Beach House No. 9 (7 page)

So sue her, it felt good.

The man appeared to be around thirty, which made him a little younger than Tess, and his faint smile topped lean muscles and knee-length swim trunks in bright green. “It
is
you, isn’t it?”

For a moment she was speechless, then words spilled easily from her own now-smiling lips. “It depends on who you think I am.” With a little thrill, she registered the flirtatious note in her voice and wasn’t ashamed of it. It had been months since she’d been noticed as a woman.

“The gum,” he said, certain enough now that he strolled closer to her. “Brand name,
OM.
The green tea gum. You’re her.”

You’re her.
Another man had said those words to her once. She glanced down at the sleeping child beside her and fussed with the fish-patterned towel covering his napping body. The man who’d said those words originally had hardly looked at her since the precious ten-month-old was born.

The stranger came yet closer and took to one knee, holding out a hand. “Teague White.”

She didn’t linger on the handshake, but her smile stayed in place. “Tess Quincy. I was Tess Lowell when I made those commercials.”

“After all these years, they still play.”

Her shoulders lifted, expressing her own surprise over it. She’d filmed them at eighteen, and they’d hit the small screen as she turned nineteen, a long-legged girl in belly-baring yoga pants and a tiny tank, leading a class in meditation. The cause of the ad campaign’s sustained popularity wasn’t clear. It could have been her nubile teenage body, the gleam of mischief in her eyes when she told the camera that “
OM
will tame a wild mind,” or, more likely, the continued heavy airplay. Frequency plus reach had meant success for both
OM
and Tess. She still sank residuals into her kids’ college funds.

If she and David divorced, she supposed she’d be using those checks to help support herself.

Teague White’s appreciative expression took some of the sting out of the thought. “You look exactly the same.”

“I’ve had four kids since then.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

She felt her dimples dig deep in her cheeks. “Yes.” Maybe that last pregnancy hadn’t completely taken her out of the realm of attractiveness, after all. She plugged the Pilates DVD into the player twice a week and ran with Russ in the jogging stroller every other day. Night and morning, she brushed, she flossed, she glossed what she could gloss and she moisturized the rest.

Yet her husband, David, didn’t look at her the way this stranger did. Her husband, David, barely looked at her at all anymore. This unknown man recognized that eighteen-year-old girl in the wifely shell, and he seemed pretty pleased about it. She cocked her head, the moves not so hard to remember now. “What is it you do, Teague?”

“I’m with the fire department,” he said.

“Doing…?” Not that she couldn’t guess.

A grin popped out, as if he couldn’t hold it back. “I’m a firefighter.”

She figured then that he got his own share of appreciative glances with all those manly muscles and the studly occupation. “Day off?”

He nodded. “We wanted surf and sand. You’re an added bonus.”

It was heady stuff, the attention of an attractive member of the opposite sex. She had plenty of close encounters with males in her daily life, but mostly they wanted to wipe their noses on the tails of her shirt or use her limbs for climbing like a jungle gym at the park.

Down the beach, someone yelled the handsome stranger’s name. Both he and Tess looked toward the surf, where a handful of equally muscled men were tossing around a football. They gestured to him and one threw the ball, a perfect spiral that landed at Teague’s feet. With a show of reluctance, he picked it up, then clambered to a stand. “You going to be here awhile?”

“I…” If she agreed, she could tell herself she wasn’t staying put for David. She could pretend to herself that she was instead waiting for the handsome stranger to return and make her feel desirable again. “Maybe.”

His grin flashed on. “And later this week? My friends and I have some time off. We’ll be here again.”

“I…I have those four kids.” Her palm caressed the tuft of Russ’s dark hair that was the only part of him visible beneath the towel.

“So? I like kids. And I have a wild mind that maybe only you can tame.”

That little thrill buzzed through her veins again. Still… “Four kids and a husband.”

She liked him more for not losing the smile. “Lucky guy. Unlucky me.” Tossing the football up and down in one hand, he walked backward, his gaze still on her face. “Does that mean you won’t run away with me? We could go to Arizona.”

“I thought people ran away to Tahiti,” she said, laughing.

“The kids’ll like the Grand Canyon. Train ride’s not to be missed.”

Sudden tears pricked the corners of Tess’s eyes. Embarrassed, she glanced away. How sad was that? Choked up because a man pretended interest in her
and
her children. David had a lot to answer for. She waved a hand, acknowledging the faux offer.

“Tess?” he called out, prompting her to look at him again. He’d almost reached his pals. “I always had a crush on you.”

Faking another laugh, she waved a second time and watched him rejoin the other firefighters. “‘I always had a crush on you,’” she murmured, hearing the wistfulness in her voice.

“He did.”

Tess’s head whipped around. Skye Alexander dropped to the sand beside her. “You remember him, don’t you?”

“‘Him’?” She glanced down the beach and then back to Skye. “Should I?”

“Teague White. He used to tag along with your brothers every summer.”

Teague White. It didn’t ring any bells…then a memory surfaced. Little scrawny kid, around her brothers’ age but a head shorter than them. “They called him Tee-Wee. Tee-Wee White.” She put her hand over her mouth as a giggle bubbled up and turned her head to stare at the young stud now leaping into the surf. “
That’s
Tee-Wee White?”

“Things change. People change.”

Husbands. Marriages. Tess glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. But it would be rude to abruptly leave Skye, wouldn’t it? She could stay a few more minutes. Blowing out a breath, she forced herself to smile at the younger woman. “Mail from Gage today?”

The property manager wore an old fishing hat on top of her dark hair, a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy cargo pants. Still, Tess detected the blush crawling up her neck and onto her cheeks. “You know I, uh, correspond with your brother?”

“Griffin mentioned it.” Tess recalled what details she’d been given. “Something about wires crossed? He thought Griffin would be here at the cove and you wrote back that he wasn’t?”

“Nine months ago. Since then we’ve kept in touch regularly.”

“Nice.” Or, not nice, Tess thought, with a sudden pang. Skye wouldn’t meet her eyes now, and she had the unwelcome idea that the other woman fancied herself in love with Gage, who lived for thrills and chills. He had more hard edges—if less darkness of the soul—than Griffin, and she couldn’t imagine her daredevil sibling with this reserved, almost shy, young woman.
Careful, Skye. He’ll break your heart.

She checked the time. Two thirty-five. Her mood went gloomier. There was no sense pretending David hadn’t stood her up. Her gaze shifted to Teague White, playing in the surf. As she watched, he dived dolphin-style into an oncoming wave. God, the guy had a body, long-boned and lithe, covered with wet skin that looked like sculpted bronze sprinkled with diamonds. The sad truth was, the mother in her still worried about all that sun exposure, but the woman she was appreciated the view.

He came up and shook his head, droplets dispersing like she wished her problems would. As if sensing her regard, he looked her way. His smile was white and maybe just the tiniest bit smug.

Careful, Tess. He’ll break your heart.

But of course Teague wouldn’t. That damage had already been done.

CHAPTER SIX

G
RIFFIN
PROPPED
his feet on the rail at Captain Crow’s and sipped from the cardboard cup in his hand. The restaurant didn’t serve breakfast, but the prep cook made a pot of coffee in the mornings, and this morning Griffin had made friends with the prep cook. The guy had left for an emergency onion run, giving Griffin privacy and a place to start the day away from the eagle eye of the little dictator.

He still clung to his one and only plan in regards to Jane: avoid her as much as possible—and completely avoid what she wanted him to do.

After moving in two days before, she’d kept mostly to the guest room she’d selected. Though he’d continued blasting music through his earbuds, her close proximity seemed to punch through the wall of sound. He’d felt her presence, the capable and unwavering energy she exuded, despite the beams and plaster between them. She’d brought into his house a new scent too, a light and feminine fragrance that somehow pierced the Pacific’s own salty-green perfume.

At dinner that first night, while he’d manned the barbecue and stayed out of range of the conversation between her, his family and Old Man Monroe as much as possible, he’d still been able to chronicle the effect she had on them. She’d managed to surprise a laugh out of his sister, unearth a set of jacks to amuse his nephews, put a book in the hands of his sulking niece and send their elderly neighbor home with a smile after a short stint holding the sleeping baby.

If he didn’t keep up his guard, damn it, he had good reason to fear she’d manage to make him start the memoir.

He wasn’t ready.

Closing his eyes, he swallowed another gulp of coffee. Caffeine was a necessity, because he was, as usual, sleeping like crap. That sweet Jane smell that had invaded his bungalow didn’t help any. With every breath, he was reminded of her—the soft wave of her hair, the spiky darkness of the lashes surrounding her incredible eyes, the tender mouth.

The mouth that would keep on talking and talking and talking at him until she bent him to her will.

No.
Wasn’t going to happen, though he’d have to find some way to keep her mollified. Maybe he’d scratch a few nonsense words in a notebook or something.

Christ! As if that would satisfy the governess. She wasn’t so gullible.

The certainty of that had him groaning aloud. He’d blown it by allowing her to move into No. 9. Dumbfounded by how she’d outmaneuvered him, he’d stayed silent. He could change that now, of course, throw her cute ass out of his place and out of the cove, but he was canny enough to realize she could serve a convenient function for him.

Be a beard, of sorts.

With her settled in his house, it gave the appearance he actually
was
settling into work. As he’d told Rex Monroe, that would keep Tess and company at bay. Better yet, it would appease his agent, who was fifty-one years old, overweight and took daily meds for high blood pressure and high cholesterol. Griffin knew he’d been worrying the guy, a formerly entrenched bachelor who had finally married seven years before and adopted his adoring wife’s two small children. Guilt had finally gotten to him two days ago when Frank told him that Griffin’s feet-dragging was sending him into a hypertensive state. Dealing with Jane on-site had seemed much more preferable than selecting a funereal spray.

So she was staying in one of the guest rooms and he was staying clear of her.

Except, as he took a deep breath, he could smell her again. Damn it! How did her scent reach him all the way here?

Then he realized, his eyes still closed, that
she
had reached him here. Literally. Once again, she’d broken into his solitude.

“What the hell do you want?” he growled, though he didn’t need to ask the question. Everything she did was an attempt to make him mine his
feelings.
Those feelings that he so fucking did not have. She was here to round him up, rope him in and drag him back to the beach house, where she planned to stand over him all day. Likely with a whip.

“I, um, wanted to let you know I’m leaving now. I’ll be gone until evening.”

Surprise had him sitting up and blinking. Yes, it was Jane standing nearby, he hadn’t been wrong about that, but she wasn’t wearing her usual resolute expression. She looked, actually, a little unsure of herself.

Curse him for finding it kind of almost adorable.

And definitely curious.

He stared at her, taking in her outfit. It was a short-sleeved, stiff khaki shirtdress that sported a collection of pockets, grommets and zippers. “What’s on your schedule for the day? Lion-taming?”

She laughed a little, and one foot moved to twine with the other, causing his gaze to lower. Huh. The safari suit was paired with perhaps the silliest shoes he’d ever seen. Cork wedges were topped by khaki fabric printed with pink flowers. A paler pink ribbon was threaded through loops in the material and tied in a big bow at the top of her foot. They were…whimsical. A little weird. Very girlie. The complete opposite end of the spectrum from the tailored dress.

Business on top, and
oh, baby
on the bottom.

It made Griffin wonder how closely that described Jane herself. Scratch the professional surface, and what feminine fire might he find beneath? But he wasn’t interested in digging for that, he reminded himself as he slouched lower in his seat, any more than he was interested in excavating his own emotions. What would he do with that fire anyway? As much as he hated to admit it, his sex drive had driven off, gone AWOL on him, sometime, somewhere, between Afghanistan and California.

Sure, he’d been a little fixated on Jane’s mouth, and they’d shared that single sizzling kiss, as well as that almost torrid moment of awareness when Tess had arrived, but…but, fine, he could admit it to himself. He hadn’t had a real, full-fledged, like-a-flagpole erection since before Randolph had come back from patrol drenched in Erica’s blood.

As if sensing his disturbed thoughts, Jane made a nervous movement, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He frowned. She’d done something to take the wave out of it. It looked…restrained. Contained, like her tight expression.

“What’s wrong, Jane?” he asked, sitting up again.

“I love my father!” she said, as if he’d accused her differently.

“Huh?”

She ran her palms along her hips and then picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on the starched cotton fabric. “I mean, he called and asked if I could come for a visit. I haven’t seen him in a while, so I think I should go.”

“Okay.” Woo-hoo. A reprieve for ol’ Griff, who had been devising ways to fend her off.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “But don’t forget you’re getting that delivery from Frank today. All the things you need to set up your home office.”

“I can plug a few cords in.” As if he would.

“So that’s your goal for the day?” She regarded him with a disappointed expression, reminding him of Mrs. Melton, eighth-grade English, who’d thought that Griffin could write a better essay than “I Spent My Summer Vacation Eating Popsicles.” He hadn’t expected she’d actually appreciate “How I Almost Killed My Brother in August.”

Jane crossed her arms over her chest. “I really think you could accomplish more. You
need
to accomplish more.”

That bossy tone again. Back to General Jane. He scowled at her. “I
need
another cup of coffee,” he said and got up to make that happen.

Once he’d topped it off from the carafe warming in the kitchen, he decided he also needed some sugar. That took him into a back storeroom, where he remembered seeing the dispensers that sat on the tables during operating hours. It smelled good in the small, shelf-filled space, an interesting combination of cinnamon and pepper. He decided to enjoy it along with his freshened beverage.
He
didn’t have any place to be today.

Jane would be forced to take off without badgering him again.

Two minutes later, the door that he’d left half-shut creaked open.

“Don’t close—” he started, but it was too late. George, the prep cook, had cautioned him that the storeroom door stuck sometimes. Sighing, he supposed this would be one of those times. “—the door.”

Jane glanced back at it, then shrugged. Griffin did too. If anyone could circumvent the laws of physics, she could. “Look, I’m not trying to hound you,” she said, resting her shoulders against the wood.

His eyebrow rose. “You have me cornered in a storeroom. Maybe it’s just the zookeeper dress, but you’re coming on pretty strong, honey-pie.”

“I just want something I can tell my dad.” She bit her full lower lip. “He’ll ask.”

“About me?” Griffin shrugged again. “Tell him whatever. Progress is being made.”

That out-of-character anxiousness was back on her face. “I’m a terrible liar.”

Likely true. So far, he’d been able to read her with ease. Except he didn’t understand why she’d feel compelled to report to her father regarding Griffin’s memoir. “Why would your dad be interested in what I’m doing?”

“Because it’s what
I’m
doing. Because you’re my client.” She made an offhand gesture. “Success is the only option.”

There was nothing offhand about those words, Griffin thought. A direct quote, he suspected, and something Governess Jane had absorbed to the marrow of her bones. No wonder she carried an invisible whacking ruler on her small, starchy person.

Hadn’t she implied the man was some sort of researcher?

My father always says I have no head for science.

It got to him, the idea of someone passing judgment on her. Without thinking, he set his coffee aside and stepped nearer. He put his hands on her shoulders and felt their rigidity. His thumbs circled. “Honey-pie, don’t go pinning your self-worth on what some man says or does. Or doesn’t say or do. You can’t depend on ’em.”

Her laugh was short. “Don’t I know it.”

There was bitterness there. Hurt. For a moment, just a flick of a second, the impulse to ride to her rescue flooded him. An urge to take care of her by shoring up all her fragile places.

God knew he had no business acting on it and that he’d disappoint her if he tried. He wasn’t made for it—he was too selfish and too detached.
Step back,
he told himself.
Step back now.

Before he could act, however, she circled his wrists with her small hands. She looked up, her smile lopsided. “Just get started, will you, Griffin? For your own sake.”

It wasn’t the lopsided smile. It wasn’t that soft mouth of hers that still seemed pinker due to her sunburn from two days before. It was the orders that always came out of it and how desperate he was to silence them.

He slid his hands from her shoulders to her face.

She blinked. “Griffin, I’m serious. The work has to be—”

“Shh.” He was tired of her talk, talk, talk.

She tried shifting away. “Griff—”

“Stop.” His voice hardened. “Stop moving. Be quiet for a moment and be still.”

To his amazement, she did. Her eyes widened, her body froze, her breath caught. Had no one ever taken charge of
her?

Though his sudden power over her was heady, it didn’t completely explain his next crazy impulse. “Now let me kiss you,” he said, and then he did just that, bending his head to press his mouth to hers. And
pow,
there it was, the sweet blast of heat he’d tasted that Party Central night in his laundry room, when he’d been pissed at Rick and then pissed at himself for stirring up trouble with Jane.

And, oh, yeah, that Jane-trouble was back. Unexpected, though, because it was as if all the starch had gone out of her when he’d taken control.
Be still. Now let me kiss you.

She was pliant now, her hands falling from his wrists to dangle at her sides. Her head dropped back, and the action opened up those soft lips, giving his tongue entry. She sighed against his mouth, all her defenses gone for the moment as he pressed closer, his body crowding hers.

Again, she didn’t protest. A shudder went through her, and he felt it along his chest, along his thighs. He drew his mouth away from her lips, heard her little moan of protest but ignored it to explore the silken heat of her cheek and then the small shell of her ear. He tongued the lobe, felt her breath catch, and then she lifted her hands to grab his waist.

In the small room, their breaths turned loud. The sound was urgent, as urgent as the desire starting to fire in his blood. His mouth found hers again, almost feeding on it, and then his hands went wild, sliding over the crisp fabric of her dress, seeking a way to touch more of her flesh. Frustrated by all the metal apparatuses his fingers found, he slanted his head to take her deeper and yanked at the fabric of her skirt, lifting it to bare the warm backs of her thighs.

She jerked into his palms as he stroked upward. “Shh, shh, shh,” he said against her mouth, soothing her, even as the hem rose higher with his wrists. His palms cupped the round globes of her ass over her panties.

Making a noise deep in her throat, she melted against him once more. It lit him up, his blood burning hot and thick, chugging a fire line southward. Causing that heavy, tightening sensation that he’d not experienced in months and months and months. Too long.

Desperate, desperately glad, he slid his hands under the fabric so they were palms to cheeks.

And with that, he was fully erect.

Sweet, sweet mercy. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, breathing in that flowery Jane-scent, reveling in the goodness of escalating desire and a solid cock.

The notion that he hadn’t, after all, lost this.

The librarian was moving into him now, her pelvis grinding against his stiff shaft, a cute little stand-up lap dance that almost had his rocket launching. But they were in a storeroom. Alone at the moment, but only because of an impromptu onion run. Still, she was eager and he was hard and who could argue against that combination?

His mouth found hers again as he tried weighing the pros and cons of taking this all the way. But his brain was sluggish, what with all the blood his erection—thank God!—was putting to its own use. The decision had to be deferred, he thought, reluctantly sliding his tongue from her mouth. If they’d been near a bed, he knew good sense wouldn’t have stood a chance, but they were in that storeroom. And an onion run wouldn’t last forever.