The Love Shack. Christie Ridgway

rush of water reached his naked toes. Shit! It was cold, at least initially, even during high summer in Southern California. Another small wave folded over his feet and he flinched, just like one of the out-of-state tourists who came to California with only images of Baywatch reruns or old Gidget movies in mind. Hollywood magic hid the goose bumps, so they were startled by their first experience with Pacific temperatures.

      As his toes went numb, Gage continued strolling up the deserted beach, sloshing through the shallow outreach of the surf, breathing in the fresh, wet-smelling air as he munched on his Granny Smith. He had no particular purpose in mind, no intent beyond enjoying the sun on the top of his head and his shoulders, the endless sound of the waves, the precious sense of freedom. There’d been times he’d doubted whether he’d get the chance to experience them again.

      Though it was early enough that he had to share the sand with no one other than seagulls and sandpipers, when he reached the midpoint of the cove, he found himself strolling toward a cottage painted a mossy-green with blush-colored trim. Like Beach House No. 9, it was larger than the others in the enclave and had a small side yard. There, he saw a figure on her knees tending a flower bed—Skye, in long pants, long sleeves and a battered, narrow-brimmed canvas fishing hat. Gage realized she’d been his destination all along.

      Not as surprised as he might be, he continued forward, then started whistling in order to alert her to his presence. No point in scaring the bejesus out of her a second time. Still, he saw her stiffen as he cast a shadow over her small patch of grass.

      “It’s ironic that our song is about a beach that belongs to an altogether different state,” he observed.

      “We have a song?” She glanced up, shielding her face with the shelf of her hand.

      In the shade created by the gesture, he couldn’t make out much about her heavily lashed eyes. But he’d noted their color last night—deepwater green, with a band of amber circling the pupil—while they’d danced. He whistled a few more bars of “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i.”

      She shrugged, and her overlarge sweatshirt slid off her shoulder to reveal a pale pink bra strap. “The cove has plenty of experience acting as a stand-in.”

      “I remember.” His gaze fixed on that hint of bare flesh, though he didn’t know why the delicate slope of skin-over-bone so fascinated him. “Silent movies were filmed here.”

      Her hand fell and she went back to weeding, her head bent so he could no longer see her pretty face. She had classic-beauty bones, wide-spaced eyes, a delicate nose and a soft yet serious mouth. A long tail of hair streamed down her back, the sun finding random gold and red threads in the dark mass. “If you’re interested, we now have a room dedicated to Sunrise Pictures with lots of memorabilia on display,” she said.

      “Yeah?”

      “It’s connected to the art gallery beside Captain Crow’s. You can take a look anytime, but you’ll have to get the key from me or from Maureen, who manages the gallery. We keep the door locked since the trouble we had there last month.”

      Gage frowned. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

      “We caught someone vandalizing the place.”

      He dropped to her level, resting on his haunches. “Jesus, Skye. Are you all right? What happened?”

      “A small group of us—Teague, and two of the women who were staying at No. 9—surprised an intruder when we decided on an impromptu tour. One of them got a bump on the head when he pushed past us.”

      “Did you get a good look at whoever it was?”

      “No. We called the police, but the man was dressed in dark clothes and wore a ski mask—like he’d been at a casting call for thief of the week.”

      Gage took a seat on the grass, rubbing his stubbled cheek with his palm. “What do the police think? It seems just...damn disturbing that anything dangerous would happen here.”

      She sent him a quick, unfathomable glance. “My sentiments exactly. The police have no idea about...about anything.”

      “Huh.” He directed his gaze down the beach. No. 9 was a fifteen-minute walk from here; he could sprint it in half that. “You need something, you know where I am.”

      She shrugged. “Thanks, but I’m used to handling things on my own. Keeping the cove going is all on me, now that Mom and Dad have moved permanently to Provence. And I wrote you that my sister, Starr, is living in San Francisco.”

      “I remember her from when we were kids,” Gage mused. “Starr. Starr and Skye. Such unusual names.”

      “Unusual spellings, too,” Skye said, shaking her head. “It was Dad’s idea to add the extra r and the unnecessary e. He thought they looked weightier that way.”

      Gage laughed. “Your dad was always a character. But Starr goes by Meg now, right? You told me that.”

      “Mmm,” Skye said by way of agreement. “And she’s married, after a whirlwind romance with her Caleb. They met at the cove in May, spent a few days together here, then decided to seal the deal. Love liberated her impulsive side, I guess.”

      “Good for her. Good for them.”

      A moment of silence passed. “Speaking of family, is yours well?”

      “Sure.” Especially as he’d kept each and every member unaware of his latest misadventure. “You saw my brother and sister last night, of course. And my parents will be here for Griffin’s wedding.”

      She gave him another sidelong peek. “You’re okay with that?”

      “With Griff getting a ball and chain?” At her quick frown, he smiled and hastened to amend himself. “I’m kidding...and I really do like Jane. When you wrote me about her, you told me I would.”

      “She’s good for your brother, and vice versa. Did I tell you she worked with Ian Stone for several years?”

      He rolled his eyes. “Not Ian Stone, the author of those sappy and maudlin bestsellers you like so much?”

      “Nobody should have to defend their choice of reading material,” she said, and even in profile, he could see her scowl. “A person likes what she likes.”

      “And Skye Alexander goes for that oozily overromantic stuff.”

      She turned her head to narrow her eyes at him. “Maybe it’s the endings that appeal—you know, when the hero dies from some painful lingering illness or an equally painful but accidental act of God.”

      Gage laughed again. “Okay, okay. I don’t want you wishing one of those sorrowful-ever-after outcomes on me. I can’t afford to take bad luck with me on my next assignment.”

      She reapplied herself to the flowers and weeds, wielding a spade. “Griffin says he’s done with war reporting.”

      “I’ve got to go back,” Gage said quickly. Too quickly, he decided, because she cast him a puzzled glance.

      “Sure,” she said.

      “I accepted a new assignment.” And he had something to prove, too. Those bastards hadn’t taken anything from him. He wouldn’t let them.

      “Sure,” she said again.

      Realizing he’d curled his hands into fists, he took a moment to relax his fingers, breathing deep as he gazed around the cove where he’d come to recharge. There was a mini cottage next door, so small it was almost a dollhouse, and as he watched, the front door opened. A pretty blonde stepped out and, spotting him, waved before disappearing around a corner.

      He waved back. “Who is your friend again? Polly...?”

      “Polly Weber.”

      “Cute.”

      Suddenly Skye had pivoted on her knees and was pointing her spade at his throat like a stiletto. “Don’t even think about it.”