Beach House No. 9 Part 19

"Janie? You call her Janie?" Ian Stone had called her Janie.

The other man waved a hand. "I've known her since she was a kid. Her dad was a client of mine at one time. Aren't you going to let me in?"

Letting Frank in could complicate matters. And also postpone Griffin's return to the cove. He glanced at the envelope. "If that's for her, you can hand it over and be on your way. I'll make sure she gets it."

"This is yours," Frank said. "And I'm here to talk with you too."

What could he do but open the door? "I thought you said Jane sent you a text," he muttered as the other man pa.s.sed him on his way inside.

"To say she was sorry she missed me last night. But when I found out you were both still in town, I decided to drop by."

"Wonderful. Terrific. Always a pleasure," Griffin lied. Thank G.o.d he'd picked up Jane's fallen clothes. He wouldn't have wanted to explain them away, he thought, watching the other man toss the envelope onto the table in front of the couch. "What's that?"

"Stuff the magazine was holding for you. They forwarded it to me since you went missing."

"If I went missing, how come the book doctor, my sister and my agent all find me so d.a.m.n easily?"

"Why are you so d.a.m.n set on being hard to find?" Frank countered.

Griffin pasted on a smile. "How are the wife and kids?"

Frank hitched up his pants at the thighs and then settled into one of the room's armchairs. "Spending about twenty-three hours of the day in the pool. Raeanne is teaching Tim how to dive. Amy can almost swim one whole length underwater."

Pride puffed Frank's chest so that it nearly matched his belly. Still, since marrying Raeanne, he'd dropped about twenty pounds and his face wasn't quite so unhealthily florid. "Have you been watching your blood pressure and eating better?" Griffin asked, sitting on the couch across from the older man.

"Sure. Raeanne insists on all that organic age-free c.r.a.p."

Griffin bit down on his smile. "I believe you mean free-range."

"Free-range, age-free, what's the difference? She made something for dinner last night with tutu."

"Tofu."

"It wasn't sirloin, that's all I know. But it makes her happy, so..." He shrugged. "She's been good to me. Marriage has been good to me. I highly recommend it."

Griffin thought of Tess, who'd run from her husband to the cove. Of David, sleeping in his kids' sleeping bags on the beach. "Glad to hear it."

"You know what I'm not glad to hear?" Frank asked, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Janie says you're not making much progress."

s.h.i.t. "There's an office. Whiteboards. Sharpened pencils."

Frank just looked at him.

Double s.h.i.t. "I've never missed a deadline. You know that."

And still Frank looked at him.

Griffin shifted his gaze. Outside the window, the sky was that flat blue of summer, as if it had been ironed by the heat. This time of year in Afghanistan, the temperature was brutally hot, matching the increasing violence as insurgents climbed over the mountain pa.s.ses to engage the troops. It was a deadly season that might only be mitigated if the previous year's lousy crop yield forced the other side's fighters to focus more on growing poppies and wheat than killing their enemies.

It was the kind of detail that belonged in his book. And if it was just a succession of those kind of details, he'd have racked up the pages by now. But Jane was insisting on emotions too, which meant writing about Erica and Randolph and all the other young and innocent cherries who'd stepped off the Chinooks as rookies and had been exposed to death within thirty seconds.

Which made them feel so d.a.m.n alive. So d.a.m.n alive until they went home...or weren't alive at all anymore.

If he wrote about all that, would his calm last?

Maybe he should raise the idea of not completing the project, Griffin thought. Though it was true that he'd never missed a deadline and he didn't want to start now, when each morning came, he couldn't dredge up a shred of motivation. Backing out was going to be a pain in the a.s.s, and he wasn't happy about how it might affect him professionally, but waiting for the will to begin work became less viable an option with every pa.s.sing day.

Torn, he pushed both hands through his hair. "Look, Frank. I've not completely made up my mind, but I need to tell you I'm considering-"

"You should cut Jane loose if you're not going to get serious," Frank said.

Grimacing, he leaned forward on the cushion. "I said I'm only considering-"

"This is about her, Griff, not about you."

Griffin stared at the other man. Then he glanced toward the bedroom door, not sure if he wanted Jane to step out and interrupt the conversation or if he wanted Frank to finish. "I-" he started, then stopped, resigned. "What are you getting at?"

"Ian Stone."

The name made him want to spit, even though Ian Stone was exactly why Jane had ended up in bed with Griffin last night. Knowing she was still hung up on her literary superstar had made it safe for him to even consider s.e.x. And it was clear why she'd accepted-she'd been willing to take her night out of time because a little self-esteem boosting had been in order after coming face-to-face with that a.s.s and the other woman.

"I know about all that," Griffin said.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll understand me when I say it's not right to f.u.c.k with her."

Griffin twitched. Jesus! Did it show on him? Was there a sign on his forehead that read I Boffed Jane? He frowned at his agent. "I don't think it's right to call it f.u.c.king, either."

That word implied callousness. He hadn't been uncaring. To the contrary, he'd wanted to pleasure her. Was it his fault that she hadn't trusted him to make that happen? His own ego had taken the blow last night, but next time he was going to tie her up- No, of course there wasn't going to be a next time.

"That's what it will be, though," Frank said, "if it gets around that you reneged on your obligation when you were working with Jane."

The words took a minute to sink in, because Griffin's mind had spun away on images of Jane bound by soft rope. Blinking, he came out of his brief reverie to focus on Frank once again. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

The agent narrowed his eyes. "She told you about working with Ian?"

"Yeah. Heard all about that."

"And that she left him?"

"Because he two-timed her," Griffin protested. "h.e.l.l, any thinking person would walk away."

"Ian Stone hasn't turned in a book since. He'd been a blockbuster well, and without Jane it dried up."

"Serves him right." He was supposed to feel sympathy?

"But the blame has fallen on Jane's shoulders. Ian claims to any who'll listen that it's her fault. That her defection eroded his confidence."

"What a p.u.s.s.y," Griffin said, disgusted.

"But a talkative, loud one. Loud enough that she hasn't been able to find more work. He's dragged her good name through the mud. Spread it around that she's willing to leave a writer in the lurch."

Griffin froze. While he'd been loath to ditch his deadline because of the ding to his rep, he could see how much harder Jane would take the professional hit. He heard her voice in his head on the day she went to visit her father: success is the only option.

"You said you know her dad?"

"Brilliant guy. Cold as a fish."

His legs suddenly restless, Griffin popped up from the couch, crossing to the window, then circling the room. There on the table were those girlie shoes, that slithery dress, the evidence that he'd held a naked Jane in his arms.

n.o.body's ever tried to put me first.

"So you see, Griffin, if you're not going to get serious on this project, you need to cut her loose, quick, so she can find another client. Have a real success. Reputation and word of mouth are everything in her line of work."

The information tumbled through his brain and roiled his belly. Before he could answer Frank, before he knew how he would answer Frank, the bedroom door snicked open. Carrying her small duffel bag, Jane wore a straight khaki skirt, a white T-shirt made like mummy bandages and a pair of glossy flat shoes the color of new money. Her color was high, and her mouth was swollen. If you looked closely-he did and found himself shifting forward before he stopped himself-you could see that the edges of her lips were blurred by the slight burn his stubble had left behind. Her glance flicked to Frank and then transferred to Griffin.

Their gazes locked. This could end now, he thought. Right this moment he could tell Jane he wasn't going to write the book, and Frank would pack her up and take her away. He would never have to see her again, not those too-clear eyes, not her crazy shoes. Never again would he have to wonder what decadent underwear she wore.

Never let himself think that if he hadn't been a part of ruining her career, he sure as h.e.l.l hadn't been involved in saving it either.

n.o.body's ever tried to put me first.

He crossed to her and s.n.a.t.c.hed her small bag out of her hand. His decision had been made. Self-aware enough to acknowledge the ice inside him had been compromised and what came next would risk further damage, he gritted his teeth as he stalked toward the door. He didn't know how he was going to do it without getting screaming ugly, but real life back at the cove meant writing that G.o.dd.a.m.n memoir. "Let's go, honey-pie. We've got work to do at Beach House No. 9."

JANE AND GRIFFIN were stuck in traffic on an infamous stretch of the 405 freeway, but she finally felt as if she'd made some progress. Things were going her way professionally. And on the personal side, her Ian-related demons had been banished. Last night's escapade between the sheets had been good for her ego.

Only two things kept her from bouncing in her seat. One, she was a little tender in certain places, and two, she didn't think her driver shared her good mood. He sat, silent and still, behind the wheel of his boxy vintage BMW.

Nevertheless, it appeared the tide had turned in her favor. When she'd ventured from the bedroom this morning-a little uncertain, she'd admit, since she'd woken alone and the only evidence he was still in the suite was the scent of fresh coffee-he'd been standing on the other side of the door, an unreadable expression on his face. "We've got work to do," he'd said, and she might have disbelieved the seriousness of the statement if Frank hadn't been in the room as well. Griffin wouldn't have made the declaration in front of his agent unless he meant it.

Darling Frank.

"He looked good," she mused aloud, then darted a glance to her left. "Frank, I mean."

Griffin grunted. "He told me he's been eating tutu."

"Huh?"

A smile hitched the corner of his mouth. "Tofu."

She laughed, even as she stared at that small curve of his lips. He hadn't shaved, and dark whiskers peppered his jaw and chin. It would have made for a p.r.i.c.kly kiss if he'd woken her with one.

She wouldn't have turned away from it.

No, no! She would have turned away from it. That was their agreement, right? They'd decided that what happened that night in the hotel room would stay in that hotel room. Meaning she wouldn't have let it happen again this morning.

She wouldn't let it happen again, period.

He looked toward her as if he'd heard her little sigh. "You know Frank's wife, Raeanne?"

"Sure. I've babysat for Tim and Amy on occasion."

"Nice of you." His attention turned out the windshield as the line of cars started to move.

"Nice of them," she said, her voice light. "I needed the extra cash."

Griffin muttered darkly.

"What's that?"

His gaze slid right again, and she felt it like a touch. Then, as the cars in front of them came to a stop, he did just that, he touched her, his hand sliding beneath her hair to cup the nape of her neck. His thumb stroked her cheek, and her belly clenched. Between her thighs there was an instant swelling heat. Tingling.

She held her breath, trying to disguise her reaction. But when his thumb moved again, a shivery chill ran down her neck and made her nipples tighten against the cups of her bra. Surely he couldn't miss the flush blossoming over her skin.

"Jane." His fingers gave her neck a little squeeze. "About last night..."

No! Were there three words a person wanted less to hear? Her annoyed glance bounced off him, and she squirmed against the soft leather. Did he think he needed to reiterate theirs was a one-night thing? Didn't she know that? It had been a great one-night thing-she hoped for him too-but she'd set the terms herself.

n.o.body knew better than Jane that going any deeper could lead to professional and personal disaster. A woman had to protect herself from that.

Just as she opened her mouth to make clear she knew the score, a deafening noise blasted. A blur of movement raced past her window. With a little shriek, Jane jumped, dislodging Griffin's hand.

"d.a.m.n motorcycle," he said, glaring out the windshield.

Her startled heart settled as she realized what had happened. A guy on a wicked-looking two-wheeled vehicle was weaving through the traffic ahead, using the s.p.a.ce between automobiles to create his own lane. Blowing out a breath of air, she noted Griffin continued to glower in that direction.

Then he shook himself and cast a quick glance at her. "Where were we?"

No place they needed to return to, Jane decided, and grasped for a different subject. "You don't like motorcycles?" she asked.

"Hate 'em."

Weird. "I thought men had a thing for those kind of machines-something about all that horsepower between their thighs...." The instant the words left her mouth her mind tumbled back to the night before. Griffin on top of her, his body driving into hers, her legs wrapped around his hips. It had been so long for her that her inner flesh could still feel his imprint. Her face went hot again.

"Jane?" Griffin sounded amused. "What's going through your head?"

As if she'd tell. "I'm just curious," she said, holding tight to this new thread of conversation. "A risk taker like yourself, an open road, a Harley-Davidson. Is there no appeal whatsoever?"

"Zero." He ran a hand over his hair. It was longer now, long enough for her to see the crisp darkness was thick and straight. "We had a couple of trail bikes as kids. Riding them almost killed my brother. I almost killed my brother."

She stared at him when he didn't elaborate. "You can't leave it at that."

The traffic had slowed again, and as he braked he threw her a look. "Did anyone ever tell you you're way too curious?"

She supposed she was. Another woman, knowing there was nothing for her beyond a one-night stand, would have curtailed any further thoughts about being in Griffin's bed. To daydream about what it would be like to be there again, to be able to stroke those lean muscles and lick at his hard mouth and run her palm down his erection to see if she could make him tremble as she had when he'd placed that first light kiss to her nipple. That kiss and every other had ignited a fire in her, and she'd been desperate to experience the burn.

"My brother's the real risk taker," Griffin said now.