The salt air, Jane Pearson realized, was hampering the
success of her impending mission. First, it made her
normally normal hair fuzzy. Not such a big deal, she
supposed as she picked her way downhill, taking the narrow
track of crushed shells that led from the coastal road to
the picturesque cottages of Crescent Cove, but it was also
wilting the white linen dress she wore.
At home, the garment had seemed perfect I-mean-business wear
for a June late afternoon. It had short cap sleeves and a
collar she'd buttoned tight to the neck, but the swing
hemline no longer moved crisply about her knees, instead
clinging damply to her thighs. By the time she reached Beach
House No. 9, she feared she wouldn't appear the
no-nonsense professional. Kleenex ghost might be a better
comparison, the kind that kids made at Halloween—this
one spritzed with water and topped with frizzy blondish
tendrils.
No matter, she thought. Her determination remained firm.
Despite the state of her attire, she wouldn't soften
when facing the man she was here to confront. Griffin Lowell
had been ignoring her calls—all eleven of
them!—and she wasn't willing to wait any longer for
a response. According to his literary agent, the writer was
way behind on his memoir. Jane had been hired to cure his
critical case of deadline denial and then help shape the
pages she prodded him to produce. It was time to get started.
He needed her.
You need him too, Jane, a little voice in her head
added.
She ignored the unwelcome reminder and focused instead on
her surroundings. Crescent Cove wasn't a hardship to
visit. It was actually an amazing find in this Southern
California county notable for the recently built, oh-soalike
housing developments and shopping malls that sprouted like
beige-stuccoed fungi along the Pacific Coast Highway. About
those red terra-cotta tile roofs…didn't anyone
realize that too much of a good thing made a bad thing?
By contrast, this beach colony was straight from another
time. The fifty or so unconventional bungalows and colorful
cottages were prime examples of beach vernacular
architectural design—she'd read that—and
snuggled the bluffs along a two-mile stretch of sand. Each
appeared as cheery and appealing as the bougainvillea that
grew like weeds around them in colors ranging from pale
salmon to the brightest scarlet. The prevailing sound at the
cove was the rhythmic shush of the waves, as the growl of
tires on the highway above was screened by a stand of tall
eucalyptus. Their medicinal tang mingled with the scents of
seaweed, sand and ocean.
A black Labrador in a tie-dyed kerchief ambled toward her,
and she smiled at him. Jane loved dogs, though she'd
never actually owned one. Growing up, her famed scientist of
a father had claimed that pets would distract children from
the rigor of their studies. And these days, her hours were
too unpredictable to allow for a pet.
"Hello," she called out to the canine, wiggling her
fingers in his direction. His moseying pace didn't
check, however, and he turned down an alley that snaked
between two rows of houses. Well. Just another male wrapped
up in his own pursuits.
Continuing forward, she approached No. 9 from the rear,
where more crushed shells led to a double garage, its door
painted a seafoam-green. A handful of beach cruiser bicycles
leaned against the dark brown shingled siding. Six cars were
parked nearby, half of them luxury sedans, half in dubious
running condition, all with two or more surfboards strapped
on top, bright-striped beach towels sandwiched between them.
Did Griffin Lowell have houseguests? The thought made Jane
pause while she was still fifty feet from the back door.
Surely not. His agent had told her the man in question had
gone completely hermit, ignoring phone calls, texts and
emails—even from friends and family. Jane knew all too
well how effectively he'd snubbed her.
"Before he went incommunicado, I spoke to him about
getting some assistance with the book," Frank, the
agent, had said. "He agreed. So light a firecracker
under him, will you, Jane?"
Of course she would. She was excellent at her job, and after
the disaster of her last assignment, it was imperative she
prove that again.
Her short-heeled pumps had slender ankle straps and cutouts
like eyelets scattered across the toe cap. She watched them
carefully as she navigated another fifteen feet on the
unsteady shell surface before pausing a second time. Taking
in some deep breaths, she tried smoothing down her
wisping-every-which-way hair and palm-ironing the damp
fabric of her dress. The stakes had her a little tense.
Not to mention that there was the whole recluse thing to
consider. Griffin had spent a year embedded with American
troops in Afghanistan. He'd seen things, experienced
things—hence the memoir—that without a doubt had
impacted him. Was he right now sitting alone, staring out to
sea, brooding over the nature of God and man? She felt her
uneasiness tick up another notch as she imagined that scene,
and then herself interrupting his silent solitude.
But you've been given a second chance, Jane, and you
can't afford to balk.
With that mantra echoing in her head, she made it to the mat
lying outside the front door. It looked like a Jolly Roger,
and beneath the skull and crossbones was written: Abandon
Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
Another woman might add that warning to the eleven
disregarded phone calls, her jittering nerves, plus the limp
state of her clothing and then decide to tackle the author
another day. Jane, however, lifted her chin as well as her
fist, prepared to rap on the door.
It swung open before her knuckles met wood. A guy in bare
feet, yellow board shorts and bleached blond curls stared
down at her. From inside came the unmistakable sound of a
party. Rap music, raised voices, the shattering of a beer
bottle followed by curses worthy of a sailor. Two women
passed behind the beach boy, wearing near-identical denim
miniskirts and mini bikini tops too, their long highlighted
locks straightened to shiny perfection. They clutched
tropical-colored drinks complete with umbrellas and
didn't spare a glance for Jane with her fuzzy hair and
drooping dress. In the distance, she heard a masculine voice
say, "I'm drunk. Smashed. Pissed." Another
someone yelled, "Hey, Brittany, how 'bout you and me
get naked?"
Oh, the man she was after was
so not a hermit.
"Griffin?" she said, eyeing the surfer dude.
"Nah, I'm Ted. You want him?"
"Yes." She wasn't sure if she was happy or sad
that Beach Boy wasn't the man she was after. "Is he
available?" As in, not inebriated and not getting bare
with Brittany.
"For you? Sure." He gestured with his thumb over his
shoulder. "Inside. Can't miss him."
As she scooted past, the dude yelled, "Hey, Griffin!
Guess who the liquor store sent out to deliver the chips and
booze? Some little thing from librarian school!"
Ignoring her annoyance at the comment, she took in her
surroundings. A party was definitely going on at
Griffin's. Twenty or so people milled about a
rectangular living room that had a whitewashed brick
fireplace on the wall opposite sliding glass doors leading
to an ocean-view deck. There, more people were gathered. The
rap song gave way to something by Jimmy Buffett as she moved
through the crowd, wondering how she "couldn't
miss" the reporter. He worked for magazines, so
she'd never seen him on television. The black-and-white
photo her preliminary research had uncovered depicted a
scruffy figure wearing a combat helmet, flak jacket and
dusty sunglasses.
The music blasting from the speakers hiccuped, and the Jimmy
Buffett song started again from the top just as she 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," she said. "My name is
Jane."
That prodded him a little. His eyes opened a slit. They
closed again as one corner of his mouth ticked up. "Of
course it is."
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