Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (8 page)

Sedona whipped out a notepad and pen from her bag. And as the three women got down to planning a dream wedding that would be taking place in three short days, Kara, an only child who’d always secretly wished for sisters, realized that when she hadn’t been looking, she’d acquired some very special ones.

Since Shelter Bay wasn’t overrun with five-star hotels, and Mary’s acceptance had come at that last minute, the town council had voted to buy out a couple who’d already reserved the penthouse honeymoon suite at the Whale Song Inn. Not only did they offer to pay for their accommodations in another inn, local restaurants, including Bon Temps, had tossed in coupons for free meals, and shop owners had put together a gift basket of Shelter Bay souvenirs and yet more coupons as additional enticement. To the festival committee’s relief, the two attorneys from Portland, who hadn’t actually been on a honeymoon but were celebrating an anniversary, accepted the offer and surrendered the suite.

After dropping the others off at the town hall on Harborview Drive, J.T. drove up the hill to the Victorian inn.

“You travel light,” he said, taking the two bags from the back of the SUV he’d been renting.

“For a spoiled Hollywood starlet you expected to arrive laden down with a mountain of designer luggage, the Marine left unsaid,” she responded dryly.

“
Former
Marine,” he pointed out yet again. “And I hadn’t given it much thought, to tell the truth. I was merely making conversation.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked up and flashed him a smile that, while dazzling, was every bit as phony as all those counterfeit somoni that had flooded into the Afghan monetary system while he’d been deployed downrange. “I didn’t realize making conversation was in your job description.”

“Touché.”

Opening the glass door of the Victorian inn for her, J.T. knew his mother would be furious at him for his behavior. Or worse, he considered, remembering what his brothers had said about their parents worrying about him, she’d be concerned by his uncharacteristic behavior. If a guy was so deep down in a pit that a beautiful, sexy woman couldn’t lift him up, he really was in a world of hurt.

He was trying to come up with an apology that wouldn’t sound too lame as they walked into the lobby, which had nothing like the heavy, fussy style associated with Victorians. The floor was a whitewashed pine, the colors on the walls and furniture looking as if the sea, sand, and sky had all been brought indoors. J.T. didn’t know much about decorating—hell, he didn’t know
anything
about it—but he did recognize a place designed for comfort when he saw it.

Unfortunately, he had no time to get comfortable, because the moment they entered, it seemed an entire lobby full of Mary Joyce fans rushed toward her.

“No,” she murmured, putting a hand on his arm when he stiffened. “It’s okay.”

“I took on a job,” he said under his breath even as
he found himself momentarily mesmerized by her slender hand on his sleeve, wondering if it would feel as soft as it looked on his skin.

“You have yours, and I have mine. So, stand down, Marine.”

He felt the change in her. It wasn’t that she suddenly became someone else. Or some larger-than-life movie star, but once again, as it had at the airport, whatever innate light he’d sensed burning in her became even brighter. And warmer.

Since no one in the place looked like a threat—though the pirate guy with the eyeliner was kind of weird—he did as ordered and stood down. But that didn’t stop him from continuing to scan the crowd, many of whom were in costume as characters he recognized from the films, even as he kept one eye on Mary Joyce.

A young girl, who didn’t look quite in her teens, with a wild mass of carrot red hair surrounding a thin, angular though pretty face, thrust at her a glossy magazine with Mary’s face adorning the cover. “Would you please sign this? To Erin?”

“Of course.” Mary smiled, took the pen offered, and said, “Erin is my sister-in-law’s name.”

The freckled face beamed. Her grin showed a mouthful of pink and purple braces. “It means Ireland.”

Although he wouldn’t have thought it possible, Mary’s smile rose on the wattage dial. “I know. Do you live here in Shelter Bay?”

“No. When I heard you were going to be here, my mom drove me down from Vancouver. Washington, not Canada.”

“And aren’t you fortunate to have such a lovely
mother?” She handed the magazine back and looked at the small pink digital camera the girl was holding. “Would you like a picture?”

“Really?” The girl looked as if she had just been told she’d won
American Idol
.

“Well, you have come all this way, after all.” Mary took the camera and handed it to J.T. “Would you mind?”

And what was he to say to that? That his mission was to keep this obviously awestruck kid away? Besides, it wasn’t really a question, but an order.

Thinking that he was becoming surrounded by bossy women lately, he took the camera and snapped the first of what turned out to be many, many photos. And, as at the airport, not only did her smile not waver for an instant, but Mary chatted with each and every person in the inn’s small, cozy lobby, making them feel as if
they
were the stars, not her.

Even when a young man in flip-flops, torn jeans, and a maroon Reed College hoodie with a griffin on the front worn open over a gray grunge T-shirt tried to force the screenplay he’d brought with him on her, she politely turned him down, handed him a card from her purse, and suggested he send it to her production company in Los Angeles.

Rather than appear pissed, the guy acted as if she’d assured him she was going to produce, direct, and star in his movie herself.

“That’s a good ploy,” J.T. said, once they’d finally escaped and he was ushering her into the old-fashioned cage elevator.

“What ploy would that be?”

“Managing to turn that guy down, but making it seem as if you’d just handed him an Oscar.”

“What makes you think I turned him down?”

“Like anyone’s going to actually read his screenplay?”

“Actually, someone will. All right,” she admitted, when he arched a brow after inserting the key that would take them directly to the honeymoon suite, “
I
won’t be the one to give it a first read, because if I did that with every screenplay we receive, I’d never get anything else done. But I do employ several people to look for work they think might have potential.”

“Why would you be looking for outside scripts? When you write all your movies yourself?”

“Ah.” She glanced up at him, interest sparkling in those electric blue eyes as the elevator slowly cranked its way up to the fourth floor. “You’ve done your research.”

“One of the most important things you learn at boot camp is that the more intel you have going into a mission, the better.”

“Would that be along the lines of knowing your enemy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. Though you
do
consider me a mission?”

“Not exactly a mission.” He’d once always known exactly what to say in uncomfortable situations. Which was probably why he’d been given more than his share of casualty families. If there was a particularly touchy family situation, hey, give it to Douchett to handle. But that was before he’d flamed out. He’d probably talked more in the past hour than he had since returning home. “And not an enemy. More along the lines of a job.”

“Ah. Then you’d be getting paid to keep starstruck
children and aspiring screenwriters away from me?”

She was like a damn terrier. Deciding she wasn’t going to just let it drop, he said, “No, I’m not getting paid, and it’s not how it sounds. In case you haven’t noticed, Shelter Bay isn’t exactly the big city, and Kara—the sheriff—isn’t exactly running a big-city department here. She’s concerned about your safety, so, since I wasn’t doing anything all that important, she drafted me into making sure no crazies decided to kill you in her town.”

“Well.” The door opened directly onto a living room painted in sea glass blues and greens with a pair of French doors that led onto a balcony and looked directly out at the Shelter Bay lighthouse. “I suppose I should be thanking you. For making such a noble sacrifice on my behalf.”

“I didn’t sign on for you. I’m doing it for Kara.”

Hell.
He might be out of practice carrying on a conversation, but even J.T. could realize how that sounded. He scraped a hand down his face and considered just biting off his tongue. It wasn’t as if he had any pressing desire to talk with anyone anyway. “Okay. I definitely didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Don’t worry. I’d have to be a
culchie
not to realize that you’d rather have pulled latrine duty than be stuck here with me.” She held up a hand. “And to save you having to expend the additional words to ask, a
culchie
is a country person. Usually thought of as stupid or daft.”

“You couldn’t have achieved what you have by being stupid.” Though it did cross his mind that a
person would have to be crazy to go into the movie business in the first place. Especially if you needed to hire people like him to be allowed any privacy.

“Thank you. But you’ve no idea how many people attribute my success to having a famous author brother-in-law who’s had movies made of all his books.”

“I don’t have a clue how Hollywood works. But I’d guess that while family connections might open doors for you, they’re not going to get people to come to your movies.”

So far, so good. Seeing that she was beginning to soften, he decided to forge forward through this conversational minefield. “And I’ll admit that I wasn’t looking forward to babysitting some Hollywood starlet.”

Damn.
He really should’ve just shut up while he was ahead. Although he was not above lying—there were times when his and his teammates’ lives had depended on it—in opting for the absolute truth, J.T. knew he’d screwed up again.

“If you’re concerned about me using my movie-star wiles on you, you needn’t worry,” she said silkily. “Because strong, silent, rude men aren’t really my type.”

That stung, but since he couldn’t deny the description fit, he didn’t argue. “You’re not mine, either.”
Hot, sophisticated, dangerous.
“Though you’re not exactly what I expected.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Just when I begin to think there might be hope for you, J. T. Douchett, I’m damned with faint praise. And would you mind doing me a favor?”

Like he had a choice? “What?”

“Would you please take off those sunglasses? Because it’s proving very disconcerting talking to my reflection.”

Although it wasn’t his first choice, he pulled the aviators off and hooked the stems into the pocket of his shirt.

“Better?”

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, she’d gone pale as sea foam. Before he could figure out what the hell he’d done wrong now, she merely said, “Yes. Thank you.” Then turned away and walked over toward the balcony doors. “The lighthouse is just as I remembered it,” she murmured.

“How long ago were you here?”

“I was seventeen. Which seems like eons ago. After my sister married Quinn, he brought us all to the States on an extended holiday. We started with tours at Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, then worked our way west. It was a grand trip.” Her accent grew more pronounced, bringing to mind whitewashed cottages, stone fences, and fields painted in a thousand shades of green.

“I’d never been out of Ireland before, unless you count shopping trips to the North, which my grandmother would be the first to tell you is not a foreign country,” she said. “So, all I knew of America was what I’d seen in your films or read about in books. It was so vast and diversified, I began to realize why so many Americans seem arrogant.”

“Yet you’ve chosen to live in L.A.” In what was probably one of the most ego-driven communities on the planet. But this time he managed to keep his thoughts to himself.

“For now,” she said. “Though it wasn’t necessarily
my goal. In truth, since I was determined to succeed on my own, and was working on a shoestring budget, it was only natural to make my smaller, intimate films in my own country. But once
Siren Song
started winning so many awards…”

She sighed.

“Things changed,” he said, finishing her thought for her.

“And wouldn’t that be putting it mildly?” She glanced back over her shoulder, her neon blue eyes serious as they met his. “Yet, they always do, don’t they?”

“Seems so.”

He’d spent eighteen months waking up every morning hoping that would be the day he’d escape CACO duty. When he’d never have to be responsible for anyone else ever again. Then, once that wish had finally come true after he’d separated from the military, he’d ended up stuck in this recent drinking and running routine that wasn’t getting him anywhere but going in circles.

“Why did you leave the Marines?” she asked abruptly.

“Because my tour of duty was up.” And because he’d been on the razor’s edge of flaming out.

She tilted that dark head, studying him as if he were a character she was considering putting in one of her movies. “But it wasn’t your first tour?”

“No.”

She turned around. Folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them in a way that had him calculating how long it had been since he’d even allowed himself to look at a woman’s breast.

The Marines were the youngest branch of the U.S.
military, with an average age of twenty-three. Which meant that during his time as a casualty assistance calls officer, most of the NOK (next of kin) J.T. had been assigned to were young. Even a couple of the mothers were in their mid-thirties, not much older than he. They were grieving, and, he didn’t need to be told, vulnerable. And occasionally needy. For more than what a CACO was supposed to provide.

In the past, drawing the line between his personal life and professional life hadn’t been all that difficult. When he was deployed, he was at war. Which meant he
had
no personal life. When he was stateside, while he still might be training for battle, once he left base, he could flip the switch and enjoy being a single guy who might not be the chick magnet his brother Sax had been, but had never had any trouble attracting women who’d enjoyed partying as much as he had.