by Laura Moore
It had taken her, what, two hours since she waltzed back into Coral Beach to accuse him of crooked politics?
Did Lily have any idea of the high-wire act he was attempting by trying to get the reef accurately documented and assessed before he took a public stance on the marina development? No, of course not. Sean might have filled her in, if she hadn’t made it clear she assumed his sole motivation was political gain.
Stung, he’d retaliated in kind, implying that Lily might stoop so low as to manipulate the reef study—even though Sean knew the sun would set in the east before Lily Banyon committed an act of professional dishonesty. Her integrity had always been one of the things he admired most about her. That Lily actually fell for his bogus threat merely showed how profound her distrust, her dislike of him was.
At the Rusted Keel, Dave had urged him to seize the opportunity to go on the research boat and work on charming Lily.
Yeah, thought Sean acidly, as he carried the cocktails toward the living room. He and Lily were off to their usual great start.
Both women looked up when Sean entered, a gin fizz and two whiskeys nestled in his hands. Only May Ellen greeted him with a smile.
Already beset with remorse toward her grandmother, Lily’s sense of composure deserted her entirely when Sean joined them. How, especially after their last conversation, could she still react to him like this? It would have been a soothing balm to her pride if she could blame the immediate surroundings for making Sean appear so striking, so breath-stealingly handsome.
May Ellen’s living room had always reminded Lily of a movie set for a film entitled Jungle Fever. The room’s decor was dominated by zebra and jaguar printed throw pillows nestled against the sofas and chairs, and ceiling-high palms which rose in wide, leafy arcs from their celadon green planters. The side tables were cluttered with bric-a-brac, family pictures, and lamps sporting heavily fringed shades. Against this visual cacophony, Sean stood out, all austere masculine beauty.
Unfortunately for Lily’s nervous system, he’d looked just as good in the Rusted Keel’s musty gloom. And downright devastating sitting two feet from her in the tiny rental car.
Sean placed May Ellen’s gin fizz on the nearest side table. “Why thank you, Sean. I only wish I’d known Lily was coming, I’d have chilled some champagne.”
“And ruin the tradition of Thursday night gin fizzes?” Sean teased with a smile. He circled the mahogany coffee table to where Lily sat.
He stopped and waited.
Slowly, her blond head tilted upward until her eyes met his. Enormous and wide, they looked like a winter sea, tossed with mystery. For the thousandth time, Sean wished he could ignore his feelings for this beautiful, intelligent, and damnably frustrating woman. That he could forget a lifetime of desire. Tamping down on the need to kiss Lily senseless, he pressed the whiskey into her hand instead.
Frustration came out as a low growl of warning. “Here. Try drinking it a little slower than you drive, or I’ll get a police escort to follow you to the condo.”
Icy sparks flew from her incredible eyes. Sean welcomed them. It helped that he could rile her, gave him the fleeting illusion that he had some defense against this cursed attraction. As an added touch, he laughed, taunting softly, “Careful there, Dr. Banyon, your temper’s showing.”
Lily’s hand tightened around the glass, but before she could reply with a cutting comment of her own, May Ellen asked, “What was that you said, Sean?”
“Nothing very interesting, May Ellen,” Lily said flatly.
“Humph! I don’t believe that.” May Ellen leveled a bright blue gaze at Sean, who’d crossed the room to stand with a shoulder propped against the archway that connected the living room and the dining room. “It seems to me there’s a lot of very interesting things you’ve been keeping to yourself these days, Sean McDermott. Such as the fact that my granddaughter will be working here—”
“It’s only for a few weeks—”
“I didn’t know she was coming—” Lily and Sean answered simultaneously.
“Well, I forgive you,” May said magnanimously. “Because this was the nicest surprise I’ve ever had. And I know what a relief this must be for you, Sean, and the advisory committee, to have Lily working on the reef study. She’s the best,” she boasted with grandmaternal pride.
A moment of charged silence followed. Lily’s face burned, flames fed by the dual embarrassment of her grandmother’s outlandish praise and Sean’s reticence. Yet just when she was sure he would damn her by refusing to respond, Sean surprised her. Again.
“You’re absolutely right, May Ellen. Lily is the best. I’m thrilled she’s heading the study. The other members of the panel will be, too, once they see the quality of her work.”
May Ellen beamed with delight. “Now, isn’t that a nice thing to say, Lily?”
Lily managed a feeble nod and downed a healthy gulp of whiskey. She hoped it might clear her head. It didn’t help. She was still dizzy, not from spirits but from Sean’s quicksilver temperament. At the reef meeting Sean had defended her from Ferrucci’s criticisms. But when they’d been alone in the car, Sean had not only doubted her professional integrity, he’d threatened to ruin her reputation. Now he’d changed his tune again, singing Lily’s praises to her grandmother. . . . Oh, of course. That was it. Sean cared deeply for May Ellen. That’s why he was willing to pretend so very convincingly.
It was an excellent performance, indeed a brilliant one. Listening to Sean, Lily’s heart ached. His words of praise were perversely cruel, far more painful than any slight, for no matter how desperately Lily wished it otherwise, there was one thing she was sure would never change: Sean’s true feelings for her.
Lost in thought, Lily didn’t register May’s voice until she heard her say, “I’ve had the most wonderful idea: I’m going to throw a party in Lily’s honor. A homecoming celebration. Won’t that be splendid, Sean? Lily?”
From across the room, Sean pinned Lily with an enigmatic gaze and lifted his glass in mock salute. “Just wonderful, May.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pete Ferrucci shook his head in disgust. “I tell you, John, the system’s really going down the tubes, that’s for sure. My brother-in-law teaches at the local community college. He once sat me down and explained to me about women in academia and the sciences. This whole affirmative action thing? All it really means is that women get promoted ’cause they’re banging the chairman of the department.”
“Only too true, Mr. Ferrucci,” John Granger said in wholehearted agreement. His graduate program in marine biology had several women pursuing their Ph.Ds. They always seemed to receive funding, research grants, teaching fellowships, you name it. The male professors in the department didn’t vote to award those plum fellowships and grants to the women because they were better than him at bio; the chicks were just better at fellatio.
People on the outside of the university system rarely understood these things. Pete Ferrucci was a refreshing exception. And a good guy, to boot. John had been flattered when Ferrucci caught up to him in the town hall parking lot and invited him to drop by his restaurant, the Blue Dolphin, later in the evening for a drink.
John had been worried he’d be bored crazy in this one-horse town. But things were looking up. The Blue Dolphin’s staff was treating Ferrucci and him like royalty. Ferrucci had a good thing going here; the Dolphin was a real classy establishment. Expensive. Hell, the menu didn’t even come with a price list. And there were some purely dynamite-looking babes dressing up the place. One of them, over by the bar, was wearing a tube top and a shimmery gold micromini. She’d been exchanging glances with him in the long mirror behind the bar. Then, just to make sure he got the message, she’d walked past their table on the way to the powder room and brushed his arm with her naked thigh. If Ferrucci hadn’t been pouring Dom Perignon like it was soda pop, he’d have gotten up and followed her for some vertical drilling against the bathroom stall.
No, pussy could wait—especia
lly since it was guaranteed he’d score some tonight. Ferrucci was talking, and John was too smart to offend the owner of the hottest spot in town.
“Your boss strikes me as exactly that type of woman.”
“Banyon?” John tried to remember what they’d been talking about. The champagne was really good. He was getting a bit tanked. “You think?”
“Yeah.” Ferrucci grimaced in distaste. “A walking, talking superbitch.”
“Oh, right. Damn straight.” He knew just what a frigid bitch Banyon could be. And he was also damn sure everyone at the center still laughed about it. Still laughed at him.
It had happened in late August. A group of the center’s scientists and assistants were up in Maine, working on a study that hopefully would shed some light on the inexplicable surge in the local lobster population. New to the team, John hadn’t yet understood about Lily Banyon: she was cold as ice inside that purely dynamite body. So, for a week he followed her around, bumping against her accidentally on purpose, and feeding her some of his best lines—damned confident he was making progress. Those cool glances had really turned him on.
One afternoon, she’d been bending over a box, packing up samples to take back to the lab.
Hey, what was a guy supposed to do when presented with an ass like that? Of course he’d copped a feel. Big fucking deal.
His hand hadn’t even left that sweet cheek when Banyon nailed him with some kind of Bruce Lee martial arts move. She’d twisted out of his grasp, kicking with her leg as she spun. Somehow she managed to plant it right in his midsection. Next thing John knew, he was toppling over the Drifter ’s port side, and landing with a splash in the chilly Maine waters.
The bitch. Thank God it was August and a heat wave.
He’d surfaced, spluttering, and swam as best he could in his sodden shirt, jeans, and sneakers over to the ladder.
Banyon was waiting for him. John had a choice, she told him. He could climb up the ladder and cut the crap permanently, leaving her and the other women on the team alone. Or he could stay there. The water might be just cold enough to act as an anesthetic. She would dive in and bring one of the lobster traps to the surface. Since he’d been asking all week, she’d happily handle his you-know-what for him. And stuff it in the lobster trap. It’d be a yummy little appetizer for those big, hungry lobsters.
An angry flush crept up the sides of John’s neck as he remembered how everyone onboard the research boat had overheard Banyon. He drank thirstily. Yeah, superbitch was an excellent description for Lily.
“Yeah, your boss is easy to figure out,” Ferrucci said. “I had her number in seconds. Now that she’s where she wants to be professionally, she’s determined to keep any man who might overshadow her from getting promoted. Take yourself, John.” He lifted his champagne flute, tilting it toward John in a salutary gesture. “Why, after the advisory meeting I went straight to my computer and looked up your site on the Internet. My God, a guy with a mind like yours, with the number of articles you’ve written, let me tell you, I was shocked. . . . It’s an outrage.” The base of his glass clinked against the tabletop as though in emphasis.
From across the table, Pete Ferrucci regarded John Granger calculatingly. For the past half hour, he’d been plying him with champagne and praise. He probably could have skipped the bubbly and stuck to the articles he’d downloaded from Granger’s Web site. It hadn’t even been necessary to read the crap. A few key sentences and Granger had ballooned with pride. Now to prick his ego before the jerk became too shit-faced to understand a thing.
“It’s an outrage, a real outrage,” he repeated heavily. “You’ve got this prodigious body of research, yet you’re nothing but an assistant at the Marine Center—on paper, no better than that ditzy photographer, Karen Masur.”
Oh, yeah, a direct hit, he thought with satisfaction when Granger’s face darkened with resentment.
“I know,” John replied bitterly. “I can’t believe it, either. Karen’s the center’s charity case. Her photos are okay, I guess, but from the way everyone raves about them, you’d think the Cousteau Society was pounding on her door. They have to justify putting her on the payroll somehow.”
“Should’ve guessed. Is the director of the Marine Center a woman, too?”
“Oh, yeah.” John’s lip curled in disdain. “The place is a hotbed for bleeding heart liberals. Simone Devaux’s what they like best, an affirmative action two-fer. She’s black.” He paused, and then added, “Get it, black? Woman? Two-for-one?”
Ferrucci shook his head, his expression one of total sympathy. “Man, what you are up against. So Banyon has a lot of influence with the director?”
“Gets whatever she wants on a gold platter. The rest of us are treated like peons.” She treated him like a peon, that was enough.
“Well, she’s going to find out things work a little differently here in Florida, John.” Ferrucci’s expression hardened. “I think it’s time for someone else on her team to get a share of the glory.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve made a lot of friends in this state, John. There’s a real concern about what might happen to this area if the advisory panel recommends a ton of restrictions on the reef and the coastal area. Now, I can tell you’re not one of those doom and gloom environmentalists, and what I say won’t offend you. Conservationists and their asinine committees are destroying Florida. That’s the unvarnished truth. I’m damned tired of environmentalists caring more about some stinking manatee than a guy’s right to take his powerboat out where he wants, fish where he wants . . . do what he damn well pleases ’cause he’s paying whopping taxes for that very privilege.”
“Well.” John cleared his throat.
Ferrucci raised his hand and smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, John. I know some places should be protected. I’m not arguing with that. But Coral Beach? Who do they think they’re fooling? There’s not even that much to see down there.”
“Atlantic reefs are different—”
Ferrucci raised a hand, cutting Granger off. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from this jerk. “Know what, John? Sitting here, talking to you, getting to know and really like you, I’ve been doing a slow burn.” He reached for the bottle and topped off Granger’s glass. “ ’Cause I can predict exactly what’s gonna happen: Banyon’s sharp. She’ll pick that brain of yours, work you like a dog, then take all the credit when she presents the research team’s findings.”
“Well, yeah. But she is the head—”
“The bottom line, John, is that we’ll both get screwed. You’re not going to get the recognition you deserve. And Banyon’s going to do the same as the rest of these conservation freaks are doing around Florida. Turn the reef into a protected zone, with restrictions up the wazoo. But then I got this idea.” Ferrucci paused to lean forward, then continued eagerly, “What if I got you together with a few of my friends? You could listen to what they have to say. Who knows, maybe we could work something out that might help you career-wise. These people, they’ve got connections all over. And I really want to help you, John.”
“Weren’t they the most beautiful babies?” Anne McDermott said. Her fingers traced the edges of the old photographs that crammed the pages of the bulging family album.
“Yes, indeed,” May Ellen agreed with a wistful sigh. She was seated beside Anne on the sofa with the photo album resting over both their laps. “Oh, look at this one, Anne! Lily’s got that pink polka-dotted sun hat on, the one we picked up on our cruise. Remember how it always slipped forward when she walked? She’s fallen into the hole Sean dug.”
“She was wearing that same expression when I joined the three of you. I suppose she and Sean were butting heads. . . .”
“A couple of times,” May conceded. “Old habits die hard, you know. I just hope we’re doing the right thing.”
Anne laid a reassuring hand over her friend’s. “Don’t fret, May Ellen. I’m certain it’s going to work out this time; I can feel it in my bones.”<
br />
“Are you sure that’s not the new arthritis prescription Lloyd wrote for you?”
“No, dear, this feels much better. Purely right.”
“But Anne, what if Lily’s as stubborn as ever? Or Sean for that matter? He seemed very severe tonight. Hardly spoke a word to her.”
“Shocks of this magnitude tend to do that to McDermott men. My Henry was just the same,” Anne replied, smiling at the memory. “True, Sean can be hardheaded. And remember, May, he adores you. That makes him feel very protective.” She turned to the next page of the photo album and gazed fondly at the blur of faded colors that showed Lily and Sean at age six, hunched over the handlebars of their bikes as they tore down the street. Racing each other, as usual. “I don’t doubt our two grandchildren will both go down fighting,” she said. “But in terms of sheer stubbornness, they’re mere amateurs compared to us. Just stick to the plan, dear, and we’ll wear them down.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Other people had their sleep troubled by nightmares, by anxiety dreams of parading stark naked in a packed football stadium, or in front of the boss’s hysterical wife. Sean’s dreams were far more disturbing. . . . They were of Lily.
Even asleep, a part of Sean’s brain maintained a wary vigil, alert to her presence. So when in the landscape of his dreams, Ray’s snide voice echoed, demanding to know if Sean had ever handled the goods, his muscles tensed in expectation. Once again, Lily would haunt his rest.
A scene appeared and Sean was back in tenth grade, in Mr. Sneel’s zoology class.
Sean knew this dream, and knew, too, how wretchedly faithful it was to that day in March, right down to the tiniest detail. Even the lighting was right, the rows of fluorescent tubes flickering over Mr. Sneel’s bald head as he stood at the front of the class and patted the lid of a large white Styrofoam cooler.
