McCloud's Woman Read online

  Gad, she’d worshipped at Tim’s feet that summer. He hadn’t even known she’d existed.

  Still didn’t, she thought with wry honesty, although there had been those few short weeks...

  But that led back to unhappy memories again, and she didn’t go there anymore. She had a glorious future at her fingertips—one she’d earned by surviving hell—and those teenage days were behind her. She would taunt Tim to get even for his insult, then move on, as they both had before.

  She stepped past the overgrown gardenia bush outside the B&B, inhaling the fragrance of a late blossom and admiring the carpet of magenta crape myrtle petals beneath her feet. The driver of the studio’s Lincoln Town Car looked up from his newspaper. At her gesture, he laid the paper aside and smoothly rolled the limo up beside her. She did so love the perks of this business. Pity she had to give up most of them when she’d divorced Sid.

  “Where’s Ian?” she inquired, sliding onto the soft leather rear seat, cooled by the air conditioner. She checked her hair in the mirror and applied a fresh coat of Rogue Rouge as the car purred past the gate and into the street.

  “’Round the corner, ma’am. Said to stop for him when you’re ready.” He drove the car past an antebellum mansion shaded by drooping oaks, and down a narrow, crowded alley of brick restaurants and taverns.

  The limo rolled up in front of a bar quaintly called the Blue Monkey, and Mara wrinkled her nose. They could be at an oasis in the Sahara, and Ian would find a bar. Her ex said Ian was the best producer in the business, but she’d already learned that meant Ian could connect with anybody, anywhere, over a drink. She buzzed his cell phone, and he swaggered out a few minutes later.

  “Hiya, babe. Was it the old boyfriend?” He slid in beside her, tucking his phone into his inside pocket.

  Short, suave, and sophisticated, Ian would never be so crude as to reek of beer, but his three-hundred-dollar-an- ounce cologne smelled worse. Mara rolled her eyes behind her dark glasses and picked up her notebook. “Jared’s brother, yes,” she snapped.

  She hadn’t seen Jared McCloud in years, either, but he was on the outskirts of the film industry, and her screenwriters had mentioned he had a house near this coastal resort. She’d put two and two together the instant she’d seen Tim’s name in the weekly newspaper. There couldn’t be two forensic anthropologists of the same name, living in the same town with Tim’s brother.

  It was a small town. She supposed they’d all bump into each other sooner or later. She didn’t know why she’d hoped for a more enlightening reunion. Must be that damned Patsy part of her, still clinging to teenage dreams of parties and popularity. Still, this way, she could derive some entertainment in wondering how long it would take for the elusive McCloud brothers to figure out who she was.

  Ian gave the driver directions to the beach where they’d be filming, while she studied a map of the area. Sid’s scouts had been out here last year, but she’d been in town only a few hours. Time to get to work. “How difficult will it be to haul equipment?” she demanded. “It looks pretty rural from this.”

  “Last time I was here, they had an unpaved access road a crazy lady blocked with weird contraptions,” Ian answered, “but the state film board says that’s all been cleared up. We have use of the road, but we have to stay off her property.”

  Mara grimaced. She was operating with a horrendously tight budget, and lunatics could be expensive. “The beach is public, right? We don’t need anything but the state permit?”

  Ian idly flipped through the channels on the limo’s tiny TV. “Yeah, but the guys in the bar said there’s been a hurricane through here since then. Sid should have sent someone to check it out. If the damned beach has washed away, we’ll end up hauling sand.”

  Damn Sid. Her ex had a penchant for ignoring details. Mara swallowed a lump of panic. Ian got paid whether this film made a profit or not. He didn’t care how much sand cost. But every penny over budget cut into her share, and she needed every cent of it to buy out Sid. If she couldn’t buy him out... she’d have to move back to her mother’s place in Brooklyn, right back where she started ten thousand years ago.

  Never. She would bring the film in under budget and then some. She’d own the best small independent studio in Hollywood, and then no one could stop her.

  The limo rolled quietly over a two-lane causeway connecting the town to the island. Pelicans soared across the Carolina blue sky. Waves lapped against the concrete abutments. Only Georgia pines and oaks broke the horizon. She loved the sun. She could work on her tan while here. She could work on Tim at the same time. She was a free agent now. The divorce was final, even if the financial settlement was iffy.

  Smiling wickedly at the thought of freedom, Mara watched out the smoky glass as the limo turned from the asphalt highway onto a sandy lane. A thicket of bushes and palmettos gave the appearance of deserted jungle, but she could see the shimmering copper of a weathervane above a widow’s walk on some house in the distance. The crazy lady’s? If so, Mara liked her taste. It would be heavenly to sit in that tower, sipping coffee, watching the tide roll in as the sun came up.

  The limo slowed to a halt, and Mara slipped off her Ferragamos to wiggle her toes. She should have brought sandals for strolling on the beach.

  “Can’t get no farther, ma’am,” the driver said apologetically.

  Thick spiky bushes and dwarf palms lined either side of the road. Erasing the frown wrinkling her forehead, Mara slid her shoes back on and swung her legs out when the driver opened the door.

  “Oh, shit,” Ian muttered from the other side of the long black car.

  Mara stared in horror at the chain-link fence stretched across the road, blocking access to a towering barrier of sand and debris.

  A giant sign shouting WARNING in red letters hung from the rail. Mara stepped closer and read: This property protected by the federal government. For information, contact TJ McCloud Enterprises.

  Chapter Two

  The dig site blocked the access road to the beach house Cleo rented to him, so TJ usually parked at the dig and walked home over the dune. Tonight, he considered bypassing Cleo and Jared’s place and going straight home, but he knew it wasn’t a healthy choice. The beach house had no food in the refrigerator, and he’d end up working half the night instead of eating.

  Working half the night had more appeal than facing the abundant cheer of his brother’s house, but despite his currently depressed state, he was only contemplating career suicide. Aside from the mental-health aspects of avoiding family, Cleo would no doubt kill him for ignoring her invitation. Or torment him mercilessly.

  Thinking of his brother’s odd marriage, TJ shook his head and parked his rented Taurus beside Jared’s Jeep. How his effervescent younger brother had hooked up with a misanthropic piece of work like Cleo was beyond his ability to comprehend. It just proved TJ’s cluelessness about relationships, though, because he’d never seen two people happier together.

  A seven-year-old bundle of energy burst through the front doorway, leapt from the porch, and landed squarely in TJ’s arms as he approached the house. Eight-years old, he reminded himself. Matty had just celebrated a birthday last week. The boy smelled of lemonade and onions.

  With experience gained in this last month, TJ swung his nephew under his arm. “Hey, soldier. Your mama feeding you pure sugar again?”

  Dealing with children was a new experience, but TJ adapted well. Pushing past the screen door, he yelled, “I found a stray monkey in the yard!” into the seemingly empty house. “Should I put him in the zoo?”

  The boy under his arm giggled, naively accepting his world as an unthreatening place. TJ wished he could recapture that kind of innocence.

  “Nah, Jared thinks he can train him for the circus, but he’s having a little trouble keeping a lid on him.” Wearing a grease-stained man’s work shirt, and wiping her hands on a red rag, Cleo emerged from a back room.

  Maybe he should look for a woman like Cleo. She asked for nothing
and expected nothing. She did things in her own way, in her own time. Other women might greet dinner guests in flour-covered aprons or high heels and sexy dresses, but Cleo had obviously been working on another of her mechanical contraptions and had forgotten the time. Jared had seen past Cleo’s dirt-smudged face and uncombed curls to the gem beneath. Maybe TJ ought to learn from his little brother and practice looking beyond the obvious.

  Not that he was ever in one place long enough to try. His contracts with the Defense Department and the United Nations might put him in the company of the occasional military female for a few weeks, but he spent the better part of his time digging in graves and the rest examining bones—not the kind of date most women cherished.

  TJ didn’t know why he was thinking along those lines at all. He had carved out a unique career few men could step into. He had awards for humanitarian efforts in half a dozen war-torn countries. He had dedicated his life to truth and justice, and didn’t regret his footloose lifestyle for a minute.

  Or hadn’t, until he’d met the ugly underside of his accomplishment.

  “Jared ordering pizza?” TJ asked gravely, handing the wriggling boy to his mother.

  “Nope, fixing tacos. I have a whole bottle of ipecac in the medicine closet, should we need it. Go on back. I’ll clean up and be with you in a minute.”

  Jared looked up from a frying pan of hamburger and onions when TJ entered. “Hey, old man, you’re looking grimmer than usual. Those skeletons rattling back?”

  “Why? Does Cleo want them dancing in the drive?” TJ picked a tortilla chip from the bowl and stuck it in the guacamole.

  Jared grinned. “She’d love that. The first of the movie people arrived in town today, and she’s already muttering dire imprecations. The mayor suggested she open a road around your excavation.”

  “Tell her there are federal laws about sand dunes and sea oats. The movie people will have to hire a boat.”

  “I don’t know if that hurricane trash pile you’re digging in qualifies as a sand dune, and I don’t remember any sea oats—”

  The back door flew open and a short, stocky teenage boy burst in. “Did you see the limo? Did you? Reckon it had movie stars in it?”

  A tall, wraithlike girl followed Gene at a more leisurely pace. Eyes darting to ascertain the occupants of the room, Kismet smiled shyly, then silently drifted past the men to the front room.

  After a month of living on this island, TJ had grown accustomed to the neighbor’s eccentric children. Taking a chair at the table, he munched on the chips and let Jared field the boy’s eager questions. Movie stars? He grimaced at the memory of the woman in red. Definitely movie star material. Wonder how in hell she knew his name. Surely Jared hadn’t mentioned him in his brief forays into Hollywood life.

  “I don’t think the actors arrive until production starts,” Jared told the boy. “I imagine you saw the director or producer or their assistants.”

  “Do assistants wear see-through blouses and skirts that barely cover their rear?” TJ mused aloud, reaching behind him to open the refrigerator, remembering too late that Cleo didn’t keep beer in the house.

  Both Jared and Gene turned to study him with interest. “See-through?” the teenager prompted eagerly.

  Scrubbed free of grease and bereft of figure-disguising shirt, Cleo caught the refrigerator door and removed a can of Dr Pepper before TJ could shut it. “See-through?” she repeated innocently, glancing at her husband as she popped the top.

  “Ask big brother, not me.” Jared threw up his hands in self defense. “I don’t do Hollywood these days.”

  Kismet followed Cleo into the kitchen as if feeling safe only in the presence of another female. Quietly, she began setting the table while Cleo produced chopped vegetables and opened a bottle of salsa to go with the tacos.

  “You didn’t ever do Hollywood,” TJ reminded him. “They tried to do you, and you balked.”

  “Creative differences.” Jared dropped the frying pan of sizzling meat onto a trivet in the center of the table. “But I’ve kept my contacts. I know Sid Rosenthal owns the studio for this film. A friend of mine worked on the script.”

  “I don’t suppose Sid wears see-through red?” Cleo widened her eyes in feigned innocence and reached for a tortilla. Today, her T-shirt read: ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MY SELVES.

  Jared kissed her nape and slid into the seat beside her. “No, but Sid’s wife might. She owns half the company. The pirate film is her idea.”

  Rosenthal. Nope, he didn’t know any Rosenthals. Besides, TJ couldn’t imagine that high-heeled chorus girl as a producer of anything but seductive smiles. He wished she’d get out of his head. He had other things far more important to think about. Starting with replacing Leona.

  “I think my assistant quit,” he said by way of taking part in the conversation.

  No one seemed surprised by the odd direction of his thoughts.

  “You think?” Cleo asked.

  “Tim’s assistants always quit,” Jared explained, reaching for the salsa. “He ignores them until they either do something explosive to prove they exist, or decide they’re invisible, and disappear into the woodwork.”

  “I hire them to work, not become a part of my life,” TJ growled.

  “You have no life,” Cleo said bluntly. “Most women just don’t realize you like it that way.”

  Exactly, TJ thought in satisfaction. Finally, a woman who got it, to use Leona’s memorable phrasing. He liked his life the way it was.

  Which was why he was reluctant to ruin it.

  ***

  “Sid, you should have known about this!” Mara shouted into her cell phone while scanning through her contact files, looking for the name of local officials. “There’s a damned archeological dig square in the middle of the road. We’ll never get equipment out there.”

  Locating the mayor’s name, she handed the computerized address book to Ian, accepted the drink he offered her, and glanced at the scenery passing outside the limo’s window.

  “No, I haven’t talked to the site foreman yet.” She grimaced at her ex-husband’s annoying habit of treating her like an idiot. But what else could she expect? She’d disguised her brains for too long. “I didn’t even know the dig existed until two minutes ago. There has to be another entrance to that beach.”

  Using his own cell phone, Ian left a message on the mayor’s machine and began scanning her file for other numbers. Mara took a sip of her martini while Sid ranted, then set the drink back in the limo bar and reached for her notes. She should have followed her instincts and left Sid out of this, but she was terrified she’d wreck everything on her own. She’d made a career of wrecking things.

  “Sid, those scenes require a boom. We can’t get it in there without taking a bulldozer to that dune. Someone should have checked the location after the hurricane.” She rifled through her notes until she found the map again. A rock jetty blocked the east end of the beach. The crazy lady’s swamp blocked the west end. No access anywhere.

  Visions of the whole production imploding danced across the film screen of her mind. They’d already spent a quarter million. Glynis Everett would only be available for the next six months, and they needed three of those months at this location. Without the star, the film was dead in the water. A quarter million down the drain—along with her dreams of owning her own studio. She’d be under her family’s thumb for the rest of her life.

  They’d crush her into the lowly frog she’d once been. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d go as crazy as her mother.

  Now there was a topic best avoided. Tapping her gold pen against her notes, Mara half listened to Sid’s curses and threats while she formulated another plan in the back of her mind.

  She knew Tim, or had, once upon a lifetime ago. He’d probably been the only shy athlete in the history of their exclusive Long Island private school. He’d even had time for the lonely four-eyed sister of his best friend. She’d suffered a bad case of hero worship until the day he’d
turned traitor and walked out on her when she needed him most. He owed her for that.

  He wouldn’t see it that way.

  No matter. They were on level playing ground now. She was no longer the humble scholarship student, and he wasn’t the wealthy golden-boy athlete. This time, he could work with her, or she’d rip his throat out.

  Remembering the dangerous light in TJ’s eyes when he’d ordered her out of his lab, Mara thought she’d prefer working with him than against him, but the choice would have to be his.

  Hitting the phone’s end button and shutting Sid out in mid-rant, she retrieved her address book from the PDA and pointed out a list of names to Ian. “Call all the city council members. They want this film, they’ll have to earn it.”

  “Hire a secretary,” he growled, refusing the device.

  “Hire one for me,” she countered. That’s what she had enjoyed most about being Sid’s wife—other people always did what she couldn’t, or what she was afraid to try. All she’d ever had to do was look good.

  Those days were over. Mara dropped the palm-sized computer in Ian’s lap. “The council or a temp agency,” she ordered, returning her attention to the maps and notes in her lap.

  She’d mourned her thirty-third birthday months ago. Time was passing. If she couldn’t stand on her own two feet now, she never would. She had to reverse a lifetime of habits in the next six months if she wanted to survive.

  ***

  Having been humiliated the day before, Mara carefully chose her clothing the next morning. TJ had nearly dropped his teeth when he’d seen her yesterday. She wanted his attention today, but she preferred he focus it on their discussion and not her boobs. That caused something of a dilemma. She didn’t have much else in the way of attention-getting assets.