Shadowed Paradise

by Blair Bancroft

  Claire’s heart gave a sudden alarming thump as she realized she was standing on the spot where Brad had first proposed marriage, where they had fought and made love without ever resolving their differences. The night Brad terrified Melanie Whitlaw’s date . . . and spoiled his quaintly formal proposal of marriage by talk of a shotgun wedding.

  In an attempt to blot out a kaleidoscope of angry and erotic images, Claire headed toward the French doors and stepped out onto the rear deck. The melodious rush of cascading water immediately began to work its soothing magic on her flushed face and frazzled nerves. At her feet turquoise mosaic tiles lined a bubbling hot tub that overflowed into a waterfall cascading into a freeform pool half a level below. Artful landscaping gave the pool the aura of a natural pond with stone outcroppings, shrubs and flowers.

  Claire’s eyes misted with pride in what had been accomplished at Amber Run. Brad Blue might be a hot-tempered chauvinist hunk, but he was also a man of intelligence, vision and good taste. She couldn’t think of any job she’d rather have than Marketing Director for Amber Run.

  And tomorrow she would be undisputed mistress of all this magnificence. No more ratty old trailer. Hallelujah!

  On the not-so-good side, Claire was rapidly discovering that Florida in September was simply August in duplicate. Sheer blazing heat drove her back inside, where she crossed the greatroom and reluctantly descended the front steps. In spite of the unrelenting sun, she took one last lingering look up at the model. The front and side decks were bordered by balconies with fan-shaped railings, painted white. The metal roof, patterned after Key West’s famed tin roofs, gleamed matte gray in the brilliant sunlight. Claire stood tall and punched a triumphant fist into the air. Yes! Tomorrow it was hers. All hers.

  As she climbed the three shallow wooden steps up to the trailer, Claire frowned at the six-inch gap that was allowing the trailer’s cool air to escape. Surely she hadn’t been so careless. Had she been so fascinated by the model that she failed to hear a customer drive up? Cautiously, Claire opened the door and stepped inside.

  The trailer was empty.

  Almost.

  A slight movement caught her eye. She’d thought there was nothing left in the world that could make her scream. She was wrong. Not a loud scream—just a startled screech, quickly choked into a gulp of shock. Claire froze, unable to think, unable to take her eyes off her computer table. It had happened. Events had gotten too much for her; she’d gone over the edge. She was leaving Florida and never coming back.

  The tableau by her computer was equally frozen. A small tree frog clung desperately to the side of her typing stand, ogling a semi-coiled black snake whose head had begun to inch its way up the green metal. At the moment, nothing moved. Not Claire, not the frog, not the snake. It was a standoff. She ought to do something . . . had to do something, but for the life of her she couldn’t move.

  The door burst open, banging into Claire’s statue-like back. She yelped again as a perfect stranger, shotgun in hand, thrust her aside before pausing, baffled, by no sign of a human menace. Mutely, Claire pointed at the computer table.

  “Well, hell,” the stranger growled, “that’s only an indigo. It’s the frog he’s after, not you. Y’ got a broom?”

  Broom. She had a broom. Somewhere. Ninny! She swept the place every morning—how could she forget where she kept the broom? Gingerly, Claire peered behind the wide-open door and extracted the broom. The stranger laid the shotgun on the blueprint table before taking his new weapon in hand. Advancing on the indigo snake, he swept it, amidst a flurry of white paper, off the computer table and halfway to the door. Claire was horrified to see that, stretched out, the snake was at least five feet long. Using the broom like a hockey stick, the stranger thrust the frustrated and terrified snake out the door and with one final sweep, propelled it down the steps, where the indigo promptly took off toward the tall grass at the snake equivalent of a dead run.

  Her rescuer, an elderly gentleman, picked up the little tree frog, which was still clinging for dear life to the side of the typing stand, and deposited it gently beside the front steps. When he turned to look up at her, she saw a pair of shrewd and penetrating gray eyes, peering out of a face bronzed and wrinkled by countless years in the sun. A mass of thick white hair topped a body that, even shrunk with age, proclaimed him a man of power and substance. “Shouldn’t leave your door open,” he declared. “Shouldn’t be building here, either,” he added on a growl. “Only fit for cows.”

  Claire, the light beginning to dawn, watched in awe as the cantankerous old gentleman tromped back up the steps. Instead of retrieving his shotgun, he shut the door behind him and turned to face her. “You the one the boy’s going to marry?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” Claire could feel a blush rising under the old man’s frank assessment.

  “You can’t panic over a little ol’ indigo if you’re going to live in these parts.” His face was grim, but Claire thought she caught a familiar twinkle in the back of his eyes.

  “Uh . . . yes, I know, I’m sorry,” Claire apologized, feeling utterly foolish.

  “I guess you know who I am.”

  “Wade Whitlaw?” Claire ventured.

  The old man nodded. “You’ve got a son, I hear.”

  “Jamie. He’s eight.”

  “Brad’ll like that. Man should have a family. All his family.”

  Claire recognized the words for what they were—a peace offering. “We’re being married on Saturday at five at United Church. I hope you’re planning to be there. There’s supper afterwards at Palm Court.” As Claire smiled encouragingly at Brad’s grandfather, she recalled how the simple ceremony she and Brad wanted had grown, under the aegis of Ginny Bentley and Elizabeth Hilliard, Claire’s mother, into a catered affair for sixty. Claire guessed this was Wade Whitlaw’s unique response to his invitation.

  Her elderly rescuer studied his shotgun as if he’d never seen it before. “Might just do that,” he mumbled into the wooden stock. “What have you done with Brad, by the way?”

  “At the bank. The next draw is due.” Stupid! Brad’s grandfather was showing signs of mellowing, and she’d thrown Amber Run in his face.

  Wade Whitlaw’s shoulders slumped. He scowled, reached for his shotgun. “Don’t suppose he plans to cut his hair for the wedding?” he grumbled.

  “I’m afraid not,” Claire apologized gently. Whew!

  The old man looked down at the gun he now held at his side. “Illegal, you know, but I’ve carried a shotgun on these lands since I was old enough to lift it. More’n seventy years. No law’s going to tell me I can’t. Not that I needed it today,” he conceded, “but if it was that killer had you cornered . . .”

  “I’d have been extremely grateful,” Claire assured him.

  With a curt nod Wade Whitlaw turned and left. Ignoring the rush of hot Florida air, Claire stood in the doorway and watched him walk to his pickup, place the shotgun—illegally—on the floorboards, and drive off at a rate of speed that made Claire blink. Evidently, she’d been blaming the wrong set of genes for Brad’s penchant for fast driving.

  Four generations of Hilliards, three generations of Whitlaws and an assortment of Tyrees attended the wedding of Claire Hilliard Langdon to Bradley Whitlaw Blue. In time-honored tradition, the bride’s mother and grandmother smiled broadly while tears ran unabashedly down their cheeks.

  In the second pew on the other side of the aisle, Wade Whitlaw sat stiffly erect, wearing a dark suit, string tie and snakeskin boots. He looked more like a latter-day Wyatt Earp than grandfather of the groom. Sitting beside him were his son and two grandchildren, Melanie and Slade. Tucked up between Garret and his children was Phil Tierney. The wedding guests buzzed with delight. Brad’s ex, right up front. Oh, my!

  The day had started well enough. Over the shocked protests of her mother and grandmother, Claire went to work as usual. No developer could afford to miss a sunny Saturday and, Claire admitted, if only to herself, it was easier to work than s
it around having second thoughts about tying herself to the deceptively beautiful dangerous wilderness called Florida. And to a man who made the wilderness seem tame.

  Fate was still smiling early that afternoon when Claire wrote a contract for Amber Run’s medium-sized model, to be built on one of the most picturesque riverfront lots. From her desk by the model’s front windows, she caught occasional glimpses of Brad’s bright blue pickup zipping from the models to the community dock area—which was finally under construction—to a new site at the far end of Amber Run where a reclusive writer had bought two lots and begun construction of a personal hideaway. Brad, with token adherence to the tradition of not seeing the bride on the wedding day until they met at the church, kept moving, avoiding his customary plunges up the stairs to Amber Run’s shining new headquarters. Each time his pickup came into view, Claire watched wistfully as Brad waved a bronzed arm out the cab window or flashed her a jaunty thumbs-up.

  Claire closed the model only an hour earlier than usual and drove straight to the bride’s room at the church where Ginny Bentley, Elizabeth Hilliard, and a starry-eyed Jody Stevens were waiting. After Jody worked diligently over Claire’s hair and make-up, the ladies helped Claire into her wedding dress, a designer gift from her mother and grandmother. A flowing chiffon gown in a misty flower print that might have stepped out of an Impressionist garden. The soft, asymmetrical layers of the skirt pooled on the floor around her as her helpers fussed. At last, faces beaming with satisfaction, the women added a picture hat whose silk flowers and trailing chiffon scarf matched the misty print in her dress.

  When she looked into the full-length mirror, Claire was astonished by the dewy-eyed woman who showed no sign of past trauma, current anxieties, or qualms about the future. She had never looked better in her life, not even on that first wedding day ten years in the past. Her mind and heart steadied to fit the elegant image. Excitement surged, pushing out the clutch of fear that had hovered, refusing to go away. She was marrying her knight in blue denim, her savior and protector who rode to the rescue on a blue metal charger with more horsepower than his medieval predecessors could ever imagine. He had rescued her with casual confidence, totally devoid of the proper reverence and respect due a damsel in distress. And now he would protect her with the same steel-eyed determination. And she would let him do it. And like it.

  Love it.

  She was also a woman of the twenty-first century. Eager . . . reaching out . . . no, seizing the opportunity for a new life. For herself. For Jamie.

  It was a beautiful day. A perfect day.

  Claire smiled. The woman in the mirror smiled back.

  It was time. Jody made one last inspection of Claire’s ensemble, then handed her the bride’s bouquet of pink and lavender rosebuds in an old-fashioned silver lace holder. As the four women walked the few steps along the outdoor covered walkway that led to the small chapel, Claire’s brain settled into robot mode, her body moving through a pre-programmed sequence of events, while rational thought ceased to exist.

  She barely noticed Jody slip away. Or saw the ushers extending their arms to her mother and grandmother, leading them to their places at the front of the tiny chapel. If her father hadn’t tucked her arm through his, she might have stayed right where she was, feet rooted to the vestibule floor.

  It was a small chapel, a short aisle. As Jordan Lovell—who’d been drafted as the person most likely to make sure that myriad details of the wedding and reception went smoothly—chivied everyone into position, Claire focused her gaze on Brad and stayed there. Charcoal suit, a tie so conservative he must have borrowed it. Blond mane ruthlessly slicked back and fastened with a black silk tie reminiscent of the eighteenth century. Bradley Whitlaw Blue. Quite the most stunning sight Claire had ever seen.

  She was marrying him. Blatant desire penetrated her fogged brain.

  Brad’s acting skills had gotten him through many a tight situation, and this was one of the worst. As he looked down the aisle, love and admiration lit his face while inwardly he was chanting, Shit, shit, shit! Claire was going to kill him.

  And he couldn’t blame her.

  He was thirty-eight years old. He ought to be able to handle an uncle young enough to be an older brother and an ex-wife determined to demonstrate the magnanimity of her benevolence. Brad kept smiling while attempting to sneak a look at his bride, but all he could see beneath the damn canopy of chiffon and flowers was a glimpse of her small straight nose. He fervently hoped the organ was drowning out the grinding of his teeth.

  There was Jordan Lovell, herding Jamie into place, studying the bride, tilting Claire’s floppy hat a half inch or so. Brad groaned. Diane and Jordan were thick as thieves. What the hell? As if his ex-wife sitting right up front with the Whitlaws wasn’t bad enough, maybe Diane would show up too.

  To the soft strains of music from West Side Story, assuring them there was a place for them, somewhere a place for them, Jamie started down the aisle, head up, eyes shining, his hands tightly clutching the satin cushion, holding the rings.

  The words of the ceremony were traditional. But with each syllable, each promise once made to another, the ghosts coalesced into firmer, more menacing shape. The bride and groom had gone this way before, made vows broken by disillusionment, death, and divorce.

  Not this time, Claire promised herself. Not this time. No matter what led her to this moment, she was going to be the wife she was promising to be. She would adapt to being a Floridian . . . to having a husband women lusted after . . .

  Which was the moment the world spun as Brad kissed her, then crashed as she turned, smiling and laughing, to face the congregation—and saw Phil Tierney. They’d had to invite her, of course, but sitting in the second row with the Whitlaws?

  It shouldn’t matter, of course. But . . .

  As Purcell’s “Trumpet Voluntary” reverberated through the small chapel, Claire pasted a smile back on her face and ran the gauntlet of well wishers as she and Brad worked their way down the aisle and out to the Thunderbird parked outside. The T-bird, Brad had confided, was his father’s only toy, the shining symbol of achievement for the Russian college student turned cowhunter, farmer, and cabinet maker. It was only fitting the low-slung red car be used to transport the bride and groom back to Palm Court.

  As Brad zipped through traffic with his customary disregard for speed laws or the idiosyncracies of Golden Beach’s elderly drivers, Claire held her broad-brimmed hat in place with one hand and clutched her bouquet with the other. Life was compromise, she kept repeating to herself. Even wedding days were not guaranteed perfect. So she would be the picture of joyous bliss for Brad’s construction crew. For the owner, agents and staff of T & T, including Ken Millard, who had been sitting beside Maggie McKinnon—and was still first on Claire’s personal list of suspects. She would smile and smile and play gracious lady of the manor for an assortment of Hilliards, Whitlaws and Tyrees; not to mention Sheriff Bill Jeffries, three county commissioners, two state representatives, one member of the House of Representatives, and Florida’s senior U. S. Senator.

  They were so incredibly naive. So trusting. He could walk right up to any of them. Dance. Laugh. Sip champagne while flirting over the rim of his glass.

  Cops outside, cops—top cops—inside. And not one of them knew. Shit, they didn’t have a clue.

  Jody now . . . she was a rare one. Too bad she was so young. He liked a little more maturity. Still . . . the little cunt looked a lot older today. And prettier. Much prettier.

  He leaned his back against one of the courtyard pillars and spent a satisfying five minutes mentally undressing Jody Stevens. Slowly. Indulgently. Completely.

  Was Jody a virgin? Maybe he’d find out.

  After the other two.

  Oh ye-ah . . . after the others, maybe he’d find out.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Brad tossed his last item of clothing, a black sock, onto the floor. Lips curling in an anticipatory grin, he stripped the covers off the bed, swit
ched off the lamp, and stretched full length on the pristine lace-trimmed white sheets he’d bought especially for the occasion.

  Jesus! What was taking her so long? He’d been hot for Claire’s return ever since she disappeared into the bathroom carrying nothing more than a wisp of pale pink froth in her hand.

  Weird. She’d been sharing his bed nearly every night for weeks. He should have built up some kind of immunity. Blasé Brad, international sophisticate—whatever happened to him? The new Brad was hard as a rock, panting to see his wife—his wife—in nothing but transparent pink froth. Pink, for God’s sake!

  He didn’t give a damn what excuse had brought her to the altar. She wanted him. He wanted her. And now that he had her where he wanted her, everything was going to fall into place. There was, after all, something to be said for barefoot and pregnant . . .

  Brad tucked one hand beneath his head, his eyes never leaving the doorway to the bathroom. His penis stood at attention, blatantly ready for the wedding night Too much exposure for his little lady from New England? Maybe a bit more subtlety . . .

  A scream from the bathroom. Brad catapulted off the bed, running, only to collide with Claire as she came bursting through the door. Ignoring the longed-for transparent pink silk and Claire’s babbling, which made no sense, he thrust her aside and charged into the bathroom.

  Oh, shit! It needed only this.

  Brad unclenched his jaw, speaking very carefully, one syllable at a time. “It’s only Maisie,” he said.

  “Maisie!” Claire choked from the safety of the center of the kingsize bed. “You named it?”

  “Well, actually,” Brad admitted, “it could be Maisie or it could be one of her relatives. We’re not really that well acquainted. It’s nothing to get excited about,” he continued in tones so patronizing Claire’s teeth stood on edge. “They don’t bite. Not people anyway. They eat bugs—cockroaches, palmetto bugs, things like that.”