Beach House No. 9. Christie Ridgway
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love her back.
“Gorgeous, huh?” Skye leaned closer. “But then is he like so many really attractive guys? Tell me he’s the size of a pickle.”
The demand surprised a laugh out of Jane. “You want me to talk about his—” She gestured toward her lap.
“No!” Skye flushed red. “I wouldn’t talk about that. I don’t like to think about that. I meant his height. The height of his body. His whole self.”
Skye’s deep fluster struck Jane as odd, but she got another laugh out of imagining Ian’s horrified reaction to even a moment’s consideration of that particular body part in gherkin terms. Then another picture of him blossomed in her brain, her own version of Pin the Pickle on the Donkey.
Perfect, she thought, because the man was such an ass.
She couldn’t hold back a fresh burst of laughter.
“You’re in a good mood,” a voice said from behind her.
The chuckles drained away as Jane tensed again. Busted.
With a slow pivot, she turned to face Griffin. Ian Stone was handsome in a spoiled, well-tended sort of way. By contrast, Griffin looked as if he’d buzzed his hair himself and he’d nicked his chin while shaving—a couple of days before, if she was any judge of stubble. But his was a wholly masculine face, all the edges hard and those incredible turquoise eyes sharp. Her breath quickened, even though she tried pretending she was all cool control. There was no denying that something about the man had found a previously hidden chink in her, an opening that allowed his male energy to worm its way under her armor, heating her up, loosening her muscles, almost…preparing her.
The thought made her blush, and his gaze narrowed, skewering her now. She wiggled on her stool. “Um…hey.”
He nodded absently at Skye, then returned his ominous gaze to Jane. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” Her belly fluttered, and she barely registered the finger wave Skye sent her before leaving. From the hard expression on Griffin’s face, Jane didn’t expect he’d sought her out to deliver good news. What would she do once he declined her services for good? Word would surely get back that yet another author found her unsatisfactory. She sighed, bowing to the inevitable. “What is it?”
He opened his mouth, and then his gaze shifted over her shoulder. The incredible eyes flared for a moment, narrowed again. “Shit.”
She glanced around. In the distance a woman was trudging through the sand, a baby balanced on one hip. Three other kids trailed behind her, but she didn’t look the least bit matronly, with her long legs bared by a white cotton skirt and a scarlet tank top clinging to her curves. Expensive sunglasses covered her eyes, and her dark hair was glossy and cut in a trendy fashion that had delicate pieces curving around her cheeks and jaw.
Jane turned back to Griffin and could swear he’d gone pale. “Old flame?”
“More like the devil,” he muttered, then cursed again. “You’ve got to do something for me, Jane.”
She didn’t think this was going to be about his memoir. “Like what?”
He hunkered down, so that he was semishielded by her body. “Hide me.”
Wasn’t hiding what she’d been after herself?
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said after a moment, her attention still on the beach. Was it bad of her to take pleasure in noting that the dark-haired beauty had homed in on the man half concealed behind her? She was waving her arm, her focus clearly settled on his face. Two of the little kids were jumping up and down as well, pointing and waving.
“The children seem to know you. Who are they?”
“The devil’s minions.” As they continued waving, he rose to his full height on a loud sigh. “There’s only one thing for it, then.”
“What’s that?”
Griffin clamped his hand around Jane’s upper arm and pulled her from her stool. “Come on.” With an arm slung across her shoulders, he urged her toward the steps leading to the sand. “This way, honey-pie.”
She struggled to keep up with his brisk stride. “Tell me what’s going on, chili-dog.”
He shot her a look, then shrugged. “Our little endearments will do the job just fine, I guess.”
“What job is that?” Jane asked warily.
“A minor bit of role-play. You can manage that for the next few minutes or so, can’t you?”
She thought of protesting. This definitely wasn’t about his memoir. She considered turning back toward the bar and cutting her losses right there and then, given the bad luck that had been dogging her lately. But another few minutes…the optimist inside her wondered what might happen during that time. If she went along with whatever he was planning, perhaps he’d be convinced that she was a handy person to have around, and they could salvage their working relationship. That’s what she needed more than anything.
“I guess,” she said.
“Great. Consider yourself hired.” He hitched her closer to his side. His body was hard and warm and solid enough to prop up her weight if she was the kind of woman inclined to lean on a man. She wasn’t. She didn’t trust them for that.
He cupped her upper arm, his palm sliding up and down in a caress she could feel through the sleeve of her cotton shirt. It made her flesh prickle, and she shivered.
Griffin’s feet halted, stopping their forward movement. Jane glanced up. He was staring at her, an odd expression on his face. His caressing hand moved over her again, and she couldn’t stop a second shiver.
“Jesus, Jane,” he murmured, stroking her once more. “Jesus.”
Her mouth was dry. “Jesus, Jane—what?”
He shook his head as if he was shaking off an uncomfortable thought. His fingers slid away. “Don’t look so serious,” he told her, his voice gruff.
She frowned at him. “How should I look, then?”
With a careless hand, he chucked her under the chin. The strange moment had clearly passed. “Try smiling, honey-pie. For this to succeed, you have to look and sound the part.”
“The part of what?” she asked, suspicious.
Griffin grinned down at her. His blue gaze seemed almost tender, and she felt his testosterone twisting toward her like smoke, seeking that crack in her protective shell. His hand found hers. “The part, sweet Jane, of my lover.”
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