to cut, or what to cut, or how much to cut. I won't be a good judge of the quality when they bring timber in and won't know whether I'm over- or underpaying them. From what I understand, you've been in charge of all that."

  "That's right."

  "Well, then, I need you to pick up where you left off before Cotton had his heart attack."

  "In other words, you want me to save your ass."

  She drew herself up straight. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I didn't mean to call you a bastard. It just slipped out. If you're going to carry that chip on your shoulder, if you're going to hold that against me and be obnoxious—"

  "You want me to save Belle Terre from Dale Gilbreath's clutches."

  Schyler fell abruptly silent. For long moments they stared at each other. Cash's expression was belligerent, hers bewildered. "How did you know about that?"

  "I know."

  "Did Cotton tell you that he had borrowed money from Gilbreath."

  He turned his back on her and went to retrieve his chain saw. "Your daddy doesn't confide in me."

  "Then where did you hear it?"

  Heaven was a small town. Everybody meddled into everybody else's business, but to think that the people of the town were sitting back like Romans at the Coliseum, waiting to see if Belle Terre survived the jaws of the lion, was untenable. She'd been away from it just long enough to resent destructive, small-town gossip.

  Angrily, Schyler caught Cash's forearm and spun him around. He glanced down at her hand. Her fingers were biting into his flesh. The hairs on his arms were curled over them. Her nails were making crescent-shaped impres­sions in his skin. He lifted his eyes back to hers, but she wasn't intimidated by the dangerous glint in them.

  "Where did you hear about that loan?"

  "In bed."

  Schyler snatched her hand back. He smiled a crooked, sardonic smile before continuing on his way back to the pickup. He laid the chain saw in the back. Item by item, he took off his gear and laid it with the saw in the pickup. He pushed the thermos past the hinge and slammed the tailgate shut. He picked up a T-shirt from where he'd left it draped in the truck's open window and pulled it over his head. As he worked it down his torso, he asked, "Want the details? Time, place, with whom?"

  "No."

  He gave her a lazy smile. She wanted to wipe it off his mouth with the palm of her hand. "Bet you do." She only glared at him. He laughed. "Pity you're not more curious. It's juicy stuff. You might have gotten a kick out of it." He lowered his eyelids to half-mast. "We both might have."

  The man was insufferable. He had the manners of a pig and the sexual discretion of a tomcat. If she didn't need him, and need him desperately, she would see to it that he was off Belle Terre by nightfall, and she didn't care what previous arrangements Cotton had made with him.

  As it was, she had no choice but to tolerate him and his arrogance, temporarily she hoped. She lifted her heavy, wavy hair off her neck, hoping a breath of air would find it. "Are you coming to work for me or not, Mr. Bou­dreaux?"

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "On who's in charge."

  "I believe you were foreman. You will be again."

  "Will I have Howell breathing down my neck?"

  "Ken's responsibilities will remain what they've always been."

  "As the company do-nothing?"

  "For your information," she flared, "he spoke very highly of your qualifications as a forester."

  "He'd be lying if he said otherwise."

  "Don't bother to thank him," she said sarcastically.

  "I won't." He gave her another arrogant smile. "But I guess I should be flattered that the two of you took time out from your stolen time together to talk about me."

  Schyler clenched her fists to keep from screaming. She forced her voice to remain temperate. "Ken will stay in his downtown office."

  "And where will you be?"

  "I'll be working out of the office at the landing. I'll handle the contracts and the shipping schedules. You just supply me the loggers and the timber."

  "What about the independents?"

  "We'll use them as we always have."

  "Will the pay scale stay what it was?"

  "Yes. And so will the wages of those who work exclu­sively for us."

  "And I'm in charge, right?"

  Schyler had the uneasy feeling she was being backed into a corner. He was pressing her for a verbal commit­ment, but she was unsure why. She hesitated but finally answered. "Right. You're in charge."

  "Okay then." While the negotiating was going on, he had been leaning against the tailgate, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed. Now he pushed himself away and started toward her. It took all her willpower not to back down. She stood her ground until they were standing toe to toe.

  "Stop wearing blouses you can see through."

  "Wha—"

  "That lacy brassiere you've got on isn't worth a damn. The only thing it's good for is to make a man crazy. If you want full production out of the loggers, we can't have them getting hard and horny. I don't care if they screw their wives and girlfriends through the mattress over the week­end, as long as they report to work bright and early every Monday morning and don't let up till Friday afternoon."

  His eyes raked over her hair. "And smooth your hair back. That just-got-laid hairdo will have them sneaking off into the woods by themselves to jerk off."

  "You're—"

  "No," he interrupted, catching her shoulders, "you're going to listen to me." He lowered his face to within inches of hers. "You're up shit's creek without a paddle, Miss Schyler. If you want my help in saving your company from bankruptcy and Belle Terre from foreclosure, you're going to keep your butt to the ground, your mouth shut, and do things my way, understand?" He shook her slightly and raised his voice. "Understand?"

  "Yes!"

  He released her as suddenly as he had grabbed her. "Good. We start tomorrow."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  "Gilbreath."

  "Hello. It's Schyler Crandall. Thank you for taking my call so late in the day."
<
br />   The banker angled back his reclining chair and propped his feet on the corner of his desk. "No thanks are neces­sary, Ms. Crandall. I hope you have good news for me."

  "I think so."

  "You're prepared to pay off the loan?"

  "The news isn't that good, I'm afraid."

  Dale's pause was calculated and lengthy. "That's a shame. For both of us."

  "Crandall Logging starts full-scale production in the morning, Mr. Gilbreath," she informed him briskly. "I've rehired the previous foreman."

  "Mr. Boudreaux, I believe."

  "That's correct. My father has a tremendous amount of confidence in him. So do the loggers. I've compiled a promising list of markets. I'll be contacting them as soon as we have enough board feet to make some impressive sales. That shouldn't take but a few days of cutting. Every­one is eager to get back to work."

  "This is all very interesting, Ms. Crandall. You've ob­viously taken some positive steps to reorganize your fam­ily's business. But I fail to see how these measures directly affect the bank."

  "If I can present you with enough contracts to cover the amount of the loan, would you be willing to let me pay the interest and rollover the principal for a while longer? Six months max."

  This was no faint-hearted southern belle with hominy grits for brains. Schyler Crandall was not to be underesti­mated. She had seized the bull by the horns. It was time to get tough.

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, Ms. Crandall, even if you get the contracts, which is doubtful."

  "Let me worry about getting them. A signed contract is as good as cash."

  "Not quite," he said, oozing chauvinistic condescension. "You might not be able to deliver the orders."

  "I would."

  "But I would have no guarantee."

  "You'd have Belle Terre as collateral."

  "I've already got Belle Terre. What would be my incen­tive?"

  "How about decency?"

  "That was uncalled for, Ms. Crandall."

  She sighed heavily, but didn't apologize. "Deal with me, Mr. Gilbreath," she said imperatively. "It's unrealistic to hope that I can fill enough contracts to come up with that much cash in such a short time."

  "That's hardly my problem." He tried to keep a gloating tone out of his voice. He could almost hear her mind work­ing during the ensuing silence.

  "What if I paid you the interest and a portion of the principal?"

  "Ms. Crandall," he said expansively, "please stop to consider the awkward position you're placing me in. You're making me out to be the heavy. I regret that. This isn't solely my decision to make. I have to answer to the bank's directors. They, as much as I, have been lenient with Crandall Logging and Cotton.

  "He's been a customer in good standing for years, but sentiment can only stretch so far. If we went out on a limb and extended the loan, we would be placing ourselves in a vulnerable position with the bank examiners. We have to answer to them for every transaction. They don't know Cotton Crandall. They won't be sentimental. They will view this as a nonproducing loan. With the economy being as sluggish as it is—"

  "Thank you, Mr. Gilbreath, you've answered my ques­tion. Good-bye."

  She hung up before giving him a chance to respond. Smiling smugly, Gilbreath replaced the receiver. He en­joyed seeing die mighty humbled and headed for a fall.

  When he moved to Heaven from Pennsylvania three years ago, the pillars of the community had treated him with attitudes ranging from mild derision to outright snob­bery. Rhoda and he had soon learned that one wasn't con­sidered to have roots in Heaven unless there was a moth-eaten Confederate uniform packed in an attic trunk. Family trees had to have branches sprawling across several generations before the stigma of being an outsider was re­moved.

  Unless one met these criteria, one wasn't embraced by the socially prominent—which is what Dale and Rhoda wanted to be. They wanted to be in the very bosom of Heaven's social circle.

  They had been virtually forced to leave their home in Pennsylvania. The couple they had been swapping partners with for several years became born-again Christians during a city wide crusade. In a tearful testimony in front of a large, spiritually emotional congregation, they had con­fessed everything, naming their partners in sin. The very next day, Dale had been discreetly asked by the staid of­ficers of the bank where he had been a second vice-president to tender his resignation. They agreed to provide a letter of recommendation if he left promptly.

  So he had come to the Delta National Bank of Heaven, Louisiana, overqualified and underimpressed. At the time, however, he hadn't had the financial luxury of turning down any job in his chosen field, particularly that of bank president. He had swayed the board of directors with in­gratiating charm and gave as his reason for leaving his former place of employment a desire to move to a more temperate climate.

  No sooner had the Mayflower van delivered his furni­ture, than he regretted his decision. He hated the town, hated the heat, hated the narrow-minded people and their closed cliques.

  The only person who had treated him in a friendly fash­ion was Cotton Crandall. Gilbreath had discovered that Cotton was somewhat of a newcomer and outsider himself. Cotton had firmly established himself in the community by marrying the last surviving Laurent in the parish.

  Gilbreath had had no such opportunity, but he saw a way to cement his position in this town. It wasn't a perfect town, but since the Pennsylvania episode wasn't the first time he and Rhoda had been asked by moral do-gooders to leave a community, they were determined to stay in Heaven. And if he could help it, they wouldn't remain there as second-class citizens. This was a small pond, but he was going to make sure he was the biggest fish in it.

  If he owned Belle Terre, people would have to regard him and Rhoda with deference. It made him giddy just thinking about a couple of Yankees living in Belle Terre. That would set the town on its ear. And there wouldn't be a damn thing that anybody could do about it but kiss his ass and pretend to love him.

  Taking Schyler Crandall's phone call was his last piece of business for the day. With a springy gait he left the bank building and walked the two blocks to the parking lot where he left his car each day. Except for his Lincoln, the lot was empty. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

  "Jesus, it's about time," the person sitting in the passen­ger side said. 'Turn on the air conditioner. It's hotter than hell in here. I thought you said five o'clock. It's almost fifteen after. What took so long?"

  Chuckling, Dale turned on the motor and adjusted the air-conditioning controls. "Believe it or not, I was talking to Schyler."

  "To Schyler? At the bank?"

  "She called me."

  "What about?"

  "She feels the undertow and is trying to keep her head above the surface. I think she's afraid that everything she holds near and dear is about to be taken away from her."

  "Well, she's right, isn't she?"

  "For your good, as well as mine, you'd better hope so."

  "What did she want with you?"

  "To bargain." He recapped their telephone conversation.

  "You turned her down, I hope."

  Dale's smile was evil. "Of course, but with a great deal of commiseration."

  "She won't fall for that. She's smart."

  "You're worried about that, are you?"

  "You're damn right I am. What are you grinning about? This is serious."

  "You're telling me?" Dale snapped. "Schyler's got her foreman back." He glanced at his passenger. "She's confi­dent that she'll line up some good contracts in the next few days."

  "They'll have to be more than just good."

  Dale nodded in agreement. "Contracts or not, what she hasn't got is time. I don't think we have a problem."

  "We do if we don't keep close tabs on Schyler."

  "Exactly. That's why I need you to tell me every move she makes. Even things that you don't consider important, I want to know about."

  "You want me to spy on her."

>   "Yes. Not only that, sabotage whatever you can get away with. Just don't get caught at it."

  "All right."

  "We need something to distract her."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. A love affair? Of course, it would be most fortuitous if Cotton died. That would take her mind off the business for a while." Dale carefully gauged the other's violent reaction. His eyebrows rose inquiringly. "Would that upset you so much?" No answer. Dale frowned. "I can see that it would. Are you sure that your loyalties aren't divided?"

  "I'm only loyal to myself. Why shouldn't I be?"

  "Then if it gets unpleasant or dangerous before it's over, you won't object?"

  "No."

  "I hear uncertainty in your voice."

  "No!"

  "That's better," Dale said, his smile restored.

  "Schyler shot Jigger Flynn's dogs."

  After a moment of stunned silence, Dale asked, "Are you sure? I'd heard a rumor that—"

  "The rumors are false. Schyler did it. She used one of Cotton's shotguns."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know, okay?"

  Dale knew when to back off. He did so, and at the same time, pondered this valuable piece of information and con­sidered its useful applications. "Jigger would love to know that."

  "Meaning?"

  "Don't play innocent. You're thinking the same thing I am. That's why you told me. I've used Jigger Flynn before to handle sticky situations. He's extremely efficient and relatively inexpensive. If he knew Schyler was responsible for killing his pit bulls, he would do just about anything to retaliate. He would consider Schyler fair game." Dale's thin lips parted in a ferret's smile. "Wouldn't he?"

  "I've got to go," the passenger said brusquely, shoving open the door.

  "No matter how ambiguous your feelings for Cotton might be, you won't let them stand in your way, will you?"

  "No. I won't let anything stand in my way."

  "That's what I wanted to hear."

  Supremely satisfied with the way the interview had gone, Dale watched his informant disappear into the alley.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ken had a pleasant buzz going when he left the Gator Lounge. He wasn't staggering, but he was drunk enough to fumble and drop his keys as he approached his car. They landed in the gravel. He bent to pick them up, but before he touched them, a shiny black shoe came out of nowhere and stamped on them. His hand was nearly crushed. It froze.