Wine her, dine her. That was easy for Jared to say. His younger brother had wined and dined starlets and socialites for years, while TJ had buried himself in labs with assistants who had a striking resemblance to the Patsy he remembered, now that he thought about it—brainy intellectuals with their hair pulled back and no makeup.
“If you’re not worried about a state park on your doorstep, why should I be?” TJ asked gruffly, glaring at the counter that served as his desk. Days’ worth of mail hadn’t been opened. Leona hadn’t returned to open it.
Jared shrugged and gathered the rubber rings scattered over the aging linoleum. “It’s all Hollywood hype. Nothing will come of it but a lot of media attention. Hire your own spin doctors and toss it back into her court.”
“That’ll solve all my problems,” TJ grumbled, locating a letter opener and slicing open the envelope on top. “A PR person to claim I’ve uncovered the murder of the century. Do PR people answer mail?”
Jared dropped all the jar rings over the skeleton’s finger and eyed his brother skeptically. “Something else eating you that you’re not telling us about?”
TJ threw out an ad for an American Express platinum card and sliced open a handwritten envelope addressed to Dr. McCloud. An unsigned piece of school notebook paper fell out. Frowning, he glanced over the arthritic scrawl, then handed it to Jared. “You tell me.”
His brother scanned the one-line note, whistled, then read it more carefully. “All right, I’ll bite. Why should you watch your back?” He quirked an eyebrow. “And how? Wear a mirror?”
Propping his shoulders against the wall behind his stool and sprawling his legs out, TJ shrugged. “Better yet, is it a threat or a warning?” he asked. “‘Watch your back’ is not a clarifying communication.”
“Take it to the sheriff. Maybe he knows the local cranks who do this kind of thing.” Jared threw the cryptic message back on the counter. “We’ve got our share of wackos around here, but none of them strike me as dangerous.”
The postmark was Charleston, but that didn’t mean anything. The local post office sent all its mail to the city for sorting.
Surely it was from a local prankster wanting the film to go as planned. TJ couldn’t see how it would have any relation to the Martin case. After all, no one but Leona knew he had the evidence boxes.
Leaving the mail on his desk, TJ grabbed the keys to his excavation site and aimed for the door. Digging was uncomplicated and vastly more interesting than anything in the office. The clavicle he’d uncovered yesterday had shown definite signs of bullet damage. It was the brass button he’d located earlier that fascinated him, though. It certainly looked like a Nazi insignia. He’d start checking the internet tonight.
“Squirt Patsy with a water gun next time you see her,” TJ advised as he shoved his brother out the door ahead of him. “See how much of the Hollywood façade washes off.”
Jared chuckled. “Not on your life, bro. She’ll tattle to Sid, and I’d be blackballed for life. You’re the man. I’m just the class clown.”
TJ was damned tired of being The Man. That’s why he’d taken this beach job in the first place—to take a vacation from the burden of responsibility for a while. Maybe Mexico wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
As they exited the storefront, Mara waved gaily at them from across the street. In her high-heeled mules, she towered over the town mayor and the local reporter she held captive. Given the cleavage at their eye level, TJ figured they had no reason for complaint. For a small southern town where all the women dressed in Laura Ashley dresses and pearls, Mara in her tight red leather miniskirt and belly-baring crop top must be a sight the men would relish for years to come.
He ought to walk away. He really wanted to walk away. But that was Brad’s little sister over there.
With a grumble of exasperation, TJ veered from his chosen course to cross in the middle of the street.
Behind him, Jared laughed knowingly, climbed in his Jeep, and gunned the engine, leaving the fray behind.
***
Mara thrilled a little at the fierce light in TJ’s eyes as he approached, just as she had when an adolescent Tim switched into dragon-slayer mode. There was just something downright sexy about a man prepared to fight for what was right.
Of course what she really ought to fear was that this time, she was the enemy, and he meant to pin her against the wall. Oddly, even that idea entertained her. She might not even fight back. She could mouth empty phrases about despising the McClouds, but bookish firebrands had always lit her candles.
“Mayor Bridgestone, Ralph.” TJ nodded curtly at her companions, acknowledging their presence before grabbing Mara’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us.”
She practically fell out of her shoes trying to follow TJ’s tug. The year of modeling courses paid off. She recovered gracefully and even managed to make it look as if she hadn’t just been swept off her feet by a hormonal ox.
“Prince Charming!” she chirped. “From what am I being rescued? Were the mayor’s eyeballs on fire?”
He stopped so suddenly, she stumbled. Damn, she’d have to start wearing loafers if she hung around him much longer. To get even, she caught TJ’s shoulder with one hand and kept her grip on his arm with the other so that they were practically waltzing on Main Street. A little music, maestro. A pity that life couldn’t be directed like a film.
TJ caught his breath and glared down at her.
She fluttered her eyelashes. She loved pushing his buttons like that.
“You enjoy being an exhibitionist?” he asked incredulously. “You want those old goats drooling down your shirt?”
His tone took all the fun out of it. Mara reclaimed her hands and folded her arms beneath her breasts so he was the one getting the free show. “They’re breasts, TJ. I put a lot of effort into getting people to look at them. Do you have a problem with women ogling your pectorals? You want to hear my hairdresser’s comments on your ass? Or is it only okay if you’re the one getting the attention and not me?”
“Why the hell would you care if people look at your breasts? It’s your brain that matters,” he asked with frustration. “Did you take it out and have it shrink-wrapped when you had your nose done?”
“You want to know how far my brain got me, bozo?” She shoved a hand against TJ’s chest, pushing him in the direction of a deserted storefront instead of arguing in full view of the entire town. “My brain got me a high school diploma and a license to marry the most eligible bachelor in Brooklyn.” Derision slid off her tongue with ease.
Getting the message, TJ stepped backward into the alcove provided by empty display windows. “You could have had a scholarship to any college of your choice. That’s where your brains should have taken you.”
She thought she’d conquered years of frustration and fury, but the condescension in his voice breached dangerous barriers. “Who would have looked after my mother if I went away to school?” she demanded. “Brad’s ghost? My father and his new teenage bride? Money has always cleared your path, hasn’t it? You never had any responsibility to live up to.”
“Your mother is an adult! She was supposed to look after you. Your father should have looked after you. Your whole damn family had a responsibility to see you taken care of.”
“They did.” She folded her arms again. “They found me the most eligible bachelor in all Brooklyn. You didn’t think mousy Patsy Simonetti with all her brains could have done that, do you? No sirree Bob. My family’s the old-fashioned kind. They believe women belong at home. So Aunt Judith and Aunt Miriam and Uncle David did their duty and steered the most eligible bachelor they could find into my path, showed him how I was so smart and would be such an asset to his damned clothing store that I’d make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Get little Patsy married, and she’ll be around to help out for life. That’s the way it works in my part of town.”
TJ looked so furious and rattled at the same time, Mara almost laughed out loud. She no longer wasted time feeli
ng sorry for little Patsy. She’d learned to assert herself. This time, she’d pushed the sex button and the masculine overprotection button at the same time, and he was about to blow a gasket. She’d always adored the way he looked after her, but she didn’t need that kind of care these days.
Patting TJ’s bronzed arm, Mara hooked her fingers around his elbow and steered him back to the street. He resisted for a moment, but even he could see the futility of this argument.
“You can’t save the world, TJ,” she admonished. “That marriage was the education in life that college would never have taught me. Don’t give me any more lectures on how looks don’t count. I’m living proof that they do. Shave your head bald and grow a beer gut and see if you experience life the same way you do now.”
“That depends on what you call a life,” he growled. “I’ve got friends and family who don’t give a damn what I look like. Can you say the same?”
Mara offered a blinding smile to conceal the stab of pain and regret. “My family doesn’t care what I look like either, as long as I send them money. Welcome to my world.”
She didn’t want him looking at her with pity. Kissing his cheek, she released his arm and sauntered down the street, swinging her hips so he could appreciate the view instead of thinking about how much she’d revealed.
If men listened with only half their brains, it was because the other half was too busy processing the visual to acknowledge the verbal. One swing of the hips ought to jam all his circuits.
She didn’t care what anyone said. Beauty was power.
***
TJ swatted another mosquito and leaned against his shovel to wipe sweat from his brow. This wasn’t an archeological dig like most, where professional sifting and sorting was required. He could have hired cheap labor to dig. He just preferred an orderly unearthing of the haphazard heap the elements had created. It satisfied him that he wasn’t overlooking anything of importance in his impatience to uncover the mystery buried here.
The hurricane had injudiciously seized everything in its path and flung it into this mound. Uprooted palmettos, rotting seaweed, fish carcasses, and shells were tangled together to form a solid structure holding tons of sand. Old tires and driftwood had to be dug around with care lest the loose foundation cave in, taking him with it. Maybe Mara was right. He ought to bulldoze the whole thing.
But at least two people had died on this beach some sixty years ago, and their stories deserved to be told. It might be a little late for justice, but there still could be families out there, waiting and wondering.
When he’d offered to take on this project, he’d hoped for a more personally rewarding discovery, something that might give his life an interesting new direction. One of the Lost Tribes, misplaced settlers, even pirates, would have provided intellectual stimulation and maybe a book or two. If he could only plan far enough in advance, he wouldn’t be so wrung out over his decision about those evidence boxes. Writing academic tomes might establish the foundation of a new career if he sacrificed the military one.
Not that he knew anything about writing books. He loved a good mystery, but he couldn’t write one.
Prying loose another crumpled beer can to add to a growing stack of trash, TJ dropped that train of thought. He looked at bodies and determined how and when they died, and who they were, if possible. He seldom failed because he was thorough in his investigation, observant, and able to put details together that others ignored. He doubted that he could put words together in the same way, so he’d rather stick with what he did best—but not at the cost of sacrificing the truth. Shit.
He heard the kids shouting and laughing down on the beach and tried not to remember what Mara had told him about her family. His younger brothers liked to complain about the dysfunctional McClouds, but TJ had seen a lot more of the world than they had. Given the bigger picture, he was grateful for his parents’ wealth, even if their caregiving bordered on apathetic. He and his brothers might not understand much about loving relationships, but they’d always had the material assets to make their own lives.
Knowing the tightly knit Simonetti family, he’d not once worried about Patsy. Brad’s father had been aggressive in pushing their education. He’d always taken an interest in Brad’s studies, unlike TJ’s father. And Mrs. Simonetti might have been a doormat, but through his teenage eyes TJ had seen a woman who cooked and took care of her family—a paragon of virtue.
He’d known Brad and his father argued frequently, but what had he known about father-son relationships? Nothing. He may have spent a lot of years regretting the teenage relationship that died on the vine, but he’d never doubted that Patsy’s family would be there for her after he left. It had never occurred to him that death could cause a solid family to self-destruct.
He’d been nineteen-years old when Brad died. Patsy hadn’t spoken to him at the funeral and never answered his calls later. The tragic car accident had turned his entire life upside-down, and Patsy’s refusal to talk with him had confirmed what he’d already feared—that she hated him for his part in Brad’s death.
He’d gone back to college struggling to survive the upheaval left by the absence of his best friend and the hole in his heart created by Patsy’s rejection. Her family had sold their house and moved away shortly after. He’d gone on with his life thinking she had gone on with hers.
Her tale nagged him now, making him more irritable. He wanted to despise the person she had become, but he admired her too damned much. To take what she’d been given and turn tragedy into success took more than brains. It took determination and talent and ambition and a host of other things not too many people possessed.
He climbed out of the hole and grabbed a bottle of water from the ice chest. He could finish this job twice as fast if he hired help. No sense in holding Patsy—Mara’s—looks against her and delaying her project just because he was having an identity crisis.
The roar of a horde of all-terrain vehicles jerked his head up.
Carrying backpacks and gear, the three-wheeled ATVs bounced over the rough ground with impunity, screeching past the outside of his fence, churning up sand, struggling weeds, and tree seedlings.
A helmeted figure riding behind one of the drivers waved at him as they passed.
Mara. In halter top and shorts.
Damn! His gut churned at the invasion, but his lust level shot sky high at the sight of her bouncing round hips speeding away.
What evil genie had set the one woman in the world who understood him into his path again—at a time when he had to make a life-altering decision?
Chapter Seven
“Espresso,” Mara muttered, grimacing and avoiding the mirror. Espresso and the Times. God made Sunday a day of rest for a reason—to recover from Saturday nights.
Tim hadn’t come to her preproduction party last night. She’d invited the whole town, and she thought the entire county had probably shown up, except for the McClouds. TJ hadn’t spoken to her since her crew started using ATVs to carry setting materials out to the jetty. A stroke of genius on her part, if she did say so herself.
Drinking all the martinis people handed her last night hadn’t been quite as bright.
Still, the Charleston and Columbia papers would have a nice spread on the film in this morning’s edition. Support for the film and tourism would skyrocket, twisting the screws a little tighter on Dr. TJ McCloud. She’d learn to fight on the mean streets of Hollywood.
Covering her unstyled hair with a broad-brimmed straw hat, and slipping on a pair of sunglasses, she set out in search of espresso. She already knew the B&B didn’t serve it.
There had to be a Starbucks around here somewhere.
She’d thought to spend the day checking the books, so she’d given Jim the day off. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t walk around this town twice over if she needed anything. She just needed caffeine first.
Striking out in the direction of the harbor, Mara attempted a positive attitude even though her head was pounding due t
o the heat by the time she reached the end of the drive. August in South Carolina was probably not the wisest time to film, but she had no choice. It was the only time her leading lady could fit it into her busy schedule. At least the ocean breeze made the humidity bearable.
Ignoring the perspiration forming on her bare arms, Mara stared incredulously down the line of swinging signs as she reached the town’s version of restaurant row. Not a Starbucks in sight. The Jolly Roger and Blue Marlin didn’t look promising. Maybe she could find a coffee shop tucked between some of the larger places.
No newspaper stand visible either. Kicking a clam shell along the quaint tabby walk, she walked past restaurants promising to open at eleven for Sunday brunch, a gas station, a minimart boasting six-packs of Cokes, a travel agency, a dozen or more antique and souvenir shops—
All she wanted was a damned cup of espresso and a newspaper. She could even find them in freaking L.A., where you needed a car to travel from coffee shop to newsstand. Some days, she actually missed New York. In a town this small, she should be able to walk—
From one end to the other. She stared in consternation at the tidy line of antebellum brick residences lining the rest of the shore road, then glanced at her watch. It had taken all of fifteen minutes, with no sign of civilization. What in hell did people do here on Sunday mornings? There wasn’t a soul on the street.
In answer to her question, half a dozen church bells tolled the ten o’clock hour.
She wondered if churches served espresso with their donuts. But her mixed ethnic background didn’t include white-bread Baptist.
Maybe the mini-mart would have newspapers.
Sailboats bobbed on the gently lapping water, a gull screamed overhead, and Mara tried to pretend she was on a beach vacation at the Jersey shore. But dammit, they had a Starbucks there.
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