Beach House No. 9 (8 page)

“Jane,” he murmured against her cheek. “Jane, I think we’d better stop.”

Her flesh was feverish against his lips. “No.”

“I understand.” He kissed her mouth. “But, Jane—”

She found his mouth with hers, and her small hands tightened on the sides of his shirt. Maybe it had been a long time for her too, because there was a frantic quality in the thrust of her tongue, the clutch of her hands, the rhythmic pulse of her hips against his.

Flexing his fingers on the globes of her ass, he told himself to be sensible. With a mighty effort, he tore his mouth away. “We have to stop.”

“No.” Her eyes closed, she rubbed against him, harder, and her lips lifted, seeking his once more.

He evaded her and firmed his voice. “Yes, Jane. I’m saying we stop.”

His implacable tone finally got through to her. She froze, and then silver eyes blinked up at him. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses. And from the beginnings of a pout.

He squeezed her bare ass, knowing he would have an aching regret over this for the rest of the day. “You have places to go, remember?” Then, while she was still compliant—because, really, how long could that last?—he succumbed once again to whim and drew her panties down her legs. For a moment they ringed her ankles, a transparent confection of pale pink ruffles.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Before he pulled her to the concrete floor right then and there, he hunkered down to help her step out of them.

He rose with the ruffles in his hand. “But I don’t mind if you leave a little something behind.”

She blinked a couple more times, clearly coming out of a sexual daze. “That’s my underwear,” she said, staring at the little pile of filmy stuff in his palm. Her gaze lifted to his. “Griffin, I’m going to see
my father.
”

In a quick move he stuffed the souvenir in his front pocket, adjusting his erection at the same time. That sign of renewed life made him grin at her, unrepentant. Not only had he found his sexuality again, but he also thought he’d struck upon a way to handle the little librarian who was trying to rock his world. “Have a good time, honey-pie.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

F
EELING
AS
HARRIED
and anxious as she always did at the prospect of meeting with her father, Jane hurried toward his tri-level executive home. It was boxy and officious-looking, with a flat roofline and dark-tinted windows. A short barbered hedge bordered the brick front pathway bisecting the small patch of grass meticulously cut by the housing association’s gardeners to her father’s exacting standards. There was a groundskeeper sweeping the bricks at this very moment—Corbett Pearson didn’t allow the whine of leaf blowers within the range of his hearing.

She smiled at the gardener in passing, then reached the front door and pressed the bell. There was a house key back at her apartment, but even if she’d had it with her, she wouldn’t have used it. Her father didn’t appreciate such liberties.

He opened the door, and his chilly gaze swept over her. “Jane,” he said. “You look a bit…feverish.”

Oh, damn. She thought she’d managed to counteract her flushed state with the air-conditioning set on High during the entire ride over. Damn Griffin! But she couldn’t think about him
and
handle her father. “I’m fine, Dad,” she said, stepping closer to place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re looking well.”

He was in his version of casual clothes, meaning he’d gone for a pair of knife-creased khakis instead of the steely-gray slacks he preferred to wear to work. And instead of a white dress shirt, he wore a blue one with the palest and thinnest of olive stripes. Jane had given it to him for Christmas, and she was absurdly pleased to see he had it on.

“Your brothers are here,” he said, leading her in the direction of the large family room at the rear of the house. “We’re watching baseball.”

“Oh, yay,” Jane murmured. “All the guys.”

Byron and Phillip were seated on the heavy leather sofa placed before the large-screen TV. They didn’t look up from their laptops as she entered the room and made only vague gestures with their nontapping fingers as she bussed the top of each of their heads. They were gorgeous creatures, the both of them, but like every Pearson male, no one could call them multitaskers. She glanced at her dad. “You’re playing fantasy baseball again this year?”

He’d positioned himself in front of his own computer, set on the bar in the corner of the room. As usual, keeping his distance. “What?” he asked, looking up from the small screen. “Oh, baseball. Yes.”

None of them were actually watching the game on the TV. They didn’t like sports in the least. Their fantasy league was a statistical challenge the three of them enjoyed. They had bets and side bets and counter bets that were used as mental one-upmanship. Ignoring Jane, they made cryptic remarks to each other as they focused on the computer models they’d probably designed themselves to maximize their chances of winning.

Accustomed to the drill, Jane crossed to the adjoining kitchen and helped herself to a mug of coffee and one of the sweet rolls—possibly her father’s only weakness—on the counter. Then she took them both over to the bar and slid onto the stool beside the older man.

“So, Dad,” she said. “I’m here.”

He continued tapping at his keyboard. “Yes.”

Stifling her sigh, she tried again. “You asked me over?”

With a grimace, he hit a key, then turned to his sons. “That was an excellent trade, Phillip.” His tone was grudging.

Her brother only grunted at the compliment.

Jane actually sighed this time. What a collection of cavemen.

“I wanted to know about your new job,” her father said, half turning on his stool as he finally deigned to address her. “How are you managing with this new author?”

Speaking of Neanderthals… Jane felt a burn crawling up her throat as her mind flashed to Griffin again, and she fingered the brass button fastening her collar closed. Where the heck had that kiss come from, and why the heck had she…well, she’d stood still for it! Remembering her instant surrender was mortifying.

“Jane?”

She cleared her throat. “It’s a nonfiction work. A memoir, actually.”

“I was asking about the author, not the project,” her father remarked. “You know, after the situation with Ian—”

“There’s no need to discuss Ian,” Jane put in.

“But I still don’t understand how you could end that association,” Corbett said, frowning. “He seemed to find you talented, and he himself is such a star in publishing that it was foolish of you to—”

“It was time for a change,” Jane said. Though, good Lord, taking on Griffin was turning into its own potential disaster. She could feel the imprint of those kisses on her lips, the heat of his hands on her bare flesh. No previous relationship had prepared her for her incendiary response. He likely thought she was easy pickings now. Squirming on the stool, she tried redirecting both her thoughts and the conversation. “What have you been up to, Phil? Byron, how’s Caitlyn enjoying her new job?”

He scowled at his laptop. “Caitlyn who?”

Really? “Your girlfriend of three years?”

“Ah. We broke up.”

“By!” Jane surged from her stool to take a seat next to her older brother. “I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”

The warm sympathy in her voice appeared to snag his attention. He actually turned his head to gaze at her. “I’m feeling…busy? That’s why she broke it off. I have this project that demands a lot of my attention, and she didn’t like sharing me with a slide rule, she said, which is ridiculous, because I haven’t used a slide rule since I was six and Dad showed us how to do logarithms.”

Jane could only sigh. “Oh, Byron.”

“I for one think it’s good he found out how flighty she is now,” their father said. “Before he married the woman.”

“Flighty!” Jane protested. Caitlyn had been perfectly nice and had stuck by sensitivity-challenged Byron for years.

Her brother nodded. “She was making rules. No computer at the dinner table.”

“You’re all hopeless,” Jane murmured.

Phil glanced over. “I heard that. I also heard that the real reason Ian Stone’s not your client is because the two of you no longer have a romantic attachment.”

“Jane!” her father said, disapproval written all over his face. “Is that true? If I’d known you were treading down that path I would have counseled you on the foolishness of mixing the professional and the personal. Your career is much more important than a romance.”

She glared at the tattletale in the family. Avoiding a lecture against having a love life was why she didn’t tell her father who she dated. “It’s water under the bridge, Dad. Ian and I were done months ago. I’ve got the new client now.” Who was already muddying the waters with another unwise professional-personal mix. She pressed the heels of her hands against her throbbing temples. What was she going to do about it?

“Uh-oh,” Byron said. “Jane’s got that look on her face.”

“What look?” she demanded. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Yeah, the same headache you had when you wanted that kid who lived next door—what was his name…Ed?—to ask you to your prom. It’s your love headache. Are you getting silly and emotional with your new client too?” His voice took on an annoying elder-brother teasing slyness. “Does he find you lovable, little sis?”

Silly and emotional. He’d picked that up from their father, Jane thought, now glaring in Byron’s direction. It was true that when the Pearson men ate meals they rarely paid attention to the plate and were instead engrossed with their work. Which meant there had been plenty of opportunity in those many years they’d lived together for her to have slipped poison into her brother’s mashed potatoes. Damn her for the oversight.

Her father rose, yet another frown on his face. “What’s this, Jane?” Corbett came to stand before her, his austere good looks making his expression appear only more critical. “I don’t pretend to understand why you chose this field, but in any case, you need to think like a professional.”

“Dad—”

“Just direct your attention to doing your job, my girl.” He pointed a bony finger at her, the same one that he’d used to point out the errors in her geometry proofs. The sigh he released was the same too. “It goes without saying….”

But he would, she thought, bracing for it.

“It’s much better to be competent. You can’t count on people, Jane. You can’t count on people or the strength of their emotional attachments. So it’s much better to be competent than lovable.” His frown deepened. “You hear me?”

“Yes, Dad, I hear you.” After a minute, she stood to brush another kiss against his cheek. “Thanks.”

And the gratitude was sincere. What had been silly and emotional of her was dreading this visit, she decided. Her father’s disapproval never failed to motivate her in some manner or other and now was no different. She was going to put the incident in the storeroom with Griffin into perspective. And in the past. It was a brief lapse of judgment best forgotten. She’d direct her attention to doing her job.

That was clearly the best way forward. When she returned to the cove, she’d be refocused on business and absolutely immune to any further physical entanglements.

* * *

T
ESS
SAT
ON
ONE
of four cushioned chairs gracing the small porch that overlooked the ocean at Beach House No. 8. She pretended she wasn’t spying on Teague White, who was back on the sand. She couldn’t see the Tee-Wee in him; there was no residual sign of small and scrawny in his tall, muscled form. “Big and brawny,” she murmured aloud, then, guilty, glanced around to ensure she was alone.

But she was. Alone.

The three older kids were inside the bungalow. Russ, ensconced in the matching lounge chair, was out like a light, curled in a ball on the seat pad. The ocean air and play in the sand had exhausted him. As was his wont, the baby had pulled his blanket around him until he looked like nothing more than a small pile of lightweight fleece.

Squelching another tiny flare of guilt, Tess glanced back at Teague.

He was looking her way. Their eyes met.

Her ego argued with her conscience. If she waved at him, he’d come over; she could see the truth of that on his handsome face. Then he’d flirt a little. Maybe ask her to run away to Arizona again.

Make her feel like a woman, not a wife set aside by her husband.

Pulse speeding up, Tess stood, then crossed the short distance to the rail. She started to raise her left hand, then paused as her wedding set caught the sunlight. On their tenth anniversary, David had given her another ring to wear with her simple gold wedding band. The one-carat solitaire was surrounded by a circle of smaller diamonds. He’d said it reminded him of the brightness of the stars on the night she’d agreed to marry him.

“Tess?”

She whipped around, stumbling so that the small of her back smacked the wooden railing. “David?” Had she conjured him up? Because it was definitely her husband, dressed in business attire, the sun picking out threads of red and gold in his short brown hair. “What are you doing here?”

He frowned. “We made a deal when we signed up Duncan and Oliver for summer soccer. I take them to practices.”

She glanced at her watch. “You’re early.” Even with the traffic he would run into, there was plenty of time. It annoyed her that he’d come now, when he wasn’t expected, yet had stood her up two days before. The feeling turned to sarcasm in her throat. “I thought you were so very, very busy.”

David’s jaw tightened. “I texted you about that. I had a lunch meeting already in place—yes, I know it was a Sunday, but I couldn’t get out of it and you didn’t give me enough notification to make other arrangements.”

“Arrangements, schmarrangements,” she muttered, aware she sounded no more mature than Rebecca. But he could have gotten away if he’d wanted to! He was the head of the accounting department at one of L.A.’s largest and most prestigious talent agencies, Wallis-Downs. That’s how they’d met. She’d been on her way to the parking lot following a meeting with her agent. He’d been coming in the door, putting them on a collision course that had landed Tess on her butt with David standing over her.

You’re her,
he’d said, like Teague had yesterday, recognizing the
OM
girl.

“You’re something,” he said now, his voice tight. “Upset about where I’ve been or not been when you’re the one who left our home.”

You left our marriage!
she wanted to shout at him. Sometime when Russ was not long out of newborn-sized diapers, David had left behind his husband and father responsibilities. He used to be so good at them too, coaching Rebecca’s rec league basketball team every winter, every Sunday taking a parade of neighborhood kids along with his own to the park down the street. Then, all of a sudden he’d traded those in for weight lifting at the gym and an obsession with spin classes.

Tess’s gaze dropped to his favorite cordovan loafers, then moved up to take in the slacks and dress shirt she’d bought him just weeks ago, following the loss of those fifteen pounds he’d been complaining about for years. There was a stain on his necktie, and habit had her stepping forward, ready to sponge it clean. But she forced herself back against the rail.

His eyes narrowed at the movement. “What’s going on, Tess?” he said. “When the hell are you coming back?”

He was supposed to sound as miserable as she felt. Not demanding and defensive. “What’s wrong with Crescent Cove?” she asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with our house. And it’s our wedding anniversary next month. I thought you wanted a big party.”

That was when she’d still been able to convince herself they had something to celebrate. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea anymore.”

“Because I missed lunch?”

“The boys wanted to see you. No matter where we are, they’re still your kids.”

“Of course they’re my kids,” he ground out. Then he huffed a sigh and dropped onto the chair she’d vacated. “I talked to them when I came in. They didn’t look up from their Legos. Rebecca was too busy texting to enter into a conversation. How are they?”

The question sounded rote. Or resigned. Tess closed her eyes. “Rebecca seems to be tolerating her mornings at summer school.” In the old days she would have told David about their daughter’s threat to get pregnant. They would have groaned and laughed together over another episode in what they’d labeled “Teen Theater.” But talk of teen pregnancy seemed too awkward a topic right now.