Sandra Brown - 22 INDIGO PLACE
22 INDIGO PLACE
Sandra Brown
Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Chapter 1
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The motorcycle shot out from behind the live oak, where it had been hidden by
the wisteria vine. Laura Nolan, surrounded by the dense darkness on the
shadowed porch, spun around at the roaring sound of the engine. Flattening
herself against the front door in fright, she pressed her fist, which was clutching
her front-door key, against her chest.
"Are you Mrs. Hightower, the realtor?" the biker asked.
"No, I'm not the realtor. I'm the owner of the house." A bit more imperiously, she
added, "And I don't thank you, sir, for scaring the living daylights out of me. Why
were you hiding behind the tree?"
He switched off the key in the ignition. The motor purred to a stop. He swung his
leg over the seat of the disreputable-looking machine and sauntered around the
rear wheel. "I wasn't hiding. I was waiting. And I didn't mean to scare you."
That was what he said. But the slow, deliberate way he came stalking up the frontporch
steps made Laura wonder if he meant it.
She was alone. The place was deserted. She was frightened.
Anybody could have seen the real estate sign posted on the main road and driven
up the lane to the house on the pretext of being an interested buyer. How many
people went house-hunting on a motorcycle? Mustering the most intimidating
tone she could, she said, "If you're waiting for Mrs. Hightower, I think—"
"Good Lord o' mercy, if it isn't Miss Laura Nolan herself."
For several moments she was unable to speak. "How – how do you know me?"
His chuckle – low, throaty, not quite sinister, but dangerous just the same – sent
shivers down her spine. He had reached the porch and now stood on a level with
her. Except that he was much taller. Much. He seemed to loom over her there in
the shadowy darkness. "Now, don't be modest, Miss Laura. Everybody knows the
prettiest little rich girl in Gregory, Georgia."
She took exception to several things. His tone of voice, for one. It was offensive,
anything but respectful. The drawling inflection was insolent and subtly mocking.
Then she was offended by his reference to her family's affluence. Mentioning such
things was in the poorest taste, and indicated that he had no manners and little, if
any, regard for convention. And last, but most disturbing of all, was the way he
moved in on her, backing her up, until her bones were trying to impress
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themselves into the wood grain of the front door.
The man stood so close that Laura could feel his body heat and smell his cologne.
Few people had the gumption to block her path, much less invade her space. She
didn't like his impertinence one bit. This stranger was breaking all the rules of
polite society. Just who did he think he was?
"You have me at a disadvantage," she said coolly, "because I don't know you." She
intimated that she wanted to keep it that way, too. "If you're interested in seeing
the house, please wait for Mrs. Hightower here on the porch." She nodded toward
the wicker settee. "She's very good about keeping appointments, so I'm sure she'll
be along shortly. Now, if you'll excuse me." Laura rudely turned her back on him
to unlock the front door.
That probably wasn't the smartest course of action, but she was more perturbed
now than frightened. If he had had something criminal in mind, he would have
proceeded with it by now. So, at the moment, it only seemed imperative to put
space between the man and herself.
She fitted the key into the lock, thanking heaven that it slipped into the hole
without her having to stab at it several times because of the darkness. She
unlocked the latch and pushed the door open. As soon as she stepped inside, she
automatically reached for the light switch and flipped on the front-porch lights.
There were three of them, nicely spaced and hanging on long brass chains from
the balcony overhead. They flooded the porch with light. When Laura turned to
close the front door, she gasped in surprise, partly because the man had followed
her as far as the threshold, but mainly because she now recognized him.
"James Paden," she said in a hoarse whisper.
His grin was slow in coming. When it finally did tilt up the corners of that sullen,
sensual mouth, it made him look aggravatingly smug. He hooked his thumbs
through the belt loops of his jeans, propped one shoulder against the doorjamb
and said, "You remember me."
Remember him? Of course she remembered him. One didn't forget characters like
James Paden. Such misfits always distinguished themselves in one's memory, if
for no other reason than because of their dissimilarity to anyone else.
And unlike anyone else in Laura's memory, James Paden held the distinction of
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being the only person she knew who had practically been railroaded out of town.
"What are you doing here?"
"Invite me in and I'll tell you. Or am I still denied entrance into the hallowed halls
of Twenty-two Indigo Place?"
She took umbrage at his implication that she was a snob and that not everybody
was welcomed into her home. Although it was true. Randolph and Missy Nolan
would have had conniption fits if their only daughter had invited the likes of
James Paden to any of her many parties. "Of course you may come in," she said
stiffly.
He pushed himself away from the doorjamb and swaggered past her. "Thanks."
His sarcasm made her grind her teeth, but she closed the door and stood aside
while he leisurely and thoroughly inspected the entrance hall of her house. While
he was doing that, Laura inspected him.
James Paden. Wild, rebellious, disreputable. He had been the scourge of the
public-school system in Gregory until he had graduated, several classes ahead of
Laura. The local police department was well acquainted with him too. Oh, he
hadn't been an outlaw. Exactly. Just incorrigible.
He and the pack of boys who had followed him around on their motorcycles like
faithful knights to an exiled king had claimed the pool hall as their headquarters.
When they weren't there, they were on the prowl. They spelled trouble, and
everyone avoided them if at all possible. They were known for hard drinking, loud
cussing, fast driving, and wild living, this small town's version of Hell's Angels.
The unqualified leader, James Paden, had grown up without discipline, without
apparent ambition, without an iota of regard for anybody or anything. Nice young
men were advised to stay away from him at the risk of getting into trouble. Nice
girls were advised the same thing, only the risks they were taking by associating
with him had much more dire consequences. Good reputations and sharing
company with James Paden were irreconcilable.
Ironically, he had a magnetic personality. Men and women alike were drawn to
him the way they were to any vice. He was exciting and fun. Sinful. Therefore
wickedly attractive. All it took was a certain look, a suggestive arch of his brow,
one crook of his finger, and susceptible victims, people with no self-restraint and
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little willpower, flocked to him.
He certainly had had the good looks to go with the alluring personality. Long
before they became acceptable, much less fashionable, he had worn tight jeans
and T-shirts, a leather jacket with the collar flipped up, and boots.
His saddle-brown hair had always been worn long, and he cared little for styling.
He viewed the world through broody green eyes lavishly screened by dark lashes.
His mouth was frankly sensual, the lower lip being fuller than the upper. His
mouth could be downright pouty when a derisive smile wasn't tugging up one
corner of it … as now, when he turned and found Laura studying him so intently.
She gave him a vapid smile and said, "Would you like to wait for Mrs. Hightower
in the parlor?"
Picking up on her formality, he said, "After you, Miss Laura."
itched to make contact with his cheek. Instead she turned her back and led him
into the front parlor. She switched on lamps as she went.
He whistled long and low when he entered the room. Standing in its center, he
slid his hands, palms out, into the seat pockets of his jeans and did a slow threehundred-
and-sixty-degree pivot on the heels of his boots.
Laura couldn't help but notice that the quality of his clothes had changed, if not
the style. The boots, for instance, were expensive. They were scuffed and dusty,
but she knew quality when she saw it.
What she didn't want to notice, but what couldn't be ignored, was how little his
physique had changed since she had last seen him, over ten years ago. He had
filled out, reached his full maturity, but he hadn't gone to fat. He was still slender
and tough. His waist was trim, his belly flat, his hips narrow, his shoulders broad,
his chest wide. And he still moved with sinuous, predatory stealth. He never
seemed to hurry.
"This is some room."
"Thank you."
"I always wanted to see the inside of this house." Without invitation, he dropped
down onto one of the love seats. "But I was never invited."
"I guess there was just never an occasion." Self-consciously, Laura sat down on a
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chair, perching on the very edge of its cushioned seat, as though she might need to
leave it in a hurry.
"Now, isn't that funny? I recall several occasions when I could have been invited."
She shot him a withering look. He just wasn't going to make this easy, was he? Did
he want her to come right out and say that his kind wouldn't have been welcomed
at any of the social events her family had hosted? She wouldn't be so gauche, no
matter how severely she was provoked. Good manners were too deeply inbred.
"You were older. We had a different set of friends."
He found her tact amusing and laughed out loud. "We sure as hell did, Miss
Laura." He cocked his head to one side and looked at her through narrowed eyes.
"I assume it's still Miss Laura Nolan."
"Yes."
"How come?"
"I beg your pardon."
"How come it's still Miss?"
"I prefer to live as a single woman." Exuding disapproval of his ill-mannered
question from every pore, she gave him a cool blue stare and tossed her hair back
over her shoulders.
He leaned against the crewel-work pillows in the love seat, spread his arms along
its back, and crossed one ankle over the other. "Well, now, Miss Laura," he
drawled, "it's always been my contention that the only difference between 'a single
woman' and an old maid is the number of lovers she has. How many have you
got?"
Laura's face turned pink with fury. Her posture became even more erect, and she
glared at him in what she hoped looked like open contempt, because that was
exactly what she was feeling. "Enough."
"Anybody I know?"
"My social life is none of your business."
"Let's see, now." He glanced up at the ceiling and gave every impression that he
was contemplating a problem. "To my recollection, the boys from this town fall
into one of two categories. They either come back after college to run their
daddies' businesses, or they leave and never come back, but move on to bigger
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and better things. And of the ones who have come back, I can't think of a bachelor
among them. The way I hear it, they're all married and have a passel of kids." He
looked at her goadingly. "Kinda makes me wonder where you're getting all your
boyfriends."
Laura surged to her feet with every intention of dressing him down, putting him
in his proper place, and demanding that he leave her house. But she saw the
him to know that he had succeeded in baiting her.
Her lips were so stiff that they barely moved as she asked, "Would you care for
something to drink while you're waiting?" She took a few steps toward the antique
liquor cabinet. It was lined with lead-crystal decanters and priceless glassware.
"No, thank you."
His declination left her with nothing to do but return to her seat, feeling like a
greater fool. Rigidly she sat there, trying to avoid watching him watching her. The
silence stretched out. "Did you have an appointment with Mrs. Hightower?" He
made a noncommittal sound that she took as affirmation. "Do you really want to
buy this house?"
"It's for sale, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's for sale. It's just that… I mean…" She faltered when his stare became
hard and cold. Nervously she wet her lips. "I can't imagine what's keeping Mrs.
Hightower. She's usually so punctual."
"You haven't changed, Laura."
His use of her first name alone caused goose bumps to break out on her arms. No
longer mocking, his voice was soft and raspy, the way she remembered it
sounding when they had met on the street and he had spoken to her. She had
always spoken back courteously, ducking her head modestly and hurrying on her
way, in case anybody watching mistook her friendliness as a come-on.
For some reason, exchanging hellos with James Paden had always left her a trifle
breathless and disconcerted. She had felt comp
romised just by his speaking her
name, as though he had touched her instead. Maybe because his eyes implied
more than a simple hello. But for whatever reason, she had always been affected.
She felt that same way now. Awkward. Tongue-tied. And guilty over nothing. "I'm
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older."
"You're better-looking."
"Thank you." She knotted her fingers together in her lap. Her palms were so
sweaty, they made a damp spot on her skirt.
"Everything's still firm and compact." His eyes scaled down her with the practiced
ease of a man who is accustomed to mentally undressing women. When he raised
his eyes to her face again, he looked at her from beneath a shelf of brows.
"I try to watch my weight." She was uneasy at being scrutinized with such blatant
sexual interest, but she couldn't quite bring herself to admonish him for it. It was
safer to pretend she didn't notice.
"Your hair still looks shiny and soft. Remember when I told you it was the color of
a fawn?"
Lying, she shook her head.
"You dropped your chemistry book in the hallway, and I picked it up for you. Your
hair swung down across your cheek. That's when I told you it looked like a fawn."
It had been her algebra book and they were in the school cafeteria, not the
hallway. She said nothing.
"It's still that same, soft color. And it still has those blond streaks around your
face. Or do you have those put there now?"
"No, they're natural."
He smiled at her sudden response. Laura had the grace to smile back shyly. He
stared at her for a long time. "As I said, you're the prettiest girl in town."
"The prettiest rich girl."
He shrugged. "Hell, everybody was rich compared to the Padens."
Laura glanced down at her hands, embarrassed for him. James had grown up on
the wrong side of the tracks, literally. He had lived in a shack held together by
whatever scrap materials his alcoholic father could salvage from the junkyard.
From the outside the tiny house had looked like a patchwork quilt, a laughable
eyesore. Laura had often wondered how James had managed to keep himself
clean, living in that shack.
"I was sorry about your father," she said quietly. Old Hector Paden had died
several years ago. His death went virtually unnoticed, certainly unlamented.