McCloud's Woman (21 page)

She didn’t have to be what another man expected of her
ever again. Repeating this mantra, she buckled down to scanning ancient
dusty tomes and taking notes.

Her cell phone vibrated, and she ignored it. Voice mail
could get it. A film crew trapped inside a hotel all day could cause all
manner of havoc, and she wasn’t interested.

It buzzed again two minutes later. Probably Irving. He could go back home where he belonged.

She shoved a pencil through her upswept hair and
concentrated on a World War II-era news article about a group wanting to
form a coast watch on the islands. The Germans were invading the
Netherlands. Why the devil would locals think they’d land on an
impoverished South Carolina coast? Could those bones just be some
misguided boy scout who starved to death waiting for an invasion that
never came?

The phone buzzed again, and scowling, she shut it off.

***

“You want me to file a federal injunction for
that
?” The portly lawyer with a silvered ponytail gazed at the muddy excavation in disbelief.

“It’s under the auspices of a federal grant,” TJ responded
impassively. “The discovery of an early American settlement here would
give grounds for further historical exploration.” As far as he could
tell, nothing had been stolen last night, and he’d like to keep it that
way. Mostly, though, he wanted his project out of the film company’s
clutches.

The lawyer’s sharp gaze took him in. “What about pirates?”

TJ shrugged noncommittally. “Pirates, smugglers, or
wreckers are a possibility, given the history of coastlines. Doesn’t
change the historical significance. How long will it take to obtain the
injunction?”

The lawyer didn’t look as if he bought this for a minute,
but his gaze returned to the mud wallow left in the wake of the
morning’s storm. “Depends on the judge’s schedule. Could be hours or
days.”

“If you can obtain an injunction to void the film company’s order, I can post guards out here, and prevent further invasion.”
And
keep out film crews
,
but TJ refrained from mentioning anything so politically incorrect. He
might be ambivalent about keeping out Mara, but if her second ex was as
big an ass as the first, he’d meet him head on.

The lawyer remained skeptical. “It’s a sand pit. Why would anyone want to break into it? Are they expecting buried treasure?”

TJ raised his eyebrows. “Interesting thought. Hadn’t
considered that.” Not that it was going to happen, but who knew what
thieves might believe. “Mostly, I want to protect the site’s integrity.”

“All right, I’ll bite, although knowing your
sister-in-law’s views, I can’t imagine she’ll appreciate posting armed
guards out here.”

“Not armed. And it’s for her privacy I’m doing this.” Sort
of. He respected Jared’s and Cleo’s need for peace, but between film
crews, vandals, thieves, and security guards, chances of that happening
were slim.

The lawyer nodded and reached for his cell phone. “I’ll
get on it. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” He gave TJ another appraising
look. “You’re prepared for the public outcry if you halt this film?”

TJ crossed his arms and stared back. “What do you think?”

“That I’m damned glad I’m not the other guy.” With more
grace than a man his size should possess, the lawyer stalked down the
wet sand, shouting orders into a phone smaller than his hand.

Standing stiff and straight, arms still crossed, TJ
watched his last chance of seeing admiration in Mara’s eyes walk away.
By this time tomorrow, the place would be swarming with reporters, Mara
would be cock-eyed furious, he’d have blown his cover, and his career
would be on a fast track downhill.

He could still save his career. He doubted if he could save Mara.

His gaze flickered over the muddy pit that his life had
become, and he thought the analogy more than apt. Trapped at the bottom
of that hole, he couldn’t see a future until he climbed out. The time
had come to dig the first step in the wall.

***

“Sid, it rains out here.” Mara shoved a loose curl off her
forehead and growled at her cell phone. Sitting in the limo’s climate
–controlled interior, she handed Ian her PDA, pointed at the name of the
set designer she wanted to talk to, and plastered on a conspiratorial
smile for the reporter sitting next to him. “It’s not L.A. South
Carolina has rains and hurricanes. You ought to try weather sometime. It
will be a new experience.”

She only half listened to her ex’s complaints about time
and budget. Her stomach clenched nervously as they approached the
island. She’d forestalled Sid’s demand to rent bulldozers, but she
didn’t know how long she could hold back. They needed to get those ship
scenes before the days grew too short.

She hadn’t heard from TJ, hadn’t expected to. She knew his
capacity for systematic revenge and was terrified to consider what he
might do in retaliation for the court order. She’d hoped yesterday’s
research would yield instant success to pacify him, but she’d found
little more than a few names of hunters who used the island and a couple
of landowners. She needed to dig deeper.

She didn’t have time to dig deeper. Sid was screaming,
Irving was whining, her aunt had left messages on every voice mail Mara
owned, and Ian had invited
People
and
Entertainment Tonight
to the set. The film crew was right behind the limo, and her teeth
would be chattering if she hadn’t clamped her lips into a bright smile.

She didn’t need to inherit her mother’s psychosis to go
insane. This business would drive her there. She shoved her phone into
her purse.

“I understand you had to obtain a court order to gain
access to the beach location.” The reporter clicked on his recorder now
that he had her attention.

She continued smiling and shrugged nonchalantly. “Dr.
McCloud has a federal grant and had to protect the government’s
interest. It’s just a legal formality. We’ll preserve his artifacts.”

“I hear that you and Dr. McCloud have a relationship. Are you aware that—”

“Friggin’ sheep shit!” Ian shouted, glancing through the
limo’s windshield to see why the car had slowed. “The turd’s hired
guards!”

Jim pulled the limo to a smooth halt and awaited further
instruction. In front of the car, Day-Glo orange barriers blocked the
access road. A uniformed security guard manned the barricade.

The reporter scribbled furiously. Mara didn’t have to look
out the rear window to know the TV film crew would be spilling from
their van, cameras in hand. Every ounce of acting she had learned these
last years would have to fall into play if she was to pull this off with
any semblance of grace and aplomb. Anything less, and she’d have
investors pulling the plug faster than her ship could sink.

What she wanted to do was hunt down TJ McCloud and bash him over his stubborn thick head with his stupid security guard.

Or crawl into his strong arms and cry until he made the world go away.

Talk about conflicts—she ought to write a book. She’d definitely do a chick flick next, should she survive this encounter.

Still smiling through her Rogue Rouge, Mara let Jim open
the car door. With extravagant care, she smoothed down her screaming
orange miniskirt, adjusted her long, tanned, silk-clad legs, swung her
stacked heels gracefully to the sand, then with a benevolent expression,
accepted Jim’s hand and exited the limo.

She could feel the reporter’s smoldering gaze burning the
backs of her knees. She shimmied her hips to adjust her skirt again, and
figured he was out for the count. Show time.

Thrusting out her elastic-enhanced chest, teasing a lock
of synthetic hair back into its stack, drawing attention to her cleavage
with the gesture, Mara licked her lips and batted her fake lashes.

The guard’s mouth hung open. Cameras whirred.

“Hello, honey,” she purred, walking up to him. “I’m Mara
Simon, and this is my right-of-way. Could you move these pretty orange
things over to the side of the road?”

“In about three months,” a familiar dry voice answered from the wax myrtle thicket as it parted.

Crushing her temper, fighting the sick curl of desire that
voice engendered, Mara swung around to glare at Dr. TJ McCloud, arch
nemesis. “Says who?”

“Says the federal injunction posted on that gate.” TJ
nodded at the chain link on the hill down the road. “I told you this was
a federal grant. Your city buddies can’t help you here.”

He looked so good in those dark shades and that jungle
hat, she thought she might change teams, climb over the barrier, and
glare at the reporters from his side.

Traitorous instincts, indeed. Too many people counted on her to back down now.

What if she failed?

Failure meant returning to Brooklyn and becoming a bag lady.

Okay, maybe that was a little melodramatic.

Advancing so they stood toe to toe and no one else could
hear them, Mara ran her fingertip up and down the black cotton stretched
across TJ’s impressive chest. “I didn’t file that order, TJ McCloud,
and you damned well know it. Can’t we find a compromise?”

If TJ felt anywhere near as breathless as she did, they’d
both expire of asphyxiation. She deliberately took a deep breath, and
the heated hunger of his gaze knocked the air out of her lungs again.

“I don’t think so, Pats,” he said gravely. “I’m paid to do
this job, and securing the site is my priority.” He stepped backward,
away from her prying fingers.

If she thought crying would help, she would turn on the
tears, but the TJ she knew had more respect for brains than weeping
wimps. She lifted her gaze to trap his, damning him to hell without
saying the words. “I’m paid to do my job, too, and I’ll warn you now,
I’ve had dragons far more intimidating than you in my face, and I’ve
slain them all. Watch your throat, McCloud. I’m winning this one.”

Sunglasses hid his eyes, but she read the admiring tug on
his lips before she swung away, sashaying her hips slowly to make him
crazy.

TJ McCloud admired her.

She threw the film crew a stunning, genuine smile that faltered as she climbed back into the car.

She may have won TJ’s admiration, but she had lost the battle.

“Didn’t you watch the news last night?” Sid screamed
through the receiver the day after the barricade disaster. “You looked
like a damned ass out there flirting with that Indiana Jones character!
You’re off the film, kid. Ian’s in charge.”

Panic flooded through her. Mara dug her fingers into her
unstyled curls, leaned her elbows on the lunch table, and fought down
the hysteria pounding for escape. “
ET
isn’t news,” she muttered,
knowing her ex’s penchant for entertainment news over anything more
substantial. “There are kids starving in Angola, and my disagreement
with McCloud hardly rates tempest-in-teapot status. This is
my
film, Sid. You can’t take me off it.”

“I still own the effing company, doll, and I’m not wasting
any more money. Either Ian takes over, or I’m offering Glynis another
production. I’ve already talked to her agent.”

She couldn’t bear this. He’d
promised
. Not that
Sid’s promises meant more than she could hold him to at the point of a
gun. “I’m the one with the most at stake here, Sid. I’m the one who gets
a share of the profit. Ian doesn’t care about bottom lines.”

“Ian cares about getting his butt chewed if he doesn’t
come in under budget. Go back to your whining relatives and get out of
my hair.” He hung up.

Shivering, Mara clicked the phone off and contemplated
the empty dining room. A chill crawled across her skin, and she couldn’t
blame it on the air- conditioning.

She could call her divorce lawyer. The film was part of
the settlement. She didn’t understand the legal terms, just the
ramifications. She got to keep the profits from the pirate film; Sid got
to keep the house. Sounded like Sid got both if he could pull her off
the job.

If the film didn’t make a profit, she couldn’t buy out his
half of the company. If the settlement awarded her half the business,
didn’t she have some say in who worked the film? Probably not the way
Sid had it set up.

She dialed her attorney anyway.

He confirmed her suspicions. Sid was head of the company
until she legally owned it. He could fire her anytime he liked. All she
was entitled to was the profit—and knowing Sid’s practices, there
wouldn’t be any.

She should have known he’d agreed too easily to her demands. Honesty wasn’t a word Sid understood.

Mara’s mind danced wildly over impossible solutions while
her insides slowly shriveled and died. She was out in the cold again,
with nowhere to turn and little in the bank to show for the years of her
life wasted. Bag lady status loomed.

“Do you have time to talk now?” a nasal whine intruded.

Irving. She didn’t need the hassle, the reminder of
another failure while she was still being crushed beneath the weight of
this one.

The bandage plastered across Irving’s handsome face
reminded her that he wasn’t what he appeared. She shot him a glare and
reached for the coffeepot. “Go home, Irving. I’m not interested in
anything you have to say.”

Her hand shook as she poured the coffee.

“I promised your aunt I would talk to you, Patsy.”

Gad, she hated that name. So appropriate, too. She was a
walking, talking patsy for every man who ever trodden through her life.

Irving took the seat across the table and gazed at her
with imploring brown eyes. The color might be similar to Tim’s, but not
the expression. Irving’s eyes reminded her of a spaniel. TJ’s changed
from laughter to admiration to fury in a matter of seconds, revealing
all those boiling emotions his chiseled countenance concealed. Oh, damn,
why was she thinking of that monster now? This was all his fault.