Strangers in Paradise (5 page)

She turned around, groping madly in the darkness and found the lock. The stubborn thing refused to give at first. Where was the person who had made the sound of footsteps? Her scream had cut off all other sound, and now she didn't know if someone was still coming for her in the darkness or if that same someone had bolted on past.

“Please, please...!” she whispered to the ancient lock, and then, as if it were a cantankerous old man who needed to be politely placated, it groaned and gave.

She threw the door open. In the darkness she could just barely make out Rex Morrow's starkly handsome features. She nearly pitched herself against him, but then she remembered that the man was basically a hostile stranger, even though she knew Gene held him in the highest regard—and even though she had already clung to him once before.

She stepped back.

“Why did you scream?”

“The lights went out and—”

“I thought you were a whiz with electricity.”

“I lied—but that's not why I screamed. Someone came running down the stairway.”

“What?”

He looked at her so sharply that even in the darkness she felt his probing stare. Did he think that she was lying—or did he believe her all too easily?

“I told you—”

“Come on.”

He took her hand, his fingers twining tightly around hers, and, with the ease of a cat in the dark, strode toward the parlor. He found the flashlight and cast its beam around. No intruder was there.

“Where did the...footsteps go?” he whispered huskily.

“I—I don't know. I screamed and... I don't know.”

He brought her back into the hallway and stopped dead. Alexi crashed into his back, banging her nose. She rubbed it, thinking that the man had a nice scent. She remembered it; she would have known him anywhere by it. It was not so much that of an after-shave as that of the simple cleanliness of soap and the sea and the air. He might be hostile, but at least he was clean.

There was only so much one could expect from neighbors, she decided nervously.

He walked through the hall to the stairway, paused, then went into the kitchen. The rear door was still tightly locked.

“Well, your intruder didn't leave that way, and he didn't exit by the front door,” Rex said. His tone was bland, but she could read his thoughts. He had decided that she was a neurotic who imagined things.

“I tell you—” she began irately.

“Right. You heard footsteps. We'll check the house.”

“You think he's still in the house?”

“No, but we'll check.”

Alexi knew he didn't believe anyone had been there to begin with. “Rex—”

“All right, all right. I said we'll search. If anyone is here, we'll find him. Or her. Or it.”

He released her hand. Alexi didn't know how nervous she was until she realized that her fingers were still clinging to his. She flushed and turned away from him.

“Why did the lights go, then?” she demanded.

“Probably a fuse. Here, hold the flashlight and hang on a second.”

She turned back around to take the flashlight from him. He went straight to the small drawer by the refrigerator, then went toward the pantry.

“I need more light.”

Alexi followed him and let the beam play on the fuse box. A moment later, the kitchen light came on.

He looked at her. “Stay here. I'll check out the library and the ballroom and upstairs.”

“Wait a minute!” Alexi protested, shivering.

“What?”

Impatiently he stopped at the kitchen door, his hand resting casually against the frame.

She swallowed and straightened with dignity and tried to walk slowly over to join him.

“I do read your books,” she admitted. “And it's always the hapless idiot left alone while the other goes off to search who winds up...winds up with her throat slit!”

“Alexi...” he murmured slowly.

“Don't patronize me!” she commanded him.

He sighed, looked at her for a moment with a certain incredulity and then started to laugh.

“Okay. We'll search together. And I'm sorry. I'm not patronizing you. It's just usually so quiet out here that it's hard to imagine...” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged again. “Come on, then.”

Smiling, he offered her his hand. She hesitated, then took it.

They returned to the hallway. Alexi nervously played the flashlight beam up the stairway. Rex grinned again and went to the wall, flicking a switch that lit the entire stairway.

“Gene did have a few things done,” he told her.

There were only two other rooms on the ground floor—except for the little powder room beneath the stairway, which proved to be empty. To the right, behind the parlor, was the library, filled with ancient volumes and wall shelves and even an old running oak ladder reaching to the top shelves. Upon a dais with a wonderful old Persian carpet was a massive desk with a few overstuffed Eastleg chairs around it. Apart from that, the room was empty.

They crossed behind the stairway to the last room—the “ballroom,” as Rex called it. It was big, with a dining set at one end with beautiful old hutches flanking it, and a baby grand across the room, toward the rear wall. Two huge paintings hung above the fireplace, one of a handsome blond man in full Confederate dress uniform, the other of a lovely woman in radiant white antebellum costume.

Forgetting the intruder for a moment, Alexi dropped Rex's hand and walked toward the paintings for a better look.

“Lieutenant General P. T. Brandywine and Eugenia,” Rex said quietly.

“Yes, I know,” Alexi murmured. She felt a bit awed; she hadn't been in the house since she'd been a small child, but she remembered the paintings, and she felt again the little thrill of looking at people from another day who were her direct antecedents.

“They say that he's the one who buried the Confederate treasure.”

“What?” Alexi, forgetting her distant relatives, turned around and frowned at Rex.

He laughed. “You mean you never heard the story?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I've heard of Pierre and Eugenia. Pierre built the house. But I never heard anything about his treasure.”

He smiled, locking his hands behind his back and casually sauntering into the room to look at the paintings.

“This area went back and forth during the Civil War like a Ping-Pong ball. The rebels held it one month; the Yankees took it the next. Pierre was one hell of a rebel—but it seems the last time he came home, he knew he wasn't going to make it back again. Somewhere in the house he buried a treasure. He was killed at Gettysburg in '63, and Eugenia never did return here. She went back to her father's house in Baltimore, and her children didn't come back here until the 1880s. Local legend has it that Pierre haunts the place to guard his stash, and the locals on the mainland all swear that it does exist.”

“Why didn't Eugenia come back?”

Rex shrugged. “He was a rebel. At the end of the war, Confederate currency wasn't worth the paper it had been printed on. There was no real treasure. Maybe that's the reason that Pierre had to come back to haunt the place.”

Alexi stared at him for a long moment. There seemed to be a glitter of mischief in his eyes. A slow, simmering anger burned inside her, along with a sudden suspicion. “Sure. Those footsteps belonged to my great-great-great-grandfather. You will not scare me out of this house!”

“What—?” He broke off with a furious scowl. “You foolish little brat. I'm not trying to scare you.”

“The hell you're not! You want me out of here—God knows why. You don't have to see me, you know.”

His eyes narrowed. “Maybe I should leave now.”

She lifted her chin. She wanted him to stay. She wasn't afraid of ghosts, but someone alive had been in the house. Someone who had come here in stealth. Even if Rex didn't believe her.

She swung around. “This is ridiculous! I came to my old family home on what is supposed to be a deserted, desolate peninsula, and it's more like Grand Central Station!”

“Alexi—”

“Just go, if you want to!”

Rex watched her, his mouth tight and grim, then swung around. “I'll check the upstairs. If someone tries to slit your throat, just scream.”

He was gone. Alexi stared after him, shivering, hating herself for being afraid. She hadn't been afraid to come—she'd been eager. She'd desperately wanted to be alone. Where there were no crowds, where people didn't recognize her. But she'd just barely gotten there, and already the darkness and the isolation were proving threatening.

Nothing was going to happen, she assured herself. But she wrapped her arms nervously about herself and returned to stare up at the paintings. Perhaps some kids believed in the legend about the gold. High school kids. They didn't want to harm her; they just wanted to find a treasure—a treasure that didn't really exist.

She smiled slowly. They were really marvelous-looking people; Pierre was striking, and his Eugenia was beautiful.

“Even if you could come back as a ghost,” she said to Pierre's likeness with a wry grin, “you certainly wouldn't haunt me—I'm your own flesh and blood.”

“Do you often talk to paintings?”

Startled, she swung around. Rex Morrow was leaning casually against the doorframe, watching her.

“Only now and then.”

“Oh.” He waited a moment. “Upstairs is clear. If anyone was in the house, he or she is definitely gone now.”

“Good.”

“Want me to call the police?”

“Think I should?” She realized that he still didn't believe her. Or maybe he didn't think she was lying—just that she was neurotic. Paranoid. And maybe he even felt a little guilty about her state of mind, since he had attacked her last night.

He paused, then shrugged at last. “Whoever it was is gone. Probably some kid from the town looking for Pierre's treasure. He probably left by that broken window. You
must
get it fixed.”

“I will—tomorrow. First thing. And maybe it was someone looking for Pierre's treasure. Numismatically or historically, maybe those Confederate bills are worth something.”

“Maybe.”

“They could be collectible!”

“Sure. Confederate money is collectible. It's just not usually worth...”

“Worth what?”

“Only rare bills from certain banks are worth much. But who knows?” he offered.

They stood there for several moments, looking at each other across the ballroom.

“Well,” he murmured.

“Well...” she echoed. Her gaze fell from his, and once again she wasn't at all sure what she wanted. He'd checked the place for her; she was sure now that it was empty.

He didn't want her on the peninsula. He had said so himself. It was certainly time that he left—and she should be happy for that, since he was such a doubting Thomas. But she couldn't help feeling uneasy. She didn't want him to go.

Fool! she told herself. Tell him “Thank you very much,” then let him go. A curious warmth was spreading through her. If he left now, they could remain casual acquaintances. But if she encouraged him to stay...

It was more than fear, more than uneasiness. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to watch him smile.

A slight tremor shook her; the warmth flooding her increased. She had the feeling that if she had him stay now, she would never be able to turn her back on him again. She was still staring at him and he was still watching her and no words were being spoken, but tension, real and tangible, seemed to be filling the air. Alexi inhaled deeply; she cleared her throat.

“I think I'll have one of your beers,” she said. “Since they
are
in my refrigerator.”

“Help yourself.”

She hesitated. Then she spoke. “Want one?”

He, too, hesitated. It was as if he, too, sensed some form of commitment in the moment. Then he shrugged, and a slow smile that was rueful and sexy and insinuating curled the corners of his lip.

“Sure,” he told her. “Sure. Why not?”

Chapter 3

A
lexi passed him quickly and hurried on into the kitchen. She dug into the refrigerator for two beers.

“Are you the one who has kept the kitchen clean?” she asked casually. It was spotless; Alexi imagined that one could have eaten off the floor and not have worried about dirt or germs. The rest of the place was a dust bowl.

“In a manner of speaking. A woman comes out twice a week to do my place. She spends an hour or so here.”

Alexi nodded and handed him a beer. She walked past him, somehow determined to sit in the parlor, even though the kitchen was by far the cleaner place.

Maybe it was the only way she could get herself to go back into the room.

She knew he was behind her. Once she reached the parlor she sank heavily into the Victorian sofa, discovering that she was exhausted. Rex Morrow sat across from her, straddling a straight-backed chair. Cool Hand Luke in a contemporary dark knit.

He smiled again, and she realized he knew she was staring at him and wondering about him. And of course, at the same time, she realized that he was watching her speculatively.

“You're staring,” he said.

“So are you.”

He shrugged. “I'm curious.”

“About what?”

He laughed, and it was an easy sound, surprisingly pleasant. “Well, you are Alexi Jordan.”

She lifted her hands, eyeing him warily in return. “And you are Rex Morrow.”

“Hardly worthy of the gossip columns.”

“That's because writers get to keep their privacy.”

“Only if they hole out in places like this.”

She didn't say anything; she took a long sip of her beer, wrinkling her nose. She really didn't like the brand; its taste was too bitter for her.

It was better than nothing.

“Well?” he said insinuatingly, arching a dark brow.

“Well, what?”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“The rich, lusty scandal involving the one and only Alexi Jordan.”

Only a writer could make it all sound so sordid, Alexi decided. But she couldn't deny the scandal. “Why on earth should I?” she countered smoothly.

He lifted his hands, grinning. “Well, because I'm curious, I suppose.”

“Wonderful,” she said, nodding gravely. “I should spill my guts to a novelist. Great idea.”

He laughed. “I write horror and suspense, not soap operas. You're safe with me.”

“Haven't you read all about it in the rags?”

“I only read the front pages of those things when I'm waiting in line at the grocery store. One of them said you left him for another man. Another said John Vinto left you for another woman. Some say you hate each other. That there are deep, dark secrets hidden away in it all. Some claim that the world-famous photographer and his world-famous wife are still on good terms. The best of friends. So, what's the real story?”

Alexi leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes. She was so tired of the whole thing, of being pursued. She still felt some of the pain—it was like being punch-drunk. The divorce had actually gone through almost a year ago.

“Who knows what is truth?” she said, not opening her eyes. She didn't know why she should tell Rex Morrow—of all people—anything. But an intimacy had formed between them. Strange. They were both hostile; neither of them seemed to be overladen with trust for the opposite sex. Still, though he was blunt about wanting the peninsula to himself, she felt that she could trust him. With things that were personal—with things she might not say to anyone else.

“We're definitely not friends,” she blurted out.

“Hurt to talk?” he asked quietly. She felt his voice, felt it wash over her, and she was surprised at the sensitivity in his tone.

She opened her eyes. A wary smile came to her lips. “I can't tell you about it.”

“No?”

“No.” She kicked off her shoes and curled her stockinged toes under her, taking another long sip of the beer. She hadn't eaten all day, and the few sips of the alcohol she had taken warmed her and eased her humor. “Suffice it to say that it was all over a long time ago. It wasn't one woman—it was many. And it was more than that. John never felt that he had taken a wife; he considered himself to have acquired property. It doesn't matter at all anymore.”

“You're afraid of him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No! No! How did—?” She stopped herself. She didn't want to admit anything about her relationship with John.

“You are,” he said softly. “And I've hit a sore spot. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I'm not. Really.”

“You're a liar, but we'll let it go at that for the time being.”

“I'm not—”

“You are. Something happened that was a rough deal.”

“Ahh...” she murmured uneasily. “The plot thickens.”

He smiled at her. She felt the cadence of his voice wash over her, and it didn't seem so terrible that he knew that much.

“You don't need to be afraid now,” he said softly.

“Oh?”

She liked his smile. She liked the confidence in it. She even liked his macho masculine arrogance as he stated, “I'm very particular about the peninsula. You don't want him around, he won't be.”

Alexi laughed, honestly at first, then with a trace of unease. John could be dangerous when he chose.

“So that's it!” Rex said suddenly.

“What?”

He watched her, nodding like a sage with a new piece of wisdom that helped explain the world. “Someone running after you on the sand, footsteps on the stairway, your blind panic last night. You think your ex is after you.”

“No! I really heard footsteps!”

“All right. You heard them.”

“You still don't believe me!”

He sighed, and she realized that she was never going to convince him that the footsteps had been real. “You seem to have had it rough,” he said simply.

She wasn't going to win an argument. And at the moment she was feeling a bit too languorous to care.

“Talk about rough!” Alexi laughed. She glanced at her beer bottle. “This thing is empty. Feel like getting me another? For a person who doesn't like people, you certainly are curious—and good at making those people you don't like talk.”

He stood up and took the bottle. “I never said that I don't like people.”

She closed her eyes again and leaned back as he left her. She had to be insane. She was sitting here drinking beer and enjoying his company and nearly spilling out far too much truth about herself. Or was she spilling it out? He sensed too much. After one bottle of beer, she was smiling too easily. Trusting too quickly. If he did delve into all her secrets, it would serve her right if he displayed them to the world in print. He would change the names of the innocent or the not-so-innocent.

But, of course, everyone always knew who the real culprit was.

Something cold touched her hand. He was standing over her with another beer. She smiled. She was tired and lethargic enough to do so.

“My turn,” she murmured huskily.

“Uh-uh. We're not finished with you.”

He didn't move, though. He was staring down at her head. If she'd had any energy left, she would have flinched when he touched her hair. “That's the closest shade I've seen to real gold. How on earth do you do it?”

She knew she should be offended, but she laughed. “I grow it, idiot!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. How do you get that color? Shoe polish?”

“No, idiot,” he said in turn, grinning. “I grow it.”

He returned to his chair and cast his leg easily over it to straddle it once again. “So let's go on here. Why are you so afraid of John Vinto? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. We hit the finale. That was it.”

“That wasn't it at all. You married him...what? About four years ago or so?”

“Yes.”

“You've been divorced almost a year?”

“Yes,” Alexi said warily. “He, uh, was the photographer on some of the Helen of Troy stills,” she said after a moment. She shrugged. “The campaign ended—publicity about the breakup would have created havoc on the set.”

“You worked with him after.”

“Yes.”

“And you spent that year working—and being afraid of him.”

She lowered her head quickly. She hadn't been afraid of him when there had been plenty of other people around. She'd taken great pains never to be alone with him after he...

She sighed softly. “No more, Mr. Morrow. Not tonight. Your turn.” She took a sip of her new beer. The second didn't taste half as bitter as the first, and it was ice-cold and delicious. She mused that it was the first time she had let down her guard in—

Since John. She shivered at the thought and then opened her eyes wide, aware that Rex had seen her shiver. Something warned her that he missed little.

“You shouldn't have to fear anyone, Alexi,” he told her softly.

“Really...” She suddenly sat bolt upright. “Rex, I don't talk about this—no one knows anything at all.”

“I don't really know anything,” he reminded her with a smile. There was a rueful, sensual curve to the corner of his lip that touched her heart and stirred some physical response in the pit of her abdomen.

“No one will ever know what I do know now,” he said. “On my honor, Ms. Jordan.”

“Thanks,” she murmured uneasily. “If we're playing
This Is Your Life
, then you've got to give something.”

He shrugged, lifting his hands. “I married the girl next door. I tried to write at night while I edited the obituaries during the day for a small paper. You know the story—trial and error and rejections, and the girl next door left me. She didn't sue for divorce, though—she waited until some of the money came in, created one of the finest performances I have ever seen in court and walked away with most of it. She was only allowed to live off me for seven years. I bought an old house in Temple Terrace that used to belong to a famous stripper. I raised horses and planted orange groves—and then went nuts because my address got out and every weirdo in the country would come by to look me up. They stole all the oranges—and one jerk even shot a horse for a souvenir. That's when I moved out here. The sheriff up on the mainland is great, and it's like a wonderful little conspiracy—the townspeople keep me safe, and I contribute heavily to all the community committees. Gene—when he was still here—was a neighbor I could abide. Then he decided he needed to be in a retirement cooperative. I tried to buy the house from him; he wasn't ready to let go.” He stopped speaking, frowning as he looked at her.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“What? Uh, no. How—why did you ask that?”

He chuckled softly. “Because your eyes are rimmed with red, and it makes you look tired and hungry.

“Want me to call for a pizza?”

“You must be kidding. You can get a pizza all the way out here?”

“I have connections,” he promised her gravely. “What do you want on it?”

“Anything.”

Alexi leaned her head against the sofa again. She heard him stand and walk around to the phone and order a large pizza with peppers, onions, mushrooms and pepperoni from a man named Joe, with whom he chatted casually, saying that he was over at the Brandywine house and, yes, Gene's great-granddaughter was in and, yes, she was fine—just hungry.

He hung up at last.

“So Joe will send a pizza?”

“Yep.”

“That's wonderful.”

“Hmm.”

She sat up, curling her toes beneath her again and smoothing her skirt.

“Hold still,” he commanded her suddenly.

Startled, she looked at him, amazed at the tension in his features. He moved toward her, and she almost jumped, but he spoke again, quietly but with an authority that made her catch her breath.

“Hold still!”

A second later he swept something off her shoulder, dashed it to the ground and stomped upon it.

Alexi felt a bit ill. She jumped to her feet, shaking out her hair. “What was it?”

“A brown widow.”

“A what?”

“A brown widow. A spider. It wouldn't have killed you, but they hurt like hell and can make you sick.”

“Oh, God!”

“Hey—there are spiderwebs all over this place. You know that.”

Alexi stood still and swallowed. She lifted her hands calmly. “I can—I can handle spiders.”

“You can.”

“Certainly. Spiders and bugs and—even mice. And rats! I can handle it, really I can. Just so long as—”

“So long as what?”

She lowered her head and shook it, concealing her eyes from him. “Nothing.” Snakes. She hated snakes. She simply wasn't about to tell him. “I'll be okay.”

“Then why don't you sit again?”

“Because the pizza is coming. And because we really should eat in the kitchen. Don't you think?”

He grinned, his head slightly cocked, as he studied her. “Sure.”

They moved back to the kitchen. The light there seemed very bright and cheerful, and Alexi had the wonderful feeling that no spider or other creature would dare show its face in this scrubbed and scoured spot.

“Why didn't you have the rest of the place kept up?” Alexi complained, sliding into a chair at the butcher-block table.

He sat across from her, arching a brow. “Excuse me. I kept just the kitchen up because Gene asked me to keep an eye on the place—and I'm not fond of sitting around with crawling creatures. If I'd known that the delicate face that launched ships would be appearing, I would have given more thought to the niceties.”

“Very funny. I am tough, you know,” she said indignantly.

“Sure.”

“Oh, lock yourself in a closet.”

“Such vile language!”