Beach House No. 9 (3 page)

“Nice to meet you.” Jane’s gaze lingered on the For Rent sign as she filed away the thought that Skye might be a helpful resource regarding Griffin.

Skye glanced over her shoulder. “No. 8 had a leaky roof, among other things, that kept it unavailable for a while. Griffin actually wanted it, but he had to take the place next door.”

They both turned to look at Beach House No. 9. A kite attached to a fishing pole was whipping above the second-floor balcony. People were crowded on the first-floor deck, and Jane could make out a Beach Boys tune that changed to something from the Beastie Boys. A nubile female in a string bikini and nothing else climbed onto a table and began gyrating, to the hoots and applause of the rest.

“Has the makings of a rowdy one tonight,” Skye said.

Jane sent her a weak smile. “I can’t wait.”

The short trek to the front door of Party Central gave her time for second thoughts. Not that she was necessarily afraid of a little hedonistic celebrating—she had a friend or two who might say she was past due for some of that—but she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea or with her costume.

It wasn’t Jane-the-governess wear. Of course, that was entirely the point, but still, she shivered as she let the sweatshirt slide from her shoulders on her approach to the front door. Her exposed skin prickled as the ocean breeze tickled her flesh. Taking a page from the bikini girls of the day before, she’d put on her own suit. The black two-piece had appeared fairly modest in the Macy’s dressing room, and she’d snapped on a mid-thigh-length black jean skirt over the bottoms as well. But the deep plunge of the halter top and the hip-hugging waistband of the skirt left a lot of bare flesh revealed. Her wedge shoes made her legs feel miles longer—which was good until she realized that meant miles more nakedness too.

She thought about swamping herself in the fleece sweatshirt again. She considered turning around and coming up with another plan for a different day. Then she remembered Ian Stone and how he’d trampled her pride
and
her reputation. Her inner resolve stiffened. With a deep breath, she knocked on the front door.

As she’d hoped, it wasn’t Griffin who opened it. If yesterday was any indication, he was tucked in some secluded corner. The guy on the other side of the threshold wasn’t familiar to her, though he was dressed in the common male uniform of board shorts and a tan. His smile was white, and a dark blue tattoo over one pumped pec showed the silhouette of a surfer carrying his board under his arm.

“Babe!” he said, as if they were old friends. His warm palm cupped her shoulder to draw her inside. “You need a beverage!”

It was that easy. She figured the layers of mascara she’d applied had done their part, as well as the raspberry gloss she’d pinkied onto her mouth. Once she had an umbrella drink in her hand, Jane decided she could introduce herself as something more exotic with an entirely straight face. Jana. Janelle. Jezebel.

As she walked across the deck, a man grabbed her wrist, and dragged her near to dance to an old B-52s tune. He put his hands at her waist and she used the shuffling circle they made to search for Griffin. If she spotted him, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Wave? Stick out her tongue? But both seemed childish when all she wanted was to remind him of his obligations, one professional to another.

She glanced down at her naked skin and skimpy outfit with another wave of misgiving. Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all. The urge to cover up had her edging away from her dance partner. His fingers tightened on her waist.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To get my sweatshirt.” She made a vague gesture toward the front door where she’d left the thing on a bench.

“And hide away all that creamy skin?” the guy protested, leaning close to her ear. “That would just be so…wrong.”

Her smile was halfhearted. “Yeah, well, I’m a little chilled.”
Please, please don’t offer to warm me up.

He took her hand and started boogying across the deck. “Okay. Where’d you leave it?”

“At the entrance.” Gratified that he hadn’t followed with the obvious line, she let him lead her through the crowd. Even with her wedge heels, her lack of height meant she didn’t see much more than the shoulders, chests and backs of the male guests. If there was one thing she could say about the surfer crowd, their upper bodies were very well developed.

When her dance partner finally stopped, she stuttered her steps to prevent her nose from ramming into his spine. He spun around and pressed her against a nearby wall. Jane realized he’d drawn her into a small side room that held a washer, a dryer and a wooden contraption draped with a handful of beach towels.

“This isn’t the entrance,” she pointed out. “That’s where I left my sweatshirt.”

He smiled at her. “Let me be the one to warm you up.”

Oh, damn.
“You just had to go there,” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “No, thanks.”

“Please,” her dance partner wheedled. He was a nice-looking guy, and for a second Jane considered it. She hadn’t been kissed since the Ian disaster and she was all Jezebel-ed up, wasn’t she? Why not take a little walk on the wild side?

Someone strolled by the open door, and the man called out. “Jer! Come in here and convince this pretty little thing that I can rock her world.”

“Jer” paused, stretching muscular arms to grip the doorjamb on either side. Jane’s pulse tripped, then started accelerating. The new guy was big enough to block a lot of the light. The room’s walls started to contract—in her mind anyway.

The second man’s smile seemed sinister. “Ricky’s good, but I’m better. You want to take a turn with me, pretty lady?”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to take a turn with anyone. Excuse me.” But Ricky still had hold of her wrist.

“She’s with me, Jer.”

“Aaah, she’ll share, won’t you…?”

“Jane,” she said, in her most quelling tone. To heck with Jana, Janelle or Jezebel. Her real name had turned men off before. Like Griffin. “I’m Jane, and I want to go now.”

“Me Tarzan,” Jer said, thumping his chest, and then moved into the small room. “Want to make Boy with me, baby?”

She was never wearing a bathing suit again. Or wedge heels. Or so much mascara—though with her gold-tipped lashes, she couldn’t give it up entirely.

“Get out of my way,” she said, yanking her wrist free of Ricky to give him a push. When he stumbled away, she was left with Jer between her and the exit. Though she told herself she wasn’t in any real danger, her heart was pounding against her breastbone, and her blood was running ice-cold under her suddenly hot skin. “I’m leaving now.”

“Ah, babe—” Jer started, and then he was yanked backward, into the narrow hall. “Hey!”

Griffin Lowell pushed the man farther down the passage, then took his place in the doorway. Another pair of shorts hung on his hips and a wedge of bare chest showed between the sides of his half-buttoned shirt, which was decorated with pineapples and busty, half-naked hula girls. His whiskers were grittier than they’d been that morning and only called attention to his—frowning—mouth. “What’s going on?”

Ricky moved closer to Jane and slid a proprietary arm around her. “Have you met the new girl?”

Griffin’s turquoise eyes slid toward her. Her exposed flesh prickled all over again, and her blood turned as hot as the surface of her skin. Was that a hint of appreciation in his eyes? “She’s my girl,” he said with a straight face.

“Nice try.” Ricky laughed. “You haven’t had a woman in the three months you’ve been living here.”

“I’ve been waiting for this one.”

Ricky frowned now. “Well, you can’t have her. I saw her first. Squatter’s rights and all that.”

Squatter’s rights? She sent the guy a baleful look. Now that Griffin stood two feet away, her sense of impending danger had evaporated.

“Let go of the lady, Rick.”

“I won’t.” He yanked Jane close to his side, and when she struggled to escape his grip, he wrapped an arm around her front too. “Just because you want her doesn’t mean you get to have her.”

“But she wants me right back,” Griffin said, his eyes glittering. “Don’t you, honey-pie?”

With her bare skin, bathing suit, straight hair and several coats of mascara, she hadn’t been entirely sure he’d recognized her. The “honey-pie” made clear that he definitely had, and she wasn’t too proud to accept help. She answered him in as sweet a voice as possible. “Of course I want you, chili-dog.”

His gaze zeroed in on her face. “Chili-dog.”

“I just love our little names for each other.” She reached out a hand toward him.

Ricky was frowning. “I’m not buying any of this,” he said, his attitude bordering on belligerent.

Griffin’s fingers closed over hers. A zing of heat flamed up her arm and that sense of impending danger returned tenfold. Uh-oh. Maybe playing along with him had been the riskier choice. “Then believe this,” he said.

A quick jerk had her free of the other man and pressed against Griffin’s hard chest. Then his mouth slammed onto Jane’s.

CHAPTER THREE

“S
HUT
THE
PARTY
down early last night, eh?” Old Man Monroe called to Griffin as he monitored Private’s morning sniff-and-pee. The front of the nonagenarian’s upslope property bordered the side yard of Beach House No. 9.

Griffin grunted in response. He’d shut down Party Central for good. The crabby coot currently frowning at him might have managed to do that himself by complaining about the nightly noise, but without his hearing aids he was apparently stone-deaf. When he saw the crowd gather at Griffin’s, he said he just removed the “fiendish devices” and turned on the History Channel’s closed captions.

What had prompted Griffin to kick everyone out the night before hadn’t been concern over his neighbor. He’d been furious that— No, there’d been no fury about it. He’d been ice-cold when he’d cut the music and ejected the partygoers from the premises, starting with that bastard Rick. The man had mumbled something—an apology, an excuse?—but Griffin had shoved him so hard down the porch steps that he’d landed on his dumb ass. After that he’d been smart enough to scramble to his feet and run.

Griffin had done a lot of shoving last night.

Guilt rushed into his gut at the memory, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to refocus his thoughts. Jane had exited as fast as Rick—though staying on her feet—and that was good. He wouldn’t be bothered by her again.

He wouldn’t be bothered by anyone, for that matter. After last night he’d made it clear he wasn’t into playing the happy host any longer. The act hadn’t worked for shit anyway. He’d have to find some other distraction to keep the events of the embedded year from invading his mind.

“So what’s the word on your brother?” Monroe asked now. “Is he in a safe place?”

Worry sucked as a diversion, Griffin discovered. Private must have sensed the emotion, because the dog whined, then rushed to his owner’s side, butting his leg. Griffin slid his palm along the warm crown of the animal’s head and then caressed his butter-soft ears. It made his breath come a little easier.

“Gage is in his element.” Smack-dab in the danger zone, snapping photos with his camera. But he’d know if Gage was threatened, he reassured himself. The twin connection had always been strong. Still, it was only shallow comfort. Griffin knew firsthand that safety in war-torn places was a moment-to-moment thing.

“Is he—”

“I don’t want to talk about him, old man,” Griffin said. It was unkind, but, hell, he didn’t owe Rex Monroe politeness. Their neighbor had more than once ratted out him and Gage to their mother, including the first time he’d spied them climbing from their bedroom window after lights-out. As seventh-graders, they’d been busted with girls about to enter high school.

He shot Monroe a dark look. “Were s’mores with a couple of older chicks on the beach against the law?” he groused. “I was planning on getting some hands-on education that night.”

The old man’s laugh was rusty. “You forget the two of you juvenile delinquents had toilet-papered my car earlier that day.”

Oh, yeah. He had forgotten. He and Gage had gravitated to trouble that summer and every other. Those annual months at the cove had offered a freedom they didn’t have in their suburban life and were likely the seed from which had grown their need for adventure.

Maybe that sense of freedom was what had drawn Griffin back. After a year of teetering on the brink of death, maybe here he could figure out how he was supposed to go on.

Private’s nose jerked out of a patch of weedy grass. His body quivered for a moment, and then he bounded off with a short, happy bark. Griffin groaned. The dog loved company almost as much as chow time, which was saying a lot for a Lab. Probably some former guest was dropping by, one who hadn’t yet gotten word that his doors were now locked. No more midmorning margaritas, afternoon beers, late-night lambada contests.

He headed for his back door. “Be your usual rude self, will you, Rex, and whoever that is—get rid of ’em.”

The old codger squinted, peering over Griffin’s head. “If it was one of your usual ruffian playmates, I’d be happy to.”

Oh, hell,
Griffin thought.

“But this is that nice young woman again.”

Who was probably after an apology. On a sigh, he turned.

As he’d suspected, it was the governess, in her animal-rescuer guise, her fingers looped around Private’s collar. Today she was back in Jane-wear, shell-studded flip-flops, knee-length orange shorts, an oversize T-shirt that proclaimed “Reading Is Sexy,” and her hair curling every which way. His pet gazed on her with tongue-lolling devotion. “Did you lose your dog again?” she asked.

He’d lost his mind, kissing her last night. She’d shown up uninvited again, which was hardly a surprise. He’d already guessed the woman didn’t like taking no for an answer. What
had
surprised him was the way she’d dressed, all beach-sweetie with skin showing, hair straight, some nice—yet not overblown—cleavage. If it had been a disguise, it was a piss-poor one. From his perch on the deck railing he’d noticed her immediately and kept his gaze on her, following behind when she’d been pulled off the dance floor.

No matter what she wore, she still had those eerie, see-through eyes. They scared him a little, just like mirrors did these days. And then there was The Mouth. That primmed-up, puffy-lipped mouth that always looked as if someone had been sucking on it before he got there.

As effing Rick had been about to do.

Though the other man was more talk than action, meaning Jane could have handled him herself, Griffin had still gone territorial. Seeing the jerk move in on her, he’d thought,
Damn it, I’m tasting her first!
and then he’d been doing that. Tasting her.

What had come across his tongue had been berries, rum, surprise and…heat. Shit. All that heat.

And didn’t he know that the last thing he needed to add to the mess of his inner life was high temperatures. Or a woman.

Galvanized to get her out of his world—for good this time—he stomped toward her, taking control of his dog and the situation. “I suppose you want to hear me say I’m sorry.”

She ignored him to peer around his shoulder. “I thought your name rang a bell when we introduced ourselves yesterday morning, Mr. Monroe. It came to me later. You are
the
Rex Monroe, yes? The famous reporter?”

Without looking, Griffin could feel the cantankerous antique behind him preening. “Well, young lady, I don’t know about famous…”

Griffin rolled his eyes. “Don’t get him started.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Jane continued, still ignoring Griffin. “I devoured a compendium of 1940s war journalism about ten years ago. I enjoyed your pieces so much.”

“Why, you must have been just a baby,” Monroe said, sounding pleased.

Jane smiled. “I was a bookworm from birth.”

“You bug the hell out of me, anyway,” Griffin muttered.

She’d never smiled at him like that. She’d worn a clearly fake one upon their introduction two days before. Last night, after he’d wrenched his mouth from hers, he’d shoved her off and spun away—not knowing if he’d left her spitting fire or beaming with pleasure.

Yeah, he’d pushed her away. And yeah, he supposed she hadn’t been too pleased with either that or the way he’d taken it upon himself to lock their lips first. Hers had been as soft as they looked, pillowy like he’d imagined, and they’d opened on the smallest of gasps when he swiped across the seam with his impatient tongue.

Once inside, he’d stroked deep for her flavor, not acting with his usual finesse. He’d just claimed every centimeter of that wet heat as lust had shuddered across his skin in waves. What had he been thinking? She was a pest.

She was governess Jane, the librarian look-alike.

Certainly she was here to slap him.

Resigned to it, he turned his face to the side and tapped his cheek with the hand not gripping Private. “Go ahead. Hit me.”

She took a step back, blinking. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to hit you.”

“You should seize the opportunity,” Old Man Monroe advised.

“Can it, you decrepit coot,” Griffin called over his shoulder.

Jane blinked again. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to? This man won major awards for his war reporting. A Pulitzer. He’s one of the best of the best.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Greatest generation and all that. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s been a pain in my ass since I was seven years old.”

“A mutual sentiment,” his neighbor put in.

“Surely it’s time for your daily dose of
The Golden Girls,
” Griffin said, turning his head to glare at the grizzled grouch. “Or maybe you need a nap, old man?”

“If I take one, then that’s my prerogative. I’m retired from deadlines, unlike yourself. Don’t be lazy.”

“Lazy?” His temper yanked its chain like a mad dog glimpsing the mailman. “I spent a year without running water or electricity. A year with flies and firefights and my own filth. A bullet went through my helmet when I was lying on my bunk, and it was hooked on a nail fourteen inches from my own damn skull.”

“So sit your keister down and write about it.”

“I did, though I suppose you’re too senile to read the words. I gave the magazine that sponsored the embed assignment an article every month.”

“But now you have the time, the space and the security to analyze the events. Put them in context. Describe how they’ve changed you. Sex and booze aren’t going to take the experiences out of your head, boy.”

Boy? Most days Griffin felt a thousand years old. And not that he’d confess to Monroe or anyone else, but booze had fallen off his “Might Work” list. As for sex…that drive had been neutralized after what had happened to Erica. Even before then, when they were bunking with the platoon, there’d been too little alone time and too many strung-tight nerves to find a reprieve in that kind of release.

Okay, and he’d also been trying to get some distance from her.

“I’m going inside,” he said, turning toward the back door, Private close to his thigh. “Sweet dreams, Rex.”

“Griffin.”

His feet stopped moving. He’d almost convinced his brain that Jane wasn’t still standing there. Those three-hundred-plus days in Afghanistan had demonstrated the power of the mind. During his stint with the troops, on occasion he would swear he smelled hot water—and it did have a scent. Other mornings he’d woken, and before he’d opened his eyes he would hear Gage humming his favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd tune. He could feel his brother just a few feet away.

Once, after an incident like that, he’d managed to reach his twin via sat phone. He’d asked him what, if anything, he’d been singing to himself as he washed up for the day. “Free Bird.” Yeah, it had felt really, really real.

But Governess Jane was really, really real as well. So he turned to face her. “What is it? You rethinking that slap?”

Her lips were in their primmed state. “About what happened last night…you should know I don’t scare off so easily.”

She thought he’d had a motive beyond her mouth? “Clearly.”

“And if you come near me with that purpose in mind again, it won’t be your face that feels the pain.”

His brows rose. He didn’t plan on ever seeing her again, let alone kissing her, but he decided against clueing her in. And for damn sure he wasn’t going to confess that kissing her had been only about impulse, not intention. “Fine.”

She started to move off, and it was then he noticed the medium-sized piece of luggage in her hand. His hackles rose. “What do you have there?” he asked, gesturing to it.

“I believe it’s called a duffel bag?”

Goose bumps were forming along his spine. “You’re out of here, right?” Please, God, she was leaving.

“I’m out of here, but not going far,” she said smugly. “I’m moving into the vacant bungalow next door.”

* * *

I
T
TOOK
LITTLE
TIME
for Jane to get situated in No. 8. It was much smaller than Griffin’s place, and she’d brought only a few items from her apartment. That was a small space too, and a long commute—even by SoCal standards—from here. She didn’t feel a particular attachment to it. Often her job had taken her away from the one-bedroom for weeks at a time when a client had wanted her closer. Of course, in this case her client wanted her anything
but
closer, but he’d thank her for her dedication in the end. She was sure of it.

The idea had come to Jane as she’d picked her way past the empty cottage after leaving the party—after that kiss. If Griffin was pulling out all the stops to chase her off, her solution was to place herself even more underfoot. Following this morning’s first cup of coffee, she’d found Skye Alexander’s phone number and made the arrangements.

The only flaw was how distracting Jane found the endless view of ocean and the ever-changing play of waves against sand. If Rex Monroe hadn’t stopped by with a leather-bound volume of plastic-sheathed pages, she might have succumbed to temptation and spent the afternoon concerning herself with nothing more than the freckles a sunbath might bring out on her nose.

Now, though, she laid Rex’s book on the small dining table situated between the galley kitchen and postage-stamp living room. To the right of the album, she set her sweating glass of iced tea. Her pulse picked up as she drew out a chair. She had a feeling she’d find the key to achieving Griffin’s cooperation here.

A knock sounded on the front door. With a pat and a promise for the book, she turned toward the entry. It was the property manager, Skye, on the other side of the threshold. Today the brunette had her hair in a tight French braid, revealing the fine bones of her slender face. She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup and was dressed in baggy chinos and a T-shirt. A sweater-vest that must have been the discard of a male relative concealed more of her shape.

She held up a red glass plate piled with cookies and covered by plastic wrap. “I thought you might enjoy these. Are you settling in okay?”

Jane gestured her inside and led her toward the small couch and adjacent easy chair that sat across from a small fireplace. “I should be bringing
you
treats. Thank you so much for giving me the oh-so-reasonable rental rate.”