by JoAnn Ross
“I guess I can’t argue that. But you Irish do have a tendency for the dark and melodramatic.”
Since she’d heard that more times than she cared to count, rather than take it as a criticism, she laughed.
“Aye, doesn’t it seem that we do? But that comes from the ancient days going back two thousand years, when, in the Gaelic times, the ability to tell a rousing tale entitled a man to land and livestock, which, since cows were used as currency, could make him wealthy. He’d also be invited to sit at the high table with kings and noblemen, and even, in the most proficient cases, was given a voice on their councils.
“In those days, stories were always told, not written down as they might be now, and the master storyteller to the court must be ready to recite any tale which might be requested by his lord or lady to entertain the company at feasts and clan assemblies.
“My father, who was a seanachie, which would be an Irish storyteller, always said that the best tales included battles, forays, courtships, elopements, pursuits, banishment, tragedies, magic, wonders, and visions.”
“From your films, it sounds as if you’ve followed in his footsteps.”
“And won’t I be taking that as another compliment, since he was known as one of the best, if not the best seanachie in all the country?
“But I do believe that it’s why, rather than choose novels, as my brother-in-law has done, I prefer film. An oral storyteller can no longer earn a living by spinning tales for the court, or wandering from village to town, entertaining at market fairs. But film, while a visual medium, still, at least in my movies, depends on dialogue. So, in that way, I like to believe I’m doing my part to keep the oral tradition alive.”
“You’ve definitely done that. In spades. You’re also reaching a much wider audience than those old guys ever could have dreamed of.”
The compliment, simply spoken, carried even more weight given that he hadn’t shown any inclination to hand those out all that often.
As they exchanged smiles, Mary, who’d initially found him rude, edging toward unbearable, was unexpectedly, utterly charmed.
When his gaze moved down her face, sensually lingering at her lips before returning to her eyes, she had the impossible, inexplicable feeling that she’d known this man all her life.
As they sat there, side to side, thighs touching, heady anticipation sang in her veins.
Time froze. It could have been a moment.
An hour.
An eternity.
Mary’s breath caught, then shuddered out as she watched. And waited.
Finally, as if he’d read her unruly mind, J.T. drew her into his arms.
29
He took her mouth with the easy confidence of a man who’d kissed more women than he could count. He didn’t rush. His lips somehow managed to be both firm and soft at the same time. They plucked at hers, tasting at their leisure, lingering, wrapping her in gauzy layers of sensation.
Mary was no child. And, although she might not have grown up with the sexual freedom that girls in America possessed, neither was she innocent. She’d certainly been kissed before, beginning with the time, when she’d been fourteen, that Jack Kelly, who’d been delivering hay for his da, had caught her in the milking barn.
For the next two years, she’d had a wild schoolgirl crush on him, which had ended when he’d asked another girl to the May dance because she wasn’t ready to have sex with him. But Shannon Fitzgerald, whom he’d taken instead, had been.
Given that he’d not only never been faithful, but left poor Shannon—whom he’d been forced to marry when she’d gotten pregnant that same spring—with four children for whom he’d provided no support, Mary knew she’d gotten the better of the bargain.
After that less than auspicious introduction to romance, other boys had followed Jack, and although Mary had welcomed their kisses with varying degrees of enthusiasm, none, not one in all those intervening years, had ever caused her mind to empty.
She should stop him, Mary told herself.
And she would.
Soon.
Which was difficult with the lovely golden light flowing through her veins and the mists clouding her mind.
His hands were wandering through her hair as if they had every right to be there. Fascinated, yet a tad frightened by the restrained passion in the depths of his steely eyes, Mary wanted to keep hers open. But when his teeth began nibbling on the exquisitely tender flesh at the inside of her bottom lip, her eyelids fluttered shut.
Seductive images floated behind her closed eyes, causing her blood to hum and her body to ache.
When that wickedly clever tongue traced a slow, lazy circle around her parched lips, she was hit by a rush of need so strong that had she not already been sitting down, she would have gone weak at the knees.
On the heels of that jolt came another thought crashing through her swimming senses—the unwelcome and totally unexpected realization that she was afraid.
Never had any man been able to bring her to the precipice with a single kiss.
He was drawing out every ounce of her will with his mouth alone. Without taking his hands from her hair, he was somehow creating havoc in every atom of her body.
Because she knew this was getting too dangerous, too fast, she managed, with effort, to force her eyes open.
Belatedly realizing that her hands were splayed across his chest—how had they gotten there?—she pushed against him.
And before she could utter a single word of protest, he released her mouth and his hands left her hair.
She was breathless when they drew apart. Breathless, needy, and, yes, frightened. Though not of J. T. Douchett. But of the desperate way he could make her feel.
Because she was still too giddy to think straight, she fell back on what she’d experienced in the past, ever since Siren Song had been released.
“I’m not that selkie on the screen.”
“What?” She watched as ice flowed over the passion that had, only a moment before, been threatening to set her flesh on fire. “What the hell makes you believe I thought you were?”
Her head was beginning to clear, making her regret even having brought it up. But now, the only way to handle it, she decided, was to draw upon every ounce of dignity she possessed.
“You’d not be the first man to get them confused. Most I’ve known have.”
“I’m not most men.” The ice in his eyes was echoed in his cool, rigidly controlled tone. How could he remain so calm? “And while we’re on the topic, there are a lot of women who mistake the uniform for the man.”
Need and confusion were scorched away by the flash of temper that shot through her. “You flatter yourself.” Though hadn’t she herself imagined him in the dress blues of a U.S. Marine? “And while we’re on the topic,” she shot his words back at him through her teeth, “I’m not most women.”
“Try telling me something I haven’t figured out for myself.”
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. As she was wondering how something so wonderfully exhilarating could so quickly turn so wrong, the cell phone she’d turned on after leaving the theater rang.
This time, when her eyes closed, it was from frustration, rather than passion.
Muttering a curse, she snatched the phone from her purse. “I’ve got to take this,” she said, proud that her voice was back to its calm, controlled tone.
“Go ahead.” He waved a hand as if lacking interest in anything she did. “We’d better be getting back if you want to change for tonight’s party.”
“Fine.”
She pushed the button with more force than necessary, listened to Aaron’s assistant make her pitch, and perhaps it was partly because of lingering frustration from J.T.’s lack of response to that kiss that had tilted her world on its axis, or perhaps it was because telling the story to him had made her realize how much she loved the storytelling, but disliked the Hollywood model of making films as much as her grandmother Fionna had disliked the
bishop back home, who’d kept trying to thwart her efforts to get a beloved nun canonized.
Or it could have been she was simply tired of playing games and dodging what she knew would have to be her final answer in the end.
Whichever of those reasons, or perhaps all three, as the sloop began skimming over the water again, headed back to the Shelter Bay Marina, she told the caller, “No.”
There was a long moment of silence from California. Mary waited, feeling her frustration eased by the flap of the white canvas in the breeze, the wind in her hair, and the cooling sea spray on her face.
Although J.T. was busy guiding the boat, and not appearing to pay any attention to her, she could feel him focused on her. As she always seemed to be on him. Even when they’d been sitting in the dark. Or when she’d been up on that stage in the theater, answering questions, and her gaze had repeatedly returned to his.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Tammi asked finally.
“I mean that there’s no way I am going to take the soul from my story by injecting a vampire into the plot. And tell Aaron there’s no point in either of you coming up here to Oregon to try to convince me. If you want to make a vampire movie, find someone else to write you one. Because that person is not going to be me.”
That said, she pressed the end button.
“Good call,” J.T. said as they sailed back beneath the iron bridge.
Then tension that had risen again between them after that shared kiss faded away like morning fog.
“It was the right decision.”
“The only one,” he agreed. “It was a stupid idea.”
“Especially since movies take so long to actually get from screenplay to the screen,” she said. “By the time we even got to editing, the entire vampire trend might have passed us by. And where would that leave us?”
“With that Aaron guy suggesting a selkie/scientist/zombie triangle?”
She laughed at that idea, even knowing that as outrageous as it might sound, it could actually happen.
Aaron Pressler wasn’t going to be happy. Like most powerful men, he wasn’t an individual to be crossed lightly, and Mary knew there’d undoubtedly be consequences. But right now, at this very special moment in time, not only did she not care what retribution he might try to think up; she felt exactly like Kate Winslet’s Rose had in Titanic, when she’d stood on the bow of her massive ship, arms outstretched, and imagined herself flying.
30
The kiss had been a mistake. J.T. had known that even before he’d given in to temptation. Before his mouth had touched hers and sent explosions blasting through him.
He’d wanted her in a way that was familiar. Even reassuring, considering how long it had been since he’d felt such a hunger for any woman.
He’d spent the long, lonely hours of last night after leaving the inn attempting to assure himself that the attraction to Mary Joyce was nothing to worry about. She was, after all, a remarkably stunning woman. But more than her beauty, there was an almost magical luminosity that surrounded her.
Looking at her now, J.T. didn’t see the celebrity movie star who’d dazzled everyone at the reception last night. Gone was the sleek and stylish parade grand marshal, and she’d left the polished interviewee back at the Orcas.
Even with her hair a wild dark tangle around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed, and her lipstick kissed off, not only was she the most dazzling creature he’d ever seen; she made it very easy to believe in mermaids.
Any male not attracted to Mary Joyce would have to be blind, dead, or gay. And J.T. was none of those.
Still, these unruly feelings she’d stirred up in him were one thing. Acting on them was an entirely different matter. Marines were known for their ability to handle any challenge. If he didn’t allow himself to have sex with her, he wouldn’t. It was as simple as that.
Or at least that was what he’d been trying to tell himself. And, for a short time yesterday and this morning, he’d almost managed to believe it.
Until he’d let his control slip. Now, as he watched her standing up to those studio hotshots, every instinct J.T. possessed told him that this particular siren was capable of luring him into dark, dangerous waters.
Over his head.
“This time it’s me who owes you an apology,” he said.
“If it’s about that kiss, don’t bother. It was an impulsive, momentary thing. We were caught up in the story. Emotions got confused. Which is why, I suspect, so many actors believe they’ve fallen in love while making a movie. After all, if you’re going to act as if you’re in love, it’s always helpful to be a bit in love.”
“And what about you? Are you a bit in love with either of your costars?” Or both? Because he had not a single doubt they were in love with her.
“Of course. Well, to be perfectly honest, more so Sloan, who plays Cassidy.” The scientist she spent a great deal of time getting naked with. And even if she had been wearing a bodysuit during those scenes, J.T. refused to believe that any man with blood still stirring in his veins could roll around in the surf or a beach or bed with this actress without getting aroused.
“And, before you believe all those stories about our alleged affair breaking up his marriage, which you undoubtedly ran across while researching me, those are merely tabloid lies. The truth is that his wife was the one who was unfaithful while we were filming on location.”
He’d read that while researching her. He’d also read that the wife had claimed it was a get-even affair after Sloan Mercer had slept with his costar.
“Do I love Sloan? Of course. Which is why I felt so sorry for him when he was heartbroken about his shattered marriage. But my love for him was much like that I have for my own brother John. And, despite all this Tinseltown glamour”—she tossed her windswept hair and gave him a pose that brought to mind the glory days of Hollywood blockbuster stars—“in truth, I’m an old-fashioned Irish Catholic girl who’d never consider committing adultery.”
“Point taken.”
The point being that she was also not the type of woman a guy could have a quick, hot one-night stand with, then move on. He took her description of herself much the way any sailor would pay attention to the warning toll of those buoys leading out of the harbor into the sea. Or of the lighthouse they’d passed earlier.
“So,” he asked, “what are you going to do now that you’ve burned that bridge and rejected the vampire story line?”
“I don’t know.”
One of things that had made her a star was that every emotion she was experiencing showed on her face, and her openness proved even more compelling in person. What he was reading now was a bit of confusion, ultimately bolstered by resolve. If she had even an iota of regret about possibly endangering her career, she was hiding it well.
“However, since there’s no point in borrowing trouble, and a great many people have expended a lot of effort to make the town’s first film festival a success, I suppose I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.” The little tempest between them having blown over, she flashed him the smile Vivien Leigh had pulled out to charm the Tarleton Twins at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. “At Tara.”
J.T. reminded himself that Hollywood was a town built on images and illusions, and although she was far more “real” than he’d expected, the illusion projected up on that silver screen could well be as false as the melted yellow grease most theaters poured over popcorn and insisted on calling butter.
He didn’t believe she was a fake. But what was to prevent her, in the same way a selkie could change from seal to human, from adjusting to whatever environment she found herself in? It wasn’t that large a stretch to think that the woman who could wow the red carpet on Oscar night, or charm the foreign press into giving her the Golden Globe, could also become a small-town girl that the fans who’d arrived for the festival and the residents of Shelter Bay could relate to.
Even knowing that didn’t make the assault on J.T.’s senses any less devastating. And, he reminde
d himself firmly, it made her definitely out of his league.
31
As she showered and dressed for yet another command performance, Mary couldn’t get that kiss out of her mind. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. Not just in real life, but in her movies she’d shared more than mere kisses with two actors so many women all over the world fantasized making love with.
So why had J.T.’s kiss tilted her world on its axis? Why did his lips, his touch, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her, surpass anything she’d ever imagined?
She’d not been prepared for the turmoil, the aching need he’d created. She’d written about soul mates without truly believing souls could actually touch. Until that amazing moment when time had seemed suspended and she’d found herself caught between the erotic world of her dreams and reality.
“You’re only an unpaid assignment to him,” she insisted as she put on a pair of earrings she’d bought in the boutique earlier. Created of blue and green sea glass set in silver, they hung to shoulders bared by a slender column of black silk.
He’d only taken on the job for the sheriff, who was about to become his sister-in-law. Not that any security was proving necessary. Which she’d tried to tell the committee from the beginning.
Now that Kara Conway and the committee had undoubtedly noticed that her fans were for the most part well behaved and certainly not dangerous, she could probably just request that he not follow her around like an overprotective guard dog.
One problem with that idea was that she didn’t want him to go. Not until they’d explored whatever it was that was happening between them.
She still didn’t believe Kate’s declaration that her mother had sent J.T. to her. If Eleanor Joyce was somewhere in heaven, pulling romantic strings, surely she’d have arranged for an easier man. A more emotionally available one. A man who didn’t keep giving her mixed messages.
Of course, although he didn’t flaunt his masculinity, like many of the actors she’d met since moving to Los Angeles (not that any of them were the equal of J. T. Douchett), he was an extremely virile, intelligent man. In view of the fact that she normally dated only men who could charitably be described as “safe,” it was inevitable that she’d be attracted to him.