Beach House No. 9

by Christie Ridgway

  He hurried out of the house, telling himself the mess he’d made was no reflection of his inner self.

  * * *

  AT THE OPPOSITE END of the cove from Beach House No. 9, Jane sat railside at Captain Crow’s, a restaurant/bar that was one of only two commercial establishments on the beach—the other being an adjacent gallery that sold plein air paintings and beautiful handmade boxes, frames and jewelry crafted from items of the sea. She’d poked her nose inside, taking in sun-drenched landscapes and rainbow-hued earbobs of abalone and beach glass, but her urge to admire couldn’t overshadow her certainty that the open floor plan made it a lousy place to hide.

  Now Captain Crow’s, that was another matter.

  It was as if Party Central had moved north by a couple miles. Pleasure-seekers peopled the open-air tables and sat elbow-to-elbow on stools pulled up to a narrow, westward-facing counter. Dressed in her usual conservative wear—cropped khakis, a thin, bottle-green button-down shirt and a straw hat settled low on her brow—Jane went unnoticed among the rhinestoned tees and short shorts, the boho skirts and macraméd halter tops. The typical California confluence of Hollywood high culture and laid-back hippie fashion. Nearly overpowering the scent of salt air were the mixed aromas of SPF 30 sunscreen, Rodeo Drive perfumes and top-shelf tequila.

  She’d collected a glass of white wine from the bar and slipped onto a free stool, unsure of her next move in her goal of getting Griffin to work. The only short-term certainty was her need to steer clear of him for the moment, giving him a chance to cool off following the plate-throwing incident. Seeing her again too soon might antagonize him further, causing him to do something rash, like ordering her from the cove altogether.

  As she took a sip of her straw-colored beverage, she caught a glimpse of Skye Alexander strolling through the restaurant, her roaming gaze suggesting she was looking for someone. Jane pulled her hat lower on her brow and fixed her attention on the orange orb in the blue sky, tracking its descent. She figured it was better to avoid Skye too. Jane wouldn’t put it past Griffin to send the other woman to scout her out…and then toss her from the beach colony, despite the fact that it was his own agent who had hired her. Slumping in her seat, she tried lifting her shoulders to her ears, going Quasimodo as camouflage.

  But the world hadn’t gone her way in ages, so she felt the tap on her back with no surprise. Turning, she consoled herself with the knowledge that there wasn’t a free space on either side of her. That thought came too soon as well, though, because someone shouted, and the crowd around her scattered, people rushing down the steps to the sand.

  Befuddled, Jane watched them gather near a flagpole at the base of the stairs to the beach. Skye perched on the freed seat next to Jane, her gaze also on the excited throng. A man wearing ragged, low-slung shorts and the ubiquitous tan lifted a conch shell to his lips. The blast of sound set the crowd cheering again, and then a blue flag slowly rose on the pole. When it reached the peak, the bystanders saluted the fluttering fabric. Jane saw it was printed with the universal symbol for martini.

  “Cocktail time,” Skye explained. “Five o’clock.”

  Jane’s brows lifted, taking in the beverages already in hands, including her own half-full wineglass.

  “Official cocktail time at Crescent Cove. This ritual goes back to the fifties.”

  “That’s when this beach was discovered?” If Jane kept the other woman talking about their surroundings, maybe she could avoid other subjects. Like Griffin. Like how he was likely in No. 8 right this moment, packing her duffel for her imminent departure. “During the wonder years of tiki parties and limbo games?”

  Skye shook her head. “Before then. During Prohibition, rumrunners made it a secret drop-off point for contraband liquor. And before that, during the silent film era, my great-great-grandfather used it as a stand-in for a South Seas atoll. He had a movie company, Sunrise Studios, and trucked in all the tropical vegetation that flourishes here.”

  At the mention of silent films, Jane covered her mouth, then glanced down the beach at the colorful residences spilling from the hillside to the edge of the sand. The ocean breeze shivered through the graceful fronds of the date palms shading their roofs and set the long leaves of the banana plants wagging. The creamy faces of plumeria flowers mingled with brighter splashes of hibiscus in yellow, red and pink. The bougainvillea grew everywhere something else didn’t.

  She could imagine this place as an exotic backdrop to long-ago movies or as an idyllic vacation getaway. “It really does appear out of another time.”

  For no more reason than that, a person would be reluctant to leave. It wasn’t hard for Jane to picture woody station wagons pulled up behind the cottages. She could see the children of the past playing in the surf, riding inflatable rubber rafts instead of the foam boogie boards the contemporary kids were dragging into the water by leashes attached at their ankles. At five o’clock some sunburned man with a crew cut would blow the conch shell, heralding another idyllic summer evening. “Magic,” she murmured.

  A foolish notion that she’d always wanted to believe in. Just like love. Her father had detected the weakness in her early on, as clear to him, apparently, as her lack of aptitude in the sciences. “So silly and emotional, Jane,” he would say, shaking his head at her. “Just like your mother.”

  Pushing the memory aside, she tuned back in to Skye’s conversation. The crowd had returned to their places, and Jane was forced to lean close to hear over their rowdy chatter. “The earliest houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s,” the other woman was saying. “My great-great-granddad built some of them, my great-grandfather more, but it wasn’t until my mom was pregnant with me that my parents moved here. They live in Provence now, and though I live at the cove full-time, most habitants are seasonal.” She paused. “Like the Lowells.”

  Griffin. Their last moments together replayed in Jane’s head, his flattened voice describing what had happened to his colleague Erica in Afghanistan. The neutral tone to his words had been belied by the stiffness of his posture. Even now, Jane could feel the tense muscle of his forearm under her hand and the way he’d wrenched from her hold in order to heave the cookie platter against the wall. It reminded her that she owed Skye a plate…and her client an apology?

  Jane didn’t think an “I’m sorry” would change his mind about her. By insisting he’d have to touch on that tragedy, she’d become the object of his wrath. She had the very bad feeling he would absolutely refuse to work with her now. On a sigh, she met Skye’s gaze. “Did Griffin send you to find me?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh.” The denial eased Jane’s worry better than another swallow of wine. “Good.”

  “But I was looking for you.” She hesitated. “Your name rang a bell…and then when I put it together with what you said about helping Griffin with his memoir…”

  Jane’s belly tightened. How widespread was the smear on her reputation?

  “I have all of Ian Stone’s novels,” Skye said.

  Jane nodded, tensing further. “I’m not surprised.”

  The other woman gave a little smile. “I know, I know, me and everyone else. Number one New York Times bestseller several times over. Many of them were made into movies.”

  “The last five.”

  “I’m one of those people who likes to reread books, poring over them from the dedication page up front to the author’s note at the back.” Skye hesitated, then the question she’d obviously been dying to ask burst out. “What was it like to work with him? Because that’s you, isn’t it? I figured it had to be when you told me you work with writers. He dedicated Sal’s Redemption, The Butterfly Place and Crossroads Corner to you, right?”

  “Yes.” For three years, she’d worked almost exclusively with him. He’d been the focus of her career.

  Then he’d become the focus of her life.

  “So,” Skye prodded. “Will you dish? Is he as handsome as he appears on book jackets and in TV interviews?”


  “Handsomer.” She sighed inwardly. Ian’s good looks didn’t reflect his inner character, but she couldn’t blame Skye for not recognizing that. Look how long it had taken Jane to figure it out. She’d wanted too much to believe.

  So silly and emotional, Jane.

  When it came to Ian Stone, that’s exactly what she’d been. A lesson had been learned, though. She’d been a fool for love in the past, but she would never again make the mistake of caring for a man who couldn’t love her back.

  “Gorgeous, huh?” Skye leaned closer. “But then is he like so many really attractive guys? Tell me he’s the size of a pickle.”

  The demand surprised a laugh out of Jane. “You want me to talk about his—” She gestured toward her lap.

  “No!” Skye flushed red. “I wouldn’t talk about that. I don’t like to think about that. I meant his height. The height of his body. His whole self.”

  Skye’s deep fluster struck Jane as odd, but she got another laugh out of imagining Ian’s horrified reaction to even a moment’s consideration of that particular body part in gherkin terms. Then another picture of him blossomed in her brain, her own version of Pin the Pickle on the Donkey.

  Perfect, she thought, because the man was such an ass.

  She couldn’t hold back a fresh burst of laughter.

  “You’re in a good mood,” a voice said from behind her.

  The chuckles drained away as Jane tensed again. Busted.

  With a slow pivot, she turned to face Griffin. Ian Stone was handsome in a spoiled, well-tended sort of way. By contrast, Griffin looked as if he’d buzzed his hair himself and he’d nicked his chin while shaving—a couple of days before, if she was any judge of stubble. But his was a wholly masculine face, all the edges hard and those incredible turquoise eyes sharp. Her breath quickened, even though she tried pretending she was all cool control. There was no denying that something about the man had found a previously hidden chink in her, an opening that allowed his male energy to worm its way under her armor, heating her up, loosening her muscles, almost…preparing her.

  The thought made her blush, and his gaze narrowed, skewering her now. She wiggled on her stool. “Um…hey.”

  He nodded absently at Skye, then returned his ominous gaze to Jane. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh?” Her belly fluttered, and she barely registered the finger wave Skye sent her before leaving. From the hard expression on Griffin’s face, Jane didn’t expect he’d sought her out to deliver good news. What would she do once he declined her services for good? Word would surely get back that yet another author found her unsatisfactory. She sighed, bowing to the inevitable. “What is it?”

  He opened his mouth, and then his gaze shifted over her shoulder. The incredible eyes flared for a moment, narrowed again. “Shit.”

  She glanced around. In the distance a woman was trudging through the sand, a baby balanced on one hip. Three other kids trailed behind her, but she didn’t look the least bit matronly, with her long legs bared by a white cotton skirt and a scarlet tank top clinging to her curves. Expensive sunglasses covered her eyes, and her dark hair was glossy and cut in a trendy fashion that had delicate pieces curving around her cheeks and jaw.

  Jane turned back to Griffin and could swear he’d gone pale. “Old flame?”

  “More like the devil,” he muttered, then cursed again. “You’ve got to do something for me, Jane.”

  She didn’t think this was going to be about his memoir. “Like what?”

  He hunkered down, so that he was semishielded by her body. “Hide me.”

  Wasn’t hiding what she’d been after herself?

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said after a moment, her attention still on the beach. Was it bad of her to take pleasure in noting that the dark-haired beauty had homed in on the man half concealed behind her? She was waving her arm, her focus clearly settled on his face. Two of the little kids were jumping up and down as well, pointing and waving.

  “The children seem to know you. Who are they?”

  “The devil’s minions.” As they continued waving, he rose to his full height on a loud sigh. “There’s only one thing for it, then.”

  “What’s that?”

  Griffin clamped his hand around Jane’s upper arm and pulled her from her stool. “Come on.” With an arm slung across her shoulders, he urged her toward the steps leading to the sand. “This way, honey-pie.”

  She struggled to keep up with his brisk stride. “Tell me what’s going on, chili-dog.”

  He shot her a look, then shrugged. “Our little endearments will do the job just fine, I guess.”

  “What job is that?” Jane asked warily.

  “A minor bit of role-play. You can manage that for the next few minutes or so, can’t you?”

  She thought of protesting. This definitely wasn’t about his memoir. She considered turning back toward the bar and cutting her losses right there and then, given the bad luck that had been dogging her lately. But another few minutes…the optimist inside her wondered what might happen during that time. If she went along with whatever he was planning, perhaps he’d be convinced that she was a handy person to have around, and they could salvage their working relationship. That’s what she needed more than anything.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Great. Consider yourself hired.” He hitched her closer to his side. His body was hard and warm and solid enough to prop up her weight if she was the kind of woman inclined to lean on a man. She wasn’t. She didn’t trust them for that.

  He cupped her upper arm, his palm sliding up and down in a caress she could feel through the sleeve of her cotton shirt. It made her flesh prickle, and she shivered.

  Griffin’s feet halted, stopping their forward movement. Jane glanced up. He was staring at her, an odd expression on his face. His caressing hand moved over her again, and she couldn’t stop a second shiver.

  “Jesus, Jane,” he murmured, stroking her once more. “Jesus.”

  Her mouth was dry. “Jesus, Jane—what?”

  He shook his head as if he was shaking off an uncomfortable thought. His fingers slid away. “Don’t look so serious,” he told her, his voice gruff.

  She frowned at him. “How should I look, then?”

  With a careless hand, he chucked her under the chin. The strange moment had clearly passed. “Try smiling, honey-pie. For this to succeed, you have to look and sound the part.”

  “The part of what?” she asked, suspicious.

  Griffin grinned down at her. His blue gaze seemed almost tender, and she felt his testosterone twisting toward her like smoke, seeking that crack in her protective shell. His hand found hers. “The part, sweet Jane, of my lover.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEY DIDN’T GET to introductions right away. The moment she and Griffin appeared on the beach in front of the lovely brunette, the woman launched herself into his arms, causing him to let go of Jane. “You don’t know what I’ve been through!” the beauty said.

  One of her young entourage was a girl who looked as if she’d just crossed into her teens. “I’m going to die of boredom here,” the teen said. “I can smell the lack of cell phone coverage.” She blinked lashes of beyond-natural length and thickness. “I’m probably going to get pregnant just for something to do.”

  Though Jane was somewhat alarmed when the teen turned to peruse the beach as if seeking out potential baby daddies, no one else commented on her offhand remark. Perhaps no one else had heard it. Griffin and the woman were already walking down the beach in the direction of his cottage, she hanging on to his arm while still carrying the little guy, who looked to be nine or ten months old. One of the baby’s sandals slipped off his foot, and Jane swooped it up as she drifted behind them.

  “Let’s go,” the teenager said to the remaining two. They were boys—five and six? Seven and eight?—and were poking at a clump of stinky kelp with a stick.

  At the girl’s prompting, the smaller of the two
ran ahead, brandishing the piece of wood, while the other threw sand at his back, yelling, “Your face looks like monkey poo!”

  At that, the teenager tossed a glance at Jane. “My life,” she said in a theatrical tone.

  “It seems adding an infant of your own to it would only complicate matters,” Jane pointed out. “Cute baby bump to monkey poo? A blip in time.”

  Her extravagant eye-roll made Jane grin. It reminded her of—

  Griffin. Good God, was the brunette his ex? This tribe his children?

  “I’m Jane,” she said to the girl.

  The teen slid her a sidelong look. “Of course you are.”

  Griffin’s exact words! “What’s your name?”

  “Rebecca.” She flung an arm in the direction of her presumed siblings. Four inches of braided string and rubber bracelets circled her wrist. “Those are my brothers, Duncan, Oliver and Russ.”

  Before Jane could pry more out of her, they’d reached Beach House No. 9. The entire party assembled in the living room, the two boys dropping to the floor to wrestle, Rebecca slumping onto the couch in another dramatic move, her mother pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and hitching the baby higher on her hip. Jane hung back, reluctant to enmesh herself until she knew more.

  “Now, Tess,” Griffin said. “What’s this all about?”

  Just like that, the woman burst into tears. The little one she was holding immediately followed suit.

  Over the racket, Rebecca let out a gusty sigh. “Pregnant, I tell you. I’m definitely getting pregnant.”

  Her mother responded by passing over the tearful little guy. Not a bad idea, Jane decided. Birth control by baby brother.

  Griffin didn’t appear affected by the woman’s distress or the child’s. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tess, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’ve left him, Griff,” she said. “I’ve finally left my husband!”

  At the outburst, he groaned, offering not an ounce of sympathy. His hands ran over his head. “Geez, Tessie. This matters to me how?”