Dark Paradise (24 page)

think what Lucy must have done. Nothing, of course. She had gotten

someone else to do it for her.

Kendall Morton, hired hand from the Outer Limits.

She wanted to ask Sheriff Quinn a question or two about Morton. If they

were in California, she could have called any one of half a dozen

friends in law enforcement and had the guy checked out for wants and

warrants or a prior record. But this was not California.

A hired hand, she mused. A ranch in a place where land was worth its

weight in gold. A herd of exotic animals. A new Range Rover in the

garage sitting beside Lucy's red Miata. Where the hell had all the money

come from?

A windfall, Lucy had told her. An inheritance from some remote relative.

But who would have left her that kind of money when no one had cared

enough about her to rescue her from the endless string of foster homes

she had endured growing up?

The questions raised an uneasiness in her that itched beneath her skin.

Stupid, Marilee, it doesn't matter anymore. Lucy's gone. Her killer's

been punished.

Punished. She sniffed in disgust. A suspended sentence and

thousand-dollar fine. Life came cheap when you were a plastic surgeon

from Beverly Hills and had influential friends. She tried to picture the

man, tried to imagine him crying all through the brief court proceedings

that were mere stage dressing for a guilty plea. He hadn't meant to

shoot Lucy. He hadn't known Lucy was there.

He had walked away and left her to rot.

No matter how Marilee replayed it, she couldn't muster much compassion

for Sheffield. It always came down to the same conclusion. He had

behaved irresponsibly, cost a human life, and the consequences of his

actions hadn't even put a dent in his wallet. She knew damn well if the

shooter had been some out-of-work cowboy, he'd be whiling away his days

at the expense of the state for a year or better. Lady justice may have

been blind, but she could smell money a mile off, and her scales tipped

accordingly.

But what if Sheffield hadn't shot her after all?

Stopping at the corral, Marilee hooked a sneaker over the bottom rail

and lay her arms on one higher up, the beer cans dangling down. She

wished fervently for a cigarette, but denied herself the pleasure.

Earlier in the day she had actually stooped to searching beneath her car

seats for strays, coming up with three. Two remained in the breast

pocket of her jacket.

She had vowed to start a new life. No more dead-end career. No more

living in the shadow of her parents' expectations. No more meaningless

relationships. Throwing out her cigarettes had been symbolic. She had

taken up smoking in the first place to appease the tension and tedium of

her job. She had chucked the job, so she had chucked the cigarettes. New

Eden had sounded like the perfect place to start that new life. A

sabbatical in paradise. No smoking, no stress allowed.

But her head was pounding and her mood was low.

Her nerves were jangling like a wind chime in a cyclone.

She fingered the flap of the jacket pocket. Just one . . .

Rafferty chose that moment to make his appearance, riding down out of

the wooded cover of the hillside on his big sorrel horse. The brim of

his black hat shaded his eyes, but his mouth was set in a grim line and

he held himself in a way that suggested he hurt all over but would never

display the weakness of slouching. Somehow that touched Marilee, and she

did her best to shake it off. She had never had time for bone-headed

mates who set their pride ahead of their common sense.

There shouldn't have been anything appealing about this one.

"Fixing to set the place on fire again?" J.D. drawled, nodding toward

the pile of dead plants and splintered furniture that crowned the

charred remains of her business suits in the center of the corral.

Marilee gave him a look. "Yeah, I wanted the chance to have you tackle

me again. I've got three or four ribs you somehow neglected to crack

yesterday."

He swung off his horse, swallowing the groan that threatened. He'd been

in one saddle or another since dawn. There had been a time when his body

hadn't protested that kind of abuse, but that time had passed a couple

of birthdays back. He narrowed his eyes at the woman before him. "Way I

recall, you jumped me."

"Yeah, well, I hate to disappoint you, but don't expect it to happen

again tonight," she grumbled, rolling a shoulder. "I'm beat."

She looked more tousled than usual, her wild hair escaping the bonds of

a ponytail in rippling waves. She had a smudge of dirt on her chin and

her eyes seemed deeper and larger, dominating a face that had a delicate

and strained quality to it. Her jacket swallowed her up, making her seem

tiny and fragile, in need of a man's strength.

J.D.'s libido nominated him for the job, but he turned it down for the

moment, scowling.

"Yeah, I hear those vacations can be hell on a person," he said dryly.

"I stopped calling it a vacation when I found out my friend was dead,"

Marilee said sharply.

"And for you?"

"For your information, I've been working all day, trying to set the

house to rights. I'm sure that doesn't compare to punching out cows or

whatever it is you do with your time, but it's hard work to me."

He growled at her a little and started toward the barn. Instantly,

Marilee wanted him back - not that she wanted him personally, she

assured herself. She just wanted the company. She wasn't used to so much

solitude. Even a conversation with Rafferty seemed preferable to the

tangle of thoughts and feelings that had been tumbling around inside her

all day.

"Hey, wait," she ordered, skipping to catch up with him. "You want a

beer?"

"Why?" he asked, turning back toward her. "Trying to ply me with liquor

again, Marilee?"

He smiled that slow, sardonic smile, a predatory-male gleam in his eye.

Marilee's pulse rate rose in automatic response, picking up another beat

as he cupped her chin in his hand and brushed his thumb across her lower

lip.

"I already told you that wasn't necessary," he said, his low voice

abrading her nerve endings like sandpaper.

"Just say the word. I could stand to ride something softer than a horse

tonight."

He marveled a little at the truth of that. Coming down the mountain, he

hadn't been able to think of anything better than falling into bed and

easing into a coma. The sight of Marilee - mussed hair, dirt on her chin,

and all - had him thinking more along the lines of falling into bed and

easing into her. It didn't make sense, but then, it was sex; it didn't

have to make sense.

She took a half-step back and tried to look annoyed.

"In your dreams, Rafferty. I offered you a beer, not my body."

J.D. chuckled wickedly. He reached out and settled a hand at the juncture

of her neck and shoulder, his thumb dipping into the shallow V above her

collarbone. "Your pulse is racing, Marilee," he murmured. "You always

get this worked up over a can of Miller?"

"Only when I'm contemplating bashing it over the head of an obnoxious

man. Do you want the beer or not?"

His throat felt like a gravel pit, his mouth tasted of dust and horses.

"Yeah, I guess I'd better disarm you."

Marilee rolled her eyes and headed for an old wooden buggy seat that had

been converted into a bench and sat along the end of the barn. She

plunked herself down, tossed him his beer, and popped the top on her

own.

Rafferty eyed the spot beside her but chose to stand, propping himself

up against the weathered siding of the barn. He looked exhausted. His

shirt was sweat-stained and dirty, his jeans limp and creased. He had

obviously splashed water on his face before riding down; she could see

the line on his neck where clean left off and the dirt began. The shadow

on his lean cheeks told her it had been a while since he'd taken the

time to shave.

"Truce, okay?" she offered, raising her can in salute. "I don't think

either of us could survive a sparring match tonight."

He tipped his head a little in concession, popped the top on his beer,

and drank half of it in one long swallow.

Marilee's gaze caught on the way the muscles of his throat worked. A

shower of sparks shot through her.

"Hard day at the office?" she asked, more to distract herself than

anything.

He shrugged. "The usual."

"What's 'the usual'?"

"Finished rounding up the breeding herd for branding and vaccinations.

Colts needed riding. Bulls had to be moved."

Marilee had a feeling the jobs entailed a great deal more than the few

spare words he boiled them down to. He had a talent for understatement,

Rafferty did. His compromise she thought, leaving out all words that

didn't seem absolutely necessary in his conversation. The trait was at

once endearing and infuriating. She was used to the enlightened

professional men of the nineties who, once they had learned it was okay

to open up, never shut up. Brad had always been a virtual font of

information about himself, his feelings, his interests, his career.

"Branding like in the cowboy movies?
 
Rope 'em, throw 'em, stick a hot

iron on their sides?"

He straightened almost imperceptibly, his jaw hardening. "It's done for

a reason," he said tightly, offended by the suggestion that he would

unnecessarily harm an animal. "You a vegetarian or something?"

"No. Just curious. Believe me, I seldom discriminate against anything

edible - except liver. I don't like liver. And I won't eat anything

people claim 'tastes just like chicken. That almost always means its

some kind of animal you wouldn't eat if you knew what it was."

"Rattlesnake," J.D. said, one side of his mouth tugging into a reluctant

smile. "Tastes just like chicken."

She made a face and held her hands up to ward off the idea, shuddering

visibly inside her gigantic jacket. "No thanks. I learned all about the

food groups in the fourth grade. Mrs. Kaplan never said a word about a

daily requirement of reptiles."

He laughed, a sound that was rusty from disuse. Marilee rewarded him

with a smile. He eyed the empty place on the bench beside her, fighting

with himself. He didn't want to be amused by her or charmed by her. He

wanted to bed her. He wanted to buy her land. Those things were simple,

straightforward, safe. The other edged into dangerous territory. He

pushed himself away from the barn, telling himself to back off, but his

feet were rooted to the spot. "There's chores need doing."

"They'll still need doing in ten minutes. Cut yourself some slack,

Rafferty."

"Slackers don't last long in these parts." His gaze strayed to the log

house as he eased himself down onto the far side of the bench. Weary

disillusionment crept into his eyes. His broad shoulders sagged a little

in defeat. "Least they never used to."

"How long has your family been here?" Marilee asked quietly, mesmerized

by the emotions playing in his gray eyes. She would have bet a dollar he

would never give them voice, certainly not to her. All he ever wanted to

show her was sexual aggression or orneriness - traits that made him easy

to dislike . . . or should have. The idea of that macho attitude being a

shield covering something more complex, even vulnerable, struck her as

being as dangerous to her as the man himself, and yet she couldn't keep

herself from trying to peek around it.

"Four generations," he said, his pride an unmistakable undercurrent in

his low, soft voice. He still stared off toward the house, though she

had a feeling he wasn't seeing it. His profile was rugged and handsome

in the last umber light of day, the face of a man who lived a hard life