McCloud's Woman (8 page)

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 feeling 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?

“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 to
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.