Promise of Paradise

by Rosemary Hammond

  Inside, she asked a waitress for Millie Farrow, and was directed to a harried-looking woman, about her own age, dressed in a white uniform and clearing off the tables. Jessica went over to her.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here about the cashier’s job. Commander Perkins sent me.” She held out the note he’d given her.

  The woman looked up, pushed back the strands of blond hair that had fallen over her forehead and took the note. After scanning it briefly, she raised her eyes, flicked a brief glance over Jessica’s obviously expensive suit, then nodded brusquely.

  “Good,” she said at last. “We could use the help.” She named a salary. “When can you start?”

  “Well, any time,” Jessica replied. “I’ll need a few days to find a place to live and get moved. How about Wednesday?”

  “Great. Be here at seven o’clock.” She stuck out a hand. “My name’s Millie, Jessica. Welcome aboard.”

  That night she decided to splurge on one last dinner at the Paradise as a celebration for her success in finding a job. Tomorrow she would have to start looking for a cheaper place to live.

  She was in the hotel dining room, enjoying a marvelous fresh halibut steak, when she saw him through the low bank of foliage plants that separated it from the cocktail lounge.

  He was sitting at the bar, turned sideways and facing the same red-haired woman, who was now dressed in a green strapless sundress, cut low to reveal that perfect figure. He was leaning toward her, the same lazy smile curling on his lips, and the woman’s hand was resting on his thigh.

  Jessica turned her head quickly and began picking at her salad. The last thing she needed was a view of his seductive prowess in action. Although she had to admit the redhead was giving him every cooperation.

  After a few moments, she dared to raise her eyes again, only to see that they were now walking directly toward her. She looked away hastily, but not before he’d recognized her, and when she glanced up again he was standing beside her table looking down at her, a half-amused, half-irritated expression on his face.

  He also looked marvelous, a far cry from the rumpled man she’d first met. Freshly shaven, he was wearing a lightweight navy blue jacket, crisp white shirt and dark red tie, and was by far the most attractive man in the room.

  “Well, good evening, Mrs. Trent,” he drawled. “Still here, I see.”

  She raised her eyes and gave him a tight smile. “Yes,” was the curt reply. Her eyes flicked to the redhead who was gazing at her with avid curiosity.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” she pouted, giving Luke a nudge.

  “Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Sandra Forrest, this is Jessica Trent.”

  The two women murmured polite greetings.

  Luke gazed lazily around the room, then smiled down at Sandra. “It’s so crowded tonight I’m afraid we won’t get a table soon. Might as well go back to the bar and have another drink.”

  Jessica started to get to her feet. “Here,” she said, “I’m through. Take my table.”

  Luke glanced down at her half-finished plate. “Are you sure? We don’t want to run you off.”

  “Oh, there’s no danger of that, Mr. Fury,” she replied in a saccharine voice. She turned to Sandra. “Nice to have met you,” she murmured, then snatched up her handbag and beat a hasty retreat.

  It wasn’t until she reached the foyer that it dawned on her she’d neglected to pay her check. She stood there for a moment by the entrance in a quandary. What should she do? She really had no choice. She’d have to go back and get it.

  With a deep sigh, she turned and started trudging slowly back to the table. With luck they’d be so engrossed in each other they wouldn’t even notice. She could grab the check off the table where the waiter had left it, then make a quick getaway.

  She had reached the bank of palms by now, and she stood there for a moment gathering up momentum, when suddenly from beyond the palm trees, she heard Sandra’s voice speaking her name.

  “So that was Paul Trent’s wife. Why is she here?”

  “To find the real story about Paul’s death.”

  “And are you going to tell her?”

  “I’d like to,” came the grim reply. “Just to shake that icy composure of hers. But no,” he added reluctantly. “I’m not going to tell her.”

  “Just because you’re such a nice guy, I take it,” Sandra retorted dryly.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I feel sorry for the poor thing.”

  “Poor thing, my eye!” Luke exclaimed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, come off it, Luke. You know his reputation. He must have led her a merry chase.”

  Luke snorted. “Maybe she deserved it. From the stories I’ve heard, she’s one of those socialite snobs who can’t be bothered with a husband or children. A real cold fish.”

  “And just how would you know that?” Sandra gave a dry laugh. “Did you try and get slapped down?”

  “Of course not. It was all over the base. Believe me, a man doesn’t stray into another woman’s bed, unless he can’t find any comfort in his own.”

  “Oh, you men! You make me sick. Come on, let’s order.”

  Jessica had stood frozen in place during the entire exchange, hardly able to believe her ears. So that was why Luke had treated her so cavalierly. It was so unfair! Had Paul spread lies about her simply to justify his own infidelities?

  But it wasn’t true! She’d loved Paul! He’d been everything to her, and it wasn’t until her suspicions were confirmed, his wanderings become a matter of public knowledge, that she couldn’t bear to have him touch her. She thought about the sleepless nights waiting for him to come home, the shattered hopes, the humiliation.

  Now she had to get out of there. Bother the check. She could deal with that tomorrow. Her ears still ringing, she turned and fled.

  Jessica spent the next few days apartment hunting. In that time she saw Luke several times, in the coffee shop, passing by in the hotel lobby, once in the parking lot as she was just coming in, he leaving. Each time he would nod politely, give her that same maddening half-smile, and always hurry past her.

  Of course he was avoiding her, and it gave her a wicked sense of satisfaction that she had become such a thorn in his side. For now she would bide her time, wait for the right moment, then beard the lion in his den once again.

  Then one morning when she went into the coffee shop for a late breakfast she saw him sitting by himself at a comer table, drinking a cup of coffee, a newspaper spread out before him. His back was toward her, but by now she’d recognize him anywhere.

  Quickly, before he spotted her, she marched over to his table, pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. He glanced up, obviously startled, but by then it was too late for him to make his getaway. He frowned at her briefly, then folded up his newspaper, leaned back in his chair and gave her an exasperated look.

  “All right,” he said with a sigh. “What is it this time?”

  She gave him a bright smile. “Oh, nothing new. The same old questions.” Then her expression became grave. “I will get the truth,” she said evenly. “All you have to do to get rid of me is tell me what I want to know.”

  “You know, Mrs. Trent,” he said in a tone of deep irritation. “You’re getting to be a real pest.” Then suddenly, to her amazement, he put his elbows on the table, leaned toward her and gave her a slow smile. “But a very ladylike one, of course.” The hooded green eyes swept her up and down insolently. “A very desirable one, too, if you could get the starch out of your spine long enough to act like a woman instead of a cog in your high and mighty social machine.”

  She flushed angrily, but wouldn’t back down now that she had his attention. “I’m not interested in your opinion, Mr. Fury. Not about my social machine, as you call it, or my personal life, and certainly not about my desirability. You know nothing about me or my world. I only want one thing from you. The trut
h about my husband’s death.” Try as she might, she couldn’t quite hide the catch in her throat or the quaver in her voice. “Can’t you see? I won’t be able to get on with my life until I learn that truth.”

  He leaned back again and sat there silently for several long moments, frowning down at his hands, flat on top of the table, as though deep in thought.

  Finally he raised his eyes to hers again, hard, flintlike eyes that bored into her. “All right, Mrs. Trent,” he said at last. He rose abruptly out of his chair. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” she asked, looking up at him in alarm.

  “To your cottage.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m going to give you what you want. The truth. And I want you sitting down when I do because you’re not going to like it.”

  Inside the cottage, Jessica lowered herself slowly into an easy chair, clasped her hands tightly in her lap and watched him as he ambled over to the small efficiency kitchen nook and got down on his haunches before the tiny fridge.

  “Have you got anything to drink?” he asked.

  “There’s beer in there,” she replied faintly, pointing. “And some wine.” Her heart was pounding wildly, but with a lifetime of practice behind her, she managed to appear as calm and collected on the surface as ever.

  When he came back, he had a bottle of beer for himself in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. He handed her the glass, then eased himself down in the chair opposite hers, popped open the beer and took a long swallow. Jessica sipped on her wine, still watching him carefully, wishing he’d quit fooling around and get to the point. He set the bottle down and leaned toward her, his elbows braced on his knees, broad shoulders hunched forward.

  “I’m a plain-speaking man, Mrs. Trent,” he began in a flat tone of voice. “Used to telling it how it is. You say you want the truth about your husband’s death, and I’ll have to give it to you in the only way I know how.” He paused for a moment, the green eyes glittering at her, as though giving her a chance to back down.

  “I understand,” she said finally. “I want the truth.”

  “All right, then,” he went on in the same brisk tone. “When your husband took up his plane that afternoon, he didn’t clear it with anyone, as per regulations. He had no authorization. He was also drunk. That’s a fact, the results of the autopsy.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes still upon her. “And he wasn’t alone.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened slightly, but she remained motionless. “I see,” she said evenly. “Who was with him?”

  He took another swallow of beer. “It was a woman,” was the curt reply. Then his expression softened slightly. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. There was no reason for you to ever know.”

  “Oh, don’t waste your sympathy on me, Mr. Fury. I asked for it, after all. It’s my responsibility, not yours.” She thought a moment, then asked quietly, “And the—the woman with him?”

  “Killed too,” was the curt reply.

  “My father-in-law knew, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  She took a deep breath and rose to her feet. “Well, thank you very much for giving me what I came here for. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to be alone.”

  He stared hard at her for a moment, then got up from his chair, walked slowly toward her and stood gazing down at her. “Well,” he said. “I’ll have to hand it to you, Mrs. Trent. You’ve got guts.” He cocked his head to one side and his mouth curled in a sardonic smile. “On the other hand, maybe you just don’t really give a damn.”

  “You have no right to say that,” she said in a low voice.

  “Well, you’ll have to admit that most women would have shown some sign of shock at news like that, even shed a tear or two.” He eyed her carefully. “But then you’re not like most women, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” she replied. “I’m who I am. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

  “Right.” He nodded briskly then started toward the door. When he reached it, he turned around. “Sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Well, call on me if you need anything,” he said. His tone was gruff, almost as though the offer embarrassed him.

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll need anything more from you.”

  He raised one heavy dark eyebrow. “You never know, Mrs. Trent. You just never know.”

  With that he was gone, and once she heard the door close behind him, his footsteps moving briskly away down the path, she was finally able to let go. Squeezing her eyes shut against the hot tears that stung behind them, her shoulders sagging, she groped her way back to her chair, sank down upon it and laid her head back.

  She wasn’t really surprised at the news Luke Fury had just given her, terrible as it was. She’d suspected something like that all along. It was one thing, however, to harbor dim suspicions, but quite another to have them confirmed. And by a complete stranger.

  An enigmatic man, a conundrum. So curt and brisk, even rude, on the surface, yet there had been an unmistakable gleam of real sympathy in his eyes, those glowing green eyes, that seemed to conceal depths of emotion he didn’t dare reveal.

  She sighed deeply and opened her eyes, gazing around the room in sudden surprise, as though she’d wandered by mistake into a strange place. She pulled out a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose, promising herself that was the last tear she’d shed for any man.

  By Tuesday she’d found an apartment in Pensacola she could afford, checked out of the motel, and packed her bags. She was just carrying the last of her luggage, the heaviest bag, down the path heading toward the parking lot, when she ran straight into Luke Fury.

  Almost literally, since all her attention was focused on trying to balance the weight of the suitcase and still keep her footing in her high-heeled pumps, her eyes fixed firmly on her feet, and wishing she’d had the foresight to change into more sensible shoes before packing.

  “Hey, whoa!”

  She looked up to see him standing directly in front of her. One more step and they would have collided. At that moment her precarious hold on the bag slipped and it thudded to the pavement, barely missing her foot.

  “Leaving?” he asked, picking up the bag easily and swinging around to walk beside her.

  Although she was immensely relieved to be free of her burden, she didn’t quite like the way he had simply taken over. “Yes, I am,” she replied shortly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he commented in a casual tone.

  “Oh, really?” She gave a dry little laugh. “I must say that surprises me.”

  He grinned down at her. “I don’t see why.”

  She shrugged. “Somehow I had the distinct impression you’d be overjoyed never to set eyes on me again after the way I hounded you.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong,” he said in firm tones. “I never feel hounded when a beautiful woman pursues me. For whatever reason.”

  She ignored the blatant come-on, the smug self-satisfied tone of voice. The man’s masculine ego knew no bounds. Still, he was carrying her bag for her, and she bit back a sharp retort.

  “Actually,” he went on as they walked along, “I’m leaving myself tomorrow.”

  Commander Perkins had mentioned that his work took him all over the world. “Oh? And where are you off to now?”

  “Paris, first. Then possibly Japan.”

  They had reached her rental car by now. When she unlocked the trunk, he swung the suitcase up easily and set it down inside. Then he turned to her. He was wearing dark glasses so she couldn’t make out the look in his eyes—“the windows of the soul”, as one poet put it—but the thin, rather sardonic smile on his lips made her uneasy.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said coolly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

  She turned and started toward the driver’s door, b
ut he held out a hand, placing it lightly on her arm. She glanced down at the hand, then back up at his face, which once again was unreadable.

  “Have a drink with me before you leave,” he said.

  She was about to give him a firm no when suddenly he reached up and removed the dark glasses. Although the green eyes gave away nothing, they were not hostile or mocking, merely friendly. One drink wouldn’t hurt anything. If he was leaving tomorrow, she’d probably never see him again.

  While she debated, she gave him a closer look. He was really a very attractive man once you got past that brusque, almost callous manner of his, and she could well understand what his red-haired friend had found so compelling.

  The gold streaks in his dark hair glinted in the sunlight, his deeply-tanned face was well-molded, with high prominent cheekbones, a firm jaw, square chin, and softened by two deep indentations that appeared at the corners of his mouth when he smiled.

  “Come on,” he urged. “A well-disciplined lady like you must have allowed plenty of time to catch your plane.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out the truth, that she had no plane to catch, but her innate caution and reserve held her back. It was none of his business that she’d decided to stay in Florida, had a job, was moving into an apartment.

  She was hot and tired. A cool drink in the air-conditioned lounge sounded very tempting. Besides, something about the man intrigued her. He was so different from most of the men she’d known, men like Paul, her dead husband, all charm and impeccable manners on the outside, but shallow underneath.

  This man had no charm whatsoever, but somehow she had the feeling that if any woman had the good fortune to penetrate behind the rough facade, she would find deep wells of character, even tenderness, that he kept well-hidden most of the time.

  “All right,” she said with a smile. “A drink sounds good.”

  Except for a few serious drinkers at the bar, they had the cool, dim lounge virtually to themselves at that hour. They sat down at a table and both ordered gin and tonic.