Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) Read online

  The bare nape of her neck drew him closer. Six years ago, it had been hidden under all that hair. Her skin was so pretty there, smooth and vulnerable. “Which means,” Baxter murmured as he moved in, driven by some undeniable impulse, “that I owe you a birthday ki—”

  “No!” She spun to face him, so close their toes were an inch apart. Her voice lowered and her gaze dropped away. “No.”

  His attention focused on the pink perfection of her lips. They looked soft, too, and as vulnerable as that sweet spot on the back of her neck. He wanted to taste both.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Baxter.”

  He froze. Oh, God, but he did. That apology! He’d come to square things between them so he could erase her from the “Owe” side of his personal ledger book. More kissing would only add another entry.

  Dammit all.

  Clearing his throat again, he stepped back. “You’re right. What I came to do, to say that is—”

  “You found everything!” a female voice exclaimed.

  Both Baxter and Addy swung toward the slender brunette striding into the room. She wore a man-size shirt, the tails brushing just above her knees and the ragged hems of her long jean cutoffs. On her feet were a pair of faded, shoelaceless Keds. On her face, not a stitch of makeup.

  Her smile died as she caught sight of Baxter. Her gaze darted to the other woman even as she halted in her tracks. “You’re all right, Addy? He’s not bothering you?”

  “No, no! This is an old, uh, family friend. Baxter Smith. Baxter, this is Skye Alexander, the descendant of the movie studio owner I was telling you about. She manages the Crescent Cove properties.”

  He didn’t reach out to shake her hand. Something told him she wouldn’t appreciate the contact. “Nice to meet you.”

  “He was just leaving,” Addy put in.

  Baxter frowned at her. No, he wasn’t. He had that apology to deliver and being deterred would mean he’d only have to face her another day. “Addy—”

  “Look at this,” she said to Skye, ignoring him as she brandished a sheet of paper covered with spidery writing. “I think it’s the inventory of props from The Egyptian. That’s the famous Cleopatra movie we were talking about.”

  Skye skirted Baxter to peer at the list in Addy’s hand. “You located it already?”

  “I can’t claim any special powers. The film’s name is right here on the outside of the box.” Addy smiled.

  Baxter had forgotten her smile. But how could that be? She had an elfin kind of grin, the curve of her mouth tilting the outside corners of her bright green eyes. A dimple in her right cheek teased him.

  He felt himself going hard again.

  No.

  To get his body under control, he tried thinking of arctic swims, dental drilling without Novocain, scratches in the finish of his beloved Beemer. But his gaze didn’t drift from Addy and the animation on her face as she chattered away, something about the infamy of the movie and the rumors of a jeweled collar that was associated with it, a gift to the married starring actress from her leading man-slash-lover. Scandal had ensued and the priceless necklace had gone missing all those years ago. Rumors of its existence persisted to this day.

  “The starring actress...” Skye said, quirking a brow. “Edith Essex, my great-great-grandmother.”

  “Yep. And her husband was the owner of Sunrise Pictures—as well as the man who discovered her.” Addy cleared her throat. “About Edith’s infidelity—that could only be a story.”

  “But it’s a relentless one, just like that of the missing necklace.”

  “Very, very valuable necklace.” Addy hesitated. “Are you...are you still okay with me looking into those rumors? I’m interested in uncovering what made Sunrise shut down—whether in expectation of the takeover of talkies or bad business dealings or perhaps the destructive power of an extramarital affair.”

  “Go ahead, I’m okay with it.” Skye shrugged. “Broken hearts are nothing new to the cove.”

  That last comment gave Addy visible pause. She shivered a little, and Baxter saw her jaw tighten.

  Which gave him pause.

  This clearly wasn’t the time for them to talk, he decided, moving toward the exit. They needed privacy for that, and Addison March in a relaxed frame of mind.

  Or better, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. Maybe with a little more time and space he could talk himself out of having such a conversation with Addy altogether.

  * * *

  ON HER SECOND MORNING at Crescent Cove, Layla again walked down the sand on her way from the bakery truck to Beach House No. 9. It was another beautiful day, the sun warming the air, the breeze cooling her skin. The waves hit the sand with an unceasing rhythm, the ocean’s steady breathing.

  She moved with purpose, winding her way around scattered “camps” on the sand delineated by colorful towels, beach chairs and baskets stuffed with sunscreen, magazines and sand toys. Then her gaze caught on the weaving and bobbing Stars and Stripes kite flying from the second-floor balcony of the last house in the cove. Her insides mimicked the flutter of the red, white and blue fabric and she pressed her palm against her stomach, cursing her sudden jittering nerves.

  That were anticipating seeing Vance again.

  This was so not the way the month was allowed to go, she scolded herself. They were together to fulfill a promise, nothing more. He was a soldier, on leave from war, and he’d be back to it once he healed, out of her life and out of her reach as surely as her father. Remember that.

  Straightening her spine, she forced her feet to forward march. Letting herself develop an emotional attachment to Vance wasn’t smart—and would only serve to make her soft. And ultimately...hurt.

  Anyway, he wasn’t interested in any sort of connection between them himself. Why would he be? It was her father’s wish that had Vance staying at Beach House No. 9, not his own choice. And yesterday, after explaining to her about his commanding officer’s Helmet List, he’d seemed to extinguish the sexual spark that had singed her before—almost enough to convince her it had been her imagination.

  But then she’d brushed past him in the kitchen when she and Addy were putting together an easy dinner. The flash of heat she’d felt had made her stumble a little, and Vance had caught her elbow...and then his fingers had lingered on her bare flesh, his thumb stroking the tender inner skin at the joint. She’d shot her gaze to his, and he’d smiled a little, given a shrug and let her go.

  Just one of those things, that casual shoulder movement had seemed to say. Whatcha gonna do? He’d proceeded to comment on the precise way she’d arranged the cut-up fruits and cold salads on a platter, teasing her like a pesky sister or that ten-year-old he’d expected her to be.

  After dinner he’d sprawled his big body on the sofa and conked out with a baseball game playing on TV, as if her presence in an adjoining armchair didn’t register. A situation which, once Addy retreated upstairs, allowed Layla the guilty pleasure of stealing glances at his long limbs and handsome features while she pretended to herself she had an interest in the outcome of the nine innings.

  Game over, she’d done the courteous thing and shaken him awake. He’d responded with the same good manners, rousing himself and wishing her a polite good-night as they peeled off into separate rooms down the hall. Not by a single blink betraying any awareness that she was a woman who’d be sleeping a mere few walls away and that he was a healthy and virile single man whose thumbprint she still felt like a new tattoo at the bend of her arm.

  Layla’s feet halted once more as her gaze took in the figure of a woman standing near the short flight of steps leading from the beach to No. 9’s deck. She wasn’t dressed in the swimsuit-and-cover-up uniform of the other females on the beach, but was instead in cropped pants and an oversize sweatshirt. Layla might have thought she was an occupant from one of the neighboring cottages, but Addy had shared that an elderly gentleman lived in the residence behind No. 9. For now, he was visiting his niece in Oxnard. As for No. 8, th
is month it housed a middle-aged couple on a spiritual retreat that prescribed an all-green diet and no verbal exchanges between themselves or anyone else.

  Was the stranger here to see Vance then? Maybe his cool composure last night was because he wasn’t single, after all.

  As she approached, the other woman’s gaze remained focused on the house and Layla realized the sand was muffling her footsteps. She cleared her throat to make herself known. “Can I—”

  A half-swallowed shriek rent the air as the stranger spun around. Her eyes were wide and her fingers clawed at the neckline of her long sweatshirt as if the ribbed fabric was intent on strangling her. “Oh,” she choked out. “Sorry.”

  “My line,” Layla said with an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No, no.” The stranger took a breath and tucked her long, coffee-colored hair behind her ears. In her mid- to late-twenties, she was swathed in too-large clothes that did nothing to camouflage the high-cheekboned beauty of her face. “It’s all my fault. I usually walk around with one eye over my shoulder, but my mind was somewhere else.”

  On Vance? Layla wondered.

  “I’m Skye Alexander.” The brunette held out a slender palm.

  “Layla Parker.” She shook hands, then nodded toward the beach house. “I’m staying here for the month,” she said, then hesitated. If this was Vance’s girl, she should probably clarify the nonsexual nature of the situation. “I don’t know if Vance told you, but I’m here with him because—”

  “You don’t need to explain. I’m the one your father made the original arrangements with,” Skye put in. “And I’m the one who Vance contacted about the change in circumstance. I manage the cove’s rental properties.”

  “Oh.”

  Skye touched Layla’s arm with cool fingertips. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  Loss, Layla thought. My loss. Her father was gone, wasn’t he? The truth dug deep again, pain stabbing the center of her chest, a burning, breathless ache. She fisted her fingers, her nails biting into her palms. He’s really gone.

  “Are you all right?” Skye asked, and her gaze darted toward the house. “Should I get Vance?”

  “No.” Reaching out to him when she felt vulnerable was the dumbest idea yet. “I’m good.” Layla inhaled a deliberate breath, then let it go. “Just fine.”

  When she could almost believe that, she again addressed the other woman. “Is there something I could help you with?” At Skye’s quizzical glance, she added, “You were staring at No. 9 when I walked up.”

  “Preoccupied with old memories,” Skye admitted. “And some new ones.” She smiled, and it transformed her classic, cool beauty. She looked younger, more...relaxed.

  “Good memories,” Layla guessed.

  “I grew up at the cove.” Skye made a small gesture with an arm.

  “Addy March told me a little of its history. You’re a descendant of the original owners?”

  “That’s right. My great-great-grandparents owned the property and operated Sunrise Pictures from here into the late 1920s. Its colorful history doesn’t stop there, though. During Prohibition, rumrunners were known to use it as a drop-off point. Later, my family rented out the property to families during the summer. Finally, we sold off some plots for residential use—though most of the cottages we still own and lease as vacation rentals.”

  “My father heard about Crescent Cove from a journalist that was embedded with the troops in Afghanistan.”

  That radiant smile lit her face again. “Griffin Lowell.”

  Aaah. “Special friend?”

  “Griffin and his family spent every June through September here when we were kids. Idyllic summers.”

  Layla nodded. “Like I said, special friend?”

  Skye blinked, then shook her head. “He has a twin, Gage—” She stopped, a blush rising on her neck. “Both of them are friends, but not special like you mean.”

  Sure, Layla thought, keep telling yourself that.

  “Griffin’s getting married next month, to a woman—Jane—he met right here at No. 9.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I warn you, there are people who claim the cottage is magic—like the love potion.”

  “You don’t say.” Layla didn’t buy such romantic drivel.

  Skye buried her hands in the front pouch of her sweatshirt. “But I stopped by because the party who signed for August failed to pay the balance of the deposit. I can’t seem to reach them through their email address, so it’s possible the house will be free next month.”

  “You can rent it to someone else.”

  “Technically, yes,” Skye said. “Though I’m thinking I’ll leave it open. If it’s left vacant, fine, that will work with this brilliant idea I have. And if the money comes through late, I’ll take it—but in exchange for the use of the house for one very important day.”

  “Do you want to come up on the deck?” Layla asked, finding herself curious.

  Skye looked pleased. “Just the invitation I was hoping for.”

  Layla led the way. It wasn’t the first time she’d trusted her instincts and warmed to a stranger. The transient lifestyle of an army brat had taught her to size up people in an instant, separating ally from enemy. It was a useful ability, that of forging the right friendships quickly, because military kids knew relationships weren’t destined to last long.

  So you also learned to let them go just as easily.

  Skye came to a stop in the middle of the deck, and she seemed lost in thought again, her gaze traveling about the space. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

  Settling on one of the chairs surrounding a round table topped by an umbrella, Layla looked over. “Okay, I’ll bite. Perfect for what?”

  “A wedding.”

  “Let me guess.” It wasn’t very hard. “Griffin and...Jane?”

  Skye nodded, then crossed the deck to take another chair. “I’m going to call them today and suggest it. They don’t want to wait long to get married but have yet to find the right venue.”

  “And you think here will do,” Layla said.

  A smile once again curled the other woman’s mouth. “Can’t you just picture it?”

  “Uh...” Maybe it was the result of being raised by two men, one her army officer father and the other her new-age uncle, that as a little girl Layla had been given compasses and canteens, prayer flags and polished rocks instead of paper dolls and princess clothes. Sure, she’d found her feminine side, but she’d never developed a full-blown bridal fantasy. Sharing a childhood with a pair of perennial bachelors had meant she never thought much about matrimony at all.

  Perhaps it was the permanence of the idea that made it seem so foreign.

  Skye wasn’t waiting for her input. Instead, she was already waxing on about the upcoming nuptials. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Rows of white painted chairs. An aisle created by a spread of sand on the deck. The backdrop for the bride and groom will be the view of the Pacific. Pretty, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” Layla shrugged, again aware of her lack of matrimonial imagination. She knew most girls honed the ability to envision romantic tableaus of frilly lace and fancy rings from an early age. “I mean, I guess it would be just fine.”

  “The ceremony right before dusk. White pillar candles everywhere, each one protected from the wind by hurricane glass.” Skye’s expression was dreamy. “Picture it...we can wrap the deck railing with swathes of white tulle and hang buckets of flowers from each post.”

  “Uh-huh.” Layla voiced the rote agreement, though she was as unmoved as before—and felt just the slightest bit superior about that. She slouched in her seat and let her head rest against the back of the chair. Her eyes drifted shut. The candles, the flowers, the white frothy fabric had just never clicked with her.

  And then, suddenly, they did.

  All at once, Layla could picture it. The chairs, the guests, golden sand creating a wide aisle on the painted surface of the deck. Roses in buckets. Fat
, sunset-colored blossoms and glossy green leaves. The tulle would ripple in a breeze that would lift the bride’s veil, as well, tugging it away from her face, which would be glowing in the candlelight. The groom would catch the filmy material, his fingers trailing her cheek as he bent toward her for a kiss...

  She and Skye sighed at the exact same moment.

  The sound woke Layla from the beguiling daydream. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the other woman as if she might be a witch. “You’re dangerous,” Layla said. “I’m not given to flights of fancy.”

  Skye shook her head. “It’s not me. Maybe you’ve been touched by the magic of Beach House No. 9.”

  “Hey, ladies.”

  Vance’s deep voice was a welcome intrusion into the hearts and flowers that still seemed to float about the deck. Grateful for the conversation he started up with the property manager, Layla took time to blink away the ridiculous fairy dust that lingered in her eyes.

  The masculine rumble of his laugh brought her feet straight back to earth. Thank God. Mushy marriage stuff was not for her. Returned to her normal, practical self, she glanced over at Vance.

  She couldn’t imagine him in groom wear. Instead, he looked right at home in a pair of beat-up jeans, leather flip-flops and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that matched his eyes but was rebelliously wrinkled. The tat sleeve covered his cast.

  His real-man persona blew the last of the romantic cobwebs from her brain. Yep, she absolutely felt like herself again, the unsentimental soldier’s daughter who didn’t believe in anything more magical than the alchemy of baking powder and heat that caused a cake to rise.

  Her spine straightened, and she sat up in her chair. At the movement, Vance glanced over. He smiled.

  A bubble of apprehension hiccupped in her chest. Her nerves danced again.

  No.

  She was too strong for this. Too unsentimental. Too smart to go soft, despite that gilded daydream Skye had painted with her words. We’ve already gone over this, Layla reminded herself.

  “Hey,” Vance said again, meeting her gaze. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Layla jumped to her feet, deciding she needed coffee or a shower or space she didn’t have to share with the handsome combat medic. The door to the house was just a few feet away and surely she could make it there without incident.