by JoAnn Ross
But Finn was a different breed entirely. Julia was beginning to come to the conclusion that he didn't have any idea how he could turn her to mush with one of those hot, hungry looks. Beneath the uptight suit and tightly controlled, Joe Friday attitude, she sensed untapped passions. He was not an easy man to know. He'd be a difficult man to love.
Love? She shook her head. What a ninny she was. She'd obviously been working on a soap opera too long; if she didn't watch out, she'd become as susceptible to suggestion as Warren.
Dragging her gaze from Finn's, Julia was trying to focus on what the writer was saying—something about adding lines to one of the non-speaking extra's parts—when she heard a sudden buzz move through the group of Civil War-costumed extras, sounding like a swarm of hungry bees.
Eyes turned toward her, A few at a time, then more, until she felt as if she were in the crosshair of some hunter's rifle.
When she saw the tabloid paper being passed around, a cold chill skidded up her spine.
"I think it's a lovely idea," she assured Warren. "And yes, it'd be great PR. Small town beauty queen 'discovered' in the steamy Louisiana bayou." The locals were now studying her with the fascination an entomologist might observe a new and rare type of beetle. "Would you do me a favor?"
"Sure," he said, looking a bit puzzled by her sudden shift in topic.
"Would you go get that paper that seems to be causing such a stir among the extras?"
"Sure," he repeated. She watched him exchange a few words with a middle-aged woman who was currently reading the tabloid. When his eyebrows sketched up like blond wings and he shot her a surprised—no, make that shocked—look, Julia prepared herself for whatever pack of lies the paper had printed this time. Even braced as she was, she was stunned by the tabloid Warren reluctantly handed to her.
There, on the front page, was the photograph of Finn unfastening her corset.
River Road's Vixen in Ghostly Bayou Tryst With Rebel Lover From a Past Life! the headline screamed.
"Oh, God." She turned the page, skimming down the text. "This is preposterous."
There was another photograph of her taken in the plantation's cemetery, with the mist swirling around her legs, Shane's hand—just his hand, no other identifying features—on her breast. The implication, of course, being that the same man who was unlacing her corset on page one was caressing her in a graveyard in the photo on page two.
"Finn's supposed to be the ghost of a Confederate soldier who's been waiting for me to return to Beau Soleil for more than two hundred years?"
"It's quite creative," Warren allowed. "I wish I'd thought of it."
"Oh, God," Julia repeated. Surely people wouldn't take such an outrageous story seriously?
Well, she'd wanted to tap Finn's deep-seated passions. As she cautiously lifted her gaze and found him continuing to watch her in that steady, unblinking way of his, Julia feared he'd probably hit the roof. Anyone would resent such lies, especially someone who'd neither asked nor wanted to be thrust into the public spotlight.
As he'd been doing from the beginning, he surprised her.
"Well," he drawled as he scanned the pages she'd reluctantly shown him, "at least they're not saying I'm Big Foot."
Her relief at having dodged that bullet was short-lived. Five minutes later, during another break in shooting while Finn tried to track down the tabloid's source, Julia was sitting on a stool in the plantation house's kitchen, having her makeup touched up, when Randy came into the room and held out his cell phone.
"It's your mother."
"My mother? What's she doing calling on your phone?"
"She tracked me down. Apparently there's an emergency."
Julia's blood chilled. "Hello, Mom?"
"Julia, darling, I'm so relieved to have found you."
"What's wrong? Is it Dad?"
"Oh, no, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. No, it's just that your father and I were passing the market on the way to this wonderful little crystal store that has the most spectacular selection of rose quartz I've seen in a very long time, when I felt this strong urge to go inside."
"You've seen the paper," Julia guessed.
"Yes. They're actually quite flattering photographs, for a tabloid. Of course you've always had a lovely back. ... Is it true? About the ghost?"
"Of course not!" She'd no sooner scoffed than Julia remembered her mother believed in ghosts. Along with fairies and Druids and all sorts of spirits that went bump in the night.
"Oh." Peace sounded vaguely disappointed. "What about the man?"
"Believe me, Mom, I'm not having a location affair."
"That's not what I asked. I was merely inquiring about him."
"The photo's from a scene we shot in the plantation cemetery. It's Shane's hand. He's playing a Yankee captain."
"A Yankee as in a Civil War Yankee ?"
'That's it. Warren added a time travel thread to the story line."
"What a wonderful idea!" Pleasure shimmered in Peace's warm voice. "How does this OBE occur?"
Julia had never believed in out-of-body experiences. Until this morning, when Finn had kissed her and she'd felt herself capable of floating right up into the sky. "Amanda gets shot and goes into a coma."
"Comas are a common way for people to use astral projection to work out karmic structures in their physical lifetime," her mother said matter-of-factly. "I'm pleased Warren did his homework. Who's the other man?"
"What other man?"
"The one unlacing your corset."
Julia's breath caught. Her mind whirled as she struggled to decide how much, exactly, she could admit to this woman who'd always been able to know when she was lying.
"He's just a man."
"That's not what I sensed. There's something very intimate about the photograph, darling."
"Of course it's intimate. I was in my underwear. Finn was just helping me with my costume."
"Finn. He's Irish?"
"Half Irish. The other half is Cajun."
"My goodness." Peace exhaled a breath. "That's quite a passionate combination."
"If you met him, you certainly wouldn't think so," Julia hedged, desperately hoping her mother couldn't read her mind as the memory of that kiss flooded into it.
"I don't want to argue, dear, but I believe you're wrong. Why, the paper nearly singed my fingertips . . . Just a minute. Your father's speaking to me."
Julia strained to hear the conversation, but all she could catch was Peace's usual smooth tone being overridden by her father's louder, stronger one.
"Julia, this is your father," a deep bass boomed out.
"Hi, Daddy. How's the harmony tour going?"
"It's probably our most successful yet. The mood's been contagious; I even caught one of the sheriff's deputies who'd been assigned to the festival singing along to 'White Rabbit.'"
"I wouldn't have expected a cop would be a Jefferson Airplane fan."
"That's exactly what I thought at the time. But don't change the subject. I want to know about this man who's laying hands on my daughter in front of the entire world."
"It wasn't the entire world. We were all alone in my trailer and—"
"That's even worse. Your mother says it's serious."
"No offense, but I think Mom's crystal ball must have gotten cloudy. Finn's just a friend, Daddy."
"Finn? He's Irish?"
"Half," Julia repeated what she'd told her mother.
"Your great-grandfather was Irish."
"I know, Daddy."
She vaguely remembered her parents taking her to Galway to meet her father's maternal grandfather when she was five. He'd had lush white hair, a smile that could charm the fairies, and a sweet tenor voice that sounded like music on the Irish breeze. During their month-long visit he was never without peppermints in his scratchy wool shirt pocket, just for her.
"Emotional people, the Irish." This from a man who lived on the edge of his own bold emotions. A man whose paternal grandfather
was a Russian cossack.
"He's a friend," she said again. "I think you'd like him." And pigs would sprout gossamer wings and start soaring over the bayou.
"That remains to be seen."
"What?" Every atom in Julia's body went on red alert.
"We're coming to Louisiana."
"Why on earth would you want to do that?"
"To meet your friend, of course. And make sure he's good enough for my little girl. I've got to run, sweetheart, this damn cell phone signal's breaking up." It sounded perfectly clear to her. "See you in a few days."
He ended the call, leaving Julia listening to dead air.
"What on earth was that all about?" Wondering what they put in the water up in Coldwater Cove, Washington, Julia had the strongest feeling that her father was actually coming here to grill Finn.
It couldn't be. Could it?
Just last week, she'd been wishing that her parents had been a bit more like the Cleavers or Jim Anderson, that unrelentingly calm, utterly sane sitcom father who always knew best.
Of course in those old sitcoms, even the adults didn't appear to have sex lives. As for their children . . . She could just imagine how Jim Anderson would have responded to his Princess rolling around with some boy in the back seat of a '55 Chevy. Or on a couch in a trailer.
Be careful what you wish for.
Right on the heels of that idea came another more unsettling one. How Freedom, the former political radical who'd been arrested innumerable times for protesting the system Finn Callahan had sworn to uphold, would respond to his daughter's relationship with an FBI Special Agent.
* * *
"What happened?" Her makeup man, Damien, brushed color into her right cheek with deft strokes of his sable brush. "This morning you were absolutely glowing. Now you look as if you're coming down with some nasty tropical bayou fever."
Julia scowled into the lighted mirror. "Well, that's certainly flattering."
"If you want flattery, call the president of your fan club. My job is to make you beautiful. Which usually isn't such a chore."
"It's been a long day."
"True." He performed the same magic on her left cheek. "But you've had long days before. You worked twenty hours last year when that idiot editor's assistant managed to erase half the week's work. But even then you didn't look so washed out." He squeezed a little concealer from a tube and began dabbing it beneath her eyes. "My guess is that it's got something to do with Mr. Tall, Dark and Grim."
"He's not grim." It was the third time in the past two hours she'd felt the need to defend Finn. "Just serious."
"Seriously grim. Close your eyes."
Julia did as instructed. He set the concealer cream with powder, then skimmed a little mascara onto the ends of her lashes. "Don't furrow your brow that way, darling. It'll give you premature wrinkles. You've been licking your lips again," he scolded as he touched up the color.
"My mouth keeps getting dry." Every time she looked at Finn, who was currently waiting outside.
"So does mine. Big macho brutes do that to me." He stood back and studied her. "Apparently they affect you the same way. At least this one does."
"He's just a friend."
"Really, Julia." He huffed out a breath. "How long have we been together?"
"Nearly five years."
"Which is probably longer than most Hollywood marriages. And haven't I agreed to go traipsing off to Kathmandu with you?"
"It's not exactly a sacrifice. You're being very well paid."
"Money isn't anything. There's no way I'd spend three months of my life in a country where such a large percentage of the eligible males are Buddist monks, if I didn't adore you to pieces. Is your boyfriend coming with us?"
"He's not my . . ." She sighed as his knowing gaze met hers in the mirror. "I don't know what Finn is, exactly." That was definitely the truth.
"He's gorgeous, is what he is. In a supersize, rough-hewn cop sort of way. He reminds me of what you might get if you took Tommy Lee Jones's DNA and stirred in some Hulk Hogan. Don't worry, you'll be able to decipher your feelings a lot better after you sleep with him."
"What makes you think I haven't?"
"Because the phetomones in the air are nearly lethal. You're exuding so much sex on the set, it's a wonder the fire marshal hasn't shut us down for endangering a historical site." He fanned himself with the sable powder brush. "And your incredible hulk is a walking testosterone bomb waiting to explode."
"He's not my hulk. Besides, it would be a mistake," she repeated Finn's analysis of their situation.
"That failed playwright you were seeing when you first came to River Road was a mistake. Along with the last three artists and that pudgy, out-of-shape Welsh folk singer who sang naked."
"Ian sang about stripping away the trappings of our lives. About getting back to our natural selves."
"If my natural self looked like Humpty Dumpty, I sure as hell wouldn't go stripping off my clothes in public. I’d also like to see him try to pull that act off back home on those Welsh moors. Believe me, once Mr. Stiffy got frostbite, the guy would change his act faster than I can say Ricky Martin."
"Mr. Stiffy?" She lifted a brow at him in the mirror. "You've been talking to Shane, haven't you?”
"We haven't exchanged two words since I told him he ought to lighten up on the Botox because he's starting to look like a Ken doll. Personally, I think he's homophobic, but it could be he's just narcissistic."
She suspected Damien might just be right. She also wondered if all men named their penis. Then she thought of Finn. Not in this lifetime.
"And to get back to my point about your having lousy taste in men," Damien said, pursing his own lips as he dipped into a pot and brushed some gloss onto her mouth, "let's not forget the deadbeat married poet—"
"Let's also not forget that I did not know he had a wife," she interjected firmly.
"I seem to recall three wives, actually. There was the art dealer in Paris, the editor in Stockholm, along with the heir to that silver fortune in Guadalajara. And it was obvious he had you pegged for number four, so you could help continue to support him in the style to which he'd become accustomed. And I don't even want to think about the time you wasted with that English professor."
"He reminded me of Gary Grant playing Henry Higgins." She'd always been a sucker for My Fair Lady. "Or Connery's James Bond."
"The man was definitely no 007. What he was, dear heart, was a mistake. Just like the others. On the other hand, the guy who fills out that size forty-eight long suit so deliciously is more along the lines of riding a boat over the edge of Niagara Falls."
"That sounds like a huge mistake." A dangerous mistake, she reminded herself.
"It could well be." He brushed a bit of iridescent powder over the crest of her breasts, which were plumped up to spill over the deeply cut neckline of her ball gown by a heavily padded bra that made her feel as if she was wearing the Golden Gate Bridge on her chest. "But think of the rush on the way down."
"Think of crashing on the rocks and breaking to smithereens."
Now that she'd had more time to think about it, Julia had decided Finn was right about not taking things further. After all, using Damien's boat analogy, they were two ships passing in the night. The Titanic and the Lusitania . "My life's too complicated right now. I don't need a man making it worse."
"Everyone needs a man, sweetcheeks. They're the cherry on top of the hot fudge sundae, the whipped-cream atop the crème brûlée—"
"Crème brûlée doesn't have whipped cream."
"You make it your way, I'll make it mine." He began to put away his pots and jars. "Besides, if you're telling the truth about not wanting to get involved with the big guy, it looks as if you may be off the hook."
Julia followed his gaze out the window, to where Felissa was looking up at Finn as if she was a sleek Siamese cat and he was a giant bowl of cream.
It took her a minute to recognize the emotion that shot through her. An
d when she did, it was staggering. She, who could not recall ever feeling jealousy toward anyone for anything, suddenly felt like scratching the actress's hyacinth blue contacts out.
And that was just for starters.
Chapter 16
What took so damn long?" Finn demanded when Julia came out of the trailer.
"Should I be flattered I was missed?" He recognized her smile. It was the same one Amanda pulled out whenever she was about to screw someone. Literally or figuratively.
He folded his arms. "I'm being paid to guard your body. Which is a little difficult to do when you won't light anywhere."
"I wasn't in there that long."
"It seemed like a lifetime." He glanced across the room and groaned as Felissa met his eyes and licked her lips.
Julia laughed. "What's the matter, Callahan? Can't you handle a little flirtation?"
"That's more than flirting. The woman's like that rabbit in the commercials. She just keeps on coming."
"Perhaps you can take out your gun and shoot her. I'll bet that'd do the job."
"Bullets would just bounce right off, She's got a steel exterior."
"I can't believe she's that much of a problem." She shrugged. "After all, as a cop, you're undoubtedly used to throwing your weight around from time to time. And you're a lot bigger than she is."
"So she pointed out."
He still couldn't believe she'd shared that sordid little story about having made a porno flick back when she'd been a struggling actress. The director, apparently, had assured her she was a natural at giving blow jobs. If that hadn't been bad enough, she'd actually come right out and assured him that if Julia couldn't handle his "obvious endowment," she'd love to help him out.
Julia tilted her head at the muttered comment he'd meant to keep to himself. Then gave him a slow, speculative gaze that followed the same path that earlier female appraisal had taken. The difference was that the blond barracuda's hadn't stirred any feelings. That was definitely not the case this time.
"So?"
"So what?"
"Are you? Larger than the average bear, so to speak?"
"That's for me to know." He tossed her own words back at her. "And you to find out."