So this was it, Claire thought. Brad’s dream. “Amber,” she mused. “For the river?”
“That’s right. Couldn’t very well call it ‘Tea Run.’”
Despite Brad’s nonchalance, Claire could feel his pride. Amber Run might have broadened the rift with his grandfather, but it would vindicate That Blue Boy in the eyes of many skeptical old-timers. Amber Run was Brad’s baby, a money-consuming monster that had already taken two years of his life and, she suspected, every cent he had, plus all he could borrow. He had brought her to his most special place. These acres were a part of him. Would become a part of her if she came to work for him.
If she continued to see him . . . If, if, if . . .
“Great sign,” she murmured, “but how are you going to get people out here to see it?”
“Believe it or not, by day this is a busy access road to the Interstate. And when the models are ready, we’ll advertise.”
“Are you close to having a model ready?”
Brad grinned, pulled out his cell phone and began punching numbers. A double row of carriage lanterns came to life, their subtle glow just enough to light the dark winding road without looking garishly out of place in their jungle setting. Brad drove at a leisurely pace, allowing Claire to peer at the pines, live oaks and cabbage palms dotting Wade Whitlaw’s former pastureland. Within a mile the road divided, running north and south into the darkness. Brad threw the switch for the spotlights on the pickup’s roof, the lights that had terrified Claire the night they met on the flooded bridge. The lazy swell of the river leaped into focus before them. “We’ll have a common docking area here,” Brad said.
Claire caught the swish of a raccoon’s tail as it disappeared into the palmetto. A lumbering armadillo was trapped in the glare, unsure of which way to waddle. “Look!” Claire cried. “I’ll have to bring Jamie out here. I don’t think he’s ever seen an armadillo.”
“Place is lousy with them,” Brad said in disgust. “They poke their damn snouts into every bit of grass we have. Makes the place look like it’s littered with snakeholes. Not that it isn’t,” he added judiciously.
“Snakes?”
“All over the place, but we’re working on it. I mean, what can you do, they’ve lived here forever. Why don’t we bring Jamie out on Saturday? Just be sure he wears boots. You too.”
“What kind of snakes?” Claire demanded, not diverted by Brad’s casual tone.
“Indigo . . . they’re harmless. A few rattlers.”
“Rattlesnakes?” Claire’s voice rose to a squeak.
Brad’s grunt of assent oozed scorn and defiance, leaving her in no doubt that real Floridians knew they lived in Critter Territory. It was humans who needed to adapt.
“So that’s why you’re building houses on stilts,” Claire mocked.
Brad lost his attempt at insouciance. “For god’s sake, Claire, most of Golden Beach is built on rattlesnake country. “That’s one of the reasons most developers strip the land down to dirt before they build. I didn’t do that. I saved every tree I could, but it means lots of critters of every kind. Including wild pig,” he added judiciously. “Got a whole slew of wild pigs.”
Claire thought longingly of Central Park East. Of the gently rolling hills of Bedford.
Brad jerked the pickup into gear and headed down the road to the north, skidding to a stop before the towering outlines of the home featured on the Amber Run sign. He leaped down and strode around to Claire’s door, flinging it open, holding out his hand to help her down.
“I’m afraid to get out,” she told him.
“Okay”—Brad drew a deep breath—“let’s just say we’re getting all the negatives over in one night.”
Claire winced. His scowl could have rivaled one of the gargoyles on Notre Dame. She’d stepped on his toes big time. The Amber Run model was not supposed to be a negative. It was his pride and joy. The surprise he’d brought her to see. And she’d been flippant.
Because it was her only defense.
Without further protest, Claire let Brad help her down and walk her toward the wooden staircase that led up to a broad second-story deck remarkably similar to Virginia Bentley’s.
In spite of herself, Claire was intrigued. Shaggy clusters of pine needles quivered black against the charcoal sky. On one side, the foot-thick branch of a giant live oak thrust within inches of the deck railing, the upper branches of the venerable tree extending beyond the third floor cupola to disappear into the darkness far above. To build a three-story home with so little disturbance to the environment cost time and money. Claire gave credit where it was due. “I’m impressed,” she admitted.
“The ambiance is the whole point.”
Sometimes she forgot Little Boy Blue had seen the world. Mistake. The tunnel-vision arrogance of Claire Langdon of Manhattan and points east was hard to erase.
While Claire suffered from chagrin, Brad produced a professional-size flashlight to light their way up the stairs. “The roof only went on last week,” he explained as they entered the gaping rectangle that would become the front door.
Claire was immediately lost in a sea of two by fours. The wooden framing stretched into the darkness like some giant’s matchstick toy. There was no way she could distinguish one room from another.
“In two or three weeks it will begin to look like a house,” Brad assured her. “Five or six and you’ll be able to move in.” He paused, then took the leap. “You are going to sit this baby for me, aren’t you?”
Decision time. Not so difficult. The choice had been made back at the intersection with the dirt road to Bud’s Fish Camp. Brad Blue, for better or for worse.
“If you can guarantee no snakes,” was all she said.
“Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” Brad plunged back through the space that would someday be the front door and disappeared into the blackness of the night.
Move? How could she move when Brad had taken the flashlight? The cool dampness, the exotic scent of tropical jungle washed clean by the late afternoon rain drifted through the inky darkness. Sounds of the night closed in. The steady clack of cicadas, the peeps and chugs of frogs of all sizes, the hoot of a nearby owl. Something that sounded distinctly like a snarl. Oh, dear lord, Claire wondered, what else had come in through the wide-open door and window spaces?
A vision danced through her head. Mr. & Mrs. Home Buyer, having just paid four hundred thousand for their dream house in the pines, go down to the semi-enclosed garage under the house, open the door of their Lincoln Continental, and find a rattlesnake coiled on the front seat. Or maybe an alligator tail peeking out from under the chassis . . .
Light danced across the deck as Brad returned, unceremoniously dumping a large bundle at her feet. Before the flashlight flicked off, Claire got the message. Loud and clear. What Brad had brought from the truck was a sleeping bag, a comforter and a pillow.
Adrenalin soared. She’d said yes to sitting his matchstick models. Not to anything else.
But they both knew it wasn’t so. She was caught, hook, line and sinker. There was no way she could be near him and not be his. Phil Tierney might be able to manage it. Claire Langdon could not.
Moonlight filtered in, illuming Brad’s shadow as he spread the thick puff over the floor, placed the quilted sleeping bag on top, then, with a flourish, tossed the pillow precisely in place. “All the comforts of home.”
Pride dictated one last protest. “Brad,” Claire choked out, “I’ve got to tell you I think you’re better off with Diane Lake. You need a model sitter, fine. But I’m a widow, with child. As a mistress, I’d be a real washout.”
“Mistress!” Brad spluttered, rocking back on his booted heels. “What ark did you drag that from? I never took you for stupid, Ms. Langdon. Believe me, mistress is the last thing I have in mind.”
Silence while they both thought that one over. Brad snapped off the flashlight.
A jolt of pure sexual excitement shot through her as he clamped his hands on her shoulde
rs, gently but firmly pushing her down until she was sitting on the soft mound of bedding. He lowered himself beside her, his bulk an amorphous silhouette against the night sky, now faintly lit by a newly risen half moon. With what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh of exasperation, Brad dropped his head onto his knees. Claire had to resist the impulse to run her fingers through his long mane of tightly bound hair, ghostly pale in the moonlight. To bend just a little, gather him into her arms. To ignore reality. To murmur platitudes designed to fool them into thinking their worlds could coincide.
Impossible. They simply couldn’t make this work.
“Okay, I’ve been a real pain tonight,” Brad declared, straightening his shoulders but keeping his eyes fixed on the window space, where the half moon moved like an elusive wraith behind the thick leaves of the oak. “But there’s something I planned to say, and—dammit—I’m going to do it anyway. Just don’t say no. Don’t say anything until you’ve heard me out. All right?”
He wasn’t . . . He couldn’t . . . They barely knew each other . . .
No way. For a moment she’d let her imagination shift into warp mode. Ridiculous! Silently, Claire nodded.
“This shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Brad began, sounding more like a belligerent defense attorney in a courtroom than a lover. “From the night we met I’ve known you’re the woman for me. And if you don’t feel the same way, you sure are one hell of an actress.”
His words echoed back at him through the darkness. Shit! He was doing it all wrong. Sounding his death knell with every syllable. But if he looked at her, he’d be totally fucked up. He’d grab and take. Never getting to the honorable bits he was determined to lay at her feet. So to hell with it, he’d gaze at the moon behind the oaks and make his speech, just as he’d planned. Even if the evening had been a bitch so far and showed few signs of improving any time soon.
“I think Jamie’s a great kid,” he continued doggedly, “and he seems to like me. Your grandmother likes me. She tells me your parents will like me . . .”
“You spoke to Ginny about us?” Claire burst out.
Hell, from her ominous tone he’d whiffed the ball again. Dugout, Blue. Now! “Yeah,” he asserted, “we’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Right down the line.”
“That’s outrageous . . .”
“Shut up, Claire. I haven’t finished yet.” Ignoring her indignant intake of breath, he ploughed on. “On paper I’m worth a small fortune, but I owe half again as much as I’m worth. I could end up with nothing but my government pension.”
He paused, inviting comment. The silence seethed, but Claire said nothing.
“You already know I’ve got the devil of a temper, but I’ve never hit a woman in my life. I’m not easy to live with, but temperament isn’t all bad,” he added slyly. “Makes for plenty of passion between the sheets.”
“No sheets,” Claire pointed out, eyeing the mound of bedding.
“Cute. I may not hit women,” Brad declared slowly, swinging round to face her, “but that doesn’t preclude wringing necks.”
Dear God, she’d done it again. Raw nerves exploding into a joke at entirely the wrong moment. Brad might have set a new record for awkward marriage proposals, but he was deadly serious. Defensive, seemingly indifferent, because he thought the city society girl might say no.
And she’d given him . . . levity.
He hadn’t been brave enough to say he loved her. Probably took it for granted. But he’d been on the verge of an old-fashioned proposal of marriage, complete with permission from her eldest relative. Feminists would rise up in arms, but, truthfully, now she thought about it . . .
Okay, she had to point out the obvious. “We’ve known each other less than a month.”
“So? You react to every man who asks you out the way you react to me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The idea was so absurd Claire felt forced to add, “I don’t think there is anyone else like you.”
“Well?” Brad challenged.
In the moonlight filtering through the open spaces that would become doors and windows, Claire could see him better now, recognize the anxiety behind the single word that was redolent with the chip-on-the-shoulder attitude of the boy who had once been known as Little Boy Blue. It screamed of the farm kid from Florida’s back country who knew exactly what he was reaching for when he proposed marriage to Claire Langdon of the Connecticut shoreline, Central Park East, and Bedford, New York. The gap was far wider than twelve hundred miles.And beneath the bravado he was also sensitive enough to recognize that for Claire, the word marriage brought back the ego-shattering memories of disillusionment and the nightmare that came after.
Passion was so easy, Claire thought. It was love that was frightening. Even in the very best early days of her marriage to Jim their love was tempered by reason, good breeding, good manners. With Brad, she wanted, she needed. He was larger than life. A roaring flood washing her away into unmarked territory.
Yet how could she make a commitment to him when marriage had brought her so much pain?
She wanted. She loved. Oh yes, she loved. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Patience was not one of Brad’s virtues. If Claire needed a little help making up her mind . . . The lemony scent she liked to wear filled his senses, mingling with the scent of Claire herself. All female, quivering on the edge of passion. Warm, wanting . . . frightened. Hell, he wasn’t above a little seductive persuasion.
“Give me a month,” she was saying. “Just to catch my breath. I don’t think we should leap into this.”
He had always been ruthless about getting what he wanted. A distinct asset in his job, but perhaps not the best quality in romantic relationships. With Diane Lake he’d never had to use it until the night they parted. Diane had been ruthless enough for both of them.
Brad traced Claire’s lower lip with his thumb. “Okay,” he agreed with deceptive mildness. “I can live with that. Just keep in mind that you’re mine. I’ll keep the ring in my pocket, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re already engaged.”
Ring. He had a ring. Well, of course he did. He’d made it obvious this was no spur of the moment proposal . . .
Thought ceased.
Somehow Claire was flat on her back, her head neatly nestled in the pillow. Brad’s hands were already up under her shirt, busy with the front hook of her bra.
“No!” She grabbed his wrists, which turned out to be a bit like latching onto the steel girders of a skyscraper.
Brad froze. Nothing moved but his lips. “For God’s sake, why not?”
Claire crumpled. “Because I’m terrified,” she wailed. “Because you fill my life, my world, my soul until there is nothing else. I can’t, I won’t let myself be overwhelmed by you. All you have to do is look at me and I forgive you anything. Touch me and I’m yours. Which must surely make me some kind of whore. Certainly a fool. I once thought I was a candidate for wife and mother of the year. Snug, smug, and blind in my glittering uppercrust nest.”
Pain slashed through her as she recalled her fool’s paradise. “I promised myself I’d never be that stupid again. No matter how I feel about you, I have to remember I have a son, and making a home for him is more important than any of my own selfish needs.” Claire gulped as tears threatened. She was a blind, stubborn idiot, but no way was she going to leap without a good long look.
“So you love me,” Brad murmured, moving in to brush his lips over hers.
Her head whirled. Obviously, they were as well-matched in stubbornness as they were in passion. Like the old Claire, Brad heard only what he wanted to hear. She opened her mouth to protest and found it filled with an extra tongue. Large, hot, and agile enough to work the line at a pretzel factory. Her toes uncurled only when he pulled back far enough to breathe, “You do love me, you know,” before turning his attention to her cheeks, licking the salty drops that clung there.
Claire made one last stab at sanity. “It’s just sex,” sh
e declared. “Great sex. You’re a wicked, charming hunk, Mr. Blue. The icing on any woman’s cake. But it’s infatuation, that’s all it is. And I can’t live the rest of my life on froth.”
“Froth!” Brad reared back. “Froth, is it, Ms. Langdon?” He grabbed her hand and placed it on the bulging front of his jeans. “Does that feel like froth?” he demanded.
Claire was decidedly right-handed, so the blow that hit him across the face with her free left hand was not her best effort.
Shit! He’d messed up again. He should have known better. Diane would have laughed and tightened her grip. Phil would have hit him a lot harder.
Very carefully Brad raised both hands shoulder high, palms out. “I apologize. I’m a crude, rude Florida cracker. I usually don’t act like this, and I can’t even blame it on the full moon.” He looked at her hopefully, his lips quirking into a little smile. “Wanna try again?”
“You’re hopeless.” Claire sighed.
“Look, woman. I love you. I want to marry you. I want your body so much I damn near embarrass myself every time I’m in the same room with you. If that’s not enough inducement for a little midnight trysting, I don’t know what is.”
O-kay, Claire thought, there was nothing in the rule books that said she couldn’t enjoy herself while she was making up her mind. As long as she kept a clear head.
Fat chance.
Correctly assessing Claire’s lack of response for the waffling it was, Brad stretched his length on the hard wood floor beside the mounded sleeping bag and comforter. Propped on one elbow, he hovered over Claire’s face. “So?” he inquired smoothly.
Claire fixed her gaze on the moon, which was still making its way through the branches of the massive oak. Somehow she had to explain that silence didn’t mean yes.
“I’m hurting, woman,” Brad pronounced dolefully. He nibbled at her ear lobe, deftly lipping away a mouthful of dangling cloisonné. “What’s it going to take, Ms. Langdon?” he murmured into her ear. “Sackcloth and ashes?”
Shadowed Paradise Page 18
