by JoAnn Ross
That was all it was, Mary assured herself. Chemistry. A sexual fantasy for a man who’d lived through more than his share of danger. And wasn’t danger always an aphrodisiac?
Despite his initial scowling behavior, she’d been drawn to him at first sight. And that attraction had only become stronger over the past couple days. Although she’d never been into sexual flings, she couldn’t deny that the idea was seeming more and more inevitable.
Would that be so bad? They were both adults. And he certainly wasn’t the type of man who’d call the tabloids the minute he left her bed. What would be wrong in allowing herself the pleasure J.T. could bring into her life?
Nothing. As long as she accepted that was as far as it could go. Although he’d only skimmed the surface of his military experience, she knew that the past years hadn’t been easy. It would be surprising if he were ready to offer any woman any type of commitment.
Not that she was looking for happily ever afters with him. To expect a future where none existed was even more unrealistic than the movie scripts she wrote.
No ties. No commitments. Just two people, a man and a woman, enjoying each other for as long as their time together lasted. That was all this interlude with J.T. could be.
It was all she would allow it to be.
32
“Thanks for the use of the boat,” J.T. said as he returned to Bon Temps. Although he would have been content to stay out on the water with Mary forever, they’d returned back to the harbor late, leaving her a little more than an hour to prepare for the party.
If he’d been asked only yesterday, J.T. would have guessed that the life of a movie star was pretty much sleeping until noon, drinking mimosas at brunch with other famous people at some trendy Sunset Boulevard restaurant, going shopping on Rodeo Drive, maybe spending some time at yoga or an upscale fitness club that never smelled of sweat, then getting dolled up to go out partying.
Yet sometime during that Hollywood life of leisure he’d imagined, she had also managed to write scripts, negotiate with studios, and act in her movies.
“Glad to help out. So, I take it the fact that neither of you pitched each other overboard suggests you’re getting along better?”
“Yeah.” J.T. went behind the bar and, ignoring his brother’s arched brow, took a Rogue Ale out of the cooler. “It’s the first and only one of the day,” he said.
“Did I say anything?”
“No, but you didn’t have to. Christ, it’s like living with Eliot Ness during Prohibition.”
“Just watching out for you, bro. It’s what big brothers do.”
J.T. knew that. And he appreciated his brother’s concern. But sometimes birth order sucked.
“So,” he said nonchalantly as he sat down on the barstool, “back when you and Kara were in high school and you were hot for her—”
“That’s a bit cruder than my actual feelings at the time.” Sax put a dish of spiced nuts in front of him. “I loved her.”
“Yeah. I know. I just wasn’t sure you wanted to admit it.”
Sax shrugged and began wiping the bar with a damp white towel. “Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not like I was going to do anything about it.”
“Because of Jared.”
“Yeah. But after a bunch of years and a lot of shit, things worked out. So, why are you asking now?”
“Kara might not have been rich, but she sure grew up differently than us. Her mother’s a doctor.”
“And her dad was a cop. Your point is?”
“She also was class valedictorian.”
“So were you. And I’m still not getting where this conversation is headed.”
J.T. dragged his hand through his hair. If he’d ever screwed up a notification conversation this badly, he’d have gotten himself a ticket back downrange. Which he would have preferred, but if there was one thing the past years had taught him, it was you didn’t always get what you wanted.
“You weren’t exactly a pillar of Shelter Bay society.”
Sax threw back his head and roared at that, drawing appreciative looks from a pair of mermaids and a third woman who was inexplicably dressed in what appeared to be an I Dream of Jeannie harem costume, complete with a blond ponytail. They were sitting across the room, by the window, drinking pastel girlie drinks out of martini glasses.
“I was hell on wheels. And damn proud of it.”
“Well, yeah. That’s pretty much what I was getting to. So, all that time, speaking hypothetically, if Jared Conway hadn’t been in the picture, would you have gone for it?”
“Told her how I felt? Sure.”
“You wouldn’t have worried that maybe you were all wrong for her?”
Another laugh. “Hell, there are probably some around town who think I’m wrong for her now. But all that matters is what she thinks. And Trey, because getting her to the altar would’ve been a lot harder if he’d kept those chips he’d had when we first met on his skinny seven-year-old shoulders.”
He tossed the towel beneath the bar. “Are you worried about Kara and my marriage?”
“No.” J.T. couldn’t believe he’d screwed this up so badly. “I was just thinking how sometimes, even though people might be attracted to each other, when you’re talking any real-life future, it’s an improbable combination.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that sometimes the most improbable match turns out to be the perfect one.…
“Hell. This isn’t about Kara and me at all, is it? It’s about you and Mary Joyce.”
“Maybe.”
J.T. was a grown man. Like his older brothers, he’d been tested on the battlefield and survived. So why was he suddenly feeling as he had when he’d been twelve years old and asked Sax if you could really get a girl pregnant by dry humping her like some of the guys at school had sworn to be true?
“Are you saying you actually made a move on her?” Sax lowered his voice so their audience couldn’t hear.
“It wasn’t exactly like that.”
“How was it?”
“When did my life become your business, anyway? First you rag me for drinking; then Kara tells me that people want me to stop running. Which, just in case you’re interested, I intend to do tomorrow morning, so you might want to alert the town and have the governor call out the National Guard.”
“That might be overkill. And—although if you tell Kara I told you this, I’ll deny it and call you a damn liar—maybe a thing with Mary Joyce might be just what you need to shake you out of the doldrums.”
For some reason, although he’d been expecting a big-brother lecture, Sax’s suggestion irked. “She’s not some easy Hollywood party girl who sleeps with any guy who happens to be handy.”
Sax lifted a brow. “I didn’t suggest she was. I merely pointed out that you’re both adults. If she’s willing, as long as you’re both discreet enough to keep you out of the tabloids, it seems pretty much a no-harm, no-foul situation.”
That was exactly what J.T. had been telling himself. So, what the hell was his problem?
33
Tonight’s affair was a buffet dinner held in a banquet room of the Sea Mist restaurant. Along with the filmmakers who’d entered the competition, and those who’d bought tickets ahead of time, Mary recognized several faces. Including those of Kara and Sax, Cole and Kelli, Maureen and Lucien Douchett.
“Where’s Grand-mère?” J.T. asked his parents after Mary had been introduced to a seemingly unending parade of bloggers, state politicians, and fans, most of whom had forgone their costumes tonight for dressier attire.
“They decided to stay home,” his father answered.
“It’s not easy to move in with your children,” Maureen expanded on her husband’s answer. “I suspect they just needed some personal time alone.”
Remembering how confused Adèle Douchett had appeared last night, Mary exchanged a quick glance with J.T. and knew he was wondering the same thing. Whether, perhaps, the older woman hadn’t been up to yet anothe
r party.
As if sensing their concern, Kara looped her arm thorough Mary’s. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said. She led them through the crowd to where a tall, dark-haired man in a dark blue suit and a woman dressed in a soft blue and green watercolor silk dress stood by one of the tall windows looking out onto the harbor. With them were Charity Tiernan and a man Charity introduced as her fiancé, Gabriel St. James.
“And this is Phoebe Tyler,” Kara said. “She’s going to be Maddy’s sous-chef at the new Lavender Hill Farm restaurant and has agreed to help prepare my wedding supper.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Mary said. “I love your dress.”
“Thank you.” The woman blushed a bit at that. “It’s new.”
Mary smiled. “So’s mine.” Leaving the beaded cocktail dress Leon had chosen hanging in the closet, she’d gone with a simple strapless black sheath and strappy turquoise sandals. “It’s not often you find such a wonderful treasure of a shop in such a small town.”
“We’re so lucky to have Doris and Dottie,” Kara said. “If it wasn’t for them, I might be having to get married in my uniform.”
They all laughed at that. Phoebe not quite as richly as the others. She appeared nervous, but Mary put that off to the fact that many people felt intimidated meeting a celebrity.
A little silence settled over them. Mary watched as the man who’d been introduced as Ethan Concannon, a local farmer, put his arm around Phoebe’s waist, the gesture both comforting and proprietary.
“I love your movies,” Phoebe offered. “They’re so romantic.”
“Thank you.” From the way the hunky farmer was looking down at Phoebe, Mary understood why she’d be drawn to romantic films.
She was also wondering if there was anyone in this town who wasn’t in love. Even Doris and Dottie, chatting about their husbands while ringing up her purchases, had still beamed after decades of marriage.
Thinking of the story she’d learned earlier, during the children’s drama of the founding of the town, how that wealthy entrepreneur had bottled the springwater he’d sold as a cure-all, she couldn’t help thinking that if she could only bottle whatever water the residents of Shelter Bay were drinking, she could probably sell it for enough money to fund any movies she might want to make for the rest of her life.
She was about to share that idea with J.T. when Reece Ryan, the Shelter Bay Beacon’s editor, came up to her.
“Ms. Joyce, I hate to interrupt you—”
“Don’t worry; we weren’t discussing anything important.” Not only had she liked the newspaperman, but Mary was all too aware that this wasn’t a private party. After introducing him to the others, she asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you had any comment about what Variety put on their Web site this evening.”
“Since I haven’t visited their Web site for a while, I have no idea what you’re referring to.” But his furrowed brow suggested that whatever was on the industry magazine’s site wasn’t good.
“About Aaron Pressler looking for a new writer for your fourth selkie film.”
It was true, Mary thought. She’d written it before, but had never realized that you really did see little white dots floating in front of your eyes when the blood left your head.
“Oh, you know this business thrives on rumors,” she said in what she prided herself to be a calm, reasonable voice. But she knew that J.T. sensed her discomfort when his hand moved to the back of her waist, offering silent support.
“So, you’re still working on the script?”
“I am.”
“But?” Oh, he was good. The investigative reporter he’d once been had caught her momentary hesitation.
“Let’s just say that we’re in discussions about the direction my character’s taking,” she said.
“Unnamed sources say you told the studio that you were off the project.”
The floaty white moths turned to flames. Mary welcomed the flash of anger because it burned away her shock at being so blindsided. Even though now, hearing what Pressler had done, she realized she should have been expecting something like this. He didn’t get to the top of the Hollywood elite without playing hardball. Which included crushing anyone who got in his way.
She’d always known that although he’d wanted to distribute her films because he saw them as guaranteed moneymakers worldwide, he’d also been behind the quiet movement to deny her an Oscar because she’d refused to just hand over her stories and let him dumb them down in an attempt to make even higher profits.
“I’m sorry.” She gave him a faintly apologetic smile. “But I make a policy of never discussing contractual issues. Especially at such a lovely party as this.”
“So, you’re denying leaving the project?” he doggedly pressed on. “Or being removed from it?”
“I especially don’t believe in responding to rumors. But I will say that I can’t be removed from my own series. Because I own the rights to my characters. If any studio intends to produce a film using them, I’ll be the one writing the script.”
Which was true. Though as soon as she could get a minute alone, she was calling her agent.
As friendly as he’d been, Mary understood that Reece Ryan also had his own job to do, so she wasn’t surprised when he wasn’t quite done.
“Do you have any idea who would’ve leaked the story?”
“I’ve no idea if there even is a story to leak,” she said honestly.
The studio head could be bluffing, hoping she’d be scared enough to give in to his crazy vampire idea. She’d seen him do that before. She’d also watched some of the town’s most talented writers cave in to him. Mary had no plans to be one of them.
“Why don’t you ask Aaron Pressler?”
“I called as soon as the story broke on the site. To be perfectly honest, since he’s obviously never heard of me, I was surprised he took my call.…He suggested I talk to you.”
“Did he?” Bastard. She’d been an actress long enough that the smile she flashed, while forced, would appear genuine to anyone who didn’t know how furious she was.
“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I really have nothing to say on the subject of my films, except that I hope viewers here at the festival enjoy their sneak preview of Selkie Bride.” She gave him another smile, even warmer than the first. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to work and mingle.”
After making a quick good-bye to the others, who appeared understandably confused by the discussion that had just taken place, she went back to working the room, thankful that apparently the paper’s editor, hoping for an exclusive, was, for now, keeping the news of the story to himself.
34
She might not be a Marine, but Mary definitely had guts. J.T. knew that the bombshell that reporter had dropped on her must’ve shattered her evening, but not a person at the party would’ve had a clue by the way she charmed everyone like a politician picking pockets for campaign funds.
He watched the reporter studying her, appearing to be looking for something—anything—about her behavior he could write about, but she steadfastly refused to give him anything juicy.
He might have developed the ability to lock away his emotions in a steel box during his last assignment. But she was proving his equal.
During a momentary break, when they’d suddenly, finally found themselves alone, he bent down and asked next to her ear, “You okay?”
Her smile was bright. And yet he knew her well enough to tell it was totally fake. “Absolutely.”
“No.” His hand went to her waist again. He’d found he liked touching her. So much so that although he knew it was playing with fire, he’d decided he was going to do a lot more of it before her time in Shelter Bay was over. “How are you really doing?”
“It’s only moviemaking. Not life or death.” When someone called her name, she glanced around, smiled brilliantly, and waved at a woman across the room. “I’ll survive.”
Finally, they were able to escape.
“You didn’t eat anything,” he said as they left the restaurant.
“Of course I did.”
“No. You carried a plate around for a while. Then put it down.”
She shot him a look as they reached the SUV. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, neither do I. You didn’t eat, either.”
“I had an oyster po’boy before picking you up. Want to stop somewhere?”
“I’m a little ‘starred’ out,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll just raid the minibar.”
“Or we can pick up something at the Crab Shack and go out to the beach,” he said. One advantage of living this far north was that summer days were long. And today’s weather was ending as well as it had begun.
“Granted, the beach isn’t as crowded as in L.A., but we’re still bound to run into people,” she said. “And I’m really not up to that.”
For the first time since she’d appeared in the door of that private jet, looking every bit everyone’s idea of a movie star, she looked small. Sad. Vulnerable. And very, very human.
Looking down at her, J.T. felt the lock on the steel box inside him break open. Tenderness. It rushed over him like a sneaker wave. He skimmed the back of his hand up the side of her face. Then, because, for the first time in a very long while, he felt optimistic about something, he grinned.
“Not where we’re going.”
He dropped her off at the inn so she could change, then went back to Bon Temps and changed in the office, where he’d been sleeping on the sofa, and decided he really needed to find someplace else to live. And figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. His family was right. He’d been drifting rudderless for long enough. Too long.