Paradise Burning

by Blair Bancroft

  “Because you’d feel so much worse if you didn’t try?” Mandy ventured.

  Peter snorted in disgust. “It’s ubiquitous, Mouse. Every damn place you look. I bet Caesar’s legions had procurers in conquered cities ahead of their baggage trains. London’s madams were famous for haunting coaching inns. They’d take some fresh-faced lass just in from the country, give her food, shelter, win her confidence. And, bingo, she’d find herself flat on her back repaying her kindly benefactress the only way she could. Nowadays, it’s pimps with pretty words and large doses of pseudo love and drugs. Then it’s ‘Hey, baby, you owe me. How you gonna pay?’ And, believe me, boys get the same come-on. Girls aren’t the only marketable commodity on the sex market.

  “I never thought about the boys,” Mandy breathed.

  “There’s something about the boys that gets to me—shared gender, maybe. They often live better, are more cherished than the girls, but drugs or disease still get them in the end. Or they’re so overwhelmed by what they’ve become that they can never go back, can never become the men they should have been.”

  “What you’re saying,” Mandy said, analyzing Peter’s words, “is that it doesn’t matter what makes kids leave home, even those who think they’re leaving home for a better life end up having to sell sex to stay alive?”

  “That’s only Chapter One, Mouse. The well-known tip of the iceberg.”

  “Well, it wasn’t well known to me,” Mandy muttered. “Eleanor’s anti-trafficking missions were always far, far away. And never as interesting as the work Jeff was doing. Or so I thought,” she added softly. “Even when Kira was killed, the pain was personal. I didn’t really mourn the failure of the mission. Which makes me as guilty of looking the other way as everyone else.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Mouse. Trafficking’s not high on anybody’s list of vital causes. Except Eleanor and Interpol.”

  “You said you’d seen a lot on your travels. “Did you . . . I mean, have you ever? . . .”

  “Gone with men?” Peter’s incredulous roar reverberated through the car.

  “Heavens, no!” Mandy gasped. “I mean, did you ever, um . . . pick up a phone and . . .?”

  “Pay for it?” Peter was torn between insult and smug satisfaction. Was it possible his Mandy Mouse was a wee bit jealous? His turn to twist the knife. “I’ve paid out a lot actually”—he paused for effect—“all in thanks-but-no-thanks gratuities.” He glanced at Mandy who was sitting primly, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Was I a monk, Mouse? You know damn well I wasn’t, but somehow I’ve always gotten by without paying for it. Maybe I wouldn’t be having to do so much research if I had.”

  “I guess that means I was as close as you’ve ever come to having a whore.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You paid with quite a few years of your life to AKA.”

  Peter’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “AKA was a job,” he growled. “I was the one who was getting paid.”

  “You know marrying me was part of the job,” Mandy pointed out, her voice flat and deadly. “And in the end you found the price for being heir apparent more than you were willing to pay.”

  Tires squealed, the car bounced as Peter pulled off onto the grassy verge at the edge of the highway. He’d had a long, hard afternoon, and just when he was ready to enjoy some private time in his wife’s company, he got hit with this. Women!

  He’d never laid a hand on Mandy in anything but love and friendship, but the iron control that had gotten him through a myriad nasty places suddenly blew up in his face. He grabbed his wife by the shoulders, turned her to face him. “Now listen very carefully,” he demanded. “I went to AKA because I wanted to. Because I knew I was damn lucky to be recruited. Because I liked Jeff, and he made a hell of a role model.

  “And I married you”—Peter paused as a moving van rumbled by, its roar punctuating the constant zap-zap-zap of the smaller vehicles whizzing past on the Interstate—“I married you because I wanted to. Because we were right for each other. And I left . . .” With a groan Peter dropped his hands, horrified as he realized that Mandy would probably have bruises. Throwing his head back against the headrest, he closed his eyes. Why had he left? How could he explain?

  “I left because . . . AKA was a prison. Maybe it was just the secrecy. Maybe it was Eleanor playing God . . . and enjoying it so damn much. I left because I wanted to spring not only myself but my wife. I wanted my Mandy Mouse to have a life outside AKA where the world might be more frivolous . . . maybe even more dangerous. Where the colors were brighter, the people more varied. Where there was hustle and bustle and wide open spaces. I wanted her—you—to have the freedom to be what she wanted.”

  Peter allowed himself a glance at his wife. Her back to him, she seemed to be fascinated by the greenish expanse of lily pads on a pond beside the road. “And I wanted the same for me,” Peter admitted, wondering just how much of his soul he’d have to bare to touch a heart that had hardened beyond all recognition. “Okay, so I liked coming in from the cold. I liked having my name in bylines from around the world. I like writing best-sellers. You want to criticize, I guess you could say my ego was too big for the covert activity game. But I never planned to leave you, Mandy. Maybe your parents thought they were hiring me as prince consort, but I didn’t see it that way. We meshed, you and I. We were good together. I asked you to come with me, you know I did.”

  “The ever-noble Peter Pennington,” Mandy mocked. “I–I didn’t think you meant it,” she added on a low mumble.

  “You didn’t have the guts,” Peter snapped. “If you were a man, I’d say Eleanor had you by the balls. Good little Mandy who always followed orders, did just what mama said. The dutiful daughter. Loyalty to AKA above all else. It was like you’d never heard of a world that didn’t exist without a hard drive, a keyboard, and a mouse,” he concluded with scorn.

  Peter’s anger didn’t even subside when he saw a tear start to slide down Mandy’s cheek. She should have had a little remorse five years ago. Hell, he could have had a houseful of kids by now instead of being a de facto bachelor rattling around in a nine-room house on stilts all by himself.

  Sure. Great. Just blame it all on Mandy.

  Peter jerked the car back in gear, tires digging ruts in the grass as he accelerated into the southbound traffic. How many times had he told himself that Mandy was a product of her conditioning? She had been born into a family business that thrived on secrecy and intrigue and demanded unquestioning loyalty. Everyone from Jeff to the secretaries—and probably the maintenance men and the gardeners—were gung-ho certain they were helping save the world. Nor could Mandy be blamed if no one had bothered to show her the real world. If her conditioning had been strong enough to avert a rebellion during her college years, then how could a mere husband make a difference? A husband who was challenging everything Mandy had been brought up to revere? AKA wasn’t a job, it was a religion. No mortal could compete with a god.

  Out of the corner of his eye Peter saw Mandy fish a tissue out of her purse, wipe her cheeks, blow her nose. He’d be damned if a few drops of salt water were going to make him cave. She was going to have to figure this one out on her own.

  But by the time he pulled his car up next to hers in the space beneath the house, Peter knew he couldn’t just let her drive away. “Look, Mouse,” he said, keeping the motor running so the car wouldn’t turn into an oven, “I think we both deserve a drink, don’t you? And I’d like to see how your impression of the girls compares to mine.” Way to go, Pennington. Devious as hell.

  The great manipulator, Mandy thought, as she contemplated Peter’s peace offering. If he actually believed the crap he’d been feeding her, then he was rationalizing something that had never existed. She was Mandy Mouse, a drab master machine carefully programmed with tunnel-vision for whatever project she was working on at the moment. No one had ever wanted to steal her passport. Or invite her to party. Or
even looked as if they found her anything but competent.

  Not that she wanted them to, of course, but . . . just once it might have been nice to be treated as a desirable woman. To feel that a man wanted her for herself . . .

  But not that way. Not like Jade or Delilah or Fawn. Or the legions of women who had never had the privileges of an Amanda Armitage.

  She was such a fool.

  But not fool enough to slink off to Calusa Campground with her tail between her legs. Bring it on, Pennington. I can take it.

  Solemnly, Mandy watched while Peter constructed two gin and tonics, meticulously adding a slice of lime to each. The compleat bachelor playing host in the ultimate GQ bachelor stronghold. She followed him, five paces behind, carrying the bowl of cashew nuts he’d handed her in the kitchen. Cashew nuts—her favorites. Blast him!

  Mandy walked through the French doors onto the rear deck and simply stopped and stared. Hard to stay angry, or even feel put-upon, in a place like this. Stepping onto Peter’s deck was like stepping into life among the treetops, with the Calusa lapping at their feet. The late afternoon sun added to the panoply, peeking through the leaves and casting dancing shadows on the deck. The world around them even smelled . . . green—a combination of leaves, sap, sandy soil, leaf mold, and jungle river. And of more pungent calling cards left by birds and other Florida critters. It was heaven. Lucky Peter, to have discovered a place of such pristine beauty. Wise Peter, to have taken full advantage of it.

  The soft breeze flowing over the deck seemed to have picked up a cooling tang from the dark water below. And adding to the feeling of comfort, Mandy noticed, was a roof that extended over the first six feet of the twelve-foot deck, protecting the gallery from the worst of the day’s heat. Abandoning the nuts on a low table in front of a cluster of all-weather furniture, Mandy walked to the railing and gazed down toward the river.

  Peace. That’s what she wanted. She’d had harsh reality up to the eyeballs. She didn’t want to think about those three sad women in Manatee Bay. She didn’t want to wonder about the mystery of the long-haired blonde across the river or the barely leashed tiger in the man behind the chain link fence. She had enough problems of her own, thank you very much.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Peter breathed in her ear.

  He was warm and solid . . . pulsating with a mating call as old as time. Her legs threatened to buckle. Only the sudden tightening of a well-muscled arm around her shoulders kept her from tumbling over the railing. “Sorry,” Peter murmured into her hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Time to pull away, reestablish her independence. Instead, Mandy turned her head into Peter’s shoulder and slowly allowed her body to melt into the comfort of his oh-so-solid chest.

  She felt the sigh that shuddered through him. One of his hands came up to cup the back of her head while the other splayed against her back, tucking her tight against his instant arousal. Dear God, she really was a fool! She slid her hands to the small of his back and snuggled in.

  “Mandy? Mouse?” Peter, tentative and wary.

  Hopeful.

  Almost as if he actually cared, Mandy thought. But it was just pride. Pride of possession. While at the moment she had no pride at all. If he realized he didn’t have to ask . . . that all he had to do was take. Yet an hour in bed . . . a whole damn night—no matter how satisfying—would be like applying a Band-aid to a mortal wound. It just wouldn’t work.

  But what a Band-aid.

  “I’m thirsty,” Mandy declared, summoning her mother’s autocratic voice as she pulled out of Peter’s embrace. “And we should discuss our impressions of the interviews before I go.”

  Poker-faced, Peter stepped back. With a mocking bow and a grandiose sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit on a couch that was set back against the wall of the house. The gaping canyon between husband and wife was firmly back in place.

  Had she hurt his feelings? Mandy wondered. His masculine ego? Well, too damned bad. She flounced down onto the couch’s blue and white striped cushions. And let out an all-too-mouse-like squeak as the couch swung back, hit the house with a thump, then settled into a series of wild swings. Mandy had to plant her feet firmly on the deck, her hand hard on the couch’s outside arm to bring the motion to a halt.

  “You might have warned me,” she snapped, as she watched Peter carefully lower himself into a chair that matched the couch, including the platform rocker in its base.

  Peter put his palms together and sketched an elaborate salaam. “Mea culpa. I bought the couch just to torture you.” He thrust a gin and tonic at Mandy, then passed the cashew nuts.

  Mandy kept her eyes on the cashews to prevent Peter from seeing her twitching lips. She must have looked so-o-o ridiculous. “How about a truce?” she suggested. “We do the author-research assistant routine, maybe toss off a few friendly remarks here and there. But keep it professional, at least until we get our sea legs, so to speak.”

  When there was no reply, Mandy peeked. Peter seemed to be sadly contemplating his deflated lap. “Just how long do you think sea legs might take?” he inquired.

  “That was just an expression, a poor one—”

  “A euphemism for the twelfth of never?”

  “Ah . . . no.” That was supposed to be yes!

  “Okay, I can live with that.” Peter leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs. “So what did you think about Jade’s situation. Her husband going to kill her one of these days, or what?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  Peter flipped a cashew nut, caught it, narrowed his eyes at fingers frozen in mid-air. “If I found out you had a nice little whoring business going on the side, I’d be wa-ay pissed.”

  “But that’s diff—“ Mandy broke off. Score one for Peter.

  “You would have had the excuse of a five-year separation, while Jade’s living with the guy, sharing his bed, making children.”

  “But I never . . . ever—”

  “Not even once, Mouse?” Peter inquired softly. “Just to get back at me?”

  She wanted to lie. Tell him she’d worked her way through the AKA staff or—as long as she’d be lying through her teeth—the entire Red Sox roster. But she’d never lied to Peter and wasn’t about to start now.

  Mandy hugged her gin and tonic in both hands, seeking any support she could find. “As much as it pains me to admit it,” she responded calmly, “you’re my one and only. Not very enterprising of me, was it?”

  Oh, shit! Talk about a slice to the juggler. Not wanting Mandy to see his face, Peter gazed blindly across the deck toward the trees. His Mouse, his wife, had gone celibate for five years, while he’d cut a swath through Europe, Asia, South America, and Manhattan from the Village to the Upper West Side.

  So how hard had he tried to pry her away from AKA? Truth was, his ego had taken such a blow when she hadn’t instantly started packing that he’d let hurt feelings get in the way of reality. If he’d been more understanding . . . If he’d said the right words, made more of an effort to keep her by his side . . .

  “If it helps,” Mandy said, “I finally understood why you had to go. You’d had . . . I guess you could call it fun in our world, but you needed to be your own boss, make your own world. I’m truly sorry I couldn’t see my way clear to go with you. But perhaps if I had, you wouldn’t have gone so far, done so much. Become famous. No, don’t protest! We did what we did because we each felt we had no choice.”

  As she spoke, Peter gradually turned to face her. Slowly, he shook his head. “Mouse, I—”

  “Look at you!” Mandy said with a grandiose wave of her hand. “Women were bound to throw themselves at you. And me, I was stuck in a cement bunker with a bunch of nerds. And when I went on vacation—well, hey, you’re a pretty hard act to follow.”

  “The fact remains,” Peter declared grimly, “I’ve got to have the world’s mightiest case of chutzpah to think you would come back to me.”

  Mandy lifted
her gin and tonic in salute to the accuracy of his words. Her lips curled into a sardonic slant. “I like your house,” she admitted. “Nice bait.”

  Peter groaned, tossed off the rest of his drink. “Chalk one up for trying harder.” He stood, held out his hand. “Ready for a refill?”

  Silently, Mandy handed him her glass. Idiot! This was the time to run away and live to fight another day. Another drink as the sun sank lower, flirting with dusk, enhancing the lure of proximity, could only lead to disaster.

  Mandy followed Peter into the kitchen. “I’d better get going. Tonight’s Movie Night at the campground, and I promised to be there. My first participation in a group activity.” See, I have a life of my own. Like preferring an old movie to schmoozing with Peter Pennington. “See you tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for Peter’s reaction, Mandy slipped out the kitchen door and down the ramp to her car, leaving Peter looking after her, clutching half a lime and a paring knife.

  That night after the campground movie, which turned out to be an old-time farce with an acting team she particularly disliked, Mandy sat on the edge of her bed and eyed the alarm clock with loathing. She should have walked out on the movie, which everyone else seemed to be enjoying immensely, but she had told Peter she was going to be there and stay she would. Even if the movie made her nauseous. Nor did she want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Ed Cramer and his energetic right arm Glenda Garrison had gone out of their way to make sure Mandy knew it was Movie Night. Maybe if she could learn not to care about other people’s feelings? Mandy mused. If she could acquire the ability to lie a little, be more spontaneous. If, just for once, she dared do something different than she had said she would. But that was a form of deceit. And Amanda Armitage was never deceitful.