Beach House No. 9 (5 page)

At the mention of silent films, Jane covered her mouth, then glanced down the beach at the colorful residences spilling from the hillside to the edge of the sand. The ocean breeze shivered through the graceful fronds of the date palms shading their roofs and set the long leaves of the banana plants wagging. The creamy faces of plumeria flowers mingled with brighter splashes of hibiscus in yellow, red and pink. The bougainvillea grew everywhere something else didn’t.

She could imagine this place as an exotic backdrop to long-ago movies or as an idyllic vacation getaway. “It really does appear out of another time.”

For no more reason than that, a person would be reluctant to leave. It wasn’t hard for Jane to picture woody station wagons pulled up behind the cottages. She could see the children of the past playing in the surf, riding inflatable rubber rafts instead of the foam boogie boards the contemporary kids were dragging into the water by leashes attached at their ankles. At five o’clock some sunburned man with a crew cut would blow the conch shell, heralding another idyllic summer evening. “Magic,” she murmured.

A foolish notion that she’d always wanted to believe in. Just like love. Her father had detected the weakness in her early on, as clear to him, apparently, as her lack of aptitude in the sciences. “So silly and emotional, Jane,” he would say, shaking his head at her. “Just like your mother.”

Pushing the memory aside, she tuned back in to Skye’s conversation. The crowd had returned to their places, and Jane was forced to lean close to hear over their rowdy chatter. “The earliest houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s,” the other woman was saying. “My great-great-granddad built some of them, my great-grandfather more, but it wasn’t until my mom was pregnant with me that my parents moved here. They live in Provence now, and though I live at the cove full-time, most habitants are seasonal.” She paused. “Like the Lowells.”

Griffin. Their last moments together replayed in Jane’s head, his flattened voice describing what had happened to his colleague Erica in Afghanistan. The neutral tone to his words had been belied by the stiffness of his posture. Even now, Jane could feel the tense muscle of his forearm under her hand and the way he’d wrenched from her hold in order to heave the cookie platter against the wall. It reminded her that she owed Skye a plate…and her client an apology?

Jane didn’t think an “I’m sorry” would change his mind about her. By insisting he’d have to touch on that tragedy, she’d become the object of his wrath. She had the very bad feeling he would absolutely refuse to work with her now. On a sigh, she met Skye’s gaze. “Did Griffin send you to find me?”

“What? No.”

“Oh.” The denial eased Jane’s worry better than another swallow of wine. “Good.”

“But I
was
looking for you.” She hesitated. “Your name rang a bell…and then when I put it together with what you said about helping Griffin with his memoir…”

Jane’s belly tightened. How widespread was the smear on her reputation?

“I have all of Ian Stone’s novels,” Skye said.

Jane nodded, tensing further. “I’m not surprised.”

The other woman gave a little smile. “I know, I know, me and everyone else. Number one
New York Times
bestseller several times over. Many of them were made into movies.”

“The last five.”

“I’m one of those people who likes to reread books, poring over them from the dedication page up front to the author’s note at the back.” Skye hesitated, then the question she’d obviously been dying to ask burst out. “What was it like to work with him? Because that’s you, isn’t it? I figured it had to be when you told me you work with writers. He dedicated
Sal’s Redemption, The Butterfly Place
and
Crossroads Corner
to you, right?”

“Yes.” For three years, she’d worked almost exclusively with him. He’d been the focus of her career.

Then he’d become the focus of her life.

“So,” Skye prodded. “Will you dish? Is he as handsome as he appears on book jackets and in TV interviews?”

“Handsomer.” She sighed inwardly. Ian’s good looks didn’t reflect his inner character, but she couldn’t blame Skye for not recognizing that. Look how long it had taken Jane to figure it out. She’d wanted too much to believe.

So silly and emotional, Jane.

When it came to Ian Stone, that’s exactly what she’d been. A lesson had been learned, though. She’d been a fool for love in the past, but she would never again make the mistake of caring for a man who couldn’t love her back.

“Gorgeous, huh?” Skye leaned closer. “But then is he like so many really attractive guys? Tell me he’s the size of a pickle.”

The demand surprised a laugh out of Jane. “You want me to talk about his—” She gestured toward her lap.

“No!” Skye flushed red. “I wouldn’t talk about that. I don’t like to think about that. I meant his height. The height of his body. His whole self.”

Skye’s deep fluster struck Jane as odd, but she got another laugh out of imagining Ian’s horrified reaction to even a moment’s consideration of that particular body part in gherkin terms. Then another picture of him blossomed in her brain, her own version of Pin the Pickle on the Donkey.

Perfect, she thought, because the man was such an ass.

She couldn’t hold back a fresh burst of laughter.

“You’re in a good mood,” a voice said from behind her.

The chuckles drained away as Jane tensed again. Busted.

With a slow pivot, she turned to face Griffin. Ian Stone was handsome in a spoiled, well-tended sort of way. By contrast, Griffin looked as if he’d buzzed his hair himself and he’d nicked his chin while shaving—a couple of days before, if she was any judge of stubble. But his was a wholly masculine face, all the edges hard and those incredible turquoise eyes sharp. Her breath quickened, even though she tried pretending she was all cool control. There was no denying that something about the man had found a previously hidden chink in her, an opening that allowed his male energy to worm its way under her armor, heating her up, loosening her muscles, almost…preparing her.

The thought made her blush, and his gaze narrowed, skewering her now. She wiggled on her stool. “Um…hey.”

He nodded absently at Skye, then returned his ominous gaze to Jane. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh?” Her belly fluttered, and she barely registered the finger wave Skye sent her before leaving. From the hard expression on Griffin’s face, Jane didn’t expect he’d sought her out to deliver good news. What would she do once he declined her services for good? Word would surely get back that yet another author found her unsatisfactory. She sighed, bowing to the inevitable. “What is it?”

He opened his mouth, and then his gaze shifted over her shoulder. The incredible eyes flared for a moment, narrowed again. “Shit.”

She glanced around. In the distance a woman was trudging through the sand, a baby balanced on one hip. Three other kids trailed behind her, but she didn’t look the least bit matronly, with her long legs bared by a white cotton skirt and a scarlet tank top clinging to her curves. Expensive sunglasses covered her eyes, and her dark hair was glossy and cut in a trendy fashion that had delicate pieces curving around her cheeks and jaw.

Jane turned back to Griffin and could swear he’d gone pale. “Old flame?”

“More like the devil,” he muttered, then cursed again. “You’ve got to do something for me, Jane.”

She didn’t think this was going to be about his memoir. “Like what?”

He hunkered down, so that he was semishielded by her body. “Hide me.”

Wasn’t hiding what she’d been after herself?

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said after a moment, her attention still on the beach. Was it bad of her to take pleasure in noting that the dark-haired beauty had homed in on the man half concealed behind her? She was waving her arm, her focus clearly settled on his face. Two of the little kids were jumping up and down as well, pointing and waving.

“The children seem to know you. Who are they?”

“The devil’s minions.” As they continued waving, he rose to his full height on a loud sigh. “There’s only one thing for it, then.”

“What’s that?”

Griffin clamped his hand around Jane’s upper arm and pulled her from her stool. “Come on.” With an arm slung across her shoulders, he urged her toward the steps leading to the sand. “This way, honey-pie.”

She struggled to keep up with his brisk stride. “Tell me what’s going on, chili-dog.”

He shot her a look, then shrugged. “Our little endearments will do the job just fine, I guess.”

“What job is that?” Jane asked warily.

“A minor bit of role-play. You can manage that for the next few minutes or so, can’t you?”

She thought of protesting. This definitely wasn’t about his memoir. She considered turning back toward the bar and cutting her losses right there and then, given the bad luck that had been dogging her lately. But another few minutes…the optimist inside her wondered what might happen during that time. If she went along with whatever he was planning, perhaps he’d be convinced that she was a handy person to have around, and they could salvage their working relationship. That’s what she needed more than anything.

“I guess,” she said.

“Great. Consider yourself hired.” He hitched her closer to his side. His body was hard and warm and solid enough to prop up her weight if she was the kind of woman inclined to lean on a man. She wasn’t. She didn’t trust them for that.

He cupped her upper arm, his palm sliding up and down in a caress she could feel through the sleeve of her cotton shirt. It made her flesh prickle, and she shivered.

Griffin’s feet halted, stopping their forward movement. Jane glanced up. He was staring at her, an odd expression on his face. His caressing hand moved over her again, and she couldn’t stop a second shiver.

“Jesus, Jane,” he murmured, stroking her once more. “Jesus.”

Her mouth was dry. “Jesus, Jane—what?”

He shook his head as if he was shaking off an uncomfortable thought. His fingers slid away. “Don’t look so serious,” he told her, his voice gruff.

She frowned at him. “How should I look, then?”

With a careless hand, he chucked her under the chin. The strange moment had clearly passed. “Try smiling, honey-pie. For this to succeed, you have to look and sound the part.”

“The part of what?” she asked, suspicious.

Griffin grinned down at her. His blue gaze seemed almost tender, and she felt his testosterone twisting toward her like smoke, seeking that crack in her protective shell. His hand found hers. “The part, sweet Jane, of my lover.”

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HEY
DIDN
’
T
GET
to introductions right away. The moment she and Griffin appeared on the beach in front of the lovely brunette, the woman launched herself into his arms, causing him to let go of Jane. “You don’t know what I’ve been through!” the beauty said.

One of her young entourage was a girl who looked as if she’d just crossed into her teens. “I’m going to die of boredom here,” the teen said. “I can smell the lack of cell phone coverage.” She blinked lashes of beyond-natural length and thickness. “I’m probably going to get pregnant just for something to do.”

Though Jane was somewhat alarmed when the teen turned to peruse the beach as if seeking out potential baby daddies, no one else commented on her offhand remark. Perhaps no one else had heard it. Griffin and the woman were already walking down the beach in the direction of his cottage, she hanging on to his arm while still carrying the little guy, who looked to be nine or ten months old. One of the baby’s sandals slipped off his foot, and Jane swooped it up as she drifted behind them.

“Let’s go,” the teenager said to the remaining two. They were boys—five and six? Seven and eight?—and were poking at a clump of stinky kelp with a stick.

At the girl’s prompting, the smaller of the two ran ahead, brandishing the piece of wood, while the other threw sand at his back, yelling, “Your face looks like monkey poo!”

At that, the teenager tossed a glance at Jane. “My life,” she said in a theatrical tone.

“It seems adding an infant of your own to it would only complicate matters,” Jane pointed out. “Cute baby bump to monkey poo? A blip in time.”

Her extravagant eye-roll made Jane grin. It reminded her of—

Griffin. Good God, was the brunette his ex? This tribe his children?

“I’m Jane,” she said to the girl.

The teen slid her a sidelong look. “Of course you are.”

Griffin’s exact words! “What’s your name?”

“Rebecca.” She flung an arm in the direction of her presumed siblings. Four inches of braided string and rubber bracelets circled her wrist. “Those are my brothers, Duncan, Oliver and Russ.”

Before Jane could pry more out of her, they’d reached Beach House No. 9. The entire party assembled in the living room, the two boys dropping to the floor to wrestle, Rebecca slumping onto the couch in another dramatic move, her mother pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and hitching the baby higher on her hip. Jane hung back, reluctant to enmesh herself until she knew more.

“Now, Tess,” Griffin said. “What’s this all about?”

Just like that, the woman burst into tears. The little one she was holding immediately followed suit.

Over the racket, Rebecca let out a gusty sigh. “Pregnant, I tell you. I’m definitely getting pregnant.”

Her mother responded by passing over the tearful little guy. Not a bad idea, Jane decided. Birth control by baby brother.

Griffin didn’t appear affected by the woman’s distress or the child’s. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tess, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve left him, Griff,” she said. “I’ve finally left my husband!”

At the outburst, he groaned, offering not an ounce of sympathy. His hands ran over his head. “Geez, Tessie. This matters to me how?”

Tess’s sobs redoubled. Jane could only hurt for the woman. Clearly she’d come to Crescent Cove without the expectation of rejection. Jane edged farther away, thinking she’d head to her own cottage.

Her movement caught Griffin’s eye, however, and in two strides he had her by the hand and was towing her toward the crier. “I can’t deal with this, Tess. And here’s why. I’ve got a new lover now.” He put his hands on Jane’s shoulders and pulled her back against his chest.

His body heat transferred to Jane and pooled low at the base of her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, and his hands tightened on her. He focused on her mouth, and she felt it like a touch, her lips warming too. The company, the room itself, seemed to drop away, leaving Griffin’s intense gaze and Jane’s unsteady heartbeat.

Then, jerking his gaze off her, he cleared his throat and pushed her forward a half step. It left inches of cooling air between them. “Meet Jane.”

The other woman sniffed, the back of her hand against her nose. She raised lovely, tear-drenched eyes to take in Jane, and then her gaze moved on to Griffin’s face. “You’ve met someone?”

The heartbreak in her voice told the story, Jane thought. And as someone who’d been supplanted by another woman in a man’s life, she didn’t want to play this scene again, even from the other side. “Look…”

Griffin’s hands found her shoulders again to squeeze a warning. “Honey-pie—”

“Chili-dog,” she said, turning to glare at him.

“Honey-pie!” The woman—Tess—cried out. “Chili-dog! You really found someone!”

“Isn’t that what you’re always telling me to do?”

“When I was married,” she started, sniffling back more tears, “it seemed like a good idea. But now that we’re heading for divorce…”

Jane couldn’t continue this way, deceiving this poor woman who’d apparently left her husband for Griffin, who in turn was exhibiting more than his usual detachment. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Jane.”
An even clearer warning.

Breaking free of his hold, she turned to shoot him a look. “Listen—” But her next words got lost in a loud crash. The little boys had knocked over a small table by the window. The base of a lamp was on the ground, shattered against the hard wood. The shade lay crumpled beside it.

The baby started wailing again.

As if she’d reached the end of her rope, Tess clapped one hand over her eyes. The little boys began shoving each other anew, putting more furniture at risk. Rebecca mouthed something—likely another pregnancy threat—and jumped from the sofa to hand her smallest brother over to Griffin. As the teen stalked out of the room, he held the child at arm’s length, then turned to Jane in mute appeal.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Helpless with his own children! Surely that had to be the case, that they belonged to him, because each one had his dark hair, and at least some of them his distinctive blue eyes, not to mention his ability to be appealing and get on her nerves at the very same time. She took the baby from him and jiggled the child as she grabbed the back of one little boy’s shirt. It was a winning technique, because the other automatically followed as she led him down the hall. A small guest room had a TV and remote. She held it out to the larger of the two. “I assume you’re familiar with this device?”

In a blink, it was snatched out of her hand. In two, they were seated on the bed, their eyes glued to the screen. Private, the Labrador, appeared from somewhere and wiggled his way between them on the mattress. The show they chose wasn’t a cartoon, and she could only hope it wasn’t X-rated—a distinct possibility, she figured, in this house—but, given the kids’ snarled domestic arrangement, maybe they’d seen it all before.

The baby was now snuffling against her shoulder and gnawing on his fist, so she headed into the kitchen, where she found a cracker. He pounced on it with a show of great delight. As he munched away, she returned to the living room, a box of tissues under her arm.

It appeared as if all was not resolved. Tess had collapsed on the couch cushions, her face in her hands. Griffin, the callous monster, had retreated to the glass doors, his back turned to the woman, his gaze resting on the ceaseless rumble of the surf.

Jane could only hope Rebecca wasn’t out looking for a sperm donor.

Without a word, she took a seat on the couch and passed over the tissues. Tess accepted them with a grateful glance. Then she dried her face. Once it was done, she inhaled a long deep breath and took the now-content baby onto her lap. “Thank you,” she said, hugging her small son to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I had to get that out of my system.”

Then her gaze shifted to Griffin, and she raised her voice. “I want to stay here with the kids.”

He swung around, dismay—or panic?—written all over his face. “I didn’t even invite you to stay for dinner.”

“Griff—”

“Tess. I told you I have a lover. I’m with Jane now.”

Not even for the chance to get this job and regain her reputation was she going along with a lie of this magnitude a moment longer. “I’m not his anything,” she said, ignoring the fierce frown Griffin turned on her. “Believe me.”

“Oh.” Tess looked from her to the grim-faced man in the corner. “I don’t understand.”

“Though he said that we’re together,” Jane explained, “it’s not true.”

Tess blinked, and now that Tess’s eyes were dry, Jane realized they were the same distinctive and bright turquoise as Griffin’s. “That’s fabulous news,” the other woman replied.

Jane thought it was a little odd to be happy that your ex, the father of your children, had just been lying to you, but she figured Tess’s hopes of getting Griffin back had been renewed.

“Because love’s a crock and men are beasts,” Tess continued in loud tones, and Jane could see from whom Rebecca had inherited her dramatic presence. The brunette sent a pointed look at Griffin. “Even my brother.”

Brother?

Oh.
Oh.

Now feeling stupid, Jane once again glared at the man in the room.

“What?” he asked with a look of aggrieved innocence.

But Tess snagged his attention by launching into her reasons for staying at Crescent Cove. “We need a break. The kids will love it here.”

He shook his head right away. “There’s no available cottage. Ask Skye.”

Tess flapped a hand. “There’s plenty of room in Beach House No. 9.”

He definitely looked panicked now. “I need my privacy.”

“You’ve been hiding from everyone for months,” his sister responded.

“No. No, I haven’t. Old Man Monroe jaws at me every day. And, uh, I have Jane here. We, uh, have a project to do.”

Jane perked up at that. Her spine straightening, she pinned him with her gaze. “So you’re committing to working on the book now?”

“As you’ve been telling me, I have a deadline to meet.” He turned to his sister. “See? I can’t have all of you underfoot.”

“But we won’t be any trouble,” Tess said. “The kids won’t get in your way.”

Jane was no longer listening to the other woman, her mind already on the project ahead. She didn’t rub her hands together, but she wanted to. “We’ll start first thing in the morning.”

“Griffin,” Tess pleaded. “We need Crescent Cove this summer. Me and the kids. We need it for just a few weeks.”

He looked from Tess to Jane, who had no trouble giving him the out he wanted this time. “You need to finish the book, Griffin. That’s why I’m here.”

His gaze shifted back to Tess, to her, to Tess again. Jane saw a calculating light enter his eyes.
Uh-oh,
she thought.

“All right, sis,” he finally said. “You and the kids can stay.”

She clapped her hands, and the baby did too. “Thank you.”

“You can stay in No. 8,” Griffin clarified.

What?
Jane mouthed.

Tess frowned. “No. 8?”

“Yes,” Griffin answered. “In No. 8, with my assistant Jane, here. Though I’ll be busy with my memoir, I’m sure she’ll be happy to assist
you
at every opportunity.”

* * *

W
ORN
PACK
OF
CARDS
in hand, Private padding at his side, Griffin strolled into the small backyard of Beach House No. 9. Okay,
skulked
was a better term, because he couldn’t deny the furtiveness of his movements. He stayed close to the side of the house and craned his neck for any sign of the occupants of No. 8. His property provided a view of a slice of the smaller house’s rear patch of scruffy grass. When he didn’t spy any rowdy relatives or rigid-spined governesses, he picked up his pace toward the nearby picnic table painted sailor-blue.

Once seated on its bench, he tucked in earbuds and thumbed on his iPod. The crashing chords and heavy backbeat of classic Metallica poured into his head as he laid out yet another of his mindless games of solitaire. This was the second day in a row he’d managed to dodge his sister, her children and the woman he’d foisted them on. Or was it, he thought, frowning, the woman onto whom he’d foisted them?

He stared down at his cards for a moment, then cursed the stupid question circling in his head. Damn it! He’d always been lousy at the picky points of grammar and had accepted that fact. But now he was thinking like Jane. Or at least about Jane. Hadn’t he been doing a pretty good job of avoiding that too?

With the heel of his palm, he bumped the side of his skull, a little signal to his psyche to move on. For the past forty-eight hours he’d been in the best mood he could remember having in months—the kind of mood a prisoner might experience upon avoiding the electric chair—and though he was still behind bars of a sort, he planned on holding on to this good humor. After all, hadn’t he managed to escape his sister, her progeny and the librarian, all in one fell swoop?

Two hands of the card game later, he saw Private jump to his four furry feet. On a groan, Griffin tugged the buds from his ears and quickly scrutinized the vicinity. He groaned again when he realized the one invading his privacy was none other than his elderly neighbor. “What do you want, you old coot?”

Though he was certain he didn’t sound the least bit welcoming, Old Man Monroe sat down on the opposite bench.

Griffin returned his gaze to his game. “My dog was right here the whole time, and don’t try saying otherwise.”

“I’m not here about the dog.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not here to give you your daily senility check. Go home.”

“Hear from Gage? Skye said you had mail.”

At that, Griffin had to smile, even though he knew the postcard that had been delivered to the cove today—all correspondence addressed to the cottages went to Skye, who then distributed it to the residents—was more than a week old. Seeing his brother’s distinctive block lettering pleased him.

“It was one of his own photos.” For years, whenever Gage could manage it, he’d find a place that would put an image on card stock and send it across the country or across the world to Griffin. It had started as a friendly twin-to-twin taunt—photojournalist Gage bragging to his brother about the exotic places he found so thrilling. Now, when Griffin had nearly as many faraway locales and out-of-the-ordinary sights stored in his own memory banks, it was a tangible connection. Looking at an image his brother had found through his own viewfinder, touching paper that his brother had also touched, it was as if they were in the same room, at least for a brief moment.