Promise of Paradise

by Rosemary Hammond

  Jessica flushed angrily.

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  Copyright

  Jessica flushed angrily.

  “I’m not interested in your opinion, Mr. Fury. Not about my personal life and certainly not about my desirability. I want only one thing from you. The truth about my husband’s death!”

  Luke leaned back. Finally he raised his eyes to hers—hard, flintlike eyes that bored into her.

  “All right, Mrs. Trent,” he said at last. “I’m going to give you the truth. And you’re not going to like it.... ”

  Rosemary Hammond grew up in California, but has since lived in several other states. Rosemary and her husband have traveled extensively throughout the United States, Mexico, the Caribbean and Canada, both with and without their two sons. She enjoys gardening, music and needlework, but her greatest pleasure has always been reading. She started writing romances because she enjoyed them, but also because the mechanics of fiction fascinated her and she thought it might be something she could do.

  Promise of Paradise

  Rosemary Hammond

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  JESSICA sat primly across from the heavy-set man in uniform, just as she had been taught from earliest childhood, spine straight against the back of the chair, neatly-shod feet tucked under it, legs together and bent slightly, the skirt of her dark blue linen suit decorously covering her knees.

  Above the constant roar of the airplanes taking off and landing outside the tightly-shut window and the low hum of the air conditioner, she listened politely—had been listening for the past ten minutes—while the Commanding Officer of the Pensacola Naval Air Station explained to her once more why any. further investigation into her husband’s death would be fruitless.

  “Yes,” she said quietly when he’d finished. “I understand, Commander Perkins. You’ve made it quite clear, and I do appreciate the fact that it’s been a month passed since the accident and you’re hesitant to re-open the case.” She leaned forward slightly, clutching the bone-colored leather bag tightly in her hands, and her calm voice took on a note of real urgency. “But, you see, I have to know what really happened.”

  “Well, yes, Mrs. Trent, I can sympathize with that, but...” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture and gave her a weak smile.

  “But,” she added with a wry twist of her mouth, “my father-in-law has suggested, let’s say, for want of a better word, that it’s best to let the entire matter drop. Isn’t that the real reason?”

  Commander Perkins shrugged. “I can only repeat what I’ve already told you. Several times,” he added with a hard edge to his voice. “The matter has been investigated. The Navy is satisfied. Your husband’s father, Senator Trent, is satisfied. Why not just leave it alone?”

  “I can’t do that,” she said, her tone taking on an equally-determined note. “I might as well tell you that my father-in-law had nothing to do with my coming here. In fact, he doesn’t even know about it.” She leaned even farther forward, her gray eyes fixed on him with such intensity that she didn’t even notice when her handbag slid off her lap and dropped to the floor. “But I must know. I—I have my own reasons. Personal reasons that have nothing to do with the family. I was Paul’s wife, Commander Perkins. Doesn’t that give me some rights, in spite of the Senator’s wishes?”

  Commander Perkins sighed heavily. He sat for a moment frowning down at his desktop, littered with papers and files, then rose to his feet and walked over to the window. He stood there for several moments rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

  Watching him intently, Jessica could almost sympathize with him. He seemed a pleasant enough man, balding, middle-aged, growing a slight paunch around the middle, but carrying his dark blue uniform well. He was probably somebody’s husband, father, even grandfather, a kindly man.

  She was well aware of the bind she’d put him in. Senator Trent carried a lot of weight on the important Congressional Armed Services Committee, and the Navy would turn itself inside out to accommodate his slightest wish. But she had to find out the real circumstances of Paul’s death, and she intended to make the poor Commander’s life a misery, if she had to, until she did.

  Finally he turned around. He leaned back against the windowsill, crossed his arms over his rotund middle and gave her a grudging smile.

  “You’re a very persistent young woman, Mrs. Trent,” he said at last. “But you have to understand my position.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “I understand perfectly. And I’d like to assure you that I have no intention of making waves. If I do discover anything new, I promise you I won’t even tell the Senator about it. I have no wish to stir up a hornet’s nest or make trouble for anyone. I just want the truth.”

  “Then why...” he began, then broke off.

  “As I told you, I have my own reasons.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Paradise Motel in Destin.”

  He nodded. “All right. I’ll be in touch.” He laughed when he saw the suspicious look on her face. “No, I’m not just fobbing you off again. I know by now it won’t do any good. You’ll just be back tomorrow.”

  She picked up her fallen handbag and rose to her feet, then allowed him to usher her toward the door. When he’d opened it for her, she turned to face him.

  “Then I can expect to hear from you soon?”

  “This afternoon. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” she said, holding out her gloved hand.

  After they’d shaken hands, she turned and walked away from him, her back straight, her shoulders squared, her head held high. The Commander stood looking after her, shaking his head, the expression on his face one of mingled exasperation and respect.

  Half an hour later, Jessica was back in the bedroom of her cottage at the Paradise Motel, a new luxury complex right on the beach. She took off her blue suit, hung it carefully in the closet on its padded hanger, slipped off her bone-colored pumps and inserted the wooden shoe trees, went to the window in her lacy silk slip.

  Through the tall palm trees that swayed in the April breeze, beyond the broad stretch of glistening white sand was the vast blue-green water of the Gulf of Mexico. Early spring was the loveliest time of year along the Gulf Coast of Florida, but Jessica hardly noticed the beautiful sight.

  She was exhausted from the session with Commander Perkins, but exhilarated, too. It had gone quite well. She was finally going to get to the bottom of Paul’s death.

  As she raised her hand to adjust the blind, a spark of bright sunlight caught the glint of her wide gold wedding band, and a sudden flash of the day Paul had slipped it on her finger came to her.

  Her wedding day! The huge church decorated with banks of flowers and ribbons, all of San Francisco society in attendance. The happiest day of her life. Paul had looked so handsome in his Navy dress uniform, had gazed at her with such love in his eyes.

  Her heart gave a sickening wrench. What had gone wrong? How could that gallant, dashing young Naval officer have changed so drastically? The drinking, the womanizing. When did it all start? Was it somehow her fault? Had she failed him?

  Now he was dead. She’d been sorry, of course, when she’d received the news, but also secretly relieved. N
o more of his lies, no more pity from her friends, or worse, their satisfaction at her humiliation. Still, the hot tears sprang unbidden to her eyes at the waste of such a promising young life.

  Heaving a deep sigh, she wiped her eyes and went over to the bed to lie down. She’d known from the moment they’d received the telegram informing them of his plane crash that there was more to it than the simple words of the wire made it seem.

  That very night, her father-in-law had gone straight to the library of the huge Trent mansion and, she knew, made several private telephone calls, most likely to his high government sources. When he’d come back his face had been ashen, and she’d known that it wasn’t just the fact of Paul’s death that had put that look there.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when he virtually refused to discuss the matter. She had begged him for more details, but he’d only brushed her off, just told her, as Commander Perkins had done, that he saw no reason not to accept the official findings. Paul was dead. Nothing would bring him back. And the sooner they all put it behind them the better.

  She’d waited a month, then finally decided to come to the Naval Air Station in Pensacola herself, right to the source, the place where the crash had taken place.

  After three days of being fobbed off with excuses and good reasons why she should let it rest, today the Commander had promised to help her. She’d won at last. She was gratified at that, but now that her suspicions were confirmed, there really was something to cover up, she couldn’t help feeling a little frightened at what she might discover.

  She was awakened by the ringing of the telephone beside her bed. She sat bolt upright and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. She must have dozed off. It rang again and she snatched up the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Trent, this is Commander Perkins. I’ve arranged to have you speak to the civilian expert who investigates all our air crashes here at the station.”

  “Thank you, Commander. That’s very kind of you. When can I meet with him?”

  “Would this afternoon be convenient?”

  “Yes, of course. Shall I come to the station?”

  “No. He’ll come to you, if that’s all right.”

  “I appreciate that. When shall I expect him?”

  The Commander chuckled. “Well, he said four o’clock. But knowing Luke, it could be any time up until midnight. I’m sorry. It’s the best I could do.”

  “I’ll be here,” she replied firmly. “Whenever he shows up.”

  After she hung up, she went into the bathroom to shower. As she dried off and dressed in a deceptively simple pale yellow cotton dress, she realized she’d forgotten to ask the Commander what this Luke person’s last name was. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter when he came.

  After dressing and combing out her shoulder-length black hair in her usual plain style, the ends turned up slightly, she went out on the lanai to wait for him. It was already half past three. She hadn’t had any lunch that day, in fact hadn’t had much appetite at all for the past two months, and now, suddenly, she felt hungry.

  She called room service to deliver a sandwich and salad, and ordered extra coffee, a bottle of their best white wine and a brand of German beer she knew most men appreciated. She wanted to make a good impression on “Luke”, needed him on her side.

  After finishing her lunch, she sat at the umbrella-shaded table and watched the surf roll in, sipping coffee and gathering her wits together so that she could ask the right questions.

  Finally, at four-thirty, she spotted a man coming down the paved path from the motel. He was quite tall, lean, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, in his shirt sleeves, a jacket slung over one shoulder, and he walked with the lithe grace of a panther. As he crossed over to her own private walkway, coming out of the shade of the main building into the bright sunlight for a few seconds, she noticed that the thick hair which had seemed almost black, now glinted with golden highlights where the sun struck it.

  As he approached, she rose to her feet. “Mr...” She hesitated.

  “Fury,” he supplied. “Luke Fury.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Fury,” she said stiffly. “Won’t you sit down?”

  He nodded and sat in the deck chair next to hers, slumping back against it, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. As she took her own seat she glanced covertly at him. He looked very tired, rather harried, and extremely annoyed. A faint dark stubble covered the bony planes of his face, and there were little creases at the corners of his eyes, a startlingly deep liquid green.

  “Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Fury?” she asked politely. “There’s coffee, wine. Or beer, if you prefer.”

  “Yes,” he said, sitting up straighter. “A beer sounds good.”

  She reached down into the ice chest and took out a bottle of the German beer, a cold pilsner glass, and set them down on the table. He reached in front of her for the bottle, twisted off the cap, then raised it to his mouth and took a long swallow. When he’d finished, he wiped the foam from his mouth on the back of his hand, then turned to her and gazed at her silently through hooded eyes.

  “I hope you don’t mind sitting outside,” she said. “It’s such a pleasant day that it seemed a shame to waste it indoors. The cottage is really quite nice, but...”

  He set his bottle down hard on top of the table and leaned slightly toward her, his green eyes like marble. “Listen, Mrs. Trent, let’s cut the chitchat, shall we, and get down to cases. I’m a busy man, and you might as well know I’m here under protest. I’m not in the Navy. I’m a civilian. I don’t take orders from anyone.”

  Although his abrupt little speech had shaken her, she met the penetrating gaze steadily. “Then why are you here?” she asked evenly.

  He gave her a wicked grin that held a hint of approval, and shrugged. “Partly as a favor for Commander Perkins. Partly out of curiosity. We peasants are always interested to see how the aristocracy lives.”

  “Aristocracy?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Sure, you know. I’ve done my homework. You live with your husband’s parents, a mansion in Hillsborough, probably the most affluent suburb of San Francisco. Your father-in-law is an important senator. You come from a wealthy old Boston family. A very impressive background, Mrs. Trent. How could I refuse?”

  Something about the way he kept repeating her name, the rather sneering tone underlying the simple syllables, had begun to irritate her, not to mention the way he insisted on baiting her about her background. What she wanted to do was smack that sarcastic grin off his face, but years of training in correct behavior stopped the wayward thought almost before it had formed in her mind.

  “I see,” she said. “Does that mean you would have refused to see me if I were plain Mary Smith, the shopkeeper’s daughter? Who’s the real snob here, Mr. Fury?”

  The nasty grin faded slightly and the smug look of satisfaction vanished altogether. “Touché, Mrs. Trent,” he murmured grudgingly. “You have a point.”

  “My father-in-law has nothing to do with this,” she went on in a low earnest voice. “In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here. What’s more, if he did, he’d be extremely displeased.” She leaned a little closer. “Look, Mr. Fury, I know you’re a busy man, but what I want to know shouldn’t take long. And I’m sorry to take you out of your way. I offered to go back to the station to meet with you, but Commander Perkins made the decision for you to come to me.”

  “Oh, it’s not out of the way. I’m staying here myself, as a matter of fact.” He gestured toward her cottage. “Not in such luxurious accommodations, of course.”

  She sighed. “Well, be that as it may, since you’re obviously not happy to be here at all, why don’t you just tell me what I want to know, and then you can be rid of me.”

  “All right. Commander Perkins tells me you have some questions about your husband’s plane crash.”

  “Yes, I do. He said you conducted the investigation.”

  He nodded. “That’s r
ight,” he replied noncommittally, and took another long swallow of beer. “What do you want to know? Or, more to the point, why are you looking into it now? It happened over a month ago. Didn’t your father-in-law get the official report? You must have seen it yourself.”

  “Yes, I saw it. But I’ve never been satisfied with it.”

  He quirked a heavy dark eyebrow at her. “Why not?”

  She hesitated, not quite certain how to answer. He was turning out to be a difficult man to deal with, and clearly annoyed at pulling the onerous duty of soothing the widow’s ruffled feathers.

  “It’s hard to explain,” she replied at last. “It all happened so fast, the call from Commander Perkins, the funeral arrangements, and my father-in-law seemed so determined not to discuss it at all that I became convinced there had to be something he was trying to cover up. He doted on Paul, his only son, and I can understand why he would do that.” She raised her chin. “But as Paul’s widow, I think I have a right to know the truth.”

  As she spoke he had gradually turned away from her, and was now staring out at the incoming tide, his face blank, his eyes squinting against the lowering sun. He seemed to be mulling over something in his mind, and Jessica could only wait, her hands folded patiently in her lap, to hear what he had to tell her.

  Finally he shifted his gaze back to her. “Everything I had to say about your husband’s death was in my report to Commander Perkins. I have nothing more to add to it. I’m sorry.” He rose abruptly to his feet, then bent over slightly, placing the palms of his hands flat on top of the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day.”

  Crushed by his blunt refusal, she stared dismally down at his hands, large, competent-looking, a workman’s hands, but well kept. He wore a complicated-looking chronometer watch on his left wrist, with a plain leather band, and his well-muscled forearms were covered with a mat of fine silky dark hairs.