At the Clearest Sensation

by M. L. Buchman

  There was no question in her mind that he was seeing her, Isobel Manella. Not any of her roles, not even the playful lover enjoying herself during their first nights together. He genuinely feared for her.

  Devlin had signed up to be a local tour guide for site selection, and a general handyman for the shoot. For the first time, he was thrust into the middle of the maelstrom that was a film.

  They gave him the title of Production Manager, which meant that somehow it was now his problem to make the whole thing happen.

  And because they weren’t willing to risk any civilians outside the Shadow Force team, other than himself, the real film crew was put on hold “pending script changes.”

  To replace the personnel, this Colonel Gibson had called in some favors.

  By the next morning, a pair of military war dogs were on site with their handlers: a big bruiser of a guy with one real arm and one artificial, and a lovely brunette who was just as serious as he was and wielded just as big a dog.

  They arrived in a small helo flown by a lovely blonde whose greeting proved that someone had found a heart inside Colonel Michael Gibson. Devlin’s personal jury was still out on that being possible.

  Another ex-Delta couple, who apparently owned a major vineyard just a few hours south in Portland, Oregon, showed up next.

  A sniper from the national Hostage Rescue Team named Kee arrived on “vacation time.”

  Assorted others filtered in.

  Many waved greetings, traded heartily thumping embraces, and showed off photos of kids and dogs.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, Devlin was kept too busy to do much thinking. Instead, he taught each new arrival their various roles on a film to go with their security responsibilities. His history of filling in where needed on prior films was suddenly very handy. He assigned people to whatever seemed a decent fit: props, logistics, equipment rental from the local theater supply outfit, a striking blonde named Emily took over the catering. Oddly, she received more respect than anyone else there. Neither Jesse nor Anton could even speak in her presence, which Devlin rather enjoyed watching.

  He couldn’t keep all of them straight. So, he taught them what he could and told them to come find him if anything went sideways.

  He expected catastrophe.

  Instead, they blended in as if they really were a trained film crew. The questions that did reach him were intelligent, and typically more about verifying an answer they’d already come up with than needing one. It was hard to remember that these were highly trained military elite, deeply skilled at blending in and adapting quickly. More than that, these were the people who owed Colonel Gibson a favor and answered his call. That meant the bar was set up at some serious level of competence.

  No one was told about Shadow Force: Psi’s capabilities; Gibson kept that to the inner circle, though it was pretty clear that the blonde cook knew as well. As far as everyone else was concerned, there was a rogue SOG assassin after one of Colonel Gibson’s friends. Apparently that was enough for them to drop their lives on no notice and filter into Seattle from around the nation.

  Frankly, it was a damned impressive demonstration of Gibson’s concern and power.

  It was also a little terrifying that he felt it was needed.

  Devlin himself and Shadow Force: Psi became Isobel’s buffer from all the mayhem.

  The only place that was completely sacrosanct was the houseboat. No one knew its whereabouts except Gibson. Before departure or return, Anton and Katie would take ten minutes to “check things out.”

  As far as he could tell, they just sat there holding hands.

  “What are they doing?” He’d whispered the question to Michelle.

  “Being freaks like the rest of us.”

  “Jesus, Red, get the goddamn stick out of your butt. I’m just as worried as you are.”

  She’d actually rested a hand on his arm in apology: her biggest concession since he’d tried to walk away from Isobel and only made it eight steps down the dock.

  “Just forget it.” But when he went to leave, she held onto his arm. So he waited her out.

  She cleared her throat a couple times before starting, as if nervous to be talking about any of their skills. Hard to blame her with some crazy CIA guy hunting them.

  “Anton may be a kickass helo pilot, but he can also send his vision lookabout. He is sitting there,” she nodded toward the couch, “but his vision is walking all of the streets around the area.”

  “The chance of him seeing this guy… Hell, we don’t even have recent photos of him. Just that one image Katie caught on film.”

  She shook his arm as if telling him to shut up. “That’s what Katie is doing. She can’t feel emotions like Isobel. But she can feel when someone has been somewhere. Ricardo said she’s one of the best trackers he’s ever met even without her gift. With it, once she’s felt someone, like she did with this jerk when he almost crashed into her, she can tell Anton if he crosses their track again. He and Katie have to be in contact for it to work, but if Anton does cross the guy’s path, she can tell him how to follow it.”

  “Slick. So, Claude Vermette can’t get near the place without us knowing.”

  “We don’t think so. Anton and Katie tried following you and it worked, despite the weird block you have against Isobel.”

  Devlin felt an itch between his shoulder blades.

  Michelle laughed at him. It wasn’t a kind laugh. “Not enjoying your time with the freaks?”

  “You know, if you keep calling yourselves that long enough, you’re gonna start believing it. It’s not how I see you, so you should stop seeing yourselves that way.”

  “Bull pucky, Devlin. I saw you flinch because they followed you, asshole.”

  He turned to face Michelle. “You’re not Isobel.”

  “Duh!”

  “What I mean is…” Devlin scrubbed at his face, trying to straighten out his own thoughts. “Don’t think that you know what the hell I’m feeling.”

  “It was on your face, jerk.” Her nails might be short, but that didn’t stop them from digging into his arm.

  “On my face—” Christ but he didn’t want this memory back but he couldn’t think how else to explain it. “You ever been hungry, Red?”

  “Before every meal.”

  “No, I mean bone hungry. So deep that the pain in your gut makes you cry no matter what you tell yourself?”

  The answer to that was clear.

  “In between times the system snatched me up, I knew that hunger. I’d beg, borrow, steal, fence. Didn’t matter.”

  Michelle’s wide eyes said he’d just walked way outside her experience.

  “My reaction, my flinch, was for the fear I felt when I knew that the cops had eyes on my sorry ass. Back when no amount of hiding, or even just turning around and seeing no one there, could convince that poor, starving kid he was in the clear.”

  He slowly peeled her fingers off his arm and hissed as the blood flow restarted.

  “I hope to God you never feel that. I damn well hope I never do again either. So, don’t think that you know what I’m thinking. Even if I wasn’t somehow blocked from her, you’re not Isobel. You can’t read shit about me.”

  Devlin wasn’t ready for what he saw in her eyes. It wasn’t disgust or distrust. It was compassion and pity so deep that he couldn’t stand to look at it.

  Instead, he turned to watch Anton and Katie watching somewhere else.

  Michelle patted his arm a couple times where she’d clawed him. Then she leaned her forehead against the side of his shoulder. He wasn’t ready for the hot moisture of tears filtering through his t-shirt.

  Damn Isobel for being right. He patted Michelle’s hand now resting lightly on his forearm because he didn’t know what else to do. As prickly and temperamental a bitch as she could be, at her core Michelle was a total sweetheart.

  Chapter 21

  For three days, as the layers of shielding built up around her, nothing happened.

&nb
sp; Because she didn’t know what else to do, Isobel leaned into the film as a safe haven and complete distraction. She buried herself in the work.

  The film was set to take place in a single day in her character’s life—one that would change her forever.

  They’d gotten a lot of usable footage for the final car chase. Acquiring the yellow Hummer had guaranteed they’d have the vehicle if they needed it. But she’d made it clear that she wasn’t going to drive it.

  The dealer had offered it at a bargain as Claude Vermette had dinged it up too much for it to be sold as new. Then Devlin, being smart, had offered them a screen credit and they’d given it to the film for free. If it survived, they wanted to have it back to resell “as seen in the latest Isobel Manella film.” Fine with her, as long as she didn’t have to touch it. She could almost feel Vermette’s psychic madness lingering in its chassis.

  She’d also refused to drive the reshoot of the passage through the downtown tunnel. Instead, Devlin had done the drive wearing a wig and slouching lower in the seat to Isobel’s height.

  All that morning, she’d huddled in the houseboat with her protective ring around her.

  No one had bothered him and she felt foolish for her refusal, no matter how much Devlin insisted otherwise.

  Gibson hadn’t been so very wrong about him being her champion. He was fearless of anyone. He plagued Ricardo with what-if questions until she thought her brother would go mad. Then Devlin would ask something Ricardo hadn’t thought of, and in moments Hannah and Gibson would be called in for a change in some tactic in the security perimeter she couldn’t stand to think about. Never in her entire career had she been so cut off from the world around her.

  Devlin had also proved his bravery when he faced Michelle down about being too overprotective. And he was always willing to listen to Jennie with the patience that she sometimes so required.

  So, she took her cue from that, and let him handle all of the headaches.

  Because the film was to occur over a single day, and they were shooting in order, the shooting schedule progressed a little later each day.

  And by the third day, they’d settled into a routine.

  The main floor of the houseboat had become command central. Extra workstations had been set up and one television screen was now four that could be fed separately or as one monstrous image.

  Lunches were soon crowded into the kitchen or out on the back deck as the dining table now belonged to the camera and sound gear.

  Once clear of the dawn sequences, they started their mornings with final shot planning and logistics. Then there was the day’s shoot sequence.

  Back at the houseboat, they reviewed that day’s film.

  She and Jennie would spend hours making notes on the useable sequences and a rough edit of how it all fit together. A Delta operator named Richie became her remote editor. At the end of each day, she’d send off the pan, zoom, and splicing instructions of what shot to use from each camera. Each morning, they could watch the rough cut on the footage.

  Actually not so rough. She’d been hoping for a viewable rough cut because video editing and cleanup was an incredibly technical process. But by the third day, he was returning near usable film. There was no planned CGI, and she’d wanted a gritty reality so his finished product was very close. It was definitely something she could send to a finish editor as a master template.

  When she’d let him know that he was that close, he’d re-rolled all the way through the first couple days’ work bringing everything up to his new standard. Along with the note, “My wife, The Cat, has a really good eye. Two actually. Isn’t she awesome?”

  They both were…and she hoped to meet them someday, but they were outside the protective bubble that Gibson had built around her.

  Once the daily edit sheet was shipped to Richie, she and Jennie would plunge into polishing up the next day’s master storyboard. Gibson’s team would use those to plan and implement tomorrow’s setups. Even at her level, it wasn’t very often she could step on a set and perform, but they were so efficient that there were minimal delays.

  The only relief was when she plunged into bed. Sometimes Devlin was still out working with the teams. Other times, he was already passed out facedown. But they always woke curled up together, which was a pleasant surprise every single time.

  “When are we going sailing again, Devlin?” she whispered one morning as they lay curled up and watched the dawn light catch first on Queen Anne Hill’s trio of radio towers across the lake.

  “Once you’re safe, Belle. Then I’ll take you anywhere. We can take her up to the San Juan Islands north of here. Better yet, I’ll borrow a friend’s cruiser so that we can sleep aboard. A fifty-foot sloop with blood-red sails, you’ll love it. We’ll head up the Inside Passage past the Canadian Gulf Islands. There are quiet inlets where you can swim and no one would know you’re there.”

  “You trying to get me naked, Beast?”

  “I can take care of that right now, Belle,” and he tugged on the hem of her nightshirt, but she stopped him when she heard Ricardo and Michelle up and chatting in the next bedroom. Quiet nighttime talk or lovemaking didn’t pass through the walls. But once daytime routines were going, there was very little privacy in the packed houseboat.

  Devlin placed his face between her breasts and groaned in frustration.

  As she dug her fingers through his unruly hair, she had a thought.

  Frankly, they’d expected an attack almost immediately, yet there hadn’t been one.

  She didn’t want to stop the filming, but today, even shooting out of order wouldn’t get them around the one problem she hadn’t dealt with.

  Unless…

  Devlin was going to hate it, and she couldn’t wait to tell him!

  Devlin decided that soul-deep exhaustion wasn’t such a bad thing when you got to bury your face between breasts as incredible as Isobel Manella’s. The thin nightshirt hid nothing and added that little tease of something to peel off the woman…soon. It was one he’d bought for her that said, Life is just a series of obstacles that keep you from sailing.

  There was a brief silence.

  Maybe Michelle and Ricardo were done. Then he heard a dresser drawer slam next door. Michelle’s unsubtle signal for them to get moving. “Next time, Belle, we get a houseboat to ourselves. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She fooled with his hair a bit more. “I have this great idea.”

  “If it isn’t telling everyone else to go to hell and letting me just keep you in my arms the rest of the day, I don’t want to hear it.” He was getting damned sick of life’s little obstacles to their sex life.

  He felt her happy sigh. “Please keep thinking that way.”

  “I guarantee it.” Because her words meant that thinking about it was all he was going to get to do.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and a leg over his hip, pulling him tight against her, which either made it worse…or better…or both.

  He held her just as tightly while the damn woman purred. He hadn’t known that women could purr, but Isobel could. A low soft thrum deep in her chest, making that perfect cross between utter contentment and raw sexuality.

  “You know today’s shooting sequence.”

  He knew it. Or he had in his role as Production Manager. He couldn’t seem to bring it to mind with the pleasant distraction of their current positions.

  “The rest of the cast and crew isn’t actually due for two more weeks.”

  Civilians had to be kept safe. He gritted his teeth, some civilians did.

  “And you know that put my on-screen partner into a schedule conflict.”

  He nodded and enjoyed the sensation of doing so while being enveloped in Isobel.

  “That means…” And she trailed off.

  That meant that today’s shooting schedule, where her character Rosamaria was actually interviewed and hired at a small private investigator firm in Pioneer Square, couldn’t be shot. That interview was the pivotal moment that w
ould launch her from out-of-work job applicant into fighting side-by-side with her new boss for their very lives. There was no more film—except during brief moments in the action sequences and when the hero was brutally injured near the climax so that Isobel could face off the killer alone—when the two of them were apart.

  Still Isobel didn’t say a thing. Just her gentle fingers fooling around in his hair making his hormones try to transcend mere bodily residence.

  Almost as if she was enticing him to—

  “Hold it.”

  She giggled. Ms. Sophisticated Always-perfectly-controlled-under-any-circumstances Isobel Manella had just giggled at him.

  He pushed away enough from pure heaven to open his eyes and inspect her face.

  “If ever there was an evil smile—”

  It just grew bigger. She was clearly delighted with some joke.

  And he suddenly knew to the pit of his gut that’s exactly what it wasn’t.

  He reburied his face against her chest and groaned.

  Chapter 22

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” Devlin protested as Isobel did his makeup in the bathroom. He needed very little to accent those features for the camera. It was hard for Isobel not to trace them with her fingers as she did the work.

  “As one of the leads, you’ll get paid handsomely,” she reminded him.

  “I don’t want your money,” he grumbled as Michelle tried to help him out of his normal clothes. “Back off, Red.”

  “Spoilsport,” Michelle shot Isobel a wink she couldn’t help returning.

  With his t-shirt already peeled off, a half-dressed and very frustrated Devlin Jones was indeed a very pretty sight.

  “Holy crumbs!” Michelle had circled around behind him, and was now staring at Devlin’s grand, multi-colored dragon tattoo. She poked it, almost as if testing to see if it was alive.

  He turned far enough to swat Michelle’s hand aside.

  “Plus a percentage of the profits,” Isobel reminded him.

  “Not gonna be any of those with me on the screen.” He looked terribly uncomfortable in the button-down shirt.