Christie Ridgway - Beach House No. 9

A chill skittered down Jane’s spine as the property manager slipped out. She had to shake herself to get rid of the dark mood that tried settling over her. With a look toward the sunny vista out the windows, she headed back to her seat and the album waiting there.

She’d just settled onto the chair when another knock sounded. This time, she heard a curious scrabble against the door as she pulled it open. Private, the black Lab, widened the space with his muscular shoulders. Curly-haired Ted, fingers wrapped around the dog’s kerchief, was yanked inside behind the eager canine.

The dog swiped her fingers with a wet tongue before heading straight for the red plate of cookies on the table beside the couch. He sat, staring at them.

“Sorry,” Ted said. “I’m on pet patrol, and he must have smelled those as we came by. He has a nose on him you wouldn’t believe.”

The man looked at the treats with the same hopeful expression as the animal he was tending. Jane laughed. “I take it you both like oatmeal raisin?”

“If it’s a baked good, I think we both like just about anything,” Ted confessed.

Jane found a paper napkin, then removed the clear wrap from the plate. “Would you like some iced tea with that?” she asked.

Ted fed the dog a cookie before helping himself to one. “I’m good, thanks,” he said, between bites.

Jane watched him split a second treat with the dog. “Are the festivities at Party Central beginning early? I got the impression No. 9 didn’t start rocking and rolling until late afternoon.”

Ted shook his head. Swallowed. “Ah, nope. Last night, Griffin declared the parties are over, over there.”

“Oh.” She slid her hand along Private’s fur as the dog leaned against her legs. “I must have missed that announcement.”

“It was after you left. He went on a tear and had everyone out in less than thirty minutes. Paid for a bunch of cabs to take home those people too drunk to drive themselves.”

What, had kissing Jane put him out of a celebratory mood? “Does he ever have a good time at those parties he throws?”

Ted shrugged. “Truth? Since he moved to the cove, I don’t think Griffin has had any good times at all.”

But he’d changed up the circumstances, Jane mused. Without the diversion of booze and bikinis, maybe he was ready to settle down to work. Optimism made her hungry, she realized, and the cookies looked so good. She grabbed one and, as she felt the hard press of Private’s body, broke off a hefty piece for him.

Ted watched the dog gobble it down. “We should probably keep the canine treat-sharing sorta secret, okay? Our furry buddy here eats that low-cal kibble, and Griffin’s always after me when I feed him scraps.”

“Oops.” She made a face. “He won’t hear it from me.”

“As a matter of fact,” Ted continued, “you won’t tell Griff we visited at all, will you? We’re under strict instructions to avoid No. 8, but Private isn’t so good with orders.”

Jane sighed. So much for optimism. “I suppose that means I shouldn’t expect Griffin to start cooperating with me anytime soon.”

The surfer shrugged, his expression sympathetic. “Well, he did close down Party Central.”

Hope lightened her mood a little. “Does he look like he’s buckling down to work? You know, sitting at a table with a laptop or a pad and pen?”

Ted ran his hand over his hair. “He’s in a chair. Like you said, at a table.”

Ha! Jane felt herself smiling. “That’s good! That’s very good.”

“But there’s no computer. And I haven’t seen a scrap of paper or a writing implement anywhere in the house.”

Jane considered this. “Do you suppose he’s working it out in his head? Making mental plans, might you say?”

“He’s got his iPod blasting so loud that I don’t believe he can hear himself think,” Ted replied. “And he’s playing cards. Hand after hand of solitaire.”

Man and dog left soon after that, and their visit made Jane dispirited enough that she ate two more cookies—pessimism apparently made her hungry too—while staring morosely into the distance. First it was the warning of wolves and dragons, she thought as she munched. Next it was news of a recluse firmly ensconced in his cave. This did have the feel of a fairy tale.

She took up the glass plate and set it beside Rex’s album on the dining table. Then the front door reverberated with yet another round of knocking, and she turned to trudge toward it. “What now?” she muttered, as she pulled it open. “A troll?”

Griffin narrowed his eyes at her. “My mood is a lot uglier than that.”

She stepped back to avoid the brush of his body as he barged inside. Though she realized she should welcome him onto her turf, there was a disturbing aura about him. He moved into the small living area, his wide shoulders and simmering temper making the room feel a lot smaller and a lot…hotter.

A memory from the night before burst in her head. His hard hands gripping her bare shoulders. The sandpaper feel of the whiskers edging his lips. The thrust of his tongue, the clack of his teeth against hers, the almost violent edge to the unexpected kiss.

Her stomach muscles had contracted, and though she’d been quaking beneath his touch, she’d opened her mouth wider, succumbing to the insistent demand of his. Beneath her bikini top, her nipples had stiffened, and she’d pressed closer to ease the ache.

When his fingers had tightened on her skin, she’d thought his touch might be tattooed there forever, and her only regret was all the other places he’d yet to make contact.

Then in a move as aggressive as the kiss itself, he’d put her away from him. She’d staggered back, dazed, her gaze on his stiff back as he’d stalked off.

It had taken two hours and a cup of black coffee to realize he’d been using sex to scare her away. Well, not exactly sex…okay, it was exactly sex. A kiss, she realized now, a kiss from Griffin, could be as intimate as any full body connection she’d had with another man. Her nerve endings were still smoking from it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Griffin barked.

She felt a blush rise up her neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He rolled his eyes, then stalked farther into the room and threw himself down on the couch. “What will it take to get you out of here? You’re making me nuts. I can feel you all the way at No. 9.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lust couldn’t travel that far, could it? A governess’s lust surely didn’t have that kind of power. One spoke Jane’s name in a hush, and heretofore her sexual desires had been fairly muted as well. “It’s just your guilt talking.”

He rocketed to his feet. “You deserved that damn kiss, walking around with all that skin, and especially with that…that…” His vague gesture seemed to indicate her hair.

She put a hand to it. “I can’t help that it’s fuzzy,” she said in a defensive tone. “And anti-frizz serum makes it sticky.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. With him in this small room, the air crackled with an energy that was messing with her brain synapses. “I thought you were complaining about my hair.”

“It’s not your hair.” He glared at her. “It’s your mouth. Can’t you do something about that?”

She put her hand over her lips, embarrassed all over again. Ian had once commented on it as well. “A former boyfriend called it a silent-movie-star mouth,” she heard herself confess. At the time, she’d pictured photos of famous actresses of the era with their waiflike features and bow-shaped lips and been uncertain what to think.

“God knows I want to tie you to some railroad tracks,” Griffin muttered.