Dark Paradise (62 page)

J.D. rubbed his eyes. He knew he should have pressed Del outright if

he'd had anything to do with Lucy's death. But, God help him, he

couldn't bring himself to do it. He got burned either way.

Quinn took his word that Del hadn't done more than find the body. If

he lied to the Sheriff, if he turned Del over, he didn't think he'd ever

be able to live with himself.

And if your uncle is a killer?

No win. The answer slipped through the loop. Hang up your rope and call

it a day, cowboy. Catch one to morrow.

"Where'd you see that cat?" he asked softly. "Maybe I'll have a look-see

on my way home."

Humiliated and hurt, Samantha spent the remainder of the day in the

guest room Bryce had allocated her. He checked on her within moments of

the scene on the terrace, but she refused to let him in the room. He

talked to her through the bedroom door, telling her everything would be

all right, that she shouldn't shut him out. But she kept her face buried

in the pillow and eventually he went away.

She cried until she thought she would be sick from it, then, exhausted,

she fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the room

was dim with shadows.

Disoriented and groggy, she sat up and looked at her surroundings. For a

moment she thought she was dreaming, that she had only to shake herself

and she would be on her own lumpy mattress in the little house she

shared with Will.

Will.

She closed her eyes as it all came rushing back. Every bit of it. Her

crumbling marriage. Will stumbling through Bryce's terrace. The way he

had punched Bryce. The ugly things he'd said to her and about her.

Take my wife . . . Hell, I never wanted one in the first place!

Samantha's eyes burned and her throat closed, but no tears came. She had

cried them all. More miserable than she'd ever been in her life, she

leaned back against the headboard of the elegant bed and looked down at

herself.

The elegant copper silk outfit she had put on before Will's arrival was

a road map of wrinkles and creases. It looked terrible and she felt that

somehow the fabric had undergone some kind of chemical reaction from

contact with her skin, as if something so fine had been designed to sort

the worthy from the worthless.

Poor, stupid kid. Thought you could pretend different, didn't you?

Stupid dreamer. Grow up, Samantha. Grow up and see what you really are.

Trembling at the self-castigation, she got up from the bed and went to

look at herself in the huge beveled mirror above the bleached pine

bureau. The reflection wasn't pretty. Not even the dim lighting could

hide the effects of her earlier crying jag. The makeup she had applied

so carefully had run and streaked on her puffy face. Her hair hung limp

and disheveled. She'd lost an earring somewhere, and then there was the

outfit.

She looked pathetic. She felt pathetic.

No wonder Will didn't want her. She wasn't worth wanting. She was naive

and foolish. Bryce's friends were probably downstairs laughing at her.

Poor little dimwitted tomboy barmaid, pretending she could fit in with

the rich and beautiful people.

Her breath coming in broken, disjointed spasms, she turned away from the

mirror. She felt hollow inside, aching and hollow, as if everything in

her had been yanked out and discarded. Her shoulders pulled forward and

she curled in on herself as she moved, walking like an old woman. She

felt as ugly and freakish as a giant praying mantis, and as fragile; as

if someone could grab her and snap her in two, just crunch up her long

bones and toss them aside.

She moved to stand by the window that looked down on the pool and

pressed her forehead against the glass.

The underwater lights had been turned on, but there was no sign of any

of Bryce's guests. She wondered if they were gathered downstairs,

wondered if she could somehow slip past them and leave the house without

being seen.

She didn't belong here. She didn't feel as if she belonged anywhere, but

she knew she didn't belong here.

Bryce wouldn't want her here anyway, not after what Will had done. And

she couldn't bear the thought of facing the rest of them - Ben Lucas and

Uma Kimball and Sharon. Especially Sharon. Just the thought of Sharon's

possible comments regarding the afternoon were enough to make her feel

ill.

No. Cinderella's time at the ball was up.

Dry sobs croaked in her throat as she took off the clothes Bryce had

bought for her and hung them in the wardrobe. She removed the remaining

earring and the necklace and bracelets, then went into the bathroom and

scrubbed off the makeup and the lingering traces of perfume. She plaited

her hair in its serviceable braid and secured the end with a rubber band

from her purse. She pulled on her old jeans, but stopped short of

putting on the white oxford shirt.

It belonged to Will. She rubbed the soft, worn collar between her

fingertips, bunched the fabric in her hands, and brought it up to her

face. She imagined she could still smell his scent on it, could still

feel the warmth of his body in the fibers. But she knew she couldn't.

Will was gone from her life. The shirt may have belonged to him, but she

didn't belong to him anymore. He didn't want her. Had never wanted her.

Her heart breaking, she folded the shirt and put it in a dresser drawer,

trading it for a white silk T-shirt - the plainest thing she could take.

She straightened the bed covers and tidied the bath, wanting to leave as

few traces of her existence as possible. She would just slip out of the

house and out of the lives of the people in the house and go back to

what was left of her own life. A shabby house and a rusty car and a

puppy.

She would have to borrow a car. Or maybe she could hitch a ride with one

of the hands

"Samantha?" Bryce's voice sounded outside the door to the sitting area

of the suite.

She froze in her tracks on her way to the door, her heart bumping up

against the base of her throat. She didn't want to see him, didn't think

she could face him.

Maybe if she didn't answer him again "Samantha, I know you're awake. I

heard you moving around. Open the door, sweetheart. I've brought you

some dinner. We'll talk."

she mumbled. "I-I don't know what to say,"

"You don't have to say anything," he said gently. "You can just eat and

I'll talk for both of us. How's that?"

Too kind, she thought, biting her lip.

"Samantha?"

"All right."

Dreading the moment, she opened the door. Bryce stood with a tray in his

hands. He looked elegant and exotic, "western chic" she'd heard it

called, in a faded denim shirt and jeans, his hair swept back off his

high forehead. The only visible signs of his fight with Will were a

bruise and cut on his chin and raw spots on the knuckles of his right

hand. His lower lip was split and puffy. He took in her attire in one

long, speculative look and hummed a little.

"I thought I would just go," she admitted, turning the lamp on the

dresser to low, just enough light so Bryce could see what he was doing,

not enough to spotlight her raw eyes and puffy face.

He set the tray down on the small round table near the window and busied

his hands, uncovering the plate and pouring two glasses from a bottle of

chardonnay. He had anticipated this reaction. The humiliation would be

far too heavy for Samantha's fragile ego to bear. Rafferty would have to

pay for this. Long and painfully. The bastard didn't deserve anything

better. He had held a perfect wild rose in his grasp and crushed her

with his carelessness. He didn't deserve mercy; he deserved to be

ruined.

"Why do you think you should do that, honey?" he asked gently.

Samantha stared at him with a weird feeling of having just awakened from

a dream. His tone of voice was calm and unaffected, as if nothing at all

had happened.

"Well..... with what happened this afternoon and all..... I just

thought. . ."

He turned to her and gave her his warmest, most understanding smile.

Fatherly, he thought. Kind. "That wasn't your fault."

"Will is my husband-"

"Will is a fool. He didn't have any right to come here. He didn't have

any right to say those things to you."

Samantha swallowed the knot of guilt in her throat.

"I'm his wife."

"He doesn't deserve you." He tilted his head as he came toward her,

reading the emotions in her clear, dark eyes as easily as he would a

grade-school primer. Gently he tugged her fingers out of the pockets of

her jeans and curled his bony hands around them. "He doesn't own you."

He doesn't want you. That truth ached like a laceration in her heart. It

rang in her ears. She couldn't be a wife to a man who refused to be a

husband. She wasn't a wife. She didn't have anyone. She didn't have

anything.

A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes, and her mouth began to tremble.

Bryce smiled to himself as he drew her against him and wrapped his arms

around her. "He doesn't deserve your tears, Samantha. He had a diamond

and he threw it away. That's his loss, not yours."

She pressed her face down on his shoulder and sobbed as if the world

were going to end. He supposed her world was ending, shattering like a

cheap Christmas ornament. Like an egg breaking to allow her to emerge into

a newer, larger, better world. His world. He liked the analogy. She was

a beautiful baby bird in the lush paradise that was his world. And he

would guide her and flaunt her. She would be more, have more, than she

had ever dreamed. And she would be his.

"I-I'm s-sorry," Samantha stammered, trying to draw back from him. She

had been raised not to cry in front of people. This was just another

humiliation, crying on Evan Bryce for the second time in the scant few

days she'd known him. "I n-never d-do this," she said by way of apology.

"I-I n-never cry on p-people."

Bryce let her move back just enough so he could reach up between them

and brush the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. The gentle

smile curved his wide mouth again and he held her eyes with his. "I'm

honored, then," he murmured. "You feel comfortable with me. You trust

me. That means a lot to me - to be your friend. I want only the best for

you, Samantha."

She looked into his bright eyes, eyes shining with kind lights, and felt

something like desperation claw inside her. She was nothing, she had

nothing. He wanted the best for her. He liked her. He thought of her as

his friend.

"I need a friend," she whispered.

"I'm here." He drew her slowly into his arms again and held her close,

stroking a hand over her hair. His other hand rubbed up and down her

back in a hypnotic rhythm. "I'm here," he whispered, his lips brushing

her ear. "I'll be anything you need."

She slipped her arms around him and he rocked her in a lazy, languid

slow dance, pressing her closer still. Outside, the world had faded away

to black. Time took on a dreamlike quality, surreal and dim. Samantha

let herself float on it. She anchored herself to her only friend and let

her mind drift in the mist.

She didn't have anyone, anything in the world, except this kind man who

held her.

His lips pressed against her temple, grazed her ear.

I'll be anything you need, Samantha. . . .

I'll give you anything. . . .

I love you. . . .

She soaked in the whispered words like a dry sponge.