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    Shadowed Paradise
    Shadowed Paradise
    Shadowed Paradise
    Ebook390 pages7 hours

    Shadowed Paradise

    By Blair Bancroft

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When Claire Langdon's affluent, near-fairytale life in New York is shattered by scandal, she and her eight-year-old son Jamie take refuge with her grandmother in Florida. Once a bright, confident young woman, Claire has been so badly hurt that when she stumbles onto a genuine downhome hero, learning to trust, to love again, seem beyond her reach. She is also forced to deal with the discovery that there are more serious dangers in Florida than alligators, snakes, spiders, and macho males. Like a serial killer, with her name on his list.

    Brad Blue is the son of a Russian defector (from Cold War days); his mother, the daughter of one of Florida's wealthiest cattle barons. (And, yes, Florida is the largest cattle-producing state east of the Mississippi.) Still under forty, Brad is retired from one of Uncle Sam's many secretive "alphabet" agencies. He's tough and lonely and more than ready to settle down to family life, but convincing Claire Langdon to marry him is one of his most difficult assignments. Almost as difficult as discovering the identity of the killer who is stalking female real estate agents in Calusa County, Florida.

    From the moment Claire and Brad meet in the midst of a flooded bridge, cultural shock wars with romantic attraction. On top of that, they both have pasts that don't bear close scrutiny. But when Brad offers Claire the job of "sitting" one of his model homes out back of beyond, she accepts. Which is just fine with the killer.

    The killer plays a prominent, if anonymous, role throughout the book, gloating over his kills, attempting to justify them. And, finally, inevitably, he meets Claire, face to face.

    Reviews:

    "Marvelously versatile, wondrously creative, intelligently written and sensuously inventive, Bancroft's Shadowed Paradise adds new meaning to the term 'romantic suspense.'. . . as fresh as tomorrow and seriously scary. I loved it."
    Celia Merenyi, A Romance Review

    "Shadowed Paradise contains all the elements I so enjoy in a book, excellent dialogue, great character development and fine descriptive scenes. The romance is steamy, the suspense is taut and exiting, and the result is a supremely satisfying, well-developed read, guaranteed to keep you glued throughout."
    Astrid Kinn, Romance Reviews Today

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateAug 16, 2011
    ISBN9780983807520
    Shadowed Paradise
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      Shadowed Paradise - Blair Bancroft

      Shadowed Paradise

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2011 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      ~ * ~

      1

      Author’s Note

      A surprising amount of this book is true. After all, how could anyone make up such a bizarre incident as a snake climbing a typing stand after a terrified tree frog? It happened to me while I was writing this book. The bridge washout, the car trapped in the gap, occurred about a mile and a half from my house. Spiders the size of saucers, alligator attacks, jungle rivers the color of strong tea, a city with a thousand roads to nowhere—they all exist on Florida’s gulf coast. A great deal more of the story, including the serial killings, are based on fact, but, beyond that, I leave it to the reader to guess where truth ends and fiction begins.

      Blair Bancroft

      Chapter One

      Somewhere behind the waterfall there was a road. The Toyota’s wipers, valiantly slashing through the deluge, allowed Claire intermittent glimpses of gold reflectors crouched on the center line like an undulating row of one-eyed alley cats waiting to pounce. To the right was her other lifeline, the white stripe marking the edge of the pavement and the deep drainage ditch just beyond.

      In the three miles since she turned off U.S. 41 Claire had seen only one other car. Obviously the natives had sense enough to stay home in a monsoon. Or perhaps no one was out there at all. No reassuring glimmers of light shone from the houses whose dark deserted shapes loomed behind the curtain of water, their snowbird owners flown safely north well in advance of the scalding heat and daily downpours of summer along Florida’s Gulf Coast.

      A blue-white flash of lightning illuminated the scene in stark relief, revealing the looming shadows as nothing more sinister than modest ranch-style homes with neat lawns, swaying palms, massive live oaks. Thunder crashed down, enveloping the car in a reverberating roar of protest from the seared black clouds around them.

      From Claire’s right came a small whimper, quickly choked short.

      It’s all right, Jamie, she said brightly, eons more confidently than she felt. We’re almost home. They have storms like this all the time in Florida. We just have to learn to get used to it. If there was one thing her son didn’t need, it was more fear.

      Claire gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles ached. She allowed herself one tiny glance away from the road. Jamie’s frail shoulders were rigid, his eyes glued to the steady swish of the wipers struggling to part the waterfall on the windshield. His small hands clutched the shoulder strap in front of him.

      Claire winced. Eight-year-olds should not have to suffer from white knuckles. What were they doing out here?

      Simple. She had succumbed to the sight of Jamie’s chin sagging toward his small chest as he heard the TV weatherman announce the possibility of record rainfall. It had been raining for three days—not the area’s usual late afternoon thunderstorms, but solid, hour-after-hour driving rain. Claire went off to work each morning, leaving Jamie and his great-grandmother to endure the tedium of no sun, no beach, no walks along the Intracoastal Waterway. Smitten to the heart by her son’s silent endurance, Claire had proposed an excursion to the latest Harry Potter epic. And was amply rewarded by a wide-eyed, You mean it, mom? followed by a whoop of joy and a beatific smile.

      Such a simple outing. Now, too late, Claire recognized her Florida newbie mistake. While she and Jamie sat enthralled by Harry’s adventures at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the storm had increased from downpour to torrent. And now they were fighting their way home through a nearly impenetrable wall of water.

      Jagged lances of lightning stabbed the swirling clouds, exploding into great sheets of light. Thunder enveloped them. Claire heard Jamie draw a deep breath, that heart-rending gasping sound that said he was going to be brave, no matter what. Her visibility worsened in a sudden misting of her eyes. Guilt swept over her. Not even Harry Potter was worth the resurrection of Jamie’s terror.

      Lightning continued to flicker like an erratic neon sign, illuminating the drenched world around them with eerie intensity, shimmering off the waving palms, the Brazilian peppers, the swaying Spanish moss dangling from gigantic oaks. Off the tangle of mangroves.

      Mangroves.

      Claire slowed from a determined twenty miles an hour to less than fifteen. Although she was a new resident, she had visited the area all of her life. Mangroves grew in salt water or the brackish places where rivers met the sea. Their octopus-like roots anchored the soil and provided a habitat for a wide variety of wildlife. Mangroves meant they were entering the causeway leading to the bridge over Heron Creek.

      The narrow two-lane causeway, about the length of a football field, crossed the estuary where Heron Creek emptied into the bay. Usually, the creek was a placid band of water meandering through mud flats and mangroves. Tonight, each flash of lightning revealed roiling waters on both sides of the road. White caps swirled, splashing against the embankment. Suddenly, directly in front of them, the golden cat’s eyes winked out, drowned under a blanket of water. The white line disappeared.

      Water over the bridge.

      Fearful of braking on wet pavement, Claire took her foot off the gas. The lightning, capricious as always, moved out into the Gulf, leaving nothing to illumine the bridge but the Toyota’s headlights.

      Mom? Jamie, clinging to being brave.

      They were less than a mile from home. The only other bridge across Heron Creek meant a six mile detour. She drove this bridge daily. Knew it had survived hurricanes, as well as countless Florida rainy seasons. Water, only a few inches deep, covered less than twenty feet of road. Home was straight ahead. She could do this, she knew she could. Claire put her foot back on the gas and moved forward at a steady ten miles an hour.

      She was almost on it before she saw it. Not a steady stream flowing over the bridge but rushing, roiling, white-capped water. Bubbling up. Not just over, but up. Through an ominous streak of black that ran the width of the road.

      Oh, God! Claire pumped the brakes, shouting for Jamie to hang on, knowing it was too late. The car slid inexorably forward. They were going in. Claire slammed into the steering wheel. The front end tilted down, sagged into the black abyss. Came to an abrupt, teeth-jarring halt.

      The crack was not wide enough to swallow them up.

      A ragged gasping noise. Claire had not realized she was holding her breath until her agonized lungs forced her back to life. Jamie! Are you all right?

      I . . . think so. Jamie sat stock still, instinctively aware of what the slightest movement might do.

      The Toyota’s front end was angled down by thirty degrees, rocking ever so gently in the swift current which had eaten away the pavement at the center of the bridge. In the storm and darkness it was impossible to tell how fast the gap was widening. Only one thing was certain. There was no backing up. The front wheels were in a void, and any movement could peel back the pavement, sending them plunging into the raging river.

      The car shuddered as something, possibly a large branch, bounced off the upstream tire and was swept on into the bay.

      Mo-om! It was Jamie’s nightmare voice. The one Claire had hoped never to hear again. A tiny choking sound. A hiccup.

      Listen to me, Jamie. Claire couldn’t believe the steady, mommy’s-got-everything-under-control tone that rolled off her tongue. Sit very still while I shut off the engine and put us into Park.

      Claire unglued her right hand from the wheel, eased the gear into place. She was grateful it was too dark for Jamie to see the terrified grimace on her face as she pulled the hand brake upward. Except for the rocking of the current, the car did not move. With what she hoped was an inaudible sigh of relief Claire switched off the ignition. She left the headlights on, giving dim but definite comfort. And a warning to anyone approaching the bridge from the other side.

      Good boy, Jamie. Mom’s bracing commendation for her son’s bravery. The need to hear the sound of a voice. Any sound but the incessant beat of the rain and the ominous roar of the flood below.

      What next?

      Jamie, I want you to unhook your seat belt. That’s right. Good boy. Now, very slowly, open the door. Step down carefully. Oh, God, what if there was a hole there too? Jamie! Hang on to the car until you’re sure the road is solid. Okay?

      Okay. Thin but brave. Jamie Langdon was experienced at being brave.

      Unfortunately, Jamie took her words so literally, moving with such extreme caution Claire had to clench her jaw to keep from shouting at him to get a move on. Who could tell how fast the pavement beneath them was crumbling?

      Mom? Mom, the door won’t open."

      Try it again. Claire hissed, struggling to keep her voice calm.

      Mom, I think it’s locked. Patient. Faintly superior. Even at a time like this, his father to the life.

      Automatic door locks. Idiot! She should have remembered. In the dark all the buttons felt the same. Claire pushed each one until rewarded by a satisfying plop as all four doors unlocked. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Claire took a deep breath. They would survive this. They really would. Okay, Jamie, try it now.

      As his small hand pulled at the handle, the world burst into a blaze of light. A blinding white light that turned night into day. Claire and Jamie gasped. The Toyota bucked in a sudden rush of current, then settled into a gentle rocking motion as the unrelenting light sparkled off the waters that had swallowed its front tires.

      Claire grabbed Jamie’s hand, held on tight.

      Dear God, surely nothing more . . . Please . . . nothing more!

      A rush of raindrops, cool damp wind. Movement behind her. The car seemed to sigh, settling back on its haunches as something large and heavy slid into the rear seat. A voice spoke in a deep, rich baritone. Everybody okay?

      Just scared, Claire managed, relief flooding through her. They weren’t alone. And the voice had all the reassurance of a true hero.

      What’s your name, son?

      Jamie.

      Okay, Jamie, said the stranger without the least hint of urgency, I don’t think this car’s going anywhere, but just in case, we’re going to take it real easy. It looks like I outweigh both of you together, wringing wet, so you could probably go out the front door, but to play it safe, you just crawl on back here with me and I’ll scoot you out the rear door. Okay?

      Okay. Jamie, small and agile, made short work of wiggling his way through the gap between the front seats.

      Go straight to my pickup, the firm baritone instructed, and climb in. Your mother doesn’t want to have to worry about you while she’s getting out of here. Right?

      Right. There was another rush of damp air, rain and rumbling river. No cry for help, no sound of a young body plunging into an abyss. Claire bit back a sob of relief.

      Long moments of fearful silence. He’s in the truck, announced the disembodied voice from the back seat. Now it’s your turn. Just do what Jamie did and you’ll be fine.

      Impossible. There was no way she could get out from behind the wheel, bump over the gear box, the raised hand brake, and crawl through a four-inch gap. I can’t, Claire protested hoarsely.

      Look, lady, in case you hadn’t noticed, your front tires are in the damned creek. Lucky for you the break’s not too wide—your front bumper’s on the far side and hanging on. But more pavement could go at any moment. So take those little fingers of yours off the wheel and move it!

      Miserable Florida redneck. If Jim had ever spoken to her like that . . .

      Claire uncurled her fingers from the wheel and began to hitch herself across the central gear box. Hard, uncompromising pieces of metal and plastic bit into the most sensitive parts of her anatomy. Propelled as much by discomfort as by fear, she thrust herself backwards through the impossibly narrow opening between the seats. Large, none-too-gentle hands grabbed her in places she didn’t care to identify, and suddenly she was sprawled, breathless, in the Toyota’s rear seat, her back pressed up against a broad chest only slightly less firm than a boulder. The side of her breast was squashed into an equally hard knee cap as arms as strong as Mr. Clean’s steadied her against thighs of steel. She was also embarrassingly aware of being pressed tight against a more delicate portion of their rescuer’s anatomy.

      The powerful arms that pinned her suddenly let go. You okay? The baritone had slipped to bass.

      Uh-huh.. The most articulate remark she could manage.

      Okay. Now get the hell out of here. Slowly.

      As their rescuer swung the door open, Claire crawled over the solid bulk of jean-encased legs and out into the lessening rainfall. Beneath water that sloshed up to her ankles the ground was solid. Beautifully, wonderfully solid . . .

      Wrong. Beneath her feet was black, crumbling pavement. They were far from safe. They were still on the bridge, suspended over a relentless river. Claire leaned back through the car door. What about you? she asked, frowning.

      Move and I might be able to get out!

      Stung, Claire stepped sharply back. What if his considerable weight was all that was keeping the car from tumbling into the river? What if it started to sink while he was getting out? She planted herself firmly by the rear tire and waited. Did she actually have delusions of being able to hold on to that much male body hurtling into space? Who was she kidding?

      A well-worn western boot topped by classic blue denim jeans poked through the open door, slid slowly down toward the water that flowed over the pavement. As a second boot followed, the Toyota shuddered. The boots froze as the car shimmied, then settled into a steeper angle. The gap in the bridge had widened. Get out, Claire shouted. Now!

      Out of the depths of the car a body unfolded, gathering momentum as it moved toward the brilliant light behind them, carrying Claire with it as easily as a fullback with a football tucked against his chest. So much for her dramatic plan to be helpful.

      They ended up well back from the ominous gushing black fissure, both breathing hard, Claire’s head pressed against the stranger’s chest, where the thump of his heart against her ear assured her that he wasn’t quite as unflappable as he appeared. Even soaking wet, the stranger’s chest was the most comforting resting place she’d experienced in a long, long time. Claire gasped out her thanks, well aware her words were ridiculously inadequate.

      No problem. As if cued by the laconic response, the deluge shut off, dwindling into a light drizzle. An onslaught of civilization broke the dark loneliness of the night. Flashing blue lights stabbed the darkness on the far side of the bridge as a county patrol car pulled up and parked sideways across the road to block traffic from the south. A cacophony of sirens sounded from the long winding stretch of road Claire had driven from the theater. Wails, aa-oo-gahs, and banshee screams marked the arrival of two more sets of flashing blue lights, the red and white pulse of an ambulance, and the long bulk of a fire engine.

      I called 911 before I left the truck, admitted the voice above her on an almost apologetic note.

      Truck. Jamie. Oh, dear God, Jamie! Claire broke away from her safe haven and ran toward the white light she could now see was nothing more than the awesome power of four floodlights mounted on a rack atop a bright blue pickup. Standard equipment in Florida for those who liked to go where few had gone before.

      Claire flung open the truck’s door. Halfway up onto the high leather seat, she saw that it was empty. Her voice rose to a wail. Jamie!

      "Damn it, I saw him get in!" Rough hands thrust her aside.

      Brad Blue peered between the front bucket seats into the narrow space behind. Crouched on the floor in the extension behind the passenger seat was a forlorn figure, his wet blond head bent between his knees, hands pressed to his ears.

      He’s here, Brad called over his shoulder, ignoring the woman’s frantic efforts to get past him. Odd. It had been thirty years since he was this kid’s age, but to the best of his recollection, most boys would be having the time of their lives, noses pressed to the glass, awed or smugly satisfied at their own part in an adventure that had turned out three patrol cars, two ambulances and a fire engine.

      And yet, the boy had been rock steady when abandoning a car precariously balanced over a flooding river.

      Brad instinctively reached out to give comfort, but paused a scant inch from the glistening thatch of hair. Slowly, he pulled back, his fingers moving instead toward the floodlight switch, snapping it off. He backed out of the pickup, gave the woman a boost up, then shut mother and son inside the privacy of the cab. With a shout he headed off the rescue workers who were inching their way toward the Toyota. No need to have to rescue the rescuers.

      Funny about the kid, though.

      Brad fielded a barrage of questions, tossed back a few terse replies. One of the deputies played his flashlight over the crazily canted car, where water surged up and around front wheels still wedged into the ominous black crack that split the bridge in two. Hey, Brad, he called, ambling toward the pickup, what happened just now? That was one hell of a scream. Twenty years earlier Deputy Pat Farrell had caught passes from Brad Blue during their years at Golden Beach High.

      Woman thought her kid was missing. Tow truck on the way?

      Lucky that’s all we need. Damnedst thing I ever saw. Don’t think there’s been trouble with this bridge since it was built.

      Never had this much rain before.

      Sure didn’t. Deputy Farrell glanced at the pickup, then eyed the phalanx of emergency vehicles. Think we’re gonna need the medics?

      Brad cracked open the cab door. Everything okay in there? Need a medic? The woman’s pale face appeared in the opening between the front bucket seats. Somehow she had gotten into the small space where the boy was crouched.

      No. Send them home. Claire bit her tongue. What a stupid, ungracious remark. I’m sorry, she gasped. Please tell everyone thank you. But lights, sirens, people asking questions would only make things worse. We just need to go home.

      Her rescuer didn’t question her judgment. He simply fished a notebook out of the glove compartment and a pen, dripping wet, from his shirt pocket. Name, address, phone. Twice. I’ll have Pat—the deputy—give one to the tow truck driver. Then we can go. Pat can wind up his report tomorrow.

      To the hypnotic accompaniment of flashes of red, white and blue, the glow of gold from the fire engine, Claire printed out the requested information, scrawled her signature across the EMS release form; then, sick at heart, she turned back to her son’s bent head. Jamie’s chin was sunk between his knees, shoulders hunched forward in utter dejection. Had he relapsed into memories of terror, or did he think he’d disgraced himself by hiding from the flashing lights? Other than a steady murmur of inane reassurances, words failed her. Either way, her son was suffering agonies of the soul, and there wasn’t even room enough in this miserable sliver of a cab extension to scoop him up and hold him tight.

      The voices outside died away. Cab doors banged. Through the pickup’s rear window Claire watched the two ambulances and the fire engine back off the causeway, reverse into a side street, and head back up the road toward town, red taillights casting a glow on the glistening pavement.

      Jamie didn’t see them. He never raised his head.

      Chapter Two

      Brad slid behind the wheel of the pickup and paused, contemplating his options. Should he leave the woman in that cramped little space or stick his nose in where it didn’t belong? Well, hell, no one had ever accused him of having a passive personality.

      Hey, Jamie, do you know what a jump seat is? . . . Jamie?

      Uh-uh.

      I’ve got two of them in that little space back there. If your mom comes up front, I can show you how they work.

      I’d better stay back here, the woman stated firmly.

      It’s better than being scrunched up like an accordion until you get home. Back off, Mom. Give the boy some breathing space.

      It’s okay, mom, Jamie said. You’re too big for back here.

      Swallowing a surge of irrational resentment—what did this stranger know about Jamie’s special needs?—Claire conceded the point. The largest part of her anatomy was as tightly wedged in the tiny space behind the seats as the Toyota’s tires were in the crack in the bridge. She was going to need a tow truck of her own to get out.

      After giving Jamie an awkward hug, she contemplated the problem. There was, she decided, no dignified way to climb from the rear of an extended truck cab into a front bucket seat. For the second time in one night she was going to make a display of herself. In front of what she was beginning to notice was a hunk who made the Rock look like a wimp. Better to stay in this impossible position until their rescuer was as far away as possible. Preferably in the next county.

      Take my hand, said the now-familiar baritone. It was not a request. Nor was it unkind. There was exasperation, a dash of impatience, a hint of long-suffering. But not insensitivity to either of her dilemmas—motherhood or vanity.

      Claire accepted the hand that thrust through the opening between the bucket seats. A callused hand. Large, strong. Reliable. Tears threatened. It had been a long time since a man had given Claire Langdon a hand with anything. In a matter of moments she was in the front seat arranging her splayed arms and legs into some semblance of order.

      Brad made no pretense of not looking. A pair of fine legs, minimally covered by denim shorts, with ample curves above and below, were too much temptation for any red-blooded male. Nice, very nice. Even dripping wet.

      He reached back and unfastened the jump seat behind him. How d‘you like that, Jamie? he inquired amiably. Kinda neat, right? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the small shadow still crouched behind the passenger seat. He kept his voice calm, matter of fact. We have to use another bridge, so there’s a lot of miles before you get home. You might want to give the seat a try. Be more comfortable.

      Slowly, Jamie inched forward on his knees, reached out a tentative hand to touch the child-size jump seat. He rubbed his fingers across the leather, moved a few inches closer. With a nod of approval, he crawled into the seat, settling his back against the side of the cab.

      You all set? Brad tossed the words toward the back.

      Sure. The nonchalant bravado of a boy who rode in jump seats in the back of truck cabs every day.

      Claire swallowed hard. It was going to be okay. She allowed herself a peek at the man sitting next to her. Even in darkness lit only by the blue lights of the patrol cars, she caught the reassuring flash of his eyes. Something passed between them that she refused to identify. Sympathy? Fellow human compassion?

      More than that? Come on, Claire. Get real. The man’s nearer forty than thirty. He’s not only married, he probably has kids in high school.

      But there was something about the look he’d just given her . . . something more than, Are you okay? An appraisal. Speculation. Definitely the most flattering look she’d had in the two years since Jim’s death. There’d been altogether too many speculative glances, a few predatory gleams, an occasional glimpse of genuine sympathy. And regret. In the world in which she had once moved and lived, Claire Langdon was no longer the best person to know. No longer socially acceptable.

      Which was why Claire and Jamie were living in Florida on her grandmother’s charity.

      Her rescuer held out his hand. Name’s Brad Blue. Nice to meet you.

      Claire grasped his hand. Heat surged. Her pulse rate rocketed higher than the moment the Toyota sank into the gap in the bridge. She stammered her thanks.

      Glad I came along. His eyes lingered on her, as if to emphasize his words. He dropped her hand and grasped the pickup’s steering wheel so tightly Claire wondered if he needed an anchor. She certainly did.

      Sea Grape’s off Bay Road, right?

      Startled out of churning emotions mixed with uncomfortable memories, Claire seized the pragmatic inquiry like a lifeline. Yes. It’s a private road, just dirt. Sand and shells, actually. Dear God, she was babbling like a teen on a first date.

      That must be Virginia Bentley’s place. Are you visiting her?

      She’s my grandmother. Jamie and I are living with her now. We moved down here about three months ago.

      I met her at the library once. Signed one of her books for me. Nice lady. Golden Beach takes pride in having a best-selling author living here.

      Surprise. A Florida redneck who recognized Ginny’s name. Men were not prone to read Gothic novels, and Ginny had been retired for more than a decade, her seventieth birthday coinciding with a dwindling market for first-person tales of heroines, frequently naive and helpless, who ventured into a stunning variety of dangers and evidently gave birth through immaculate conception.

      And now her peaceful home on the Intracoastal Waterway had been invaded by a granddaughter and great-grandson.

      Ginny was kind enough to give us a home until we can manage a place of our own, Claire explained, working hard not to sound defensive. I’ve already got a job, and I think we’re settling in pretty well. Unfortunately . . . I didn’t have sense enough to realize we shouldn’t have been out on the road tonight.

      Brad hid a gleam of satisfaction under cover of darkness. No husband. It’s a mistake anyone could have made, he assured her. Not even the old-timers have ever seen rain like this.

      Aren’t you an old-timer?

      The question from behind surprised Brad into a choking cough. "Uh, not that old, Jamie. I’m talking about people who’ve been here for sixty or seventy years. Some whose families have been here for more than a hundred years, since Florida was one big open range with ranchers making their living shipping cattle to Cuba.

      "Cattle? You’re kidding.

      No way. Brad glanced sideways at the woman sitting so primly beside him. Hasn’t your mom taken you anywhere but the beach? This town has several ranches. There’s even a small one still holding out close to the center of town. And some bigger ranches not more than ten minutes from the beach. Also a couple of horse farms.

      You sure? Though obviously determined to mind his manners, Jamie’s skepticism was clear.

      I can see you need a proper tour of this town. Golden Beach is a lot more than sunshine and tourists. He opened his mouth to offer them Brad Blue’s personal tour of the real Golden Beach when it occurred to him that rushing fences was one of his faults—or so people kept telling him. Just because Claire Langdon had a certain appeal, even disheveled and dripping wet, didn’t necessarily mean she returned the sentiment. Where’re you working, Claire? Brad asked, switching to the safety of the commonplace.

      How on earth did he know her name? Stupid. The same way he knew her address. She’d written it down twice, hadn’t she? Obviously, the man could read. I’m doing computer marketing for a real estate firm.

      Which one?

      Tierney and Tierney.

      Ah. There was a small, significant pause. Good old TNT. So you’re working for Phil.

      Phil was Philippa Tierney, owner of T & T Realty, founded by her father when Golden Beach was little more than a cluster of stores a couple of blocks back from the beach. The office now occupied two adjacent storefronts on Main Street, one devoted to sales, the other to Golden Beach’s second prime business, seasonal rentals. T & T’s logo, an explosion of fireworks, was considered an appropriate symbol of what had happened to Golden Beach in the last forty years. Naturally, the natives referred to the business as TNT.

      It’s quite an organization, Claire said with genuine admiration. The complexities of the rental business never cease to amaze me. It’s been a real eye-opener. I love the computer work, but I’m thinking of getting my real estate license. Marketing someone else’s listings is never going to put us in a place of our own, and I don’t want to be a burden to Ginny any longer than I have to.

      Every other person in town has a real estate license. You’d do better to get a job in Manatee Bay.

      But I like T & T, Claire protested, and I don’t want to be away from Jamie any longer than I have to. Manatee Bay’s a forty-five minute commute. Each way.

      Suit yourself, but unless you’re a nurse, this town is a tough place for a woman alone. And I mention nurses only because there are so many medical jobs available. But even for them decent low-cost housing is hard to find. Golden Beach is a town for people who come here with money. Retirees, seasonal visitors. Everybody else—from doctors, lawyers and bankers to real estate agents, plumbers, electricians, store clerks, the kids waiting tables—we’re just here to serve. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am. Right away, massuh, suh.

      Claire took a deep breath, paused to compare

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