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  Strangers In Paradise

  Heather Graham

  STRANGERS IN PARADISE

  by

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  From The Cover:

  Alexi Jordan had come to the old Florida estate to heal the wounds left by a bad marriage. But instead of tranquillity, she'd found danger. Someone was stalking her, tampering with the lights and making unsettling telephone calls. Alexi was convinced she could handle it. But Rex Morrow wasn't. As her self-appointed protector, and Alexi's neighbour, he suspected she was in real danger. The only danger Alexi sensed, however, came from Rex himself.

  "Well," he murmured.

  "Well. . ." she echoed. Her gaze fell from his, and once again she wasn't at all sure what she wanted.

  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.

  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. 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...

  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...

  First Published 1988

  ISBN 0 733 53837 1

  STRANGERS IN PARADISE © 1988 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  Prologue

  June 2, 1863

  Fernandina Beach, Florida

  Miz Eugenia! Miz Eugenia! Look!"

  Eugenia straightened, easing the pain in her back, and stared out through the long trail of pines to the distant beach, where Mary's call directed her. Her sewing fell unheeded to her feet; she rose, her heart pounding, her soul soaring, dizzy with incredulity and relief.

  A man was alighting from a small skiff. The waves on the beach pounded against his high black cavalry boots as he splashed through the water. From a distance, he was beautiful and perfect.

  "Pierre!" Upon the porch of the old house, Eugenia whispered his name, afraid to voice it too loudly lest he disappear. She wanted so badly for him to be real and not a fantasy created by the summer's heat, by the shimmering waves of sun pounding against the scrub and sand.

  "Pierre!"

  He was real. Tall and regal in his handsome uniform of butternut and gray, with his medals reflecting the sun. He was far away, but Eugenia was certain that he saw her, certain that his blue hawk's eyes had met her own and that the love they shared sang and soared likewise in his soul.

  He started to run down the sand path, which was carpeted in pine needles and shaded by branches. Sun and shadow, shadow and sun--she could no longer see his face clearly, but she gave a glad cry and leaped down the steps, clutching her heavy spill of skirts in her hand so that she could run, too--run to meet her beautiful man in his butternut and gray and hurl herself into his arms.

  Sunlight continued to glitter through the trees, golden as it fell upon her love. She felt the carpet of sand and pine under her feet, and the great rush of her breath. She could see the fine planes and lines of his features, the intelligence and tenderness in his eyes. She could see the strain in his face as he, too, ran, and she could see the love he bore for her, the need to touch.

  "Pierre..."

  "Eugenia!" He nearly wept her name. She flew the last few steps, those steps that brought her into his arms. He lifted her high and swirled her beneath the sun. He stared into her face, trembling, cherishing the mere fact that he could look upon her, and she was beautiful.

  Eugenia saw that in truth he was not perfect. His butternut and gray were tattered and worn, there were slashes in his handsome boots, and his medals were rusted and dark.

  "Oh, Pierre!" Eugenia cried, not so much from his uniform as from the strain that lined his handsome face. "Tell me! What has happened? Pierre, why are you here? Is something wrong?"

  "Are you not glad to see your husband?" he charged her.

  "Ever so glad! But -- "

  "No, Eugenia! No buts, no words. Just hold me. And I'll hold you, tenderly, this night. Tenderly, with all my love."

  He carried her back along that path of softest pine and gentle sand. His eyes held hers, drinking in the sight of her so desperately. And she, in turn, could not take her gaze from him, her cavalier. Pierre, handsome, magnificent, tender Pierre, with his fine eyes and clear-cut features and beautiful golden hair. Pierre, scarred and hard and wounded and sometimes bitter, but ever gentle to her, his bride.

  They reached the house. Mary mumbled something in welcome, and Pierre gave her a dazzling smile. He paused to give her a hug, to ask after his infant son, who was asleep in Mary's old, gnarled arms. Tears came to Mary's eyes, but she winked back as Pierre winked at her and asked if they might have dinner a wee bit late that night.

  Eugenia was still in his arms as he kicked open the screen door with his foot. He knew the house by heart, for it was his house; he had built it. He did not need to look for the stairs; he walked to them easily, his eyes, with all their adoration, still boring into those of his wife. He climbed the stairs and took her to their room, and although they were the only ones on the barren peninsula, he locked the door.

  And then he made love to her.

  Desperately, Eugenia thought. So hungry, so hard, so fevered. She could not hold him tightly enough, she could not give enough, she could not sate him. He was a soldier, she reminded herself. A soldier, long gone from home, barely back from battle. But he touched her again and again, and he kissed her with a fascinated hunger, as if he had never known the taste of her lips before. He entwined his limbs with hers and held her, as if he could not bear to part.

  "My love, my love," she whispered to him. She adored him in turn; sensed his needs, and she gave in to them, all. Stars lit the heavens again and again for her, and when he whispered apologies, thinking himself too rough, she hushed him and whispered in turn that he was the only lover she could ever want.

  Dinner was very late. Pierre dandled his son on his knee while Mary served, and Mary and Eugenia did their best to speak lightly, to laugh, to entertain their soldier home from the war. Dinner was wonderful--broiled grouper in Mary's old Louisiana Creole sauce, but Pierre had noted that fish was the diet because the domestic fowl were gone, and when Mary took their little boy up to bed, Eugenia was forced to admit that, yes, the Yankees had come again, and they had taken the chickens and the pigs and even old Gretchen, the mule. Pierre swore in fury, and then he stared at Eugenia with panic and accusation. She went to him, swearing that the Yanks had been gentlemen plunderers-- none had shown her anything but respect.

  She hesitated. "They'll not come here again. Even as they waltz in and out of Jacksonville. They won't come because--''

  "Because of your father," Pierre supplied bitterly, referring to Eugenia's father, General George Drew of Baltimore. His home was being spared by the Yanks because his wife was one.

  "Dammit," Pierre said simply. He sank back into his chair. With a cry of distress, Eugenia came to him, knelt at his feet and gripped his hands.

  "I love you, Pierre. I love you so much!"

  "You should go back to him."

  "I will never leave you."

  He lifted her onto his lap and cradled her there, holding her tight against the pulse of his heart. "I have to leave," he said softly. "The Old Man--General Lee--is determined to make a thrust northward. I have to be back in Richmond in forty-eight hours."

  "Pierre, no! You've just--"

  "I have to go back."r />
  "You sound so...strange, Pierre." She tightened her arms around him.

  "I'm frightened, my Genie, and I can't even describe why," he told her. "Not frightened of battle anymore, for I've been there too many times. I'm frightened...for the future."

  "We shall win!"

  He smiled, for his Northern-born belle had one loyalty: to his cause, whatever it should be.

  An ocean breeze swept by him, drawing goose pimples to his flesh, and he knew. They would not win.

  He buried his face against his wife's slender throat, inhaling her scent, feeling already the pain of parting. He held her fiercely. "You need not fear, Eugenia. I will provide for you--always. I've been careful. The money is in the house."

  He whispered to her, though they were alone.

  "Yes, yes, I will be fine--but I will not need anything. When this is over, we will be together, love."

  "Yes, together, my love."

  Eugenia loved him too well to tell him that she knew the South was dead. She did not tell him that the money he had hidden in the house, his Confederate currency, was as useless as the paper it had been printed on. He was her man, her provider. She would not tell him that he had provided her with ashes.

  And he did not tell her that he felt a cold breeze, a cold, icy wind that whistled plaintively, like a ghost moaning and crying. Warning, foreboding. Whispering that death was ever near.

  He took her in his arms and carried her up the stairs once again. Their eyes met.

  They smiled, so tenderly, so lovingly.

  "We're having another baby, Pierre."

  "What?"

  His arms tightened. She smiled sweetly, happy, pleased, smug.

  "A baby, Pierre."

  "My love!"

  He kissed her reverently.

  All through the night, he loved her reverently.

  Pierre woke before Eugenia. Restless, he wrapped a sheet around himself and checked his hiding place, pulling the brick from the wall in silence.

  A beautiful glitter greeted him. He inhaled and exhaled.

  He had to go back to the war. He wanted to take his pregnant wife and his young son and disappear forever. But he was a soldier; he could not forsake his duty. He could assure himself, though, that whatever came, Eugenia would not want for anything.

  He replaced the brick. No, Eugenia would not want for anything.

  Chapter 1

  The fear she felt was terrible. It tore into her heart and her mind, and even into her soul. It paralyzed and mesmerized. With swift and stunning ease, it stole Alexi's breath, and as in a nightmare, she could not scream, for the sound would not come. She knew only that something touched her. Something had her.

  And that it was flesh.

  Flesh touched her, warm and vibrant. Flesh...that seemed to cover steel. Fingers that were long and compelled by some superhuman strength.

  Flesh...

  For what seemed like aeons, Alexi could do nothing but let the fact that she had been accosted sweep into her consciousness. It was so dark--she had never known a darkness so total as this night. No stars, no moon, no streetlights--she might have fallen off into a deep pit of eternal space, rather than onto the dusty floorboards of the decaying, historic house. She might be encountering anyone or anything, and all she recognized was... Flesh. Searing and warm and frightfully powerful against her own. It had come so quickly. She had crawled through the window and the arms had swept around her, and she had been down and breathless and now, as fear curled into her like an evil, living thing, she could begin to feel the body and the muscle.

  And she still couldn't scream. She couldn't bear force. She had known it before, and she had come here to escape the threat of it.

  She tried for sound, desperately. A gasped whimper escaped from her--she knew that she was being subdued by a man. Even in the darkness, she knew instinctively that he was lean but wiry, that he was lithe and powerful. Her position was becoming ever more precarious. Her wrist was suddenly jerked and she was rolled, and there was more warmth, warmth and power all around her as she was suddenly laid flat, her back to the floor.

  A thigh straddled roughly over her; she was suffocating.

  Good God, fight!

  She tried to emerge from the terror that encompassed her. Again she could feel heat and strength and tremendous, taut vitality. In the darkness she felt it--the fingers groping to find her other hand, to secure it so she would be powerless in the horrible darkness.

  At last the paralysis broke. Sound burst from her, and she screamed. She could fight; she had learned to fight. Panic surged through her, and she twisted and writhed, ferocious and desperate in her attempt to escape.

  She tried to kick, to wrench, to roll, to flail at the body attacking her. Her voice rose hysterically, totally incoherent. And she punched with all her strength, trying to slap, scratch, gouge--cause some injury. She caught him hard in the chin.

  He swore hoarsely. Belatedly she wondered if she shouldn't have remained still. Who was he? What was he doing in the house? She hadn't heard a thing, hadn't seen a thing, and he had suddenly come down on top of her. He was a thief, a robber...or a rapist or a murderer. And screaming probably wouldn't help her; here she was, out in this godforsaken peninsula of blackness, yelling when there was no help to be had, struggling when she was bound to lose.

  She screamed again anyway. And fought. He was breathing harder; she knew it despite her own ragged gulps for air. She could feel his breath against her cheek, warm and scented with mint. She could feel more of his body, hard against hers, as he silently and competently worked to subdue her.

  Flesh...

  She felt more flesh against her wrists, and then he had her again in a vise. She felt her hands dragged swiftly and relentlessly high over her head, and she knew that she was at the mercy of the dark entity in the night.

  No...

  Tears stung her eyes. She had run too far for it to come to this! With an incredible burst of energy, she wrenched one hand free and sent it flying out full force. She struck him, and she heard him grunt. And she heard his startled "Dammit!"

  His arm snaked out in the blackness to catch and secure her wrist once again.

  And then all she knew was the sound of breathing.

  His, mildly labored, so close it touched her cheeks and her chin. Hers, maddened, ragged, racing gulps. Fear was a living thing. Parasitic, it raged inside of her, tore at her heart and her soul, and she couldn't do anything but lie there, imprisoned, thinking.

  This was it. Death was near. She'd been desperate to run away, and now, for all her determination, she was going to die. She didn't know how yet. He might strangle her. Wind one hand around her throat and squeeze...

  "Stop it! I don't want to hurt you! All right, now, don't move. Don't even think about moving. Do you understand?”

  It was a husky voice. Harsh and coolly grating.

  "I don't want to hurt you. The words echoed in her mind, and she tried to comprehend them; she longed to trust him.

  The darkness was so strange. She couldn't see, but she felt so acutely. She sensed, she felt, as he released her, as he balanced on his feet above her.

  She was still shivering, still yearning to give way again to panic and strike out at him and run. She was dazed and she needed to think, desperately needed to be clever, and she could not come up with one rational thought. She could smell him so keenly in the black void of this world of fear, and that made her panic further, for his scent was pleasant, subtle, clean, like the salt breeze that came in from the ocean. She was so well-known for her reserve, for her cool thinking under pressure, and here she was, in stark, painful panic, when she most desperately needed a calculating mind. But how could she have imagined this situation? So close to that which she had run from, taking her so swiftly by surprise, stripping away all veneers and making her pathetically vulnerable.

  Fight! she warned herself. Don't give up__

  "Please..." She could barely form the whisper.

  Bu
t then, quite suddenly, there was light. Brilliant and blinding and flooding over her features. She blinked against it, trying to see. She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the brutal radiance.

  "Who are you?" the voice demanded.

  Dear God, she wasn't just being attacked; she was being attacked by a thief or a murderer who asked questions. One of them was mad. She had every right to be! She was going to be living here. He had been prowling around in the darkness He must have waited while she had fumbled with the door; he had stalked her in silence, watching while she came to the window and broke it to tumble inside--and into his ruthless hold.

  She couldn't speak; she started to tremble.

  "Who are you?" he raged again.

  Harsh, stark, male, deliberate, demanding. She lost all sense of reason. Her arms were free. He had even moved back a little; his weight rested on his haunches rather than full against her hips.

  "Arrgh!" Another sound escaped her, shrill with effort. He swore, but did not lose his balance. Alexi managed to do more than twist her skirt higher upon her hips and bring him harder against her as he struggled to maintain his new hold on both her wrists with one hand and keep the flashlight harsh against her face with the other.

  She wanted to think; she kept shaking, and her words tore from her in gasping spurts. "Don't kill me. Please don't kill me."

  "Kill you?"

  "I'm worth money. Alive, I mean. Not dead. I'm really not worth a single red cent dead. My insurance isn't paid up. But I swear, if you'll just leave me--alive--I can make it worth your while. I--"

  "Dammit, I'm not going to kill you. I'm trying very hard not to hurt you!"

  She didn't dare feel relief. Still, sweeping sensations that left her weak coursed through her, and to her amazement, she heard her own voice again. "Who are you?"

  "I asked first. And..." She could have sworn there was a touch of amusement in his voice. "And you're the one asking the favors."

  She swallowed, stretching out her fingers. If he'd only move that horrible flashlight! Then she could think, could muster up a semblance of dignity and courage.

  "Who the hell are you? I want an answer now," he demanded.