Page 9 of Ship Wrecked

What an ass, she thought, and unlike last night, she wasn’t praising his actual, physical ass.

He straightened and produced his keys from his pocket. “Besides, even if I could rely on you, there’d be no point in trying.”

She smiled at him, ready for whatever barb he intended next. “Why would that be?”

“Because I figure they’ll realize their mistake well before we ever make it to that island, and you’ll be replaced by our other possible Cassia.” A casual toss of his keys high in the air, and he caught them in his broad palm without even looking. “Amber, I think her name was. I look forward to working with her. She’s very talented, as I found out today. Very experienced. Very pretty. I expect the camera will love her.”

Her smile didn’t waver, even though a startling lick of rage had stiffened her entire body. “I suppose we’ll see.”

“I don’t have to see.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he unlocked his car and climbed inside. “I already know.”

He shut the door before she could respond. And as his engine roared to life, she walked away, thinking she would gladly give him the last word.

In fact, he could have all the last words he wanted.

Because she’d enjoy watching him eat them.

3

After a deep, fortifying breath of salty ocean air, Peter carefully stepped off the ferry and onto the windswept chunk of limestone near the western coast of Ireland where he, Maria, and a very small crew would be filming for—years, potentially. As long as the characters of Cyprian and Cassia remained alive and stranded there.

After slinging his huge duffel over his shoulder, he walked to the end of the pier and waited while everyone else disembarked. The assistant director, line producer, boom op, camera op, hair and makeup artist, grip, and a handful of other crew members: one by one, they ventured off the wave-rocked boat and took a moment to look around and get their bearings.

Maria was one of the last to disembark, probably due to her truly absurd number of huge suitcases. To be fair—although fairness wasn’t generally something he cared all that much about—she did wrestle them onto the pier with a startling amount of vigor and without complaint, so at least she had that going for her.

Darrell, their production assistant, well-muscled and lean in his low-slung jeans and long-sleeved tee, gave her a big, gleaming smile and leaned in. Way too close, in Peter’s opinion.

“Need some help with your bags, Maria?” the PA asked.

Did the kid even have enough experience to participate in suchan important shoot? He looked like he was twenty-five, max. Barely old enough to rent a—

Wait. Wasn’t Maria twenty-five too?

Peter scowled. Then immediately cleared his expression in order to prevent further wrinkling across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.

Dammit, thirty-six wasnotold.

“I wouldn’t say Ineedhelp.” Her wide grin plumped her cheeks and lit the cloudy afternoon. “But I’ll certainly accept some, especially when it’s offered so kindly. Thank you, Darrell.”

After she rolled two of her suitcases closer to him, she briefly touched his shoulder in seeming gratitude. Within seconds, he was capably wheeling those bags alongside his own suitcase and matching his stride to hers as they easily chatted about... whatever other people chatted about.

The colony of twenty-odd seals they might spot on shore, evidently. Also a cranky local dolphin known, for whatever bizarre reason, as Dolphy McBlowholeface. Not that Peter was listening that closely.

“She apparently slaps away overfamiliar tourists with her fins,” Darrell noted with another obnoxiously bright smile. “Or sprays blowhole water in their faces.”

Maria’s snort was audible, even over the constantswooshof wind. “I’ve met actors like that.”

Peter refused to check whether she glanced in his direction after saying that.Refused.

“Anyway, I’ll bet the island’s year-round residents enjoy the show,” she said as she easily rolled her remaining bags off the pier and onto the flat, fissured, pavement-like slabs of limestone that covered much of the island.

Clints, those grass-edged slabs were called.

Freaking Darrell wasn’t the only one who’d done his damn research.

“Yup.” The PA nodded. “Especially since visitors are warned to leave her alone. If they get slapped around by a disgruntled dolphin, they’re just getting what they deserve for disturbing local wildlife.”

“So what you’re saying is that she beats up importunate, handsy admirers and drives them away without mercy or consequence.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her lips twitching. “I think Dolphy McBlowholeface should be my new life coach. Or possibly my future waterlogged wife.”

---