Paradise Burning by Blair Bancroft Read Free Book Online

slim and supple. Odder yet, in the
midst of the Florida jungle she was wearing a dress.
    The woman lifted her gaze above the rapidly
dissipating mist and looked downriver. Clearly startled by the
sight of Mandy standing upright on a bench and looking straight at
her, the woman shot to her feet, poised to run away. Yet something
seemed to hold her back. She froze in place like a deer pinned by a
hunter’s spotlights. Mandy raised her hand and waved. One lesson
she’d learned in the past few days—Floridians were friendly. And
polite to strangers.
    Unmoving, the woman continued to stare at
Mandy. For the space of perhaps ten seconds the world along the
river seemed to stand still. Then a sudden loud squawk, a shrill
squee echoed through the jungle as some predator satisfied its
craving for breakfast. The woman turned and ran inland so fast her
loose-fitting dress flapped around her ankles and her long blond
hair streamed out behind.
    Both Ed Cramer and Peter had told her no one
lived on the far side of the river. As far as Golden Beach was
concerned, it was the end of the world. Nothing but Florida
wilderness for miles.
    Fine. The girl would give her a topic of
conversation with Peter other than sex.
    Sex. Sexual
slavery . The idea was so repugnant, no wonder she’d
left the fight to Eleanor. Oh, Mandy had done her job. Research,
planning sessions, running scenarios, hacking computers far, far
away. But she hadn’t dug in, done more than she was
asked.
    Not our
problem . Like Grandmother Kingsley, she hadn’t wanted
to know.
    And Kira had died.
    While precious privileged Mandy was being
given a season in paradise. And a chance to restart her life.
    It seemed so grossly unfair. Kira had died on
Mandy Armitage’s watch, and her punishment was being force-fed
Peter Pennington. One thing was certain. The book research was
going to be a hell of lot easier than mending her love life.
     
    Mandy parked her car next to Peter’s 4Runner,
taking advantage of the shade beneath his towering house. No sense
in driving home in an oven at the end of the day, even if she had
to cozy up to Peter’s SUV to stay cool.
    There had to be irony in there somewhere,
Mandy thought, as she walked up the L-shaped ramp that led to the
kitchen. Remaining cool when cozied up to anything of Peter’s was
well-nigh impossible.
    Forget Peter. She’d had a good morning in
town, establishing rapport with the local Reference Librarian, who
had found and ordered books from libraries in Tampa, Orlando, and
Atlanta. Oh, the joys of interlibrary loan. The accommodating
librarian had found everything from the confessions of a pop singer
sold into a brothel in Japan to the documentation of an
investigative reporter shocked to find forced prostitution in
Israel, to a compilation of reports on international trafficking in
women and children published by the UN. The writing on that would
probably be dry, but the content hot to the point of incandescence.
How such horrors could occur on a daily basis and receive so little
attention was beyond Mandy’s comprehension.
    Yet she had to step back, look at the
statistics clinically. Refuse to think beyond the facts, beyond the
research task at hand. Statistics, just statistics. She mustn’t
personalize it, musn’t think about the individual suffering. It
would destroy her.
    Mandy Mouse, clinging desperately to her
hole. Safe. Sane. Untouched.
    Wise mouse.
    Cowardly mouse. Voyeur. The mouse who could
plan, control, wrap up problems and lock them away. But never
touch. Or be touched.
    Shoulders slumped in chagrin, Mandy stared
blankly at the door at the top of the ramp. She hadn’t wanted to be
on the outside of life, looking in. It had simply . . .
happened.
    She bit her lip, squared her shoulders, tried
the door knob.
    The house was unlocked and utterly still, a
stage set waiting to be brought to life. Peter must be upstairs,
she decided, working in his office aerie. Heaven forbid she should
disturb him while he was