Beach House No. 9 Part 12

And maybe even lonely. Her work often took her away from home, so she was accustomed to her own company, but tonight...tonight of all nights she wished she'd made arrangements to meet a friend or three.

She did have friends, good ones who had stood by her after the Ian debacle, but their sympathy too often seemed like pity. It was bad enough to feel like a fool without knowing other people considered you one as well. So she'd been declining invitations and keeping to herself for months, not realizing how alone she might come to feel.

Private's nails clicked on the hardwood as he rushed forward with a friendly greeting, pushing his face against her hand. Grateful for the canine enthusiasm, she stroked his head while sending his owner a baleful glance. The man was twelve hours late! He stood on the other side of the threshold, a dark shadow looming in the unlit hallway. "Griffin," she said, peering toward the gloom, "this morning you promised to be back right after lunch. It's dark out."

"My dog had to see a man about a horse," he said.

With a sigh, she ignored the absurdity of that and patted the leather seat beside her. Though the hour was late and she suffered from that slight inebriation, she might as well get some work out of him. That's why she was here, right? "Come sit down now, then. We can at least start thinking about progress."

His steps crossed the floor in the slow meter of a funeral dirge. He dropped to the cushion, and his weight bounced her a little, sending her head on a short woozy spin. When her brain settled, she saw he was sprawled in his seat, his head back, his eyes closed. She'd drawn the drapes against the evening dampness, and the lamp on the side table cast a glow across his face. It warmed his tan skin, but still she could see he was exhausted. Despite her bad mood, concern nibbled at the edges of her heart.

A chenille throw covered her knee-length full skirt and long-sleeved T-shirt, warding off the fog's chill. For a moment she considered tucking the soft fabric around Griffin and then encouraging him to drift into real sleep.

"Are you going to just stare at me in longing all night?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

Her sympathy evaporated, and the residual wooziness disappeared. "You wish," she replied, her voice brisk. "For your information, I was considering calling an embalmer. Frankly, you look ghastly."

"If you're phoning the undertaker, wouldn't that be *ghostly'?"

Even his wisecrack sounded tired. "Don't you sleep?" she heard herself ask.

At the question, he opened his eyes, then shifted into a more upright position. "Hey, it's not my fault your snoring registers decibels louder than a power mower."

"I do not snore."

"I can't tell you how many soldiers were convinced of the very same thing, honey-pie. But sure enough, come rack time they'd be sawing logs on the bunk beside mine."

She tilted her head. "How did you ever get any rest?"

"Pills. Prescription sleeping pills," he said, stretching his arms along the back of the love seat and closing his eyes again. "Don't look so shocked. Armies have always offered relief to soldiers in combat zones. General Washington gave his guys at Valley Forge rations of rum in an attempt to keep them calm and well rested."

She hadn't realized. "Are you still taking them?"

"No." His eyes opened, and then his gaze shifted away. "Not after-not anymore. Now I count grains of sand."

"Well, that's a task destined to keep you up all night," Jane said. She knew he had the TV going in his room that long, anyway. Since staying at his beach house she'd noted its low drone never subsided from when he went to bed in the evening until he went for coffee in the kitchen the following morning.

Obviously she hadn't been sleeping all that great either. Images kept popping up to disturb her. Griffin in his pirate gear. Griffin jumping off the cliff. His mouth as it descended toward hers in the laundry room. His hands on her in the storeroom at Captain Crow's. That same touch in this very room yesterday.

After that near-kiss, she'd run to No. 8 and played with Tess and the kids until sundown, while a series of warnings ran over and over in her mind. Don't get involved with the client. It's bad for business. Don't get involved with the client. It's bad for you. Then this morning, after giving herself another stern talking-to, it was Griffin who'd left, claiming an appointment he couldn't miss.

"But enough about me," he said, starting to rise.

Reaching over, she clamped a hand on his knee to push him back down. "Nice try. We can at least map out some page goals. Let me call up a calendar." Keeping one hand on him, she lifted her laptop from the side table and set it on her lap.

"Could you move up your hand a little bit?" he asked politely.

Already tapping on the keyboard, she didn't look away from the screen. "Sure-" she started, then she broke off and yanked her hand from his leg as if it was on fire. "Stop that."

He was trying to look innocent. "But you had this cute little frown right above your cute little nose. I was only trying to get a cute little hand job-you were so caught up you wouldn't even have noticed."

"Oh? You're that small?"

"Now you're just being insulting."

"So?" He was trying to run her off again, or at the very least distract her from her purpose. "What are you being when you pull stupid stunts like that?" Without waiting for an answer, she scooted closer, tilting the laptop so he had a better view of the screen. "Here's the next few weeks. Why don't we set targets-"

"I can't do this, Jane," Griffin said.

Anxiety gripped her stomach, which did not do good things to the margaritas still sloshing inside. If he came to the point where he flat-out refused to work instead of just doling out excuses, she'd have to face that she'd failed yet again. The flat of her palm pressed her roiling belly. Word would get around, would get back to her father, would have Ian Stone spreading icing on the cakes that were the stories he'd already told about her. "C-can't do what?"

"Can't look at the calendar on the screen. The angle's wrong and the light's c.r.a.ppy."

She let out a silent breath. "Oh. Okay." With the laptop set aside again, she reached for the briefcase at her feet and rummaged for the paper calendar she carried with her. It was smaller than a paperback book, and when she began fumbling through the pages to find the correct month, Griffin pulled it from her hand.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, giving her a sharp look. His noninebriated self found the correct page right away.

It meant she had to cozy up closer to him so they could both see. As she moved, the throw slipped from her lap, but she let it fall, because she was warm enough now with her bare leg against the soft denim of Griffin's jeans and her shoulder pressed to his muscled one. This close, she could breathe in his scent, a citrus-and-sage smell.

Even without the cushion bounce she went woozy again. Was his a bar soap, she wondered, or was he a man who used body wash in his morning shower? In her mind's eye she could see him squeezing a liquidy gel into his big hand. Then he'd rotate his palms together, spreading the lubricious stuff around. Once coated, he'd smooth them along the sinewy length of his arms and legs she'd noted when he'd climbed the cliff at their first meeting. Next it would be another round of gel, another wet swirl of his palms, and finally he'd run them over his chiseled pectoral muscles and down the rippled abdominals she'd seen those times he'd been shirtless. After that, his hands would move lower, to that place she'd only felt...

"Jane?"

At the sound of his voice, she jumped, yanked from the impromptu fantasy. Her face went red-hot. Don't get involved with the client. It's bad for business. Don't get involved with the client. It's bad for you.

She slid a glance at him. He was staring at her with those X-ray eyes of his.

"What?" Her defensive tone made her wince. "I mean, uh, what?"

"It's your birthday," he said, glancing at the booklet. "I didn't know."

She waved a hand, cursing herself for having written that onto today's square. Silly of her, really. Silly and emotional. "Why would you? It's no big deal."

He frowned. "Did you do something special today?"

"Besides waiting around for you to make an appearance?" And drinking a whole lot of margaritas, which now felt like a very bad idea because the effect seemed to be steering her dangerously off course. "No."

Now it was his turn to wince. "If you'd said something-"

"Griffin. I'm a professional with a job to do-and that job is to help you meet your deadline. So whether or not it's my birthday or Private's birthday or even your birthday, now is the time for business."

"If it was my birthday I'd want a present."

"I'll keep that in mind. Now, about your due date-"

"Is that why you went to visit your father? Was it for an early birthday celebration?"

"My father doesn't celebrate birthdays." She might be a little bitter about that, which also went to explaining her thirst for the salty, limy beverage she'd imbibed. "He celebrates accomplishments. Accolades. Success."

And what did she have to show for being another year older, she thought, her mood going morose again. Thanks to Ian Stone, her career was a mess and her heart had been battered.

"So how did your visit with your dad go, anyway? You didn't say."

"I was a little late arriving," she remembered, her face heating. Because she'd stopped at a drugstore for a package of cotton underwear. Her car had been in the restaurant parking lot, and she'd decided against returning to No. 9 at that particular moment in case Griffin had followed. She might have jumped him.

"I'll bet he doesn't care for tardiness."

"Yes, well..." She shrugged. "Can we get back to-"

"That's why you should have forgone the underwear. You'd have been distracted and thinking more of yourself instead of worrying about meeting dear old dad's expectations."

Her face went hotter. "How did you know...?"

"That you stopped to replace your panties? Because you're so predictable, Jane."

His condescending tone was wearing on her. "And you aren't? Let me tell you, I was more surprised that you made it back tonight before I was asleep than I was that you didn't keep your word and return after lunch."

His face closed down. "You shouldn't count on me."

"Don't I know it." The only place he'd been reliably showing up had been in the naked-guy fantasies that were occurring way more often than she liked. "We should have been working today."

"I had to see someone, all right?" He snapped out the words. "I told you that."

"A convenient dodge."

"It wasn't convenient at all, d.a.m.n it." His expression was hard. "A guy from the platoon took a plane all the way out here from Philly. He had five hours in L.A."

Jane blinked. "A layover?"

"He just flew out here to see me, flew back. Can we drop it now?" He was sitting straight, his body tense, and his fingers flexed on his thighs as if he was trying to keep himself still. "Tell you what, let's go out. Do something. Get a drink. Cake and ice cream. Anything you want. It's your birthday."

His sudden agitation made her wary. "You don't need to do that. We're business a.s.sociates, that's all."

"And friends or something close to it, don't you think?" He sent her a mock leer. "I've had my tongue in your mouth and your panties in my pocket."

Embarra.s.sment now made her hot all over. "Stop that." She started to scooch away from him, except he caught her arm. "That was some weird aberration."

"Is that what they call it these days?" Griffin drew her closer. "C'mon, honey-pie. Birthday girls shouldn't lie."

"Just leave it alone, Griffin." She'd decided to pretend it had never happened, that frantic set of kisses in the restaurant storeroom. "Leave me alone."

"Then you'll go to your room and sit around feeling sorry for yourself. I bet you've been doing that all day, isn't that right?" He lifted her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. "We need to get out of here."

All at once, his mood felt dangerous. He wasn't squeezing her arm, exactly, but when she tried to get loose, he didn't release her. "I don't want to go anywhere."

His eyes were glittering. Tension was oozing from him. And then he smiled, and that was scarier, because it wasn't a lighthearted expression. It looked as serious as a heart attack. "The birthday girl at least deserves a birthday kiss."

"Absolutely n-" The last word was smothered against her lips as Griffin fixed his mouth to hers at the same instant that he released her from his hold. She might have retreated then, escaped the man and his dangerous mood, but instead she stayed where she was. A sound worked its way from the back of her throat. It wasn't a protest or a plea; it was, strange as it seemed, an acknowledgment.

Yes. Here's what I want for my birthday.

His kiss was like a switch. A key. It lit her up, it opened her up, and she felt as if she was in bloom when he touched her. She radiated heat and need, and just like before, her body clamored to imprint on his. With a little sigh, she moved into him.

His forearm clamped like a bar at the small of her back, lifting her into his hips. Her fingers went nerveless and limp as the front of her molded to the front of him. All the starch in her was gone. Were her feet on the ground? She didn't know.

His tongue pressed heavily into her mouth, and she opened for him, taking the thrust and twining her own tongue around his. His arm yanked her even closer, but he still managed to get a hand between them. He used it to cover one breast, gently molding, a stunning counterpoint to the aggression of the kiss.

Her whole body was quivering, her skin supersensitized. She pressed into that caressing hand as she tilted her hips to push against the thick ridge behind the placket of his jeans. His mouth lifted, and she gasped in air, then goose b.u.mps raced everywhere as he slid his wet lips across her cheek to her jaw.

"Griffin." This explosive reaction was new to her, desire so bright and demanding it made a heady, impossible-to-resist experience. "G.o.d." She clutched at him now, bringing his head back so their lips were once again aligned.

He said something. Maybe "shh" or, knowing him, probably "s.h.i.t," but she wasn't worrying about it. His hand left her breast, and she started to worry about that, until he ran his palm over her rib cage, her twitching belly and then down to her thigh. Still kissing her like a madman, he rucked up her skirt, and then his hot hand was on the triangle of her panties.

And then he was in her panties.

Two long fingers insinuated themselves between her plumped lips to brush the throbbing k.n.o.b of nerves.

A hot shiver speared up her back. His fingertips rubbed her again. Another molten shiver set her quaking. Pleasure was rising, hot and fast.

His fingers stroked once more, and not knowing if she'd have the chance again, not knowing if she'd ever feel such need again, she didn't hold back. Jane pushed into those stroking fingers once, twice. Sweet bliss swooped high. Splintered. At the mercy of her o.r.g.a.s.m, she bucked with the undulating pleasure while sucking on his tongue and clutching his shoulders. When it was over, she buried her face in his chest.

Griffin was very, very still for a long moment. Then he removed his hand from her panties and tugged down the hem of her skirt. A palm stroked the back of her head. "Jesus Christ, Jane," he said after a moment, a note of surprise in his voice. "You should warn a man about that hair trigger."

Someone should have warned her! It must be the margaritas. Or the fact that she was another year older. But this kind of gift deserved a reciprocal one, right? Her face burning, she said, "I guess...you...uh, would you like to...?"

He was already shaking his head, his expression flat. "I think that would be a very lousy idea."

Which should have been her line. Mortified all over again, Jane stepped back. "Of course. Anyway..." She made a vague gesture behind her. "I've got to go."

His eyes narrowed. "Go where?"

"You know," she said, shuffling back. "There."

"Jane..."

But she was already on the move, hastening out the back door. She'd go for a walk, inhale some of the chilly, fog-laden air. Take fifteen minutes, twenty, a couple of hours maybe, to sober up. Whatever time she needed away from Griffin to get the tequila and the s.e.x out of her system. Still in a rush, she stepped over the waist-high back fence. Rex Monroe wouldn't mind her taking a shortcut through his yard. He'd understand her need to get away from his neighbor.

She glanced at the steps leading to the elderly man's front door.

Then she was whirling around, dashing back. "Griffin! Griffin!"

He met her at the back entrance, grasping her arms. His touch brought instant comfort, though she knew she shouldn't count on him. He'd said it himself, and hadn't every other man in her life let her down? His grip tightened as her voice went throaty with fear. "Something's happened to Mr. Monroe."

CHAPTER NINE.