Beach House No. 9 Part 24

Curiosity piqued, she came closer, trying to understand the point of his exhibit. It wasn't immediately apparent, and he didn't immediately offer up an explanation.

She glanced at his profile. He had a strong, masculine nose, and his lips were set in a serious line. There was a shadow of whiskers along his jaw that her fingers suddenly itched to stroke. His short hair was ruffled on top, and she knew he'd been forking his fingers through it, a gesture he made when he was in deep concentration or worried.

They stood without speaking, and she listened to him breathe, one of the dearest rhythms of her life. Tears p.r.i.c.ked the corners of her eyes as a heavy understanding settled over her. Familiar didn't equal dull, she thought. New and different was not that big a draw.

At least not for her.

"What's all this?" she finally asked, gesturing at the folders.

"I wanted you to look over our financials," he said.

Her heart seized for a moment, then restarted at a dizzying pace. Look over their financials! That sounded like predivorce business. Though...maybe not. One of her friends had been given the divorce talk by her husband-but only after the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had siphoned off most of their accounts.

David wouldn't do it like that, she a.s.sured herself. If she and David divorced, he would be excruciatingly fair.

If she and David divorced... There would be dates. A different man.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I'm looking them over," she said, her voice weary. "What about the financials should I be seeing?"

He took a seat on the sofa and tapped a finger on the front of each manila folder. "Statements for all our bank accounts. Your 401(k), my 401(k). College funds for the kids. Current mortgage statement. I had the house appraised yesterday and this is the report. We own the cars outright, but I have estimates for their value in this file. See? I've labeled it Big-Ticket Items."

She stared at him. "What, no credit report?"

He slid out a folder from under another. "Right here."

A few years back, new neighbors had moved in, and she and David had invited them to their New Year's Eve party. The husband of the couple insisted on a midnight tradition: "Throw all the change in your pockets onto the street!" It was supposed to bring good fortune for the coming year, according to the man.

David had gone along with a smile.

Before breakfast the next morning, he'd re-collected every coin.

At least some things about him hadn't changed-he was still careful about each penny. Looking into the face of the man she'd loved and married, while remembering that New Year's, made her sure of something else that was unchanged as well.

Tess herself was still the same. I still love my husband, my life as his partner. My work as the mother of our children. That was what she wanted. The knowledge of it settled in her chest, a puzzle piece being reseated where it belonged. She could move away from the house she and David shared together, but that didn't mean she could leave behind her love for him. The thoughts about dates and different men were pa.s.sing fancies. A match flare compared to the steady light and heat that were her feelings for her husband.

She sighed and gestured to the table. "What's all this mean, David?"

"It's our net worth. What we've acc.u.mulated in the last almost fourteen years."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"You thought I didn't want you. Of course I do. I'm showing you what we've done together. What we've built." He huffed out an impatient breath. "I'm trying to convince you to come home. To stay."

"Do you want me or my 401(k)?"

He looked at her as if she was speaking in Russ's babbling baby language. "Both. They go together. Your plan is in your name."

He refused to understand. Instead of talking to her about what was going on with him and why he'd altered, he was trotting out paperwork. Exhausted, she dropped into the armchair adjacent to the sofa. "I don't know, David...."

He rose, his expression panicked. "What? Tess, don't you get it? Don't you see?"

"See what?"

He threw a hand in the direction of the files. "This is what I have to offer," he said. "This is what is on the table."

But instead of the columns of numbers and the neatly compiled accounting of what David thought summed up their worth-his worth-Tess only saw that photograph. Their four beautiful, beloved children. The family that he had somehow reduced to file folders and appraisal forms. Rising, she picked up the frame and held it with both hands so he could see.

"This is what's on the table." With tears p.r.i.c.king at the corners of her eyes, she stalked toward her bedroom. "This is what you have to find a way to value."

He didn't follow, and she didn't expect him to. In her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, holding her children's picture against her heart. Was it any good knowing who you were and where you wanted to be in your life, she thought, if the person with whom you wanted to share that life wouldn't share himself?

JANE WATCHED Griffin hand the sleeping baby to his sister. Then Tess glanced toward Duncan and Oliver, crashed on the couch at No. 9, their heads together and their bodies lax, like a pair of rag dolls put down for the day.

Following her gaze, Griffin sighed. "Fine, I'll carry one next door."

Jane raised her hand. "I'll get the other."

"I can do it," Rebecca offered. "We left you with the s'mores mess."

Griffin gave Jane a look. "Yeah. You stay here and clean up. Get ready."

The look, the ominous note in his voice, tripped a shiver down her spine. Get ready for what? But Jane thought she knew, so she reined in her imagination and gathered up the marshmallow bag, the graham cracker box, the straightened wire clothes hangers and took them into the kitchen. Back by the dying fire in the living room, she found the last square of chocolate and popped it into her mouth.

She was licking a sweet trace from her thumb when Griffin stalked back inside. The door slammed behind him. His gaze snapped to her face, and she froze, her lips still sucking her flesh.

"What do you think you're doing?"

With a slow movement, she released her finger and let her hand fall to her side. Her palm pressed against the cream-colored lace of the swingy shorts she wore with a tennis sweater she'd found one day thrown over a chair. She supposed it was Griffin's-well, she knew it was, because the cotton cable-knit held his smell, that dry sage and lemon scent that was starting to pervade her dreams. If he had a problem with her co-opting his clothing, he'd kept it to himself.

"You don't like s'mores?" she asked. "I think you had at least three."

"I don't like turning into my sister's go-to babysitter," he said. "Those kids should stay on their side of the fence."

"It was one evening so your sister could visit with her girlfriend," Jane said, waving away his complaint. "They're your niece and nephews."

"I've got enough to worry about," he muttered. "Now, I'm talking to Rebecca's history cla.s.s with that crabby coot next door."

Jane managed not to smile. "That was very kind of you to agree."

"Have you ever tried saying no to a thirteen-year-old drama queen?"

Now she grinned and clasped her hands together, holding them over her heart. "Please, Uncle Griff," she said in a theatrical tone. "If you don't say yes I won't pa.s.s the cla.s.s. I won't get into a good college. I'll be forced into selling makeup at the MAC counter until I'm sixty-two when they'll turn me out to the Estee Lauder pasture." It had gone something like that.

"Plus," he said darkly, "I'm never going to look at a Cheeto the same way again."

"You're just jealous of Duncan and Oliver's new talent." She dared to move closer and poked him in the ribs covered by the ragged T-shirt he wore with jeans. "Admit they're adorable."

He narrowed his eyes until they were mere slices of summer sky. "I know what you're doing, Jane."

"Then why did you bother asking me what it was?" Even though the fire was nearly out, her body seemed to heat up under the weight of his gaze. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled against her clothes, and her scalp felt flushed. She took a few steps back. "There's nothing wrong with some relaxation with family at the end of a long workday."

He followed her. "Relaxation? Is that what you think I need?"

"Sure." She gave a casual shrug, though there were flutters in her belly now, teasing and twirling. The way he was looking at her, the way he was stalking her, caused a fraying of her nerves. "Everyone does." Though he'd not had another outburst after that night she'd found him on the floor in the dark, she was aware working on the memoir was wearing on him. By evening he was as tense as barbed wire strung between two posts.

"You too?"

She shrugged again. This wasn't about her.

"Because you're right, being cooped up all day with you is...hard on me, Jane."

Her mouth went dry. He gave that word hard a distinct s.e.xual edge. Clearing her throat, she looked away. "I'm sorry, but you'll remember it was you who insisted we collaborate. And I try to give you s.p.a.ce. I don't mean to be intrusive."

"I know you don't. But there you are, with your shoes. Every day, the shoes."

Puzzled, she glanced down. They were flat thong sandals she'd bought at a flea market. On top, striped ribbon was folded into a flower, its center made up of multicolor, shiny beads. They were feminine and mostly sweet, nothing that should put that burning intensity in his eyes. As she looked up, that gaze seemed to trap her.

His voice softened. "And the mouth, Jane, the mouth is making me feel..."

"I thought you didn't feel anything," she whispered. It was what had appalled her that night in the office. It was what had motivated her to get the kids over this evening. Because of course he felt things. She didn't know precisely how the self-delusion was serving him, but she did think he needed to find a way to connect with the emotions he'd walled off.

"Ninety-nine percent of the time," he reminded her. "But that remaining one percent is all about you."

Her shoulder blades clipped the edge of the aperture leading to the hallway. She'd been in retreat, she realized, but Griffin had kept pace. He was still as close as before, his breath hot on her temple, stirring her hair.

"I think we should relax my way, Jane."

Now the flush spread across her body in one hot rush. His delicious smell surrounded her, his hard rangy body was tempting her from just inches away. She could rub herself against it again. Kiss him. Touch him. Mold herself to his long muscles and hair-roughened skin.

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea," she told both of them.

"But we have so few days left to...relax together, Jane. How could this single time hurt?"

True, she thought hazily, though the logic felt a little wobbly. Then his big hand cupped her cheek and his thumb brushed across her mouth. She went wobbly and, just like that, knew it was the first caress of the night.

Because she was going to give in, of course. Maybe another woman would resist a man who said I don't do serious with women, never have, but after her last romantic disaster she wasn't in danger of going silly and emotional with another unavailable male. Been there, done that, got the trampled heart.

But that didn't mean she would walk away now.

He was studying her face, his thumb dragging slowly and deliberately across her bottom lip. It had been leading to this since that night in L.A. Since before then...since that first afternoon when she'd walked into Party Central and found a dangerous pirate alone in the crowd.

It wouldn't last. Of course it wouldn't last. n.o.body expected a commitment from a pirate. You knew he would steal, though. Your breath, your good sense, your ability to make more token protests, or your insistence on negotiating some favorable terms. Still, she hesitated another moment.

Griffin was as persuasive in his own way as Rebecca had been in hers. "You need to give me what I want, Jane." He slid one arm around the small of her back even as his thumb kept up that slow back-and-forth. "You need to give it to me the way I want."

Seduction dripped from the low-voiced words. Jane swayed toward him, and when he made yet another pa.s.s across her mouth, she dipped her chin and sucked his thumb inside. His breath hitched, and the reflexive twitch of his arm jerked her closer against him.

He was aroused. The bulge in his jeans was hard against her, and she couldn't help the way her hips pressed into it.

"Oh, no, you don't." He tucked his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and tugged, canting back her hips. "What part of the *way I want' don't you understand?"

In answer, she ran her tongue over the pad of his thumb. He grunted, then popped it free of her clinging lips. He placed his own on hers and kissed her, that helpless heat washing over her again. Her fingers curled in the sides of his shirt, and she hung on to him as his tongue plunged inside her, possessing her, plundering, as only a pirate could.

With his hand still fisted in her shorts, he walked her backward, she retreating as directed by the forward press of his hard thighs. On the hallway runner, she stumbled, and he was forced to yank her close to keep her upright. She moaned as they were pressed together, and she ground her pelvis against his, needy for deeper contact.

His mouth lifted and he cursed. "You stop," he said, his eyes boring into hers. "I'm going to make it good for you."

"It is good," she said. Her hands slid up his sides and curled around his neck. "Kiss me again."

He succ.u.mbed to her demand for a moment, but broke this kiss too soon. His hands grabbed her wrists and he unwrapped her arms, then spun her around so she faced forward. Still holding on to her, he herded her down the hall to his room.

Inside it was dimly lit and smelled of Griffin, layers of citrus and sage, peppered by temper. He hadn't made his bed, and its sheets lay rumpled and wild, just like the man himself. As well she knew, he didn't sleep much...and she realized that tonight his insomnia might keep her up too. She trembled.

"That's right, honey-pie," he said, his breath blowing hot against her ear. "We're gonna get you all shivery." His hands went to the hem of the sweater, and he lifted it, sliding the thick material along her body. It brushed against her braless b.r.e.a.s.t.s, catching on the already-stiff jut of her nipples.

Griffin groaned as he tossed the garment away with one hand, widening the fingers of the other over her chest. His long fingers were able to reach each sensitive peak. He nuzzled her neck, his mouth hot against the tender skin.

Jane writhed, rubbing her backside against his groin. Then he threw off his own shirt, and she moaned as his chest crowded her back. His fingers plucked at her nipples, and her head lolled against his shoulder. She tilted her face. "Please, Griffin." His mouth covered hers.

Again, he plundered. Again, she pushed back, wiggling against him. He muttered, breaking the kiss so he could turn her around. They looked at each other, their pants coming fast and heavy, the sound louder than the ever-present breath of the ocean outside.

He bent his head, nipped her bottom lip. Jane's womb clenched at the little pain, her nipples curled tighter. She ran her palms up his sides, her thumbs riding the rippling muscles. He grunted into their kiss, and then he slanted his head for another fit. When she sucked on his tongue, his hands found the soft lace of her shorts and he yanked.

They fell to her ankles.

Griffin stepped back. There was a flush across the bridge of his nose. His mouth was wet, his gaze intensely blue in the half-light of the room. "You wore that underwear for me," he said.

How could she have? How could she have known he would choose tonight to undress her? They were more lace, a stretch of pale pink that sat low on her hip bones and was banded by flirty black ruffles.

"Admit it," he said, his voice rough.

She started to shake her head, but then-oh, G.o.d, she realized he was right. All her big talk about one-night stands had been just big talk. Without conscious awareness of it, she'd been hoping for this. Planning for this. She'd been wearing her prettiest panties every day.

Because of him.

"Let's get you to bed," he said, moving close again.

But when she tried stepping back, her feet tangled in the pooled fabric of her shorts. She lost her balance, and Griffin tried stabilizing her. His grab was just a fraction too late, and she landed on her knees...right in front of that tempting bulge of denim. Another shiver rolled down her spine, and she looked up. Griffin was staring at her, his chest moving like a bellows as her fingers rose to the top b.u.t.ton of his jeans.

He was hard-everywhere-as she tugged down the tab of the zipper. Glancing up again, she peeled the heavy fabric and his soft cotton boxers away from his hips. His hand sifted through her hair as she leaned forward and drew a line on his shaft with the tip of her tongue.

With the flat of it, she rolled over the crown, wetting the plum-soft skin before drawing it into the cavern of her mouth. His soft groan ratcheted her arousal. Her nipples tightened again, the points tingling as she swallowed more of him. She curled her fingers around the root of his shaft and balanced herself with her other hand on his steely thigh. Her mouth set up a languid yet steady rhythm, and she breathed along with it, her pulse thrumming loud in her ears.

It was carnal and beyond hot, and she imagined herself on the deck of his pirate ship, the Jolly Roger fluttering in the breeze above her head as she was captive to his desires. Her imagination had always been her most seductive partner, and it worked again for her now. Her panties were wet, and she took her hand from his thigh to reach inside them and touch- "d.a.m.n it!" Griffin suddenly yanked her to her feet.

"What? What?" She was dizzy as he lifted her from the floor and half carried, half tossed her onto the bed. Then he was on the mattress too, and he stilled, taking in her body splayed on his sheets, wearing only the pink-and-black panties and the girlie sandals. "What's wrong?" she asked.