Beach House No. 9

by Christie Ridgway

  Be a beard, of sorts.

  With her settled in his house, it gave the appearance he actually was settling into work. As he’d told Rex Monroe, that would keep Tess and company at bay. Better yet, it would appease his agent, who was fifty-one years old, overweight and took daily meds for high blood pressure and high cholesterol. Griffin knew he’d been worrying the guy, a formerly entrenched bachelor who had finally married seven years before and adopted his adoring wife’s two small children. Guilt had finally gotten to him two days ago when Frank told him that Griffin’s feet-dragging was sending him into a hypertensive state. Dealing with Jane on-site had seemed much more preferable than selecting a funereal spray.

  So she was staying in one of the guest rooms and he was staying clear of her.

  Except, as he took a deep breath, he could smell her again. Damn it! How did her scent reach him all the way here?

  Then he realized, his eyes still closed, that she had reached him here. Literally. Once again, she’d broken into his solitude.

  “What the hell do you want?” he growled, though he didn’t need to ask the question. Everything she did was an attempt to make him mine his feelings. Those feelings that he so fucking did not have. She was here to round him up, rope him in and drag him back to the beach house, where she planned to stand over him all day. Likely with a whip.

  “I, um, wanted to let you know I’m leaving now. I’ll be gone until evening.”

  Surprise had him sitting up and blinking. Yes, it was Jane standing nearby, he hadn’t been wrong about that, but she wasn’t wearing her usual resolute expression. She looked, actually, a little unsure of herself.

  Curse him for finding it kind of almost adorable.

  And definitely curious.

  He stared at her, taking in her outfit. It was a short-sleeved, stiff khaki shirtdress that sported a collection of pockets, grommets and zippers. “What’s on your schedule for the day? Lion-taming?”

  She laughed a little, and one foot moved to twine with the other, causing his gaze to lower. Huh. The safari suit was paired with perhaps the silliest shoes he’d ever seen. Cork wedges were topped by khaki fabric printed with pink flowers. A paler pink ribbon was threaded through loops in the material and tied in a big bow at the top of her foot. They were…whimsical. A little weird. Very girlie. The complete opposite end of the spectrum from the tailored dress.

  Business on top, and oh, baby on the bottom.

  It made Griffin wonder how closely that described Jane herself. Scratch the professional surface, and what feminine fire might he find beneath? But he wasn’t interested in digging for that, he reminded himself as he slouched lower in his seat, any more than he was interested in excavating his own emotions. What would he do with that fire anyway? As much as he hated to admit it, his sex drive had driven off, gone AWOL on him, sometime, somewhere, between Afghanistan and California.

  Sure, he’d been a little fixated on Jane’s mouth, and they’d shared that single sizzling kiss, as well as that almost torrid moment of awareness when Tess had arrived, but…but, fine, he could admit it to himself. He hadn’t had a real, full-fledged, like-a-flagpole erection since before Randolph had come back from patrol drenched in Erica’s blood.

  As if sensing his disturbed thoughts, Jane made a nervous movement, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He frowned. She’d done something to take the wave out of it. It looked…restrained. Contained, like her tight expression.

  “What’s wrong, Jane?” he asked, sitting up again.

  “I love my father!” she said, as if he’d accused her differently.

  “Huh?”

  She ran her palms along her hips and then picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on the starched cotton fabric. “I mean, he called and asked if I could come for a visit. I haven’t seen him in a while, so I think I should go.”

  “Okay.” Woo-hoo. A reprieve for ol’ Griff, who had been devising ways to fend her off.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “But don’t forget you’re getting that delivery from Frank today. All the things you need to set up your home office.”

  “I can plug a few cords in.” As if he would.

  “So that’s your goal for the day?” She regarded him with a disappointed expression, reminding him of Mrs. Melton, eighth-grade English, who’d thought that Griffin could write a better essay than “I Spent My Summer Vacation Eating Popsicles.” He hadn’t expected she’d actually appreciate “How I Almost Killed My Brother in August.”

  Jane crossed her arms over her chest. “I really think you could accomplish more. You need to accomplish more.”

  That bossy tone again. Back to General Jane. He scowled at her. “I need another cup of coffee,” he said and got up to make that happen.

  Once he’d topped it off from the carafe warming in the kitchen, he decided he also needed some sugar. That took him into a back storeroom, where he remembered seeing the dispensers that sat on the tables during operating hours. It smelled good in the small, shelf-filled space, an interesting combination of cinnamon and pepper. He decided to enjoy it along with his freshened beverage. He didn’t have any place to be today.

  Jane would be forced to take off without badgering him again.

  Two minutes later, the door that he’d left half-shut creaked open.

  “Don’t close—” he started, but it was too late. George, the prep cook, had cautioned him that the storeroom door stuck sometimes. Sighing, he supposed this would be one of those times. “—the door.”

  Jane glanced back at it, then shrugged. Griffin did too. If anyone could circumvent the laws of physics, she could. “Look, I’m not trying to hound you,” she said, resting her shoulders against the wood.

  His eyebrow rose. “You have me cornered in a storeroom. Maybe it’s just the zookeeper dress, but you’re coming on pretty strong, honey-pie.”

  “I just want something I can tell my dad.” She bit her full lower lip. “He’ll ask.”

  “About me?” Griffin shrugged again. “Tell him whatever. Progress is being made.”

  That out-of-character anxiousness was back on her face. “I’m a terrible liar.”

  Likely true. So far, he’d been able to read her with ease. Except he didn’t understand why she’d feel compelled to report to her father regarding Griffin’s memoir. “Why would your dad be interested in what I’m doing?”

  “Because it’s what I’m doing. Because you’re my client.” She made an offhand gesture. “Success is the only option.”

  There was nothing offhand about those words, Griffin thought. A direct quote, he suspected, and something Governess Jane had absorbed to the marrow of her bones. No wonder she carried an invisible whacking ruler on her small, starchy person.

  Hadn’t she implied the man was some sort of researcher?

  My father always says I have no head for science.

  It got to him, the idea of someone passing judgment on her. Without thinking, he set his coffee aside and stepped nearer. He put his hands on her shoulders and felt their rigidity. His thumbs circled. “Honey-pie, don’t go pinning your self-worth on what some man says or does. Or doesn’t say or do. You can’t depend on ’em.”

  Her laugh was short. “Don’t I know it.”

  There was bitterness there. Hurt. For a moment, just a flick of a second, the impulse to ride to her rescue flooded him. An urge to take care of her by shoring up all her fragile places.

  God knew he had no business acting on it and that he’d disappoint her if he tried. He wasn’t made for it—he was too selfish and too detached. Step back, he told himself. Step back now.

  Before he could act, however, she circled his wrists with her small hands. She looked up, her smile lopsided. “Just get started, will you, Griffin? For your own sake.”

  It wasn’t the lopsided smile. It wasn’t that soft mouth of hers that still seemed pinker due to her sunburn from two days before. It was the orders that always came out of it and how desperate he was to silence them.


  He slid his hands from her shoulders to her face.

  She blinked. “Griffin, I’m serious. The work has to be—”

  “Shh.” He was tired of her talk, talk, talk.

  She tried shifting away. “Griff—”

  “Stop.” His voice hardened. “Stop moving. Be quiet for a moment and be still.”

  To his amazement, she did. Her eyes widened, her body froze, her breath caught. Had no one ever taken charge of her?

  Though his sudden power over her was heady, it didn’t completely explain his next crazy impulse. “Now let me kiss you,” he said, and then he did just that, bending his head to press his mouth to hers. And pow, there it was, the sweet blast of heat he’d tasted that Party Central night in his laundry room, when he’d been pissed at Rick and then pissed at himself for stirring up trouble with Jane.

  And, oh, yeah, that Jane-trouble was back. Unexpected, though, because it was as if all the starch had gone out of her when he’d taken control. Be still. Now let me kiss you.

  She was pliant now, her hands falling from his wrists to dangle at her sides. Her head dropped back, and the action opened up those soft lips, giving his tongue entry. She sighed against his mouth, all her defenses gone for the moment as he pressed closer, his body crowding hers.

  Again, she didn’t protest. A shudder went through her, and he felt it along his chest, along his thighs. He drew his mouth away from her lips, heard her little moan of protest but ignored it to explore the silken heat of her cheek and then the small shell of her ear. He tongued the lobe, felt her breath catch, and then she lifted her hands to grab his waist.

  In the small room, their breaths turned loud. The sound was urgent, as urgent as the desire starting to fire in his blood. His mouth found hers again, almost feeding on it, and then his hands went wild, sliding over the crisp fabric of her dress, seeking a way to touch more of her flesh. Frustrated by all the metal apparatuses his fingers found, he slanted his head to take her deeper and yanked at the fabric of her skirt, lifting it to bare the warm backs of her thighs.

  She jerked into his palms as he stroked upward. “Shh, shh, shh,” he said against her mouth, soothing her, even as the hem rose higher with his wrists. His palms cupped the round globes of her ass over her panties.

  Making a noise deep in her throat, she melted against him once more. It lit him up, his blood burning hot and thick, chugging a fire line southward. Causing that heavy, tightening sensation that he’d not experienced in months and months and months. Too long.

  Desperate, desperately glad, he slid his hands under the fabric so they were palms to cheeks.

  And with that, he was fully erect.

  Sweet, sweet mercy. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, breathing in that flowery Jane-scent, reveling in the goodness of escalating desire and a solid cock.

  The notion that he hadn’t, after all, lost this.

  The librarian was moving into him now, her pelvis grinding against his stiff shaft, a cute little stand-up lap dance that almost had his rocket launching. But they were in a storeroom. Alone at the moment, but only because of an impromptu onion run. Still, she was eager and he was hard and who could argue against that combination?

  His mouth found hers again as he tried weighing the pros and cons of taking this all the way. But his brain was sluggish, what with all the blood his erection—thank God!—was putting to its own use. The decision had to be deferred, he thought, reluctantly sliding his tongue from her mouth. If they’d been near a bed, he knew good sense wouldn’t have stood a chance, but they were in that storeroom. And an onion run wouldn’t last forever.

  “Jane,” he murmured against her cheek. “Jane, I think we’d better stop.”

  Her flesh was feverish against his lips. “No.”

  “I understand.” He kissed her mouth. “But, Jane—”

  She found his mouth with hers, and her small hands tightened on the sides of his shirt. Maybe it had been a long time for her too, because there was a frantic quality in the thrust of her tongue, the clutch of her hands, the rhythmic pulse of her hips against his.

  Flexing his fingers on the globes of her ass, he told himself to be sensible. With a mighty effort, he tore his mouth away. “We have to stop.”

  “No.” Her eyes closed, she rubbed against him, harder, and her lips lifted, seeking his once more.

  He evaded her and firmed his voice. “Yes, Jane. I’m saying we stop.”

  His implacable tone finally got through to her. She froze, and then silver eyes blinked up at him. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses. And from the beginnings of a pout.

  He squeezed her bare ass, knowing he would have an aching regret over this for the rest of the day. “You have places to go, remember?” Then, while she was still compliant—because, really, how long could that last?—he succumbed once again to whim and drew her panties down her legs. For a moment they ringed her ankles, a transparent confection of pale pink ruffles. Oh, sweet Jesus. Before he pulled her to the concrete floor right then and there, he hunkered down to help her step out of them.

  He rose with the ruffles in his hand. “But I don’t mind if you leave a little something behind.”

  She blinked a couple more times, clearly coming out of a sexual daze. “That’s my underwear,” she said, staring at the little pile of filmy stuff in his palm. Her gaze lifted to his. “Griffin, I’m going to see my father.”

  In a quick move he stuffed the souvenir in his front pocket, adjusting his erection at the same time. That sign of renewed life made him grin at her, unrepentant. Not only had he found his sexuality again, but he also thought he’d struck upon a way to handle the little librarian who was trying to rock his world. “Have a good time, honey-pie.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FEELING AS HARRIED and anxious as she always did at the prospect of meeting with her father, Jane hurried toward his tri-level executive home. It was boxy and officious-looking, with a flat roofline and dark-tinted windows. A short barbered hedge bordered the brick front pathway bisecting the small patch of grass meticulously cut by the housing association’s gardeners to her father’s exacting standards. There was a groundskeeper sweeping the bricks at this very moment—Corbett Pearson didn’t allow the whine of leaf blowers within the range of his hearing.

  She smiled at the gardener in passing, then reached the front door and pressed the bell. There was a house key back at her apartment, but even if she’d had it with her, she wouldn’t have used it. Her father didn’t appreciate such liberties.

  He opened the door, and his chilly gaze swept over her. “Jane,” he said. “You look a bit…feverish.”

  Oh, damn. She thought she’d managed to counteract her flushed state with the air-conditioning set on High during the entire ride over. Damn Griffin! But she couldn’t think about him and handle her father. “I’m fine, Dad,” she said, stepping closer to place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re looking well.”

  He was in his version of casual clothes, meaning he’d gone for a pair of knife-creased khakis instead of the steely-gray slacks he preferred to wear to work. And instead of a white dress shirt, he wore a blue one with the palest and thinnest of olive stripes. Jane had given it to him for Christmas, and she was absurdly pleased to see he had it on.

  “Your brothers are here,” he said, leading her in the direction of the large family room at the rear of the house. “We’re watching baseball.”

  “Oh, yay,” Jane murmured. “All the guys.”

  Byron and Phillip were seated on the heavy leather sofa placed before the large-screen TV. They didn’t look up from their laptops as she entered the room and made only vague gestures with their nontapping fingers as she bussed the top of each of their heads. They were gorgeous creatures, the both of them, but like every Pearson male, no one could call them multitaskers. She glanced at her dad. “You’re playing fantasy baseball again this year?”

  He’d positioned himself in front of his own computer, set on the bar in the corner o
f the room. As usual, keeping his distance. “What?” he asked, looking up from the small screen. “Oh, baseball. Yes.”

  None of them were actually watching the game on the TV. They didn’t like sports in the least. Their fantasy league was a statistical challenge the three of them enjoyed. They had bets and side bets and counter bets that were used as mental one-upmanship. Ignoring Jane, they made cryptic remarks to each other as they focused on the computer models they’d probably designed themselves to maximize their chances of winning.

  Accustomed to the drill, Jane crossed to the adjoining kitchen and helped herself to a mug of coffee and one of the sweet rolls—possibly her father’s only weakness—on the counter. Then she took them both over to the bar and slid onto the stool beside the older man.

  “So, Dad,” she said. “I’m here.”

  He continued tapping at his keyboard. “Yes.”

  Stifling her sigh, she tried again. “You asked me over?”

  With a grimace, he hit a key, then turned to his sons. “That was an excellent trade, Phillip.” His tone was grudging.

  Her brother only grunted at the compliment.

  Jane actually sighed this time. What a collection of cavemen.

  “I wanted to know about your new job,” her father said, half turning on his stool as he finally deigned to address her. “How are you managing with this new author?”

  Speaking of Neanderthals… Jane felt a burn crawling up her throat as her mind flashed to Griffin again, and she fingered the brass button fastening her collar closed. Where the heck had that kiss come from, and why the heck had she…well, she’d stood still for it! Remembering her instant surrender was mortifying.

  “Jane?”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s a nonfiction work. A memoir, actually.”

  “I was asking about the author, not the project,” her father remarked. “You know, after the situation with Ian—”