Maybe someday she’d come to fully trust him with the truth.
His lips brushing her forehead, he stared into the shadows of the bedroom that for seven years he’d shared with another woman, the love of his life and mother of his child. When Shelley died, Mark had been certain his life was over. At times he had even wanted it to be, if it hadn’t been for Emily. But right now, with the softness of Samantha’s body pressed into him and her warm, gentle breath fanning his neck, he felt more alive than he had in a very long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Carter sat on a futon inside the air-conditioned trailer, memorizing the script changes delivered early that morning. He’d returned from New York without landing the part on the television show. It was a disappointment, but he’d gotten used to the rejection that came with the business, and he still had the Lifetime movie. The director had been especially pleased with the dailies—the raw, unedited footage shot so far—and he’d told Carter all he needed was the right part to break through. The praise offered some consolation.
Taking a sip from the coffee he’d gleaned from the craft service table, he looked up at the tentative knock on the door. A young production assistant stepped inside, her arms full.
“A few more rewrites, Mr. St. Clair. I’m just taking these around to the cast,” she said, sounding nervous as she handed him several sheets from the collated stack she carried. Carter recalled her asking for his autograph on the first day of production.
He sighed at the additional pages. “Thanks, Amanda.”
She tittered and smiled. “Oh! One more thing. The early promo shots are in. If you want to see them, they’re in the director’s office. They’re really amazing.”
He nodded. “I’ll try to get by.”
Smile still in place, she backed from the trailer. Carter tucked the additional pages into his binder. But a short time later, he set down the foam coffee cup, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Today’s shoot was going to be a long one. It had started in makeup at five thirty that morning and probably wouldn’t wrap until well after dark. They were in production now full-tilt, and the schedule these last several days had been intense.
Ghosts on the Ashley River was being filmed at an authentic plantation manor outside Charleston. The script told the story of newlyweds who had purchased the old house, unaware it was haunted. In the movie, one of the ghosts sets out to seduce the bride and take her with him to the underworld. Carter played the young husband bravely determined to save her. The made-for-television movie wouldn’t be an Emmy contender, but it was a decent check and a way to broaden his exposure.
He had picked up the rewrites again when his cell phone rang. Recognizing the number and Memphis area code, Carter’s stomach tensed. He’d pretty much given up after not hearing back from the private investigator, had even begun to think that maybe Leilani had gotten her lines crossed somewhere. He had seen Mark only a few times in passing since getting back from New York, and he was still contemplating what to tell him, especially if that what was based only on hearsay from a bartender at a place where Samantha used to work.
He stared indecisively at the ringing phone before answering.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Carter,” a rough, female voice said.
Surprised, he nearly laughed. “Excuse me? Who’s this?”
“Lenny’s ex-wife. Who are you?” the woman demanded. “You left a message on his voice mail.”
Suppressing a sigh, Carter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Cook—”
“Get in line, honey,” she retorted. “He’s good at disappearing, which is why I kept a key to the place when I moved out. Bastard hasn’t paid alimony for the last two months, so any cash I find here’s fair game. You hire him for a job?”
“No, ma’am—”
“Figures. Thought you might know where he is.”
“He was in New York City not long ago,” Carter offered carefully, thinking she might be able to tell him something. “He was looking for a woman—”
“Noticed your area code was NYC.” Her tone sounded resigned, even bitter. “He was looking for Trina Grissom again, no doubt. Got a tip a year ago that little whore was up there.”
Carter sat up a bit straighter at the comment. “Excuse me?”
“Strippers, whores—you ask me, they’re one and the same. Lenny’s been obsessed with her ever since he saw her shakin’ her tits at the Blue Iris. Tries to pick up her trail every chance he gets, hoping to strike gold. Even ditches payin’ work for it. Between that and his love of keno, it’s no wonder he’s behind on payments…” She yammered on, complaining about her ex-husband.
Carter interrupted. “I’m sorry—this woman, you said her name was what?”
“You slow? Trina Grissom,” she repeated with irritation. Suspicion seeped into her raspy drawl. “Now wait just a damn minute. Is that why you’re calling him? If you found her, half that money Leary’s offering belongs to Lenny, you hear me?”
Carter ran a hand over his mouth, glad his cell phone revealed only his New York-based number. He suspected the less this woman knew about anything, the better.
“I haven’t found anyone…yet,” he said quickly, hoping to throw her off. “It’s just that I’m doing some investigative work, too. I’m new, just putting out my shingle, and I was thinking Mr. Cook and I could talk about pooling resources. Maybe he needs some local help—”
“Another PI, huh? Be prepared to make shit for a living. And Lenny works solo,” she snapped. “Take it from me, he makes a lousy partner.”
The connection went dead.
Still gripping the phone, Carter’s thoughts raced. What were the odds that a Tennessee PI would be tracking two women to New York at the exact same time? He knew from Leilani that Cook had been looking for Samantha for some bad debt. But he was also up there looking for a Trina Grissom? His unease grew. Was it possible that Samantha and Trina Grissom were the same person? That Samantha Marsh was some kind of…alias?
Cook’s ex-wife had mentioned stripping. Carter thought of the shoes he’d found in Samantha’s closet. Tension arcing along his shoulders, he got up and paced the narrow width of the trailer.
Now just hold on. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Carter had been around his share of adult entertainers, and Samantha just didn’t give off that hard kind of vibe. The opposite, actually. He grasped hard on to the possibility that he was way off base. New York was a huge city, and people relocated there all the time. Maybe Leonard Cook had indeed tracked two different women there.
Carter clung to that reasoning, tried to shut out the image of Samantha dancing nude on some stage. Of her living under an assumed name and what else that might mean about her…
He suddenly wished like hell he hadn’t nosed around at Sapphire that night. That he hadn’t put himself into the middle of this. But the fact remained that he had, and he still had Mark and Emily’s best interests at heart.
Carter realized he should have asked the ex-Mrs. Cook what Trina Grissom looked like, but he didn’t dare call her back.
If you found her, half that money Leary’s offering belongs to Lenny…
That sounded like there was some kind of bounty out on Trina Grissom—whoever she was. Carter nervously scrubbed a hand over his face. For the sake of family, maybe it was time he hired an investigator of his own. Someone who could sort all of this out before he ever had to divulge any of it to Mark. He felt a pain in his throat just thinking of it. And if it all turned out to be nothing, it would look as though he’d deliberately set out to cause trouble.
Maybe a PI would be able to tell him this was all just some epic, screwed-up misunderstanding. God, he hoped so. Dropping his head, Carter massaged his closed eyes with his fingers and tried to figure out what to do.
He startled as his cell sprang to life again. But this time it was only a text message letting him know he was wanted on set. The sick feeling he had worsened as an ominous line from the movie script popped
into his head, whispered to his character by one of the ghosts.
Be careful what you look for. You might find it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Unlike the reception that had been held in the St. Clair ballroom, the beachside oyster roast was a more casual affair. Chefs manned a large bonfire, shoveling piles of oysters onto an enormous, griddle-like trestle. The delicious aroma wafted in the air as the fire’s embers flew upward, swirling into the dark blanket of night. Glowing paper lanterns strung on wire lit the beach, and a live band played music to which couples were shag dancing. Even more hotel guests lounged at tables, enjoying the food and swigging from bottles of ice-cold beer.
Samantha walked barefoot in a fitted, sarong-style skirt next to Mark. Holding Emily’s hand, she smiled down at her.
“This is my first oyster roast, Emily. What do you think I should have to eat? A hot dog or a hamburger?”
Emily grinned, catching on to her joke.
“If you don’t like shellfish, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Mark indicated a long table laden with roasted oysters and the traditional trimmings of cocktail sauce, Tabasco and saltines. There were also hush puppies and deep pots of lowcountry boil teeming with chunks of potato, sausage, corn on the cob, crab and shrimp.
Samantha helped Emily fill a plate while Mark stopped to converse with a group of guests. As she was seating the child at one of the tables, he returned behind her, caressing her bare arms and creating a stir of pleasure. When she turned to him, he sweetly kissed her. Samantha’s eyes closed at the feel of his lips against hers. The affection was quick, nearly chaste, but it drove deep into her heart. Despite both their busy schedules, they’d had a wonderful week, carving out spaces of time to see one another alone. To make love again.
When she opened her eyes, Mark was smiling at her, handsome, his short hair lifting in the sultry ocean breeze.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
She touched his shirtfront. “Starving. I was just getting a plate and some lemonade for Emily first. Now I’m planning to help myself.”
“Stay here—let me get some for both of us. I’ll be right back.” His hand lingered at her waist before he went off in the direction of the buffet. As Samantha sat next to Emily, she glimpsed Carter and Olivia coming down the wooden stairs from the boardwalk onto the sand. She hadn’t seen Carter since before his trip to New York.
“How’s my favorite niece?” he asked when he reached the table, dropping a kiss on top of Emily’s head. She beamed as he pretended to gobble the side of her neck. But Olivia hung back, feigning interest in the chefs’ activities and surrounding celebration.
Straightening, Carter peered at Samantha from under the brim of a baseball cap. It was pulled low over his midnight-blue eyes, and his dark blond hair curled in wisps underneath its band. She returned his gaze, noticing the levity he had shared with Emily had disappeared, his chiseled jaw set. He studied her with a somber air completely out of character for him.
“Is something wrong, Carter?” she asked finally.
He shrugged impassively. “Not that I know of. How’ve you been, Samantha?”
She pushed a strand of windblown hair from her face. “Fine, thanks.”
“How’s business?”
“Better than ever,” she said. “The café’s packed, and I start selling products in the St. Clair gift shop next week. I’m just waiting on the delivery from the manufacturer in Greenville.”
He didn’t look happy. “Mark’s giving you space in the shop?”
“It’s something we’ve been working on for a while.”
With a nod, he indicated Mark, who was on his way back, balancing their plates and bottles of beer. Then he squinted at her for several long seconds, unsmiling. “It looks like you have just about everything you need, then.”
Samantha didn’t respond to the odd comment, unsure of whether he was talking about the food Mark was carrying or Mark himself, but it was clear something was bothering him.
“Carter. Have a seat with us,” Mark invited when he reached them, handing Samantha a plate as he took the spot at the table beside her.
“I think I’ll get a cold one first. Maybe a few of them.” Broad shoulders stooped, he wandered off toward the large tin buckets that held iced beer.
“Is he all right?” Samantha asked, her voice competing with the live music and the breeze roaring in from the water. “He seems a little…intense.”
Mark stared after him. “He’s been on set twenty-four/seven lately, filming in the heat. Maybe it’s gotten to him.”
Samantha had just taken a bite from her plate when Olivia appeared at their table. “Mark, you need to send the staff up to the hotel for cloth napkins. Those flimsy paper things just won’t do.”
“It’s an oyster roast. You’re lucky I didn’t put out rolls of paper towels.” Mark wiped his mouth with one of the offending napkins. “Mom, you remember Samantha.”
Olivia gave her a wan smile. “Of course. Are you helping with the catering tonight, dear?”
Mark’s fingers entwined with Samantha’s under the table. Still, she felt her face heat, suspecting Olivia knew she and Mark had become intimate. After all, she’d been in the car the night Mercer had offered to keep Emily at the hotel.
“Samantha’s with me,” Mark clarified, his tone making it clear he wasn’t buying his mother’s act of innocent confusion.
“This is becoming a regular thing, isn’t it?” Carter had reappeared, sliding into a spot at the table. He took a long pull from his beer bottle, his eyes shadowed beneath the ball cap’s brim as he divided a look between them.
“Maybe it is,” Mark said, voice low. “What’s your point?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Just that you’re getting pretty hot and heavy, pretty fast. What’s the rush?”
Mark glowered. “Sure that’s your first beer?”
Samantha stiffened at the words being exchanged.
“Hush. Little pitchers have big ears,” Olivia admonished, although she appeared to be more upset by the content of Carter’s comment than Emily, who leaned against Samantha’s side as she munched on a hush puppy.
“Are you planning to join us?” Mark asked his mother, who hovered at the table but hadn’t sat.
“I don’t think so. I’m not very hungry.” With a petulant air, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked off across the water.
“Then sit down anyway and be with your family. There’s a bar set up on the other side of the band. I’ll get you a mimosa.” Rising, he placed a hand on her shoulder before leaving. “I’ll make it heavy on the champagne.”
With the bearing of a queen, Olivia eased herself down at the head of the table while Mark went to get her beverage. The remaining group sat in a rather awkward silence, with Carter focused on his beer and Samantha helping Emily peel the shrimp on her plate. Although she did her best to ignore it, Samantha couldn’t help but feel Olivia’s discerning gaze. She was about to make an attempt at small talk when Mercer’s voice caused her to look up.
“Everyone, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Her bright smile did little to hide the nervous tremor in her voice. She held hands with a tall, handsome man with stylish steel-rimmed eyeglasses and a head of wavy, salt-and-pepper hair. Like Mercer, he wore Bermuda shorts and a linen, short-sleeved shirt.
“St. Clair clan, this is Jonathan Leighton.” Mercer looked up at him. “He’s a friend of mine from Atlanta.”
“Leighton?” Recognition dawned in Olivia’s eyes. Her hands fidgeted with the pearls she wore even with her casual knit top. “As in Dr. Leighton from the university?”
“I believe we met once before, Mrs. St. Clair.” Jonathan stepped forward. “At Mercer’s graduation. I was her advising professor.”
Carter downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp before rising and politely shaking Jonathan’s hand. Samantha wondered if someone should get behind Olivia in case she decided to faint—or worse, tried to climb ove
r the table and throttle her daughter’s companion. It was obvious she was playing a mental game of connect the dots, and she’d gone as pale as beach sand.
“I suspected there was a…boyfriend in Atlanta,” Olivia stammered. “But surely this isn’t who…you’re not actually…”
“Would you like to dance?” Jonathan asked Mercer, indicating the bobbing couples near the stage. Clearly, he wanted to save her from Olivia’s impending outburst. “I used to be a champion shagger.”
“I bet,” Carter muttered under his breath.
“Save us a seat,” Mercer called to Samantha as Jonathan whisked her from the group. Laughing, she nearly bumped into Mark as he returned with Olivia’s mimosa.
“Who’s that?” he asked the table at large.
Carter took the opportunity to escape, making a beeline for a group of women hanging around the beer stand. Olivia extracted her drink from Mark’s hand and took a large gulp. Then she got up and stomped off in the direction of the boardwalk.
“Did I miss something?” Mark asked, reclaiming his seat next to Samantha. The confusion on his face made him even more endearing, and she supposed it was up to her to let him in on Mercer’s revelation. Releasing a soft sigh, she ran her hand down his forearm.
“Look at it this way, Mark. You and I are no longer the only couple your mother isn’t happy about.”
As the evening wore on, the lively beach music gave way to something softer and slower. Mark held Samantha in his arms as they swayed together at the edge of the crowd. She stole a glance at Mercer and Jonathan, who were huddled at one of the tables, engaged in intimate conversation. Carter had disappeared an hour earlier, while Olivia had been absorbed into a gaggle of Rarity Cove residents who’d shown up to partake in the beach festivities.
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