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In the shade created by the gesture, he couldn’t make out much about her heavily lashed eyes. But he’d noted their color last night—deepwater green, with a band of amber circling the pupil—while they’d danced. He whistled a few more bars of “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i.”
She shrugged, and her overlarge sweatshirt slid off her shoulder to reveal a pale pink bra strap. “The cove has plenty of experience acting as a stand-in.”
“I remember.” His gaze fixed on that hint of bare flesh, though he didn’t know why the delicate slope of skin-over-bone so fascinated him. “Silent movies were filmed here.”
Her hand fell and she went back to weeding, her head bent so he could no longer see her pretty face. She had classic-beauty bones, wide-spaced eyes, a delicate nose and a soft yet serious mouth. A long tail of hair streamed down her back, the sun finding random gold and red threads in the dark mass. “If you’re interested, we now have a room dedicated to Sunrise Pictures with lots of memorabilia on display,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“It’s connected to the art gallery beside Captain Crow’s. You can take a look anytime, but you’ll have to get the key from me or from Maureen, who manages the gallery. We keep the door locked since the trouble we had there last month.”
Gage frowned. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“We caught someone vandalizing the place.”
He dropped to her level, resting on his haunches. “Jesus, Skye. Are you all right? What happened?”
“A small group of us—Teague, and two of the women who were staying at No. 9—surprised an intruder when we decided on an impromptu tour. One of them got a bump on the head when he pushed past us.”
“Did you get a good look at whoever it was?”
“No. We called the police, but the man was dressed in dark clothes and wore a ski mask—like he’d been at a casting call for thief of the week.”
Gage took a seat on the grass, rubbing his stubbled cheek with his palm. “What do the police think? It seems just...damn disturbing that anything dangerous would happen here.”
She sent him a quick, unfathomable glance. “My sentiments exactly. The police have no idea about...about anything.”
“Huh.” He directed his gaze down the beach. No. 9 was a fifteen-minute walk from here; he could sprint it in half that. “You need something, you know where I am.”
She shrugged. “Thanks, but I’m used to handling things on my own. Keeping the cove going is all on me, now that Mom and Dad have moved permanently to Provence. And I wrote you that my sister, Starr, is living in San Francisco.”
“I remember her from when we were kids,” Gage mused. “Starr. Starr and Skye. Such unusual names.”
“Unusual spellings, too,” Skye said, shaking her head. “It was Dad’s idea to add the extra r and the unnecessary e. He thought they looked weightier that way.”
Gage laughed. “Your dad was always a character. But Starr goes by Meg now, right? You told me that.”
“Mmm,” Skye said by way of agreement. “And she’s married, after a whirlwind romance with her Caleb. They met at the cove in May, spent a few days together here, then decided to seal the deal. Love liberated her impulsive side, I guess.”
“Good for her. Good for them.”
A moment of silence passed. “Speaking of family, is yours well?”
“Sure.” Especially as he’d kept each and every member unaware of his latest misadventure. “You saw my brother and sister last night, of course. And my parents will be here for Griffin’s wedding.”
She gave him another sidelong peek. “You’re okay with that?”
“With Griff getting a ball and chain?” At her quick frown, he smiled and hastened to amend himself. “I’m kidding...and I really do like Jane. When you wrote me about her, you told me I would.”
“She’s good for your brother, and vice versa. Did I tell you she worked with Ian Stone for several years?”
He rolled his eyes. “Not Ian Stone, the author of those sappy and maudlin bestsellers you like so much?”
“Nobody should have to defend their choice of reading material,” she said, and even in profile, he could see her scowl. “A person likes what she likes.”
“And Skye Alexander goes for that oozily overromantic stuff.”
She turned her head to narrow her eyes at him. “Maybe it’s the endings that appeal—you know, when the hero dies from some painful lingering illness or an equally painful but accidental act of God.”
Gage laughed again. “Okay, okay. I don’t want you wishing one of those sorrowful-ever-after outcomes on me. I can’t afford to take bad luck with me on my next assignment.”
She reapplied herself to the flowers and weeds, wielding a spade. “Griffin says he’s done with war reporting.”
“I’ve got to go back,” Gage said quickly. Too quickly, he decided, because she cast him a puzzled glance.
“Sure,” she said.
“I accepted a new assignment.” And he had something to prove, too. Those bastards hadn’t taken anything from him. He wouldn’t let them.
“Sure,” she said again.
Realizing he’d curled his hands into fists, he took a moment to relax his fingers, breathing deep as he gazed around the cove where he’d come to recharge. There was a mini cottage next door, so small it was almost a dollhouse, and as he watched, the front door opened. A pretty blonde stepped out and, spotting him, waved before disappearing around a corner.
He waved back. “Who is your friend again? Polly...?”
“Polly Weber.”
“Cute.”
Suddenly Skye had pivoted on her knees and was pointing her spade at his throat like a stiletto. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“Polly’s a kindergarten teacher. She just moved to the cove and, besides me and Rex, will likely be the only one living here come fall.”
“So?”
“So if you break her heart, she’ll leave the cove. That’s just what my sister did. She ran away and didn’t come back for ten long years. I don’t want that for Polly. I like my friend living nearby.”
“What makes you think that I—”
“Three words.” She paused, then continued gravely, “The Gage Gorge.”
Jesus Christ. A dull heat crept from the back of his neck to his face. “I wrote you about that?”
“Your twin told me about that.”
“Which is the slower death, strangulation or drowning?”
“I have no idea,” she said, her tone cool.
She should have no idea about the Gage Gorge, either. “For the record, Griffin coined that phrase, not me.”
Her silence said more than actual words.
“Look, any guy would do the same. After months of crappy meals and crappy booze, it’s natural to want to consume mass quantities of my favorite foods and beverages.” And he never wanted to see another juice box or packaged cheese and crackers for the rest of his life.
When she didn’t say anything, he plucked at his T-shirt. “I’ve lost weight!” He’d worried about dysentery when the water they’d given him had arrived in a rusty watering can and from some unknown source. He’d tried sticking with the mango juice, but the thick stuff had eventually made him sicker than the thought of parasites in his H2O.
“By all means,” she said, still in that chilly voice, “indulge in your desires. It’s really none of my business—as long as your...your feasting doesn’t extend to my friends and neighbors.”
Okay, she was just being snotty now. Feasting, she’d said, as if he were bellying up to a banquet. But they both knew she was referring to something other than nutrients. “It’s not a crime to want to get laid.”
“But when you’re on a ‘Gage Gorge’ your goal is to get laid as often as possible.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it with a snap. After a few long breaths, he tried again. “I think my brother thought he was, uh, enhancing my reputation with that kind of talk.”
She sent him a skewering look over her shoulder. “You think being a man-ho enhances your reputation?”
“I’m not a man-ho. Jesus, Skye. I’m just a guy who likes sex and when I haven’t had a chance to get any for a few months, then I...I want to have some.”
She stood and brushed at the dirty knees of her jeans. “And some more and some more and some more.”
He got to his feet, too, and glared at her, because he didn’t understand why he felt so damn guilty. “Well, excuse me, Sister Josephina Henry.”
“Who?”
“The meanest nun I ever met. Told me I was going to hell when I was seven years old. Ugly old bag, with a wart on her chin.”
Her expression told him he’d gone too far. He replayed his words, blanched. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you have a wart on your chin.”
“Just that I’m an ugly old bag.”
“No! No, wait, don’t go off in a huff.”
But she did just that, disappearing into her house and shutting her front door with a decisive snap. He stared after her, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.
He was pretty sure it had something to do with sex. Why she should care about his interest in that, he didn’t know. It was Griffin’s fault, he thought. No, Skye’s. No, both Griffin and Skye were to blame, he decided as he started back down the beach, kicking at the soft sand.
Damn both of them.
And him, too, for pissing off the woman who, sometime during the course of their correspondence, had gone from casual pen pal to personal talisman.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Gage was once again up early. He set out for another walk, keeping to wet sand and the neutral company of the shorebirds. The tide was low and he headed for a favorite haunt just beyond the restaurant. There, where another bluff met the ocean, was an extensive series of tide pools, some small, some shallow, some twice as big and twice as deep as a bathtub.
Eyes cast down, he picked his way around them, also carefully avoiding the exposed rock faces where sharp-edged barnacles and dark-shelled mussels crowded together like villagers confronting a common enemy. Peering into a cup-sized crevice in the rock, he started when he heard his name, the soles of his leather flip-flops slipping on the wet rock.
Regaining his balance, he looked over. Ponytailed Skye stood nearby, dressed in drawstring linen pants and a matching tunic the color of dry sand. Despite how they’d parted the day before, he couldn’t help smiling at her. For two wretched weeks, she’d walked through his imagination, keeping him sane. Seeing her in the flesh was testament to his fortitude. He’d made it back.
Who wouldn’t be glad?
The wind came up, swirling escaped pieces of her dark hair and pressing the thin material of her clothes against her skin. For the first time he could make out the contours of her figure: small high breasts, slender waist, the flare of feminine hips. A flash of heat shot down his spine and curled around his balls. His cock reacted in typical horny male fashion and his smile died.
Hell. She didn’t want his “feasting” to involve her friends or family, so he figured she didn’t want it to involve herself, either. He didn’t want it to involve Skye and mess up what she already was to him. Childhood friend. Charming correspondent. Survival technique.
So he shut down his baser urges and approached her with slow steps, smiling again. “Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, too.” The strap of a backpack was slung over one shoulder and she let it slip down her arm as she returned her own smile. “I have coffee.”
He watched her pull out a silver thermos. “Is that an offer?”
She glanced up as she poured some steaming liquid into the cap. “How about a peace offering?” The smell of the brew wafted his way as she held it out. “I’m sorry about yesterday... I...I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Me, neither.” He took the small cup from her and brought the coffee to his lips. “Maybe we should start hanging out together in the wee hours of the night.”
She was rummaging in her backpack again, and he saw her withdraw an empty plastic container. Then she crossed to a large, high-and-dry flat boulder and sat down, dropping the pack near her hip. Gage followed suit, hoisting himself onto the rock beside her, then passing the cup of coffee in her direction.
After a little hesitation, she took it, and swallowed a small sip before handing it back to him. They shared the beverage and a companionable silence, each of them looking out to sea.
“I picked up your last couple of letters before I returned to the States,” he finally said. “I’m sorry you were worried.”
She kept her gaze on the horizon line. “I think it was because you wrote you had a new contact who was taking you to a region you hadn’t explored before. It sounded dangerous.”
He’d probably telegraphed his own unease. His internal debate over trusting the new guy had gone on for several days. He wasn’t stupid—journalists in that part of the world ran into all kinds of trouble, from muggings to murder. But the truth was, every footstep made in a war-torn country was a judgment call and the accolades went to those willing to take the most risk. It had seemed an acceptable trade-off at the time.
Gage realized that Skye was looking at him expectantly. “What?”
“I asked how that worked out—your new contact,” she said.
He hesitated. The wind whipped past again, propelling a lock of her long hair across his lips. It was silky-soft and smelled like a flowered breeze. Catching it between his fingers, he made to tuck it behind her ear.
She hunched away from him and grabbed the stuff herself, drawing it around her far shoulder. “Your contact?”
Thinking of Jahandar, Gage fought the urge to spit. “He turned out to be not so good.” Understatement.
They subsided into silence again.
“How’s your friend’s widow doing?” Skye asked eventually. “And her son?”
“Okay,” he replied, easily following her train of thought. Ten months ago, a colleague, Charlie Butler, had been abducted and held for ransom by the Taliban. His wife, Mara, the mother of a four-year-old, had been forced to navigate the complex maze of negotiation and counternegotiation along with the crisis management team hired by Charlie’s newspaper. The foreign correspondent community had done what they could, suggesting people to call and offering support, even as they’d kept the story out of the news. It was safer for the kidnap victim that way. “I’ll try to see them while I’m here. They don’t live far.”
“You could invite them to the cove. Sun and sand can be healing.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping, Gage mused, then turned his thoughts back to Mara and her son. No doubt they could use a dose of sun and sand. It had come down to Charlie’s next of kin—to Mara—to give the go-ahead on an American military raid to rescue her husband. He hadn’t survived the attempt. One of his kidnappers had shot him as soldiers stormed the compound where he’d been held.
“I’m glad Griffin has made the choice to stick close to his woman,” Gage said abruptly. “If you love somebody enough, you won’t chance putting them through that.”
