Beach House No. 9. Christie Ridgway

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СКАЧАТЬ came the unmistakable sound of a party. Rap music, raised voices, the shattering of a beer bottle followed by curses worthy of a sailor. Two women passed behind the beach boy, wearing near-identical denim miniskirts and mini bikini tops too, their long highlighted locks straightened to shiny perfection. They clutched tropical-colored drinks complete with umbrellas and didn’t spare a glance for Jane with her fuzzy hair and drooping dress. In the distance, she heard a masculine voice say, “I’m drunk. Smashed. Pissed.” Another someone yelled, “Hey, Brittany, how ’bout you and me get naked?”

      Oh, the man she was after was so not a hermit.

      “Griffin?” she said, eyeing the surfer dude.

      “Nah, I’m Ted. You want him?”

      “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad that Beach Boy wasn’t the man she was after. “Is he available?” As in, not inebriated and not getting bare with Brittany.

      “For you? Sure.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Inside. Can’t miss him.”

      As she scooted past, the dude yelled, “Hey, Griffin! Guess who the liquor store sent out to deliver the chips and booze? Some little thing from librarian school!”

      Ignoring her annoyance at the comment, she took in her surroundings. A party was definitely going on at Griffin’s. Twenty or so people milled about a rectangular living room that had a whitewashed brick fireplace on the wall opposite sliding glass doors leading to an ocean-view deck. There, more people were gathered. The rap song gave way to something by Jimmy Buffett as she moved through the crowd, wondering how she “couldn’t miss” the reporter. He worked for magazines, so she’d never seen him on television. The black-and-white photo her preliminary research had uncovered depicted a scruffy figure wearing a combat helmet, flak jacket and dusty sunglasses.

      The music blasting from the speakers hiccuped, and the Jimmy Buffett song started again from the top just as she reached those rear doors. Her gaze shifted right, drawn to a twirling mobile hanging in the corner that was made from driftwood and worn, mismatched flip-flops suspended with fishing line. Beneath that piece of “art” was where she found him. She didn’t know how she knew, but she’d bet a hundred-dollar bill she didn’t have to spare that she’d located Griffin Lowell.

      In fatigue-green cargo shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, he was tipped back in a distressed-leather recliner, a buxom bikini babe perched on each of its arms. A red bandanna covered his head like a biker’s do-rag—or probably a pirate’s, because there was a gold earring in one ear and a patch over each eye. A lean, tan hand was curved around a beer bottle resting on his taut belly. He appeared to be sleeping. Perhaps meditating, if buccaneers did such a thing.

      She took a breath. “Griffin? Griffin Lowell?”

      His free hand slid toward his crotch. She yanked her gaze away, but then realized he was merely reaching for his front pocket. “How much do I owe you?” he rumbled. “You didn’t forget the tequila, did you?”

      “And the diet cherry cola,” one of the bikinis added. “I can’t drink tequila without diet cherry cola.”

      He grimaced but repeated her anyway. “And the diet cherry cola.”

      Jane just stared at him, shaking her head. It was hard to get a read on the man, what with his hair covered in fabric and his face obscured by those ridiculous eye patches. Peering more closely at them, she could see the black rubber was embossed with, once again, the Jolly Roger skull and bones. “I didn’t bring anything at all,” Jane said, her voice rising a little as Buffett made way for a band she didn’t know. “But, Griffin Lowell, you still owe me.”

      After a second’s hesitation, the chair jumped upright, dislodging the girls. Griffin held out his beer and one of the bikinis took it, leaving him free to strip away his pirate paraphernalia: earring, bandanna, eye patch one and eye patch two. For the first time, she got a real look at him.

      Oh, Jane thought, swallowing. Shiver me timbers.

      He was undeniably attractive, with a lean face as tan as his hand, its bones stark and masculine. There was a grit of black stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his head hair was only a half inch or so longer. A soldier’s style, she supposed. But the eyes that studied her beneath his dark brows were a startling aqua-blue that both observed and assessed with a spotlight intensity. Reporter’s eyes.

      They seemed cold at first, but as his gaze roamed lower, to her mouth, then to the too-tight collar that suddenly seemed to choke off her airway and on to her clingy dress and now-rubbery knees, the skin he visually explored began to heat, inch by inch. It was like those beacon fires of old, used to signal an enemy’s approach. A kindling at one location spurred the lighting of the next and so on and so on until everyone—or in this case, every nerve—was on alert. And then Jane recalled that pirates had used such fires too, but as false navigational beacons that lured ships to dangerous waters where they would run aground or even sink.

      She should have been chilled by the thought, but instead another wave of heat tumbled over her body. In reaction, she could actually feel her hair lifting away from her scalp and twisting itself into curls she’d never had before.

      Willing herself not to touch them, she cleared her throat and spoke with authority. “You haven’t been taking my calls, so I’ve come here to discuss your book.”

      At her words, his gaze immediately shuttered, and he shoved back into a reclined position. “I’m not interested.” He held out his hand for his beer and drained it in one long draw.

      Jane didn’t let his closed eyes deter her even as annoyance ignited at his clear—and yes, rude—dismissal. “You signed a contract to write a memoir,” she reminded him crisply, then forced herself to soften her tone. “But you don’t have to do it alone. That’s why I’m here—for you.”

      When his eyes popped open at that, she even managed a friendly smile. His gaze started running down her body again, causing her lips to flatten and her insides to squirm so her outside wouldn’t. As his eyes resettled on her mouth, she bit her bottom lip to hold back the odd little whimper that was slinking up her throat. It was as unusual as the sudden impulse she felt to turn tail and run.

      You can’t afford to balk, Jane.

      That little voice acted like a bucket of ice water. “You have pages due soon,” she told Griffin, steady again. “I’ve been hired to help you meet your obligation.”

      He cocked his head at her, clearly unenthused.

      She continued anyway. “To that end, I’m ready to provide you everything you need.” And in her experience, sometimes that meant applying a swift kick to the seat of an author’s pants, an option that was sounding better and better by the moment. “Whatever you need.”

      “Yeah?” One of those black brows lifted, and his voice drawled. “The only things I need, honey-pie, are a couple of shots of tequila, another six-pack of beer and a night of sweaty sex.”

      The second brow lifted to the level of the first. “You game?”

      * * *

      JANE DIDN’T HAVE TIME to respond with more than a sputter before someone shouted Griffin’s name and he was gone, leaving her alone with the empty recliner and the bikinis. “Finally,” one said. “I’ll bet it’s the diet cherry cola.” She wandered off, presumably to check.

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