Jack was locked and loaded and crazed. His only thought was to take her down to the sand and rip her clothes off, his Italian leather boots be damned. He wanted to do the beach scene from that old movie From Here to Eternity right here on this mostly dry sand. He became aware of noise, too much noise. No, block it out, it’s not important. Who cares?
But he raised his head to see every single person who’d been in her living room standing on the back deck, watching and laughing at them.
He cursed, jerked her arms from around his neck, and managed to pull away from her. He was in sorry shape, actually in pain. He stepped back and took a breath, his heart kettledrumming the 1812 Overture. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.” And he turned on his beautiful booted heel and strode back up the beach toward her house.
Mary Lisa felt like he’d smacked her silly. Her wonderful lust mixed with rage. She yelled after him, “Just what did you mean, you ‘didn’t mean to do that,’ you jerk?”
He didn’t turn, kept walking. He felt a wet clot of sand hit him square in the back.
“You coward! You tease! You should be shot!”
He was a man in pain, a man on the edge. He’d done the right thing, only to have the object of his lust scream at him, throw dirt on him. So he was a coward and a tease, was he?
He jerked off his beautiful boots, shrugged off his jacket, threw his wallet and gun down on top of the pile, and strode toward her.
Mary Lisa recognized a man who’d slipped his tether. She took off. She couldn’t hear him but she knew he was after her. He heard the shouts.
“She’s fast, five bucks says she’ll beat him!”
“Nah, he’s in real good shape. Ten bucks says he’ll bring her down in the next ten yards.”
“What’s he gonna do, anyway?”
“Does she really want to get away from him? I don’t think so.”
There were hoots of laughter, and then Lou Lou yelled, “He’s a serious man, Mary Lisa. Run! Well, if you really want to, that is.”
Jack never saw the piece of driftwood until he tripped over it and went airborne.
THIRTY-NINE
Jack twisted in the air to land on his side and rolled. He lay on his back and mentally checked his parts. Fine, he was fine, nothing broken or maimed. But still, it was probably wise to lie here for a little while, breathe in the nice ocean air, clear his head, like that was possible, curse her. He cocked an eye open to see Mary Lisa standing over him, hands on her hips. “Are you all right?” She smacked her palm to her forehead. “Of course you are, you’re indestructible. If a missile brought you down, you’d chew on it like a cigar, and jump up again. Isn’t that right?” She kicked a clot of sand on him. “Don’t you pay attention to where you’re running?”
He didn’t say anything, just lay on his back watching the moonlight play over her face and streak through her red hair, most of it free of her ponytail, curling wildly around her face. Then he closed his eyes.
“You aren’t hurt, are you?” She fell on her knees beside him and slapped his face, not all that lightly. “Come on, stop faking. You’re as bad as Puker. Open your eyes. Tell me I’m an idiot again. Give me more orders, you do that so well. Open your eyes, or at least wiggle a finger.”
He opened his eyes again and grinned up at her. Then he started laughing, so hard he nearly choked himself. “I can’t believe you came dancing back to the big bad man. Not smart, but then you’ve loaned your brain out, haven’t you?” Fast as a snake, he grabbed her arms and pulled her down on top of him.
He was aware in a sliver of his brain that there wasn’t any more laughter or hoots or advice coming from the back deck of Mary Lisa’s house. There was nothing but silence, the sound of the waves breaking gently onto the sand maybe three feet from his head, and the moonlight splashing down, haloing Mary Lisa’s head.
She pushed up on her elbows and stared down at him. “When you first came to Goddard Bay, we used to call you the Big Bad Wolf. You were always strutting around, looking all sorts of tough and hard, a real chick magnet, the Big Bad Chief of Police. I know, it’s not very original, but there you have it.”
“Strutting around?” He grabbed her hair and pulled her face down to his. She stretched out on top of him and felt her nerve endings hum, knew her blood was flowing through her thick, heavy and sweet. She felt wonderful and wanted more.
Suddenly, she jerked back. “Good grief, this is nuts. What are we doing? You’ve come to L.A. and, look at me-lying on top of you and I’m not all that eager to move and that really should bother me, on some level.”
He laughed. “What level is that?” He lightly chopped her elbows to land her back on top of him. He put his hands in her hair, pulling her down, and it wasn’t much of a pull because she wanted it too, wanted to feel him against her again, maybe even wanted the waves to flow gently over her toes, make them sizzle, she was that hot.
She pulled away again, and said close to his face, “You know this is crazy. You don’t even like me. And you know what else? I haven’t decided if I really like you either.”
“Now, that’s good to hear.” And he began kissing her again, and his hands molded on her hips and he was moving her against him, slow, then faster. He pulled forward, then back, and Mary Lisa couldn’t believe the wild urgency roaring through her. She pressed down against him as much as he let her, felt the hard slide through his jeans, felt his hands raising her away, driving her mad, then pushing her hard against him again.
She came, fast and hard and loud. He grabbed the back of her head with one hand and kissed her hard, taking her hoarse cries into his mouth. He was so close himself, he was heaving with it, nearly bursting, but-
“Oh my,” she whispered into his mouth, beyond herself. “Oh my.”
“Yes,” he said, and he kept kissing her, both hands molding her hips now, pressing her against him, for him this time, not her. But he had to stop, knew it, or he’d come too, and that wouldn’t be smart-
They both froze at the voice filled with irony, a familiar voice, way too familiar. Mary Lisa twisted to look up into John Goddard’s face. She felt dazed, limp, incredibly energized, all at the same time, and she felt every hard square inch of Jack’s body beneath her and never wanted to move.
“Well, John,” she said, pleased she could talk, quite relieved that she sounded all sorts of normal, “if this doesn’t beat all.”
And he knew, of course, from those vague eyes of hers, the flush that he could see in the moonlight, the pain on Jack’s face, knew exactly what had happened. “I was thinking along similar lines myself.”
Jack let her go. He wanted to curse and weep with the loss of her against him, the deep ache in his groin. She climbed to her feet, straightened her clothes, slapping off the sand, and grinned at him. “Well, hello, John. Long time no see. You know this big guy sprawled down there, grinning like a fool? Well, he’s not really grinning, is he?”
“Hi, Mary Lisa. Yeah, I know this guy. My question is what are you doing lying on top of him on the beach?”
“I was running away from him, and he caught me. He was pissed because I did something useful.”
Jack shook himself, got slowly to his feet, tested out that all his moving parts were, thankfully, in good working order. “Actually I was pissed because she stole my line.” He managed to grin now, and buffeted John Goddard’s shoulder with a good deal of strength, a guy greeting, which, in Mary Lisa’s study of life and men, could mean best friends or worst enemies-but guys. “Hey, Pitty Pat, what brings you down to this neck of the woods?”
“As in here on the beach, watching you trying to get your tongue down Mary Lisa’s throat?”