Beach House No. 9

by Christie Ridgway

  With a grimace, he let her lead him out of the kitchen to the entryway. Okay, the delivery did pose a bit of a danger. Jane swiped up the carton that held computer paper, yellow notepads and packages of pencils and pens. Then she tucked a three foot by two foot whiteboard under her arm and turned her expectant gaze upon him.

  The remaining boxes were bulky but not heavy, and he could watch her hips sway as he trailed her to the small room adjacent to the living area. Apparently she’d decided that space made the most sense as an office. It held a leather love seat, some bookshelves and had a desk positioned near the window overlooking the beach. At least he’d have something pretty to look at when he pretended to be writing.

  “I don’t usually do this kind of thing for an author,” she said, perching on the love seat and beginning to tear open the package of dry-erase markers. “I’m not the office help, you know.”

  “Feel free to leave it to me,” Griffin offered, setting the boxes on the desk. Getting her out of his hair was going to be even easier than he’d thought. “I’ll let you know when I need your services.”

  “Why do I think that might be on a cold day in hell?” she asked, her voice dry.

  He popped open the cardboard flaps of the laptop carton and then struggled to lift the sleek machine from its Styrofoam nest. “It might freeze over before I can get this damn computer free,” he muttered.

  “Let me help.” She tossed down a package of pencils and walked over to grip the edges of the box. “Now pull.”

  She was close. Too close. He breathed in the fragrance of her shampoo and felt the radiating warmth of her small body. His muscles tensed. When he didn’t move, she glanced up. It brought her mouth close. Too close.

  They stared at each other.

  “We should talk,” she suddenly said.

  And just as suddenly, Griffin didn’t want to. The subject would be the kissing and caressing of the day before. Knowing Jane, her type of “talk” would be to dissect the event. The practical librarian in her would surely speak in terms of hormonal reactions and biological directives. Her governess tendencies would prod her to start spouting rule after rule and the consequences of breaking them.

  Prompting Griffin to want to do just that very thing—break rules—as soon as possible.

  His glance lowered from her silver eyes to her plump mouth. He remembered the sweetness to be discovered inside of it. Her instant pliancy when he thrust against her tongue. The rush of blood to his cock, the first erection he’d managed in months.

  He was half-hard again just thinking about it, and he didn’t want to take away from that common miracle by getting all clinical.

  Nothing she said could explain why he had her panties stuffed in the bottom of his right pocket at this very moment. And he didn’t want to try justifying it to himself, either.

  “My visit to my dad’s house brought something to mind,” Jane continued. “I’m…I’m worried about your niece.”

  The non sequitur—at least to his train of thought—rocked Griffin back on his heels. He’d been obsessing about hot kisses and hard-ons and she was thinking about his family?

  He yanked the Styrofoam-and-laptop sandwich free of the box. “Not my problem,” he growled. Jane was his problem! Her maddening, confounding, unpredictable ways. Buttoned up on top, oh-baby on the bottom. Mouth made for sin, mind bent on meddling.

  “You see,” Jane persisted. “Rebecca—”

  “Why don’t you go away now?” he said, stopping her before she got going. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She blinked at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He considered smoldering at her, but he thought it wiser to refrain from its overuse. Instead, it would be his tactic of last resort. So he blew out a breath and made some lame excuse about not getting enough a.m. caffeine.

  At least she returned to the love seat and continued tearing into the packages of office supplies, giving him a little more breathing room. His gaze wandered out the window. From here he could see his sister under a beach umbrella, that littlest kid of hers playing with plastic blocks on a blanket. The hoodlums-in-the-making were running in circles, chasing each other with clumps of dripping seaweed.

  Huh. Maybe he should show them where Rex Monroe parked his car.

  Then his niece wandered into his line of sight, dressed in a bikini top with a sarong wrapped around her narrow hips. Her slow movements and put-upon expression made clear she was dragging the heavy weight of teen martyrdom behind her.

  Not my problem.

  They were all going to grow up one day, from the one who smelled like diaper wipes to the girl with the grumpy face, and make choices or take orders that would put them in harm’s way. He couldn’t stop that. All he could do was separate from them so whatever happened couldn’t hurt him.

  Hell, the hoodlums, now belly-crawling on the beach in pursuit of some poor unsuspecting seagull, probably wouldn’t make it to twelve.

  Not my problem.

  “Of course, all girls go through a rebellious stage,” Jane said from the other side of the room. “It’s not unusual, but…”

  “Yeah?” All girls go through a rebellious stage? He glanced back at her. “Does that include you? What, you went a morning without flossing? You, gasp, once let your library books go overdue?”

  “I would never do that!” She made a face at him. “The library was right next door to my school, so it was easy to return them by the due date.”

  The little egghead had probably gone to some hoity-toity private school where each student was assigned a private SAT tutor and college essays were critiqued by retired admissions officers. “Where’d you graduate from? Smarty-pants Prep?”

  She was focused on picking at the shrink-wrap covering the notepads. “My brothers were homeschooled. I attended the regular public school three blocks away.”

  Weird. “What? Your parents thought they needed the extra attention and you didn’t?”

  She made a sound that was suspiciously like a snort. “My brothers have genius IQs. They excel in math and the sciences. When I didn’t show an aptitude for those particular subjects…”

  My father always says I have no head for science, Griffin remembered.

  “…Dad decided the public school was plenty good enough for me.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  Her eyes didn’t meet his. “I received a very good education, actually.”

  “Just not the same one as your brothers.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not like my brothers at all.”

  He turned to lean his back against the desk. Because she still wasn’t looking at him he had the opportunity to study her face—the gentle curve of her lashes, the generous pillows of her lips. Another arrow of heat shot toward his groin, and he thought of that origami bundle of her panties just inches from his cock. He groaned.

  Her gaze shot up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Uh…” His mind scrambled for some intelligent remark. “Rebellion?” Hadn’t they started with that? “You rebelled because you were different than your brothers?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t really know. I just think it’s important to pay attention to girls Rebecca’s age. The impulse to rebel is natural, but they can get into actual trouble if no one’s watching.”

  Griffin pictured the governess as a young teen, as one of their pack of Crescent Cove summer kids. She would have been as big as a gnat and as annoying as one even then. He could see it. A little dab of a thing with those eerie eyes and that puffy mouth. Gage would have bet his twin he could steal a kiss from her first.

  Griffin wouldn’t have let that happen.

  “What kind of trouble did you get into, Jane?” he asked idly, still imagining. There would be a bonfire, and he’d have drawn her just outside its glow, lowering his head to—

  “I ran away from home at thirteen. Left L.A. and made my way to San Francisco.”

  The words jerked him out of his reverie. “What?” he sq
uawked. He couldn’t fathom it. “Jesus, Jane.” It shook him up to think of it. And he fucking hated being shaken up.

  “It’s actually kind of a funny story.”

  His gut didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’ve got to hear this.”

  She rose from the love seat and paced toward the desk and window. Her gaze took in the ocean view. Griffin took in the clean lines of her profile and the soft wave of her sandy hair. “I decided to take a road trip. I had some babysitting money I used for bus fare.”

  A shudder worked its way down his spine. Thirteen years old and alone at the Los Angeles bus station. The stuff of any thinking person’s nightmares. “Why San Francisco?”

  “My mother was from the area. I think I missed her.”

  “What? She was visiting there?”

  “She was dead.” Jane turned her head to look at Griffin, her silver eyes mirroring no emotion. “She died when I was a baby.”

  His hand squeezed into a fist, echoing the sudden tightness in his chest. “Oh, this whole story’s hilarious,” he said.

  “Wait. It gets funny!”

  He had good instincts. This was not going to get funny. But she looked so sincere, he couldn’t say it aloud. “Tell me when I should start laughing.”

  “Right about when I changed my mind and turned around and took the very next bus back to Southern California.”

  He felt some relief at that. Apparently she’d avoided drug traffickers and slave traders. “Go on.”

  “When I got back to my house…there was nobody home.”

  Oh, Jesus. “Tell me your family was out searching for you.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “The boys were attending NASA summer camp. I guess my dad thought I was staying with a friend, and he went off on his own research trip. The house was all locked up.”

  He stared at her. “Is this the funny part?”

  She actually laughed. “Yes. I had to run away, but when I went back home, I had to break into my own house. The irony!”

  “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

  Her eyebrows came together in a frown. “Of course it does. What I just described is situational irony—when the outcome is contrary to expectation. It’s all about the reversal, see. I ran away, but when I went back, it was as if, instead, my father ran—”

  Shaking his head, he took her face in the palms of his hands. Her words sputtered out. Her silver eyes lifted to his. It was the storeroom at Captain Crow’s all over again. The laundry room, when he’d first been compelled to kiss her. There was just something about this woman.

  He was smoldering at her. Without even trying. Without even wanting to.

  His mouth descended toward hers. She stayed where she was, pliant as before, caught in the heat between them. Before he could touch down, she broke free.

  Her feet actually scrabbled on the hardwood floor in the hallway. Sighing, he watched her go. Damn woman. Damn, damn woman.

  His tactic had been proved to work. He supposed he could feel some satisfaction in that. Going sexy on her had sent her on the run. He’d gotten her out of the room.

  But…she’d still made her way under his skin.

  The irony!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHOVING ASIDE a deep reluctance, David Quincy marched down the path that would lead him to the place where his wife had run on her escape from their home. On her escape from him.

  After five days without her, he’d come to the conclusion that it only made sense to initiate a calm, reasonable discussion about their situation. He blew out a long breath of air and allowed himself a moment’s pause. Tess might ask him to give up her and the kids. Considering the possibility stabbed his gut like a dull knife, but he was a by-the-numbers realist. It’s what her absence was leading to, wasn’t it? And if that was indeed what she asked of him, he’d find a way to grant her request.

  After all, not long ago he’d come to the realization that he didn’t deserve any of them.

  They’d manage without him, of course. The bigger kids were consumed with their own pursuits. Baby Russ was fine too. Though David hadn’t held his smallest son since the day of his fortieth birthday, he appeared to be thriving.

  His black dress shoes sank into soft sand. Immediately, grains made their way between his socks and the leather insole. He accepted the petty discomfort with his usual stoicism. Sure, he should have worn something more casual than his business clothes, but he’d been sitting at his desk, staring at spreadsheets without seeing a single column when he’d made the sudden decision to visit.

  Looking toward the surf, David caught sight of his daughter. Stretched belly-down on a beach blanket, she wore bug-big sunglasses and was up on her elbows, her nimble thumbs tapping, engrossed in the modern teenager’s version of talking drums. It seemed just yesterday she’d been wearing princess tiaras and dipping her digits in finger paints. In a skimpy bikini and with her mother’s long legs, she appeared almost full-grown.

  Past the need for him.

  Her head turned his way, and a smile stretched her mouth, her straight white teeth beautiful. Still, nostalgia squeezed his heart as he remembered those long months when she’d come home from every orthodontist appointment with different colored bands on her braces: orange and black at Halloween, red and green at Christmas, two different shades of blue that time he’d taken her himself.

  She’d asked for her father’s favorite color.

  Now she jumped to her feet. “Dad!” she cried, waving.

  He crossed the beach, the soft sand slowing his steps and helping him maintain his newly developed detachment. “How are you, honey?” he asked her. “How was school this morning?”

  “I don’t know why I’m wasting any of my summer vacation in a classroom.”

  “The honors history seminar will look good on your college apps.”

  Rebecca made a face. “Now you sound like Mom. I thought you were on my side. You told her I should get to enjoy my time off.”

  He hesitated. When they were living in the same house and before his fateful fortieth, it seemed as if the mom-versus-dad debate was perfectly acceptable. But when he and Tess were living in separate places, he figured they should show a united front in things like this. The dull ache in his belly sharpened as he thought about custody again.

  It wouldn’t surprise him if Tess asked to have the kids 24/7—and he’d grant her wish, of course.

  “Dad?”

  He cleared his throat. “Mom wants you to maximize your chances and your choices. I can’t argue with that.”

  Especially because he wondered whether Tess’s insistence on it was a reflection of her dissatisfaction with what she herself had done post high school. Instead of college or career, she’d married David and devoted herself to him and their children. Was she regretting that now?

  She’d left their home. Clearly she was regretting him.

  The sound of shrieking kids drew his attention up the beach. High-stepping through the surf, all knobby knees and elbows, their skin a golden tan, his oldest sons were racing toward him. Their exuberant expressions were testament to the pleasure they were finding at Crescent Cove.

  They probably didn’t miss home—or him—at all.

  “Dad!” Duncan skidded to a stop in front of him, while Oliver’s momentum had him slamming into David. He scaled his father’s body like a monkey.

  David’s arm automatically curved around his boy to steady him. “Hey, kids. What have you been doing?”

  Duncan had a new sprinkle of freckles across his nose. “Dad, can I climb up that cliff?” He pointed to the high ragged bluff at the end of the cove. “I want to go up there and jump off like Uncle Griff.”

  Fear clutched at David’s throat. “No!” Jesus. He couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to one of his children. That’s what had started all this. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Aah.” His older son kicked at the sand. “That’s what Mom says.”

  Relie
f loosened the stranglehold on his neck. “You listen to her.”

  “Jane says Uncle Griff’s turning into a beach bum,” Oliver announced, sliding free of his hold. “So I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.”

  “Jane?” David glanced at his daughter.

  Rebecca tipped her head, her gaze shifting behind him. David turned to see a quietly pretty young woman walking their way, Russ on her hip, the little guy’s head on her shoulder.

  The dread he’d been carrying around since his wife and kids had left home redoubled. “Has Mom hired a nanny?” Was Tess already moving on with her life? He understood it was his own actions that had driven her to it, but the idea of actually losing her was still difficult to bear.

  “She’s not a nanny,” Rebecca said. “She’s working with Uncle Griff.”

  “Though childcare experience comes in handy in that capacity too,” the woman said as she approached, giving him a wry smile. “I’m Jane Pearson.”

  He held out his hand. “David Quincy.”

  At the sound of his voice, baby Russ’s head shot up and his body twisted in Jane’s hold. “Dah!” he yelled, reaching toward David with chubby arms.

  David moved back. “Where’s Mom?” he asked Rebecca, ignoring another bellowing “Dah!”

  His daughter took her smallest brother onto her own hip, distracting him by swinging side to side. “She’s having lunch with some man.”

  “Oh?” He tried to wipe any expression from his face, though that dull knife was carving at his entrails again.

  “It’s a business thing, she said,” Jane added quickly.

  David figured that meant he looked more pained than he had the right to be. “I’m sure.”

  “Really.” She pointed in the direction of the restaurant up the beach. “At Captain Crow’s.”

  Duncan and Oliver were already starting some little-boy game involving sand being scooped into the back of each other’s swim trunks. Rebecca was dangling Russ’s toes in the wet sand, causing him to squeal.