PerpetualPleasure (13 page)

The pendant. The fertility pendant Mac had bought for his
sister-in-law, Hannah. And Ronnie. His brother. Which could only mean that the
someone sleeping upstairs was his niece, Emily.

The woman. She’s not his. The babies aren’t his.

“Where are my manners?” Boyd asked. “Lucie, meet Hannah and
Ronald Moore. Hannah, Ronnie, this is my old and very dear friend, Miss
Lucienne Marcotte.”

Ready to faint with relief, Lucie blindly extended her hand
and shook hands with the couple. Both husband and wife stressed what a delight
it was to finally meet her, leaving her wondering what MacCale
had
said
to bring on such a welcome.

“And Mac you’ve already met, of course,” Boyd said.

“Hello, Lucie.” He stepped up to her. She offered him her
hand. He promptly took it and smoothly tugged her closer to kiss her cheeks.

Very continental. Completely innocent-looking. Absolutely
electrifying to her senses lighting up as if he’d touched her everywhere, not
merely brushed her cheeks with his or held her hand for the briefest moment.

“Nice to see you again, MacCale,” she said, sounding
breathless even to her own ears.

“Do not even think about it, young man.” Boyd stepped in and
clasped her hand. “The
mademoiselle
is my date for the evening.”

MacCale laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “After
you, uncle.”

“And don’t you forget it,” the old gentleman said
emphatically.

With the rest of the party in tow, Boyd led Lucie down the
entrance hall toward the smaller sitting room.

“You’re blushing,” he whispered.

“No I’m not,” she hissed. She was. Up to her hairline and
all the way down her throat, she could feel it. Everyone could probably see it
in the old rose boat-neck vintage gown she’d had the misfortune of choosing for
the night.

“You are,” he insisted. “It looks lovely, by the way.”

She would have elbowed him except for the fear of actually
hurting the man far frailer than he let on.

“Why thank you, Boyd,” she said wryly. “I’m glad I amuse
you.”

“Temper, temper, dear. Your claws are showing.”

If they were, it was because of her sudden and total lack of
calm, control and composure.

And she owed it all to MacCale.

How different Lucie looked compared to the first time he had
seen her in that very same house, MacCale thought. Lucie looked uncertain,
awkward, totally out of her element. She could talk a mile a minute without
saying much. Now she barely said anything and to him, that spoke volumes.

He had seen the queen of Savannah, the imperious distance
she could keep from everyone. He had seen the man-eater, Lucie exuding brazen
sexuality. He’d seen her strong and assertive, an actress who had internalized
her role.

What he saw now was a woman adlibbing for her life.
Vulnerability, raw and real. Not a jaded and sophisticated immortal but a
twenty-six-year-old woman who didn’t know what to do with her hands. She must
have sat in that parlor dozens of times, yet her eyes wandered over the
carpets, tracing every pattern. Her gaze lingered on every print and painting
on the walls, on every minutia around the room as if they were the most
fascinating thing she had ever seen. She only talked when talked to. She
listened politely and answered briefly every time Ronnie and Hannah asked about
her work and the town’s history. She barely touched the champagne, taking a sip
every now and then and refusing a refill, and forced down some cocktail
nibbles, probably to humor his sister-in-law who had mentioned she’d brought
them along to ease her food cravings.

Mac almost fell sorry for Lucie. Almost. If she felt half as
torn as he felt it served her right, dammit. She’d dragged him through hell for
months and she didn’t even know it. He’d picked up the phone a hundred times to
call her and dialed Boyd’s or Bruno’s number instead to ask how she was doing.
Eight days a week he’d wanted to return and force her to give them a chance.

He’d gotten through to her, moved something in her. He knew
he had. She had wanted him, wanted the same thing, more of a good thing. He was
sure of that. He had thought she would come around and come after him.

And then she’d made no contact.

Like a fool he had convinced himself a woman in love would.
Not Lucie. Not in the summer, not in the fall. He’d never heard from her again.

But she had haunted him. She had haunted him to distraction.

Boyd said all she needed was time to think things over. He
didn’t share the faith. It didn’t make him love her any less, but he’d begun
conditioning himself to let go. Too bad the dates he’d gone on were fast
earning him a reputation as the most horrible tease that ever made the women of
LA miserable. As soon as they made a move he froze, feeling like a cheater. His
heart wasn’t in it. It stayed with Lucie. There was only one woman he could
imagine touching, only one woman he wanted to be touched by. Lucie still
starred in his fantasies. So he’d sworn off women and concentrated on
exorcising her memory instead.

But looking at Lucie now, Lucie dodging his eyes, her skin
pale as if she hadn’t been outside all summer, how cold her hands had been and
how her cheeks had burned when he’d touched her in the hall, how choppy her
voice as they had said hello…he didn’t know what to think.

He had seen right through the pretender, but this Lucie…this
Lucie he’d never met before.

She probably wondered why Boyd had brought her to a family
gathering, everyone dressed to the nines. But for Boyd, it was always a
momentous occasion when they got together. He always said they were the grandsons
he’d never had. And Mac knew Lucie was like a granddaughter to him. She was
family to Boyd, if not by blood then by a close association and a history that
extended over decades. The last time she had been in town, Boyd had been a
young man. The next time she came around, he would be long gone. Even if Lucie
had all the time in the world, every moment was precious to Boyd.

She hadn’t had a family in two hundred years. Judging by how
out of her element she looked, the dynamics were probably beyond her. It made
him want to take her aside and soothe her, assure her he would be there for her
as Boyd had always been, if only she’d let him in. It made MacCale want to drag
her into the study he had followed her into that first night and pound some
sense into her. He would remind Lucie of everything she was refusing with his
mouth, his hands, his body on hers, and dare her to refuse him again.

And if that’s what she wanted, she would have come to
you, months ago.

God, he was pathetic.

And he owed it all to her.

“You’re awfully silent tonight, Lucie,” Boyd said. “Are you
all right?”

Smiling apologetically, she said, “I think I’m coming down
with something. I think I should be going.”

“Nonsense. You can use any of the guest rooms—”

“And I truly appreciate it, Boyd. Tonight, I’d rather head
home.”

“Very well. MacCale, would you please drive Lucie home?”

“No!” She bolted to her feet. “No…need for you to leave.
Please, enjoy your evening, I’ll just—”

“It would be my pleasure,” MacCale said, daring her with his
eyes to start arguing with him as well. She didn’t. “Thank you,” was all she
said, her voice pleasant, the fatigue in her eyes glazed over by a flash of
ire.

“That’s settled then. But first, a photograph. Mac, Lucie,
would you please join Ronnie and Hannah?”

His brother and sister-in-law eagerly made room for them on
the comfortable three-seater while Boyd went for the camera. MacCale planted
himself smack in the middle of what room was left, leaving Lucie standing
undecided before him.

“Don’t be a stranger.” He tugged her to him. Lucie landed on
his lap on a yelp. Immediately, she tried getting up again. Just as fast, he
had his arm around her, Lucie rolling her butt against his thighs but getting
nowhere.

He pulled her to him. “Stop squirming,” he whispered. “You’re
giving me a hard-on.”

Lucie went dead still.

“Ah, too late, honey.” His cock swelled, burrowing into her
lush bottom. She drew a sharp breath.

“Better hurry. Lucie looks ready to faint,” Boyd muttered.
“Ready? Set. Smile!”

Chapter Nine

Third time was supposed to be the charm. Lucie didn’t feel
charmed, or lucky. For the third time the man of her dreams and the star of her
feverish fantasies was driving her home just so she could watch him leave.

What a nightmare. For the first time in a very long time,
Lucie felt the full weight of her age and her past. It had been weighing down
on her all summer long, and sitting next to MacCale in Boyd’s Bentley Heritage
only made the burden more unbearable.

She knew she hadn’t been her bubbly self at Boyd’s. She knew
Mac had noticed because she had averted his inspection all night and
concentrated on everything else besides the fact she wanted to both jump him
and escape him.

“You look well,” she said. He looked fantastic, the suit a
perfect fit that complemented his natural athleticism.

“Thanks. You look like maybe you are coming down with
something.”

She looked ghastly. How kind of him not to state the
obvious.

“I never congratulated you. On becoming an uncle again.
Twice over, I heard.”

“It’s great, isn’t it?” He flashed her the same smile he had
bestowed on his sister-in-law, glowing as if he were about to become a father.
“I’m so happy for Ronnie and Hannah. I guess it’s a blessing in disguise Em’s
already a bit older and bigger now that there’ll be two babies in the house.
But they’ve done such a good job with her, I’m a hundred percent certain
they’ll do an outstanding job with their youngest.”

“And they have you to help them out,” she noted.

“You bet,” he said. “If I’m around, I’m available.”

If he was around. Was he leaving the country again soon?
With several projects in production, he could be going anywhere, for who knew
how long.

“Would you have come over had you known I’d be there?” he
asked, his eyes strictly on the road.

“No,” Lucie admitted. Why lie? He had stripped her down to
the core and she was done pretending he hadn’t.

“Then I’m glad Boyd didn’t tell. And I specifically asked
him not to.”

Why? So he could gauge her reactions, watch her suffer, feel
vindicated? She had no idea how MacCale felt about anything at the moment, but
judging by Boyd’s secrecy and Mac’s admission, something had gone down behind
her back.

Then another conspirator came to mind. “Did you ask Bruno to
keep tabs on me, because he’s been calling me. A lot.”

He half-smiled but stayed silent. Then suddenly, “I might
have.”

“You could have called yourself, you know.”

“I could’ve?” He shot her a glance. “Would you have welcomed
my calls?”

“If I remember correctly it was
you
who told
me
to go fuck myself,” she fired back.

“And have you?” he asked, his voice low, his tone contained.
“Fucked yourself. Or did you find yourself another fuck buddy?”

“If you’ve talked to Bruno—or Boyd for that matter—you know
I haven’t been with anyone since you left.”

His gaze jerked back to hers. “What a coincidence. Neither
have I.” His tone was still impersonal but his eyes shone a hard light.

Accusatory, Lucie thought. Hurt. It made her want to try out
one of his stunts, open the door and throw herself out of the car at full
speed. She had played him, played with things MacCale dreamed of cherishing for
life. Why wouldn’t he hate her, resent the hell out of her?

Her stomach roiled, the moving car amplifying the feeling.
The idea of having to explain to Boyd why she had been sick all over the
ultra-soft cream leather interior of his favorite car was enough to settle her
belly. Breathing calm and deep, Lucie concentrated on the road ahead.

For the longest time, MacCale said nothing. Then, out of the
blue he said, “You thought I was with Hannah.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you looked surprised one moment, shocked the next
and then you just looked utterly and completely lost.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. MacCale might have lost his
interest but he certainly hadn’t lost his perceptiveness. “Could you please stop
analyzing me for one second? Jesus, you should have been a shrink and not a
stuntman.”

He glowered back at her then burst out laughing.

Seeing her chance to change the topic and dispel some of the
awful tension, Lucie ran with it. Besides, the fact intrigued her. MacCale
plain fascinated her. “So. Evel Knievel.”

“What about him?”

“You said he’s the reason you got into show business.”

“Not exactly,” he said. “He’s the reason I wanted to learn
how to perform stunts. The passion came first. The profession was a byproduct.
I happened to be in the right place at the right time, I was asked to show what
I can do, and things just evolved from there. Before I knew it, I’d made a
career out of being a daredevil.”

“So that’s what you do then.”

“That’s what I do,” he said. “Surprised?”

“A little,” she admitted. “I thought maybe you were an
athlete.”

“I am an athlete. All stunt performers are or they wouldn’t
last take after take after take. It’s a highly competitive and saturated
business. Survival of the fittest, literally.”

So she had read. For all of the safety precautions, it still
sounded dangerous. “You have a death wish, MacCale?”

“Trust me, Lucie. I know what I’m doing.”

“Famous last words,” she muttered.

MacCale gripped his chest theatrically as she had seen Boyd
do many times. With both hands. “Be still my beating heart. Is that concern in
your voice?”

“No,” she answered surly, mildly alarmed by the fact Mac no
longer steered the car.

“Then why the long face, baby? The wide eyes, the trembling
lips?” he crooned, his eyes fixed on her instead of the road.

She waved her index finger at the windshield. “Because
you’re flirting with disaster?” Were they slowly moving toward the side of the
road?

“You are worried, admit it.” His grin was smug, his voice
tinged with amusement. “Would you revive me if I died, baby? Would you save me
and keep me as your love slave for life? Now there’s an idea almost worth
wrecking this car for.” MacCale gripped the steering wheel and turned his eyes
back to the highway.

He must have known exactly what he was doing and how far he
could take it. He had probably held the steering wheel in place with those tree
trunks for thighs of his.

So smug, Lucie thought. “So confident,” she said.

“A professional. There’s confident and then there’s overconfident.
I’ve known some arrogant bastards in my time. They’re all either dead or
disabled.”

She had read about accidents and even deaths on set.

“I hire and handle performers and believe me, I have no use
for brainless musclemen who abuse their bodies, put others in jeopardy or
conduct themselves like idiots. I’m always open to suggestions but no one—no
one—improvises when I’m in charge of the action. Someone wants to try out
something, they better go through me first or they can get the fuck off the
set.”

“Sounds harsh,” she said. “But safety first, right?”

“Always,” he stressed. “Anything else risks lives. Not on my
shift.”

He wasn’t superior, Lucie realized, reassessing her
conclusion. He was confident because he was a true professional. A staunch,
experienced professional. “What other rules do you have?”

“Never dip your pen in the company ink,” he cracked.

“Meaning?” she asked, thoroughly entertained by him.

“Never date anyone on set. Not the stunt women, not the
supporting actresses and certainly not the leading ladies. That’s the surest
way to end up in the papers and on the internet and that’s the last thing I
want. Besides, I get congested if I don’t have anything else to talk or think
about except work.”

Interesting. A professional. A very private professional.
“So you date civilians, so to speak.”

“Oh yes.” He nodded. “The further removed from the business
the better.”

“Have you ever wanted to be an actor?”

After a quick glance at her, he said, “I am an actor.”

“Let me rephrase that. Have you ever wanted to be a leading
actor? Or even a supporting one?”

MacCale shook his head.

“What?”

“Why does everyone always ask that? They don’t ask a pianist
when he’s going to start playing the trombone or a football player if he dreams
of switching to hockey.”

Shrugging, Lucie rushed to explain. “Well, some stunt
performers have made the transition, haven’t they? And singers turn to actors
and actors into directors all the time.” Remembering his performance at the
Scottish Games, she added, “I bet you could have been an athlete.”

“I suppose. I did think about it for a second.”

“Leading roles or sports?”

“Both.”

But he’d never actively pursued the spotlight? “You’re
always behind the scenes, even when on camera. A name in the credits while the
actors get all the photo ops and the oohs and ahs.”

“Most actors give credit where credit is due. And being just
a name on a list and not a face on the A-list isn’t a downside, it’s a bonus.”

“Come on,” she challenged him. “You’ve never wanted to be
famous? Ever? Delve in the glitz, the glamour, the girls?”

He glanced at her, nonplussed. “Many dream of it, I know,
but I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.” Her words to him when he’d asked
whether she considered herself blessed or cursed. He remembered.

“I’ve watched people rise to fame then be destroyed by it,”
he said. “Young people wanting to be heard and seen end up being stared at and
hunted down, some for the rest of their lives. No, I don’t dream about it. I
have nightmares. I get to work with the most respected directors and producers
in the business in fantastic locations all over the world with the best actors
and actresses around. And I get to walk away at the end of the day without
anyone waiting on me or following me. No one shoves a camera in my face when I
go out shopping or a mike in my mouth when I’m really not up to talking to
anyone. No one gives a shit what I wear or who I date. Believe me, I wouldn’t
trade it for seven Oscars.”

It made sense. He had a solid career in a business many
pursued and few succeeded in without most of the disadvantages that came with
the territory.

“Imagine what would happen if the truth about your life ever
got out,” he said.

Oh god, it would turn her life into a freak show.

Knowing one of her worst nightmares was one of his as well felt
oddly comforting. MacCale would never tell. With a bone-deep certainty Lucie
knew her secret would always be safe with him, just as he had promised.

They drove a long stretch in silence. MacCale appeared deep
in thought but his fingers worked on the steering wheel, alternately clenching
and relaxing. Lucie didn’t know what to make of it, until he said, “I told Boyd
I know about you.”

Just like that, the uneasiness returned. “He put you up to
this?”

“What? No. What am I? Young and impressionable? And what the
hell do you mean by ‘this’? You don’t seriously believe whatever happened
between us has anything to do with him?”

“No!” She had. For a second, that was what she thought.

“He can’t bear the thought of you alone in the world when
he’s gone,” MacCale said, his voice softer now.

“I know.” Boyd had been one of the best friends she had ever
had.

“He loves you. Not in the way he did when he was young but
still.”

“Believe me, I know.” Boyd had once pursued her so
relentlessly she had decided to confide in him. The thought of possibly losing
his friendship after rejecting him had been unbearable. The truth had saved
their friendship and the truth was obviously something both great-uncle and
grandnephew highly valued.

“What’s wrong with him, Mac?” Lucie whispered.

“He’s old,” he said, keeping his voice low and tender. The
gentleness made her throat tighten with emotion. Tears tried to surface to fill
her eyes, forcing Lucie to turn away. Staring out the passenger window into the
darkness, she blinked furiously, the feeling of loss a monstrous force sucking
her into the jaws of more despair and loneliness than she could ever remember
feeling.

Boyd…MacCale…she had let herself care for them and she would
pay for that love. She would lose them both eventually and mourn them
indefinitely. She may have been immortal but she was still only human and it
made her want to beg MacCale to hold her and make her forget.

Her hands shaking with nerves, Lucie wet her lips. She
turned to him, the loss and the longing burning in her, and stared at him in
confusion. She had no right. No right to burden him with her feelings. She
didn’t deserve one kind word or glance from him. She didn’t deserve his
fidelity or the comfort of his body. That’s what she wanted all the same.

Him. Only him.

She was addicted to him, to what he raised in her very time
he touched her, every time he turned those knowing eyes on her, demanding to be
let inside her mind and body and heart. And he was doing it again, making her
scream inside her head for another dose of him.

MacCale turned to her and watched her curiously before
jerking his eyes back to the road and the last turn he had to make to get them
on Lucie’s oak-flanked driveway.

“Almost there,” he said cheerfully.

He thought she couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Or was
MacCale in a hurry to get away from her?

He parked under her portico, swiftly killing the engine and
getting up to help her out of the car. Lucie took the hand he offered and let
him guide her up the sweep of stairs, every step one step closer to the moment
of goodbye.

If she had any sense of self-preservation, any mercy toward
MacCale, she would keep quiet. She would thank him, wish him all the best and
say goodnight, not the words that burned like bile in her mouth. Pushing the
thought aside, Lucie turned her back on him to face the door. She turned around
a second later, hands clenched in fists at her sides as desperation surged
through her.