“Don’t downplay your accomplishments, Chelsea. Not every twenty-seven year old has launched a successful cosmetic enterprise based on discoveries made while earning a Master in Chemistry. You’ve won awards with your special effects creations. You’re very accomplished. Even if there are far more interesting things about you than those on your resume.”
Chelsea wanted to wipe that smile off Darcy’s face. She was in no mood to be teased. But Darcy was her best friend and thus allowed the back-handed compliment.
“You’re looking beautiful, as always,” Anton said as he came to their table. He slapped a copy of the Los Angeles Times on the table, before slipping into the empty seat between the two of them. He kissed Darcy’s cheek before he turned his attention to Chelsea. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I was worried last night. I heard the cosmetics demonstration was a big success.” He signaled the barmaid and ordered a Scotch. “You mentioned the film, of course, and the special challenges presented to the make up staff?”
“Of course.” She nodded. Anton was all about movie promotion. She didn’t think he cared at all about what the demonstration meant to the girls.
“You bought a copy of the Times?” Chelsea slid the paper over so she could see. “May I?”
“Have to stay on top of things while we’re away,” Anton said. “I noticed this interesting article. Have you seen it?” He folded the paper so the small article appeared in the center. The headline read, Will the Hollywood Ghost strike again?
Chelsea gulped, knowing full well that she was the ghost the paper referenced.
“Apparently, every month during a full moon, there’s been a ghost sighting in Hollywood, but not this month.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Darcy interceded. “The moon is still pretty full so there’s still time for the ghost to strike. Why the sudden interest?” She took a quick glance at Chelsea as if to confirm she wasn’t suddenly fading in plain sight.
“Because this ghost would be perfect for my movies.” Anton frowned, suggesting Darcy was foolish for asking. “People have reported that they can see right through this woman. As good as you are, Chelsea, I don’t think you can make someone transparent.” He slid the paper back in front of him. “Hmmm…I wonder if she can be photographed.”
Chelsea’s mojito went down the wrong way causing her to both choke and try to catch her breath. Anton pounded on her back which didn’t help at all.
“Sorry,” she rasped as she tried to recapture her voice. “Woman?”
“So they say. There have only been a few witnesses, but they all say the same thing.” He hesitated a moment. “You wouldn’t know anything about this ghost, would you?”
“Me? Why me?” she gasped, still not fully recovered.
“Last night I thought that maybe…well, never mind.” He downed his drink and turned to Darcy. “Shall we go? Part of our mission is to stir up a little attention. I’ve reserved a table for us at the Whiskey Witch.”
“You’ll be okay here by yourself?” Darcy asked Chelsea.
“Of course she will,” Anton answered for her. “She’s a grown woman, isn’t she?” He tossed some bills on the table to cover the drinks. “You can keep the paper. I’m through with it.”
Great. Chelsea watched the two leave. Now she had two men trying to catch her in phase. She thought this quick trip to Massachusetts would let the furor resulting from the two previous times someone had caught her in phase, die down. Crap.
She should have known that when she took that last FX job, they wouldn’t honor her request not to work nights. She thought her creations might earn her another Emmy nod, but production deadlines had trumped the promises made. She’d been trapped and held hostage by the moon several times. Sometimes she chanced discovery to get back home to her two cats, but apparently not very successfully.
She lifted the paper, her eyes quickly scanned the front page. This trip had seemed a blessing in disguise to get her out of one jam. Now she’d jumped right smack into another. She slumped in her chair and pulled the clip from her hair, freeing the mass to fall forward. Her arm braced her head.
Trouble, like the moon, managed to follow her wherever she went.
Chapter 4
Fate was just playing right into his hands. Just back from interviewing some reluctant residents of Haven Harbor about the upcoming Halloween celebration, Brandon spied the intriguing, mysterious and downright delectable Chelsea Davenport, alone, nursing a drink at the very hotel where he was staying. If he believed in signs from above, this would be the one that said angels were on his side, even if everyone else had abandoned him. She had her hair down and those glasses were nowhere in sight. Just as he’d suspected earlier, she had another similarity to her alter-ego in the woods. Chelsea Davenport was an unintentional sexpot.
“Well, well,” he said, slipping into the chair next to her. “Fancy meeting you here.” He signaled the barmaid. “Can I hope that you’re here to see me?”
Chelsea gave him a disgusted look. “I was just leaving.” She finished her drink in a gulp, then pushed back her chair.
Brandon’s hand clamped on hers.
“Stay,” he said. “Relax. Have another drink on me. We need to talk.”
“Why?” she asked, after he placed his order for two more mojitos.
He slipped his free hand in his coat pocket, then tossed a pair of black lace trimmed panties across the table. Her gasp told him all he needed to know.
Much to his disappointment, the panties quickly slipped from sight.
“Where did you get them?” she demanded, pushing the material deep in her purse.
“You know where,” he said. “They landed at my feet in the woods last night. I have the rest of your outfit in my room. upstairs.”
He was right! He wanted to pump the air in victory. She was the mystery woman in the woods. Funny that he thought in his drunken stupor that she was Death last night. The sight of those black lace panties had generated an unanticipated sensation of life in areas hidden by the table. “It was you in the woods last night, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes frantically searched the room, looking, he imagined, for a way to escape. Her hand shook beneath his, making him believe she’d bolt from the room and be on the next plane if he let her. But why so much fear? His previous surge of triumph waned, leaving him feeling somewhat hollow. This wasn’t the same girl he remembered from high school. What had changed?
“How did you know?” she said so low he almost missed it.
“The limp sealed it, but you knew my name, and your voice”—his free hand captured the side of her face so he could hold her gaze—“your voice is unmistakable, at least to me.” So were her midnight blue eyes as he gazed into hers, though he recalled them being a tad more friendly in high school. “I’ve never forgotten.”
Her fingers steadied beneath his. It could be a trick, or it could be a signal that she remembered how it used to between them as well. He slid his hand under hers and held her hand as he once had, a tender reminder of the closeness they once shared.
“When I saw your name in the paper as being part of the production crew for this film, I’d hoped our reunion would go a bit differently.” He offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “How have you been?”
She stared at him a bit longer as if trying to discern his intentions. Then she squeezed his hand.
Reluctantly, mostly as an expression of trust, he let her hand go, but he was ready to chase her down if he had to. He needed her story if he was ever to get back into good graces at work.
“I missed you,” he said. With a jolt, he realized he truly had. “I’ve missed our talks.”
That brought a timid smile on her part, and an incredible sense of relief on his. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to be combatants in this thing—whatever it was.
“I’ve missed those as well. Los Angeles is very different than Massachusetts.” She glanced at a newspaper on the table with such a sad expression, he fought the urge to wrap his arm
around her shoulders the way he used to. He’d lost that right in the intervening years, but apparently he hadn’t lost the desire.
“What about you?” she asked. Her lips quirked up. “I thought you’d be a big football star in the NFL.”
That brought a laugh. “In all athletics, there comes a time when skill is more of a necessity than just showing up to get the crap kicked out of you. I couldn’t keep up with college football. But I discovered that I could still keep my love of sports alive through writing.”
“You’re a sports writer?” Her eyes widened, and in an odd way seemed relieved. He nodded. “Then why are you here?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be at those games”—she pointed to a baseball game on the television above the bar—“or something?”
“Yeah. I should be,” he replied irritably. He took a swig of his drink. “It took me a long time to work my way up to write for the Daily Press. I worked for a number of smaller publications before I got the job at the Press. Things were going great until a new editor took exception with my research in a big exposé about injuries in high school football.”
“What happened,” she asked.
“I had a source that reneged on a quote she’d given me about her son’s concussions. Her denials brought the whole article into question. I couldn’t prove what she’d said because my recorder got smashed.”
He didn’t mention that it was broken because the woman’s husband ran over it a few times with his car. The husband thought his wife’s comments would cause problems getting the kid in a college football program. “There were repercussions and the end result is that my editor assigned me to cover the Haven Harbor Ospreys football game, and something about a possible movie production and— ‘oh, while you’re there, why not write about their Halloween celebration as well.’ It’s a let-down but I plan to break a big story and get back on top again.”
She stiffened. “What big story?”
He gazed at her a moment, while she tried to hide her nervous jitters. Then he slipped into that half smile she always loved. As much as she fought the impulse, it still sent flutters down her spine.
“I admit I had a little too much to drink last night,” he said. “But I know what I saw and it sobered me up pretty darn quick. I researched your background when I learned you were the make up artist on this movie deal. When I considered your background in chemistry and your profession as a make-up artist, I figured maybe you’d discovered some kind of light bending makeup.”
“Light bending makeup? Is that even possible?” It certainly wasn’t anything she’d ever encountered.
“I guess not. I mean, if you haven’t discovered it, then…” His face twisted as if confused, but then suddenly cleared. “But even light bending makeup wouldn’t explain that striptease.” He grinned as if he’d won some sort of prize for the application of logic.
She felt embarrassment blossom on her cheeks. “You saw that,” she said in a lowered voice. He slowly nodded.
“I won’t call it so much of a striptease as an escape.” She sipped her drink. No point in hiding the truth now. He had her dead to rights, to say nothing of her underwear.
His head moved closer. “It was a tease when I discovered certain items like the one currently in your purse.”
She thought she might burst in flame. She wasn’t like Darcy who thought nothing of strangers seeing her naked or even semi-dressed. She wasn’t a prude, but some things were personal.
“I approve of your taste, by the way,” He lowered his voice as if sharing secrets. “Can you tell me what’s happening there? I don’t remember you turning invisible back in the day.”
He must have seen something in her face as his brows lifted. “Seriously?” he said. “Even back then?”
“It was easier to hide with my parents’ assistance. This curse is why I never went to your football games when the moon was out,” she explained.
“The moon? It’s all due to the moon?” He slumped back in his seat. “Damn. Back then, I thought you just didn’t think sports were very important, or maybe just my success in them.”
She saw the anguish in his eyes. It was the root of their last argument, that final argument before her family suddenly moved her to a distant location. That wasn’t the first move and it wasn’t the last. All these years later, and the “ripped from the community” wounds still felt fresh. Her eyes burned as tears formed in the corners. Not now! She scolded herself. She wasn’t a child. Not now!
“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me,” he pleaded. “I would have kept your secret.”
She swiped at her eyes. “Will you keep it now? Or do I have to run again?”
He looked surprised as if her words had physically slapped him across the face.
“Why would you run?” he finally asked. “What are you running from?”
It wasn’t the flat out denial that she’d hoped for. He hadn’t insisted he’d keep her secrets no matter what. If he had vowed as much, she suspected she would have thrown herself in his arms right then and there. But he hadn’t. She sniffed and drew back into her seat.
“I’m running for my life,” she stated low, and without the overwhelming emotion that she now painfully repacked into the deep vault in her heart. “My ancestors have been murdered because of what you saw.”
“Murdered?”
“They were accused of witchcraft and tortured to death. The Nevidimi have been tracked as some sort of alien deserving of study. Distant relatives have been dissected to see why they turned invisible,” she said. The litany of the being discovered had been hammered into her as a child. “Since I was about twelve years old, I’ve learned to keep this secret hidden. My parents lived under the radar. My mother never left the house when the moon was out.”
“Your mother.” He hesitated. “Not your father?”
She was about to answer, but then reconsidered. She’d forgotten that he wasn’t just her old boyfriend from high school, but a reporter for the Daily Press who hadn’t made a vow to keep her secrets. When she’d encountered him in the woods last night, he said something about women having been the bane of his existence. She was about to add herself to those ranks.
“If you write this, no one will believe you,” she warned. “You wouldn’t have believed it yourself if you hadn’t caught me by accident. If you identify me, I will deny it. I will accuse you of making the whole thing up.” And she would disappear, not in the way of moonlight, but rather by changing her name and address.
“Why would I do that?” He looked confused.
She wasn’t sure if he meant: why would he identify her, or why would he make up a story? But she never got the chance to ask as a strange man’s voice interrupted.
“I knew I’d find you in the bar.”
Chelsea glanced up to see a man divesting himself of multiple cameras onto the table. Her skin crawled at the sight. She double-checked to make sure her arms were still visible, then looked for fastest means of exit—just in case the moon found her when she thought she was safe.
“Chelsea Davenport, this is my partner, Jimmy Olsen. He takes the photos that accompany my articles.”
“Jimmy Olsen? As in Superman’s Jimmy Olsen?” The man was no newsboy. He was a giant and his smirk showed he’d heard the Superman reference more than once.
“Brandon calls me Jimmy, but most sane people know me as Jim.” He held out his hand. “I’m here to document the ghosts and goblins here in Haven Harbor preparing for Halloween.”
Ghosts in Haven Harbor! She could almost see the headline. She hadn’t considered that someone might catch her in mid-phase in Massachusetts, then make a connection to the Hollywood ghost.
And now a photographer. Crap. Just as the moon was waning. At least the full moon allowed her invisibility as a means of escape, but as the moon slowly disappeared in the night sky in its waning cycle, she would fade to a ghost-like appearance. All that was needed for her to be mistaken as a ghost was to be caught outside when the moon reappea
red from behind a cloud, or, as happened at that dinner, be inside if the moon found a way to reach her.
Ghosts and goblins indeed. To hell with her frightening prosthesis creations for the movies, Halloween in Hollywood had never been this terrifying.
Chapter 5
The next day, Brandon was awakened early by his cell phone. One glance at the screen gave him the depressing news. His boss was calling.
“You’ve had three full days in Haven Harbor. Did you get what we need?”
No genteel good morning for Natalie Prescott. She was all business, all the time. Brandon just wished she’d save that concern for someone else’s business. Sleeping with her had been a really bad idea, but she was so darn attractive and demanding of his attention.
“Good morning to you, Natalie.” She hadn’t taken it kindly when he broke off the relationship the following morning. Mixing business and pleasure was a bad idea, he realized. Natalie didn’t approve of his opinion. Now she worked her revenge every blasted day.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you? Did you have a rough night with some bimbo from the bar?” she purred. “Get up. You’re a reporter. Tell me what I need to know.”
He drew a hand down his face, hoping the action would help wake him up. “I already sent in the football coverage. Jimmy has photographs of the town and some of the Halloween preparations. I interviewed the special effects/make up artist last night. Interesting stuff.” He’d have to thank Chelsea for that. He hadn’t realized how difficult molding those prosthesis things were, or that she’d be responsible for the entire process. Now, he wanted to go back and watch some of the movies she’d worked on. “I discovered I have an inside connection with the movie production crew. I have an interview tonight with the director and his star.”
Natalie was quiet a moment. “The director, huh, that might be interesting. And the new star as well?…Okay. I’ll give you one more day to flesh out the particulars, but I’ll expect you back here Friday. Send me that story on the make up artist. I’ll find someplace to fit it in.”
Blame the Moonlight (Bound by series Book 2) Page 3
