Strangers in Paradise by Heather Graham Page B

turn,” she murmured huskily.
    â€œUh-uh. We’re not finished with you.”
    He didn’t move, though. He was staring down at her head. If she’d had any energy left, she would have flinched when he touched her hair. “That’s the closest shade I’ve seen to real gold. How on earth do you do it?”
    She knew she should be offended, but she laughed. “I grow it, idiot!”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    â€œOh, yeah. How do you get that color? Shoe polish?”
    â€œNo, idiot,” he said in turn, grinning. “I grow it.”
    He returned to his chair and cast his leg easily over it to straddle it once again. “So let’s go on here. Why are you so afraid of John Vinto? What happened?”
    â€œNothing happened. We hit the finale. That was it.”
    â€œThat wasn’t it at all. You married him...what? About four years ago or so?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’ve been divorced almost a year?”
    â€œYes,” Alexi said warily. “He, uh, was the photographer on some of the Helen of Troy stills,” she said after a moment. She shrugged. “The campaign ended—publicity about the breakup would have created havoc on the set.”
    â€œYou worked with him after.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you spent that year working—and being afraid of him.”
    She lowered her head quickly. She hadn’t been afraid of him when there had been plenty of other people around. She’d taken great pains never to be alone with him after he...
    She sighed softly. “No more, Mr. Morrow. Not tonight. Your turn.” She took a sip of her new beer. The second didn’t taste half as bitter as the first, and it was ice-cold and delicious. She mused that it was the first time she had let down her guard in—
    Since John. She shivered at the thought and then opened her eyes wide, aware that Rex had seen her shiver. Something warned her that he missed little.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have to fear anyone, Alexi,” he told her softly.
    â€œReally...” She suddenly sat bolt upright. “Rex, I don’t talk about this—no one knows anything at all.”
    â€œI don’t really know anything,” he reminded her with a smile. There was a rueful, sensual curve to the corner of his lip that touched her heart and stirred some physical response in the pit of her abdomen.
    â€œNo one will ever know what I do know now,” he said. “On my honor, Ms. Jordan.”
    â€œThanks,” she murmured uneasily. “If we’re playing This Is Your Life , then you’ve got to give something.”
    He shrugged, lifting his hands. “I married the girl next door. I tried to write at night while I edited the obituaries during the day for a small paper. You know the story—trial and error and rejections, and the girl next door left me. She didn’t sue for divorce, though—she waited until some of the money came in, created one of the finest performances I have ever seen in court and walked away with most of it. She was only allowed to live off me for seven years. I bought an old house in Temple Terrace that used to belong to a famous stripper. I raised horses and planted orange groves—and then went nuts because my address got out and every weirdo in the country would come by to look me up. They stole all the oranges—and one jerk even shot a horse for a souvenir. That’s when I moved out here. The sheriff up on the mainland is great, and it’s like a wonderful little conspiracy—the townspeople keep me safe, and I contribute heavily to all the community committees. Gene—when he was still here—was a neighbor I could abide. Then he decided he needed to be in a retirement cooperative. I tried to buy the house from him; he wasn’t ready to let go.” He stopped speaking, frowning as he looked at her.
    â€œHave you eaten anything?”
    â€œWhat? Uh, no. How—why