Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (25 page)

“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I really have nothing to say on the subject of my films, except that I hope viewers here at the festival enjoy their sneak preview of
Selkie Bride
.” She gave him another smile, even warmer than the first. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to work and mingle.”

After making a quick good-bye to the others, who appeared understandably confused by the discussion that had just taken place, she went back to working the room, thankful that apparently the paper’s editor, hoping for an exclusive, was, for now, keeping the news of the story to himself.

She might not be a Marine, but Mary definitely had guts. J.T. knew that the bombshell that reporter had dropped on her must’ve shattered her evening, but not a person at the party would’ve had a clue by the way she charmed everyone like a politician picking pockets for campaign funds.

He watched the reporter studying her, appearing to be looking for something—anything—about her behavior he could write about, but she steadfastly refused to give him anything juicy.

He might have developed the ability to lock away his emotions in a steel box during his last assignment. But she was proving his equal.

During a momentary break, when they’d suddenly, finally found themselves alone, he bent down and asked next to her ear, “You okay?”

Her smile was bright. And yet he knew her well enough to tell it was totally fake. “Absolutely.”

“No.” His hand went to her waist again. He’d found he liked touching her. So much so that although he knew it was playing with fire, he’d decided he was going to do a lot more of it before her
time in Shelter Bay was over. “How are you
really
doing?”

“It’s only moviemaking. Not life or death.” When someone called her name, she glanced around, smiled brilliantly, and waved at a woman across the room. “I’ll survive.”

And survive she did. For another hour that, if it dragged interminably for him, must have seemed a lifetime for her.

Finally, they were able to escape.

“You didn’t eat anything,” he said as they left the restaurant.

“Of course I did.”

“No. You carried a plate around for a while. Then put it down.”

She shot him a look as they reached the SUV. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Not a thing.”

“Well, neither do I. You didn’t eat, either.”

“I had an oyster po’boy before picking you up. Want to stop somewhere?”

“I’m a little ‘starred’ out,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll just raid the minibar.”

“Or we can pick up something at the Crab Shack and go out to the beach,” he said. One advantage of living this far north was that summer days were long. And today’s weather was ending as well as it had begun.

“Granted, the beach isn’t as crowded as in L.A., but we’re still bound to run into people,” she said. “And I’m really not up to that.”

For the first time since she’d appeared in the door of that private jet, looking every bit everyone’s idea
of a movie star, she looked small. Sad. Vulnerable. And very, very human.

Looking down at her, J.T. felt the lock on the steel box inside him break open. Tenderness. It rushed over him like a sneaker wave. He skimmed the back of his hand up the side of her face. Then, because, for the first time in a very long while, he felt optimistic about something, he grinned.

“Not where we’re going.”

He dropped her off at the inn so she could change, then went back to Bon Temps and changed in the office, where he’d been sleeping on the sofa, and decided he really needed to find someplace else to live. And figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. His family was right. He’d been drifting rudderless for long enough. Too long.

Although Sax had told him that the Dungeness crab roasted in butter the Crab Shack specialized in was seduction on a plate, he decided that the two of them getting all greased up eating it might be sexy as hell, but since Mary was in the movie business, it’d probably remind her of that sex-drenched food-eating scene where Albert Finney’s Tom Jones and Mrs. Waters give a new meaning to the word “appetite.” And, although he wasn’t lacking in self-confidence, he saw no reason to invite comparison.

So, he ended up with a bag of crab pesto sliders, rockfish tacos, coleslaw, and marionberry shortcake over biscuits topped with whipped cream. Along with a beer for him and a split of wine for her.

She was already waiting for him. J.T. thought it said a lot about her that she looked just as good in a
sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers as she did in that black dress and high heels she’d worn earlier.

“I really appreciate this,” she said as they waited for a tall-masted schooner to sail beneath the opened iron bridge over the harbor. “Otherwise I would have ended up resorting to overpriced nuts and candy bars from the minibar.”

“The Crab Shack’s a Shelter Bay tradition,” he said, leaving out what his brother had told him about the roast crab’s alleged aphrodisiac powers. “It’s not fancy, but it’s good.” The bridge lowered. “I also picked up some wine.”

“After reading that blind item on
Variety
’s Web site, I need it,” she muttered.

“That bad?” he asked as they continued toward the coast.

“Let’s just say that Aaron Pressler believes in the scorched-earth policy of warfare. And I’m the earth he’s currently trying to scorch.”

“Want Sax, Cole, and me to go threaten to shoot him?”

“Of course not!” She’d been leaning her head against the passenger window, but at his comment, she turned toward him. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Yeah.” He patted her thigh. And when she didn’t complain, left his hand there. “I was. Though it’s tempting.”

“I have to admit it’s tempting, too. But he’s not worth you and your brothers going to prison for.” She sighed.

“Can he do that?” J.T. asked. “Take your screenplay and give it to someone else?”

“Not my exact screenplay. Because, as I said earlier, the characters and the worlds are mine. But
since you can’t copyright an idea, he can certainly change the name and locations and continue making movies about selkies.”

She was sure that was the case. Unfortunately, her agent had turned out to be in Machu Picchu researching past lives. Since she was out of cell phone range, Mary had been unable to confirm that clause in her contract.

“Don’t forget ménages with vampires and werewolves.”

“Aaron doesn’t like werewolves. He finds fur unsexy.”

“Personally, I’ve always had a thing for zombies. That lurching walk, the empty eyes, the flesh dripping from them. Call me perverse, but that’s really hot.”

She laughed. “What I’ll call you is a liar. You just said that to cheer me up.”

“Yeah.” He was definitely cheered up when she put her hand on top of his. “I did.” He turned his palm, linking their fingers together. “Did it work?”

“Yes.” She shook her head. “I’ve always considered myself too levelheaded to get drawn into Hollywood power games. But I guess I must have, because, for a few minutes there, I was more concerned what other people might think than how I felt about the situation.”

“How do you feel?”

“Frustrated. Angry I didn’t see it coming. But, I think, maybe a bit relieved.”

“Because if they do decide to bail on your story, you’ve got your power back. Which sounds more like a win than a loss to me.”

There was still enough light that he could see the surprise on her face. “That’s very perceptive.”

“Despite what my SEAL brother might tell you, not all Marines have muscles between the ears.”

“I didn’t think that,” she protested. “You’ve already proven your credentials, J.T. It’s just that Hollywood’s a very strange and alien world.”

“Yeah. I’m figuring that out for myself. The military might be its own universe, but at least you can usually trust your teammates.”

“Imagine a jar filled with scorpions, and you’ve an idea of the way things work in the movie business. Though,” she said, “there are some good people and I’ve made friends. But it’s rare.”

He turned onto a narrow, sandy road. “So what are you doing living there?”

“Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question more and more,” she admitted. Then looked around at the deserted ribbon of sand that hugged the cliff and stretched out in both directions. Sea stacks—bits of the continent that had broken away from the mainland—were still topped with fir trees.

“This is beautiful,” she said as a pod of pelicans flew by in fighter wing formation.

“Our family used to hang out here a lot when we were growing up. In fact, my grandfather built that table when we were kids.”

“It’s perfect. It’s so perfect.” She leaned across the console and kissed him. A quick too-short kiss on the lips that still packed a helluva punch. “Thank you.”

“And just think,” he said, repeating the earlier words she’d tossed at him, “the night’s still young.”

It was better than perfect. Rather than sit at the table, J.T. had brought along a blanket and built a fire. The late-setting sun sank into the sea in a blaze of color that gilded the water. The sky turned indigo, then ebony, illuminated by the glow of the campfire and the full moon floating overhead.

After a meal that could stand up to any overpriced chichi restaurant in L.A., Mary sat on the red and black plaid blanket he’d spread out atop the cooling sand, leaned back on a driftwood log, and gazed up at the glittering stars that seemed just out of reach.

“This could get to be a habit,” she murmured.

“The thought had crossed my mind.” J.T. tossed another, smaller piece of driftwood on the fire, causing a brief flare of orange sparks. “As impractical as it would be. And if you did it all the time, it might lose its appeal.”

“True.” She took a sip of her wine. He was right, of course. The novelty was probably what made it so special. That and the man that she was with.

They could have been the only two people in the
world. Moonlight streamed down, making the sand sparkle like diamonds. The only sound was the distant crashing of surf, and a bit beyond the blanket, wavelets lapped on the glistening sand. It was a night tailor-made for romance.

J.T. lay back on the blanket, folded his arms behind his head, and looked up at the vast expanse of sky. “Those stars look as if you could reach up and touch them,” he said, unknowingly echoing her earlier thought.

“Mmm.” Although she murmured an agreement, she wasn’t looking at the sky. Instead her eyes were drinking in the way his brown T-shirt molded the hard lines of his body. Which, in turn, had her gaze traveling lower, lingering on his muscled thighs.

“When I was downrange, there were times when I’d look up at the sky and think how those stars were the same ones shining back here. I know it probably sounds dumb. But sometimes it helped, remembering that.”

It was yet another rare glimpse he’d given her of that time in his life. “It’s not dumb,” she said quietly.

He turned his head toward her, just as Mary’s gaze returned to his face. “Come here.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She took a sip of her wine. Then another. It didn’t help.

“I want to.” More than she’d ever imagined.

“But…?”

“I think I’m afraid.”

“Of me?” When a gust of sea breeze ruffled her hair, J.T. sat up, leaned toward her, and brushed a few dark strands away from her face.

“No.” She finished off the wine, which still didn’t do anything to soothe her sudden tangling nerves. “I think I’m afraid of us.”

“Us?”

“You.” She pressed a hand against his chest. “Me.” His heart was beating beneath her touch. Strong, but with a sped-up rhythm that equaled her own. “Us together.”

“Believe me, sweetheart, I know the feeling.” He did not sound all that thrilled about the prospect.

The air around them grew thick and heavy, and felt sparked with electricity, like heat lightning just before a storm.

Mary’s mind, usually so logical and cautious, reeled with images, all of them erotic. All of them having to do with J. T. Douchett.

She imagined his mouth on her throat, her breast, his hot breath cooling her night-chilled flesh, trailing flames down her body until…

He lowered his head until his lips were a whisper away from hers.

Her eyes were drifting shut in anticipation of the kiss she’d been waiting for. Aching for.

Like their earlier shared kiss, this was more promise than pressure, a feathery brushing of lips, a slow stroke of his tongue, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. Mary let out a shuddering breath as rich, liquefying pleasure flowed through her.

“This is crazy.”

“Insane.” He abandoned her lips to press kisses along the curve of her jaw. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting you.”

“Nor me wanting you,” she admitted.

His hands stroked her back with a confident, practiced touch, slipping beneath her sweatshirt. “You deserve better.”

“You’re underestimating yourself.”

“I wasn’t talking about me. Well, that, too, probably. But I was talking about location. You’re a woman who deserves silk sheets, candlelight, and champagne.”

“I slept quite well for years on muslin sheets before anyone thought to count threads. Champagne is overrated, and we don’t need candlelight because we have the firelight. And the stars.”

As she glanced up at the star-studded sky, thinking about him looking at the same stars while in Afghanistan, one went shooting across the black velvet sky, then twinkled out.

“I think,” she murmured, “that if I ever build a house, I’m going to have a glass ceiling.”

“Sounds great. Although a bit impractical.”

“True.” She sighed. Reconsidered. “My rental house in Malibu has five skylights. One in the foyer, another in the living room, a third in the dining room, yet another in the master bedroom, and a fifth in the master bath.”

“Tinseltown decadence,” he said teasingly.

“You scoff,” she said, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. “But maybe when this festival is over, you can come visit.”

It would certainly be no hardship. J.T. imagined making slow, smooth love to her in a wide feather-top bed with music playing from whatever hidden speakers the builder of the house had undoubtedly installed. Or better yet, in a Jacuzzi tub, with her up to her chin in bubbles, drinking the champagne he
was now wishing he’d bought, her flesh gleaming like pearls in the starlight while he washed her back. Or her front.