Beach House No. 9. Christie Ridgway
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“Sort of. I’m Jane Pearson.”
“I’ve known Griffin all my life. I’ve always lived at the cove, and the Lowells summered here every year.” She gave a shy smile. “I’m Skye Alexander. Nowadays I manage the rental properties in the area.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jane’s gaze lingered on the For Rent sign as she filed away the thought that Skye might be a helpful resource regarding Griffin.
Skye glanced over her shoulder. “No. 8 had a leaky roof, among other things, that kept it unavailable for a while. Griffin actually wanted it, but he had to take the place next door.”
They both turned to look at Beach House No. 9. A kite attached to a fishing pole was whipping above the second-floor balcony. People were crowded on the first-floor deck, and Jane could make out a Beach Boys tune that changed to something from the Beastie Boys. A nubile female in a string bikini and nothing else climbed onto a table and began gyrating, to the hoots and applause of the rest.
“Has the makings of a rowdy one tonight,” Skye said.
Jane sent her a weak smile. “I can’t wait.”
The short trek to the front door of Party Central gave her time for second thoughts. Not that she was necessarily afraid of a little hedonistic celebrating—she had a friend or two who might say she was past due for some of that—but she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea or with her costume.
It wasn’t Jane-the-governess wear. Of course, that was entirely the point, but still, she shivered as she let the sweatshirt slide from her shoulders on her approach to the front door. Her exposed skin prickled as the ocean breeze tickled her flesh. Taking a page from the bikini girls of the day before, she’d put on her own suit. The black two-piece had appeared fairly modest in the Macy’s dressing room, and she’d snapped on a mid-thigh-length black jean skirt over the bottoms as well. But the deep plunge of the halter top and the hip-hugging waistband of the skirt left a lot of bare flesh revealed. Her wedge shoes made her legs feel miles longer—which was good until she realized that meant miles more nakedness too.
She thought about swamping herself in the fleece sweatshirt again. She considered turning around and coming up with another plan for a different day. Then she remembered Ian Stone and how he’d trampled her pride and her reputation. Her inner resolve stiffened. With a deep breath, she knocked on the front door.
As she’d hoped, it wasn’t Griffin who opened it. If yesterday was any indication, he was tucked in some secluded corner. The guy on the other side of the threshold wasn’t familiar to her, though he was dressed in the common male uniform of board shorts and a tan. His smile was white, and a dark blue tattoo over one pumped pec showed the silhouette of a surfer carrying his board under his arm.
“Babe!” he said, as if they were old friends. His warm palm cupped her shoulder to draw her inside. “You need a beverage!”
It was that easy. She figured the layers of mascara she’d applied had done their part, as well as the raspberry gloss she’d pinkied onto her mouth. Once she had an umbrella drink in her hand, Jane decided she could introduce herself as something more exotic with an entirely straight face. Jana. Janelle. Jezebel.
As she walked across the deck, a man grabbed her wrist, and dragged her near to dance to an old B-52s tune. He put his hands at her waist and she used the shuffling circle they made to search for Griffin. If she spotted him, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Wave? Stick out her tongue? But both seemed childish when all she wanted was to remind him of his obligations, one professional to another.
She glanced down at her naked skin and skimpy outfit with another wave of misgiving. Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all. The urge to cover up had her edging away from her dance partner. His fingers tightened on her waist.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“To get my sweatshirt.” She made a vague gesture toward the front door where she’d left the thing on a bench.
“And hide away all that creamy skin?” the guy protested, leaning close to her ear. “That would just be so…wrong.”
Her smile was halfhearted. “Yeah, well, I’m a little chilled.” Please, please don’t offer to warm me up.
He took her hand and started boogying across the deck. “Okay. Where’d you leave it?”
“At the entrance.” Gratified that he hadn’t followed with the obvious line, she let him lead her through the crowd. Even with her wedge heels, her lack of height meant she didn’t see much more than the shoulders, chests and backs of the male guests. If there was one thing she could say about the surfer crowd, their upper bodies were very well developed.
When her dance partner finally stopped, she stuttered her steps to prevent her nose from ramming into his spine. He spun around and pressed her against a nearby wall. Jane realized he’d drawn her into a small side room that held a washer, a dryer and a wooden contraption draped with a handful of beach towels.
“This isn’t the entrance,” she pointed out. “That’s where I left my sweatshirt.”
He smiled at her. “Let me be the one to warm you up.”
Oh, damn. “You just had to go there,” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “No, thanks.”
“Please,” her dance partner wheedled. He was a nice-looking guy, and for a second Jane considered it. She hadn’t been kissed since the Ian disaster and she was all Jezebel-ed up, wasn’t she? Why not take a little walk on the wild side?
Someone strolled by the open door, and the man called out. “Jer! Come in here and convince this pretty little thing that I can rock her world.”
“Jer” paused, stretching muscular arms to grip the doorjamb on either side. Jane’s pulse tripped, then started accelerating. The new guy was big enough to block a lot of the light. The room’s walls started to contract—in her mind anyway.
The second man’s smile seemed sinister. “Ricky’s good, but I’m better. You want to take a turn with me, pretty lady?”
She swallowed. “I don’t want to take a turn with anyone. Excuse me.” But Ricky still had hold of her wrist.
“She’s with me, Jer.”
“Aaah, she’ll share, won’t you…?”
“Jane,” she said, in her most quelling tone. To heck with Jana, Janelle or Jezebel. Her real name had turned men off before. Like Griffin. “I’m Jane, and I want to go now.”
“Me Tarzan,” Jer said, thumping his chest, and then moved into the small room. “Want to make Boy with me, baby?”
She was never wearing a bathing suit again. Or wedge heels. Or so much mascara—though with her gold-tipped lashes, she couldn’t give it up entirely.
“Get out of my way,” she said, yanking her wrist free of Ricky to give him a push. When he stumbled away, she was left with Jer between her and the exit. Though she told herself she wasn’t in any real danger, her heart was pounding against her breastbone, and her blood was running ice-cold under her suddenly hot skin. “I’m leaving now.”
“Ah, babe—” Jer started, and then he was yanked backward, into the narrow hall. “Hey!”
Griffin Lowell pushed the man farther down the passage, then took his place in the doorway. Another pair of shorts hung on his hips and a wedge of bare chest showed between the sides of his half-buttoned shirt, which was decorated with pineapples and busty, half-naked hula girls. His whiskers were grittier than they’d been that morning and only called attention to his—frowning—mouth. “What’s going on?”
Ricky moved closer to Jane and slid a proprietary arm around her. “Have you met the new girl?”
Griffin’s turquoise eyes slid toward her. Her exposed flesh prickled all over again, and her blood turned as hot as