“If Jake wasn’t with me, I’d have chickened out for sure,” Maggie confided, “but he gave me a boost up the steps and there I was, so what choice did I have? Except . . .
“You know all that stuff I’ve been practicing—What a pleasure to market your beautiful home, Mr. and Mrs. Homeowner? Well, what a crock! There I am, scrambling to improvise without tripping over my tongue, when I happened to look down.” Maggie, eyes huge, drew a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe it, you’re really not. On the floor next to his chair, not six inches from his right hand, was a shotgun! Really. I swear it.”
“She turned green,” said Jake cheerfully. “I have to admit I didn’t see the gun until I noticed Maggie’s face. I thought it was going to be a snake or one of those big spiders or something. I sort of craned my head around, and when I saw the gun, I almost told him T & T didn’t take mobile home listings and to hell with getting brought up on ethics charges . . .”
“But Jake didn’t say a word, he let me finish,” Maggie cut in, “though I haven’t the slightest idea what I said.”
“Then I suggested, in my best professional manner,” Jake added, “that he should always get market analyses from two or three different Realtors before making up his mind. And we got the hell out of there. Can’t you just see the MLS description if we’d taken the listing? WARNING. OWNER MAY BE ARMED AND DANGEROUS.”
“Claire, you saved me!” Maggie declared, sweeping Claire into a big hug. “If I hadn’t had Jake with me, I would have been terrified.” She gave Vicky DelVecchio a weepy embrace as well.
Vicky patted Maggie on the back. “Just another day in the life of a Realtor. Though I admit we probably won’t have this much excitement again until Diane Lake finds out Claire is taking her man to dinner. Uh-uh-uh, Realtors, don’t touch that remote. Stay tuned for the continuing saga of Brad Blue and his warring women.”
Definitely a conversation-stopper. Wearing a variety of expressions from salacious grins to sympathy for Claire’s embarrassment, T & T’s Realtors scooted back to their desks.
Late that afternoon, when the summons came to Phil Tierney’s office, Claire realized she’d been expecting it all day. With the speed of office gossip it was inevitable that her little adventure would reach Phil’s ears. Philippa Tierney, who had inherited T & T while only in her mid-twenties, was everything a professional Realtor was expected to be, from the sleek coiffure that made the most of her rich brown hair to her tall trim figure superbly dressed in a summer suit of cream linen. Her nails were always perfectly manicured. Claire suspected Phil’s expensive pumps hid a perfect pedicure as well.
Phil Tierney had made the most of her name. Many a tourist made an appointment to be shown a property, only to be astonished to discover they were dealing with a woman. Even many local residents who had seen “Phil Tierney” on signs for years, thought T & T’s broker was a man. Phil had, in the end, broken the male stranglehold on real estate in Golden Beach, turning a modest family business into the most successful, most prestigious real estate agency in the area. Owners of expensive properties wanted nothing but T & T’s exploding fireworks logo on their front lawns.
Dynamic, sleekly attractive, successful, powerful. Brad Blue’s ex-wife. That was her boss, Claire thought glumly as she made her way to Phil’s office. And then there was Diane Lake, spreading her gorgeous golden girl image nightly into every home in Calusa County. Brad Blue had been married to one of these two professional paragons and was sleeping with the other. Two giants poised to step on the little ant named Claire if she dared move into their territory.
Phil surprised her. After asking her to be seated, Claire’s boss said, “I hear you’re responsible for distributing the Board’s warning to everyone this morning, Claire. I want to thank you. You saved Maggie from a very nasty experience. And, hopefully, this will make all our agents think carefully before putting themselves in a potentially dangerous situation. You may have saved a life, and I’m grateful. Thank you.”
Relief. Somehow Claire managed a suitable reply.
“I hear you had a problem last night. I trust no one was hurt?” Phil lifted a carefully plucked eyebrow.
Claire hid a wince. Quickly, she recapped the evening, abbreviating and downplaying the drama as much as possible.
After appropriate murmurs of shock and sympathy, Phil moved straight to the point. “Is it true you’re taking Brad to dinner tonight?”
So much for the forlorn hope that part of the tale hadn’t reached Phil’s ears. “Brad paid for the tow truck, and he wouldn’t take a check,” Claire babbled, “so we settled on dinner. That’s all it is, just a payback for the tow truck.”
“My dear Claire, no need to get excited. I’m sure you’ve been told I was married to the man, but that was in another lifetime. We were both children. Nothing for you to be concerned about.” Phil frowned, her long dazzling red nails clicking against the desk in a rare sign of unease. “There are, however, a couple of things I feel I must say. I like to think I would have said them anyway, but at the moment I feel I owe you and, believe me, that’s all this is, a very friendly warning.”
Claire clenched her hands in her lap. Her luck was running true. She’d met the man of dreams she didn’t even know she had, and he turned out to be a modern version of “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
Idly, Phil picked up a gold pen, slid it through her fingers, tapped it on the desk. She put it down carefully, resting her long slim hands on the desktop. “Knowing office gossip, Claire,” she said, “I’m sure you’ve been told about Diane Lake.” Claire nodded. “Well, believe everything you’ve heard, and then some. I have occasion to see her socially, as well as the fact that Channel 50 gets a healthy portion of our advertising budget. Diane Lake wanted Brad Blue, she got him, and she intends to keep him.”
“He doesn’t strike me as anyone’s toyboy.” She couldn’t have said that! Shades of lethal Manhattan cocktail parties she’d thought long abandoned.
Odd. She’d almost swear Phil was choking back a laugh. Her chocolate brown eyes gleamed.
“That he’s not,” Claire’s boss agreed. “Anyone who knows Brad Blue is aware that Diane’s riding for a fall. Certainly, no one blames him for being caught by anything as stunning as Diane Lake, but it’s only a matter of time before the explosion comes. I just don’t want to see you caught in it. Diane is not a very nice person.”
Having no idea what to say, Claire clung to her original story. “Dinner’s really just a payback for the tow truck, Phil. I know I’m not his type.”
Phil shook her head. “Never underestimate the power of a downhome female, Claire. That’s what wise men choose every time. And it’s just possible Brad’s finally reached the age of wisdom. But in case he hasn’t . . .”
Phil steepled her hands, her poppy red nails glowing against the cream linen suit. “I know you’re a grown woman with a child, Claire, but I doubt you’ve run into someone like Brad Blue before. You ought to know”—Phil paused, carefully examining her nails before returning her shrewd gaze to Claire—“that Brad Blue will expect more than dinner. A great deal more.”
Unblinking, Claire stared straight back. “Believe me, Phil, he didn’t pay that much for the tow truck.” She pushed back her chair and left the room, flag waving. As an exit line it wasn’t all that bad.
Claire wasn’t prepared for the vintage Thunderbird. Fire engine red with a white hard top, and not a day under forty. She stared open-mouthed, leaning over the wooden railing of the Bentley deck, as Brad, shading his eyes against the westering sun, called up to her, grinning hugely, “Should I have brought the pickup?”
Dazzled by the car, Claire had, at first, failed to take a good look at the man standing beside it. Dear God, but he was gorgeous. Yet rugged enough to escape being a pretty boy. His blond hair, tightly confined at the nape, was shot with sun-bleached streaks of near white. He was wearing a sport coat of French blue silk over white slacks. A silk tie in varying shades of blue contrasted
sharply with the sparkling white of his shirt. Claire had spent an hour agonizing over how casual she should be. Now she was glad she’d dipped into her wardrobe of expensive resortwear left over from better times. Her flowing peach pants and matching top decorated with openwork and hand embroidery was timeless and elegant. The pantsuit had also been chosen for its ease in climbing in and out of a pickup. It clashed quite horribly with the shining red T-bird.
“Come on up and meet Ginny,” Claire called back, hoping the quiver she was feeling all the way to her toes didn’t show in her voice.
As Virginia Bentley held out her hand to Brad Blue, her gracious welcome was eclipsed by a small body that hurtled past her, then skidded to a halt, his back pressed up against his great-grandmother’s protective softness.
“Hi,” Jamie breathed.
“Hi, Jamie. How about introducing me to your great-gramma? She signed a book for me once, but I was just one of the crowd.”
Virginia Bentley hadn’t changed much, Brad thought. There wasn’t a sign of gray in her cropped and curled reddish blond hair. Her skin was flawless, betrayed only by age spots on the slim hand she was holding out to him. She was still petite, perhaps slightly more fragile. Her eyes were just as sharp with intelligence, just as blue-green. Claire’s eyes.
“Ah, but I do remember you,” Ginny Bentley said. “Not the name, of course, but in a town that’s sixty percent senior citizens, how many handsome men under thirty do you think I find standing in line at the library for an autograph on a romance novel? Believe me, Mr. Blue, I remember you well.”
“It’s a honor, ma’am.” He grinned down at Jamie. “And genius runs true, I see. That’s a fine young man you have here.” Bending down, Brad swung Jamie, shrieking and laughing, in a mad arc toward the twelve-foot ceiling.
“How’s the air up there, pal?” Brad asked as he held Jamie over his head with apparent ease.
After Claire and Brad left, Jamie was still grinning. Ginny Bentley sank onto the sofa, her eyes aglow with possibilities. A live love affair beat a novel any day. Dear Lord in heaven, may this be the right one. Don’t let him break her heart.
As the T-bird zoomed along in a glorious splash of color only inches above the road, Claire recalled a time when she would have been ecstatic to ride in a such a sporty vehicle. But living dangerously had lost its attraction. Somehow Brad Blue was too large, the car too small. She felt like an ant trapped on a fast-moving assembly line. Her life, which she was just beginning to rebuild, was suddenly hurtling out of control again. The last time she’d had a date she’d still been young and naive enough to believe that bad things didn’t happen to good people.
“You can stop braking now,” Brad said kindly as they came to a stop in the parking lot of The Pelican, Golden Beach’s finest seafood restaurant.
“Sorry.” She bet Diane Lake just urged him to go faster.
There wasn’t a restaurant in Golden Beach that did not welcome diners wearing shorts, T-shirts, sneakers and sand. Retirees, tourists and snowbirds—Florida’s name for part-time winter residents—were, after all, the town’s major industry. Which did not keep Claire from a feeling of well-being at the surreptitious and appreciative glances they received as the hostess ushered them through the main dining area and seated them at a table on a wooden deck built on stilts some twelve feet above the Intracoastal Waterway. It had been a long time since Claire had turned heads. It was a nice feeling.
On second thought, they were probably looking at Brad.
“Is it too hot out here? Would you prefer to eat inside?” he inquired politely.
“Oh, no, the breeze is wonderful and the sun a welcome sight after all that rain. Besides, I love to watch the boats. Sorry. “I’m afraid I’m a child at heart.”
“I’m fond of children,” Brad replied with a slow, significant flicker of a smile.
Claire felt the power of it all the way to her toes. Thoughts of “Thanks and goodbye” shriveled and died. Absurd as it seemed, she was going to hang in there and find out if she stood a chance with this man.
Not more than forty feet away a powerboat glided by, the thrum of its twin diesels nearly overpowering the shrill call of the gulls, the squawks of the pelicans who looked so awkward until they made their swift dives, plunging deep into the waterway, coming up with a fat fish tucked in their pouches. The good-size cruiser was outward bound, heading between the great stone sides of the Golden Beach jetties, the only access between the Intracoastal Waterway and the Gulf of Mexico for twenty miles to the north or south. Directly below the restaurant’s deck was a small marina, lined with a row of sleek sailboats and powerful cruisers.
Nice. As dates went, this one rated an A-plus so far.
Not a date. Payback only. She had to remember that.
After they ordered drinks, Brad leaned forward, eyeing Claire expectantly. “Okay,” he said, “which long story goes first?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. With Jamie’s long story comes mine as well, and I don’t want to spoil the ambiance.”
“Okay,” Brad agreed lightly. “So what do you want to know about me?”
Claire was ready for that one. “Tell me how you got a color for a name.”
“Now that,” Brad countered, “also opens a can of worms. But I’ll give you the short version and spare you most of the nasty family history.”
Their drinks arrived. One of the restaurant’s rum specialties for Claire. Brad savored a long swallow of single malt scotch on the rocks. “A little over forty years ago,” he began, “at the height of the Cold War, my father jumped ship off a Russian freighter somewhere north of Cuba. They were passing by a shrimper out of Punta Gorda at the time. It was a close call, but he made it. Dad’s mother was Lithuanian, his father Russian. He was given political asylum, and some kind soul arranged a job for him in Golden Beach because there’s a large Ukrainian population here.”
At Claire’s incredulous stare, Brad added, “Haven’t you noticed the onion domes on some of the churches? Not quite St. Basil’s but they’ll do. Anyway, my father ended up working cows for my grandfather Whitlaw. The cows didn’t care what language he spoke. But a name like Yevgeny Blukovsky didn’t go over well with the other cowhunters, so he became Gene Blue. A perfectly logical choice but, knowing dad, I suspect it was his idea of a good Russian joke.”
Claire stared blankly at the appetizer of baked Brie that had just been placed in front of her. Not even its topping of raspberry sauce and toasted almonds plus fresh melon, strawberries and grapes could lure her at the moment. “Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “Your father was a Russian cowboy?”
“No cowboys in Florida, Claire. Cowhunter is the correct term.”
“Cowhunter. Right.” Claire raised her eyes to the waterway. To the reality of a sailboat coming in, baremasted, through the jetties, running on its auxiliary engine. She really was sitting on the Florida coastline discussing a Russian cowboy—correction, cowhunter—who’d taken his name from a pair of blue jeans. Levi Strauss would have loved him.
Gene Blue. Okay, she’d bite. “So how did a Russian sailor manage as a Florida cowhunter?”
“Quite well, actually. He was a university student who signed on the freighter with the sole determination of making it to the U.S. He was so grateful to be here he never seemed to mind working with his hands in a climate more foreign than the language.
“Did he stay a cowhunter?”
“In a way. My mother was given a bit of land by her mother’s family. Enough to run a few head, do pretty well with a market garden. My mother did most of the farm work while dad turned out to have a gift for wood. The finest custom cabinets in Golden Beach were created by Gene Blue.”
“Are they still alive?”
Far out in the gulf only half a rose-red sun remained above the water, casting the western horizon into a blaze of purple, pink, and gold. Brad’s eyes darkened with the fading light. “No. About ten years ago mom and dad took their first real vacation. Their C
aribbean cruise offered a flight from Cozumel to Chichen-Itza as an extra. Their small plane went down in the jungle. No survivors.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire murmured, but Brad Blue, the person, was becoming more clear in her head. Beneath the handsome façade, the charm and engaging humor, she sensed a darkness. Personal tragedy, compounded by the melancholy of the Russian soul, explained a good deal. But not all. What other secrets lingered behind his charm and impeccable manners?
Somehow the brie and fruit had disappeared, and Brad, slowed by his role as storyteller, was just downing the last of a dozen raw oysters. He gave her a wicked grin as he doused the slimy crustacean with hot sauce, held the rough shell to his mouth and slid the pearly gray mess down his throat.
Claire made a face. “As Jamie would say, ‘Gross!’”
Brad winked. “Good for what ails you,” he assured her.
Somehow Claire doubted Brad Blue needed any help in that department.
“Your turn,” Brad urged. “You must have something in your past that won’t put a pall on the evening.”
“No. I don’t.” There was no way she was going to pour out the recent history of the Langdon family for his amusement. “So why does your grandfather hate your hair?”
Brad glared at a seagull that was swooping low, obviously contemplating a run on the rolls that peeked out from beneath a white napkin in a basket on their table. A quick flip of Brad’s hand and the bird did a neat ninety-degree bank, the tip of its yard-wide wingspan nearly clipping the deck railing as it went off to find more amenable prospects.
“Basically,” Brad said, “what old Wade–-my Grandfather Whitlaw–-really hated was my father. Oh, in the beginning he was impressed enough to offer him a job. Thought he was a hero for jumping ship in the middle of the gulf. And noblesse oblige is as much expected from Florida cow kings as the European variety. But that was before he found out his one and only daughter thought Gene Blue was a hero too.”
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