by JoAnn Ross
“If they knew I’ve fallen in love with a man from the past, if they suspected I’m meeting that man at his own tomb two centuries after his death, they’d have me committed. For my own good, of course.”
Watching her, listening to her use of the first person pronoun, Michael suspected Lorelei didn’t even realize she’d slipped into her character’s skin. He decided she could have been in another world. Which she was...
He was only a figment of her imagination, she’d told herself each night. He wasn’t real.
But, dear heavens, her need—no, that wasn’t strong enough—her hunger was all too real. And so, it seemed, was his.
Every morning, the bruises and bite marks on her flesh were proof that although she hadn’t left the room, had opened the door to no one, she’d been thoroughly ravished. The passion—and the marks—had escalated with each passing night. But incredibly, they’d only left her wanting more....
“Show time, Lorelei,” a voice called out, shattering her sensual thoughts.
Lorelei blinked, looked around and saw Michael standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking at her with grave interest.
“That was fascinating.”
“What?” Her mind was splintered; she couldn’t understand his words.
“Watching your mind work. Do you always become your characters?”
“Not always.” She blinked again as reality began to sink in. “But Brian’s good. His constant rewriting is a pain, but he always creates characters I can identify with.” She smiled a little self-consciously. “Sometimes it’s almost as if we’re in each other’s heads.”
As she walked to her mark, stopping to speak briefly with Wilder, Michael found himself hating the idea of Lorelei having any kind of damn mental telepathy with the hotshot Hollywood writer.
When the cameras began rolling, Lorelei became Mary Beth Wyndom. She knew Mary Beth’s thoughts. Hopes. And fears.
The crew, the cameras, the fog machine, the microphone over her head, everything from her everyday working world, all faded from her consciousness.
She was now all alone in the cemetery. The tombs, barely visible through the thick swirling fog, stood silent, like mute white ghosts. She was wearing a gauzy lavender dress that seemed created from the very mist that curled in clinging tendrils around her bare arms and calves. In the stuttering, veiled early morning light her skin looked as smooth, and felt as cold, as the marble surrounding her. A sprig of white flowers was pinned above her breast.
As she made her tentative way across the uneven, shell-strewn ground, she briefly wondered what insane impulse had her wearing such impractical, spindly high heels. Such vanity could be dangerous. That thought made her laugh, the silvery sound echoing in the fog. As if her entire reason for coming here today wasn’t already fraught with danger.
The smell of impending rain rode the air scented with camellias, jasmine, magnolias and diesel oil from the nearby river. She tripped over an urn of plastic flowers and stumbled to her knees, catching hold of a corner of a tomb that was sinking into the marshy ground.
As she clung to the cold damp stone, she thought she heard someone whisper her name...Mary Beth...but decided it was only the sound of the leaves brushing together overhead.
Pulling herself up to her feet, she continued on, weaving her way through the tombs, stopping now and then when she thought she heard the soft sounds of gravel crunching behind her. But whenever she’d pause, all she could hear were the muffled sounds of Basin Street traffic and the high, sad sweet song of an alto sax from somewhere in the French Quarter.
Her nerves were jangling, her pulse hammered in her throat. She swallowed and tasted the metallic flavor of fear. And the sweeter, honeyed taste of anticipation.
She could feel him. Watching her. Waiting. And amazingly, although it didn’t make any sense, although every logical bone in her body told her that it was impossible, she knew that the man she had come here to meet, the man who’d been haunting her dreams, knowing her every need, understanding how she liked to be kissed, touching her exactly where she longed to be touched, was the same man she’d based her current novel on.
A man who’d been dead for two hundred years.
She passed a tomb covered with brick dust x’s. Coins, shells and beads littered the ground around it. The tomb allegedly belonged to Marie Laveau, the nineteenth-century voodoo queen. The x’s signified wishes, the offerings left in appreciation for wishes granted, or “just in case.”
She’d finally reached her destination. The hammering in her throat calmed even as her blood warmed in anticipation.
“I’ve come, Philippe.” She ran her fingertips over the name carved into the gleaming white stone. Philippe Villars Marigny de Dubreuil, reckless, dashing, youngest son of a wealthy Creole planter who’d been killed in a duel. Some of his detractors had called Philippe a pirate. Others a devil.
But to her, he was everything.
“Mary Beth.” Her name whispered over her face, touched her eyes, which fluttered obediently closed, teased at her lips, which could already taste his Virginia grown tobacco and French brandy. “Ma Belle.”
Mary Beth had known, when he’d first appeared in her bedroom, with his clever hands and wicked lips, that as magical as it was, their togetherness had the impermanence of the insubstantial fog that wrapped around them whenever they made love. In the beginning, she’d told herself that it was enough, that since no man had ever loved her with such passion, since no other man had ever made her feel so alive, so much of a woman, she was willing to accept this temporary coming together.
But it was no longer enough. Having prepared for this night, she’d made numerous visits to the Voodoo Museum on St. Ann, purchased gris-gris at the adjoining gift shop, burned incense and left coins for Marie Laveau and even journeyed out into the bayou to meet with a self-proclaimed voodoo priestess.
And now, finally, she was ready.
Her fingers began unfastening the pearl buttons between her breasts. One by one they gave way and when the dress was finally open to the hem, she shrugged, allowing it to fall off her shoulders, where it drifted to the gleaming white gravel like a filmy lavender cloud. Beneath the dress she was wearing a virginal white lace teddy that shimmered like moonlight, and white lace-topped stockings that ended high on her thighs.
“I’ve come, Philippe,” she whispered. She closed her eyes again and extended her arms in a mute sensual invitation.
She did not have long to wait. When she felt the strong fingers curl around her neck, she tilted her head back, offering the paleness of her throat. Her hair fell down her back like a pale waterfall, her lips parted expectantly.
“So you have, my dear.” The fingers, encased in black leather, tightened. As her eyes flew open in shock, Mary Beth found herself staring not into the loving dark eyes of her phantom dream lover, but at a demon born of her worst nightmares.
She opened her mouth to scream, but those dark treacherous fingers cut off all sound. She saw the glint of a scalpel, felt the cold slice of steel against her suddenly icy flesh.
Then everything went dark....
A long silence settled over the cemetery. Eric Taylor finally broke it.
“Cut,” he called out, his voice lacking its usual assertion.
“Cut,” the assistant director echoed, his own voice shakier than usual.
“Christ,” Brian Wilder murmured.
“Got it in one,” John Nelson said with pleasure.
Michael looked down at the scantily dressed Lorelei lying seemingly lifeless on the gravel, wrapped in artificially produced fog, and couldn’t say anything.
7
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Lorelei was sitting with the crew in a booth at the Acme Oyster House. Befitting the laid-back Big Easy atmosphere, a nearby sign announced that a waitress was available—sometimes.
Even with her face scrubbed free of the heavy theatrical makeup and clad in jeans and a T-shirt, she’d garnered more than a little attention. Watching
the patrons of the popular New Orleans establishment eyeing her with interest, Michael realized that Lorelei would probably never be free to live a truly private life.
“That strangled scream was a nice touch, Lorelei,” Brian said. He tossed back an oyster and followed it up with a swallow of draft beer.
“Made the scene,” Eric agreed, polishing off his vodka gimlet and catching the waitress’s eye for another.
“I wasn’t exactly acting at the time.” The memory frightened her. Lorelei took a sip of iced tea and willed her mind back to something resembling calm. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d written that scalpel into the scene?”
Brian shrugged. “Since Eric and I decided to toss it in at the last minute, we thought it might get more of a reaction if you didn’t know about it ahead of time.”
“It worked great, Lorelei,” John assured her with the enthusiasm of a man who loved his work. “Wait until you see the dailies. I was using a handheld camera that’ll give it a shaky, psychological edge.”
“I thought, for a moment, that the scalpel was real,” she complained. She stabbed a piece of romaine. Although she was attempting to be good and stick to her salad, she’d already slipped and allowed herself two of the restaurant’s specialties. How fattening could oysters on the half shell be?
“Did it ever occur to you creative geniuses that Michael might have thought so, as well? Someone could have gotten shot.”
“Of course we thought of that, darling,” Eric assured her. “Which is why we informed Mr. O’Malley of the change.”
She shot him a look. “You knew I was going to get scared to death?”
He shrugged, chewed the bite of fried catfish he’d just put in his mouth and wondered how the hell he’d gotten dragged into the movie business.
“I knew the script had been changed,” he said after he’d swallowed. “I didn’t realize how strong the new scene was going to turn out to be.”
“Well.” She shook her head as she studied the four men she’d thought she could trust. “You all probably would be feeling a lot less pleased with yourselves if I’d dropped dead of a heart attack right on the spot.”
“Couldn’t happen,” Brian assured her with his trademark cocky grin. “You’ve got the heart of a trooper, Lorelei. Hitchcock’s probably kicking in his grave, frustrated that he missed the chance to work with you.”
She refused to allow such blatant flattery to diminish her lingering pique. “Speaking of graves, am I at least allowed to ask if the man stalking me—the two-hundred-year-old dead man—is also a vampire?”
“I haven’t decided that yet,” Brian admitted. “It’d make a nice touch....”
“Especially if you decide to join him on the dark side,” Eric said.
“And blood is always so challenging to film,” John added cheerfully.
“But it may just turn out that you’re nuts and imagining everything that’s happening to you,” Brian said.
“You guys are nuts,” she muttered.
“That goes without saying.” Brian reached over and ruffled her hair in a friendly, fraternal gesture. “And, for the record, so are you darlin’. If we weren’t, we’d all be working for IBM. Or selling insurance.”
On that depressing note, the conversation drifted off and everyone returned their attention to lunch.
Shayne, looking outrageously dapper in black jeans, a black silk T-shirt and a cream raw silk jacket that Lorelei immediately recognized as an Armani, arrived during the argument over what to order for dessert.
“Someone call for a private detective?” he asked cheerfully.
“My God,” John Nelson murmured in Lorelei’s ear. “Who is that Greek god?”
“Shayne O’Malley,” she murmured back. “The youngest brother.”
“Youngest?” The cameraman’s blond brow climbed his forehead as he looked from Shayne to Michael, then back again. “There are more than two?”
“Three. Roarke’s the middle one.”
“Does he look—”
“As good as the others.”
“It’s just a good thing we got the fog scene out of the way. Because I doubt if we’ll get another decent bit of work out of Dennis all day long,” John predicted with a long-suffering sigh.
As she watched Michael introduce his brother to the other men at the table, and noted the relaxed masculinity Shayne exuded, Lorelei decided the cameraman might just be right.
The afternoon filming went faster. Since it was mostly shots of scenery, designed to set mood and place, Lorelei strolled along the levee, checked out the artists outside the gates of Jackson Square and rode the ferry—the one Sandra Bullock had made famous in The Pelican Brief—across the river to Algiers Point, then back again.
And although she knew Shayne was nearby the entire time, his steady presence didn’t cause the same simmering sexual awareness she’d felt when his brother watched her.
By late afternoon, long blue shadows were drifting over the Quarter, causing John to announce he was losing the light.
“It’s just as well,” Eric decided. “Might as well knock off early so those of us who promised their kids souvenirs can get some shopping done before that reception tonight.”
Damn. The reception had completely slipped her mind. After the day she’d put in, Lorelei had been looking forward to a long soak in the tub, room service, and perhaps a comedy on the movie channel. Unless, of course, Brian gave her another blizzard of changes to memorize.
“Eric—”
“No way, kiddo.” Guessing what she was about to ask, he put up a hand, forestalling her argument. “The city has cooperated with us every step of the way on this film, even paying for off duty cops to keep the crowds away. In return for this largesse, the mayor, along with several other influential local citizens, wishes to get his picture taken with America’s sex goddess. I, for one, am not going to deny him the opportunity.”
Even though she knew he had a point, Lorelei was still not looking forward to an evening spent in high heels making small talk with politicians.
“There are times when I wish we were back in the old days,” she muttered. “When movies were all made on sets in gigantic sound stages and we didn’t have to kiss up to every mayor, police commissioner and city council member whenever we wanted to film on location.”
“Schmoozing is part of the business,” he said with the ease of a man who did such socializing often and easily. “And don’t forget, sweetheart, back in those so-called good old days, you’d be expected to audition on your back on a casting couch.”
“There is that,” she acknowledged crossly. She tried another tack. “I forgot to bring anything appropriate for a reception.”
“No problem. You can borrow something from wardrobe.”
“Let’s see, that leaves me with a choice of a dress covered with fake blood, a see-through teddy, or those pasties and G-string I’m still getting up nerve to wear for the stripper scene.”
“Go shopping. We’ll write it off as promo expense.”
“You’re expecting me to find a suitable outfit just like that?” She snapped her fingers.
“Why not? If my wife can spend the equivalent of the treasuries of the entire Third World in a single afternoon on Rodeo Drive, you should be able to find a simple cocktail dress.”
Surrendering to the inevitable, Lorelei caved in, as she’d known from the beginning she would.
“So,” she asked Shayne with studied casualness as they headed toward the shopping district on Canal Street, “did Eric rope you into accompanying me to the mayor’s reception?”
“Actually, that’s Michael’s gig. He takes the nights and mornings,” he explained. “I pick up the middle of the day.”
“I see.” She thought about thak. “I suppose I’m not your only case.”
“No.” He grinned down at her. “Just our most important.”
Lorelei smiled back. She could almost forget the reason for Shayne’s presence, almost pretend they were si
mply friends taking a late afternoon stroll through the Quarter.
“I still can’t believe you’ve settled down,” she said as they passed the Old Absinthe House, where Andrew Jackson and the Lafitte brothers had supposedly plotted the defense of the city back in 1815. At some time since then the custom had begun of putting calling cards on the wall; the browning cards resembled layers of peeling wallpaper. “You always insisted New Orleans was too small for you.”
“I had a lot of plans,” he agreed. “Lived a lot of them, too.”
“As a spy?” She’d heard the remarkable rumor from a cousin who’d run into Shayne O’Malley in the mountains of Tibet several years ago.
“A government agent,” he corrected mildly. “Sort of a traveling bureaucrat.”
There was no way she could envision this man as a mere bureaucrat, but deciding there was no point in arguing, she shifted the topic to what she really wanted to know.
“Michael also mentioned something about you being serious about a woman?” Her cousin Savannah had waxed nostalgic about her hot, short-lived affair with the sexy O’Malley brother.
“Her name is Bliss.” Just the way his voice warmed, drawing the name out, lingering over it, told Lorelei that whoever she was, the woman likely had a great deal to do with Shayne’s deciding to put down roots. “Bliss Fortune. She owns an antique shop—The Treasure Trove. She’s also technically my landlady since The Blue Bayou offices are upstairs.”
“You never did mention why Michael caught you breaking into those offices,” Lorelei mused.
“It’s a long story, but the condensed version is that I thought Bliss was an international jewel thief and I was trying to get the goods on her. At the time, I had no idea Michael had rented the offices upstairs. Hell, I was as surprised to see him as he was to see me.”
So that’s how they came to be holding guns on each other. The chilling thought made her shiver.
