Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  She bolted into the office and swung the door closed behind her with a loud crash. Cash was sitting at the desk, entering data into an adding machine. He glanced up. His brow was beetled, his lips a hard, narrow line. "You're not going to believe this, Schyler. Ken Howell's been screwing you."

  "So have you."

  Her voice was soft, but chilly and taut. It was obviously not what he had expected. His brow gradually smoothed itself out. He regarded her carefully. She was standing ri­gidly against the door, blinking rapidly with indignation, like a temperance marcher who'd just detected demon rum in the punch. His eyes leisurely swept down her highly strung posture, then back up. He casually tossed the pencil he'd been using onto the littered desk and stacked his hands behind his head.

  "That's right, I have. And so far I haven't heard you complaining about it."

  Her breasts shuddered with her uneven breath. "Why do you? Why did you want to in the first place?"

  "Why?" he repeated on an incredulous laugh. When he saw that she wasn't being facetious, he answered flip­pantly. "It feels good."

  "That's the only reason, because it feels good?" Her voice was hoarse. "Then any woman would do, right? So why me?"

  He lowered his hands and stood up. Coming around the corner of the desk, he propped himself against the edge of it, studying her all the while. "What brought this on all of a sudden? A bad case of cramps?"

  "Just answer me, Cash," she said in a shrill, impatient voice. "Just about any woman could give you an erection and make it feel good, so why me?"

  He gnawed on the corner of his lip. "You want it straight?"

  "I want it straight."

  "Okay," he said insolently. "I guess you just make it feel better than anybody has in a long time. I wanted you that day I saw you sleeping under the tree. Every time I saw you after that, I wanted you a little bit more. Until I had you."

  "That must have been thrilling for you. My capitula­tion."

  "It was," he said with brutal honesty. "It was thrilling for you, too."

  She bit her lip hard to keep from crying. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "When?"

  "After the first time."

  "Because you looked down at me like you expected an apology. I never apologize to a woman. For anything. But especially not for screwing her."

  "You had what you wanted. I had surrendered. I'd even come to you. Why didn't you just leave it at that?"

  He looked at her strangely. "Because I wasn't satisfied. I'm still not. I like your tits, your legs, your ass, your mouth, those breathy little sounds you make when you come, and the way you give head. Now should I go on or stop with that?"

  Schyler's emotions waged war. The lady that Macy had groomed wanted to slap his face and storm out. The woman in her wanted to fling herself against him, kiss him, love him. Cotton's daughter wanted to scratch and claw at him. She wanted to inflict pain that would hurt him as much as the cold detachment in his voice was hurting her.

  "Why. . . why did you take me last night at Belle Terre?"

  "I got the urge."

  "Why in that particular way?"

  "Don't pretend you didn't like it. You were dripping."

  "I didn't say I didn't like it," she yelled. "I asked you why you did it then and there."

  "Because it felt—"

  "Good?"

  "Oui!" he shouted. "And right. It felt right. I went with the flow, okay? I didn't stop to reason it out. My cock was doing my thinking."

  "From what I hear, it usually does."

  He made a hissing sound through his teeth. "Look, you wanted it. I wanted it. I was hard. You were creamy. We did it and it was fine with both of us at the time." He stood up and advanced on her. The lock of hair hanging over his brow was trembling with anger. "So what's the big fuckin' deal, huh? Why the cross-examination? Can we drop this and talk about something important, like how your brother-in-law has been cleverly skimming off the books for years?" His eyes turned dark. "Or better yet, why don't you climb on my lap and do something about this mon­strous hard-on I've grown as a result of our conversation?"

  "That's not funny."

  "You're damn right it's not."

  Seething, Schyler said tightly, 'Tell me about Ken."

  "Simple. He's a crook. He's the reason the company's been losing money in spite of steady business. I don't know if Cotton knew and overlooked it because Howell is family, or if he's gone dotty in his old age. It was Howell who robbed Endicott. Apparently he endorsed Cotton's signature on their check, cashed it and pocketed the money, but failed to mention that order and advance payment to anybody." He waved his hand toward the ledgers on the desk. "Those records are shot full of holes that he made."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Glee uncovered the number-juggling Howell had done to make the sums come out right."

  "Glee?"

  "You said he needed something to do. I took duplicate records over to him. He's been going over them. He said they weren't—"

  "Who gave you the authority to do that?" Schyler was furious.

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  He tossed back his hair with a jerk of his head. "Let me get this straight." His left knee unhitched, throwing him slightly off center and into an arrogant stance. "You're upset because Glee turned up the goods to send your ex- lover to jail?"

  "No," she ground out. "I'm upset because you assumed authority that I didn't give you."

  "Oh, I see," he said coldly, "I overstepped my bounds."

  "That's right."

  "Does this have anything to do with our previous discus­sion? Am I overstepping my bounds every time I take Miss Schyler Crandall to bed?"

  "Isn't that part of the kick for you? Overstepping bounds? Flaunting authority? Trespassing? Isn't that why you make love to me?"

  "I don't make love."

  Schyler tried not to flinch. "I see. You don't make love. You rut."

  He made a dismissive motion with his shoulder. "I guess that's as good a word as any." He saw the pale, bleak expression settle over her face. It brought a soft curse to his lips. "I call a spade a spade. I don't believe in the word love, so I don't use it. It doesn't mean anything. All I've ever seen people do in the name of love is hurt each other. Your father claimed to love my mother."

  "He did. He told me so this morning."

  "Then why did he stay with a woman he didn't love, didn't even like? Because this grand love he claimed to have for my mother wasn't as strong as his own goddamn ambition and greed. My mother claimed to love me." He swiped the air in front of him to cancel out the protestation he saw rising from Schyler's lips.

  "But when she died, you know who she was crying for? Cotton. Cotton! Who'd treated her like shit. She cried be­cause she didn't want to leave Cotton." He shook his head in bewilderment and disgust. He laughed bitterly. "There's just no percentage in this love bullshit. The inventor of it got nailed to a cross. So explain its attraction. Sure, you can toss the word around if it makes things look prettier than they are. If it justifies the reasons people do things, go ahead. Use the word. But it doesn't mean a damn thing."

  Schyler said gruffly, "I'm sorry for you."

  "Save it. I don't want anything to do wife love. Not if it means letting people mop up the floor with me and then begging them to do it again. Fuck passive resistance. Cash Boudreaux fights back."

  "An eye for an eye."

  "Precisely. And then some."

  "So since Cotton used your mother, you felt justified to use me the same way." Her eyes moved up to meet his. There was no life in them, no compassion or human warmth. They reflected only her own disillusioned fea­tures, "Didn't you?"

  "Is that what you think?"

  She nodded slowly. "Yes. That's what I think." Her heart begged him to deny it. He didn't.

  "I take it Cotton opened your eyes to me," he said calmly.

  "He said you threatened to rain him. Did you?" Cash said nothing. "You swore on your mother's
rosary to de­stroy him and Belle Terre. Does that include frightening me? Tampering with the equipment? Causing delays? Making certain that a contract that would put the company on solid footing again doesn't get filled?"

  His eyes glittered. "You're a smart lady. You figure it out."

  "And it would be a big joke on all of us if you were sleeping with me at the same time, wouldn't it?"

  "It brings a smile to my face just thinking about it."

  But his face wasn't smiling. It was remote and cold. Wanting to crumple, Schyler forced herself to stand tall. "I want you out of here immediately. Don't come back. Don't go around the loggers either."

  "You think you can stop me?"

  "I won't have to. You wield tremendous influence over them. You could probably get them to walk off their jobs this afternoon." She tipped her head to one side. "But I wonder if they would go on strike if it meant giving up those promised bonuses. I wonder what they'd do to you if they suspected you of sabotaging the shipments and pre­venting them from getting those bonuses."

  "I see you've got it all thought out."

  "I want you off Belle Terre within a week. Vacate that house. Burn it to the ground for all I care. Just don't come back. If I ever see you on my property again, I'll shoot you."

  He tried to stare her down, but she didn't succumb. He shrugged, went to the door, and pulled it open. "You'll never make the deadline without me, you know."

  "I'll die trying."

  He gave her a slow, assessing glance. "Maybe so."

  Even the click of the latch when he closed the door be­hind him sounded as ominous as a gunshot.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Schyler walked into the dining room at Belle Terre. Without a word, she slapped a manila folder on the table in front of Ken. "What's that?" he asked.

  "Enough incriminating evidence to send you to jail."

  Across the table, Tricia's fork halted midway between her plate and her mouth. Ken played innocent and smiled sickly. "What the hell are you talking about, Schyler?"

  "I don't want to talk about anything in here where we might be overheard by Mrs. Dunne and Gayla. I'll meet you in the parlor."

  Minutes later she was seated in a wing chair. Her bear­ing was indomitable, but she felt more like the feathery ball of a dandelion blossom on the verge of disintegration. She was ready to fly apart.

  As Ken and Tricia entered the room, she said, "Please slide the doors closed."

  "My, we're being so dramatic tonight." Tricia snuggled into a chair across from Schyler and draped her legs over the arm of it. She plucked several white grapes off the stalk she had brought in with her and popped them into her mouth. "I adore all this intrigue, but why is it necessary?"

  "I'll let Ken tell you." Schyler, ignoring Tricia's irritat­ing insolence, looked at her former fiancé. Comparisons were unfair, but she couldn't help measuring his failure against Cash's success. Ken had had all the advantages. He'd come from a good family, had a private school educa­tion, had money. He had squandered all those advantages. Cash had begun with nothing, not even legitimacy, and had built a successful life for himself. He still didn't have many material possessions, therefore his success couldn't be measured in dollars and cents. But he had earned more respect than ridicule.

  She had loved both men. Both were liars and cheats. That was a worse reflection on her than on them. Ob­viously she had a tendency toward choosing the wrong men to love.

  Ken tapped the edge of the folder against his palm. "Look, Schyler, I don't know what you think this file proves, but—"

  "It proves that you've been embezzling money from Crandall Logging almost since my father put you on the payroll."

  Tricia sat up straight and swung her feet to the floor. "What?"

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Ken sputtered.

  "The figures are there in black and white, Ken," Schyler said evenly. "I've seen Father's forged signature on can­celed checks."

  Ken nervously wet his lips. "I don't know who put this . . . this outlandish idea into your head, but. . . It was Bou­dreaux, wasn't it? That son of a bitch," he spat. "He'll stop at nothing to cause disruption. Don't you see what he's doing? He's trying to turn you against me."

  Schyler bowed her head and massaged her drumming temples. "Ken, stop it. Please. I've known for weeks, ever since I went to Endicott's, that there were discrepancies in the bookkeeping. I couldn't figure out why Daddy had ig­nored them until the company was on the brink of bankruptcy."

  "I'll tell you."

  All heads turned toward the sound of Cotton's voice. He hadn't parted the wide sliding doors that separated the par­lors, but stood in the doorway that led into the hall. He was thinner than before his illness, but when he stood at his full height, as now, he could still be intimidating and seemingly invincible.

  He came into the room. "I ignored it because I didn't want to admit that there was a thief living under my own roof."

  "Now just a—"

  "Shut up," Cotton commanded his son-in-law. "You're a goddamn thief. And a liar. You're a gambler, which I could forgive if you were any good at it. But you don't gamble any better than you do anything else. I know all about the heavies you owe money to."

  Ken had started to sweat. At his sides his fists opened and closed reflexively.

  "What's he talking about, Ken?" Tricia asked.

  It was Cotton, however, who answered her. "He's in debt up to his ass with a loan shark."

  "Is that why you asked me for money?" Schyler wanted to know.

  Ken foundered for an answer. Cotton frowned at him disparagingly. "I was kinda hoping they'd get rough and scare some sense into you. But you're too stupid to take their warnings seriously. Then I started hoping they would go ahead and kill you. This family would have been shed of you and we could pass it off as robbery and murder."

  "You better stop right there, old man," Ken warned.

  Cotton paid no attention to him. "I never could stomach you, Howell. You might have hoodwinked both my daugh­ters, but I had your number the day you let that little bitch," he said, pointing at Tricia, "get by with that lie about carrying your kid. You're a weakling, a sorry excuse for a man, and I can't stand the sight or the smell of you. You stink of failure."

  Schyler left her chair. "Daddy, sit down." Cotton's face was florid. He was gasping for breath. She took his arm and led him to the nearest chair, easing him into it.

  Her ministrations annoyed him. "You all seem to think that when my heart went on the blink, my brain did, too. You've been pussyfooting around this house, not wanting the old man to get drift of what was going on. But I know, all right. I know everything. And I can't say I like much of it."

  "All the trouble started when Schyler came home," Tricia said peevishly. "Things were rocking along fine until then. She just moved in and took over."

  "What did she take from you?" Cotton asked.

  "My husband," Tricia replied venomously.

  "That's a lie!" Schyler cried.

  Cotton gave Schyler a baleful look. "Do you still want him?"

  "No."

  He looked back at Tricia. "She doesn't want him. I'd think she was crazy if she did. What else have you got to bellyache about?"

  "She took over the management of this house. She fired the housekeeper."

  "Thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Cotton said. "That Graves woman was a shriveled-up, dried-up old shrew who couldn't cook worth a damn. I say good riddance."

  "What about that black person who's living with us?"

  "Veda's girl? What about her?"

  "Thanks to Schyler she's got the run of the place. God only knows what kind of diseases she brought with her."

  "That's a dreadful thing to say," Schyler exclaimed furi­ously.

  Tricia glared up at her. "You'd turn this house into a refuge for every color of riffraff if we'd let you. Mama would roll over in her grave."

  "Your mother never had a kind thought for anybody," Cotton said to Tric
ia. "And neither have you. At least Schyler doesn't have your prejudices."

  Tricia's breasts heaved with indignation. "Of course. Sure. Certainly. Take up for Schyler. No matter what she does, it's okay with you, isn't it?" Her blue eyes flashed. "Well, did you know she's sleeping with Cash Boudreaux? Cash Boudreaux!. I mean, my God, that's scraping the bot­tom of the barrel, isn't it? What do you think about your precious Schyler now, Daddy?"

  "I didn't come in here to discuss Schyler's love life."

  "No," Tricia shouted. "Of course not. Schyler's perfect even if she's bedding down with lowlife."

  "That's enough!"

  "Daddy, calm down."

  "Tricia, just shut up," Ken yelled.

  "I won't," Tricia screamed at her husband. "Daddy's right. You are a weakling to just stand there and not even defend yourself. Why don't you defend me?" She jabbed her index finger into her breast. She was bristling with rage. Spittle had collected in the corners of her lips. "I stayed here in this tacky, rundown old house for years while Schyler was living the high life in London. I stayed and took care of you," she said, turning to Cotton, "when Schyler deserted you. And this is the thanks I get. You still throw her up to me as an example to live by."

  Cotton's gaze penetrated Tricia to the core of her being. "You stayed here with me so Schyler couldn't come home. That's the only reason. It wasn't out of affection."

  She collected herself and drew in several deep breaths. In a small voice she said, "Why that's simply not true, Daddy."

  Cotton's white head nodded. "Oh, yes it is. You didn't want Ken. You just knew that Schyler did. And you didn't want to live at Belle Terre. You knew that it killed Schyler's soul to leave it." Staring at her, he shook his head sadly. "You've never had a single unselfish thought, Tricia. If you ever had a drop of charitable blood in your veins, Macy polluted it with her autocratic philosophy. You're a self-indulgent, spiteful, lying bitch, Tricia. Much as it grieves me to say so."

  Tricia shuddered under his verbal attack. "Whatever I am, it's your fault. You knew Mama didn't love us. You made up for it with Schyler. But not with me. You ignored me. You couldn't see me through Schyler's golden aura."