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.
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.”
* * *
IT 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.”
Shrugging, Skye perched on a cushion. “We’re doing each other a favor. Most vacationers have already secured their places for the season, not to mention the lousy economy that’s affecting bookings…plus, I like it when I know a little something about who’s living here. It makes the cove feel…safer.”
Safer? “It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” Jane said. “The cove seems almost magical.”
Skye slid the cookies onto the narrow coffee table in front of her. “It definitely felt that way when we were kids. We ran around like a tribe of lost boys and girls in Neverland.”
“That’s right. You said you grew up with the Lowells.”
“Every summer.” She hesitated. “That’s why when you said you wanted to keep an eye on Griff, it added another good reason to let you have No. 8.”
Uh-oh. Did that mean Skye had a special interest in him herself? A romantic interest? Maybe she saw another woman as some kind of threat and wanted a catbird seat on what she imagined might take place between Jane and the man next door. “I, um, there’s nothing between…” She shut down thoughts of that kiss the night before. “My business here is just that—purely business.”
Skye’s expression blanked, and then she laughed a little. “There’s nothing between me and Griffin either, if that’s what you’re thinking. His twin brother, Gage…”
Twin brother? Good Lord, there were two of them? The other woman’s rising blush told her even more. “Oh, it’s him you’re involved with,” Jane said.
“No.” Skye gave a violent shake of her head. “Not that either. Never that. It’s just that we…that Gage and I correspond. He’s a photojournalist on assignment in the Middle East, and he worries about his brother.”
Maybe it was the voracious reader in her, but Jane thought there might be a story in the “not that either” that was going on between the brunette and Gage Lowell. Her curiosity was piqued. “Would you like a glass of iced tea while we chat?”
“No, thanks.” Skye jumped to her feet. “I won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Jane trailed the other woman to the front door. Skye paused there, the doorknob in her hand. Then she turned, her pretty face serious. “Don’t forget that in fairy tales…well, there’s almost always a wolf or a dragon waiting to capture the fair maiden.”
A chill skittered down Jane’s spine as the property manager slipped out. She had to shake herself to get rid of the dark mood that tried settling over her. With a look toward the sunny vista out the windows, she headed back to her seat and the album waiting there.
She’d just settled onto the chair when another knock sounded. This time, she heard a curious scrabble against the door as she pulled it open. Private, the black Lab, widened the space with his muscular shoulders. Curly-haired Ted, fingers wrapped around the dog’s kerchief, was yanked inside behind the eager canine.
The dog swiped her fingers with a wet tongue before heading straight for the red plate of cookies on the table beside the couch. He sat, staring at them.
“Sorry,” Ted said. “I’m on pet patrol, and he must have smelled those as we came by. He has a nose on him you wouldn’t believe.”
The man looked at the treats with the same hopeful expression as the animal he was tending. Jane laughed. “I take it you both like oatmeal raisin?”
“If it’s a baked good, I think we both like just about anything,” Ted confessed.
Jane found a paper napkin, then removed the clear wrap from the plate. “Would you like some iced tea with that?” she asked.
Ted fed the dog a cookie before helping himself to one. “I’m good, thanks,” he said, between bites.
Jane watched him split a second treat with the dog. “Are the festivities at Party Central beginning early? I got the impression No. 9 didn’t start rocking and rolling until late afternoon.”
Ted shook his head. Swallowed. “Ah, nope. Last night, Griffin declared the parties are over, over there.”
“Oh.” She slid her hand along Private’s fur as the dog leaned against her legs. “I must have missed that announcement.”
“It was after you left. He went on a tear and had everyone out in less than thirty minutes. Paid for a bunch of cabs to take home those people too drunk to drive themselves.”
What, had kissing Jane put him out of a celebratory mood? “Does he ever have a good time at those parties he throws?”
Ted shrugged. “Truth? Since he moved to the cove, I don’t think Griffin has had any good times at all.”
But he’d changed up the circumstances, Jane mused. Without the diversion of booze and bikinis, maybe he was ready to settle down to work. Optimism made her hungry, she realized, and the cookies looked so good. She grabbed one and, as she felt the hard press of Private’s body, broke off a hefty piece for him.
Ted watched the dog gobble it down. “We should probably keep the canine treat-sharing sorta secret, okay? Our furry buddy here eats that low-cal kibble, and Griffin’s always after me when I feed him scraps.”
“Oops.” She made a face. “He won’t hear it from me.”
“As a matter of fact,” Ted continued, “you won’t tell Griff we visited at all, will you? We’re under strict instructions to avoid No. 8, but Private isn’t so good with orders.”
Jane sighed. So much for optimism. “I suppose that means I shouldn’t expect Griffin to start cooperating with me anytime soon.”
The surfer shrugged, his expression sympathetic. “Well, he did close down Party Central.”
Hope lightened her mood a little. “Does he look like he’s buckling down to work? You know, sitting at a table with a laptop or a pad and pen?”
Ted ran his hand over his hair. “He’s in a chair. Like you said, at a table.”
Ha! Jane felt herself smiling. “That’s good! That’s very good.”
“But there’s no computer. And I haven’t seen a scrap of paper or a writing implement anywhere in the house.”
Jane considered this. “Do you suppose he’s working it out in his head? Making mental plans, might you say?”
“He’s got his iPod blasting so loud that I don’t believe he can hear himself think,” Ted replied. “And he’s playing cards. Hand after hand of solitaire.”
Man and dog left soon after that, and their visit made Jane dispirited enough that she ate two more cookies—pessimism apparently made her hungry too—while staring morosely into the distance. First it was the warning of wolves and dragons, she thought as she munched. Next it was news of a recluse firmly ensconced in his cave. This did have the feel of a fairy tale.
She took up the glass plate and set it beside Rex’s album on the dining table. Then the front door reverberated with yet another round of knocking, and she turned to trudge toward it. “What now?” she muttered, as she pulled it open. “A troll?”
Griffin narrowed his eyes at her. “My mood is a lot uglier than that.”
She stepped back to avoid the brush of his body as he barged inside. Though she realized she should welcome him onto her turf, there was a disturbing aura about him. He moved into the small living area, his wide shoulders and simmering temper making the room feel a lot smaller and a lot…hotter.
A memory from the night before burst in her head. His hard hands gripping her bare shoulders. The sandpaper feel of the whiskers edging his lips. The thrust of his tongue, the clack of his teeth against hers, the almost violent edge to the unexpected kiss.
Her stomach muscles had contracted, and though she’d been quaking beneath his touch, she’d opened her mouth wider, succumbing to the insistent demand of his. Beneath her bikini top, her nipples had stiffened, and she’d pressed closer to ease the ache.
When his fingers had tightened on her skin, she’d thought his touch might be tattooed there forever, and her only regret was all the other places he’d yet to make contact.
Then in a move as aggressive as the kiss itself, he’d put her away from him. She’d staggered back, dazed, her gaze on his stiff back as he’d stalked off.
It had taken two hours and a cup of black coffee to realize he’d been using sex to scare her away. Well, not exactly sex…okay, it was exactly sex. A kiss, she realized now, a kiss from Griffin, could be as intimate as any full body connection she’d had with another man. Her nerve endings were still smoking from it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Griffin barked.
She felt a blush rise up her neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolled his eyes, then stalked farther into the room and threw himself down on the couch. “What will it take to get you out of here? You’re making me nuts. I can feel you all the way at No. 9.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lust couldn’t travel that far, could it? A governess’s lust surely didn’t have that kind of power. One spoke Jane’s name in a hush, and heretofore her sexual desires had been fairly muted as well. “It’s just your guilt talking.”
He rocketed to his feet. “You deserved that damn kiss, walking around with all that skin, and especially with that…that…” His vague gesture seemed to indicate her hair.
She put a hand to it. “I can’t help that it’s fuzzy,” she said in a defensive tone. “And anti-frizz serum makes it sticky.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.” It was true. With him in this small room, the air crackled with an energy that was messing with her brain synapses. “I thought you were complaining about my hair.”
“It’s not your hair.” He glared at her. “It’s your mouth. Can’t you do something about that?”
She put her hand over her lips, embarrassed all over again. Ian had once commented on it as well. “A former boyfriend called it a silent-movie-star mouth,” she heard herself confess. At the time, she’d pictured photos of famous actresses of the era with their waiflike features and bow-shaped lips and been uncertain what to think.
“God knows I want to tie you to some railroad tracks,” Griffin muttered.
She imagined his hands on her, winding rope around her wrists and ankles, and another flare of heat shot over her skin. Her palms were sweating, and she buried them in her pockets. Oh, Jane, she told herself, looking away from his tight jaw and angry eyes, we’re definitely not in the library stacks anymore.
“This is ridiculous.” He was muttering again, and now he began to pace about the room. “There’s got to be some way for me to get out of this.”
Thoughts of bondage fled. Jane was here so Griffin wouldn’t get out of this! If he ducked his obligations, she’d lose her chance to recoup her reputation. Worse, some might misconstrue his failure as a result of something she’d done. If she left Crescent Cove without seeing Griffin through to his deadline, her good standing would be further harmed. Irretrievably, maybe. No doubt Ian Stone would be the first to proclaim that she’d left yet another author in the lurch.
Alarm refocused her mind on important matters, and she crossed to the album that Rex Monroe had delivered to her. “Griffin’s tear sheets from Afghanistan,” he’d told her, meaning copies of every article published during his embedded year. She’d been eager to read through the pages, figuring that by familiarizing herself with what he’d written she’d be better able to help shape his memoir.
“The only way to get out of this,” she told Griffin in a firm voice, “is by getting to your contractual obligation. By telling this story.” With that, she flipped open the volume.
On Our Way, the first magazine article’s headline read. Beneath it was a photo of Griffin, clean-shaven, smiling, his arm around an exotic-looking, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. The caption identified her as Erica Mendoza.
“On our way,” Jane repeated. Puzzled, she looked up.
Griffin’s gaze swept over the photograph, then settled back on her. “You didn’t do your homework like a good governess should, did you, Jane?”
“Uh… Maybe not.” His agent had phoned, and she’d leaped at the opportunity, then rushed to Crescent Cove once she’d realized Griffin wouldn’t take her calls. She touched a fingertip to the lovely face so close to his in the picture. “Who’s this?”
“The original book deal was supposed to be like the articles themselves,” he answered. “A ‘he said, she said’–style account of our embedded year.”
“He said, she said,” Jane repeated. “Our embedded year.”
“Right,” Griffin agreed, his voice impassive. “Our embedded year. He said, she said.”
She waited, watched him take a breath.
“But now…” Griffin said. “She’s dead.”