Paradise Burning

by Blair Bancroft

  The fact was, the invitation had slipped out without planning and most definitely without her usual meticulous analysis. The nuances, the inherent implications of the invitation had not reared their dangerous heads until later. So, fine, at this crucial moment Mandy needed all the chaperons she could get, lest she succumb to the tumult of emotions that raged inside her, threatening to overwhelm the Kingsley-Armitage cool.

  Fortunately, realizing every eye was on them, avidly waiting to see what happened next, was enough to dampen the ardor of Casanova, let alone a couple whose relationship was as fragile as a mayflower hiding in leafy undergrowth in a New England woods. No problem. She’d be able to throw a private birthday party for her husband in the intimacy of her RV with no unexpected consequences.

  “This is it,” Mandy said brightly, waving her flashlight over the side of her sleek RV. “And next door,” she added more softly, nodding toward the giant fifth wheel fifteen feet away, “is the campground’s biggest gossip.”

  Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Great,” he ground out. “So let’s see the inside of this torture chamber of yours.” In the looming shadows between the two massive recreational vehicles his familiar features seemed to have sharpened into those of a hulking predator. A frustrated hulking predator.

  Inwardly, Mandy groaned. He had expected more than birthday cake for dessert.

  “Mustn’t let dinner dry out,” Mandy mumbled and bounded up the RV’s steps, Fate striding hard on her heels.

  Somehow, in the few minutes since she’d gone to meet Peter, the RV had shrunk. It simply wasn’t big enough for both Mr. and Mrs. Pennington. Maybe if Peter wasn’t completely filling the narrow aisle . . .

  “Sit.” With an imperious wave of her hand, Mandy indicated the bench seat on one side of the dinette table. He sat. Turning abruptly away, she retrieved a bottle of wine from the small refrigerator, then grabbed a winged corkscrew off the counter where she had carefully positioned it. She shoved both into his hands.

  There! That should keep him occupied for a few moments.

  She tried to breathe, but managed only a ragged gasp. Damn! This wasn’t going well.

  Peter looked at the wine bottle, looked at Mandy. Her face was approaching the color of a boiled lobster. Evidently, the torture wasn’t one-sided. Maybe there was hope yet. He set the wine and the opener on the table, taking care not to knock over the place settings and wine glasses that took up most of the surface. With seeming nonchalance, he examined the interior of the RV. “Nice. But isn’t it a bit small for a girl raised on a hundred-acre estate?”

  Small. Minuscule. Closing in with every ragged breath she took. “Maybe that’s why I like it,” she managed.

  Peter nodded toward the door at the rear of the RV. “Bedroom?” he asked, raising one dark brow.

  “You can take the grand tour after supper.” She couldn’t have said that! “Peter . . . open the wine. The chicken’s drying out.”

  “A personally conducted tour?” he inquired hopefully.

  Mandy’s green eyes flared. “This RV’s thirty feet from nose to tail. I think you can find your way.”

  “Well, Happy Birthday to me,” he sighed, and turned his attention to the bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  Mandy winced. Score one for Peter. Not that she hadn’t wished him Happy Birthday that morning, but tonight she’d been so caught up in a disastrous case of the sexual flutters, compounded by what-will-the-neighbors-think? that she’d flunked Hostessing 101. Cooking wasn’t enough. She should have taken a course in people skills.

  The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Wasn’t that why she’d learned to cook? Yet now, at the moment of truth, she was running scared. Peter had thought she was offering herself along with dinner . . . When she, quite deliberately, had refused to think beyond the iron curtain of cake and candles.

  Food. Concentrate on the food. On the small triumph of proving she really could cook. If Peter dared sneer at her offering, she was going to shatter into a thousand pieces.

  No she wasn’t. She’d boot him head first down the RV’s steps. Good riddance!

  Food. Think food.

  Not wanting to push her rarely used knowledge to greater heights than she could manage, she had stuck to the relative simplicity of Chicken Cordon Bleu, pilaf with toasted pine nuts, a green salad that had not come out of a bag, with fresh herbs and a vinaigrette dressing she made herself. And, thank God, Peter was not only making all the appropriate noises, he actually seemed to be chewing with relish.

  Not that she really wanted to worm her way into his heart, of course. Pride demanded this triumph. He’d never be able to tease her about her cooking again.

  She was such a liar.

  Intellectually, Peter knew great French chefs had no need to fear the competition of Chef Mandy, but, personally, he’d never tasted more delicious food. She’d done good. But what an ass he’d been in the past. How many times had he hurt the feelings of his little Mouse, who couldn’t help the way she’d been raised?

  What the . . . ? While he was refilling their wine glasses and thinking deep thoughts, Mandy had disappeared. He was facing the RV’s entry door, and she hadn’t gone that way, so she must have gone into the bedroom in back.

  Bedroom. Was he supposed to follow? Was this dessert? Somehow he doubted it, even though blood was rushing to his groin, completely oblivious to cool-it signals from his brain.

  A long fifteen seconds later, Mandy reappeared, clutching a colorful gift-wrapped package, large enough that she had to turn it sideways to get it through the door. In spite of a glittery bow, trailing a stream of curling ribbons, the package had that hand-wrapped look. That did it. He almost groaned aloud. Mandy had cooked him a gourmet meal. She’d bought him a present, wrapped it herself. He could actually feel his insides warming, years of accumulated hard edges sloughing off. Guilt, arrogance, even defensiveness drained away, turning his brain and heart to sentimental mush. Except for one vital part of his anatomy that had gone in the opposite direction. He was hard as the proverbial rock.

  The neighbors. Remember the nosy damn neighbors!

  Peter tore off the wrapping paper, sucked in his breath as he saw the misty greens and browns of a Florida jungle surrounding a dark, slow-flowing river. In minimal brush strokes the artist had indicated the snout of an alligator, the rings left by a jumping fish, and a great blue heron poised on the bank.

  “I suppose it’s silly to give you a painting of the view you see every day,” Mandy said, “but it was so well done, and beautifully framed . . .”

  “I love it. Thank you.” He didn’t dare say another word. He was walking through a mine field, with no idea of where to step next. But he squeezed her hand as she took the painting from him and propped it up on the sofa.

  Once again she disappeared into the bedroom. Maybe this time he was supposed to follow . . ? His erection was painful, demanding attention. It had been so damn long. Two whole years since that ill-fated reunion in Manhattan.

  So what was she doing back there? Slipping into something slinky? Getting naked?

  Get real, Pennington. That wasn’t the dessert his Mouse had in mind. She was probably lighting thirty-seven candles. Or, more likely, preparing a bombe surprise. Something designed to blow up in his face. She couldn’t actually be giving in at last. Unless . . .

  Stud service. That’s what she wanted. Not a full-time genuine husband, but stud service. Nothing else explained her sudden about-face.

  Shit!

  Mandy came through the rear door singing, “Happy Birthday,” her expression more determined than festive, a nominal number of candles twinkling before her. As she set the cake in front of him, her voice wobbled. Had she run out of breath, he wondered, or lost her nerve?

  Peter forgot everything as he looked down at the cake. He gaped.

  “I didn’t do it,” Mandy said hastily. “I ordered it from the bakery.”

  Sure she had, but he knew who had orchestrated the design. Although
traditional pink roses clung to the rectangular sides of the cake, most of the top was covered by the outline of a book cover. Written on it in black icing was the title of his latest novel and his name on two lines at the bottom.

  “Mandy . . .” He was speechless.

  “Blow out the candles.”

  Automatically, he complied. Was this forgiveness? Calculated seduction? Or was she just waiting for him to make a pass and then she was going to slam him to the floor?

  She was the only child of Eleanor Kingsley and Jeffrey Armitage. Deliberate torture seemed the most likely scenario.

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

  She removed the candles, set two dessert plates beside the cake, handed him a serrated knife. “Cut the cake. I’ll get the ice cream.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Keeping his eyes on the cake and his lips zipped, he cut two portions and watched as Mandy put the just the right amount of Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Bean on each. After all these years, she’d remembered.

  Great cake, his favorite ice cream, but his tastebuds had gone as numb as his brain. Was Mandy giving him a preview of the future, the two of them living together in cozy harmony? Or was she demonstrating what might have been if he hadn’t been such an idiot?

  If he’d been wiser. Less arrogant.

  If Mandy hadn’t been tied to the family apron strings with chains of steel?

  Peter’s mind snapped back into focus, and he caught her staring at him, green eyes wide with something that looked remarkably like panic. What the hell? He couldn’t have hit any hot buttons while eating cake and ice cream.

  Mandy laid her fork on her plate, gritted her teeth, and plunged her hands into her lap to conceal their shaking. It was bad enough before, with Peter’s presence filling the room, but now that the meal was over, the RV had become a trash compactor, the walls inexorably squeezing in, forcing two disparate personalities into one. She was truly reduced to Mandy Mouse, a small trapped thing, frozen in place, unable to escape.

  Or perhaps simply unwilling?

  She had to move. Box up the cake, rinse and stack the dishes. Find a way to ease Peter out the door.

  She inched off the bench seat as if her weight had burgeoned to two tons, levered herself to her feet, gathered up the cake plates and utensils, moved the few steps to the sink. Think about something else! Think of sharing cake tomorrow with Claire, Jamie, and Bubba. With Glenda and Ed—

  “I’ll wash up,” Peter said, his mouth somehow close to her ear, his solid bulk pressing in behind her.

  Startled, Mandy jumped back, straight against the length of him. The fully aroused considerable length of him. His arms enveloped her. A gentle home-at-last hug. She was quite certain nothing had ever felt so good. So warm and comforting. So right.

  So utterly insane.

  “Great dinner,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Peter . . . I—”

  “Look, I know you haven’t forgiven me, and I can’t say as I blame you. I even respect your determination to be independent. Working for AKA is like being attached to some kind of hydra-headed dragon. No matter what you do, it keeps rearing one more ugly head. It was stupid to think you’d leap from one prison into another.” Peter released his hold, stepped back as far as the narrow aisle would permit.

  Mandy, keeping her back to him, worked hard to stifle a whimper.

  “But,” Peter added, “there’s absolutely no reason we can’t enjoy ourselves simply as two consenting adults, now is there? Why pussy foot around each other when we have the means, opportunity, and inclination to see if the old spark is still there? Why torture ourselves, don’t you agree?”

  Mandy clutched the edge of the sink, hung on tight. “You just want to get laid.”

  “That too.”

  “And just what do you think that will do to our professional relationship?” she inquired, struggling for lofty indifference to the firestorm within.

  “Add a bit of spice?”

  Mandy closed her eyes, gripped the stainless steel sink even harder. Where was logic when she needed it? Peter’s argument was fatuous at best. Self-serving. Typical male bullshit.

  “We’re married, Mouse.”

  Ah. Now he was sounding desperate.

  “You can tell the neighbors in the morning.”

  Mouth open, she swung round to face him, doing a fast side-step as her hip brushed the rock-hard rigidity of his arousal. “Tell them what?” she asked when she got her breath back.

  “That we’re married. Separated but working on a reconciliation.”

  “Oh.” The RV wavered around her, as a tidal wave of awareness threatened to pierce the cocoon she’d wrapped around herself. Threatened everything she was. Everything she’d believed so steadfastly for so long.

  “You don’t have to tell them anything, of course,” Peter continued, as if oblivious to all but the practicalities of the moment, “but I thought you were worried about what they’d think.”

  The man had an answer for everything. But Pennington’s pragmatism was a long way from romance. Foolish girl, if you want romance, you should have fallen in love with someone else.

  “No strings, no obligations, Mouse. Just a hot affair while we figure out if it’s a wildfire or an everlasting flame.”

  Okay, two could play this game. “You deduced all this from Chicken Cordon Bleu and birthday cake?”

  “Don’t forget the painting. And the Häagen-Dazs.”

  Damn him for being right. She’d offered him every come-on in her limited arsenal. How could she possibly blame him for expecting she was included with dessert? It wasn’t as if the tensions zinging around them as they worked together each day weren’t strong enough to singe the furniture.

  She’d been pretty naive to think Peter wouldn’t . . . Aw, come on, girl. Admit it. If he hadn’t made a pass, you’d be desolate.

  So . . . She’d only have to tell Glenda. By nightfall the entire campground would know she was married to Peter Pennington. But the price was high, the toll on her emotions too painful to contemplate.

  Yet could anything be worse than the glacial limbo they’d been living in since she arrived? Polite tolerance, subtle evasions. The longing. The sleepless nights. To hell with being Miss Proper Bostonian. To hell with being the wounded spouse. Let the compactor do its worst. What better time for a hot and steamy affair than a chilly March night?

  That was bravado talking. A blatant, and misguided, declaration that she, too, was capable of looking on their relationship as an experiment. An affair. Let’s see how it fits, baby.

  Mandy shuddered.

  At AKA, it was her job to make sure there were as few risks as possible. Basically, deep down, she was anti-risk. But this wasn’t a mission, this was personal. The only thing she would be risking was her heart. And she’d had a lot of experience dealing with that particular pain.

  An affair. No lasting commitment required. Sort of a license to make love. The thought curled her toes. And sent a flow of moisture to join the dampness that had sprung into readiness the moment her hip encountered Peter’s erection.

  Get a grip! Mandy had to swallow hard before she could force her vocal cords into action. “I do believe it’s time for the grand tour,” she drawled. Peter’s amber eyes flared to feral intensity. Shoving aside all the grand promises she had made to herself—strictly business, cold shoulder, supreme indifference—on the long drive south, Mandy seized his hand and towed him toward the bedroom.

  Peter followed her down the center aisle with all the eager awkwardness of a puppy trailing a new master, his head too filled with whirling lights and explosions of joy to keep from stumbling over his own big feet. It worked? She fell for it. He’d actually found a way around Mandy’s stiff-necked pride, her flat-out stubbornness. His wife was dragging him into her bedroom. The black hole at the end of the aisle. Nirvana.

  Maybe that’s where she kept the handcuffs, whips, and chains.

  St
ud service. You’re being used, Pennington.

  At the moment he couldn’t care less.

  Peter leaned against the door jamb and inspected the room that was illuminated only by light drifting in from behind him. Mandy, evidently snapped back to the caution of the mouse kingdom, had dropped his hand and was standing two feet away, wedged between the queensize bed and a built-in chest of drawers. Her face, set in a mask, was deathly pale.

  Damn! She was having second thoughts.

  “Hey, Mouse,” he said, his voice pitched to a sexy whisper, “I’m a writer, remember? I’d like to propose a scenario.” He hitched a quick breath and plunged on. “We never met ‘til you came to work for me. We’ve been pussy-footing around a mutual attraction ever since. Let’s face it, anyone with half an eye could see the sizzle rising above the house. Enough to roast a few birds and squirrels, send the vultures into a feeding frenzy.”

  Mandy’s set face softened. She choked on a giggle. “You do have a gift for fiction.”

  Peter waved her to silence, raised his eyes to the low ceiling, as if searching for inspiration. “This is the first time we’ve allowed ourselves to follow our inclinations. Professional ethics be hanged, let’s let ourselves go. What’s a little sex between colleagues?”

  “You know, Pennington, you’re about as romantic as an old shoe.”

  “Mea culpa, but I promise to improve. Flowers, candy, dinner, dancing, movies, the theater. You name it, I’ll arrange it. Peter Pennington, maker of magic.”

  “And what if I hold you to that?”

  “Sold. It’s a deal.” He held out his hand.

  “Anyone tell you you’re decidedly weird?”

  “All the time.” He wiggled his fingers. “Well? Do I have to chase you?” With two of them in a room that was mostly bed and Peter filling the only exit, they both knew where a chase would end.

  Instead of taking his hand, Mandy bent down and lifted the hem of her skirt.

  Peter blinked. The black and white dress had been a slinky bit of nothing, but what she was wearing underneath was . . . As the dress pooled at Mandy’s feet, Peter’s jaw fell open. His Mouse wore Victoria’s Secret? What had to be its most minimal design? In see-thru black?