Christie Ridgway - Beach House No. 9

Griffin had done a lot of shoving last night.

Guilt rushed into his gut at the memory, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to refocus his thoughts. Jane had exited as fast as Rick—though staying on her feet—and that was good. He wouldn’t be bothered by her again.

He wouldn’t be bothered by anyone, for that matter. After last night he’d made it clear he wasn’t into playing the happy host any longer. The act hadn’t worked for shit anyway. He’d have to find some other distraction to keep the events of the embedded year from invading his mind.

“So what’s the word on your brother?” Monroe asked now. “Is he in a safe place?”

Worry sucked as a diversion, Griffin discovered. Private must have sensed the emotion, because the dog whined, then rushed to his owner’s side, butting his leg. Griffin slid his palm along the warm crown of the animal’s head and then caressed his butter-soft ears. It made his breath come a little easier.

“Gage is in his element.” Smack-dab in the danger zone, snapping photos with his camera. But he’d know if Gage was threatened, he reassured himself. The twin connection had always been strong. Still, it was only shallow comfort. Griffin knew firsthand that safety in war-torn places was a moment-to-moment thing.

“Is he—”

“I don’t want to talk about him, old man,” Griffin said. It was unkind, but, hell, he didn’t owe Rex Monroe politeness. Their neighbor had more than once ratted out him and Gage to their mother, including the first time he’d spied them climbing from their bedroom window after lights-out. As seventh-graders, they’d been busted with girls about to enter high school.

He shot Monroe a dark look. “Were s’mores with a couple of older chicks on the beach against the law?” he groused. “I was planning on getting some hands-on education that night.”

The old man’s laugh was rusty. “You forget the two of you juvenile delinquents had toilet-papered my car earlier that day.”

Oh, yeah. He had forgotten. He and Gage had gravitated to trouble that summer and every other. Those annual months at the cove had offered a freedom they didn’t have in their suburban life and were likely the seed from which had grown their need for adventure.

Maybe that sense of freedom was what had drawn Griffin back. After a year of teetering on the brink of death, maybe here he could figure out how he was supposed to go on.

Private’s nose jerked out of a patch of weedy grass. His body quivered for a moment, and then he bounded off with a short, happy bark. Griffin groaned. The dog loved company almost as much as chow time, which was saying a lot for a Lab. Probably some former guest was dropping by, one who hadn’t yet gotten word that his doors were now locked. No more midmorning margaritas, afternoon beers, late-night lambada contests.

He headed for his back door. “Be your usual rude self, will you, Rex, and whoever that is—get rid of ’em.”

The old codger squinted, peering over Griffin’s head. “If it was one of your usual ruffian playmates, I’d be happy to.”

Oh, hell, Griffin thought.

“But this is that nice young woman again.”

Who was probably after an apology. On a sigh, he turned.

As he’d suspected, it was the governess, in her animal-rescuer guise, her fingers looped around Private’s collar. Today she was back in Jane-wear, shell-studded flip-flops, knee-length orange shorts, an oversize T-shirt that proclaimed “Reading Is Sexy,” and her hair curling every which way. His pet gazed on her with tongue-lolling devotion. “Did you lose your dog again?” she asked.

He’d lost his mind, kissing her last night. She’d shown up uninvited again, which was hardly a surprise. He’d already guessed the woman didn’t like taking no for an answer. What had surprised him was the way she’d dressed, all beach-sweetie with skin showing, hair straight, some nice—yet not overblown—cleavage. If it had been a disguise, it was a piss-poor one. From his perch on the deck railing he’d noticed her immediately and kept his gaze on her, following behind when she’d been pulled off the dance floor.

No matter what she wore, she still had those eerie, see-through eyes. They scared him a little, just like mirrors did these days. And then there was The Mouth. That primmed-up, puffy-lipped mouth that always looked as if someone had been sucking on it before he got there.

As effing Rick had been about to do.

Though the other man was more talk than action, meaning Jane could have handled him herself, Griffin had still gone territorial. Seeing the jerk move in on her, he’d thought, Damn it, I’m tasting her first! and then he’d been doing that. Tasting her.

What had come across his tongue had been berries, rum, surprise and…heat. Shit. All that heat.

And didn’t he know that the last thing he needed to add to the mess of his inner life was high temperatures. Or a woman.

Galvanized to get her out of his world—for good this time—he stomped toward her, taking control of his dog and the situation. “I suppose you want to hear me say I’m sorry.”

She ignored him to peer around his shoulder. “I thought your name rang a bell when we introduced ourselves yesterday morning, Mr. Monroe. It came to me later. You are the Rex Monroe, yes? The famous reporter?”

Without looking, Griffin could feel the cantankerous antique behind him preening. “Well, young lady, I don’t know about famous…”

Griffin rolled his eyes. “Don’t get him started.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Jane continued, still ignoring Griffin. “I devoured a compendium of 1940s war journalism about ten years ago. I enjoyed your pieces so much.”

“Why, you must have been just a baby,” Monroe said, sounding pleased.

Jane smiled. “I was a bookworm from birth.”

“You bug the hell out of me, anyway,” Griffin muttered.

She’d never smiled at him like that. She’d worn a clearly fake one upon their introduction two days before. Last night, after he’d wrenched his mouth from hers, he’d shoved her off and spun away—not knowing if he’d left her spitting fire or beaming with pleasure.

Yeah, he’d pushed her away. And yeah, he supposed she hadn’t been too pleased with either that or the way he’d taken it upon himself to lock their lips first. Hers had been as soft as they looked, pillowy like he’d imagined, and they’d opened on the smallest of gasps when he swiped across the seam with his impatient tongue.

Once inside, he’d stroked deep for her flavor, not acting with his usual finesse. He’d just claimed every centimeter of that wet heat as lust had shuddered across his skin in waves. What had he been thinking? She was a pest.

She was governess Jane, the librarian look-alike.

Certainly she was here to slap him.

Resigned to it, he turned his face to the side and tapped his cheek with the hand not gripping Private. “Go ahead. Hit me.”

She took a step back, blinking. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to hit you.”

“You should seize the opportunity,” Old Man Monroe advised.

“Can it, you decrepit coot,” Griffin called over his shoulder.

Jane blinked again. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to? This man won major awards for his war reporting. A Pulitzer. He’s one of the best of the best.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Greatest generation and all that. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s been a pain in my ass since I was seven years old.”

“A mutual sentiment,” his neighbor put in.

“Surely it’s time for your daily dose of The Golden Girls,” Griffin said, turning his head to glare at the grizzled grouch. “Or maybe you need a nap, old man?”

“If I take one, then that’s my prerogative. I’m retired from deadlines, unlike yourself. Don’t be lazy.”