Shadowed Paradise by Blair Bancroft

best friends who enjoyed each other in bed, but
their goals simply didn’t coincide. Life had moved on, separating
their oneness forever.
    Brad threw himself into learning about land
surveys, banks, draws, impact fees, permits, the laying of roads,
water lines and sewer pipes—all part of the endless struggle to
develop property to the point where it was even remotely ready to
start making money. So far the cost of Amber Run was rushing toward
nine hundred thousand, most of it debt, and still going up.
    He’d had little time or energy for sex. Oddly
enough, he’d found celibacy strangely soothing. And, later, he’d
needed all that stored-up energy to satisfy Diane Lake.
    The elevator door slid soundlessly open,
revealing a long concrete-floored gallery set with a series of
numbered doors. In design, it could have been almost any motel in
the United States instead of one of Calusa County’s most expensive
gulffront condominiums. The view, however, was spectacular, whether
facing the twinkling lights of Manatee Bay to the east or the
indigo depths of the gulf to the west.
    Diane’s condo was only a few steps from the
elevator. Inserting a key in the lock, Brad let himself in. He
moved through the entry hall, past the dull gleam of the kitchen
and into the living room, switching on lights with the ease of
frequent practice. He tugged on the drapery cord, revealing the
glass doors to the balcony. Sliding the panel open, Brad stepped
outside.
    Usually he could renew his soul with this
view, standing motionless, drinking it in while waiting for Diane
to come home from her stint on the eleven o’clock news. But tonight
the magic was gone. And yet . . . there they all were down
below—thousands, millions of people clinging to the shores of the
ocean, long after its life-giving properties had been forgotten.
Some dim racial memory prompting a return to the womb? An urge so
strong they risked being swept away in the Big Wave? If not this
year, then the next.
    Brad blinked away the vision. Wearily, he
went back inside, shoved the thermostat down ten degrees and
sprawled on the white leather couch. But not before removing his
shoes. He cupped his hands behind his head and allowed himself a
sigh that was closer to a groan. To hell with speculation,
philosophy . . . women. Hold all thought. He’d come for one
purpose, one purpose only. If Diane wanted to flaunt her success by
paying an exorbitant price for the privilege of drowning in the Big
Wave, so be it. Brad Blue was an in-country man, living his life on
the fringes of Florida’s wilderness. Another reason why, after
tonight, Diane was history.
     
    He must have fallen asleep for he never heard
her key in the lock. His once infallible reflexes were definitely
slipping, Brad realized as he woke to Diane’s impeccably tailored
blouse hitting him in the face.
    “ Shit! Why can’t they build a bubble
over this goddamn hell?” she demanded. “Thank God you got here
first. If I’d had to wait for the air to kick in, I think I’d melt
into the fucking carpet.”
    Brad removed the pristine white blouse from
his face and sat up slowly. “Aren’t you afraid you might forget
yourself sometime and sully the county’s air waves with your
colorful mode of conversation?” It was an old bone of contention.
Diane did not bother to reply.
    Her hot pink suit jacket had been thrown onto
the nearest chair as soon as she entered the living room. The
matching skirt puddled on the stark white Berber carpet. The black
lace push-up bra, which required no padding, revealed far more than
it concealed as she kicked the skirt aside and bent to a lingering
taste of her lover’s lips.
    Diane pulled away, turning to present her bra
hook for his usually nimble fingers.
    “ Uh, Diane . . .”
    “ Oh, God, what a relief!” She flung the
bra halfway across the room, sent her stiletto heels flying
after.
    Brad, who seldom lost his cool, discovered
his tongue wouldn’t move. There she stood, tall