Page 5 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
Instead, I smile. "Noted."
We spend the next hour checking the grounds together, trading barbs sharp enough to cut glass. She mocks my lectures about Calusa rituals, asking if I plan to write a monograph while thieves scale the walls. I counter by pointing out her obsessive attention to detail, suggesting she'd alphabetize the staff if given the chance. She fires back without hesitation, every word a spark. It's maddening. It's intoxicating. And I don't want it to stop.
By the time we step onto the terrace, the air wraps around us, heavy with salt and the rustle of palm fronds. The ocean churns below, waves crashing against the hard-packed sand. Allison leans on the balustrade, watching the surf as if it might answer her questions.
"You don't believe in the curse," I say, moving beside her.
"No, I don't. I believe in men with guns and grudges. Everything else is noise."
"You're wrong."
She glances at me, an eyebrow arched. "About the guns or the noise?"
"About thinking you're untouchable." I lower my voice, letting it carry the weight of every battlefield I've survived. "Everyone has a breaking point. Even you."
For a moment, she doesn't answer. The moonlight carves her features into angular lines, fierce and beautiful. Finally, she says, "Maybe. But you won't be the one to find it."
God help me, I want to be.
Candace joins us briefly, her presence breaking the tension. She asks me to finalize a briefing packet on the mask for tomorrow's staff. I agree, though my eyes stay on Allison. When Candace leaves, Allison shakes her head.
"You watch me too much," she says.
"What can I say? You've cast a spell over me."
Her only answer is a roll of her eyes.
"This isn't supposed to happen." I take a step closer, close enough that the scent of her—clean skin, sea salt, and something faintly sweet—wraps around me. "But you get to me in a way I'm not used to. I can't seem to shake it. That worries me almost as much as it tempts me."
Her lips curve. "Then it's working."
I laugh, low and rough. "You think this is a game."
"I like to think everything's a game unless it's a matter of life and death, and then I take it very seriously." She tilts her head. "The real question is whether you know how to play."
I brace a hand on the balustrade beside hers, caging her in without touching. “Oh, I know how to play, sweetheart,” I murmur, leaning closer. “The question is whether you can handle losing.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest second—long enough. I close the distance, claiming her lips in a hard, stolen kiss that tastes of challenge as much as desire.
She breaks it with a shove to my chest, fire sparking in her eyes as she steps into my space, forcing me back with the heat she leaves behind. “I never lose, love. And if you think otherwise, you’re daft.”
Back inside, I gather the staff for a detailed briefing in the small theater off the ballroom. Twenty faces, a mix of household staff, caterers, and the regular private security team who usually watch over Saltmoor House, look back at me. Allison leans near the door, arms folded, eyes sweeping the room in tight arcs. I feel her attention on me even when she isn't looking.
"Phones away," she says. "Silent and face down." A few hesitate until she pins them with a look. Screens vanish quickly. She points to the floor plan. "Main entry here, service corridor here, ballroom here. The mask's display case is center platform, ten paces from the nearest exit. That's intentional. Distance buys seconds."
A guard raises a hand. "So we form a ring if someone rushes the stage?"
"You form a wall," she corrects. "No gaps. Shoulder to shoulder. Nobody panics, nobody freelances."
"Translation," I cut in, voice cool. "You don't play hero. You follow the plan—no excuses."
Murmurs ripple. She lets them settle before continuing. "Three likely threats. One, a smash and grab by amateurs. Two, a targeted theft with inside help. Three, a disruption to scatter our attention. Fire alarm, staged fight, guest collapse. Whatever it is, you stay in your lane and don't desert your post."
I raise two fingers, unconsciously signaling silence like I would on patrol. A couple of staff instinctively straighten, even though none of them know the gesture’s origin. Old habits bleed through, no matter the uniform.
I step forward, military bearing reasserting itself despite my civilian clothes. "In Afghanistan, we called the third option 'misdirection raids.' Hit one sector hard to draw attention while your real target is somewhere else entirely. Same principle applies here—chaos is cover." Several staff members straighten unconsciously at my tone. Allison's eyes narrow, but she nods acknowledgment.
A bartender frowns. "And the curse?"
