“You know you’re staring, right?” Eileen bumped me with her knee.
I forced my gaze off of them. “Just trying to figure out if this is for the episode or real.”
“Yeah, sure.” She tilted her drink back.
I glanced at Emma and found her watching me. She didn’t look away, and I held the contact and stared through the smoke at her. She tilted her head to one side, indicating the empty stretch of beach to our left. I immediately rose.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, in this twisted situation, she would make the first move.
A camera trailed us, the operator aware enough to stay twenty feet back. With the quiet beach and the moon reflecting off the waves—it almost felt like we were just two ordinary people. I said something to that effect, and she laughed under her breath.
"You've never been a normal person, Cash." She looked over at me, and she had to be chilly in that sundress. The skimpy spaghetti straps, the short length that flapped against her thighs with each step that she took… I should have brought a jacket. Something to put around her shoulders. "You know that, right? All that stuff you feed the media about being a regular guy…" she stopped and faced me. The wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face, and I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from tucking it back into place. "It's crap.”
I frowned. “No, it’s not.”
“It IS. You grew up with Jocelyn as a mother. Do you have any concept of what that means?”
“Do YOU have any concept of what that means?” I countered, my voice taking on that hard edge that liked to creep in when I was annoyed. “Everyone says that like it’s a good thing. It’s not. My mom…” I broke off, aware of the cameras. “She brings a lot of attention with her,” I said and hoped it was a believable transition. “It’s a lot of pressure.”
She kept that famous Emma Blanton mouth quiet for a moment and studied me, and maybe, maybe she heard what I was trying to say. I glanced back at the camera guy who was inching forward, almost hidden by the dark. I looked back at her and tried to mentally telegraph what I wanted to say. My mother was a monster. The press was my protection because, in front of them, she was perfect.
Her gaze drifted to the camera and then back to me. “Let’s go for a swim.” She turned to face the water and twisted her hair into a knot on the back of her hair, exposing the clasp on her dress.
“What?” I asked dully, not comprehending. There was a reason no one was out here, and it was due to the unseasonable chill, though maybe the sharks should be a concern as well.
She glanced over her shoulder, her profile lit by the moon. "Let's go for a swim," she repeated, and there was a bit of a challenge in her voice. "Get my zipper."
I may have been slow and skeptical, but I wasn't going to just stand there when a beautiful woman told me to undo her dress. I carefully undid the top clasp and stole the moment to run my fingers over the soft skin just above the fabric. I pulled on the tiny zipper pull and watched as inch after inch of her skin was exposed. No bra strap. I pulled further. I got to the place where the microphone was clipped and hesitated, then kept going.
The top of her lace underwear was exposed, and I almost groaned at the sight of it. I stopped and stepped back. She pushed at the bunched fabric, and it fell to the sand. I heard a shuffle of sand behind me and remembered the camera guy. Striding toward him, I put my palm in front of his lens. “Get back!”
“They’re going to pixelate everything,” he protested. “I just need the sound.”
I shoved, and he cursed, tripping back and falling onto his butt. He tried to get up in the soft sand and fell back down.
A laugh came from Emma's direction. I turned my head just in time to catch her moving toward the surf, her bare skin glowing in the moonlight, the bounce of her small breasts as she ran toward the sea. I yanked at my t-shirt, pulling it over my head and tossed it to one side, then fumbled with the tie of my shorts. Ripping the fabric, I got them around off and left them in the sand, my mic pack still clipped to the waistband.
I caught her as she was wading in, already hip-deep, her arms crossed over her chest as she gingerly moved into the water and holy shit—it was cold. I cursed as the ice hit the most sensitive part of my body and instinctively moved closer to her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
"You wanted to be away from the cameras, right?" She eased deeper, and when she turned I got a glimpse of one of the most perfect breasts in the entire world. "So, this is how we do it."
"We probably could have just outrun him," I said gruffly, and why on hell was I arguing with this idea? Screw the cold. I was in reach of Emma, and she was practically naked, and we were swallowed by the dark, away from the others, all on our own. If we didn't get eaten by a shark, this was the best idea I'd ever heard.
"It's better once you're underwater." She hissed out a breath as she sank further in, and I struggled to keep up with her. She was right. My waist had either gone numb or gotten accustomed to the temperature, and after that experience, my chest was a piece of cake.
“Don’t look at my boobs.” She swiveled to face me, and it was a physical impossibility not to look down. I struggled with it, fixating my gaze on the center of her forehead, but it slipped for just a moment and Jesus. If I died tonight, I’d die happy. I forced myself to meet her eyes and reminded myself that I was Cash Mitchell. I’d seen thousands of naked women. Touched hundreds of breasts. These, even if they did belong to Emma Blanton, were not insurmountable.
“You’re looking at them,” she accused, and a wave screwed me over by lapping away from her and exposing more.
“Come here.” I captured her hand under the water and tugged, wanting to bring her into my chest. “You’re shivering.”
She tugged her hand back and flicked some water at me. “I’m fine. Tell me about your mom.”
I glanced at the shoreline, where I could see a huddled group of the crew. One dark figure—probably Dana—stomped back and forth at the surf, gesturing toward us.
“There’s not much to say. She’s a diva. Wasn’t exactly the most nurturing mom.” I ran my wet hand through my hair.
“Okay, so? Some moms are selfish, my own included. I mean, you’ve read the interviews, right?”
Yeah, I'd read the interviews. Her parents shared everything about Emma to one of the gossip rags, presumably for a chunk of money. They didn't hold back, but you could read between the lines. Every time they called her ungrateful, my dislike of them had doubled. "Yeah." I coughed and watched as she started to tread water. Reaching out with my leg, I hooked one of hers and brought her closer. "I'm not saying that you had it easy, but my mom isn't what she played on the show. She's an actress. People forget that."
"Okay, so then tell me what she's really like." She rested her hands on my shoulders, and it was probably just to stay afloat, but I still liked her hands there, leaning on me, depending on me.
I shouldn't tell her anything. This was a woman who sold out our first date to the tabloids, then manufactured press items around our movie awards fight, then posed naked for a milk ad just for shock value. Telling her things that I'd never said to anyone… things that any tabloid would pay millions of dollars for… it was insane. I wasn't that stupid, but then she wrapped her legs around my waist and tightened her grip on my shoulders. The lace of her underwear rubbed against the top of my pelvis, and the tips of her nipples brushed against my pecs as I stood still and let the waves push her up and down my body. I lost all reasonable thought processes then. I lost everything but the scent of her, the feel of her, the look in her eyes as she stared into mine.