“Of course,” Jake said. “I understand completely.” He was still staring at her, eyes narrowed, as if he were considering something. She gazed right back at him, doing her best to appear dignified and slightly miffed. Her heart was beating so loudly that she wondered if he could hear it.
Okay,
she thought,
now what?
She had not expected to get herself into a situation where she would be wishing for Carter to show up and do something drastic. Where were he and his kayak paddle when she needed them?
But then Jake surprised her. He shrugged and motioned toward the picnic basket. “So,” he said, “hungry?”
Molly blinked. It was an abrupt change of manner. Did he actually believe her? Did blond hair and an impressive cleavage have the power to addle a man's mind so completely that he would lose all logical reason? Maybe the clichés were true. Or—more likely—did he simply not care that her story was absurd? She was here, they were alone, and she was quite plainly throwing herself at him. Maybe for him, that was all that mattered.
“I'm starving,” Jake said. He picked up the blanket she'd brought, shook it open, and spread it out on the ground under a tree. “What did you bring?”
“The usual,” Molly said vaguely. She had no idea. The Gold Bay Bistro staff had packed the basket under Carter's direction, presumably based on his scientific calculations as to the exact composition of Jake Berenger's Ideal Picnic.
She sat down next to him and opened the basket, leaning forward as Carter had instructed her, displaying everything that the white bustier was able to display. “Champagne,” she said, pulling it out and setting it on the cloth. “And cold roast chicken, crusty bread with butter, vegetables with dip, strawberries, and…graham crackers?”
“I love graham crackers,” Jake said.
“Oh! So do I. Isn't that a funny coincidence?”
“Yes,” Jake said, “isn't it.”
He helped himself to a piece of chicken and began to eat it with his fingers, like a medieval warrior. Molly broke off a chunk of the bread and nibbled on it, feeling anxious, trying to recall Carter's instructions about seductive ways to bring up the subject of books—biographies in particular. She couldn't remember anything he had said, and decided to wing it.
“Jake,” she said casually, “I heard the strangest thing about you yesterday. Someone at the resort told me that you never give interviews. Is that really true?”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “Yes,” he said.
Molly affected surprise. “But why?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Aren't you worried that you'll be misunderstood by the public if you always let other people speak for you?”
He laughed suddenly and put down the chicken, wiping his fingers and mouth on a linen napkin. He didn't say anything, but simply sat there and watched her, as if she were a one-act play.
“It just seems to me,” Molly continued, “that by refusing to talk to reporters, you give them too much power. They can interpret your life however they please, and I'm sure that they're sometimes wrong.”
“Wrong?” Jake widened his eyes in a parody of shock. “The press? That's impossible. After all, those things that you see written about me—that I'm a reckless playboy, a serial womanizer…that I care more about my sex life than my company…it's all in print, isn't it? And they wouldn't print it if it weren't
true,
would they?”
Molly frowned. He was behaving very strangely, and she wasn't sure what to do. She persisted. “Haven't you ever wanted to tell your own story? In your own words?”
“No,” Jake said. He smiled at her, but there was something hard in his expression that Molly found unsettling. “Why do you ask? Could it be that
you
want to tell my story, Sandra?”
“Me?” Molly said, surprised. Things were moving more quickly than she had expected. “No, not me, but I do have a fr…”
Jake dropped his napkin and moved so quickly that Molly had no time to react. Her chunk of bread went flying, and the unopened bottle of champagne fell over and rolled away as he seized her. His strong arms were around her, and they fell backward, onto the blanket, with Jake on top.
“Sandra,” he said ardently, “from the moment I met you, I've been trying to control myself, but I can't do it anymore. I want you.”
“What?” Molly gasped. He was crushing her. Even through the ample padding between her chest and his, she could feel his wide, firm muscles. His arms were hard around her, and she felt like a doll in his grasp. One of his hands was behind her head, his fingers sliding up her nape. Horrified, Molly was almost unable to breathe. Did he feel the pins, and the lump of her own hair, tucked beneath the cap of the wig?
“It's true. I want you more than I've ever wanted any woman. I need you. I must have you.”
“Have me?” Molly squeaked. “What do you mean, have me?'
“You know what I mean,” Jake said dangerously. “I want to make love to you. Here. Now.”
“Oh, my God,” Molly said in a panic. She squirmed and found herself unable to move. She was absolutely pinned beneath him, and he was insane with…lust? It was unbelievable. Carter's calculations had succeeded beyond anyone's wildest imagining. She could scream, but who would hear her?
And then Jake's mouth came down on hers, hard and hot and demanding, and the logical part of Molly's brain stopped working. She inhaled sharply, her mouth opening under his as a shock of sexual hunger coursed through her. His lips were rough, slightly chapped, and he tasted salty and male—very male, in a way that was both new and deeply, instinctively familiar.
Jake made a slight sound, as if surprised, and the forceful kiss slowed and deepened. His mouth moved against hers as if he were suddenly in uncharted territory, exploring her, testing her response. Molly raised her only free hand and cupped his face, feeling the coarseness of stubble under her fingers, and the fine strong edge of his jawbone in her palm. He kissed like an expert, teasing her mouth, tracing the soft fullness of her lips with his tongue, sending shivers of desire down her spine.
Molly clutched at him, responding with reckless abandon, losing herself in a way that normally only happened in front of her keyboard. She didn't know how she could feel so physical and so detached at the same time, as if she weren't real, as if nothing were real but the heat of Jake's body, and the swirling passion inside her.
Her other hand, pinned under his thigh, dug into the hard muscle there, feeling it flex under her fingers as he shifted his weight. His mouth left hers and she moaned softly as he began to kiss her neck, brushing his lips against the delicate skin behind her ear, trailing a line of fire down her throat.
“Sandra St. Claire,” he murmured. “You are…unbelievable.”
The word snapped Molly back to reality. His breath was warm on her chest, and he was getting closer and closer to a region that was definitely unbelievable. Her head was still swimming, and she wanted nothing more than to stay there, for the kiss to go on and on. Jake wanted to make love to her—to Sandra, that was—and if it hadn't been for the limitations of the costume, Molly would have had no objection.
But she did not have the luxury of making that choice. It took all of her strength to slide her hands between the two of them, and all of her willpower to push against his chest instead of knotting her fingers into his shirt and holding him there, against her.
“Jake…” she said breathlessly, turning her head, trying to break away. “Stop, please. Could we…could we discuss this?”
He laughed suddenly, low in his throat, startling her. She looked up at him, and felt a fluttering in her stomach at the sight of his face, so close to hers. His eyes were hazel, fringed by black lashes, but they narrowed as he gazed down at her.
“Discuss it?” he said. “Absolutely. Sandra, I'm completely in your power. Anything you want from me…anything. Just ask. It's yours. What do I have to do to make you mine?”
“I…” Molly faltered. “I…um…” This was the kind of thing that men said in the sort of novels that made
Pirate Gold
seem erudite. She couldn't believe that it was happening to her. Was this the time to bring up Carter's book? Jake had asked, after all, but it didn't seem very graceful to segue straight from a mind-blowing kiss into a business proposition.
He bent his head and began to kiss her again, tasting the hollow of her throat. “Tell me,” he said, his breath warm against her skin. “Tell me what you want, and how far you're willing to go to get it. What is it? Money? Jewelry? Or…could it be? An interview for whatever pathetic tabloid newspaper you work for?”
“Wh-what?” Molly stammered. “Newspaper?”
He released her with a suddenness that left her collapsed on the blanket like a deflated balloon. Shakily, she lifted herself onto her elbows and saw Jake staring down at her in disdain. “Sandra,” he said coldly, “or Molly, or whatever your name actually is, let me ask you the same question that you asked me this morning at the ruins. Do you
really
think I'm
that
stupid?”
S
andra St. Claire went pale under her makeup, and her rouged cheeks seemed to pop out like smears of rosy paint on a white wall. She looked horrified, as well she should, Jake thought. Had she seriously expected to fool him for more than a few days? It only took one extended period in the company of each character before it became obvious that the dowdy professor and the bombshell novelist were the same woman. She had changed her hair, her eye color, and her clothes, but her personality had leaked through each disguise and betrayed her.
He couldn't believe that it had taken him this long to figure it out. He hadn't had a clue until fifteen minutes ago, when she'd had the cheek to bring up his golf course. Did she really think that he was so stupid that she could amuse herself by toying with him? Apparently so, but she had underestimated him. His morning encounter with Molly Shaw was still fresh in his memory, and something about Sandra's voice, just now, had made the connection in his mind. For a moment he hadn't believed it. It was simply too bizarre.
But then, when he had turned and looked at her,
really
looked at her…then he had known. It was the mouth. Naked, on Molly Shaw, or covered in frosted pink gloss on Sandra St. Claire, the mouth was absolutely the same.
“Lady,” Jake said, “I have seen some amazing stunts by the press, but this is by far the craziest. You should be very proud of yourself.”
“I'm not from the press!”
“Bullshit. I assume that you couldn't decide which character would be more likely to get to me—the mousy professor threatening my development project, or the tarted-up bimbo offering sex, so you decided to hedge your bets and try both. I'm impressed that you managed to convince your publisher to foot the Gold Bay bill. Your boss must have a lot of faith in your powers of persuasion.”
For good reason,
he thought grudgingly. He was still stunned by his own response to the kiss that had been intended only to taunt her. But she had responded with a passion that seemed too raw to be an act, and he had abruptly lost control of himself. She felt exactly right in his arms, an unreliable impression, as he was still trying to sort out which parts of Sandra St. Claire were real and which were removable. Either way, whatever he had been holding had felt very, very good. It was lucky that she'd given him the moment that he needed to recover himself. If she hadn't pushed him away when she had, it would have been easy to take that kiss to its natural conclusion, and God only knew the trouble that would have caused.
“So,” he said, “which paper is it? One with a big budget, obviously.”
“I
told
you,” she said. Her face had gone from white to red. “I'm not from the press. I have no intention of writing a single word about you, and I wouldn't even demean myself by buying a magazine that considered you important enough to write about!”
“How charming,” Jake said. “Thanks. You're reminding me more of the professor all the time. Is Molly Shaw your real name?”
“Yes,” she said. “You knew who I was before you kissed me. How dare you! You were
mocking
me!”
Jake laughed. He couldn't help it. She apparently didn't see any irony in accusing
him
of mocking
her.
She was sitting there straight-backed, outraged, glaring at him as if she were a nun whose bottom had just been pinched, and Jake was glad. She deserved a dose of her own medicine. He didn't appreciate being the only fool in a group of two.
“Actually, Ms. Shaw,” he said, “if you want to get technical about it, I didn't know who you were when I kissed you, and I still don't.”
“You know what I mean,” she snapped. “When did you figure it out? Just now? Or have you known since this morning?”
Jake shrugged. No point in easing her mind. Let her work herself into a lather, worrying that he had been laughing at her all day. The more upset she was, the better his chances of getting the truth out of her. “If you're not from the press—which I find hard to believe—then who the hell are you? A history professor? A novelist? Or just a girl with a wig collection who likes to travel?”
“I'm a history professor,” Molly Shaw said. “I told you. I specialize in—”
“The eighteenth-century Caribbean,” Jake said dryly. “Yes, I know. You told me. At length.” His tone of voice conveyed his opinion of her stuffy curriculum vitae. She bit her lip and looked away.
“And Sandra St. Claire?” he asked. “I know that she exists, because I've seen her book in the gift shop. Did you have a specific reason for impersonating her, or did you just feel a sudden urge to liven up your life by pretending to be someone else?”
None of it made any sense to him. Only a lunatic would behave like this, but his instincts told him that Molly wasn't crazy. Quirky, yes. A little volatile, sure. But sane. So what the hell did she think she was doing?
She sat silently, staring into the distance. Her lips were pressed together, and he saw her blink hard, several times.
“Well?” he asked.
Molly turned sharply to face him. Her eyes were wide and bright with suppressed tears. “I
am
Sandra St. Claire,” she said in a tremulous voice.