River Road

by JoAnn Ross

Langley in his role of the Yankee captain, caught Fancy's arm as she entered the front hall, which boasted a mural depicting the story of the Acadians being driven from Nova Scotia and ending up in the Louisiana swamp. It was one of the hallmarks of the house, which jack and Nate had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to restore.

  "Where the hell have you been?" the actor demanded.

  She pulled free, removed her bonnet, and tossed it onto a table. "Out."

  When Langley's eyes, filled with scorn and lust, crawled over her, Finn, who wasn't wild about the fact the guy kept getting to put his hands all over Julia, begrudgingly admired his acting talent. It was hard to believe that the edgy, dangerous army officer was actually a flirtatious ex-baseball player from Tupelo.

  "You were with a man," the Yankee accused.

  "Don't be silly." She brushed by him and headed toward the stairs. "Perhaps Yankee women are different, but we Southern ladies are quite content with our own company. We don't always need to have a man around, telling us what to do."

  "You don't quite understand, do you, Fancy?" He snagged her arm again and jerked her back toward him. "So long as I'm here, you damn will have a man telling you what to do. Because you're under house arrest."

  "Why fiddle-dee-dee," she tossed the words Finn had watched her fight against saying at him. "That little old detail must have just slipped my silly female mind."

  "Don't waste your time playing the fluttery Southern belle. Your mind's a damn steel trap," he countered. He pulled her against him, hard. "As for your body . . ." He trailed his fingers down her throat, over the crest of her breasts. "It gives a man ideas."

  Even knowing it was coming, Finn flinched when she slapped the actor. "Take your ideas and your filthy Yankee hands somewhere else, Captain."

  She lifted her skirts and was nearly to the first landing when he caught up with her. When he hit her and Julia/Fancy fell crumbled at the Yankee's feet, Finn's jaw tightened, even knowing that the actor had pulled the punch.

  "Mon Dieu, that looked real," Nate murmured.

  "Yeah."

  His brother slanted him a look. "You okay?"

  "Sure," he lied through his teeth. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "I sure as hell would have a hard time watching someone mistreat any woman. 'Specially one I had feelings for."

  "They're just acting." Finn unclenched his hands, which had fisted.

  When the damn Yankee ripped the front of the dress—which had been designed to tear away—down to her waist, he heard a low snarl and realized it had come from him.

  "Down boy," Nate warned. "They're just acting."

  "Yeah." Finn exhaled a breath and forced himself to stay where he was.

  But damn, it was difficult as he watched one of the Yankee's hands grasp her breast. When the other reached beneath her skirt, he knew he'd never be able to look at Beau Soleil's staircase the same way again.

  She was fighting him, kicking her firm, smooth legs, pounding her fists against his back, twisting her head to avoid the harsh demands of his mouth. He backhanded her again, once, twice, a third time, knocking the fight out of her long enough to clamp both her wrists in one hand and yank them high above her head. She tugged helplessly, but could not free herself.

  "That's it, keep fighting, love," Finn heard Hogan saying. "You may be a slut, but you've always chosen who you give it away to. You've too much Southern pride to allow yourself to be taken without your consent."

  Knowing the director could give instructions without worrying about the boom microphone picking up the sound because this part of the scene would be scored, Finn wondered what the hell kind of music went with rape. Lawson had favored chants and Japanese drummers. The search of his mansion had uncovered the CDs in the stereo in his media room, and speakers in the walls and ceiling of his dungeon.

  Finn felt the rage rising up again. Rage and despair, which were a goddamn piss poor, not to mention dangerous, combination.

  "You shoot this guy and you'll kill my reelection chances." Nate's words might suggest a joke, but the low, serious voice was nothing like his usual easy tone.

  "Shit," Finn muttered as the camera went in for a close-up of her lovely, tortured face. He shoved his left hand, which had instinctively gone to the grip of the Glock at the back of his jeans, deep into his pocket, rattling change. "I fucking hate this."

  "You're not responsible for those girls' deaths, cher."

  Not at all happy that anyone, even his brother, could read his thoughts and his heart so well, Finn shot Nate a hard, sideways look. "I wasn't talking about them."

  It was the sympathy in those unusually sober eyes that got to Finn. "Weren't you?"

  "No." He jammed his right hand deep into the other pocket and was grateful when Nate didn't challenge his lie.

  * * *

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Julia asked for the third time.

  "Of course." Or he would be, if people quit harping on it. "And shouldn't I be asking that of you?" Finn took hold of her hand and felt another low surge of anger rumbling through him. "Your wrist is bruised."

  She shrugged. "I'm a redhead. I bruise easily."

  "I was on the verge of shooting Langley," he surprised himself by admitting.

  "You're not serious." Her wide eyes scanned his face.

  Finn shrugged, wondering grimly why the hell his brain disengaged whenever he was around this woman. "No." He wasn't totally convinced himself that he wasn't serious, and that worried him. Just a little. "Besides, as Nate so succinctly pointed out, I'd ruin my brother's chances for a second term if I murdered some hotshot Hollywood actor."

  "Well, that's certainly a good reason not to commit homicide." She managed a smile at that, even though her eyes continued to hold little seeds of worry.

  "Look, I have something to say to you," Finn said awkwardly. "But I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Because it doesn't have anything to do with that scene you just finished." The scene that had taken sixteen goddamn takes and ground his nerves to dust. "Well, not in any prurient way."

  "There's something to be said for prurient. Under the right circumstances. With the right person."

  "Remember what I said about wanting to ravish you?"

  "I do and you did. A woman would be unlikely to forget the most memorable night of her life, Finn."

  "It was good, wasn't it?" He allowed himself to get momentarily sidetracked by his own memories.

  "The best. And you know what? I'm discovering I'm insatiable. Because I want to do it again."

  "That's sort of along the lines I was thinking." He paused. "I want to be alone with you. Now."

  "Thank God." A half laugh tumbled out in a shuddering breath of shared need. "But we don't have time."

  "Not to do it right." He closed his hand overs hers. "But I at least want to kiss you. Hard and deep and long. And while you might be used to public performances, I'd prefer not to have an audience."

  When he lifted her hand and kissed her palm, a dark and dangerous thrill skimmed through Julia. "I left my script in the trailer," she said breathlessly. "I need it to rehearse my lines for the next scene, whatever it turns out to be." The way Warren and Charles kept switching everything around, it could be any one of the handful still left to film, and endless ones yet unwritten.

  As they crossed the yard to where the trailers were parked, Julia was aware they were being observed by most of the crew and a great many of the extras.

  She also realized they were undoubtedly fueling the tabloid coverage of their relationship. But right now, with need battering away at her, she decided that since they were already so blatantly ripping off Margaret Mitchell's classic novel, she might as well take yet another page from Scarlett O'Hara's book, and worry about the consequences tomorrow.

  They'd no sooner entered the trailer when Finn grasped her waist, lifted her off her feet, pressed her back against the door, and captured her mouth.

  Staggered by his heat and speed, Julia put her hands on his shoulders,
wrapped her legs around his hips and hung on for dear life. His mouth was hot and thrillingly greedy, his fingers dug deeply, possessively into the flesh beneath her dress. Flesh that was burning so furnace hot as she slid down his hard, aroused body, willing her legs to hold her, she was amazed the material hadn't burst into flame.

  Her head spun, her heart hammered as her mouth opened to his; when he thrust a hand beneath the yards of billowy emerald material, her blood began flowing molten in her veins.

  "God, I love how hot you get," he ground out as he cupped her with one of his large hands. "And wet."

  Needing to touch Finn as he was touching her, Julia reached between them, but the hand that wasn't creating havoc between her trembling thighs caught hold of her wrist.

  "It's not that I'm trying to re-create that scene on the stairs, but if I let you touch me, chère, you're never going to make it back to the set," he warned. His deep voice, harsh with hunger, vibrated through her like a tuning fork.

  He captured the other wrist and lifted them both above her head, effectively holding her prisoner. "You know that, don't you? That I'd never force you. And that watching you act that scene with Langley wasn't what made me hot."

  "Of course I know that," she managed to say as his free hand coursed up her inner thighs, only the thin layer of her ruffled pantaloons between them.

  She drew in an sharp, expectant breath as his hand dipped beneath the waistband. "Because I know you," she managed in a weak, thready voice that sounded nothing at all like her usual strong, confident one.

  She'd been so, so wrong when she'd accused him of being clueless about women. The way he'd driven her to more orgasms than she'd ever had in one night, along with the way he was skimming gathered moisture over her outer lips, making her burn, making her ache, proved that this was a man who knew how to please.

  A jolt of lighting shot through her when he skimmed a fingertip over her clitoris. When he began moving it up and down, the slight abrasion feeling like the finest grade sandpaper, she arched her body toward him, needing more.

  "Finn . . . Please . . ."

  "Just relax, chère." His mouth took hers again. When he rubbed the heel of his hand against her, her body began to throb, drenching the cotton beneath his stroking touch. "Let it come."

  As if she had any choice, Julia thought as he pressed harder, faster, causing her breath to clog in her lungs. When he slid first one, then a second finger deep within her, she choked out a whimpering little sound of need.

  Her body clenched at him, ripping a groan from deep in his chest, assuring her that despite his seemingly enormous control, Finn was every bit as needy as her.

  She closed her eyes, surrendering to the erotic sensations ricocheting through her. Those treacherous fingers were deep inside her, moving in and out. In and out. In. Out.

  All it took was a final, wicked skim of a fingertip to send her into the void. Arching against him, clinging to him like a drowning woman. Julia sobbed out Finn's name as the climax shuddered through her.

  Drained, she sagged against him; if he hadn't released her hands to catch her, she would have fallen to the floor.

  "Oh, my God. That was definitely one of the best ideas you've had yet. You know the only thing that bothers me about this?"

  "What?"

  "We wasted so much time trying to pretend we weren't attracted to each other. Do you realize how many more times we could have done this?"

  "We'll just have to make up for quantity with quality."

  She laughed as she framed his face with her hands and lifted her lips to his lightly, more promise than proper kiss. "Absolutely."

  Chapter 24

  After making some quick repairs to her hair and makeup, and ensuring that her legs would indeed hold her, Julia went back to work, only to learn that Charles had called yet another meeting in Beau Soleil's magnificent library.

  "Julia's right about us running late," the producer announced from behind a wide cherry desk Julia suspected was a genuine period antique. "We're too far behind. We're going to have to return to the original script."

  As Julia tried to recall which one that was, Warren bristled. "You're the one who keeps demanding major changes and new scenes."

  "You'll just have to make the scenes we've got left more layered, so they reveal more changes in the plot and character arcs. There's no reason why we need all these characters. Like that blond housemaid you've written in, who's going to be serving Fancy breakfast in bed tomorrow. Why the hell do we need that scene? Other than the fact that you're screwing the actress?"

  "My personal relationship with Lorelei Fairchild has nothing to do with this," Warren argued, a hot flush rising from his collar. His eyes, behind the thick lenses of his glasses, were uncharacteristically hard and resolute. "Lorelei just happens to be a natural-born actress and I think she could add a lot to the story line. But the main reason I wrote that scene was to give us a chance to actually show Fancy in bed with her stepfather. So far we've only alluded to it."

  "The audience isn't dense, mate. They've got the picture," Randy said.

  "True," Kendall said. "Still . . ." He rubbed his double chin and turned toward Warren. "I suppose it would be stronger if we actually show her willing to do whatever it takes to save Belle Terre. Including sleeping with a man she detests."

  "A man who's feeding information and supplies to the Yankees," Warren reminded him. "A man she's plotting to kill."

  "I don't buy it," Julia complained. "Okay, maybe the audience can understand her need to save not only the home that's been in her family for generations, but her way of life, as well. But you're making her horribly unsympathetic having her sleep with a man she despises and intends to murder."

  "Ah, but that's her dilemma," Kendall said. "She doesn't despise him anymore. She loves him. Which makes her more conflicted about her intention to do murder."

  "She loves him? Since when?" Julia snatched a script from the desk and began leafing through it, trying to find some part she might have missed. That's what she got for being so distracted. She'd never had a problem concentrating until now. Until Finn.

  "Since I just decided it," Kendall said, looking more than a little pleased with himself. "The war's winding to an inglorious end, her stepfather's been promised land and property, but he's wily enough to realize that he's already suspected of dealing with the other side. Which is why he's going to have to start winning people over. Beginning with Fancy."

  "Why Fancy?" Margot said a little petulantly. "His wife was important in society before he married her. Why doesn't he just stay faithful? That will still allow him to end up with her property when the war's over."

  "Because it's becoming more and more obvious that the North's going to win the war. Which means she'll no longer own any property," the producer said patiently. "It'll become the spoils of war."

  Julia wondered if she should be worried when she could actually, almost, follow his line of reasoning. "But he can still end up with it because the victorious U.S. government is going to give Belle Terre to him for services rendered?" she asked.

  "That's it." Warren beamed at her as if she'd just correctly answered the million dollar question.

  "But his wife's blood runs Confederate gray," Felissa argued. "Once she discovers he's been dealing with the enemy, why won't she rally their neighbors against him? I may not have a college degree, but even I know lynchings were not uncommon after the war."

  "She won't be able to rally anyone, because he and Fancy are going to make sure she isn't going to be alive."

  "You're going to kill the wife?" Margot looked less than pleased by this latest twist.

  "Oh, it's a crackerjack of a death scene," Randy assured her. "You're going to love it."

  "Are you saying Fancy's turned traitor now, too?" Julia scowled at that new twist.

  "It's a soap," the producer reminded her. "Which means no one is who they seem and the plot can turn on a dime."

  "Wait just a damn minute!" Margot said
as an unpalatable thought occurred to her. "If the wife is going to be murdered, does that mean my modern day character will be killed off, too?"

  "Of course not," the producer said, not quite convincingly. "You're vital to the show. Especially if Julia insists on leaving."

  "I am leaving," Julia said under her breath. What did she have to do? Have the words tattooed on her forehead?

  "What about my character?" Felissa demanded. "What's she supposed to be doing while all this is going on?"

  "She's going to almost die in childbirth. But fortunately for her, Fancy saves her life by delivering the baby."

  "How am I going to have a baby? I haven't been pregnant."

  "No problem." The producer waved her complaint away with a pudgy hand. "We'll simply tweak the time line, to allow more months to have passed."

  "She hasn't seen her fiance since the beginning of the war," Julia said, backing Felissa up. "And there's been no indication she's slept with any other man. Soap or not, it would be nice to have some semblance of continuity. If the war's almost over, this has to be the world's longest pregnancy. Whose child is it? And what's she carrying? A baby elephant?"

  "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, love," Randy chided. "As to who the father is, we'll just keep the audience guessing."

  "Which means you don't know," Felissa accused.

  "It's Warren's job to figure it out." A pinky ring flashed gold in the sunlight streaming through the French doors as Charles waved away her complaint. "My job is to come up with plot devices that resonate with an audience. And childbirth is right up there with weddings and death scenes."

  "I'll grant you that," Julia said. "But I thought you wanted to cut back on scenes. What you're suggesting will only add more." She was never going to get to Kathmandu at this rate.

  "Not that many. We'll just work a little later each day. You said you wanted Fancy to be more sympathetic," he reminded her. "What's more sympathetic than delivering a baby while a battle's raging outside the plantation house?"

  "Reviewers are going to think we've gone flat out nuts," Julia complained.

  "It's the audience that counts. And they've proven over the years they'll buy anything where your character's concerned. Besides, what do you care? You keep saying you're not going to be here."