Page 2 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
Nolan's lips twitch, but it isn't a smile. "Some of us don't need a file. We just need five minutes watching you bristle."
Ryan claps his hands together. "I'll leave you two to coordinate. Nolan's consulting on the historical side. Allison, you're in charge of security. Work together, play nice."
And just like that, he's gone.
I fold my arms, shifting my weight onto one hip. "So. Historian, is it? That's a change. Tell me, Nolan, do you plan to bore any would-be thieves to death with a lecture, or will you let me handle it?"
He steps closer, too close, until the air between us hums. "My lectures might bore you, sweetheart, but they'll save lives. That mask has a history you clearly don't respect."
"Respect is earned. Not demanded by a bedazzled face-covering."
His voice carries an authority I recognize from command situations, though I can't place where he might have served. "I've seen what happens when people underestimate objects with this kind of provenance. The consequences aren't just financial." His eyes darken, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the room shrinks. "Careful, Allison. The mask doesn't like being mocked."
I arch a brow. "And you do?"
"Mock me all you want." His tone dips lower, commanding. "But listen when I tell you that mask has power. And if you underestimate it, people will die."
Heat sparks in my chest, a mix of defiance and something else I don't care to name. "What I don't underestimate is human greed. Rituals, curses, haunted treasure ships—they're distractions. The real threat is flesh and blood, and I know how to handle that."
Nolan studies me for a long moment, then gives a slow nod. "You believe what you believe. But when the walls start closing in, don't say I didn't warn you."
My lips curve into a dangerous smile. "I never say I wasn't warned. I just say I was right."
For the next hour, we move through the halls together, setting up perimeter checks and mapping guest access points. Nolan peppers me with history lessons I didn't ask for, and I counter with practical details. It's a kind of verbal fencing—each strike met with a parry, each thrust blocked and returned. And beneath it all, the pull of sexual tension winds tighter. Not just the professional clash. Something far hotter.
At one point, he leans over my shoulder to examine the mask's case. His breath ghosts against my ear, his voice low. "You don't have to believe in curses to feel the weight of one."
I hold my ground. "Maybe, but you don't have to believe in bullets to feel the weight of one, either. Guess which I'd rather face."
His chuckle is dark, intimate. "You're going to be trouble."
"Count on it."
Our eyes meet, and for a second, I swear the mask glimmers brighter, as if it knows exactly what kind of fire we've struck.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment. A staff member enters, nervous, reporting that one of the catering vans has gone missing from the hard-packed sand lane that leads towards the beach road. I snap back to business, issuing quick instructions. Nolan watches me, his expression unreadable.
When the staffer leaves, he speaks again, voice quiet but edged with command. "And so it begins."
I roll my eyes, though my pulse hasn't slowed. "It begins when I say it does. And right now, it begins with me proving you wrong."
Nolan leans closer, his breath warm, his words a promise and a warning all at once. "Careful, Allison. You'll find I'm rarely wrong."
I tilt my chin, keeping my smile sharp. "The same could be said of me."
We circle back to the ballroom, where staff arrange tables and polish silverware until it gleams. Nolan walks beside me like a shadow, his stride deliberate, his presence impossible to ignore. He tosses me another sidelong glance.
"You're not from Florida."
"Brilliant deduction," I retort. "What gave it away, my accent or my disgust with the humidity?"
"The accent," he says, lips twitching again. "Though the humidity suits you. Adds a flush to your cheeks."
I bite back a retort. I will not blush because some arrogant art historian thinks he can charm me with an observation. "Don't flatter yourself, Porter. It's heat stroke, not attraction."
"Keep telling yourself that." His tone is silk wrapped around steel.
We pause near the stage, and he leans against the railing with casual arrogance that makes my stomach flip. "Tell me something, Allison. Why did Fitz send one of his wounded warriors to guard a cursed treasure?"
