Dark Paradise

by Tami Hoag

  “How are you doing, Marilee? We heard you had a run-in with a burglar the other night.”

  “Yeah, or something.” She shrugged it off. “Lucky for me he hit me in the head. My head is generally considered hard to the point of being impenetrable.”

  “Not a laughing matter, angel,” he said with a frown. “You could have been killed.”

  “Could I?”

  “It happens.” It was his turn to shrug, as if to say violent death was just one of those things, an unforeseen inconvenience on any tourist's itinerary. “So when are you going to come out and spend a day at Xanadu? With all that's happened, you could probably use an afternoon by the pool with nothing to worry about.”

  With nothing to worry about except which of the snakes in Bryce's pit might be a murderer. What a relaxing scene—stretched out in a chaise with a daiquiri in one hand, scanning the suspects through the dark lenses of a pair of Wayfarers. Bryce and his court of vipers: the coke-snorting Judge Townsend, the shark lawyer Lucas. Maybe Bryce could fly in the sharpshooting Dr. Sheffield just to make things really interesting. Then Del Rafferty could climb up in the turret of Bryce's rustic palace and pick them all off one by one with an assault rifle. What a swell day that would be.

  “I'll let you know,” she said, brushing the wrinkles out of her jeans as she stood. “Break's over. Time to entertain the troops.”

  “Knock 'em dead, sweetheart.”

  He beamed a smile at her. Ever the benevolent monarch. He made his way toward his regular table, the high heels of his cowboy boots tilting his slim hips to an angle that encouraged swaggering. Waiting for him were Lucas, the actress Uma Kimball clinging to him like a limpet. There was no sign of Townsend. At the far end of the table, the bimbob was amusing himself by working his pecs behind a blue muscle shirt that looked like body paint. Sharon Russell was in her right-hand-man seat, wearing a black leather halter top with a neckline that plunged below table level and a scowl that would have done Joan Crawford proud.

  Mari grimaced as she shrugged her guitar strap over her shoulder. “Careful, Shar baby,” she muttered. “Didn't your mother ever tell you your face could stay that way? Guess not.”

  Samantha came in the side exit looking on the verge of tears. Bryce intercepted her and steered her back out the door. Drew stalked past the piano, through the crowd, and out the door that led to his office.

  Stepping up to the microphone, Mari strummed a chord and sang the opening line of a Mary-Chapin Carpenter tune, thinking that life around New Eden was getting curiouser and curiouser.

  J.D. heard her voice before he set foot in the lounge. Smoky and low, strong with emotion—pain, confusion, longing for something beyond her reach. He edged inside the door and stood in the shadows.

  She sat on a stool in front of a small band, a soft spotlight gilding her silver-blond hair in an aura of gold. Propped on her knee was the old guitar that seemed almost a part of her when she played it. Her fingers moved over the strings, plucking out a slow, melancholy tune. She sang of a relationship growing cold, a man slipping away behind a wall of silence and indifference; painful words left unspoken and hanging in the air, their invisible weight oppressive. A woman helpless to stop an inevitable loss. Regret for what might have been, but never would be.

  He thought he might have heard the song before, but he'd never heard it like this—with the ache of loss an almost palpable thing. He tried to shut out the words, tried to detach himself from the dull throb of guilt that reverberated in his chest with each low note on the guitar. He tried to tell himself he had no reason to feel guilty. He hadn't taken more than she had offered. Hell, he hadn't taken that much. With that thought came not vindication, but regret, and he shoved that aside as quickly and ruthlessly as the rest.

  Between verses he moved up along the wall and slid into a vacant chair at the far side of the stage area. Her eyes found his unerringly in the gloom. He thought her voice thickened a bit, but her fingers never faltered on the strings. As she plucked out the final notes, she dropped her head down near the body of the old guitar, her unruly mane tumbling forward to hide her face. She sat motionless while the crowd applauded, then set the guitar aside, walked off the stage, and out the side door.

  The trio struck up a jazz number. J.D. rose and cut in front of them to exit through the door Mary Lee had taken.

  “What's with you, Rafferty?” she asked as he stepped out onto the veranda.

  She stood with her butt against the railing, arms crossed in front of her. A slice of amber light from the last of the sunset cut across her, turning her half-gold, half-shadow.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You ruined my morning. You ruined my afternoon. You won't be happy until you ruin my evening too?”

  “I tried to catch you at the ranch, but you'd gone already.”

  “So now you can ruin my evening in front of a hundred witnesses. That should make your day.”

  J.D. took the verbal jabs without complaint. He supposed he deserved them. It was better this way, anyhow, that she stay mad at him, that she would rather strike out at him than get close. He would rather be a bastard now than broken later by some emotion that served no useful purpose. Or so he told himself.

  “I don't have to take it, you know,” she said, her voice hoarse, the muscles of her face tightening. Blinking furiously, she shoved herself away from the railing and started past him.

  J.D. caught her by the arm and pulled her in alongside him. “I never set out to hurt you, Mary Lee. In fact, I came here to see that you don't get hurt.”

  Mari glared up at him and jerked her arm from his grasp. “That boat sailed a while ago, skipper.” She started away from him again, not sure of where she was going, knowing only that she didn't want to see Rafferty when she got there. But his next words stopped her cold.

  “Miller Daggrepont is dead.”

  Shock struck like a fist to the solar plexus, forcing half the air out of her lungs. She turned back to face him, a little unsteady on her feet. “What? What did you say?”

  “Miller Daggrepont is dead. I found him out on Little Snake Creek this afternoon. Quinn thinks he had a heart attack.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Looks to me like someone choked him.”

  Automatically, Mari's hand went to the base of her throat. She walked past J.D. to the spot along the rail she had vacated and leaned against it, staring out into the gathering gloom of twilight. But she didn't see the mountains turning purple or the orange of the sky or the parade of ranch trucks heading to the Hell and Gone. She saw Lucy's lawyer, his weird eyes rolling behind the slabs of glass in his spectacles as some faceless killer strangled the life from him. The image made her shudder.

  J.D. stepped in behind her, cupped a big hand on her shoulder, and ran it down her arm. No more than an inch of air separated their bodies. All she had to do was lean back a little and she would be enveloped by his warmth, his strength. He took the decision away from her, closing the distance, resting his cheek against her hair.

  The action was both foreign to him and automatic, natural. He wasn't the kind of man who offered comfort easily. But she looked so small, so lost. And despite every warning he had given himself, despite every rotten thing he had said to her, the sense of possession was still there, primal, basic, answering some invisible call from her. She was vulnerable; he wanted to be her strength. She was frightened; he wanted to be her courage.

  It was foolish. It was dangerous. He thought. . . . She thought.

  Mari had no doubt that in the end he would push her away for getting too close. But in the meantime . . . In the meantime, she could close her eyes for a moment and imagine . . . pretend . . . wish . . . hope . . . all those futile, naive practices.

  God, you're such a fool, Marilee . . . stayed with a man you don't love, love a man you can never have . . . He had made it clear where she stood with him. Any tenderness he showed her now was only token or worse, a means to an end. She was so tired of feeling u
sed and abused. And yet she still wanted . . . and wished . . . and hoped . . .

  She curled her fingers tight around the railing and held on.

  “Quinn's sending the body up to Bozeman to be posted,” he said.

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “He was Lucy's lawyer.”

  “So? You think Lucy's death was an accident—not that you'd give a damn either way.”

  “That's not true.”

  She laughed and twisted her head around to look at him. “Yes, it is. You don't care about anyone, remember, J.D.? You're the lone wolf protecting his territory. The land—that's all you care about.”

  “There are probably a dozen people who would have liked to see Miller dead,” he said, simply ignoring the subject of feelings as deftly as he ignored the feelings themselves. “He had his fingers in a lot of shady land deals. But if this has anything to do with Lucy, then it might have something to do with you. I don't want to see you dead, Mary Lee.”

  “Well, I suppose that's a comfort,” she said sarcastically. Turning to face him, she crossed her arms again and tipped her chin up to a challenging angle. “But then, if I were dead, you'd have a hard time trying to screw me out of Lucy's land, wouldn't you?”

  She meant to hurt him, as he had hurt her, and she struck unerringly at his integrity and pride. But it didn't make her feel any better to see his eyes narrow or his jaw harden. It only made her feel more alone.

  He leaned over her, big and tough and menacing, and braced his hands on the rail on either side of her. “I admit I want the land,” he said, his voice a rumble as low and throaty as a cougar's growl. “But the screwing part was strictly for fun. You gonna try to tell me you didn't enjoy it, Mary Lee?”

  “You bastard.”

  His eyes were as hard and dark as raw granite. “Tell me you didn't want it. You didn't give a damn what I was after as long as I gave you a good ride.”

  “I think you have me confused with someone else,” she said, glaring at him. “Too bad for you she happens to be dead. I'm beginning to think you were made for each other.”

  J.D. stepped back an inch and looked away, planting his hands at his waist. He didn't like the role he was trying to play. He hated himself for playing at all. Games had been Lucy's forte, not his. He'd been raised to deal fair and square. That was part of the code. God help him that he'd let himself be reduced to this.

  Mary Lee looked up at him, her big eyes shining with tears and condemnation. He could feel the weight of her stare, could see her in his peripheral vision. Standing up to him again. Fighting for herself.

  “I cared what you were after, J.D.,” she said tightly. “My mistake was in thinking you had something in you worth putting up with all your macho bullshit. Something good. Something tender. Stupid of me to think you might let me find it. Stupid of me to think it was ever there.”

  She held herself as if she were cold as she paced a short distance down the walk, her paddock boots thumping dully on the wood. When she turned around, a hunk of rumpled blond hair tumbled across her face and she tossed it back.

  “You keep confusing me with Lucy,” she said. “Well, let me set you straight on a few things, cowboy. I'm not Lucy. I don't like being used. I don't like being hurt. I don't play games. When I care about someone, it's real—not always smart or what's best, but it's real. If you don't want that, fine. It's your loss. But don't come around telling me what to do or who to trust or where I belong or don't belong. You can't have it both ways, Rafferty. You can't just take what you want and leave the rest.”

  J.D. lowered his head and sighed. The pressure in his chest was as heavy and spiny as a mace. He didn't want it. He told himself he had never wanted it, had never lain awake in the night craving it. It would be far easier to keep himself intact without it. He had battles to fight, a ranch to run. He couldn't afford to expend energy needlessly.

  Mari watched him, breath held, waiting. The foolish part of her heart was waiting for him to beg her forgiveness and confess his feelings. Capital F on foolish. He wasn't that kind of man. The tenderness she had glimpsed in him had been an aberration. He'd been bred tough enough to spit tacks and wrestle bears; a man made for the life he had inherited. But that kind of toughness didn't come without a price and it didn't magically stop short of his heart. She couldn't change his past or alter the rules he lived by. What they had together was not what she needed. There was no point trying to hang on. Better to cut her losses early and just walk away.

  The side door to the lounge opened and Drew leaned out, his eyes flicking from J.D. to her. “Is everything all right, luv?”

  Mari held that breath just a little bit longer, just another few seconds of pointless hope, her stare hard on Rafferty's bowed head. He didn't say a word.

  “No,” she murmured. “But I'll get over it.”

  She slipped in the door past Drew and headed for the ladies' room.

  At one-thirty only the hired help were left in the Mystic Moose lounge. Tony the bartender wiped down bottles and arranged them to his satisfaction beneath Madam Belle's gilt-framed mirror. A custodian who bore a striking resemblance to Mickey Rooney put the chairs atop the tables and vacuumed the floor. Gary and Mitch, Drew's trio partners, said their good-byes and left together, talking music. Kevin stood at the cash register behind the bar, checking the receipts and laughing at Tony's cowboy jokes. Mari settled her guitar in its case and flipped the latches.

  “Would you care to talk about it?” Drew asked softly.

  He stood in the curve of the baby grand's side, no more than two feet from her. Mari shook her head a little. Forcing a smile, she rose and pulled the guitar case up into her arms and held it like a dance partner.

  “There's not much to tell. I led with my heart. That's never a very intelligent thing to do.”

  Drew frowned. “Perhaps not, but think what a grand place the world would be if we all dared do it.”

  He slipped his arms around her and the guitar and hugged her tight. “If you decide you need an ear to bend or a shoulder to cry on, you know who to come to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Get some sleep tonight, luv,” he said, stepping back. “You look all done in.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Mari shrugged. “It started out as a bad hair day and went downhill from there.”

  He smiled gently then grew serious. “And as for the other . . .” He reached out and brushed back an errant strand of her hair. “Let it go, darling. No good can come of it now. I shouldn't want to see you hurt trying to change something that can't be changed.”

  She watched him as he glided between the tables to the bar, another line of Lucy's coming back to her—All the good ones are married or gay. She was sure Drew knew something more about Lucy's life here than he was telling her, but he claimed he couldn't shed any light on her death and she had to accept that as truth. He was just too good a friend to hide something so ugly.

  Saying good night to Tony, she let herself out the side door and wandered down the boardwalk along the side of the lodge. Echoes of her fight with J.D. rang in her hollow footfalls. She ignored them as best she could. Even though she'd gotten little sleep the past two nights, she was too wired to go straight to her room. She couldn't imagine finding much solace in sleep. She had too much stewing in her subconscious to allow her to rest.

  She thought fleetingly of going out to the ranch, dragging blankets out to the field to sleep beneath the stars among the llamas, but visions of grizzly bears and wandering madmen chased the fantasy away. Miller Daggrepont had been found dead in the middle of nowhere. And Lucy. There would be no sleeping in the guest bed at the ranch either. Aside from spooking her, the mere thought of spending the night way out there alone filled her head with Rafferty's warm male scent. Damned mule-headed cowboy.

  He thought he had to take on the whole world with one hand tied behind his back and no one standing on his sidelines. He was Alan Ladd in Shane, only bigger and ornerier. John Wayne without the knee-knocking
walk. Hercules on a horse. Superman in a Stetson. Chivalrous and cruel. As hard as granite. As vulnerable as a broken heart. He didn't want to admit caring about anyone who could possibly care about him—not Tucker or Will, certainly not Mary Lee the outsider.

  Romanticizing again, Marilee? How like you.

  Rafferty was no silver-screen cowboy hero. He was hard as nails and he didn't want her for anything other than to relieve his testosterone imbalance and increase his property holdings. Nothing terribly romantic about that.

  Even as she tried to convince herself of his villainy, she saw him in her mind's eye, standing at the end of his barn where he thought no one could see him, looking out at the land he loved, his face a bleak mask of desperation.

  Half resigned and half disgusted, she waded through the dew-damp meadow grass to her rock and climbed up to sit and stare back at New Eden. Oblongs of golden light marked windows of individual rooms in the Moose, where other people were having trouble winding down. She wondered which of the lights belonged to Drew and Kevin. She wondered how much Drew kept from his partner. She wondered if they ever had the kind of fights where one of them walked away feeling as if his heart had been kicked black and blue.

  Things were still going strong at the Hell and Gone. The place lit up the night like a house afire. Noise pounded out through the walls and doors and windows, losing definition with distance so that all Mari could make out was the distorted thump of a bass guitar and the high crash of cymbals like glass shattering. She wondered if Will was inside, drinking himself blind again.

  Her heart ached for him. Will, the screwup, the Rafferty black sheep. Funny he wasn't the one she had fallen for; they had the most in common. But then, he had a wife.

  She started to think about Samantha and shook her head. What a mess. She'd come to Montana for a break from reality and had fallen splat in the middle of a soap opera—good versus evil, greedy land baron versus the small family rancher, intrigue, infidelity, and God only knew what else. The road less traveled was turning out to be pretty damned crowded and rougher than a son of a bitch.