Across the river from the fish camp was, quite simply, nothing. Just jungle. Pristine Florida wilderness stretching along the Calusa as far as the eye could see.
Fascinated by her first glimpse of Florida as the early settlers saw it, Claire simply stood and stared, noting that this side of the river was almost as wild. An impenetrable mix of palmetto, palms, live oaks, pines, Brazilian pepper, carrotwood and wild vines surrounded a clearing just wide enough for the restaurant, a modest space for parking and a small cluster of equally ancient wooden cottages. The river itself was the color of strong tea, dyed by leaves from the oaks that overhung its banks.
“They used to film the old black and white Tarzan movies here,” said a voice just behind Claire’s ear.
“Really?” Their quarrel not quite forgiven, Claire kept her gaze fixed on the river.
“Honest Injun,” Brad declared, raising his right hand, palm open. “Me Tarzan, You Jane.”
“You’re mixing your genres.”
“Well, according to local lore, there’s a small island just upriver from here that was transformed by the magic of the camera lens into Tarzan’s jungle. Bud will be happy to point it out on one of his boat tours. You ought to take Jamie sometime. Just don’t let him put his feet in the water.”
“Oh?” Now what tall tale was forthcoming? Claire wondered.
“These waters are crawling with gators and water moccasins. No one swims in the river.”
Brad was confirming what Ken Millard had told her. She should be cringing, revolted by Florida’s wild underbelly. But he was so close. Close enough to feel the hard length of him. The river faded, the heat remained. Brad’s bathroom all over again. Without turning her head she could feel every inch of him. Her pulse raced, her body quivered. How could she quarrel with the man when his proximity turned her brain to mush? Meekly, she allowed Brad to steer her to a picnic table on a low deck only a few feet from the river’s dark edge. To their left a dozen canoes lay neatly stacked along the bank. A sign proclaimed: “No canoe rentals after 4:00 p.m.”
“Gator bait prevention,” Brad commented cryptically. “Best not to be on the river when it’s feeding time.”
Claire shivered, frowning at the river’s slow-moving brown water. Something was wrong, and not just the color of the river. She pictured the large map of Golden Beach that hung on the wall at the office. “Am I crazy, or is the water flowing upriver?”
“Tidal.”
“But we’re miles inland!”
“It’s a long way to the gulf,” Brad conceded, “but we’re only fifteen or twenty miles upriver from the second largest harbor in Florida. All the cowhunters had to do was drive their cattle to a dock downriver a ways and ship them out to Cuba, which was the big market in the old days. There’s a road near the mouth of the river that’s still called Cattle Dock Road, though it’s a good bet most people don’t know why.”
“How do they ship beef now?” Claire asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
“Just pop ‘em in a truck and ship ‘em out. Makes it pretty easy for rustlers too,” Brad added, eyeing her from under his thick fringe of golden lashes.
Gauging her temper, Claire supposed. Trying to guess if his harmless tourguide routine had softened her attitude. Rustlers indeed. He had to be kidding. With some reluctance she decided to let that one go. Just one of Brad’s little tales for the gullible girl from New England.
Since they seemed to be fashioning some kind of truce, Claire indulged herself, lingering over a head-to-toe examination of her enigmatic companion. She nearly moaned out loud. Vibrant, all male, Brad Blue radiated sex appeal like some glowing golden womantrap. He was wearing the blue chambray shirt, jeans, and scuffed western boots he had worn the night they met. The jeans were skin tight, the shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal a soft nest of golden hair. Strands of pale gold had escaped from his tight cue to fall in loose waves over his tanned forehead and well-shaped ears. His eyes—those deep-set incredibly blue eyes—looked almost . . . wistful. The naughty puppy seeking forgiveness.
Damn him! He was at home here. Brad Blue, the roughcut diamond in his natural setting. Tonight they had driven eight miles . . . and dropped off the edge of the world. This outpost on the edge of the river was his turf. He’d been raised in a world wholly apart from the towering condominiums, stuccoed pink Florida ranches, and manicured lawns of Golden Beach’s Chamber of Commerce façade. This river and the land along it were Brad Blue. Wild, primitive, dark and dangerous. A world to be treated with caution. And respect.
A world that grew back to jungle faster than people could tame it.
Strains of “Stormy Weather” drifted out from the jazz band inside. Stormy weather, indeed.
“They’re good,” Brad commented, swiftly picking up on Claire’s shift of attention. “Want to go inside? A lot of old-time jazzmen retired around here, and they get together to jam one night a week. During the Season jazz night is so popular you have to bring your own chair and it takes hours to get any food.” He leaned closer to whisper, “Weekends get the younger crowd. Tonight, we may be the only people here under sixty.”
As curious as Claire was about the quality of the sounds wafting through the tightly shut windows, she welcomed an escape from the blatantly sexual responses that threatened to overwhelm her. Nothing like a crowd of people to protect her from herself.
Claire hadn’t realized how hot she was until she was enveloped in the restaurant’s cool, dark interior. Of course, she had to admit not all the heat had been caused by the Florida summer.
Brad was right. They were Bud’s youngest patrons by at least twenty years. There were gray heads, grizzled heads, white heads, carefully dyed heads. The country club crowd sported designer shorts and polo shirts. More modest retirees wore less stylish cuts of the same uniform—shorts and cotton knit tops in every shade from classic natural to garish neon. The clothes hung on shapes that ranged from trim golfer to overhanging paunch, from blow-away wisp to Mrs. Blimp. Claire felt seriously overdressed in her pleated beige linen slacks and lace-trimmed shirt, the outfit she had worn to work that day.
Even in the doldrums of mid-summer the room was nearly full. They maneuvered past a couple attempting to dance in the narrow aisle that led to the restrooms and found two seats at a long trestle table covered in teal blue vinyl. They turned their attention to the band, where a pert sixty-something chanteuse was just beginning a rendition of “My Funny Valentine.” Unlike the atmosphere in most clubs, bars, or restaurants, the patrons of Bud’s gave the music their nearly undivided attention.
As the applause—and a cheer or two—died away at the end of the song, the band segued into “Peg o’ my Heart,” a bit of nostalgia aimed straight at the hearts of an audience who, with reminiscent nods and wistful smiles, associated the old tune with their first dance, first love, or teenage heartbreak.
A pitcher of beer appeared, along with a flurry of conversation with others at their table. Respite. Giving tempers time to cool.
The food at Bud’s, Claire discovered, was guaranteed to warm the stomach even as it clogged the arteries. She worked her way through fried okra and onions, corn fritters, cheese sticks, followed by barbecued ribs and baked beans. Impossible not to mellow by the time she got to Key Lime pie and coffee.
Brad seemed to have mellowed as well. His smile glistened with charm. His humor was dry, his wit keen. A bad beginning turning into a great night. Until she heard him bark, soft but explosive. “Shit!”
The metal legs of his chair scraped against the battered linoleum and he was gone, striding with determined purpose around tables, haphazardly sprawled patrons, and a waitress clutching four pitchers of draft beer. Claire, tracking Brad’s direction, saw that she was no longer the youngest person in the room. A strikingly lovely blond of little more than legal drinking age stood poised in the doorway between the bar and the restaurant. Her shoulder-length hair gleamed with multicolored iridescence reflected from the bulbous old-fashioned Christmas
lights strung overhead. Her patrician features were more suited to a debutante cotillion at The Breakers in West Palm than Bud’s Fish Camp on the edge of nowhere, her delicately flowered mini dress, the product of a designer who believed in a minimum amount of yardage for the maximum amount of money. The man standing beside her, his arm draped possessively about her shoulders, was also impeccably dressed in white slacks and banded-collar black shirt.
Though handsome, in what Claire considered a slick soap opera style, the young woman’s escort was clearly old enough to be her father. As the newcomers scanned the room to find a table, they didn’t see Brad, who was hidden by the waitress heroically balancing four pitchers of beer high over her head to allow the whirlwind that was Brad Blue to pass through the narrow aisle. Although apprehensive about Brad’s intentions, Claire couldn’t help but be impressed by the waitress’s remarkable feat of strength and dexterity.
When the two representatives of Golden Beach’s beautiful people started toward a private table in the far corner of the room, Brad changed direction in mid-step and charged after them. Claire, fearing the worst, took off in Brad’s wake. She had no idea what was about to happen, but it looked like a calming influence would come in handy.
She arrived in time to witness the look of horror, followed by burgeoning fury on the young woman’s aristocratic face as she looked up to find Brad glaring at her with all the wrath of an old testament prophet.
“Don’t say it!” the girl snapped. “I’m nineteen, Brad. I can vote and drink and fuck and all those good things. So be a good cuz and just go away.”
Claire had never felt so old. This beautiful, elegant foul-mouthed child was related to Brad?
“Shut up, Melanie,” he barked. “What I have to say to you will be done in private. It’s your friend here I want to talk to.” Claire shivered at the malevolence, cold and hard, on Brad’s face.
“You’re not my father,” Melanie countered, though her bravado slipped a bit. “You have no right to say anything. To either of us.”
Brad ignored her. Turning to her companion, who had remained seated due to a callused hand pressed tight against his shoulder, Brad’s manner suddenly switched to an affable drawl. “How are you this evening, doc? May I ask what you’ve done with Karen? Or is it Laura? Sorry, I just can’t seem to recall which wife you’re on at the moment.”
“Damn you, Blue, let me up!”
Brad appeared surprised to see his large capable hand resting on the doctor’s shoulder. “Why, of course, Tremaine,” he purred, raising both hands out and to his sides, “by all means get up. Why don’t we take this little discussion right on out the door?”
Dr. Todd Tremaine subsided into his chair, not moving a muscle. “Look, Blue, my wife and I are separated. I’ve moved into a condo, and I’m a free agent. Melanie’s past the age of consent, so there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” He turned a man-to-man smile up to Brad’s great stone face. “Christ, man, I’ve only got a few years on you. Nobody who’s getting it on with Diane Lake can possibly think men our age are over the hill. So why don’t you just . . .” Todd Tremaine’s voice died as he caught a glimpse of Claire hovering at Brad’s side. In sick horror he watched the cold steel of Brad’s eyes flare into glowing rage.
The doctor raised both hands before his face as Claire grabbed Brad’s right arm. No matter what the provocation, they were not going to be involved in a barroom brawl at Bud’s Fish Camp. Not while Claire Langdon had breath in her body.
Her hand shone white against Brad’s tanned right arm. Small, physically ineffectual. She felt the muscles in his arm pulse as he considered tossing off her infinitesimal restraint.
The moment stretched. Melanie Whitlaw, no longer defiant, never took her eyes off Brad, while her doctor friend’s face went from pale to sickly green. Neither seemed to doubt Brad’s capacity for violence. After tonight, neither did Claire. She watched in frozen suspension as Brad lowered his eyes to her hand, then slowly placed his left hand over hers. The gesture’s message was clear. Okay, you win.
But the incident was far from over. Claire could feel the tension still radiating through Brad’s arm and wasn’t surprised when he added, “Now listen carefully, Tremaine. You can chase all the pussy you want as long I never see you anywhere near Melanie again. It doesn’t matter a goddamn if I have a legal right to say that or not. It’s just a simple fact. You’re too old and too married. Go play somewhere else.” He raised his eyes to his cousin and granted one small concession. “Can you handle this, or shall I take you home?”
“I can handle it.” It was a promise. Word of a Whitlaw.
“I’ll see you on site tomorrow, Mellie,” Brad said, the steel creeping back to his tone.
“I’m volunteering at the hospital.”
“Any time between seven and four, or I come and get you. Staying at Garrett’s condo, are you?”
Melanie nodded. Too late to benefit his wife, Garrett Whitlaw had purchased a modest-sized beachfront condo for the enjoyment of his family. It featured a deadbolt lock with which, on occasion, Garrett insured his own privacy. Since Garrett’s liaisons were few and far between, his children were seldom turned away from the door. And when they were . . . a twenty-mile drive home was not, after all, the end of the world, though both Melanie and Slade had had occasion to think so in the wee hours of the morning.
“Well?” Brad demanded, adding ominously, “I’d rather not mention this to Garrett.”
“I’ll come out on lunch break.” No longer defiant, Melanie Whitlaw’s tone held a detectable quiver. Claire, surprised, actually felt sorry for the girl.
Brad nodded a curt acceptance, scooped a hand under Claire’s elbow and headed back to their table.
Chapter Fifteen
As the pickup jounced along the sandy road back to civilization, Claire couldn’t dismiss the nasty episode with Melanie Whitlaw. “Weren’t you a little hard on her?” she asked.
“Maybe. This isn’t my most even-tempered night in memory. But in spite of what you heard, Mellie and I have always had a good relationship. There may be a big age difference, but we’re still first cousins, which makes us compadres. We can say just about anything to each other.”
They certainly could. Claire’s slight sniff resounded through the cab, leaving little doubt about her reaction to that little gem.
Brad swore silently. How could he blame Claire for being confused by the odd love-hate relationships in the Whitlaw family, when he had long since given up trying to understand them himself? He simply went with the flow. Action. Reaction. He supposed he ought to do something about it one of these days. Or maybe he was. Wasn’t that something women did well? Soothe ruffled feelings, smooth rough edges? If he had a wife . . .
“Melanie used to be such a sweet kid,” Brad said, “but losing a mother is tough, and Garrett was already so involved in politics as well as the ranch that he just couldn’t handle it all.” He groped in the dark for Claire’s hand, seizing it in a firm but gentle grip. “Look, Claire, I’m sorry about tonight. I had such big plans, then everything got shot to hell. Mostly by me. Any chance you’ll forgive me?”
“I’m just grateful we’re not surrounded by police and ambulances,” Claire retorted. “How did you manage your old job with a temper like that?”
“I mostly worked undercover. It was an asset. Added to my image.”
Like the thin veneer of civilization that hugged the coastal edges of the Florida peninsula, Brad Blue’s outer image masked a wild interior. Dark, dangerous, passionate. Could she live with a “Me Tarzan, You Jane,” relationship? What she’d had with Jim had come all too close. If only she had challenged Jim about his job, the source of their affluence. If only she had made an effort to penetrate the secretiveness that surrounded his role in InterBank’s transactions . . .
If only. The saddest words in the English language.
She’d been a pushover for one dynamic head-strong husband. No way was it going to happen again.
Some choice. Brad Blue was too dynamic, too volatile. Bad husband material. Very bad. One word, and he would take her home. She’d be back at her computer at T & T, Brad at his housing development, and never the twain would meet. She could live lonely forever after. Bitter. Wrapped in ifs and might-have-beens.
Or . . .
Temptation. Urgent. Insane.
You’re a fool, girl. Blind, out-of-your-ever-lovin’-mind. Weak, gullible pushover of the year.
“The evening could use a better ending.” If this was a pivotal moment—accepting Brad the Bad along with Brad the Golden God—Claire could only pray she’d made the right decision.
Abruptly, Brad downshifted and swung hard left onto a deserted two-lane road that roughly paralleled the Calusa River. There were no houses, no lights, no signs of life. They cruised down the straight dark road at a speed that made Claire wonder what happened if an alligator decided he preferred the swamp on the far side of the road. The gator, though well armored, might not survive the crash, but neither would the pickup. And alligators did their prowling at night. Claire was back to gritting her teeth and chanting to herself, Uncle Sam’s Drivers’ Ed, Uncle Sam’s Drivers’ Ed . . .
Far to the south, somewhere over the Everglades, lightning flashed, flickering across the clouds like a gigantic display of northern lights. There was no echoing rumble. The storm was probably seventy or eighty miles away.
Brad braked, swung hard left, then slowed to a halt. The pickup’s headlights revealed a broad well-paved road that curved gently off into the wilderness along the river. Obviously brand new, the road was curbed and guttered as if it had strayed from the suburbs by mistake. Strategically placed cane palms made a graceful frame on either side. A large sign proclaimed, “AMBER RUN.” Painted beneath it was an elegant three-story Key West home.
Shadowed Paradise Page 17
