Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (28 page)

“You’re right,” he told his cousin, staggered for a moment by a truth he’d never allowed himself to see. “Blythe wasn’t a good fit for me at all.”

“So why’d you go for her then?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Vance admitted, still nonplussed. “We’d been dating awhile, though we never actually slept together.” His motivations had not been driven by sex, and Blythe, in her still-waters way, had seemed fine with that.

“Oh.” Baxter’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah. Never went to bed with her.” The confession made him feel uncomfortable and maybe even idiotic. He started to say something else, then stopped.

“Spit it out, V.T.” Baxter nudged his leg with the edge of his rubber thong. “Because none of this sounds like you.”

On another sigh, Vance tried again. “We were going along, dating slow and steady, and then I was called back up. I thought, ‘Hey, why not?’ I knew Mom and Dad would love her. They’d consider her a steadying influence—”

“Screw that,” Bax said, straightening in his seat. “You had your wild times, but where you’ve been and what you’ve done since you enlisted...”

“The fact is, she was Fitz’s type,” Vance said, “so I think I saw her as my way back into the family fold.” He hadn’t been able to articulate that to himself at the time, but now, from a distance, he saw that it was true. Jesus. “Lousy reason to get engaged, huh?”

What had motivated Blythe to go along? She wasn’t the only woman who acted on the impulse, though. He’d had army buddies who’d made the same impetuous offer and received the same impetuous agreement from ladies they’d not known half as long. Hell, more than one couple of his acquaintance had entered into a quickie, day-before-deployment marriage.

Thank God it hadn’t gone that far for him and Blythe. And before long she’d realized Vance didn’t have his older brother’s chops and rejected him.

Baxter drained his beer and signaled the peace sign at their waitress to order two more. “If I wasn’t so miserable myself, I’d try to broker a settlement on your side of the family. Get some of you to wake up and others of you to start talking.”

Vance laughed as the waitress put new beers in front of them. “God, you can be officious and arrogant.”

“Prissy and pasty, too,” Baxter muttered. “However, I have developed a bit of kink in my sex life.”

“Whoa. Way better than talk of porn stars. Though I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Believe it,” Baxter said, then glanced over his shoulder toward Addy again.

Well, well, well,
Vance thought.
This should be interesting
.

But his cousin’s eyes had gone to slits. “Who the hell is that?”

Vance looked around. Addy was on the dance floor, laughing up at some dark-haired guy who had his hands on her hips and was trying to encourage them to move. “I don’t know.”

“I do. That’s a firefighter. A dirty, no-good, fucking first responder. Teague something.”

“They’re just dancing, Bax,” Vance said, and remembered with guilt how he’d pulled Layla away from another man on the Fourth of July at this very spot.

“A fucking first responder. Everybody knows that gives a guy an advantage.”

Baxter had to be really upset, Vance thought, because he normally avoided cursing. Such verbal activity had never made it onto the BSLS. “Look, it’s no big deal.”

“Oh, yeah? Now he’s got Layla out there.”

Vance swiveled in his chair. His “natural” was certainly out on that dance floor, with her glowing, facial-ized face, her buffed fingernails and her moon-and-star toes. She’d changed into a rib-sticking tank top and a tight pair of jeans. The firefighter touched her like he’d been touching Addy, his palms on either side of Layla’s sweet hips, encouraging them to swivel.

“Fucking first responder.” Vance started to rise.

Then fell back onto his stool.
She doesn’t need me supervising her night out.
He repeated it twice more for good measure
.

The words, though, didn’t do much good reining in his reckless instincts. They still urged him to peel that other guy’s hands off the girl, then sling her over his shoulder and take her home to his bed.

“We should go to their table,” Baxter suggested. “Give that guy the eye. Let him know they don’t need some dude with a hose to put out their fire.”

“I’m sure they’d really appreciate that,” he said dryly, trying to remember he’d matured from the days when he’d bumped chests with a high school rival for Marianne Kelly’s attention. In typical Vance Smith style, he’d brawled with the dude in the middle of biology class, instead of waiting until after school and choosing some off-campus location. They’d both been suspended for three days. For the remainder of the semester, his father had confiscated the car keys of his truck—though that didn’t stop Vance from totaling it ten months later.

Now Vance turned back around to face the ocean, while Baxter had given up all pretense of not watching the object of his affection. “Hell,” he muttered. “He’s buying all three women more drinks now. They’re smiling and laughing, even that serious one, Skye.”

“The nerve.”

“He’s whispering something in Layla’s ear.”

Shit. Vance pretended he was glued to his stool as he tried to hang on to his cool.

“Now they’re all getting up. It looks as if they’re going somewhere together, drinks in hand.” Baxter slid a sly look at Vance. “Do you think they’re going to have a ménage?”

Vance rolled his eyes. “You’re just needling me now, aren’t you?”

“Kind of. But they all look damn happy as they leave through the front exit. A first responder might not get all of them, but he could get one of them.”

And there was Layla, with her tattered heart. So lonely sometimes.

“Hell,” Vance said. He tried remembering there was Super Glue on the top surface of his stool. It wasn’t working. “I want her,” he told Baxter. “And
I’m
the one who’s going to get her.”

But before he could make a move, Addy was there, her green eyes anxious. “I thought I saw you guys here. You’d better come quick.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

U
NDER THE BLAZING
fluorescent lights in the Sunrise Pictures archives room, Layla fought to keep still. “Really, I’m fine,” she told Teague the firefighter, who was gingerly sifting through the hair at the side of her head. “No big—”

“What the hell?” Vance exploded into the room, fingers catching hold of the doorway to halt his headlong run. His gaze zeroed in on Layla, then flicked to the man tending her. At that same moment, Teague found the knot on her skin and she flinched.

In a blink, Vance had pushed his way between her and the firefighter. “Don’t touch her,” he spat over his shoulder, then took her chin between his fingers so he could gently turn her face to the side. He blew softly on her hair to part it, and she shivered. His thumb caressed her skin. “What happened?”

A cacophony of voices burst into the shocked silence brought on by Vance’s impromptu arrival. “Wait, wait.” It was Baxter speaking now. “Slow down. One at a time.”

Skye’s quiet voice started the story. “Addy wanted to show Teague and Layla the archives room. I tagged along. When Addy unlocked the door, it was dark inside. As we walked in, a dark-clothed figure burst out, pushing through us and taking off at a run.”

“I would have gone after him,” Teague said, sounding frustrated, “but I heard Layla cry out.”

“Sweetheart.” Vance blew on the sore spot again. “How’d you hit your head?”

“When the...intruder...or whatever, ran past, he knocked me into the doorjamb. It’s just a bump,” she said, though now that she’d had some time to process, she couldn’t suppress her shudder.

Vance made a sympathetic sound, low in his throat. “I’ll be careful,” he said, then probed around the spot, his fingers barely grazing the skin.

Still, Layla winced. “I’m such a wuss.”

“Nah.” He leaned close to brush a kiss on her temple. “You need an ice pack.”

“Maybe she needs a hospital,” Teague said.

Vance turned toward him, his earlier animosity dialed down a notch. He held out his hand. “I’m an army medic. Vance Smith. We’ll just head out now and I’ll take care of her.”

“Great,” the other man responded, returning a solid grip. “Some ice right away will help.”

“I’m good,” Layla protested. “We can’t leave Skye here.”

“It’s okay. I’ve called the police,” the woman in question said.

“We’ll wait with you.” Layla sensed Vance about to say something and shot him a look. “I haven’t had my tour yet.”

“We don’t want to touch anything,” Skye remarked. “Addy, I’m sorry, but it looks as if your work has been disturbed.”

Vance moved, and without his or Teague’s shoulders blocking her vision, Layla got her first clear view of the room.
Oh,
she said, in soundless dismay. Hung on the walls were colorful movie posters and black-and-white glossy stills. Their frames were askew now, as if someone had been searching for something behind the advertising pieces. Even more messy were the floors. Papers were strewn all about, presumably from the tumbled cartons that sat on a long table.

“What would someone be looking for?” Teague murmured. “Addy, what did you say you were researching again?”

From his place at her side, Baxter answered for her. “She wants to find out the truth of the relationship between the actress Edith Essex and her husband, the head of Sunrise Pictures.”

Addy glanced at him sharply. “That’s just a sidebar. I’m...I’m chronicling the rise and demise of the movie company.”

“You want to know if love survives,” Baxter murmured.

The blonde sucked in a breath, her green eyes widening.

Teague frowned. “How does that translate into something intruder-worthy? Maybe it was a vagrant looking for a warm place to spend the night. Or a burglar hoping for a way into the art studio next door. There’s a cash drawer there. Maybe a safe.”

Layla ignored the slight throbbing in her head. “Didn’t you say something about a famous jeweled piece, Addy?”

“Yeah, but it’s definitely not in here. I would have found it.” She gestured to the paper-covered floor. “And I’ve gone through all of this. Haven’t found a clue to its whereabouts, either. It was a famous piece, priceless—imagine one of Elizabeth Taylor’s incredible jewels—so you’d think there’d be a record if it was sold or turned up in someone else’s collection. But there’s been nothing.”

“Just rumors,” Skye said, “that have been around forever.”

“But the story gets new energy every so often. It popped up again a year ago. That’s when my interest was piqued,” Addy confessed.

Suddenly, Skye sat down heavily on a chair. Vance patted Layla’s shoulder, then crossed to the other woman. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “You’re pale.”

She waved him away. “Take Layla to No. 9 for ice. The police will arrive soon. I can handle it.”

Vance shot a look at Baxter. “Staying,” the other man said. “I’ll be here as long as I’m needed.”

With a nod, Vance strode back to Layla. “No argument now. Let’s go home.”

In this mood, he was impossible to dissuade. She walked from the room, Vance’s protective arm around her waist. With a little wave, she sketched a goodbye to the others. But when she crossed the threshold, Layla had to glance back. “Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought,” she told Vance.

He glanced down, gaze alert. “Why?”

“There might be something wrong with my vision.”

His concern showed itself in the tighter way he held her against him. “What makes you say that? What do you see?”

“Baxter. Looking rumpled.” She took another look over her shoulder. “And whiskered.”

Vance laughed. “Your eyesight’s just fine. He’s got woman problems.”

Back at No. 9, Layla decided she had problems, too. Since having sex with Vance—well, since the morning after—she’d been strict with herself. Though she’d understood his urgent wish to leave California had to do with his confrontation with Fitz, she couldn’t help but be a little hurt. Still, that sting had served a purpose. It had reminded her there was no point hoping for more, no point hoping for another night when the guy couldn’t wait to get away. Even a woman who didn’t count on forevers didn’t make that mistake.

But now Vance was holding her, touching her, assessing her with those electric-blue eyes. When he held a dish towel of crushed ice against the side of her head, she worried he might detect that her little quiver wasn’t a reaction to the cold, but to his nearness. They sat close on the living room couch, his thigh against hers.

“You’re cold,” he said, brows drawing together.

“A tad,” she lied. Their little ritual. He misconstrued her trembling, and she went right along with it.

He rose to his feet, making her regret the fib, and headed toward the fireplace. They’d not bothered with it before, although the air could be quite cool in the evenings. Wood was already stacked on the grate. A key built into the white-painted bricks lit the gas, which in turn lit the kindling and logs.

More quickly than she would have believed, the room warmed. Or maybe that was because Vance was sitting beside her again. “Are you okay holding the ice?” he asked. “Or would you rather I did?”

She squirmed, trying to get more comfortable. “Maybe I could trade places with you. Then I can prop the unbruised side of my head on a pillow and the pack will stay in place.”

“Why don’t you lean on my shoulder instead,” Vance suggested and, without waiting for her answer, put his arm around her and arranged her so that she was snuggled close to him, her head resting on his chest, the cold weight of the ice pack soothing the last of the throbbing ache from her scalp. He’d had her swallow two pain relievers earlier and apparently they’d kicked in, too.

Using the remote, he clicked on the TV across the room. Baseball. They hadn’t even tossed a coin, but she didn’t mind. There was no way she could follow any kind of storyline with her cheek absorbing the beat of Vance’s heart. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, and her bones seemed to go lax, while her blood stayed at that whenever-I’m-around-him simmer.

As minutes passed, though, she could feel the growing tension in his body. His hard chest turned rigid, his short breaths more shallow. Uneasy, she shifted a little and the ice pack slid down her bare arm, making her twitch. He plucked it away.