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“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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GRIFFIN WATCHED Jane rock back on her heels as shock settled on her face. Such an expressive face it was, those big eyes wide, her soft lips parting on a sudden breath. She had a baby’s skin, fair and fine-pored, molding the delicate bones of her cheeks and the clean edges of her jaw. Despite her bluster, her fragility didn’t stand a chance against him.
Hell, he bet he’d have her running by nightfall.
“What happened?” she asked.
“That story you’re so eager for me to write, honey-pie?” Griffin gestured at the album of collected magazine pieces, though he avoided glancing at the photo of Erica. “I better warn you, it’s got blood and gore.”
Jane flinched. For a second he thought he might have scared her off with just that, but then she drew out one of the dining chairs and took a seat. A cool cucumber once again. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
A sudden urge to bolt cramped his gut, but he rode out the impulse. This was one of two memories of that year he didn’t have to stave off with rock ’n’ roll blasting through a pair of earbuds or the monotone chatter of news from his big-screen TV. While an auto’s backfire could have him crouching to protect himself from small-arms fire, or the cry of a seagull take him straight to the nights when the monkeys shrieked from the craggy mountains surrounding the base in Afghanistan, thoughts of Erica raised a wall between him and the rest of the world.
“We each had a different sponsoring magazine, both owned by the same publishing company,” he said, moving back so he could lean against the nearby wall. “The newsweekly was paying my way. Erica was the first embedded war journalist on assignment for what’s generally considered a women’s fashion publication.”
Jane glanced at the collection of tear sheets. “Brave lady.”
“Dogged.” He didn’t want to examine too closely right now what, exactly, she’d been so determined to accomplish, so he pushed the question away. “It’s a man’s world out there. Every ten or fourteen days, we rotated to a slightly larger base for a chance at a hot meal and water to wash with, but the rest of the time it was MREs and our own sweat. The guys pissed into PVC pipes stuck in the ground.”
Griffin eyed Jane, trying to picture her among the soldiers in his platoon. Erica had been bold and bawdy, coping with the almost-adolescent sexual bravado of the young men by telling jokes so dirty they could almost make him cringe. Jane, on the other hand… She’d probably faint dead away.
As if reading his mind, the blonde straightened in her chair, her eyebrows drawn together and down. “Don’t stop on my account. Three summers in a row my dad hauled my brothers and me out to the Arizona desert while he conducted fieldwork studying an elusive reptile. One of my first jobs in this business? I assisted a man ghostwriting the autobiography of a notorious metal band’s lead singer. To get ‘color,’ I rode with them on their reunion tour bus for a month. I might look sheltered, but I assure you that’s not the case.”
Her annoyance bemused him. “What elusive reptile was that?”
She didn’t blink. “The Black-and-Green Spotted Hootswaggle.”
“You made that up.”
Her little movement might well have been a flounce. “So? I’ve forgotten its real name. My father always says I have no head for science.”
Yet she’d survived those arid summers and then four weeks with the kind of band infamous for debauchery. “Did you, uh, date any of those band members?”
