Shadowed Paradise

by Blair Bancroft

  Claire shivered. He’d moved closer. Close enough for her to feel his full length pressed to her back, the unmistakable bulge of his arousal. The scent of Alpha male on the prowl.

  Their tour wasn’t going to make it to the third floor. She knew that. Of course she knew that. Claire Langdon was exactly where Brad Blue wanted her.

  She swallowed hard. “No bidet,” she declared brightly.

  “I couldn’t quite see myself with a bidet,” Brad admitted blandly. “Are you fond of them?”

  He didn’t move a muscle, but her body throbbed, her mind threatened to fly away on a whirlwind of sensation. “No,” Claire choked out. Dear God, what was she doing here? She couldn’t do it. Absolutely couldn’t do it. No matter how strong the attraction to Brad, there had been no one but Jim for more than ten years. And Brad? He was practically still warm from the bed of the hottest number in the county. Diane must have looked stunning in that shower. Claire would not. There was that slight bulge to her tummy . . . the extra pounds on the thighs. Her knees were knobby. The breasts weren’t too bad, though . . . and her face could pass muster . . .

  Brad’s hands bit into her shoulder, the thumbs fanning out to do marvelous things to the taut muscles in her neck. His fingers, strong yet gentle, moved along her shoulders, kneading, caressing. Seducing . . .

  She was losing herself. A hazy glow blurred reality, destroyed common sense, blotted out time itself. She was in danger of meltdown, straight into a puddle of quivering protoplasm marring the sparkling finish of the white tile floor. It really wasn’t fair that with no more than this Brad Blue could turn her into a spineless wimp. No one should have such power.

  She arched her neck beneath his hand. Clamped her teeth over her tongue to keep from crying out. She was hot, breathless, her mind a shambles. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

  Her wisp of a dress, a flowered voile, barely concealed the blush of her bra and panties. Brad’s fingers burned through the fabric, as if touching bare skin. He kept up the slow, demanding pulse on her shoulders, a seduction that left her no possible reaction but Oh God, yes! His hands moved down her back, worked their way out from her spine, insinuated themselves around her sides . . . Her breasts were not small but he had no difficulty encompassing them, one each, in his large and knowing hands.

  Claire gasped. The room faded away. She swayed back against him, no longer shrinking from the rock-hard spear prodding her back. He wanted her. Not Diane Lake. But Claire. Only Claire.

  As he filled his hands with her luscious breasts, Brad felt his fingers quake. Could she tell he was as overeager as a school boy? No matter how often his mind assured him he could afford to be patient, his body knew he lied. He rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and knew triumph at her gasp of erotic pleasure, the feel of the small peaks stiffening with desire. He swallowed a groan as his engorged penis demanded something more than slow seduction.

  Patience was losing the battle. Brad’s hands slid down, fingers splayed over the thin fabric of her dress, feeling her breath hitch, the urgency of her heartbeat. Moving on to caress her nicely rounded thighs—ah, a real woman, not a stick. Stepping back, so he could knead her buttocks, another marvelously feminine expanse of flesh.

  Claire choked back a moan. Surely, it had to be wrong that it was all so right. Yes, she’d come close to panic, but at this moment she had no doubts. No matter what the consequences, this was right.

  Claire gasped in protest as Brad’s fingers disappeared. Then, just as suddenly, so did her dress. One of his hands was back on her breast. The other, with startling dexterity, peeled down her stockings and her white satin bikini.

  It seemed perfectly logical to stand there and let him do it. After all, how could she move with her clothing puddled around her ankles?

  Without so much as a pause, Brad spun her around and unhooked the front closure of her bra with practiced expertise, letting it fall onto the matching panties that hobbled her ankles. “Your turn,” he breathed, pulling her resistless fingers up to the buttons on his shirt.

  As she worked her way down the row of buttons, fingers fumbling like a four-year-old, Claire glanced up. Shocked by what she saw, she ducked her head, concentrating hard on the shirt buttons and the soft blond chest hair tickling her fingers as she worked. In the depths of Brad’s gorgeous blue eyes, usually filled with confidence to the point of arrogance, she’d seen . . . what? Uncertainty? Wariness? Did he still expect her to run?

  In spite of her fears, it had been too late for that since the night they met. And now it was time to be a woman instead of an over-the-hill, long-suffering mouse. She was alive, she could feel, she had a right to love again. She had a right to make love. To want. To hunger. To do something just for herself.

  To do something just for him.

  To make love with him because she wanted it so much. Because she needed to forget old bitterness and fear. Because the future flitted, ever tempting, before her. Teasing. Whispering all was not lost.

  So she was an idiot. Setting herself up for another fall. It didn’t seem to matter.

  Claire slid her hands behind his waist, working the shirt out of his black dress pants, finishing the final buttons of his cuffs. She unbuckled his belt and drew it slowly through the loops, like a snake charmer maneuvering his prize pet through a gauntlet. Hands loosely extended at his sides, Brad let her do all the work as she unzipped his trousers, allowing them to slide down around his hips as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders to drop onto the growing pile of clothing littering the tiles.

  Her gasp of shock resounded through the room. Brad’s resigned tones came to her as a far-away echo. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

  Scars criss-crossed his chest and abdomen, a maze of pink and ugly slashes riffling through his chest hair and slicing down toward the darker curls below. Claire closed her eyes, swaying against his chest. Fool! After what she’d heard, she should have expected it. Been more stoic. Blasé.

  “It’s okay, you know,” Brad murmured. “Ancient history. Over, done with, and unlikely to happen again. I’m alive and that’s what counts. I think of it as early retirement the hard way.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Come on, Ms. Langdon, aren’t you the one who took on all the alphabet soups? Fainting’s not quite what I had in mind for tonight.”

  “Sorry,” Claire gulped, “it’s just that I can’t see how you lived through something like that. You should be dead. And then . . . then I’d never have met you,” she added in a rush, shocked into telling the simple truth. “I can’t imagine that. Right now it seems as if my whole life has been leading me here. To tonight. Standing in this--this sybaritic bathroom with Brad Blue.”

  Claire shriveled into herself as he stepped away from her. Dear Lord, her naive babbling had frightened him away.

  But Brad hadn’t gone far. He was bending over the tub, twisting knobs. A waterfall eight inches wide poured from the faucet. The gleaming black tub began to fill. He lingered, testing the water, his long fingers plunging into the dark depths. His pants kept inching down. His briefs, Claire discovered, were as black as his trousers.

  Finally satisfied with the temperature, Brad slipped out of what remained of his clothing before bending down to extricate Claire from a tangle of stockings, bikini, bra and white high heels. The fine gold chain that held her amber pendant parted at his touch. Her earrings followed the necklace onto the vanity, a gleam of gold between the black of his and hers sinks sunk into the gleaming white countertop.

  Claire closed her eyes, shutting out the room. She would never, ever, make it into that tub. She was dazed, numb, frozen. She was on fire.

  And the only thing he’d kissed was the top of her head.

  Chapter Twelve

  At the sound of the heavy whirlpool motor, Claire’s eyes snapped open. Brad straightened, reached behind his head and removed the leather thong that held his hair in place. In a move that mirrored Claire’s vision of him in the shower, he shook his h
ead, allowing the long blond strands to tumble free.

  He was beautiful. A golden god, more lethal than the Sirens. Calling . . . calling . . . radiating pheromones, enveloping her in a haze of blatant desire. Making her long to run her hands down . . . Claire gaped.

  Brad nearly lost it. Seeing Claire standing there, frozen in what he could only hope was surrender . . . He hurt. He couldn’t breathe. His body was yelling, Charge! He had to have her now. This moment. Fuck the hot tub, the bed . . . His brain screamed, Mistake! Get a grip, Blue. His pounding heart drowned out the rhythmic pulse of the water. Facts, facts. Face the plain unvarnished truth, bud. They weren’t really alone. They each had ghosts to exorcize. Tonight had to be a whole new experience for each of them. No hint of anything that would bring back memories of other times and places.

  So a playboy romp in a hot tub was a really bad move. Sweeping Claire off to his kingsize bed, equally inept. Yet here they were, stark naked, staring at each other through the steam rising from the tub.

  Shit! Never had he felt less in control. Okay, for the better part of the evening his only thought had been to get her naked, and now she was standing there, looking stricken. Lust turned to stone. The ghosts must have whispered to her too.

  Dragging his gaze away from Claire’s delectable curves, Brad stepped down into the gleaming black tub, immersing himself in the bubbling water, hoping it might ease the demands of a cock that was refusing to bow to reason.

  Fat chance. He raised his hands out of the water, beckoned her to come to him.

  Like a groundcrewman bringing in a 747, Claire muttered to herself. But she appreciated the pause. For a moment there, as she tried to juggle the here and now with memories good and bad, she’d thought he was going to pounce. Instead, he’d given her respite. He was actually letting her set the pace. Not easy for a man like Brad Blue.

  So how long was she going to stand here, her nakedness barely softened by steam? She’d made a promise. It was time to keep it. Silly twit! As if she needed an excuse to do what she’d been wanting to do for weeks. No matter what shadows, or whose shadows, hovered in the mist around them, ghosts at the feast.

  And it would be a feast, of that she was certain.

  Ignoring Brad’s outstretched hand, Claire stepped into the dark swirling water, settling as far from him as possible, not so much as a toe touching. A-ah, yes. It felt good. Wonderful. As if the hot vortex could wash away her sins. Her fears. Banish Claire the Wimp, Claire the Defeated. Reveal the girl who had embraced New York, loved her job, the mean streets, the bustling crowds, the blaring horns. The girl who had been full of confidence. The girl who knew how to seize the day.

  Claire kept her eyes down, tracing lazy circles in the water, moving closer and closer to her toes. To his toes, which she couldn’t see or feel, but knew were there, perhaps only a scant inch from her own. Following her hand with her gaze, she lifted her chin that extra bit. Peeked. Taking in all of him, from the looming bulk beneath the water to the maze of scars, to his full mouth, come-hither blue eyes and the long fall of pale gold hair.

  She leaned forward, her breasts dipping into the deep water as she sought his toes. Tweaking. Adding a husky, provocative whisper. “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy . . .” Brad groaned. “. . . and this little piggy cried, ‘wee-wee-wee,’ all the way home.”

  Claire inched forward, moving between his legs. “You know,” she breathed, “you could make a fortune as a Chip ’n’ Dale.”

  He was reaching for her, bending his head to her lips when her outrageous words registered. A rumble started far down in his belly, bubbled up like the gushing water in the tub, and rose to reverberate through the room. “Jesus, Claire,” he gasped. “That’s about the last thing I expected you to say. What about the scars?”

  “The women would simply swoon over them. They’d think you painted them on just for the daring adventurer look.”

  Carefully, as if examining a priceless porcelain, Brad slid his fingers up the slick wetness of her arm, along the shoulder blade, lingered over the sensitive indentation beneath her chin and rose to trace the fullness of her mouth. “Claire Langdon,” he announced with great solemnity, “I have to tell you, if we live together for the next fifty years, I doubt I’ll ever have the slightest inkling what you’re going to say or do next.”

  “Good.” Fifty years. Just an expression? Or was he serious?

  Couldn’t be. Not while he sat there like a lump, doing nothing when she was about to plaster herself to him. Without pausing to think, Claire plunged her hand down, encountering a rod as stiff as the ceramic tub. She felt him quiver, but he didn’t move. So . . . he was letting her make the commitment. Accept the Florida farm boy, battle scars and all. Or not. The choice was hers.

  Closing her fingers around his pulsing manhood, she rubbed her thumb over the swollen tip, circling, stroking . . .

  This time, he moaned. “Woman, if you don’t stop, this evening’s going to come to an abrupt halt”

  Claire’s lips skimmed his forehead, his nose, his mouth. Lingered. As he reached out to pull her closer, she rested her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself downward.

  Brad’s powerful hands clasped her hips. Encouraging. Helping. He threw back his head, his jaw went hard. A stream of soft sounds escaped his lips, every last syllable approving the slow exquisite pleasure of becoming part of her.

  Control. She’d never had it before. She was queen of the mountain. A brand new experience. Jim had been more adventurous in the boardroom than in bed.

  Claire slammed the door on the past. This was now. And a pretty spectacular now it was.

  This rugged stranger, this scarred warrior, was inside her, filling her to the core of life. He raised his head, searched her eyes with his, as if still wondering, Are you sure, sure, sure? He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m dying here, woman. This is your five second warning. It’s my turn.” He slid his hands from her hips to her buns, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Claire nearly climaxed on the spot.

  Fighting to keep the upper hand, she made a small teasing move upward. And just that fast he seized control, setting an erotically rhythmic pace, moving her through the dark swirling water as easily as a chess piece, while water spilled onto the ceramic floor, instantly changing color from black to shimmering white.

  It was over all too soon. Shock waves hit Claire so hard only Brad’s firm grip kept her head above water. One final thrust, and he followed her. But not before pulling out, allowing his seed to spill into the tub’s steamy warmth.

  Brad sank back against the edge of the tub, cradling Claire against his chest. “Sorry,” he panted. “Damn stupid of me to forget the condoms. Guess that shows what you do to me.”

  “Guess that makes two of us.”

  Ah. He liked the sound of that. “We’ll do better next time. Next time. He liked the sound of that too. He’d never admit it, but she had him by the balls. He was a goner.

  After long minutes of floating on a haze of completion, they crawled out of the tub, wet and dripping, adding to the pool on the already inundated white tile. Ruefully, they surveyed the mess. “Evie will kill me,” Brad murmured.

  “Who’s Evie?”

  “Maid.”

  “You have a maid?” Claire was incredulous. The maids in Golden Beach all worked for cleaning services and made more money than she did.

  “Old family retainer. She only comes twice a week. And tomorrow’s not her day. Not that this mess can wait that long.” With a sigh Brad rummaged through the linen cupboard until he found some old towels. He tossed her one, and with a giggle from Claire and a grimace from Brad they went to work. A chore made less onerous as they contrived to bump into each other a not-surprising number of times, bare thigh to bare buttocks, bare toes tickling other, more intimate places.

  When the floor was glistening tile again instead of a pond, Brad retrieved two large fluffy towels--one black, one white--
and they started in on each other. That was nicer yet. Brad went first, starting with Claire’s tousled hair and moving gradually down to kneel before her, drying the parts of her that were once again crying out to be touched. By the time she did the same service for him, they were barely able to stagger from the bathroom in time to fall onto the expanse of Brad’s kingsize bed and reaffirm that love in the age-old game, the pas de deux of life, is a gift that can be given more than once in a lifetime.

  That cataclysmic soul-shaking passion can blossom into love, into the poignant, healing beauty of loving. And being loved.

  The atmosphere in T & T’s conference room was solemn. Grim-lipped agents and staff members surrounded the huge table, with latecomers clustered behind the others in an odd assortment of chairs pulled in from desks in the outer room.

  “You’ve all heard about Paula Marks,” Phil said. “You all know the implications.” She paused, the iron woman of Golden Beach, visibly shaken. “Firstly,” she announced, getting herself in hand, “there are no funeral arrangements yet. We’ll let you know when . . . as soon as we find out.” The unspoken words hung in the air. As soon as the police release the body.

  “The Brokers are meeting this afternoon at four at the Board,” Phil continued. “Until then, please consider all Open Houses for this week canceled. Call your owners today. Those up north won’t have heard the news and we want to be sure they understand the situation.”

  There wasn’t a single groan from the assembled Realtors. For once, the usually volatile, and frequently protesting, group had been shocked into silence.

  “I’d appreciate your input for the Brokers’ meeting,” Phil added. “Should we consider a buddy system—two agents for each Open House or cancel Open Houses indefinitely?”

  Don Andersen spoke up. “Isn’t a phone enough?”

  “Nearly every room in that house had a phone,” Phil countered. “We have to face the fact we have a problem all the meetings in the world won’t solve. Most of us eat, drink and sleep real estate, and it’s not easy to switch to Safety First, but that’s the way it has to be. From now on, I want you to put your personal safety ahead of every other consideration.”