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Then, rejecting the odd thought, he lifted his foot to enter Skye’s domain. The movement must have alerted her to his presence. She whirled to face him.
And screamed bloody murder.
September 15
Dear Gage,
Salutations from a childhood friend! Your missive to your twin reached me at Crescent Cove’s property management office. Thought you should know Griffin’s not expected at Beach House No. 9 until April. Loved the picture on the front of the postcard—one of yours? Over the years, I’ve noticed your photo credit lines in magazines and newspapers and remember the camera you carried every summer, strapped to your chest like a second heart.
Hope this finds you in good health, Skye Alexander
Skye,
Thanks for the info re: Griff. Are you still playing tea party at your dad’s desk in the Crescent Cove office? Because I can see you there in my memory. What summers we had! When it’s blistering hot here, I take off to the cove in my imagination and lie on the wet sand, letting the cool Pacific wash over my skin. When the temperature turns freezing, I remember our tribe of Cove kids playing beach soccer under a burning sun. Do shore crabs still make you squeal?
Gage
Skye Alexander’s friend and neighbor Polly Weber leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You didn’t tell me Gage Lowell was gorgeous.”
“You’ve become friends with Griffin. Since they’re twins, it should come as no surprise.” Skye didn’t even glance at the man seated at the head of their table on the open-air deck. Besides Gage, Polly and Skye, there were five more people attending the welcome dinner at Captain Crow’s, the restaurant/bar located at the northern end of the cove. Griffin and his fiancée, the twins’ sister, Tess, and her husband, and an elderly family friend were gathered close to the man of honor. Skye had chosen a seat as far from him as possible.
She was counting on distance to calm her heart—it had been beating with an erratic wildness since she’d looked up that morning and found a dark figure looming in her office doorway.
He was telling the story now, speaking up so that Rex Monroe, the nearly deaf nonagenarian who lived full-time at the cove, could hear him. “My ears are still ringing from her scream,” Gage said. “I meant to surprise her, not send her into a full-blown panic.”
“She’s been jumpy for months,” Rex said, shaking his head. “Nervous like a rabbit since March.”
“Really?” There was a new alertness in the younger man’s voice, and Skye sensed he was studying her over the plates and glasses.
She pretended an avid interest in the surface of her white wine and ignored the embarrassed heat crawling toward her cheeks. Good thing she was wearing a cotton turtleneck with her boy-styled black trousers.
“Since the spring, you say?” Gage spoke again to Rex.
Before the elderly man could reveal anything more, Skye felt compelled to offer a rationale. “It’s the off-season quiet that gets to me, what with the tiny number of full-time residents.” And if she didn’t find a way to control her persistent anxiety, she doubted she’d survive this year’s transition from summer’s bustle to autumn hush. “That’s all.”
She glanced up to judge how Gage took the explanation.
Mistake. Their eyes met. His turquoise-blue gaze shot another electric jolt to her heart. Its beat went crazy again, thudding heavy and uneven against her ribs.
“Fenton Hardy,” she heard herself say, her mouth so dry her tongue clicked against its roof.
“Yes, what was that about?” Jane Pearson, Griffin’s fiancée, asked. “When Skye told us that was the name of No. 9’s upcoming tenant, I recognized the literary allusion, but your brother knew right away that meant it was you.”
Skye tore her eyes from Gage and pinned Griffin with a stare. “You did?”
The man shrugged. “It was our secret identity name when we were kids. Fenton is the father in the Hardy Boys books. I figured Gage had a reason to be mysterious.”
“I told you, I wanted to surprise Skye...I was planning on surprising everyone, actually, but I didn’t realize she’d talk to you about who’d rented the place.”
“We were going over wedding details when it came out,” Jane said, and she grinned, clearly thrilled about her upcoming marriage to Griffin. “How handy that you’ll be the one we inconvenience when we say ‘I do’ on No. 9’s deck at the end of the month.”
Gage shook his head. “I’ve only known you a few hours, Jane, but it’s clear you can do better than ol’ Griff. I’d suggest myself—”
“I’m sticking with the twin whose globe-trotting days are over,” Jane said, emphatic.
“Gage would make a terrible husband,” a new voice put in. It was Tess Quincy, the older sister of Griffin and Gage. “He’s restless and selfish and likely doesn’t wash his clothes often enough.”
“Gee, thanks, Tessie,” Gage replied, and lifted his arm, pretending to sniff at the sleeve of his shirt. “Love you, too.”
“I’m just saying.” His sister’s eyes went suspiciously bright. “Think about it. Think about if you made some poor woman fall in love with you and then you fell off the face of the earth for over two weeks.”
An awkward silence descended, as Gage had been MIA for just that amount of time, troubling family and friends until he’d resurfaced a few days ago.
“You know communication is spotty where I was, Tessie,” he said, a new tension in his voice.
“Well, Griffin was very concerned. His twin sense was tingling.”
“He’s always been a worrywart.” Gage’s smile looked forced. “I’m here, aren’t I? Safe and sound.”
Skye couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d had the same sense that something was wrong when she’d gone too long between letters from him. Her apprehension hadn’t eased until Griffin let her know that Gage had checked in by phone—though she’d never in a million years expected him to show up at the cove. “But you’re late. Fenton Hardy was scheduled to arrive at the first of the month.”
This time it was Gage who didn’t seem to want to look at her. “Travel plans changed. Now, can someone tell me more about this upcoming wedding? I’m still having a hard time buying that anyone wants a lifetime with my brother.”
The atmosphere lightened considerably after that. Food was consumed. Liquor flowed.
At Skye’s side, Polly released a pensive sigh.
She glanced over at the other woman. “Okay, Pol?”
“Oh, I’m good,” she said, straightening in her seat. A burst of laughter from the head of the table drew their attention in that direction. “Like I said,” Polly reiterated, her gaze resting on Gage, “really, really gorgeous.”
Skye allowed herself a moment to study him. “Yeah.” She took in his rumpled black hair and tanned complexion. His cheekbones were chiseled, his jaw firm and beneath two dark slashes of brow were his incredible eyes. His beard was heavy enough that he had noticeable after-five stubble that only served to draw attention to his mobile mouth and white grin.
“No wonder you broke up with Dalton,” Polly said.
Startled, Skye jerked her head toward her friend. “I didn’t break up with Dalton because of Gage.” She didn’t want to think about why she’d broken up with Dalton. Crossing one leg tightly over the other, she rubbed at her upper arms with her palms.
A husky male laugh drew her attention back to the head of the table where Gage was now engaged in flirtatious banter with their waitress, Tina. As Skye watched, the server toyed with the name tag pinned to her blouse, drawing attention to cleavage she could swear hadn’t been on display when she’d ordered her swordfish and steamed vegetables. Clearly Tina had made a wardrobe adjustment for the man of honor’s benefit.
“See?” she told Polly. “That’s the kind of woman Gage finds appealing.”
Her friend glanced over. “What kind of woman is that?”
Skye made a vague gesture with her hand. The kind who can bear to show some skin.
“You’re twelve times more beautiful than that hussy.”
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” Skye said, grimacing.
“I’m not giving any,” Polly said. “Just the facts, ma’am. But if you want an opinion, I suggest you ditch the boy-wear and play with makeup again. I know you have pretty clothes in your closet. I remember when lipstick and mascara still mattered to you.”
Skye did, too, but now peace of mind mattered more. Though it was true that baggy sweatshirts and medicated lip balm hadn’t exactly brought that about. Head down, she ran her fingertip around and around the edge of her water glass.
“Want to dance?” came a voice, close to her ear.
Skye’s head popped up, her eyes widening at Gage’s hovering form. He wanted to dance? He wanted to dance with her? It was then she noticed that the sun had set, leaving the sky a fading orange. The tiki torches plunged in the sand at the corners of the deck were flaming now, and the atmosphere at Captain Crow’s was starting to pump. Customers were two-deep at the bar. People were moving about the small parquet dance area to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Griffin and Jane were out there, wrapped in each other’s arms. Tess was dragging her husband, David, in their direction, though he was laughing and protesting at the same time.
“Dance?” Gage said again.
He’d probably been sitting too long, Skye thought. He’d always been on the go as a kid and there was good reason his sister labeled him “restless.” She knew for a fact that he only slept six hours a night—one of the personal details he’d shared in his letters.
An amused glint entered Gage’s blue eyes as she continued to hesitate. “Am I speaking the wrong language?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Skye said. “Polly will do it.”
“What?” Polly looked up from the phone cradled in her palms, her thumbs poised over the touch screen. “He didn’t ask me.”
“You like to dance.”
“I’m texting with Teague.” She shook her head. “He’s having an emotional emergency.”
Skye glanced up at Gage again. “Teague White. Remember him? He spent summers here, too.”
He blinked. “Tea— No! Tee-Wee White?”
“Not so tee-wee anymore,” Polly muttered, her thumbs tapping away. “More like big fat idiot.”
Not fat, Skye mouthed to Gage.
He laughed, then bent to grip her elbow and tug her to her feet in one quick move. “Let’s dance, Skye.”
Freezing, she stared at the large, masculine hand circling her cotton-knit-covered arm. Her common sense warred with her fight-or-flight response. Don’t bolt, she told herself. Or punch him. Either option would only bring up embarrassing questions.
“You okay?”
“S-sure.” As sure as someone could be who’d broken up with her boyfriend because she’d developed an aversion to being touched.
Before she could think of how to get away from the situation without sacrificing dignity or courtesy, he was towing her toward the other couples moving to the music. One song ended and another began, ukulele notes and the sweet voice of IZ Kamakawiwo’ole singing “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i” floating through the air like feathers.
Gage released her arm, and, sensing this was her moment, Skye took a big step back. But he grabbed for her hand, reeling her close.
Scattering her thoughts. Honing her senses.
They focused on him, his large, lean frame, and on the nuances of his skin against hers. His fingers were long, his palm hard and calloused, the rough skin scratching the tender hollow at the center of her hand. She didn’t think she was breathing as his other palm settled at her waist, just the lightest of touches over the material.
It wasn’t a close hold, it was almost impersonal, she knew that, but her blood was shooting through her veins like a comet. Anxiety, she thought, as the heat sizzled her nerve endings. It stole her oxygen along with the words that would get her off the dance floor. Mute, she looked up at him.
Gage returned her gaze, his expression enigmatic but his amazing eyes bright with... Skye didn’t know what. He gave her hand a small squeeze. It felt...reassuring.
Maybe. She was so messed up, she’d been so messed up for months that her brain was unable to interpret normal signals. Behind her eyes came the hot prick of tears. Another flush rose up her neck as she imagined the humiliation of bursting into sobs. Keep it together, she thought, desperate not to look the fool in front of this beautiful man.
He blew out a little sigh as he moved them to the slow beat of the song. His body didn’t brush hers, yet she couldn’t help being aware of the breadth of his chest and the lean strength of his arms and legs. “Dinner was excellent,” he said. “Nothing better than a heaping serving of beach fries along with sixteen ounces of aged beef.”
Skye redirected her gaze to the safer vicinity of his heavy shoulder and told herself to try to relax. “You missed American food.”
“I’ve been dreaming of rare steak for months.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t like your meat bloody.”
“Oh, God, did I confess that to you?” he said, his tone aghast.
“You did.” She felt a little smile break through her tension.
“What’ll it take for you to keep that to yourself?” he demanded. “In most circles it’s considered unmanly to like meat well-done.”
She smiled again. “You’re plenty manly.” Without thinking, she glanced up.
He was grinning, his expression amused, but as their gazes held, his smile died away.
Skye felt another surge of that breathless, uncomfortable anxiety, and a rush of goose bumps shivered across her skin.
The song ended. Gage dropped his hands. The loss of contact didn’t calm her jangling nerves and they continued to stand on the dance floor, staring at each other.
A long moment passed, and then Gage shook his head with a wry laugh. “I suppose it’s past time to regret that you know so many of my secrets.”
Skye didn’t answer either way, though she understood his concern. To her mind, it was imperative he stay ignorant of hers.
CHAPTER TWO
GAGE GOT A GOOD NIGHT’S sleep, despite or perhaps because of the jet lag brought on by seventy-nine hundred miles of travel. Upon waking to a sun-bright room, he leaned over and clicked off the bedside lamp. It was his new habit to sleep with a light on like a three-year-old, but he wasn’t going to try weaning himself for a while.
After dressing in cargo pants and a T-shirt that was probably older than his own thirty-one years, he rummaged through the groceries he’d stashed in the kitchen. Finding an apple, he polished it against his thigh and then took it with him as he stepped through the sliding glass door that led from the living room onto the deck facing the ocean.
No. 9 was the best beach house in the cove. At least he’d always thought so. They’d come here for a decade of summers, and it didn’t appear as if much—or anything—about it had changed. Dark brown shingles covered the two-story structure, and the trim around the doors and windows was still painted a bluish-green. It was situated at the southern end of the cove, cozied up to a bluff that pushed into the ocean. The trails snaking up the cliff’s rocky side told Gage that daredevils likely still used it as a jumping-off place, just as he and Griffin had when they were kids.
The ocean called to him, so he crossed the deck and jogged down the steps leading to the sand. The stuff under his bare feet was the consistency of cornmeal, and he continued through it until the grains were wet and moisture sucked at his soles. Then, with his apple held in the grip of his teeth, he bent to roll his pant legs above the ankle.
Even prepared as he was, he cursed as the first rush of water reached his naked toes. Shit! It was cold, at least initially, even during high summer in Southern California. Another small wave folded over his feet and he flinched, just like one of the out-of-state tourists who came to California with only images of Baywatch reruns or old Gidget movies in mind. Hollywood magic hid the goose bumps, so they were startled by their first experience with Pacific temperatures.
As his toes went numb, Gage continued strolling up the deserted beach, sloshing through the shallow outreach of the surf, breathing in the fresh, wet-smelling air as he munched on his Granny Smith. He had no particular purpose in mind, no intent beyond enjoying the sun on the top of his head and his shoulders, the endless sound of the waves, the precious sense of freedom. There’d been times he’d doubted whether he’d get the chance to experience them again.
Though it was early enough that he had to share the sand with no one other than seagulls and sandpipers, when he reached the midpoint of the cove, he found himself strolling toward a cottage painted a mossy-green with blush-colored trim. Like Beach House No. 9, it was larger than the others in the enclave and had a small side yard. There, he saw a figure on her knees tending a flower bed—Skye, in long pants, long sleeves and a battered, narrow-brimmed canvas fishing hat. Gage realized she’d been his destination all along.
Not as surprised as he might be, he continued forward, then started whistling in order to alert her to his presence. No point in scaring the bejesus out of her a second time. Still, he saw her stiffen as he cast a shadow over her small patch of grass.
“It’s ironic that our song is about a beach that belongs to an altogether different state,” he observed.
“We have a song?” She glanced up, shielding her face with the shelf of her hand.
