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“At the entrance.” Gratified that he hadn’t followed with the obvious line, she let him lead her through the crowd. Even with her wedge heels, her lack of height meant she didn’t see much more than the shoulders, chests and backs of the male guests. If there was one thing she could say about the surfer crowd, their upper bodies were very well developed.
When her dance partner finally stopped, she stuttered her steps to prevent her nose from ramming into his spine. He spun around and pressed her against a nearby wall. Jane realized he’d drawn her into a small side room that held a washer, a dryer and a wooden contraption draped with a handful of beach towels.
“This isn’t the entrance,” she pointed out. “That’s where I left my sweatshirt.”
He smiled at her. “Let me be the one to warm you up.”
Oh, damn. “You just had to go there,” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “No, thanks.”
“Please,” her dance partner wheedled. He was a nice-looking guy, and for a second Jane considered it. She hadn’t been kissed since the Ian disaster and she was all Jezebel-ed up, wasn’t she? Why not take a little walk on the wild side?
Someone strolled by the open door, and the man called out. “Jer! Come in here and convince this pretty little thing that I can rock her world.”
“Jer” paused, stretching muscular arms to grip the doorjamb on either side. Jane’s pulse tripped, then started accelerating. The new guy was big enough to block a lot of the light. The room’s walls started to contract—in her mind anyway.
The second man’s smile seemed sinister. “Ricky’s good, but I’m better. You want to take a turn with me, pretty lady?”
She swallowed. “I don’t want to take a turn with anyone. Excuse me.” But Ricky still had hold of her wrist.
“She’s with me, Jer.”
“Aaah, she’ll share, won’t you…?”
“Jane,” she said, in her most quelling tone. To heck with Jana, Janelle or Jezebel. Her real name had turned men off before. Like Griffin. “I’m Jane, and I want to go now.”
“Me Tarzan,” Jer said, thumping his chest, and then moved into the small room. “Want to make Boy with me, baby?”
She was never wearing a bathing suit again. Or wedge heels. Or so much mascara—though with her gold-tipped lashes, she couldn’t give it up entirely.
“Get out of my way,” she said, yanking her wrist free of Ricky to give him a push. When he stumbled away, she was left with Jer between her and the exit. Though she told herself she wasn’t in any real danger, her heart was pounding against her breastbone, and her blood was running ice-cold under her suddenly hot skin. “I’m leaving now.”
“Ah, babe—” Jer started, and then he was yanked backward, into the narrow hall. “Hey!”
Griffin Lowell pushed the man farther down the passage, then took his place in the doorway. Another pair of shorts hung on his hips and a wedge of bare chest showed between the sides of his half-buttoned shirt, which was decorated with pineapples and busty, half-naked hula girls. His whiskers were grittier than they’d been that morning and only called attention to his—frowning—mouth. “What’s going on?”
Ricky moved closer to Jane and slid a proprietary arm around her. “Have you met the new girl?”
Griffin’s turquoise eyes slid toward her. Her exposed flesh prickled all over again, and her blood turned as hot as the surface of her skin. Was that a hint of appreciation in his eyes? “She’s my girl,” he said with a straight face.
“Nice try.” Ricky laughed. “You haven’t had a woman in the three months you’ve been living here.”
“I’ve been waiting for this one.”
Ricky frowned now. “Well, you can’t have her. I saw her first. Squatter’s rights and all that.”
Squatter’s rights? She sent the guy a baleful look. Now that Griffin stood two feet away, her sense of impending danger had evaporated.
“Let go of the lady, Rick.”
“I won’t.” He yanked Jane close to his side, and when she struggled to escape his grip, he wrapped an arm around her front too. “Just because you want her doesn’t mean you get to have her.”
“But she wants me right back,” Griffin said, his eyes glittering. “Don’t you, honey-pie?”
With her bare skin, bathing suit, straight hair and several coats of mascara, she hadn’t been entirely sure he’d recognized her. The “honey-pie” made clear that he definitely had, and she wasn’t too proud to accept help. She answered him in as sweet a voice as possible. “Of course I want you, chili-dog.”
His gaze zeroed in on her face. “Chili-dog.”
“I just love our little names for each other.” She reached out a hand toward him.
Ricky was frowning. “I’m not buying any of this,” he said, his attitude bordering on belligerent.
Griffin’s fingers closed over hers. A zing of heat flamed up her arm and that sense of impending danger returned tenfold. Uh-oh. Maybe playing along with him had been the riskier choice. “Then believe this,” he said.
A quick jerk had her free of the other man and pressed against Griffin’s hard chest. Then his mouth slammed onto Jane’s.
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.
