Beach House No. 9. Christie Ridgway

Monroe. It came to me later. You are the Rex Monroe, yes? The famous reporter?”

      Without looking, Griffin could feel the cantankerous antique behind him preening. “Well, young lady, I don’t know about famous…”

      Griffin rolled his eyes. “Don’t get him started.”

      “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Jane continued, still ignoring Griffin. “I devoured a compendium of 1940s war journalism about ten years ago. I enjoyed your pieces so much.”

      “Why, you must have been just a baby,” Monroe said, sounding pleased.

      Jane smiled. “I was a bookworm from birth.”

      “You bug the hell out of me, anyway,” Griffin muttered.

      She’d never smiled at him like that. She’d worn a clearly fake one upon their introduction two days before. Last night, after he’d wrenched his mouth from hers, he’d shoved her off and spun away—not knowing if he’d left her spitting fire or beaming with pleasure.

      Yeah, he’d pushed her away. And yeah, he supposed she hadn’t been too pleased with either that or the way he’d taken it upon himself to lock their lips first. Hers had been as soft as they looked, pillowy like he’d imagined, and they’d opened on the smallest of gasps when he swiped across the seam with his impatient tongue.

      Once inside, he’d stroked deep for her flavor, not acting with his usual finesse. He’d just claimed every centimeter of that wet heat as lust had shuddered across his skin in waves. What had he been thinking? She was a pest.

      She was governess Jane, the librarian look-alike.

      Certainly she was here to slap him.

      Resigned to it, he turned his face to the side and tapped his cheek with the hand not gripping Private. “Go ahead. Hit me.”

      She took a step back, blinking. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to hit you.”

      “You should seize the opportunity,” Old Man Monroe advised.

      “Can it, you decrepit coot,” Griffin called over his shoulder.

      Jane blinked again. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to? This man won major awards for his war reporting. A Pulitzer. He’s one of the best of the best.”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Greatest generation and all that. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s been a pain in my ass since I was seven years old.”

      “A mutual sentiment,” his neighbor put in.

      “Surely it’s time for your daily dose of The Golden Girls,” Griffin said, turning his head to glare at the grizzled grouch. “Or maybe you need a nap, old man?”

      “If I take one, then that’s my prerogative. I’m retired from deadlines, unlike yourself. Don’t be lazy.”

      “Lazy?” His temper yanked its chain like a mad dog glimpsing the mailman. “I spent a year without running water or electricity. A year with flies and firefights and my own filth. A bullet went through my helmet when I was lying on my bunk, and it was hooked on a nail fourteen inches from my own damn skull.”

      “So sit your keister down and write about it.”

      “I did, though I suppose you’re too senile to read the words. I gave the magazine that sponsored the embed assignment an article every month.”

      “But now you have the time, the space and the security to analyze the events. Put them in context. Describe how they’ve changed you. Sex and booze aren’t going to take the experiences out of your head, boy.”

      Boy? Most days Griffin felt a thousand years old. And not that he’d confess to Monroe or anyone else, but booze had fallen off his “Might Work” list. As for sex…that drive had been neutralized after what had happened to Erica. Even before then, when they were bunking with the platoon, there’d been too little alone time and too many strung-tight nerves to find a reprieve in that kind of release.

      Okay, and he’d also been trying to get some distance from her.

      “I’m going inside,” he said, turning toward the back door, Private close to his thigh. “Sweet dreams, Rex.”

      “Griffin.”

      His feet stopped moving. He’d almost convinced his brain that Jane wasn’t still standing there. Those three-hundred-plus days in Afghanistan had demonstrated the power of the mind. During his stint with the troops, on occasion he would swear he smelled hot water—and it did have a scent. Other mornings he’d woken, and before he’d opened his eyes he would hear Gage humming his favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd tune. He could feel his brother just a few feet away.

      Once, after an incident like that, he’d managed to reach his twin via sat phone. He’d asked him what, if anything, he’d been singing to himself as he washed up for the day. “Free Bird.” Yeah, it had felt really, really real.

      But Governess Jane was really, really real as well. So he turned to face her. “What is it? You rethinking that slap?”

      Her lips were in their primmed state. “About what happened last night…you should know I don’t scare off so easily.”

      She thought he’d had a motive beyond her mouth? “Clearly.”

      “And if you come near me with that purpose in mind again, it won’t be your face that feels the pain.”

      His brows rose. He didn’t plan on ever seeing her again, let alone kissing her, but he decided against clueing her in. And for damn sure he wasn’t going to confess that kissing her had been only about impulse, not intention. “Fine.”

      She started to move off, and it was then he noticed the medium-sized piece of luggage in her hand. His hackles rose. “What do you have there?” he asked, gesturing to it.

      “I believe it’s called a duffel bag?”

      Goose bumps were forming along his spine. “You’re out of here, right?” Please, God, she was leaving.

      “I’m out of here, but not going far,” she said smugly. “I’m moving into the vacant bungalow next door.”

      * * *

      IT TOOK LITTLE TIME for Jane to get situated in No. 8. It was much smaller than Griffin’s place, and she’d brought only a few items from her apartment. That was a small space too, and a long commute—even by SoCal standards—from here. She didn’t feel a particular attachment to it. Often her job had taken her away from the one-bedroom for weeks at a time when a client had wanted her closer. Of course, in this case her client wanted her anything but closer, but he’d thank her for her dedication in the end. She was sure of it.

      The idea had come to Jane as she’d picked her way past the empty cottage after leaving the party—after that kiss. If Griffin was pulling out all the stops to chase her off, her solution was to place herself even more underfoot. Following this morning’s first cup of coffee, she’d found Skye Alexander’s phone number and made the arrangements.

      The only flaw was how distracting Jane found the endless view of ocean and the ever-changing play of waves against sand. If Rex Monroe hadn’t stopped by with a leather-bound volume of plastic-sheathed pages, she might have succumbed to temptation and spent the afternoon concerning herself with nothing more than the freckles a sunbath might bring out on her nose.

      Now, though, she laid Rex’s book on the small dining table situated between the galley kitchen and postage-stamp living room. To the right of the album, she set her sweating glass of iced tea. Her pulse picked up as she drew out a chair. She had a feeling she’d find the key to achieving Griffin’s cooperation here.

      A knock sounded on the front door. With a pat and a promise for the book, she turned toward the entry. It was the property manager, Skye, on the other side of the threshold. Today the brunette had her hair in a tight French braid, revealing the fine bones of her slender face. She didn’t