Breath of Scandal

by Sandra Brown

  “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go.”

  She stood up, even though it meant making heart-stopping contact with the front of his body. She ducked beneath one of his arms and almost made good her escape before he caught her hand and brought her around.

  “Not good enough, Jade.”

  “The reasons I gave you for wanting to build the plant here are genuine.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “Then why can’t you just accept it and leave it alone?”

  “Because it doesn’t jive. Someone who oozes that much compassion for her fellow man would offer a needed kidney.”

  “No one is cutting Graham open and removing his kidney.”

  “Right—especially if the recipient is married to your former best friend and might be your son’s father.” He took a step closer. “Did Jolly dump you for Donna Dee when you were pregnant and still in love with him?”

  “I hated him.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why?”

  “Leave me alone, Dillon.”

  “Not until I understand what’s going on.”

  “You’re not supposed to understand.”

  “Why do you flinch every time a man comes near you?”

  “I don’t flinch.”

  “The hell you don’t,” he said softly. “You nearly fainted a few seconds ago when your breasts came up against me. And the expression on your face when you discovered I’m hard defied description.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “You’re lying. Is Hutch Jolly the man who made you frigid?”

  “I’m not frigid.”

  “No? Could have fooled me.”

  “Maybe I just don’t find you attractive.”

  He linked his fingers at the back of her neck beneath her hair where her skin was dewy from the heat. “That’s another lie, Jade.” Ducking his head, he whisked his mustache across her lips. “You said yourself you liked my kiss.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Liar.”

  He touched the corner of her lips with his tongue. It was thrilling, terrifying. His teasing caress made her hot and dizzy. She curled her hands into the front of his shirt, feeling the solid muscles beneath the cloth. His size and strength overwhelmed her; he could hurt her. He felt and smelled masculine. His maleness both seduced and repelled. She fought its appeal and her terror of it.

  “Don’t do this, Dillon,” she begged against his seeking lips. “I can’t replace her. No woman can.”

  His head snapped back. “What did you say?”

  “I won’t be one of those women you ‘nail’ in grief for your wife.”

  “Is that what you think you are, just another soft, wet route to forgetfulness?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  He muttered an expletive. “Listen, if that’s all I wanted, I could have a naked woman in my bed by nightfall.”

  “But would she also have a teenage son?”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said tightly. “Graham is supposed to be a replacement for the son I lost.”

  “You’ve certainly made overtures to get close to him.”

  His fury was as palpable as the heat. It shimmied through his body and into hers. He gave her a crude once-over, stopping at her breasts and at the tops of her thighs, before lifting his gaze back to her face. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Jade. Whether or not you had Graham, I’d still want to fuck you.”

  He turned and strode toward his parked pickup. Jade, now angry in her own right, charged after him. She caught up as he was climbing into the driver’s seat. “If you persist in saying things like that to me, I’ll have no choice except to dismiss you.”

  “Go ahead,” he said with a belligerent jerk of his chin.

  He was probably only calling her bluff to scare her, but it worked. The thought of his walking off the project now was sobering. Where would she find a contractor as good? What excuse would she give George Stein, who had nothing but glowing things to say about Dillon?

  She tried another tack. “I’m still convinced that you’re the best man for this job, Dillon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t you see that it wouldn’t be smart for us to become lovers even if… if I could.”

  “I never claimed it was smart.”

  “It would permanently alter our good working relationship. Neither of us wants that, do we?”

  “No.”

  “TexTile is too important to both of us. We can’t let personal conflicts interfere with our work.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Then, you see my point?”

  “I see your point.”

  “And I have your word that you won’t pursue this any further?”

  “No way.”

  Until then, he had avoided looking directly at her. When he fixed his eyes on her, she felt their impact like a soft blow to the abdomen. Then he slid on his opaque sunglasses, and she couldn’t see his eyes at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Son of a bitch.” Graham kicked the flat tire of his bicycle. “Damnshitfuckscrew.”

  He luxuriated in saying all the words he heard from the construction workers—sometimes even from Dillon when Dillon didn’t know he was around. If his mother caught him talking like that, she would ground him for a week at least. However, there was no one around now to hear him, so he let fly with another round of vulgarities.

  He had finally won his mother’s consent to ride his bike to and from the site, if he called her before leaving and didn’t make any unscheduled stops along the way. He had made the trip only a few times when a spell of bad weather had set in. It had rained for a week. By the time the weather cleared, he had come down with a stomach virus that had him vomiting for one whole day, then lying listlessly in bed the next.

  For several days following his illness, his mother had curtailed any vigorous activity. “If that was the summer flu, you could have a relapse.”

  “But, Mom, I feel great now.”

  There’d been no swaying her. So, this was the first day in almost two weeks that he’d been granted permission to visit the construction site, and now his tire had gone flat.

  Graham looked down at it balefully. If he rode on it, he’d ruin it. He should roll his bike back home, but that would nix getting to visit the site today. If he rolled it to the site, he wouldn’t make it by the expected time, and his mother would have a cow.

  Any way he looked at it, he was screwed.

  A car sped past him, sending up a cloud of dust. Despite the recent rains, the following days had been so hot that the ground was dry again. Graham waved the dust out of his face, then shot the driver the finger.

  Immediately, the brake lights of the car flashed on. “Oh, hell,” Graham whispered fearfully. To his further mortification, the car began backing up. “Oh, shit.” He licked the dust off his dry lips and wiped his perspiring palms on the seat of his shorts.

  The candy-apple-red El Dorado rolled to a stop beside him. The tinted passenger window was lowered electronically. “Hey, boy.”

  Graham gulped down a wad of nervous spit. “Hi.”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, you shot me the bird.”

  Graham’s knees turned to jelly. He had to pee real bad. “Yes, sir.”

  “How come?”

  “I, uh, I nearly choked on the dust you raised.” Then, not wanting to be a total wimp, he added, “I think you were speeding.”

  The driver laughed. “Hell, boy, I’m always speeding. I’ve got places to go and people to see.” He nodded toward the bike. “Looks to me like you’re in trouble.”

  “My tire went flat.”

  “Where were you headed?”

  “Out where they’re building the TexTile plant.”

  “Hmm.” The driver tipped down his sunglasses and peered at Graham over the frames. “That’s in the opposite direction from where I’m going, but I reckon I could give you a lift out there.”

  “Oh, no thank
s. I’ll—”

  “Your bike’ll fit in the trunk.”

  “Thanks anyway, sir, but I don’t think I’d better.”

  “You’re Jade’s boy, aren’t you?”

  Graham was momentarily taken aback. “Yes, sir. How’d you know?”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Graham.”

  “That’s right, Graham. Well, Graham, me and your mama have known each other since grade school. Maybe she’s mentioned me—Neal Patchett?”

  The name was vaguely familiar. Graham was sure his mother had talked about some people named Patchett. “Does she know your father, too?”

  “That’s right,” Neal replied with a wide grin. “His name’s Ivan. Did you know that a freight train chopped off his legs clean as a whistle?”

  As with most boys his age, Graham was fascinated by gore. “Jeez. No kiddin’?”

  “That’s a fact. Right here above his knees. It was a real mess.” He depressed a button in the glove compartment and the lid of the trunk popped open. “Put your bike in there and climb in. I’ll be more’n pleased to give you a lift.”

  Graham had been forbidden to accept rides from strangers, but he knew who this man was, and his mother knew him, too. If he didn’t ride with him, he’d be stuck out on the road and still uncertain about what he should do. All things considered, it was his best option.

  He rolled his bicycle to the rear of the car and lifted it into the trunk. He had to rearrange the fishing gear and two shotguns stowed there, but was finally able to fit his bike inside and close the lid.

  The luxurious leather interior of the car made him self-conscious of his dusty sneakers. His sweaty, bare legs stuck to the seat. But after being out in the hot sun, it felt good.

  “All set?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cut out that ‘sir’ shit, okay? Just call me Neal.”

  “Thanks.”

  Neal asked him how he was liking Palmetto. Graham answered all his questions politely. They had gone almost a mile before he said uneasily, “Mr. Patchett, we need to turn around. The site’s the other way.”

  “Hell, I know that. But I thought we’d get your flat fixed while we’re at it. I know this mechanic who’ll do it for free. While we’re waiting, we’ll have a cold drink. Doesn’t that sound good?”

  “I guess so.”

  A drink did sound good. He was parched. He might be a few minutes late getting to his mother’s office, but consoled himself with the thought that it couldn’t take much longer to have the flat fixed than it would have taken him to ride the rest of the way on his bike. As soon as they left the garage, he’d tell Mr. Patchett to step on it. The slick Cadillac would get them to the site in no time, a hell of a lot faster than he could pedal it.

  “I’ll call my mom from the garage and tell her I’m running late,” he said with a sudden burst of inspiration.

  “Sure, if you think it’s necessary.” Neal glanced across at him. “Does she still go out to the Parker place every now and then?”

  “Where?”

  “The Parker farm.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh. I’ve seen her out there and thought she might have mentioned it.”

  “I know she’s buying property for her company,” Graham offered, trying to be helpful.

  “She’s a regular go-getter, isn’t she?”

  Taking that as a compliment, Graham responded with a happy smile. “She sure is.”

  When they reached the garage, a man in greasy overalls sauntered out to greet them. He smiled at Mr. Patchett, revealing three snuff-stained teeth. While he fixed the flat, he invited them to wait inside the office, where it was cool.

  Graham followed Neal into the cluttered office. It was only marginally cooler than outside and reeked of an overflowing ashtray, axle grease, and motor oil. Graham would have found it unpleasant if he hadn’t been stupefied by the glowingly naked girl on the wall calendar. He hadn’t realized that nipples could be that big and red, or pubic hair that lush and dark.

  “There’s the phone if you want to call your mother.”

  Graham wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, but he felt too iniquitous to speak to his mother right then. Besides, he didn’t want Neal Patchett, who was supercool, to think he was a geek.

  “Naw. It’s cool.”

  Neal kissed his fingers and patted the calendar girl’s round behind. “She’s something, isn’t she? When I was your age, I used to come here just so I could ogle the calendars. Later, I bought my rubbers here. Quicker than the drugstore, you know. There’s a vending machine in the bathroom yonder if you ever need some in a hurry.”

  Speechless, Graham tore his eyes away from the calendar to gape at Neal.

  “You know what rubbers are, don’t you, boy?”

  Graham nodded stupidly, then cleared his throat and his vision, and said, “Hell, yes, I know what rubbers are.”

  “I figured you must. How old are you anyhow?”

  It was flattering that Mr. Patchett talked to him as one man to another. Proudly, he stated, “I’ll be fifteen my next birthday.”

  “And when’s that?”

  “November twenty-seventh.”

  Neal gazed at him for a moment, then broke into a wide smile. “Around Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s on Thanksgiving every seven years.”

  “Imagine that. Well, what’ll you have to drink?” He opened a cold-drink machine, the likes of which Graham had never seen before. It was a chest of refrigerated air. The bottles stood in rows formed by a metal grid.

  Neal banged on the drawer of the cash register, and it flew open. He scooped out a handful of coins. Graham stared down at the money, then nervously glanced through the window. “Won’t he mind?”

  “He owes my daddy too many favors to mind. Don’t worry about it. What’ll you have to drink?”

  Graham looked for something familiar among the rows of bottle caps. “Do they have Dr. Pepper?”

  “Dr. Pepper? Doesn’t look like it. Grapette, Orange Nehi, Big Red, and Chocolate Soldier.”

  “Chocolate Soldier? What’s that?”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve reached the ripe old age of fourteen without ever drinking a Chocolate Soldier?”

  Neal’s incredulity made Graham feel gauche, yet self-defensive. “In New York we drank egg cremes. You buy them from street vendors.”

  Neal pushed two quarters into the money slot. “Egg creme? Now if that doesn’t sound like something a Yankee would drink, I’ll pay for lying.”

  The Chocolate Soldier was delicious. Mr. Patchett offered to treat him to another, but he declined. He was worried about the time. “How much longer do you think it’ll be before the flat is fixed?”

  “Looks like he’s finishing up now.” Neal opened the door for him and they moved into the service bay.

  Graham was relieved that they would soon be on their way. “I’m supposed to be there by now. If I’m late, my mom gets mad.”

  “Well,” Neal drawled, “you know how women are. They get their panties in a wad over the least little thing.” Companionably, he clapped Graham on the shoulder.

  * * *

  “Stop giving me the same tired excuses you give your other clients.” Jade smiled into the telephone receiver. “When will you have something to show me?”

  “You should know better than to pressure an artist,” Hank Arnett said. “Pressure stifles creativity.”

  “When? I don’t want to take the proposal to our friend George until I can bowl him over with your drawings.”

  Jade’s plans to buy the plantation house for GSS were still in place. Hours had been spent on long-distance phone calls to Hank. He had liked the idea from the outset, but said he couldn’t commit himself until he saw pictures of what he had to work with. Jade had made arrangements with the realtor to get inside the house. The Polaroids she had taken were currently with Hank. He claimed to be toying with some ideas. She was impatient to see them.
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br />   “In all modesty, a few of my watercolors would be a persuasive bonus,” he conceded. “As you know, George is crazy about my stuff.”

  “So get off your duff and do them.”

  “Give me two more weeks.”

  “Ten days.”

  “You nag worse than Deidre,” he complained.

  “Your wife is no less than an angel. Speaking of which, how are my twin goddaughters?”

  Dillon came into her office just as she was hanging up the telephone. “You look happy.”

  “I was talking to Hank.”

  “Does he always make you smile like that?” he asked sourly.

  “Sometimes.”

  He harrumphed sarcastically. He’d been in a foul mood ever since the torrential rains, which had turned the construction site into a hazardous quagmire. Dillon had finally relented and called a stop to the excavation until the weather cooperated and the ground dried out.

  The delay had created an understandable glitch in his schedule. He was the only one who considered that unacceptable and was now driving himself and everyone else to the limit to make up for the lost time. He smiled even less frequently than before. Today, his disposition was especially truculent.

  There was a wedge-shaped sweat stain on the front of his tank top. His boots and jeans were dusty. He had left his hard hat outside, but not his sunglasses. He was twirling them by the stem. Rather than looking like an idle, relaxed gesture, it conveyed pent-up frustration. His lips were firmly clamped beneath his mustache.

  He hadn’t touched her since that day at the deserted plantation house. Their conversations were kept strictly to business. Nevertheless, what he had said before they parted company was still very much on Jade’s mind. If she doubted the resolution behind his, “No way,” all she had to do was look into his eyes now.

  “Did you want to see me about something in particular, Dillon?”

  “Yeah, dinner.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dinner. Let’s have dinner.”

  “Fine. I’ll call Cathy. I’m sure she won’t mind setting an extra place.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” He approached her desk. “Let’s go to dinner together. You and I alone.”

  “You mean like a date?”

  “Exactly like a date.”