Serpent in Paradise Read online

  Serpent in Paradise

  Jayne Ann Krentz

  writing as Stephanie James

  Copyright 1983 by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Excerpt from Raven’s Prey Copyright 1983 by Jayne Ann Krentz

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Dear Reader

  Those of you who read my books know that these days I write contemporary romantic thrillers as Jayne Ann Krentz, historical romantic suspense as Amanda Quick and futuristics as Jayne Castle. At the start of my career, however, I wrote classic, battle-of-the-sexes-style romance using both my Krentz name and the pen name Stephanie James. This volume contains one or more stories from that time.

  I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you—new readers as well as those who have been with me from the start. I appreciate your interest in my books.

  Sincerely,

  Jayne Ann Krentz

  Chapter One

  She was not at all the sort of woman with whom he wanted to have an affair.

  Jase Lassiter lounged quietly in the shadowy depths of the huge curving rattan chair and watched her through slightly narrowed eyes. She was seated on the other side of the tavern’s open-air terrace, near the railing. Partially obscured by the overarching back of her chair, she watched every man who came into the bar with a strange, tense expectancy that faded in moments when he failed to approach her table.

  She’s waiting for someone, Lassiter thought, a man. He was vaguely aware of an unaccountable unease at the thought. Any man? Or one special man? Here on Saint Clair she must be several thousand miles from home, and she looked it. Out of place, he told himself. A tourist whose South Pacific vacation was not living up to the promises in the travel agency brochure? Or a woman who had arranged to meet a lover on a clandestine vacation in the tropics?

  That last possibility seemed to fit the circumstances. It would explain the tense expectancy in her as she surveyed each new arrival at The Serpent. It would explain why she had come alone to a bar frequented mainly by locals and a scattering of knowledgeable tourists, who were just beginning to discover Saint Clair. It explained a lot of things about her.

  So why didn’t he like the explanation?

  Jase’s mouth twisted wryly as he reached for the rum in front of him. The sardonic grimace was almost out of character for him. Any unnecessary gesture or movement was out of character. There was a certain waiting quality about Jase Lassiter—a vast stillness in him that seemed to come from his depths.

  There was nothing quiet or calm about the woman who had emerged out of the warm tropical night to choose a secluded seat in his bar. She was tense, nervous, restless and very vulnerable.

  Not at all the sort of female he would normally choose to go to bed with him. So why couldn’t he take his eyes off her?

  Perhaps he’d been on Saint Clair a little too long. A nagging sense of deterioration nibbled at the edges of his consciousness, and he ruthlessly shoved it aside. It wasn’t that he’d been in the tropics too long, Jase decided grimly; he’d simply been too long without a woman. He took another swallow of the rum.

  But she wasn’t the right sort! He needed a sophisticated, rather jaded jet-setting traveler who would view a few nights in his bed as an interesting, faintly amusing souvenir of her trip. Much more fun to discuss when she got back home than a collection of sea shells. The sort of tourist who found Saint Clair usually fit into the right category. The island was far enough off the beaten path to discourage the average middle-class tourist for whom a South Seas vacation was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Instead, in addition to the occasional US Navy ship, a collection of expatriates and the usual flotsam and jetsam that wound up in such South Seas ports, Saint Clair tended to attract a small group of world-weary tourists looking for Eden.

  The visitors usually didn’t stay long, but while they were there, a few could be counted upon to search out The Serpent, a flourishing oasis in the somewhat scruffy paradise of Saint Clair. And among those who turned up in the nightclub, Jase could sometimes find what he needed.

  But not tonight. Tonight he found himself strangely intrigued by a woman who should have been safely home in the States, supervising a couple of kids and a devoted husband. Precisely the wrong sort of woman, Jase told himself once more as he took another sip of the rum. Then, again, she was in precisely the wrong sort of place.

  Where was the man for whom she was so obviously waiting? In spite of himself he found his eyes following her quick, expectant gaze as she watched the entrance. What would he be like, this man she had come so far to meet? What would it be like to be the man who could satisfy that sense of anticipation in her, the one who could soothe that vulnerable, high-strung temperament?

  “I’m a fool,” Jase muttered a little savagely to himself as he got to his feet and reached down to collect the glass of rum he had been drinking. This was what came from doing without a woman too long, he decided laconically as he moved slowly across the room toward the table occupied by the lady tourist. Doing without for too long made a man do foolish things—like introduce himself to the kind of female who would undoubtedly tell him to go straight to hell.

  On the other hand, he thought wryly, she was on his territory and she had managed to pique a sense of curiosity he would have sworn was quite dead. For having been guilty of intriguing him, she deserved the consequences of figuring out how to deal with him when he approached her. It might be interesting to see how she managed that.

  It was going to be amusing to see if that look of expectancy came into her eyes as he came close; even more amusing to see how long it lasted. Jase watched what he could see of her profile as he made his way toward her table. She wasn’t aware of him, her whole attention focused on the entrance to the bar.

  Again the question sizzled through his brain. Was she waiting for a special man? Or just any man? If the latter was the case, why not him? Perhaps she was, after all, merely a fast-lane tourist looking for some tropical action. If she was only searching for a little adventure, perhaps he could persuade her to let him try to provide whatever it was she sought. God knows, I need something myself; he thought, and then experienced a flicker of self-disgust. Was he actually starting to feel sorry for himself? Ridiculous. There was a cure for what ailed a man at times like this. He wondered if the woman across the room would be willing to provide it.

  She didn’t see him until he was almost upon the little table. When her peripheral vision belatedly registered the man’s presence, Amy Shannon reacted with a flinch of startled surprise, and as anyone who knew her could have predicted, disaster ensued.

  The nearly fully wineglass that had been resting near her right hand toppled over as her fingers bumped into it. The burgundy that The Serpent served as its house wine ran in a small wave across the surface of the polished wooden table and cascaded over the far edge.

  Amy watched the entire process with fatalistic acceptance.

  “I’m sorry,” the man drawled softly in a voice as dark and rich as good sherry. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Then you shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Amy retorted, more as a matter of form than anything else. Automatically she began dabbing rather uselessly at the spilled wine with the tiny napkin that had accompanied the glass.

  The man standing beside her didn’t move. He watched her hopeless flurry of effort and then said blandly, “I’ll have that taken care of for you.” He nodded toward the thi
n young man with the trim beard who worked behind the bar.

  “You’d better be careful or you’ll get wine all over your slacks,” Amy noted irritably. She eyed the khaki trousers as if it was only a matter of time before they became involved in the disaster.

  The stranger ignored the potential peril, however, merely standing politely aside so that the bartender could mop up the evidence of Amy’s awkwardness.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the bartender said sympathetically. “Have another glass on the house.”

  “Thank you, Ray,” Amy said, humbly grateful. She had met him a little earlier, when he’d first served her. She’d asked him who had done the hauntingly lovely paintings of Saint Clair that hung on The Serpent’s walls. Ray Mathews had shyly confessed that he was the painter responsible. “Strictly an amateur,” he’d assured her hastily. He cleaned up and then retreated behind the bar.

  By the time the mess had been cleared and a new glass of burgundy had appeared on her table, Amy realized she now had company. The quiet stranger had somehow invited himself to join her.

  She blinked in confusion as he lowered himself into the rattan chair across from her. Then in a rush of delayed realization it occurred to her that this might be the man she was searching for. “Who are you?” she demanded bluntly.

  “Him. I hope.”

  Over the unsteady flame of the candle on the table Amy looked fully into his face for the first time. She found herself gazing into the most unusual pair of eyes she had ever seen.

  Turquoise, she thought with a measure of wonder. He’s got eyes the color of turquoise. And just as hard and unreadable as any gemstone. “What are you talking about?”

  A flicker of wry amusement lit his face as he leaned back in the oversize chair. “I hope I’m him,” he explained softly. “The man you’re so obviously waiting for.”

  Amy swallowed in astonishment. Was this Dirk Haley? In hasty assessment she ran her gaze quickly over his features, trying to mesh the reality of the man with her own inner preconception.

  The color of his eyes was surely the only beautiful thing about him, she thought uneasily. The rest could only be described in terms of not: not beautiful, not handsome, not gentle, not fully civilized. He was probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, Amy decided. But she would have been willing to bet that he had already learned more about the dark side of life than most of her acquaintances would know by the time they were in their eighties.

  His hair, the shade of deep mahogany, was cut in a casual style and combed roughly back from the hard planes of his face. The nose was a bluntly carved hunk of granite that went well with the equally aggressive jaw line. The mouth looked as if it could be either savage or sensuous, and Amy shivered a little at the dichotomy. She didn’t think she would want to be the focal point of either emotion from him.

  Surprisingly, there was little about the stranger to suggest he had succumbed to the seedy, entrapping pull of the tropics. The rum hadn’t yet extracted its vengeance, Amy guessed. Either that or somehow he had defied the odds and learned to control it instead of vice versa. But surely it would be only a matter of time before he wound up with that dissipated, weary look she associated with expatriates living in the South Seas.

  Still, the body beneath the khaki shirt and slacks looked hard and strong, she realized. There was a sense of quiet power in him that made itself felt. Amy didn’t care for the feeling.

  Her personal preferences didn’t matter, however. She was there on business.

  “You’re all wrong, you know,” the man was saying conversationally as he scanned her with cool consideration.

  “I am?” Amy frowned, not understanding.

  “Umm. You ought to be cool and sophisticated. A little world-weary and jaded, perhaps. Ideally you should be beautiful and blasé enough to carry this off properly.”

  Amy looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You may take your complaints to another department. I’m only here to get some answers, not an assessment of my person and character!”

  “I wasn’t complaining,” he said gently. “I find your person and character rather intriguing, as a matter of fact.”

  Amy shook her head once in silent denial of the statement. She knew full well what he saw when he looked at her. It was a little hard to imagine why he should find her interesting. Then it hit her. “I gather I’m something of a novelty?” she hazarded dryly.

  “Let’s just say you appear a little out of place here in The Serpent. Out of place on Saint Clair, come to that.”

  She waited while he finished a deliberate perusal of her tense figure. Amy didn’t appreciate the laconic scrutiny, but she thought she understood the motivation behind it. She probably did appear a little out of place here on this remote island. Her kind of tourist usually stopped in Hawaii. But then, she wasn’t really a tourist.

  His turquoise eyes wandered over her spice-colored hair. The tawny strands were anchored in a loose knot on top of her head. Amy had fastened the long length in that fashion as a defense against the warmth and humidity of the evening.

  The style emphasized her wide, candid eyes, whose color hovered somewhere between gray and green. Amy staunchly refused to let her gaze waver from his face as he took in the effect of her firm, straight nose, cheekbones that were less than classic and a reasonably well-defined throat line. Her overall appearance was one of attractive wholesomeness, as far as Amy was concerned. She spent a lot of time and energy trying to disguise the wholesome aspects and play up the attractive part. Unfortunately it was difficult to do under the best of circumstances. In the heat and sultry atmosphere of Saint Clair she hadn’t even bothered with her normal makeup. Her expressive mouth twisted slightly at the thought, and amusement shone in her gray-green eyes. What had Dirk Haley been expecting?

  Her body, too, lacked the sophistication she would have preferred. It had neither sleek, elfin slenderness nor sensuous voluptuousness. Instead the breasts were nicely rounded but small, and the hips were a little too well rounded for Amy’s satisfaction. Still, it was a strong, healthy body and, having reached the mature age of twenty-eight, Amy had decided to stop worrying about her figure.

  She was dressed in a white cotton dress that just skimmed her body, leaving throat and arms bare. It had been too hot to wear pantyhose, so she had slipped into a pair of low white sandals before heading for The Serpent. Her only jewelry was a tiny gold chain around her neck.

  “All wrong,” Jase repeated almost wistfully.

  “Look,” Amy began a little grimly, “I’m not sure what you were expecting, but I hardly think it matters. Are you going to introduce yourself?”

  “So straightforward,” he sighed. “Aren’t you even going to flirt a little?”

  She stared at him, astounded. “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I know how to handle that approach. I’m not too sure how to deal with the more businesslike, direct style,” he explained.

  “Well, that’s the only approach... you’re going to get from me,” she told him heatedly. “Introduce yourself!”

  “Jase Lassiter,” he returned obediently, inclining his head with grave politeness.

  She drew in her breath. “Very well, Mr. Lassiter....” If that was the name he wanted to use, it was all right with her.

  “Do we have to be that businesslike about it? Couldn’t you at least call me Jase?”

  “Jase.” She repeated the name stonily, her brows lowering into a line. “Now can we proceed to business?”

  “Is this the way it’s done back in the States these days? No flirting? No delicate innuendos? No attempt at romance?” He shook his head in mock regret

  “I am not in a joking mood!” she hissed, her fingers clenching the stem of her wineglass. “Would you kindly skip the wisecracks, Mr. Haley—or Mr. Lassiter, or whatever it is you want to call yourself—and get to business?”

 
Jase regarded her thoughtfully. “Haley?” he finally asked simply.

  Amy froze. “Aren’t you... I mean, you’re not Dirk Haley?” she whispered carefully.

  “In a word, no. I haven’t the foggiest notion of who Dirk Haley is. But I’m more than willing to take his place. I think.” His hard mouth curved faintly as he watched her widening eyes. Then, with a smooth, controlled swiftness that surprised Amy, he reached out and removed the tottering wineglass from her too-tense grip. “The burgundy isn’t the best, but it’s a shame to waste any more of it this evening,” he remarked calmly, setting the glass down safely out of her reach.

  Amy’s appalled glance went to the glass and back to his face. “If you’re not Haley, then who the hell are you? Why did you come over to my table?

  “I’ve told you, I’m Jase Lassiter,” he said quietly. “I own this place.”

  “Oh.” Amy stared at him, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “I know. Sometimes that’s about all I can find to say about it too. Oh.” He lifted one strong hand in a negligent, dismissing gesture, and something close to humor was evident in his turquoise eyes. “But it’s a living. Are you going to tell me who you are?”

  Amy considered the question closely for a moment and then decided there was probably no harm in revealing her name. He might even be able to help her find the man she was supposed to be meeting. “Amy Shannon.”

  “Amy Shannon.” He tried the name out cautiously, testing it. “Where are you from, Amy Shannon?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Two kids and a husband, right? Does the husband know how far beyond Hawaii you came on this little vacation jaunt?” Jase asked, his tone suddenly much too cold.

  Amy’s eyes hardened as she sat back in her chair, chin lifting. “No husband, no vacation and most definitely no kids! Also, I think, no more questions. Unless you can help me find the person I’m supposed to be meeting tonight, Mr. Lassiter, I would appreciate it if you would remove yourself from the vicinity of my table.”