Christie Ridgway - Beach House No. 9

“Lazy?” His temper yanked its chain like a mad dog glimpsing the mailman. “I spent a year without running water or electricity. A year with flies and firefights and my own filth. A bullet went through my helmet when I was lying on my bunk, and it was hooked on a nail fourteen inches from my own damn skull.”

“So sit your keister down and write about it.”

“I did, though I suppose you’re too senile to read the words. I gave the magazine that sponsored the embed assignment an article every month.”

“But now you have the time, the space and the security to analyze the events. Put them in context. Describe how they’ve changed you. Sex and booze aren’t going to take the experiences out of your head, boy.”

Boy? Most days Griffin felt a thousand years old. And not that he’d confess to Monroe or anyone else, but booze had fallen off his “Might Work” list. As for sex…that drive had been neutralized after what had happened to Erica. Even before then, when they were bunking with the platoon, there’d been too little alone time and too many strung-tight nerves to find a reprieve in that kind of release.

Okay, and he’d also been trying to get some distance from her.

“I’m going inside,” he said, turning toward the back door, Private close to his thigh. “Sweet dreams, Rex.”

“Griffin.”

His feet stopped moving. He’d almost convinced his brain that Jane wasn’t still standing there. Those three-hundred-plus days in Afghanistan had demonstrated the power of the mind. During his stint with the troops, on occasion he would swear he smelled hot water—and it did have a scent. Other mornings he’d woken, and before he’d opened his eyes he would hear Gage humming his favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd tune. He could feel his brother just a few feet away.

Once, after an incident like that, he’d managed to reach his twin via sat phone. He’d asked him what, if anything, he’d been singing to himself as he washed up for the day. “Free Bird.” Yeah, it had felt really, really real.

But Governess Jane was really, really real as well. So he turned to face her. “What is it? You rethinking that slap?”

Her lips were in their primmed state. “About what happened last night…you should know I don’t scare off so easily.”

She thought he’d had a motive beyond her mouth? “Clearly.”

“And if you come near me with that purpose in mind again, it won’t be your face that feels the pain.”

His brows rose. He didn’t plan on ever seeing her again, let alone kissing her, but he decided against clueing her in. And for damn sure he wasn’t going to confess that kissing her had been only about impulse, not intention. “Fine.”

She started to move off, and it was then he noticed the medium-sized piece of luggage in her hand. His hackles rose. “What do you have there?” he asked, gesturing to it.

“I believe it’s called a duffel bag?”

Goose bumps were forming along his spine. “You’re out of here, right?” Please, God, she was leaving.

“I’m out of here, but not going far,” she said smugly. “I’m moving into the vacant bungalow next door.”

* * *

IT TOOK LITTLE TIME for Jane to get situated in No. 8. It was much smaller than Griffin’s place, and she’d brought only a few items from her apartment. That was a small space too, and a long commute—even by SoCal standards—from here. She didn’t feel a particular attachment to it. Often her job had taken her away from the one-bedroom for weeks at a time when a client had wanted her closer. Of course, in this case her client wanted her anything but closer, but he’d thank her for her dedication in the end. She was sure of it.

The idea had come to Jane as she’d picked her way past the empty cottage after leaving the party—after that kiss. If Griffin was pulling out all the stops to chase her off, her solution was to place herself even more underfoot. Following this morning’s first cup of coffee, she’d found Skye Alexander’s phone number and made the arrangements.

The only flaw was how distracting Jane found the endless view of ocean and the ever-changing play of waves against sand. If Rex Monroe hadn’t stopped by with a leather-bound volume of plastic-sheathed pages, she might have succumbed to temptation and spent the afternoon concerning herself with nothing more than the freckles a sunbath might bring out on her nose.

Now, though, she laid Rex’s book on the small dining table situated between the galley kitchen and postage-stamp living room. To the right of the album, she set her sweating glass of iced tea. Her pulse picked up as she drew out a chair. She had a feeling she’d find the key to achieving Griffin’s cooperation here.

A knock sounded on the front door. With a pat and a promise for the book, she turned toward the entry. It was the property manager, Skye, on the other side of the threshold. Today the brunette had her hair in a tight French braid, revealing the fine bones of her slender face. She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup and was dressed in baggy chinos and a T-shirt. A sweater-vest that must have been the discard of a male relative concealed more of her shape.

She held up a red glass plate piled with cookies and covered by plastic wrap. “I thought you might enjoy these. Are you settling in okay?”

Jane gestured her inside and led her toward the small couch and adjacent easy chair that sat across from a small fireplace. “I should be bringing you treats. Thank you so much for giving me the oh-so-reasonable rental rate.”

Shrugging, Skye perched on a cushion. “We’re doing each other a favor. Most vacationers have already secured their places for the season, not to mention the lousy economy that’s affecting bookings…plus, I like it when I know a little something about who’s living here. It makes the cove feel…safer.”

Safer? “It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” Jane said. “The cove seems almost magical.”

Skye slid the cookies onto the narrow coffee table in front of her. “It definitely felt that way when we were kids. We ran around like a tribe of lost boys and girls in Neverland.”

“That’s right. You said you grew up with the Lowells.”

“Every summer.” She hesitated. “That’s why when you said you wanted to keep an eye on Griff, it added another good reason to let you have No. 8.”

Uh-oh. Did that mean Skye had a special interest in him herself? A romantic interest? Maybe she saw another woman as some kind of threat and wanted a catbird seat on what she imagined might take place between Jane and the man next door. “I, um, there’s nothing between…” She shut down thoughts of that kiss the night before. “My business here is just that—purely business.”

Skye’s expression blanked, and then she laughed a little. “There’s nothing between me and Griffin either, if that’s what you’re thinking. His twin brother, Gage…”

Twin brother? Good Lord, there were two of them? The other woman’s rising blush told her even more. “Oh, it’s him you’re involved with,” Jane said.

“No.” Skye gave a violent shake of her head. “Not that either. Never that. It’s just that we…that Gage and I correspond. He’s a photojournalist on assignment in the Middle East, and he worries about his brother.”

Maybe it was the voracious reader in her, but Jane thought there might be a story in the “not that either” that was going on between the brunette and Gage Lowell. Her curiosity was piqued. “Would you like a glass of iced tea while we chat?”

“No, thanks.” Skye jumped to her feet. “I won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Jane trailed the other woman to the front door. Skye paused there, the doorknob in her hand. Then she turned, her pretty face serious. “Don’t forget that in fairy tales…well, there’s almost always a wolf or a dragon waiting to capture the fair maiden.”