Beach House No. 9. Christie Ridgway

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.

      The second bikini smiled at Jane, who managed to smile back. “Nice, uh, party. A special occasion?”

      The sleek-haired woman shrugged. “It’s Tuesday?”

      “Actually,” Jane said, “it’s Wednesday.”

      “Oh.” The bikini rubbed a spot between her brows. “I’ve lost track. Finals week, you know.”

      Was testing required for the technicians at tanning salons? “You’re a student?”

      “Graduate work. Marine biology.” Then she cracked up. “You should see your face! I’m kidding. I’m in beauty school.”

      The young woman didn’t need to take classes for that, Jane thought. She was striking in that wide-mouthed, big-breasted way of women who were soap-opera actresses or models in Maxim magazine. “You visit Griffin often?”

      “It’s Party Central, y’know? My girlfriend’s boyfriend surfs with him, so we’ve all been hanging out here. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

      Which seemed to also verify he wasn’t hard at work on his manuscript. Figuring he’d had enough time to take care of the liquor delivery, Jane excused herself and went in search of him again. It took a few minutes to determine he wasn’t in the galley-style kitchen, any of the bedrooms, the bathrooms or even the garage that housed another gathering of partiers clustered around a table set up for beer pong. On her second search, she discovered that somehow he’d gotten past her and was now stretched out on a lounge in a corner of the deck, his eyes closed once again. His fingers were curled around a fresh bottle of beer.

      He might as well have been alone.

      Jane didn’t let that deter her. Instead, she dragged a molded plastic chair to his side and plunked herself onto its seat, tucking her wild hair behind her ears. Not a single male muscle twitched.

      With a huff, she sent him a pointed look, but that didn’t appear to pierce the bubble he’d erected around himself either. Though she supposed waiting him out would give her the upper hand, she didn’t have that kind of patience. His deadline was at stake. Her reputation.

      She huffed again. “Griffin.”

      Only his lips moved. “Honey-pie.”

      Her back teeth ground together. “Look, I’m here because you told your agent you were interested in someone helping you with your manuscript. That’s what I do.”

      When Griffin didn’t respond, she raised her voice. “I’m a book doctor,”