Page 50 of Ship Wrecked

They smiled.

Nava made a weird squeaking attempt at a roar from just off camera—postproduction would fill in a much scarier sound—and Cassia and Cyprian jerked apart, threw on some clothing, said a few final lines, and prepared to face their futures.

Their separate futures.

“Cut,” Ramón called, and they were done.

It was over.

Robes. Slippers. Thumps on the back and congratulations and cheering.

She grinned and laughed as she returned hugs, and it was the best acting of her life.

Finally, she managed to slip toward the door unnoticed... or so she thought.

A split second ago, she could have sworn Peter was standing across the room, chatting with Darrell, but somehow there he was. Right in front of her, clasping her upper arm in one big, warm hand, his hold careful but inescapable. Studying her face with sharp, intent brown eyes. Bending down, his mouth brushing her earlobe once more.

“I’ll see you tonight, Maria,” he said quietly, then released her arm and stalked back across the room.

It didn’t sound like a casual comment. It sounded like a vow.

And suddenly, she didn’t feel like crying anymore.

She could still use an orgasm, though. Now more than ever.

“You’re flying out first thing in the morning, right?” Ramón sipped his wine. “Are you packed already?”

Her attention engaged elsewhere, Maria barely heard him.

Delia’s more-than-professional interest in Peter had been evident from their first meeting in the production trailer. But because the other woman was, in fact, very attentive to power dynamics and issues of consent, she’d waited until the end of filming to make her move.

They’d shot their final take early that afternoon. And now their intimacy coordinator was doing her best to coordinate intimacy with Peter.

Since the moment he’d walked into the party, a cast-and-crew celebration of both their professional achievements and the family they’d created together on this island, Delia had been fluttering around him. Touching his shoulder. Laying a hand on his arm. Getting up on tiptoes to whisper into his—

Well, not his ear. She was too short for that. More like his collarbone.

“Maria?” Ramón prompted from somewhere nearby. “Are you ready for your flight tomorrow?”

Maria wasn’t a jealous woman. Not even the discovery of her ex’s other life in London, complete with a pregnant wife and a mortgage, had elicited that particular emotion. Grief, yes. Rage, most definitely. Hurt and bitterness, undoubtedly.

But not jealousy. Not ever, not once in her life. Until now.

It wasn’t a comfortable emotion, as it turned out. In fact, it caused the same sort of feeling in her stomach that eating dulse for all those endless takes had, so long ago. But since she didn’t have a vomit bucket handy, she supposed she’d have to swallow hard and endure.

And who could blame Delia for wanting Peter? Not Maria, certainly. She’d wanted him for over half a decade now. Having spent the last week surrounded by his woodsy scent, encased in his strong arms, spread open by his broad hands and thick thighs, and brought to the brink of madness by his talented mouth, she knew exactly why Delia was panting after him.

In fact, she should salute the woman for her excellent taste in men.

And good for him, really. It wasn’t as if she’d remained sexless since their one night in bed together either, although she’d come closer to celibacy in recent years than she cared to admit. She couldn’t, in all fairness, begrudge him a night—or even a lifetime—in Delia’s arms. Shewouldn’t.

Sure, she’d thought maybe, after filming was done, they might finally—

But it didn’t matter what she’d thought. It didn’t matter what had prompted her to put off making definite commitments after the end of filming. It didn’t even matter how close she was to losing her excellent dinner in a convenient potted plant.

If she could stop looking at the two of them, that would probably help her nausea.

“Sorry. I was trying to remember whether I’d already arranged for a cab from the ferry to the airport.” Turning back to Ramón, she offered him a cheerful, self-deprecating smile. “As long as you don’t consider whether I’ve packed a single item in my suitcases, I’m totally set to leave. How about you? Are you heading out tomorrow too?”

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