Beach House No. 9 Page 3

  “I don’t know. She looks harmless to me.”

  “Her looks…” Griffin let the thought die off. He wasn’t going to get into Jane’s looks with Ted, who’d been dreaming of her naked. Griffin couldn’t really imagine there was anything interesting under those clothes she wore. He wouldn’t imagine there was anything interesting under there. She had the mouth, and the demands that came from it were all the reason he needed to pretend she didn’t exist.

  She’d stopped knocking.

  The relief he felt at that had him almost smiling at Ted. He clapped his hands together. “What are we going to do today?” The other man was a part-time county lifeguard. His leftover hours seemed to revolve around surfing and partying, both of which made him the perfect companion in Griffin’s eyes.

  Ted’s expression turned troubled. “I don’t know, Griff. Maybe I should take off.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’d probably like some privacy.”

  It wasn’t exactly panic that shot through him at that last word, but it was close enough to make Griffin’s voice tight. “I would hate some privacy. What’s going on?”

  Ted shifted one shoulder. “The librarian. You’re supposed to be writing, she said.”

  “The librarian doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Glancing over his shoulder, he checked the view out the window. She wasn’t there. The tightness around his throat eased. “I don’t owe anyone anything,” he lied.

  Ted’s hands were worrying the scarlet bikini top. “Yeah? But still…there’s something about what she said….”

  “There’s something about her!” Griffin interrupted, glancing over his shoulder again. “You’re dreaming she’s naked, her mouth is annoying the hell out of me, and—” He broke off as the woman in question came into sight through his window.

  “—she’s stealing my dog.”

  He stalked closer to the glass. Sure enough, she had threaded what looked like a belt through Private’s kerchief-collar. Though he couldn’t hear her words, it was clear she was coaxing the dog to follow her. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

  “Hey!” he yelled, cranking open the window. “Leave my pet alone. Besides being a party crasher, are you a dognapper too?”

  She froze, those lips of hers turning down in a frown. She looked from Griffin to the animal, then back to Griffin again. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Hell,” he muttered, knowing what was coming next. He’d just given her the damn idea himself.

  Jane put her free hand on her hip. “Come out and get him.”

  “You don’t want me to do that.” He assumed his fiercest expression, the one that had caused a gunman to hesitate a crucial second at a Taliban-manned checkpoint, thus saving Griffin’s life.

  Jane, however, merely tapped a toe. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Are you going to come out here and just do-nothing me to death? You can’t meet a deadline, let alone mete out some kind of punishment.”

  Rage burned in Griffin’s belly. “Ted,” he said, with a jerk of his head. “Go out there and get Private.”

  “No way. I’m afraid of the dog.”

  Griffin shot his friend a look. Ted let Private share sandwiches with him, alternating bites. “Bullshit.”

  “Okay. I’m afraid of her.”

  Jane apparently heard the exchange because she was laughing. “You’re not the only one,” she called out.

  Griffin saw red again. He strode to the back door and threw it open. Then he advanced on the governess, determined to get back his dog and get her on her way, never to return.

  “Stealing’s pretty low, lady,” he said in a menacing voice. “You think it’s okay to purloin man’s best friend? Abscond with an innocent animal?”

  She laughed again. “Purloin. Abscond. You’re good with synonyms, at least. Maybe there’s hope after all that you can meet your authorial commitment.”

  This close he could smell her. It was a sweet, feminine scent, and it almost dizzied him as he made to snatch the impromptu leash from her hand.

  “Don’t touch her!” a cranky elderly voice snapped.

  “What?” Griffin glanced over to see Old Man Monroe approaching, his beetled brows and stabbing cane making clear he was on another of his tirades. “What’s got you riled now?”

  “I won’t allow you to hurt that young lady.”

  Hurt her? He had never wanted to hurt a woman in his life, which was probably how the thing with Erica had gotten so out of hand. He hadn’t even wanted to wound her with the truth. “I’m not touching the young lady. What’s she to you anyway?”

  Old Man Monroe, who had likely been bad-tempered for all ninety-four years he’d been on the planet, looked at Griffin with undisguised dislike. It didn’t bother him a lick. It had been the man’s attitude toward both Griffin and his brother every vacation since they’d begun running around the cove on their own as kids.

  “She saved me from calling county animal control. Your mangy mutt was in my garden again. Wouldn’t budge an inch, even though I was throwing my old GI boots at him.”

  “Couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” Jane murmured under her breath, “but I thought I should get your pup out of there anyway.”

  “Would have cost you three hundred bucks to spring him from the shelter,” Old Man Monroe said.

  “Or you could just have picked up the phone instead of your army boots and called me. You know the number.”

  Monroe continued as if Griffin hadn’t said a word. “So you owe the young lady.”

  Jane shot him a triumphant smile. “Haven’t I been saying just that?”

  Ignoring them both, Griffin detached Private from the improvised leash and then began walking the dog back toward the house.

  “Don’t you have something to say to her?” his curmudgeonly neighbor demanded.

  “Yes,” Jane echoed. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

  “Sure,” Griffin answered, not looking back. “Go away. And don’t think you can traipse into my house again. I’m putting everyone at Party Central on notice. Nobody looking like a governess or a librarian is welcome at Beach House No. 9.”

  * * *

  JUST LIKE THE dognapping, Griffin had given Jane the idea himself. Nobody looking like a governess or a librarian is welcome at Beach House No. 9.

  She was determined to get inside the place again. Beyond that? Her plan went hazy there. But she figured if she could make her way into Party Central once more, then he would understand she wasn’t letting him off the hook. Her fortitude might be the prod that would get him sitting down to start those pages.

  Unlike this morning, this time she approached the house from the front. It meant trudging through the sand in a pair of strappy wedge sandals, but she plowed forward, passing other cottages and winding around happy beachgoers. Though the month of June often meant coastal overcast in the late afternoons, the Crescent Cove sky was a brilliant blue as the sun sank toward the horizon. The long sweatshirt she wore over her party outfit made her too hot, and she paused in front of the small bungalow numbered “8” in order to slide down the zipper.

  A slender woman was tapping a For Rent sign into the ice plant growing beside the front porch steps. Unlike Jane, she must have been immune to the sun, for over her capri jeans she wore a fisherman’s knit sweater that reached her knees. Turning, she let out a frightened bleat. Her hand clutched at her chest. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”

  “I should apologize,” Jane said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The woman pushed her long dark hair away from her forehead. “Not your fault, really. I startle easily.” Her gaze took in Jane’s outfit, her high shoes, the hair that she’d salt-air-armored with a palmful of styling product and her flat iron set on High. “Visiting Beach House No. 9?”

  “Ha!” Jane said, smiling. “I look like I’ll fit right in, do I?”

  “Um, yeah. Are you a friend of Griffin’s?”

  “Sort of.
I’m Jane Pearson.”

  “I’ve known Griffin all my life. I’ve always lived at the cove, and the Lowells summered here every year.” She gave a shy smile. “I’m Skye Alexander. Nowadays I manage the rental properties in the area.”

  “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

  “SHUT 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.