Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "I asked you for more time." Ken slumped down on the unmade bed and massaged his forehead.

  "And like a sap I granted you more time. Have I got my money yet? No."

  "I'll get it to you."

  "Tomorrow."

  "But—"

  "Tomorrow."

  The telephone went dead. Ken stared vacantly at it for a long time before hanging it up. He didn't have the energy to move, so he sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed. When he finally raised his head, he saw that Tricia was standing in the doorway looking at him curiously.

  "Who was that?"

  "Nobody." He stood up and went to his closet, randomly selecting a tie. As he tied it, he was uncomfortably re­minded of a noose.

  "It was somebody," she said petulantly. "I didn't like the sound of his voice."

  "I don't like the sound of yours," Ken said, shooting her a hateful look. "Not when it's got that edge to it and not this early in the morning."

  "We need to talk."

  "We talked until the wee hours last night."

  "And nothing was resolved. What are you going to do about her?" She aimed a finger in the direction of Schyler's bedroom where Gayla Frances lay recovering.

  "There's not much I can do. We called the sheriff. You saw how that turned out. Personally I don't want to get involved with Jigger Flynn. If you're smart you won't either."

  Lighting a cigarette, Tricia snorted. "Hardly. All we need around here is another lowlife. They seem to be tak­ing over Belle Terre. If Schyler had her way we'd become a branch of the Salvation Army."

  Ken laughed. For once Tricia wasn't flattered that her joke had gone over.

  "I'm glad you think all this is funny," she snapped. She was on his heels as he went downstairs. "I don't think it's at all amusing that we've got a former servant's daughter residing here like she was the Queen of Sheba. Or that my sister," she sneered the word, "has her trashy lover strut­ting around here like he owned the place."

  "Boudreaux isn't her lover."

  Tricia laughed out loud. "Will you grow up? Of course he's her lover. Didn't you see the way she looked at him when he came down those stairs? Are you blind? Or is it that you just close your eyes to what you don't want to see?"

  On top of his recent telephone call, Ken didn't need Tricia's harping. "Look, I don't like the way Schyler has come in and taken over everything either, but I don't know how to stop her."

  Tricia flung back her hair and faced him challengingly. "Well you'd better find a way, darling."

  "Or what?"

  "Or I'll take matters into my own hands." She gave him a feline smile. "And you're a lot nicer than I am."

  "Knock, knock?"

  Schyler, holding the phone in the crook of her shoulder, signaled for Ken to come in. He closed the door of the landing office behind him. If he noticed the fresh coat of paint on it, he made no remark.

  "That will be wonderful, Mrs. Dunne," Schyler said into the receiver as she smiled at Ken. "Yes, it does seem like providence, doesn't it?. . . And we'll look so forward to having you at Belle Terre. . . This afternoon then?. . . Very good. Good-bye."

  She hung up and whooped loudly. "I can't believe it. Mrs. Dunne was a cook in the public school cafeteria and comes highly recommended. She quit several years ago so she could stay at home with her ailing husband. When he died, she contacted an agency in New Orleans that special­izes in domestics. When I called them, they referred her. Isn't that a coincidence? She won't have to relocate, except to move into the quarters. And I won't have to exhaust myself with interviews. She won't mind looking after Daddy either." She paused for breath and smiled broadly. "Well, what do you think?"

  "Will all our meals taste like school cafeteria food?"

  "It can't be any worse than what Mrs. Graves served." She shuddered. "Where did Tricia find that stick woman?"

  "Search me. That's Tricia's department."

  She let him get seated comfortably before asking, "Why didn't you interfere when she fired Veda, Ken?"

  "It wasn't my place to," he said defensively. "I didn't grow up sitting on Veda's knee the way you did. To me she was just a housekeeper."

  "To me she was a member of the family," Schyler said sadly. "I'm surprised Tricia didn't feel that way about her, too." Then, forcing herself out of her unsettling reflec­tions, she asked, "What brings you to the landing? While you're here, you can take this. It's your copy of the Endi­cott contract."

  "You didn't even mention it last night."

  "I hardly had a chance, Ken."

  "Boudreaux went with you, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he did," she confessed with chagrin. "His assis­tance was invaluable."

  "Hmm. You were with him all day then."

  "It's a long drive."

  He had more questions to ask but lost his nerve. "How'd it go?"

  "I know you'll be pleased."

  She handed him a copy of the contract and braced her­self for criticism when he got to the clause about receiving no payment before the entire shipment was received. Ken barely glanced at it before folding it and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his summer blazer.

  "Aren't you even going to read it?"

  "I'll go over it later," he said. "I'm sure everything is in order." He wouldn't look her in the eyes and he was fid­geting as nervously as a kid at a piano recital. "Actually, I came here this morning to talk about something personal."

  Schyler sighed and rose from her chair. "If it's about Gayla, I've said all I have to say."

  "It's not about that."

  Schyler sat down on the comer of the desk, her legs at a slant in front of her. "Then what?"

  "Money." He finally looked up at her. "I need some money."

  "Don't we all?" she asked lightly.

  His grin was half formed and fleeting. "No, I mean now. Immediately."

  He was serious. This was no laughing matter. Schyler matched her mood to his. "How much, Ken?"

  He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. "Ten grand."

  "Ten thousand dollars?" She didn't even attempt to dis­guise her dismay.

  "It rounds off to that." Again, his smile vanished as soon as it was formed. "It's for a good cause."

  "Your health?"

  He seemed to find that funny and laughed out loud. "In a manner of speaking." "Ken?" She stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're not ill, are you? Is something—"

  "No, no, nothing like that." He came to his feet. "But it's important, Schyler, or I wouldn't come crawling to you like a goddamn beggar. Trust me, you're better off not knowing what it's for. And I'll repay you. I promise."

  "I don't want guarantees or explanations from you. If you need the money, you need the money. If your reasons for needing it are personal, I honor your privacy."

  "Then you'll loan it to me?"

  "I wish I could, but I can't."

  "Can't?"

  "I don't have it."

  "Don't have it?"

  His echo was bothersome, but she tried not to show her irritation. "I'll barely have enough to live on until I get my next check."

  Ken ran his hand through his hair in befuddlement. "What next check?"

  "I put my legacy from Mama in a trust. My attorney in London doles out allotments on the first of every month. Those allotments come out of the interest. I've never touched the principal and don't intend to unless it's abso­lutely necessary."

  "You mean you can't have use of your own money when you want it?"

  "I could, but I'd have to pay costly penalties to take out lump sums and later replace them. Besides, if Crandall Logging doesn't pull out of this slump and pay off that loan, I'll have to use part of my inheritance as collateral on another loan. I can't start depleting the account."

  "Doesn't that Mark character you work for pay you any­thing?"

  "Yes, but I insisted on working strictly on commission. As you know I haven't been there for almost a month."

  He began to pace. He looked like a man who
had run out of options. Schyler took sympathy on him. "I'm sure you could make arrangements for a personal loan at the bank."

  "My old man didn't trust me with my own inheritance. I can't touch it until I turn forty. I don't have shit to use for collateral."

  "Tricia?"

  He softened. "She spent the last of the money her mother left her years ago. Since then she's been sponging off Cotton and the paltry salary he pays me."

  "When the business is in the black again, I'll see that you get a well-deserved raise."

  "That's not going to help me now, Schyler," he shouted. At her stunned expression, he moved toward her and clasped her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

  "Ken, you're frightening me. Just how desperate are you for cash?"

  Her concern set off warning bells. He couldn't afford to reveal too much. His face relaxed and he forced himself to smile. "Not so desperate that you need to worry about it." He ironed the wrinkle of worry out of her forehead with his index finger. "It'll take care of itself. Something will turn up."

  His finger didn't stop with the furrow on her forehead, but slid down her cheek and then along the rim of her lower lip. "So pretty. And so strong." He drew a deep breath of longing. "My God, Schyler, do you know how sexy you are? The air fairly crackles when you walk into a room."

  Schyler tried to move away. "Ken, stop it. I've asked you more than once not to touch me."

  "You know I still want you. I know you still want me."

  She denied that with a hard shake of her head. "Your come-ons are not only wrong, but tiresome. We've said everything that need be said . . . repeatedly. Now for the last time, cut it out!"

  Again, he refused to take no for an answer. If anything, he seemed more determined than ever. He moved forward and embraced her tightly. She pushed him away. He only clasped her tighter.

  "Schyler, don't snub me. Let me love you." His breath­ing accelerated. "Damn! Wouldn't it be exciting to make

  love right here? Right now." He backed her against the edge of the desk.

  "Have you lost your mind?" she gasped.

  "Yes. I'm crazy about you."

  "Don't you see how wrong this is?"

  "It's not wrong. It can't be. Not when I love you so much. What we had is still there. You'll see."

  Schyler had too much dignity to engage in a sophomoric, physical struggle. Sternly she said, "No, Ken."

  "Why not? We're alone here."

  "Not quite."

  They sprang apart at the sound of the intrusive third voice.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Cash Boudreaux was lounging against the doorjamb.

  "I hate to break up such a tender scene, but I need to see you about something, Miss Schyler."

  She tried to appear composed, but doubted that she pulled off the act. "That's all right, Cash. Ken was just leaving."

  Ken's jaw dropped. "You're sending me packing so you can talk to him?"

  She would have to make amends for the slight later, but she couldn't have Cash believing that she was carrying on an affair with her brother-in-law. "Cash and I need to talk business. What you and I were discussing can wait till later."

  He glared at her furiously. "Okay, sure," he said curtly. He nudged Cash aside on his way out the door.

  Cash waited until Ken's car had cleared the other side of the bridge and the dust had settled before he turned back to Schyler. "Is that how he earns his salary these days, by keeping the boss lady's hormones well tuned?"

  "What Ken was doing here is between him and me."

  "That much was obvious."

  "And none of your business, Mr. Boudreaux."

  The atmosphere in the room was explosive. If one had struck a match, the whole place could have gone up in flames. Cash's eyes flayed her with censure. She stared him down. She would be damned before stammering any self-defensive explanations. Let him think what he would.

  "I just don't get you, lady," he said.

  "Not that I'm all that interested, but what don't you get?"

  "You've got a house like Belle Terre, but you run off and live on the other side of the world."

  "I had my reasons."

  "For leaving, oui. But why'd you stay so long?" He slid his hands, palms out, into the rear pockets of his jeans and tilted his head arrogantly. "But I guess that guy you live with over there has something to do with that."

  "Mark has a great deal to do with that, yes."

  His lip curled cynically. "What's your game, huh? What are you doing, playing Howell and this English dude against each other, and taking on anybody else who gives you a crotch throb in the process?"

  "I'm not playing anybody against anybody," Schyler said, seething. "Ken is my sister's husband. As for Mark, he's not English. In the second place, a man like you couldn't begin to understand our relationship. There's much more to it than lust and sweat."

  "Lust and sweat should be enough."

  "Maybe for you, but not for me. And not for Mark."

  He nodded slowly, still treating her to a judgmental stare. "Something else confounds me. You take in a woman with Gayla's past when most respectable ladies wouldn't spit on her if she was on fire, but you have no conscience against screwing your sister's husband."

  Schyler wanted to launch herself at him, scratching and clawing, but she knew that's what he wanted her to do. He wanted to drag her down to his level. She wasn't about to let him do that. If she didn't need him to keep Crandall Logging running smoothly, she would fire him on the spot. Sadly, she did need him. If she had to suffer his insults for the sake of Belle Terre, she would.

  "You overstep your position, Mr. Boudreaux," she said loftily. "If you've come to me with a business concern, kindly state what it is. If not, then we both have better things to do."

  His eyelids were still half-closed and his expression sar­donic, but he removed his hands from his jeans pockets. "How's Gayla?"

  "She slept through the night. Drank some tea this morn­ing. Went to the bathroom. Slept again."

  "Anymore bleeding?"

  "No."

  "Good. Let me know if there's any change."

  "I will."

  By now he was standing close. He smelled like the for­est at daybreak. She could feel the edge of the desk against her buttocks. She wanted him to back her against it, and that made her angry with herself. "Is that all?"

  "No."

  "Well?" Her heart was beating rapidly, thinking that he might kiss her yet.

  "This was tacked to the office door this morning when I got here. You were late. I've been holding on to it. Thought you ought to see it."

  He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and came up with a snapshot. He passed it to her. Disappointed, she took the photograph from him and studied it, but after a moment quizzically looked up at him. "The significance escapes me."

  "It's a pit bull bitch and her litter. Four puppies, if I'm counting teats right."

  The significance of it struck her full force then. "Jigger," she said softly.

  "Oui. Guess he wanted you to know he's not quitting the gambling trade, even though he's suffered a setback."

  "I called the state representative's office several times, but never got through to him personally. His secretary didn't seem impressed by my problem and suggested that I take it up with local authorities."

  "And?"

  "I got nowhere. Jigger's probably laughing up his sleeve at me."

  "I warned you."

  She thumped the snapshot with her finger and dropped it onto her desk. "He's still holding a grudge."

  "I told you he would."

  "Would you kindly stop rubbing my nose in your supe­rior knowledge of the subject," she snapped. "If you want to say something, tell me what I should do."

  "All right." He bent over her, until she had to reach back and support herself on the desk. "You want my advice? Get the hell out of here and go back to England."

  "What?!"

  "Things have been sho
t to hell ever since you got here."

  "That's not my fault."

  "Isn't it?"

  "No."

  "Name one mess you haven't made messier."

  "What would all those loggers be doing for work if it weren't for me?"

  Because what she said was true, Cash straightened sud­denly. He spun around and rammed his fist into the nearest wall. He shook his head to clear it of angry frustration, then looked back at her. "Why didn't you just leave well enough alone?"

  "Because everything wasn't 'well enough.'"

  "It was a freak accident that Jigger's dog attacked you."

  "I doubt you would have thought so if it had been you. Or your child."

  "I don't have a child."

  "That's not my fault either."

  They fell back strategically to plan their next attack. Cash came out fighting first.

  "Cotton would have figured out a way to pay off that loan."

  "How? He was out of cash."

  "That's bull. He's got friends, friends with money, drinking buddies, who would have covered that note for him in a minute. But no, you had to go butting in. You had to undertake all this," he shouted, waving his hand to en­compass the entire landing. "To feed your own goddamn ego."

  "It has nothing to do with ego."

  "Then why are you doing it?"

  "That's my business."

  "Why? Why didn't you just leave us the hell alone?"

  "It was something I had to do!"

  "And fuck up everybody else's life in the process!"

  He headed for the door. Schyler stepped between him and it. "Cash, don't fight me. Help me. Just how ruthless could Jigger tie?"

  "You saw Gayla."

  "Ruthless enough to jeopardize that Endicott shipment if he got wind of it?"

  "Probably."

  Laying her hand on his arm, she looked up at him in appeal . Anger and pride were diminished by worry. "What am I going to do?"

  His eyes reflected no emotion. They seemed uncaring and indifferent to her problems, as if they had no direct bearing on him. "You're a smart lady." Cruelly he shook off her restraining hand. "You'll land on your feet."

  Rhoda's long fingernail twirled a clump of body hair on Cash's lower belly. Her tongue lapped at his nipple like it was the curly tip on the top of a frozen custard cone. She made snuffling noises that gave the impression she thought it was just as sweet.