Return to USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway’s Crescent Cove, California, where the magic of summer can last forever…

Combat medic Vance Smith made a promise to a fallen officer: to treat the man’s young daughter to an idyllic vacation at Beach House No. 9. One month, some sun and surf, a “helmet list” of activities to check off and Vance will move on. But the “little girl” he’s expecting turns out to be a full-grown woman. With silky hair, big brown eyes and smelling sweetly of the cupcakes she makes for her mobile bakery, Layla Parker is irresistible. And Vance shouldn’t lay a finger on her. Honor—and one heck of a scarred heart—says so.

To Layla, Vance is a hero who was injured trying to save her father’s life. She intends to spend their month of lazy days and warm nights taking very good care of the gorgeous soldier—inside and out….

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author

CHRISTIE RIDGWAY

“Sexy and addictive—Ridgway will keep you up all night!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Andersen on Beach House No. 9

“Ridgway’s feel-good read, with its perfectly integrated, extremely hot, and well-crafted love scenes, is contemporary romance at its best.”

—Booklist on Can’t Hurry Love (starred review)

“Sexy, sassy, funny, and cool, this effervescent sizzler nicely launches Ridgway’s new series and is a perfect pick-me-up for a summer’s day.”

—Library Journal on Crush on You

“Pure romance, delightfully warm and funny.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie

“Christie Ridgway writes with the perfect combination of humor and heart. This funny, sexy story is as fresh and breezy as its Southern California setting. An irresistible read!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs on How to Knit a Wild Bikini

“Christie Ridgway is delightful.”

—New York Times bestselling author Rachel Gibson

“Sexy, smart, sparkling—say yes! to An Offer He Can’t Refuse.”

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd

Dear Reader,

Summer days are long and lovely at Crescent Cove’s Beach House No. 9, but there’s just something about those summer nights that will make your visit unforgettable! Even as the sun goes down, there’s plenty of heat left in the most enchanting bungalow on the sand. Join me to see what the magic is all about....

Not so far from the cove is another unique place you’ll visit in Bungalow Nights—“avocado country,” where the hills are covered with the deep green-leaved trees that bear the prickly product sometimes known as the fertility fruit or the alligator pear. It’s another part of California I’m pleased to show you. After all, everything goes better with a little guacamole on the side, doesn’t it?

Combat medic Vance Smith has no idea of all that’s on the menu when he makes his visit to No. 9. Only when he meets pretty, brown-eyed baker Layla Parker does he get an inkling of the sweets within his grasp. The two struggle against their growing feelings for each other—they both have wary hearts—but fighting love is as useless as fighting an incoming tide. I hope you’ll root for their happy ending.

Here comes the sun!

Christie

Bungalow Nights

Christie Ridgway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book was written when I was virtually bed-bound due to a fractured leg that required surgery (plates! pins! screws!) followed by three months when I wasn’t allowed to put weight on it. My loyal and loving husband came home at lunch every day to make me a good meal and followed that up with dinner every night. That’s not to mention all the other household tasks that he took over or the many times he cheered my spirits, including when he drove me to visit the places that inspired the Beach House No. 9 books. So, my darling Rob, this one is for you. Again. Always.

Contents

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Recipes

Every lover is a soldier.

—Ovid

A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another, the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another, it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden.

—Buddha

CHAPTER ONE

VANCE SMITH HAD FACED down Taliban bullets with more cool than he felt sitting on the beachside restaurant’s open-air deck. He was here to meet his companion for the next month, and not that he’d admit it to anyone, but there was an undeniable film of sweat on both palms—sweat he couldn’t even swipe against his jeans thanks to the fiberglass cast that bound one wrist and the soft brace that was fastened around the other.

Sometime during his short hospital stay, a dumb-ass private with Picasso pretensions had taken a Sharpie to the pristine polymer wrapping on his left arm and drawn a big-busted, half-naked warrior princess, detailed enough that Vance had been forced to beg his cousin Baxter this morning for some help in disguising the X-rated image. He was meeting an impressionable young person, after all.

Grimacing, Vance glanced down at his cousin’s solution, then back at Baxter himself, who was sitting across the table, nursing a club soda. “Really?” he said to the other man, not bothering to blunt the edge to his voice. “A tat sleeve? That’s the best you could come up with?”

Baxter blinked. In their youth, people had mistaken the two of them for twins and they still had the same blond hair and blue eyes. But while Vance sported a soldier’s barber cut and casual clothes, his one-year-younger cousin had a salon style and looked the epitome of his nickname, All Business Baxter, in a conservative suit and tie. His gaze dropped to the nylon fabric stretched over Vance’s cast. “I say it’s inspired. And I could have made a worse choice, you know. As it is, you almost blend in.”

Vance grunted. He supposed Bax was right. The sleeve’s design wasn’t demonic, or worse, straight out of a prison documentary. Instead, the images were intricate and colorful weavings of tribal signs, tropical flora and curling waves. Nothing to scare off a child.

“Snuggle up closer with Teddy if you’re still worried,” Baxter advised. “Then your new little friend won’t even notice them.”

It wasn’t embarrassment but annoyance that burned Vance’s skin. “Shut up,” he said, adjusting the toddler-size stuffed bear on his lap. A big blue satin bow was tied around its neck. “And remind me why you’re not at work again?” His cousin managed the numbers end of the family business, Smith & Sons Foods, that grew avocados and citrus in a fertile area about sixty miles southeast of here. “Shouldn’t you be counting packing crates or something?”

Baxter tilted his head and seemed to consider the question. “Good point. I am very busy. But I’m also the only relative who gets more than the rare two-line email from you. My three sentences confer a certain responsibility upon me.”

Vance looked toward the ocean to avoid the censure in the other man’s gaze. The restaurant was situated at one end of Southern California’s Crescent Cove, a gentle curve of land that created a shallow cup for the gray-blue Pacific water. Today’s bright July sun scattered gold discs onto its dappled surface. A beautiful sight, and as different as could be from the stark landscape of Afghanistan that he’d been gazing upon for months, but he didn’t find it soothing. There was that kid in his future. Four weeks playing father figure to a stranger.

“‘Confer a certain responsibility,’” he muttered, taking his uneasiness out on his cousin. “You’ve turned pompous, you know that?”

“It must be those sixteen hours a day I sit behind a desk,” Baxter replied without heat. “Not everyone has spent the last half year or so dodging IEDs and getting in the middle of firefights.”

“It’s my job.” He was a combat medic, and though it wasn’t what he’d originally planned for himself, Vance held no regrets about being the one to aid his fallen brothers on the battlefield. He did it damn well. Lives had been saved.

And some not.

“Uh-oh,” Baxter said now. “Stay with me, fella. You look ready to bolt.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He could still hear his grandfather’s voice in his head. A man never breaks a promise. And Vance lived by that. His fingers absently played with the ends of the stuffed bear’s satin ribbon. “When her dad was dying in that godforsaken valley, I swore to him I’d give Layla a vacation to remember at Beach House No. 9.”

The injured colonel had carried the details of his planned trip in the interior webbing of his combat helmet, where it was common for soldiers to tuck valued letters and precious photos. Like Vance, he had learned of Crescent Cove from Griffin Lowell, an embedded journalist who had waxed poetic about his childhood summers at the place to anyone who’d listen. Those idyllic reminiscences had served as an escape for all of them from the drudgery and brutality of war, but must have struck a particular chord with the officer, because he’d arranged the cottage rental for his upcoming leave and stashed the particulars with the photo he carried of his little girl.

Hiding behind a straw-and-mud wall, while Vance was doing his best to stanch the bleeding from the older man’s multiple wounds, Colonel Samuel Parker had one thing on his mind—his daughter. As death closed in, he’d extracted from Vance a promise to act as stand-in tour guide during Layla’s month-to-remember. Vance considered it a point of honor to obey the good man’s final order.

“Hey.” Baxter jerked in his chair, his attention riveted over Vance’s shoulder. “Is that...?” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “It couldn’t be.”

Alarmed by his cousin’s sudden loss of urbanity, Vance glanced around. “Oh,” he said, relaxing. “It’s Addy. You remember Addison March—her mom is friends with our mothers, she grew up down the road from our ranch—”

“I know who she is,” Baxter interjected. “But why is she here? Why is she coming toward us?”

Vance once again glanced over his shoulder. Addy, a small, curvy blonde dressed in a pair of flat sandals and calf-length pants, was crossing the deck toward their table. She didn’t look the least bit worthy of the thread of distress in his cousin’s voice. “I hired her to act as a nanny. I couldn’t very well be alone with a little girl. I ran into Addy when I was checking out the cove a couple of days ago and—”

“But you said you’d never heard of this place before that reporter mentioned it. I’ve never heard of it before. Of all the gin joints,” the other man muttered, pushing out of his chair with agitated movements. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hello,” a female voice said from behind Vance’s back. Addy had arrived. “Leaving already, Baxter?”

His cousin froze and his panicked expression would have been comical if it wasn’t so out of character. “You feel okay?” Vance asked him.

“I’m fine. Fine,” Baxter muttered, sinking back into his seat. “Never been better. Not a care in the world.”

“Whatever you say.” Vance gestured toward one of the free chairs at the table. “Sit down, Addy. You’re right on time. Layla should be here any minute.”

“With her uncle?” the young woman asked.

“I suppose.” The arrangements to meet today had been made via email through Phil Parker, the contact he’d been given by Layla’s father. If you asked Vance, the man came off a bubble short of level, his often-vague replies free of punctuation and peppered with irrelevant references to kismet, fate and surfing. Each email ended with namaste, whatever the hell that meant.

“The stuffed animal’s a nice touch,” Addy said.

The mention of Teddy irritated Vance all over again, so he slipped the photo he carried out of the breast pocket of his sports shirt. Yeah, he’d sort of dressed up for the kid, too. His best jeans and a short-sleeved button-down, straight from the dry cleaner’s plastic. He slapped the picture onto the tabletop. “Her father had this with him. It’s what gave me the idea.”

Layla Parker stared up at the three of them. She was sitting on a short flight of concrete steps, one of her knobby little-kid knees sporting scabs. Her long hair was in pigtails tied below each ear, revealing a wide forehead over big brown eyes. She appeared to be approximately ten years old and she stared into the camera, a little smile curving her lips as her skinny arms hugged a potbellied teddy bear to her middle.

“Ah,” Addy said, smiling. “Cute.”

“Yeah.” Her dad’s fingers had been trembling when he fished out the picture. Isn’t she beautiful, Vance? You’ve got to do something for her. You’ve got to do something for my girl. What choice had there been? The husky emotion in the mortally wounded man’s voice had impelled Vance to say he would.

He’d also done everything in his power to save the colonel, but it hadn’t been enough. Too soon he’d been gone, leaving Vance alone with his pledge to fulfill the fallen officer’s final wish.

“I’ve got to go,” Baxter said again.

“Sure.” With Addy on scene, there was another person at the table to smooth over the awkwardness of the initial meeting with young Layla. He angled his head toward his cousin. “Thanks for—”

Vance broke off as the breeze made a sudden shift, blowing a cold breath across the nape of his neck. The small hairs on his body—even the ones surrounded by the infernal cast and brace—went on instant alert as if eager to escape. He tensed. Soldiers learned to rely on their gut, and Vance’s was suddenly shouting that the person who should be leaving was him.

But though he’d been scared shitless a hundred times, since joining the army he’d never ducked his duty and he wasn’t about to start now. Anyway, what could possibly endanger him in this sun-drenched civilian world?

That weird breeze chilled him again, and Vance jerked his head in its direction. Sunlight dazzled him. Something dazzled him, anyway, and he was forced to blink a couple of times before bringing into focus the deserted hostess stand across the deck and the lone figure positioned before it. It was a very pretty woman, probably in her mid-twenties, wearing a silky-looking dress of swirling jewel colors that hit at midthigh and was belted around her slender waist. Medium-brown hair waved past her shoulders and her forehead was covered by a deep fringe of bangs.

A new feeling tickled him. He should know her, he thought, frowning. And not just in the way any red-blooded man would want to know a woman that hot. She looked familiar.

And nervous. Her fingers combed through the ends of her long hair as she went on tiptoe to scan the area. When she settled back on her heels, she bit down on her bottom lip.

God, didn’t he know that mouth?

He wouldn’t have forgotten kissing those lips, would he?

Still puzzling it out, he narrowed his gaze. He was thirty and she was about five years younger, which crossed her off his list of high school hookups—even if one might have coincidentally ventured here, an hour from home environs. As for more recent conquests—until six months ago he’d been in a yearlong, serious relationship. Meaning if this lovely little mama was part of his past it would have been in his wild and crazy years...wild, crazy and hazy.

He glanced over at Baxter, who had been his partner in crime—okay, he’d been the designated driver—whenever Vance could pry him free of his Aeron office chair. “Cuz.”

Baxter started. He’d been watching Addy, who’d been watching the waves curl toward shore. “Uh, what?” His hand smoothed over the tasteful stripes of his preppy tie even as he slid a last look at the blonde seated beside him.

Vance couldn’t cipher what was going on there, not when he had to determine the identity of the leggy girl at the hostess stand. “Don’t be obvious, but check out the woman waiting for a table.” He saw his cousin lift his gaze in the right direction. “Do I know her?”

Bax’s eyes flicked back to Vance’s face. “Huh? How would I be aware of all your acquaintances?”

“It’s a long shot, but...” But he had this dreadlike feeling that she wasn’t a mere acquaintance. He fought the urge to ogle her again, though the guy in him was clamoring for a second look. It was a bad idea, though. If she was a former...interest of his, he didn’t want to attract her attention. He’d become a little classier—and a lot less of a party animal—over the past few years, and it would only embarrass them both if she attempted reacquaintance and he was forced to admit he’d forgotten her name and how he knew her.

How well they might have known each other.

Could I really have forgotten that mouth?

Hooking a foot around a leg of his chair, he gave it a little twist, presenting more of his back to the brunette. “Never mind.”

“Um,” his cousin said, his gaze drifting over Vance’s shoulder again. “I guess she’s given up waiting on the hostess. She’s walked onto the deck and it looks as if she’s coming in this direction.”

Hell! Vance did a rush shuffle through his memory banks. In college, he’d double majored in hedonism and procrastination until dropping out to join the army. Returning to California after his four-year stint, he’d briefly gone back to his bad boy ways. Though he’d soon straightened up and begun a relationship with a woman he’d thought was his future, it still left time for him to find then forget the wavy-haired woman he could practically feel from here.

He took a chance and glanced back. She was standing still again, scanning the restaurant’s patrons with a hint of anxiety in her expression. He hoped some asshole hadn’t stood her up. As he watched, her eyes started to track toward their table and Vance hurriedly turned his head. Sliding lower in his seat, he made to grab a menu from the table to use as a shield, then froze.

What the hell was he doing? If he hid behind the vinyl folder, Addy would think he was addled. Bax would laugh his ass off. Vance considered himself an idiot just for having the craven impulse.

Anyway, no chance I would have forgotten that face.

Preparing to start some relaxing small talk with his companions, he cleared his throat. Addy and Baxter both looked at him and then, as one, their gazes transferred to a spot above his head. Vance’s belly tightened. A delicately sweet scent reached him on another of those cold, cautionary breezes.

“Vance?” a throaty, feminine voice asked. “Vance Smith?”

That slightly scratchy timbre goosed him somewhere deep inside, waking his previously snoozing sexual urges with a start. Shit, he thought, tensing. Now wasn’t the time for this. Now was the time for Layla Parker to show up. And if the girl arrived this very minute, then an awkward encounter with the female he’d forgotten could get lost in the flurry of meeting the colonel’s daughter. His libido would settle back to its deep sleep. Without moving a muscle, he waited a beat for his wish to come true.

When his hope went unfulfilled, Vance swallowed his sigh of resignation and slowly half turned in his seat.

“So...The Breakers?” he asked, naming one of his old hangouts as he shifted. “Or was it Pete’s Place?”

“What?” she asked.

He made himself look into her eyes. They were big and a soft brown, circled with thick dark lashes. Damn, Vance thought, those eyes, that mouth, the whole package stirred him up.

And stirred a memory, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it.

“I’m trying to recall where we met,” he clarified. There was nothing to do but confess, though the way his body was responding it seemed unbelievable her identity wasn’t burned in his brain. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know...”

“Oh.” She shook her head, and a pair of gold hoop earrings swung. “We haven’t met. I took a guess. You have the shortest haircut out here.” Her lips curved just a little and—

It clicked. That tiny smile snapped the missing piece into the puzzle. It was the same one worn by the bear-toting kid in the officer’s photograph.

His gut knotted. Hell, he thought, stunned. Oh, hell.

She was right; they’d never met, but he knew her all the same. As a matter of fact, he’d been waiting for her. Yes, Colonel, she is beautiful.

So damn beautiful Vance felt a little sick.

The sexy woman standing two feet away was none other than Layla Parker. Layla Parker, the “little girl” whose dreams he’d been charged with making come true.

Good God, he thought. This changed everything, didn’t it? The little girl was all grown up.

* * *

VANCE WAS SO UNBALANCED he didn’t get to his feet, he didn’t speak, he might not have been breathing. Baxter’s manners kicked in, thank goodness, and it was he who shepherded the colonel’s daughter to the empty chair beside Addy. Layla let herself be led away from Vance and gave her attention to his cousin and the woman he’d hired to live at Beach House No. 9 with him and the little girl.

The little girl who wasn’t a little girl in the least.

Still trying to come to grips with that, he let Baxter and Addy initiate introductions and continue the conversation. Layla smiled and spoke, even as Vance didn’t hear a word she said.

Her big browns kept stealing glances at his face. She was clearly puzzled by his continued silence, but he couldn’t do more than try to ignore his body’s reaction to her while thinking of the speediest way to put an end to this impossible situation.

A server, apparently noting every chair at their four-top was occupied, hurried over to discuss the menu and take requests. He considered telling the aproned girl they wouldn’t be sticking around that long, but Baxter—who’d apparently changed his mind about leaving—and the others were already making decisions and communicating food orders. There was nothing he could do but ask for a sandwich and iced tea.

So they’d have lunch. Share a meal before bidding goodbye. Layla was more than twice the age he’d expected and surely she had better things to do than hang out at the beach with a virtual stranger.

Just as he had the comforting thought, she addressed him. “My dad wrote me about you.”

Vance blinked, looking up from the photograph he’d tossed on the table before, now half-obscured by a place mat. “He did?” They’d known each other, of course—the officer had held a keen interest in the men under his command and he’d been deeply respected and admired in return—but their real closeness had come on that fateful day when Vance had been one of the patrol accompanying the colonel across the valley to his meet with a tribal elder. Fighting to save someone’s life brought about a profound intimacy.

Her gaze dropped to the stack of thin metal bracelets circling one delicate wrist. She spun them one way and then another. “He sent me long letters, describing the people he worked with, the scenery around him, that sort of thing.”

Vance thought of the stingy emails he tapped off to his family and for the first time experienced a pinch of guilt. “Ah.”

“He was a good storyteller,” she said in that sweet rasp of hers. “If he hadn’t been a soldier...”

Her words dropped away, leaving behind an awkward pause. The fact was he had been a soldier and they all knew how that had turned out.

Addy broke the uncomfortable silence. “What is it you do?”

Yeah, Vance thought, good lead-in. Layla would want him to know she had a life that made spending four weeks at Crescent Cove inconvenient, if not downright impossible.

“Karma Cupcakes,” she answered.

Karma cupcakes? He didn’t know what the hell she meant, but it reminded him of something else. “Where’s your uncle?” he asked abruptly. For God’s sake, surely the man should have realized Vance had been operating under a misconception. I was expecting a ten-year-old, Phil!

Layla shrugged. “About now? When he can, he practices tai chi in a city park from noon to one.”

Didn’t that just figure. Namaste. It only solidified Vance’s burgeoning belief that the man was flaky enough not to pick up on the oddness of the situation he’d arranged for his grown niece. No wonder Layla’s father hadn’t entrusted his last request to his brother. “And after that?”

“He drives the cupcake truck.” Glancing around at their confused expressions, she released a laugh.

A little husky. Young.

Yet dangerous miles more mature than the laughter of the female he’d been expecting to entertain at Beach House No. 9. God, what a joke.

“We operate a mobile bakery, Uncle Phil and I,” Layla informed them.

Addy looked interested. “Gourmet food trucks are the new big thing.”

“Exactly,” Layla said, nodding. “We’re called Karma Cupcakes, and we make the batter and bake the cakes in our truck. Then we sell them at various locations in Southern California. We have a regular schedule of farmers’ markets and popular stopping points. Our customers happen upon us or track our whereabouts via social media.”

Baxter straightened in his chair. “I read this article in Commerce Weekly—”

“That’s got to keep you very busy, Layla,” Vance said over him. He’d moved into Beach House No. 9 that morning, but because he’d let go of his apartment upon being called up, since returning to Southern California he’d squatted in the second bedroom at Bax’s city town house for a few days. It was more than enough time to know that the other man devoted himself to business twenty-three-and-a-half hours out of twenty-four. His cousin could go on forever about some dry article he’d read in a financial journal, only postponing the understanding at which Vance and Layla needed to arrive.

The understanding that they’d part ways as soon as he took care of the lunch check. “And summer’s probably a hectic time of year for you,” Vance added.

“Sure,” she agreed. “But we have it worked out so I can stay at Beach House No. 9, if that’s got you worried.”

Of course that had him worried, dammit.

“Uncle Phil can make friends in a minute, including with the couple who owns this restaurant. Once they heard our story, they agreed to let us park the truck overnight in their lot adjacent to the coast highway. In the mornings I’ll do the mixing and baking as usual, in the afternoons, we can...” She shrugged.

We can... Oh, God, he was a bad man, because the we cans instantly spread across Vance’s mind like a set of erotic playing cards. Blame it on the dearth of female companionship a combat tour offered. Blame it on the train wreck that was his last romantic relationship. Hell, place the blame squarely on the beautiful young woman who was sitting a tabletop away, the summer sunshine edging her feminine figure. Who could blame him for his sudden and sharp sexual response? She was big eyes and a tender mouth, soft tresses and golden skin. Nothing could stop his gaze from tracing the column of her throat to the hint of cleavage revealed by the V neckline of her dress.

Unbidden, he pictured himself nuzzling the fabric aside with his mouth, tasting the sweet flavor of her flesh, finding her secret points of arousal and exploiting them with his hot breath and wet tongue. Her long legs would move restlessly, creating a space for his hips, and she’d open to him with a blissful sigh of surrender that was the single best turn-on a man could experience.

A man who’d made promises to her father.

Dammit!

His gaze refocused on the little-girl photo on the tabletop. “This isn’t going to work,” he said, emphatic.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Vance stifled a groan and met her eyes. “Look, I didn’t expect you—uh, it to be like this.”

She stared at him, clearly perplexed. “But you said my father spoke about it. About me being here.”

“Yes, yes. You were in his thoughts at the very last. However...” Vance could feel Addy and Bax looking at him like he was a monster, but hell, he felt like a monster. Juiced up on sex and ready to grab the fair maiden and abscond with her to his deep, dark den. As a reaction it was near violent and damn embarrassing. “Maybe we could meet for a walk someday and talk about it. Or perhaps a phone conversation would be better. I know, I’ll tell you the whole story in an email.”

“You said July at Beach House No. 9,” Layla insisted, her brows meeting over a small, straight nose, betraying she had more backbone than he’d assumed at first glance. “That was my dad’s request—it was his last wish and I think I should fulfill that. It’s what you said you wanted, as well.”

Yeah, he could certainly understand that the colonel’s daughter felt compelled to follow through with what her father had asked of them. It was something he took very seriously himself. But...but...

I thought you were a little kid!

He’d have to find some way to let her down easy. What kind of man would admit he was afraid of getting behind a closed door with her? It would have to be some other excuse, an emergency, or...

He was considering and discarding options when the server reappeared, a tray of drinks in hand. She rearranged items already on the table, scooting the photograph closer toward Layla to make room for a sweating glass of tea.

Layla’s gaze landed on it and her brows came together in another small frown. Shit. Deciding he’d only feel more foolish if she knew of his misunderstanding, he shifted forward to grab the picture before she could connect the dots.

Only to realize he still had a lapful of teddy bear. Wonderful. He was worried about his dignity while sharing a chair with ten pounds of stuffing and fake fur. What else could he do but get rid of it?

“I forgot,” he said, half standing to thrust it in her direction, “this is for you.”

Layla stood, too, automatically reaching for it, then froze, Teddy clutched between her hands. Her gaze flicked to the photo, flicked back to the bear, flicked again to the photo. A flag of bright pink appeared on each cheek. “Oh,” she said, her voice going small. “Oh, God.”

Consider dots connected, Vance thought. Grimacing, he reached out with his casted arm to snatch the picture off the table.

Now she was staring at the colorfully covered plaster wrapped around his hand and wrist, her face losing its pretty blush. “How...how did you do that?” she asked slowly.

He looked down. Damn Baxter. “They’re not real tattoos.”

She made a little face. Her mouth wasn’t wide, but it was top-heavy, the upper lip more prominent than the lower.

Sue him, he found it fascinating.

“I know that,” she said. “I meant...how did you get hurt?”

He hesitated.

“I heard... Uncle Phil said...” She swallowed. “It was while you were trying to save my father, right?”

“It was while I was trying to get us both out of the danger zone,” he admitted, never wishing more that the attempt had turned out differently. “To my deep, deep regret, I wasn’t successful.”

Layla sank back to her seat.

Vance shot a glance at Addy, who immediately scooted closer to the other woman. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” But Layla’s gaze didn’t move off him, even as he dropped back into his own chair. “Now I understand why you’re worried about our month together, though.”

He was pretty certain she didn’t have a clue that his concerns ran to the limited power of cold showers over a suddenly raging, adolescent-like libido. “Yeah,” he said, anyway.

“Well, you don’t have to be concerned any longer.”

“Good.” She must understand it wouldn’t work, he thought. And if she decided against the plan, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about the cancellation.

“Your injuries won’t affect our month together at all, though.” Her shoulders squared as if she was shrugging off her earlier embarrassment. “Because, of course, I’ll help you while we’re together at Beach House No. 9.”

Oh, damn, she didn’t understand anything. “Layla, no.”

“It’s only right.” She’d gone from soft gold to steely spine. “You were hurt while trying to save my father’s life. So now it’s my turn.”

He frowned as another blast of premonitory chill wafted across the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s karma,” she said, and a little dimple fluttered near the corner of her mouth. “You took care of my father, so for the next month I’ll take care of you.”

CHAPTER TWO

LAYLA HURRIED FROM the restaurant and headed across the parking lot toward the Karma Cupcakes mobile bakery, grateful for the breeze against her hot face. The lunch that started awkward had ended awful and even the cheery pink-and-kiwi paint scheme of the food truck didn’t raise her mood. Uncle Phil had positioned it close to the Pacific Coast Highway to catch the attention of passersby. Its awning was popped open to shade two tiny bistro tables and to reveal the glass cases displaying the baked goods she’d prepared that morning.

As she drew nearer, a car pulled into the lot and parked nearby. A woman rushed to the counter and walked away with a half dozen of Karma Cupcakes’ most popular flavor, a rich devil’s food enhanced with cinnamon and cloves that they called Chai Chocolate.

Layla’s uncle met her eyes as their latest customer drove away. “Been here less than ten minutes and made four sales already,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “A month at Crescent Cove could turn out to be an excellent business decision.”

It should have been a happy thought. Instead, misgiving was squeezing her heart like a cold hand. A month at Crescent Cove. A month with Vance Smith.

Layla frowned at her uncle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him I’m twenty-five,” she said.

“Uh...what?” Uncle Phil looked like a professor emeritus of Surf Culture 101 in his khaki shorts, Guatemalan-weave shirt and stubby gray ponytail. “What’s wrong?”

“He was expecting a ten-year-old.” Recalling her moment of comprehension, another wash of heat crawled up her face. As the server made room on their table, Layla’s gaze had landed on a photo of her much younger self. Suspicion had dawned, only to be confirmed scant moments later when Vance had thrust Teddy into her hands. “A ten-year-old, Uncle Phil.”

His expression turned guilty. “I didn’t realize. I was just so pleased you’d have this vacation...you know, some time to socialize with a young, uh, person about your own age.”

Some time to socialize? Surely Uncle Phil wasn’t trying to matchmake!

He avoided her narrowed eyes and gestured toward the fuzzy bear. “I suppose the age confusion explains the stuffed animal.”

She frowned at the oversize toy clutched in her fist. Yes, when Vance had passed it over, she’d finally fathomed the mix-up—and wished for a sinkhole to open at her feet. “And he should have told you he isn’t old enough to be my father, either,” she grumbled.

Uncle Phil’s eyes widened in what seemed to be faux-innocence. “Oh?”

Too irritated to call him on it, Layla threw herself into one of the folding chairs set out for customers who couldn’t wait to sample their purchased confections. “He must be around thirty.” Rangy, but with powerful shoulders and biceps. Blond hair. Eyes a startling blue. Likely in possession of a nice smile, but she wouldn’t know because he hadn’t found a single reason to send one her way.

Who could blame him? “He hired a nanny.” Addy March herself had revealed that tidbit, then waved off Layla’s apology for the confusion. The other woman was a graduate student researching the movie studio that had made silent films at the cove into the 1920s, and she’d voiced her intention to still use Beach House No. 9 as a home base.

Which meant Layla’s own impulsive offer to “take care” of the man with the two hurt arms was wholly unnecessary. Yes, she’d embarrassed herself like that, too...though wouldn’t anyone feel a certain obligation under the circumstances? He’d been injured trying to save her father. But with Addy there, if he needed to open a pickle jar or fish something from a cupboard, he didn’t need Layla to lend a hand.

She glanced over her shoulder at Captain Crow’s restaurant, a little shiver tracking down her spine as she remembered the moment the afternoon had gone completely haywire. While attempting to sign his credit card receipt, Vance had fumbled the pen. It had rolled across the table toward Layla and when she’d scooped it up and offered it to him, their fingertips had met.

Hers still burned.

She rubbed them against the silky fabric of her dress and directed her focus to the ring on her left index toe. It was hammered gold embedded with a tiny mother-of-pearl quarter moon. “What would you say if we just close shop and head up the highway? We can drive to Zuma. The Malibu crowd loves our cupcakes.”

“I thought you were going to move into Beach House No. 9 this afternoon,” Uncle Phil said, sounding puzzled.

“Maybe I should drop the idea.” That was Vance’s intention. No, he’d declared about their upcoming month together, even after she’d invoked karma. Not gonna happen. Then he’d mumbled something about her father apparently forgetting she was all grown up. She’d been prepared to persist until that moment when they’d touched.

A car whined past on the nearby highway, then she heard the squeak of the food truck’s door and the muffled scrape of her uncle’s hemp sandals on the asphalt. He lowered himself to the opposite chair. “But we talked about all this. When he contacted me, you said yes.”

“I knew it’s what Dad wanted, so it’s what I wanted, too. But that was before I met Vance.”

Uncle Phil straightened in his seat. “He did some—”

“He didn’t do anything,” she said. “Nothing like you’re thinking.” It was what she’d done—how she’d reacted to that simple touch. It felt as if her soul had attempted to jump out of her suddenly scorched skin. She didn’t like it.

“He’s rattled you,” Uncle Phil observed. “That’s a first.”

Exactly. At twenty-five, she didn’t have a legion of exes, but she’d had her share of relationships. They’d been enjoyable and ended amicably, due, she believed, to her training as a soldier’s daughter. She was accustomed to goodbyes, absolutely aware that tears didn’t solve anything, and she didn’t foolishly hope to have a long-term lock on anyone. Dating had been casual and fun, and not once had she felt as though her nerve endings had been set on fire.

Now she was proposing to spend a month at the beach with the one man who lit her flame. A man who was a soldier to boot.

“I’m just thinking the plan’s a mistake.”

Uncle Phil merely raised a brow. He rarely gave out advice, and she loved that about him—that and how he’d stuck around all those times her father was deployed when she was a kid so she’d have clean clothes in her drawers and three meals on the table. He might not always have the strongest grasp on details—which might go some way to explaining why her father had instead picked Vance to carry out his last request—but her uncle had managed to sign every one of her permission slips. Maybe now she could return the favor.

“You’ve been going on about your trip around the world for years and my month in Crescent Cove was postponing your departure date,” she said. “If I bail now, you can leave right away.”

“My passport’s expired.”

“I saw the application in the food truck. If you pay extra they’ll expedite it.”

Uncle Phil rubbed a palm over the silvery whiskers on his cheek. “Well, if you’re going to renege, you better get down to that beach house and let the man know.”

She hesitated. Even though Vance had told her their month was off, he’d also told her he had some things of her father’s to hand over. Maybe Phil could take care of that for her.... But look what had happened when she’d left him in charge before! “You’re right,” she said, rising. “I’ll go see him.”

For the final time.

* * *

VANCE HAD GIVEN Layla written instructions to Beach House No. 9 that included a hand-drawn map. The bungalow was situated at the opposite end of the cove from the restaurant, which meant she had to get back on the highway, then turn off it again onto a narrow road that led to an even narrower track. The path of crushed shells was only wide enough for one car and took her along the backside of the enclave of unique homes, all of them stuccoed or shingled in natural colors and accented with shades that reflected the poppies, bougainvillea and tropical greenery thriving in the summer sunlight.

At the end of the route was the place she was looking for. It was larger than most in the cove, two stories of dark brown shingles and rough-sawn trim painted the blue-green of mermaid scales. Layla parked her compact in the driveway that led to a double garage, then was forced to give herself a stern talking-to in order to exit the car.

Even then she didn’t head straight for the entrance to Beach House No. 9.

Instead, chin down to keep her profile low, she sidled between it and the much smaller cottage next door. A few breaths of clean ocean air would brace her for the conversation ahead. She didn’t flatter herself that Vance Smith would wilt with disappointment because she was leaving without further argument, but she also didn’t want him prying into the reasons for her acquiescence. What would she say?

You make the back of my knees sweat.

I’m allergic to so much sex appeal.

How could I possibly sleep under the same roof as you?

When Layla felt the give of soft sand beneath her feet, she continued onward, not stopping until she reached the angled shelf of damply packed grains left by an outgoing tide. Only then did she lift her gaze, and her heart stuttered a little, overwhelmed by the beauty of her surroundings.

On her left was a craggy bluff that reached like the prow of an ocean liner into the gray-blue water. Behind her and to her right sat the charming abodes of Crescent Cove, maybe fifty of them, stretched along the sand or nestled against the vegetated hillside. In front of her was the expanse of the Pacific, an undulating surface that drew the eye toward the horizon. Above that, the sun hovered like it did in a child’s painting, an unabashed yellow orb against a sky so deep an azure it appeared one-dimensional.

Her father had wanted to bring her here.

Layla’s throat tightened as she heard his voice in her head. I’ll help you build an entire city of sand castles someday, he’d promised her once when they’d had to cancel a planned beach outing due to an emergency at the base. We’ll have weeks together, he’d told her on another occasion as he’d packed in preparation for heading back into combat. Time to relax with a clean wind on our faces and the cool Pacific at our feet.

It would never happen now.

Ducking the truth of that was exactly why she’d allowed Uncle Phil to handle the communication with Vance, she realized. By taking herself out of the loop, she’d put a layer between herself and the reality of her father’s death.

The reality that he was never coming here to Crescent Cove. That he was never coming back anywhere.

You weren’t the child of an active-duty soldier without contemplating the fact that your parent might not return alive. Her father had loved his work—the army was his passion, his identity, his occupation, his preoccupation. He’d accepted the risks. And dutiful daughter that she was, she’d responded with years of cheerful goodbyes, newsy letters and upbeat emails.

If anyone had asked, she’d have said she was as prepared for what might come as anyone could be, though she didn’t dwell on potential disaster. The life of an army brat—and the tutelage of Uncle Phil—had also taught her it was better to go with the flow, to live for the moment and, while acknowledging that the other shoe might drop at any time, not to hold her breath waiting for it to happen.

But the shoe had fallen six weeks ago and she didn’t think she’d taken in oxygen since.

Not to mention the daily emails she’d been sending to the account of a man no longer able to receive them.

“Are you all right?” a voice called. Vance’s voice.

“Stupid wind,” she said, dashing away a hot tear with the back of her hand. “I’m fine.”

She felt him come up beside her and steeled herself not to make any sudden moves. He was inches away, but her skin still twitched, some kind of sexual startle response, despite her damp lashes and clogged throat.

This was why she wouldn’t fight to stay with him.

Vance made a short, awkward gesture with his cast. “It’s a beautiful spot.”

“We always lived inland. I have a duplex northeast of here by forty minutes if the traffic’s not beastly. But my dad and I talked for years about vacationing right on the beach.” And this was the place he’d planned for them. It was where he’d still wanted her to come as he lay dying. Where she supposed he wanted her to say farewell.

A seagull screeched and wheeled too close, causing Layla to stumble back. Vance sidestepped, using his big body to brace hers so she didn’t fall. The sensation of his broad chest against her shoulder blades sent a ripple of pleasure through her and she closed her eyes. “Layla,” he murmured, his warm breath touching her temple. “Things will turn out all right.”

Would they? Wrapping her arms around her waist, she forced herself to move away, planting her heels firmly in the sand and keeping her gaze focused on the horizon. How could they when she was still sending messages ending with “Love, Layla” into the ether? When she was letting herself be run off from fulfilling her father’s last request?

She hugged her body tighter, reconsidering her urge to escape. Perhaps there was another, truer source of her disquiet, she mused. Maybe her reluctance had nothing to do with Vance Smith. More likely, her imagination had conjured up a heated reaction to him as an excuse not to stay.

It made so much sense. She’d dreamed up the medic’s appeal in order to avoid saying her final goodbye.

That avoidance would disappoint her father, she knew. He wouldn’t want her clinging to sadness through emails that were never answered and commitments she eluded. He’d made arrangements for her to spend this month at Beach House No. 9—alongside the man with whom he’d spent his final moments—and that’s what she should do. What she would do, she decided, hauling in a long, deliberate breath.

No over-the-top and surely imaginary sexual attraction would scare her away.

She took in more air, then turned to Vance. He was staring out to sea and she didn’t give herself a moment to appreciate his handsome profile. “I’m staying,” she said. It would mean Uncle Phil couldn’t embark on his trip for a few more weeks, but she knew he’d understand.

Instead of moving his body, Vance shot her a sidelong glance. “I thought we’d decided.”

Layla stepped close, her voice going fierce. “We didn’t decide.”

He turned to look at her now. “Layla—” he started, shaking his head.

“Doesn’t keeping your word mean anything?”

At that, he stilled, his gaze dropping to the sand. She could tell he was warring with himself, but she didn’t care what the fight was about as long as the battle ended her way. She took another step, getting right in his face. “You promised.”

His eyes jumped to hers, their blue hot and bright. A moment passed. “I did, and that’s important,” he finally said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “All right. Okay.”

“Okay?” A ray of sunshine seemed to brighten her bereaved heart. She smiled, even as another mortifying tear blinked from her eye. When she reached to wipe it away, her fingers tangled with Vance’s, which were bent on the same mission. They both froze this time, and the drop was left to roll down her cheek and off her chin.

Feeling awkward and awful all over again, Layla broke away from him. “I...I’ll go get my things,” she said, hurrying away as she mentally composed yet another undeliverable email. Dear Dad, I hope I haven’t just made a huge mistake....

* * *

LAYLA WAS MISSING WHEN Vance emerged from his bedroom the next morning. She’d moved her stuff into the beach house the day before as the sun began to set and he’d left her to it when she assured him she didn’t need his help. His dinner offer had been waved away, too, so he’d wandered down the beach for another meal at Captain Crow’s.

When he’d returned, the door to the bedroom she’d selected had been shut. He’d been relieved, of course, and not alarmed.

But now, with dawn coloring the sky the pearly gray-pink of the inside of an abalone shell, worry niggled at him. Her bedroom door was ajar but she wasn’t inside. The pristine kitchen testified she’d not even made a cup of coffee.

Addy wasn’t any help. He trudged upstairs and knocked on her door, but she clearly wasn’t a morning person and was just as clear that she had no idea where to find Layla.

Where the hell had she gone? And why the hell hadn’t he been able to quash the deal yesterday? Not only had he found himself keeping to the plan of a month with her at Crescent Cove, he’d even assured Big Brown Bambi Eyes that “things will be all right.” As if that would happen when he couldn’t even keep tabs on the woman!

Christ. He had to steer clear of this promise business.

After fumbling through the brewing of a carafe of coffee, he managed to down a cup and then headed toward the beach. The briny air dampened the denim of his jeans, and his leather flip-flops kicked up a trail of cold sand behind him. Everyone else in the cove appeared to be asleep except for himself...and Layla, wherever she was.

He walked northward, trying to tamp down his concern even though he’d noted her car was parked in the driveway and her clothes still hung in the bedroom closet. Frustrated, he made to shove his hand through his short hair and cursed when his cast clunked against his skull, knocking some sense into him.

“I’m an idiot,” he told the clutch of sandpipers playing a version of Red Rover with the surf line. They didn’t look up. “She’ll be at the bakery truck.”

He’d assure himself of that, he decided. Get a glimpse of her, then return to No. 9 without giving away he’d been worried.

She was all grown up, wasn’t she?

Dammit.

It was the aroma that reached him first. Even before his soles hit the parking lot’s blacktop, he breathed in something sweet and delicious. His mouth watered and, though that could have been enough to confirm Layla’s whereabouts, he continued toward the food truck parked by the highway, lured like the Big Bad Wolf after Little Red’s basket of Grandma goodies.

Just a quick peek, he told himself, and then he’d hightail it home.

Swirls of pink-and-green paint in a paisley design covered the surface of the vehicle and Karma Cupcakes was blazoned in black letters that appeared vaguely Sanskrit in style. It should have been advance notice, he supposed, but he still started when a spare figure appeared from around the side of the truck. “Namaste,” the man said, pressing his palms together and giving Vance a shallow bow.

“Yeah,” Vance answered. “Uncle Phil, I presume?”

The man wore baggy cargo shorts, a Che Guevara T-shirt and a puka shell necklace. Cocking his head, he grinned, then came forward with fingers outstretched. “You must be Layla’s Vance.”

“No!” Jesus, he wasn’t Layla’s anything. “I mean, uh, I am Vance Smith.” The hand-to-brace shake over, Vance stepped back. “But I was just leaving—”

“Not without a conversation first,” Phil said, still smiling. “It comes with coffee and cupcakes.”

Hell. What could he do but agree? In seconds he found himself sitting at a small table for two positioned on the asphalt, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him as well as a paper plate filled with a selection of unfrosted bite-size treats. Their smell said oven-fresh.

“You don’t play fair, Phil,” he muttered as the other man sat down.

“What’s that?”

“I...” His words trailed off as the food truck’s order window slid open.

Layla leaned out. Her face was flushed—by an oven maybe?—and she wore a pink-and-green paisley kerchief over her hair. “Uncle Phil,” she began, but then her voice died, too, as she caught sight of Vance.

She frowned, her gaze shifting under those luxurious mink lashes. “Uncle Phil,” she said, a warning in her voice.

“We’re only eating cupcakes,” her relative answered, all innocence.

She blew out a breath from her bottom lip, stirring the fringe of bangs that skimmed her eyebrows. “I’m concerned he’s uncovered a latent meddling streak,” she cautioned Vance. “Don’t let him give you the third degree.” Then she disappeared.

Layla gone was good. Much of the problem when it came to her was that Vance’s mind muddied in her proximity, those tender brown eyes and pretty mouth just too diverting. Per usual, after a brief delay, his stalled brain reengaged. He’s uncovered a latent meddling streak.

It was his turn to glare at the older man. “You should have meddled a little harder. What were you thinking? I could have been some freak! You set up your ten-year-old niece—”

“But she’s not ten,” Phil pointed out. “I didn’t realize you thought so.”

“I told you in the emails I was going to hire a nanny.”

The older man shrugged. “Whoops. Sometimes the particulars pass me by.”

Vance ground his back teeth, not sure if Layla’s uncle was really that clueless or just playing the part. “Phil—”

“Anyway, I knew you were a friend of my brother’s.”

That overstated the case. “I—”

“Clearly he trusted you.”

Shit. “Maybe he shouldn’t have,” Vance muttered.

Phil pushed the plate of cupcakes closer. “What makes you say that?”

Instead of answering, Vance selected a cake that was pale blond on the sides and golden on top. Vanilla, he figured, popping it into his mouth. But when it melted on his tongue it offered up a surprising wealth of flavor. Warm milk and brown sugar, he decided, and the luscious taste left him speechless.

“On the menu board it’s Dharma Dulce—a dulce de leche cupcake,” Phil said in response to his unspoken question. “And for the record, I didn’t agree to let her spend a month with just anyone. I have my ways of discovering the truth.”

Vance grunted, unwilling to open his mouth and lose any of the sweet taste still lingering on his tongue.

Phil sat back in his chair. “At twenty-three, you dropped out of college and joined the army. Spent four years as a combat medic, then you were out for a couple before being called back to active duty through the Individual Ready Reserve. You were in Afghanistan for seven months when you were injured in the process of saving my brother.”

Now Vance was forced to speak. “Didn’t save him,” he corrected, though hell, it was painful to say the words aloud.

“No one could expect—”

“I expected!” Startled by his own outburst, Vance looked away, staring off across the parking lot. “Look, it’s...”

“It’s...?”

Vance shook his head. “I had a good run all those years, okay? I never lost anyone on the battlefield.”

“Is that right?”

Yes, it was true. “Every time I reached a fallen man I told him the same thing. I’d say, ‘I’m going to get you out of here, soldier. I’m going to get you to the best doctors and nurses we have available.’”

“And you did?”

“Every time,” Vance said. “That’s not to say I didn’t see death while racing to the wounded. And there were guys I patched up and got onto the choppers who didn’t make it out of the hospital alive. But I...I fulfilled my battlefield vow to all of them.”

Phil regarded him pensively. “All of them?”

“Except one,” Vance answered, closing his eyes. A small sound had them flying open again. His gaze found Layla. She was standing in the open doorway of the truck, a hand over her mouth, her brown eyes wide. Their expression transported him to the day before, to that moment when she’d passed him the errant pen and his fingers had found hers.

He held himself rigid, remembering the jolt of heat, that blast of purely physical sensation that had dried his mouth and dizzied his head. Even under its influence he’d known the reaction was trouble. The last thing he needed was some unwelcome and hard-to-control chemical combustion.

He’d been wild in his younger days, acting on impulse and always riding an edge of danger, but years at war had finally leeched that from him. Plenty of soldiers came back from combat with adrenaline still flooding their system and no place for it to go. Those were the guys who operated at the whim of their cocks instead of their common sense, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of them.

Because he was smarter than that now.

And because he’d made promises. Though the colonel’s daughter deserved more than a horny bastard who’d do better waiting out his return to service by tossing back beers on a Mexican beach than by babysitting an enticing woman he couldn’t in good conscience touch.

He probably scowled, because Layla made another little sound and then disappeared inside the cupcake truck.

“Shit,” he said. “I wish she hadn’t heard that.”

Phil appeared unconcerned. “Now she understands you have your own reasons for being here.” He nudged the plate of cupcakes closer. “Try the one we call Berry Bliss.”

Strawberry? Raspberry? Cherry? His taste buds couldn’t pinpoint the exact flavor. But it definitely tasted like bliss.

“So,” Phil said, “I understand you have family in California?”

Oh, yeah, Vance thought, nodding as he swallowed the cake. Layla’s uncle was cannier than he initially let on. Because Vance did have a family, one with tighter connections than many, because his father and his uncle had married twins and lived in side-by-side houses on a compound at their sprawling avocado ranch about an hour from Crescent Cove. William and Roy Smith continued to lead the business together, with Vance’s older brother, Fucking Perfect Fitz, and their cousin Baxter being groomed to take over.

Thinking of all that made him scowl again, as old bitterness mixed with new disquiet. Bax was sworn to secrecy, but it worried Vance that he might not be able to keep his return to the area quiet. He was determined to avoid a face-to-face with any other members of his family, including his mother.

That brought on a new thought and he shifted his gaze toward the other man. “Phil, where’s Layla’s mom? Her father implied he was divorced, but his ex—”

“Is in the wind. She left her marriage and her daughter behind when Layla was two. My niece has only me now,” Phil said. “And for the next month, you.”

“Me?” She sure as hell didn’t “have” him.

Then Vance thought of finding her on the beach yesterday afternoon, how the instant she’d known she was being observed she’d brushed away the telltale tear. The save-face gesture had found some soft spot inside him. Then she’d said, Doesn’t keeping your word mean anything? and the question had burrowed deeper.

But the truth was, she’d gotten under his skin from the moment he’d turned his head at the restaurant and glimpsed that stunner of a face. It didn’t bode well, not when he’d been sure his years of rash impulses and hasty reactions were well behind him.

“Things will turn out all right,” Phil said.

Vance shot him a look. That had been his line yesterday, and he still regretted it.

“You won’t let her get hurt.”

What could he say to that? Of course, he couldn’t deny it. It was never his intention to hurt her, and the truth was, his final promise to her father had been—

“As a matter of fact,” Phil went on, “you might just make her happy.”

Good God, Vance thought, his chair legs scraping against asphalt as instinct sent him into full retreat. He wouldn’t be trapped into giving his word on that. Make Layla happy?

He was the Smith family’s black sheep. He’d never been able to do that for anybody.

CHAPTER THREE

WITH THE BAKING DONE for the day and having waved off Uncle Phil as he embarked on a morning-to-midday route that included stops at two public libraries and two parks popular with the Mommy and Me set, Layla headed back to Beach House No. 9. At the sand, she paused to remove her gladiator-style sandals, then carried them hooked on a finger as she strolled southward.

Unlike the early a.m., she didn’t have the beach to herself. Little kids dug holes near the surf, bigger kids splashed through the shallows, adults lounged on towels or tossed footballs and Frisbees. She ambled, the sun striking the left side of her body, its heat tempered by the cool breeze buffeting her right. The air tasted salty and clean and she took in great gulps of it, letting it refresh her lungs and clear her head.

For fifteen minutes she was lost in the sensations of sun, sand and surf. Then Beach House No. 9 came into clear view, its windows thrown open to the breeze, a red, white and blue kite attached to a fishing pole on the second-floor balcony spinning in circles, and on the beachside deck below, the figure of a man stretched on a lounge chair in the shade of a market umbrella.

Vance Smith, denim-covered legs crossed at the ankles. What looked to be a classic pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses concealing his eyes. Nothing covering his chest.

Layla’s feet came to a sudden stop. Oh.

Oh, wow.

Maybe it was the cast and the brace, she thought. They drew attention to his heavy biceps and the tanned, rugged contours of his shoulders and chest. She knew the amount of gear combat soldiers regularly carried on their backs; those muscles of his hadn’t been honed in a gym but had been carved by regularly transporting sixty to a hundred pounds of weaponry and essentials.

Her skin prickled under the soft knit of her cotton sundress. The breeze fluttered the hem, tickling the backs of her knees and making her hyperaware of her sensitivity there. Dismayed, she told herself to blink, to move, to do something, but she was powerless against her reaction. He’d bewitched her, and her body was struck still by the powerful sexual response she’d told herself yesterday was nothing more than her psyche’s excuse—and not at all real.

Wrong.

“Watch out!” a voice called from behind her, but her preoccupation inhibited her reaction time. A body bumped Layla’s, knocking her forward two unsteady steps.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman said, catching her arm to keep her upright. “The Frisbee toss went long. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Layla answered. She shot a glance toward the deck, hoping Vance hadn’t witnessed her clumsiness. “It was my fault. My mind was, uh, somewhere else.”

The other woman followed Layla’s gaze, tossing back her hair for a better look. Then she grinned, her white teeth a match for the bikini top she wore above a pair of hip-riding board shorts. “Can’t blame you there. That’s some distracting man candy.”

“Man candy,” Layla echoed.

“He’s a handsome guy,” the other woman said. “No harm in looking, is there?”

No harm in looking. “You’re right.” Layla smiled, her alarm evaporating. There was no harm in looking and nothing particularly unusual about the fact that she wanted to. If Vance caused another woman to do a double take, then Layla’s own response was perfectly normal.

Like admiring a...a pretty butterfly.

She stole another glance at him, taking in the wealth of sunbaked skin. “It’s not just me, right?”

The stranger grinned again. “Hey, I’m here with a posse of firefighters,” she said, turning to fling the Frisbee down the beach, “and your guy caught my eye.”

Layla diverted her attention to the handful of young men pushing each other aside in order to retrieve the plastic disc. Weren’t they photo spread–worthy as well with their bright swim trunks and athletic builds?

“Man candy, too,” Layla pronounced, and with a farewell wave, turned toward the beach house, a new lightness in her step. Any woman alive would experience a little quickening of the blood. It was nothing uncivilized, nothing to be anxious about, and now that she’d indulged in her short session of Vance-gawking, she was even over admiring him.

The man in question sat up, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head as she mounted the steps from the sand. She gave him her best bright smile. “Hey!”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re cheery.”

“I’m a morning person,” she confessed. Not to mention that she’d defeated her apprehension. Thousands upon thousands of attractive men populated the world, dozens of them on this very beach even, and there wasn’t anything special about her brief fascination with this particular one’s appearance.

Everybody liked butterflies.

He frowned. “Butterflies?”

Oops. Had she said that out loud? “Sorry, I do that sometimes. Talk to myself when I’m, uh, developing recipes.”

“Butterflies?” he asked again, more skeptical.

“Or buttermilk.” She waved a hand. Then, because he still radiated suspicion, she perched one hip on the cushion at the level of his knees, all casual friendliness. Looking him straight in the eye, she smiled. “So...how do you like my cupcakes?”

His face went strangely still. It gave her a moment to study him, though from the very first she’d tried to avoid a detailed examination. Even while being dispassionate about the whole thing—as she insisted to herself she was—his looks were striking. His dark blond hair was thick and sun-lightened a brighter caramel around the edges. He had strong cheekbones and jawline, with straight, sandy-colored brows over summer-sky eyes. The face was saved from pretty by the firmness of his mouth and the strong column of his neck. Those tough-guy shoulders dispatched the last of any spoiled playboy impression left by the golden hair and angel eyes.

Weird, how her heart was racing again.

“Your cupcakes?” Vance cleared his throat, and just for a second, his gaze flicked to a spot below her neck, before quickly jerking up again. “I like your cupcakes just fine.”

Oh, jeez. She felt the skin between her collarbone and modest décolletage go hot. Her “cupcakes” tingled inside the cups of her bra. Why hadn’t she used a more innocuous phrase like baked goods? she thought, burning with mortification. “Um—”

“Oh, hell,” he said quickly. “I apologize. Forget I said that. Forget I looked... Just for a second my brain went stupid.”

It was the first time, she realized, she’d seen him disconcerted. Even when she’d shown up at the restaurant, unexpectedly adult, his cool demeanor hadn’t broken. It was an army thing maybe, because her dad had been like that, so good at projecting chill one could suppose he had an ice tray in his chest where a heart should be.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, willing the warmth on her cheeks to fade.

“It’s not.” He shook his head. “It’s... Call it combat-conditioning. Before coming back to the States I lived in the crudest of circumstances with a bunch of guys who could make me blush.”

“I get it. It’s okay.”

“Nah.” A sheepish grin quirked his lips. “It’s not.”

It was the grin. That sheepish grin. Her skin flushed hot all over again as she felt her pulse start to pound at the tender skin of her wrists and at those sensitive hollows behind her knees. She could only stare at him and the lingering rueful smile on his face.

Vance didn’t seem to notice. “What can I do to make it up to you?” He reached out and casually touched her hand.

He shouldn’t do that, she thought, unable to move. Something was going on here, a situation she didn’t have control over, and she’d never wanted to believe this kind of thing would happen. You couldn’t choose? Without your permission this...this fever overcame you, or rather, reached out to you, or rather, exploded all around you...and you were at its mercy. Layla began to tremble.

His long fingers curled over hers. The edge of his cast pressed into her skin but she barely registered it over the hot-cold shiver that shot toward her elbow. “Vance...”

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, his voice light. “I’m a bad man.”

And then her hand slipped from his to press his cheek. Why? Because he wasn’t a bad man, that was certain. There was a slight bristle against her palm, gritty, masculine, and the sensation pinballed more tingles to her toes and then to the top of her head. She didn’t move. She just held her soft flesh against the hard plane of his cheek.

Their gazes met.

She didn’t try to read anything into his because his expression had shut down and she wished she didn’t feel this way. Knowing what was going on in Vance’s mind didn’t seem like any kind of win for Layla. “Hey...” she finally said. Her voice was so hoarse she had to stop and lubricate her throat. “Um.”

“Yeah?”

Her hand slid away from his face. She saw his cheek muscle jump. “I have an idea.” She swallowed again. “A good idea.”

“Oh?”

She stood, jolting upward so fast she swayed a little. He reached to steady her, but didn’t make contact. Good. “We’re here for the month. My father wanted that. But we don’t have to...to...be in each other’s pockets.”

His gaze was so blue it should have steadied her.

But it was only more heat, not a cool, calm blue at all anymore. “Layla—”

“We’ll live in the same house, but there’s plenty of room. We’ll go our separate ways. Live, uh, totally separate lives.”

Now he touched her. The back of his fingers skimmed the flesh of her forearm. She felt it to the marrow. “No,” he said. “We can’t do that. If we’ve come this far, we’ve got to do it right. Because I made another promise, too.”

* * *

VANCE CURSED HIMSELF for the wary look on Layla’s face. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew damn well her father wouldn’t approve of him messing up the agenda he’d laid out with this man-woman complication. The colonel had still considered his daughter a little girl, and Vance should be seeing her as the same.

Except she’d been sitting so close a few minutes before, her womanly hip against the denim of his jeans, her pretty face smiling at him, so that when she’d said “cupcakes” his baser self had reared its prurient head and, well...

Checked out her cupcakes.

He didn’t allow his gaze to stray in that direction again, but his memory worked just fine and yes, she had very nice cupcakes.

As if she could read his mind, she shuffled back a step, and he swung his feet off the lounge and onto the planks of the deck. “Let me explain—”

“Not necessary,” Layla interjected. “Really. I think my ships-in-the-night plan is a good one.”

Vance stifled a sigh. It was all his fault. He should have made an effort to get laid between leaving Afghanistan and moving into the beach house, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. Six months had passed since he’d opened Blythe’s Dear John letter, and it had served as an effective sexual appetite suppressant until yesterday. Until he’d caught sight of a certain soft-eyed brunette who just happened to make his mouth water.

“You should hear me out,” he said, keeping his expression harmless and his voice mild.

Layla was already edging toward the house. She touched the handle of the sliding-glass door. “Not—”

Addison slid it open from the inside. “There you are!” she said, stepping onto the deck and effectively pushing Layla toward Vance again. Addy had a yogurt cup in one hand, a spoon sunk inside like the business end of a butter churn. “Our host was looking for you earlier, knocking on my door in the dead of the night.”

“The sun was up,” Vance said, and tried signaling her with his eyes. Go away, Addy.

The message went unheeded. She crossed straight to Vance’s lounge chair and, much as Layla had done minutes before, plopped herself beside him. He could barely remember Addy as a kid, but she was a curvy fairy now, with a fluff of platinum hair ringing her small head and tip-tilted green eyes. Her mouth seemed always ready for a mischievous smile.

Vance gave her a second look. If his libido was reawakened, how about Addy? She smelled like strawberry soap, was sexy in a handle-with-care kind of way, and he’d made no pledges to her papa. Maybe she’d consider a summertime fling....

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Frowning, her green eyes crossed. “Is there something on my nose?”

“Just a sprinkle of freckles,” Vance said, shaking his head. “They’re cute.” But they did nothing for him, he realized, damn his perverse horny urges. Punishing him for his misspent youth, he supposed, through an uninvited and inconvenient fixation on Layla.

As if on cue, the brunette cleared her throat. “I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you, Addy. I have some free time on my hands and I was thinking I could spend some of it helping you with your research.”

Addy halted her spoon midtwirl and looked up. “You’re interested in the silent film era?”

“Uh...I could be.”

Vance decided Layla was more nervous than he thought warranted. He hadn’t been that out of line. One little cupcake comment that he’d followed with a lighthearted apology shouldn’t send her screaming for the books. He narrowed his eyes and saw her throw him a quick nervous glance, her face coloring.

She cleared her throat again. “Tell me some more about what you’re investigating.”

With her spoon, Addy gestured around the cove. “This place was magic in the heyday before the talkies. All the palm trees and tropical vegetation? Trucked in. Coastal California hillsides are normally sage scrub and manzanita. Thanks to the creek running through here, though, everything from the banana plants to hibiscus bushes took hold. Et voilà, a South Seas atoll for pirate stories, a rainforest for cannibal movies and, in one particularly famous case, Cleopatra’s ancient Egypt.”

Obviously Addy was enthused by her subject. Using her spoon again, she pointed down the beach. “There’s a small room attached to the art gallery beside Captain Crow’s that’s an archive for business papers and memorabilia from Sunrise Pictures—the company that operated out of the cove. I’m the first scholar given access to all of it.”

“Fascinating.” Layla darted another glance at Vance, then her tongue came out to touch that top-heavy upper lip.

Off-limits, he reminded himself. And you’re way past your days of reckless rule-breaking. Even if the rules are of your very own making.

Layla smoothed the skirt of her dress with her palms. “Well, if you could use me, I’m free after my morning baking’s done.” Again, she slid him a look.

Huh, Vance thought, not knowing what to make of the strange vibe he was getting from her. It wasn’t just wary, it was...

“While I’m here, I’d like to keep myself very busy,” she continued. “Very, very busy.” This time she studiously avoided his gaze.

And then he finally got it.

Hell, he thought, surprised by his own thickheadedness. He could probably blame that on Blythe, too—it was only natural to distrust his instincts when it came to women after receiving that letter from her ending with “and I hope this won’t cause any unpleasantness between us.”

But now he couldn’t ignore what his gut was telling him. The lust bug that had bitten him so bad? Looked like it had sunk its teeth into Layla, too. This hot-for-you thing went both ways.

Dammit.

“So what do you say, Addy?” Layla asked. “Can you use my help?”

The other woman shrugged. “If you want, but are you sure you’ll have time with what you and Vance have on the calendar?”

Layla’s blank look said what he didn’t have to. Addy groaned. “Vance hasn’t told you about that yet.” She turned to him. “I’m not normally so stupid, you know. It’s Baxter.”

Vance’s brows rose. “What does my cousin have to do with it?”

Addy jumped to her feet and started muttering. “I saw him yesterday, okay? Well, you know that. It’s just, he... Never mind.”

Still muttering, she stalked back into the house, slamming shut the glass door behind her. Vance and Layla both stared after her, and then he shifted his attention to the colonel’s daughter once more. After a moment of tense silence, she met his gaze.

Her tongue touched her top lip and he worked not to notice it. “Do I want to know about this ‘calendar’?” she asked.

“It’s nothing bad,” he assured her. “And not so time-consuming that you can’t hang with Addy if you want, or just spend time soaking up the summer air.”

Layla stepped a little closer to him, her wariness apparently lifted for the moment. “That sounds nice,” she admitted. “I haven’t taken any days off from cupcakes since we bought the truck.”

“Your dad said you deserved a vacation. He wanted this one for you on the beach.”

She drew closer, her eyes searching his face. “You...There was time? He really had time to talk to you about me?”

“Yeah.” Vance softened his voice. “He wasn’t in physical pain, Layla. I was able to make sure of that.”

He saw her swallow. She stepped closer yet, sank again to the cushion beside him and pushed her hair away from her temples with both hands. Then they dropped to her lap. “What’s this calendar all about?”

Her father’s face flashed in his mind, sweat-streaked and pale, but determined as he fumbled with the precious papers in his headgear.

Isn’t she beautiful, Vance? You’ve got to do something for her. You’ve got to do something for my girl.

He’d sworn he would, and nothing as temporary or as ill-advised as surrendering to his baser urges would get in the way of keeping his word. “Your father gave me a piece of paper he always kept with him—a list of things he wanted the two of you to do together. Things he thought he’d put off for too long.”

“Oh, Dad.” Her thick lashes swept down to hide her eyes. She brought the back of her hand to her nose. “I’m not crying. Tears always upset him—Uncle Phil, too—so I don’t do that.”

She was worming her way under his skin again, this stoic little soldier. Under other circumstances, Vance would have put his hands on her. As a medic, he understood the comfort of human touch. But right now it didn’t seem wise. “I pledged to take his place—to do them with you,” he said.

She slanted him a glance. “And what are they exactly?” she asked, her voice thick.

“A surprise. Are you okay with that?”

Her laugh sounded more sad than amused. “He liked surprises, the goof.”

This time Vance allowed himself to reach out. His fingers caught in her hair and he managed to tuck a piece behind her ear. “He called it his ‘Helmet List,’” Vance said, softly. “And I promised to share it with you.”

As his hand fell, Layla caught it with hers, squeezing. And God, the sexual thrill was there, undeniable, but the buzz that goosed his libido also sent an electrical current toward the center of his chest. It was some kind of weird sorcery. Because the heart he thought Blythe had stomped dead thumped once. Twice. In that instant reanimating, like Frankenstein’s monster bolting upright on the table.

CHAPTER FOUR

BAXTER SHOT HIS CUFFS, smoothed his palm along the silk of his striped tie and then peered around the doorjamb into the small room. Narrow windows ran along its roofline and the walls were decorated with framed movie posters and black-and-white stills, all looking to be from the silent movie era. At the room’s center sat chairs arranged around a rectangular table, a closed laptop resting on its surface. No one was inside. He frowned. The salesperson of the adjacent art gallery had directed him here.

It was where he was supposed to find Addison March.

Baxter’s glance landed on his Cordovan loafers and he frowned again, noting the dry film of fine sand along their shiny tops. It took him just a moment to withdraw his white handkerchief from his back pocket and dust the particles away.

When he straightened, he saw movement across the room, at the closet entrance he’d missed on first inspection. Backing out of it was Addison March’s ass.

Addison—Addy, she’d told him she liked to be called all those years ago—March had a very fine ass, and he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and allowed himself a moment to admire it as she dragged a carton into the main area, her body bent nearly in half, her feet shuffling backward, her denim-covered bottom leading the way. He wasn’t aware he did anything to give himself away, but suddenly Addy froze. A moment passed. Then, instead of rising to a stand, she turned her head and glanced around her bent elbow.

Her green eyes caught Baxter’s gaze.

With a yelp, she leaped a couple of feet into the air. Upon landing, she spun to face him, her hand covering her heart. “You scared me!”

Oops. He should apologize, Baxter thought. That’s what he’d come to do, after all, though not for startling her. He’d come to talk about That Night. That Night he’d thought he’d purged from his mind until seeing her yesterday afternoon.

She frowned at him. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

He took a step into the room. “Hello?”

Without a greeting of her own, she returned to dragging the box from the closet. It was unclear how heavy it was, because Addy was such a little thing he figured a ream of copy paper could make her break a sweat. His mother had worked hard to instill in him good manners—even though he might have ignored some of them after That Night—so now he moved quickly to come to her aid.

“Let me help,” he said, reaching around her. She ignored him, though, her backward trajectory putting that cute ass on a collision course with his crotch. It was Baxter’s turn to leap.

She gave him another around-the-elbow glance. “I’ve got it.” With awkward tugs, she dragged the carton toward the room’s table, then left it to return to the bowels of the dim closet.

He followed her, noting the stacks of cartons inside. “Do you want all of them out?”

Rather than answering the question, she said, “I’ve got it.” Again.

It annoyed him. He was here to make things right between them and her stubbornness wasn’t helping. His arm bumped hers as he shouldered past. “Just point to the one you want.”

At her silence, he threw a glance over his shoulder. “Well?”

She had an odd expression on her face. Then she cleared her throat. “Honest, I don’t need your help. They’ve been in there a long time, Baxter. They’re dirty.”

“I’m not afraid of a little grime.”

“Really?” She tilted her head. “Because you look a little...prissy.”

Insult shot steel into Baxter’s spine. He played mean and stinky roundball with his old high school buddies on Saturday mornings. He regularly signed up for 10K races—beating his own time the past five outings—and just last month he’d participated in the Marine Corps’ mud run. Nobody he knew had caught him taking that yoga class and he’d only agreed to it because the woman he’d been dating at the time had promised banana pancakes afterward.

Wait—were banana pancakes prissy?

The internal question made him glare at Addy, even as he noted the self-satisfied smirk curling the corners of her mouth. Without a word, he turned back around and started stacking boxes and hauling them from the closet.

“That’s enough,” she finally said. “This is a good start.”

He paused. After the first few he’d stopped to remove his suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His hands, as she’d predicted, were gray with filth and there were streaks of it on the starched cotton covering his chest. Addy, on the other hand, was hardly marred. With a pair of colorful cross-trainers, she wore soft-looking jeans rolled at the ankle and a T-shirt advertising a film festival in Palm Springs. Her white-blond hair stood in feathery tufts around her head and her cheeks were flushed, but Baxter thought that was Addy’s normal state.

She’d appeared...excitable to him from the very first.

As if his regard made her uncomfortable, she shifted her feet. “Don’t blame me if you’re mucked up. I told you this wasn’t work for a guy in business wear.”

He blamed her for things, all right—sleepless nights, a guilty conscience—but not for the state of his clothing. “What exactly is all this stuff?” He popped the lid off the nearest box and eyed a stack of yellowed paper. “Why would you be interested in it?”

Her pale brows met over her nose. That feature was small like the rest of her and he repressed an urge to trace it with his forefinger. “You must have been in another world yesterday afternoon,” she said.

“Huh?” Baxter knew exactly where he’d been yesterday afternoon. Face-to-face with the woman who had been his singular out-of-character event. His lone antimerit badge. The one and only time he’d gone off the BSLS—Baxter Smith Life Schedule.

She shrugged. “I talked about all this at lunch and I suspected then you weren’t listening. Vance calls you All Business Baxter, so I suppose while your body was sitting at Captain Crow’s, your brain was back at your desk or something.”

Or something. His brain had actually been recalling a summer night nearly six years before. The night of the Smith family’s annual Picnic Day, a noon-through-night celebration at their avocado ranch. Open to the public, it featured food, drink and a dance band. Lights were strung everywhere...except in the dark shadowy corners where kisses could be stolen.

And peace of mind lost.

Addy gave him a strange look, then bent to ruffle through the box he’d opened. “I’m a grad student in film studies. My thesis focuses on the history of Sunrise Pictures—the company famous for its silent films made here at Crescent Cove.”

She peeked into another box, then lifted it onto the tabletop. “That closet is supposed to hold everything from the studio’s business records to the original scripts to the correspondence from movie stars of the time. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“I made a deal with the descendant of the original owner of Sunrise. I’ll spend the month cataloging what I find in return for unlimited access to the material.”

“Oh,” Baxter said again, because he wasn’t listening with any more attentiveness than he had yesterday. Then, he’d been unbalanced by the flood of memories seeing her had invoked. He hadn’t liked the feeling. He was a sensible, rational, always-on-an-even-keel sort of man. Seeing Addy had reminded him of the night that impulse had overridden common sense. The night that he’d done things and said things without considering the consequences. With no regard to the Schedule.

Afterward, the memories had preyed upon his conscience. Finally, he’d managed to assuage the reawakened guilt by promising himself he’d right things with her someday. The very next time he happened to see her.

Which had taken much longer than he’d expected to come about.

But that time felt too short now because broaching That Night with this near-stranger didn’t seem as if it would be an easy thing.

With a little cry of pleasure, she yanked out a handful of old-looking postcards, the ends of her hair seeming to vibrate with enthusiasm. Six years ago, she’d had masses of the stuff, curling like crimped ribbons away from her scalp and then floating in the air toward her elbows. The slightest breeze had wafted the fluffy strands over her features and across her chest, and he’d had to part it like clouds to find the heart shape of her face.

She wore a different style now, and he recognized an expensive cut when he saw one. The platinum locks had been sheared to work with her hair’s texture, the curled pieces a frame for her smooth forehead, her pointed chin, her amazing green eyes. It was short enough to reveal her dainty earlobes and her graceful neck.

As she dug back into the box, he saw her swallow, the thin skin of her throat moving in the direction of her collarbone. A dandelion, he mused, with that fluff of hair and slender stem of neck. One wrong breath and he’d lose her on the breeze.

As if she heard his thoughts, she jerked her head toward him. “What?” she asked, catching him staring.

His brain scrambled for something he could say. He couldn’t just launch into his apology, could he? “Well...” Glancing away from her questioning expression, he took in the boxes and tried remembering what she’d told him about them. “What made you pursue...uh...film studies?”

She was staring at him.

Had he gotten it wrong? “Or, um, film studios?” God, he sounded like an idiot.

“Film studies.” She returned her attention to the box. “I love movies. Always have, since I was a little kid.”

“I remember that.”

Her head whipped around. “You couldn’t. You didn’t know me then.” She looked anxious at the thought he might.

Baxter couldn’t figure out why. He frowned, searching back in his mind for a picture of Addy as a schoolgirl. But his memory stalled on her at nineteen, heat rushing to his groin as he pictured her blushing cheeks, her sun-kissed shoulders, her—

Stop! he ordered himself, shaking the images from his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “I remember you getting a boatload of DVDs as birthday presents. Your parents threw a big bash for one occasion and invited the entire neighborhood. Vance and I breezed through...” His words trailed off as her face turned scarlet.

She rubbed her palms on the fabric of her pants. “It was my thirteenth. I can’t believe you came to it.”

“We were probably hoping to score some cake and make our mothers happy.” He studied her still-red face. “The memory doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one for you.”

“I didn’t like being the center of attention at that age.”

Baxter frowned, thinking back again. “Yeah, I remember the party, but I don’t remember you there.”

“Good,” Addy said, her voice fervent. She half turned from him, her focus back on the box.

The bare nape of her neck drew him closer. Six years ago, it had been hidden under all that hair. Her skin was so pretty there, smooth and vulnerable. “Which means,” Baxter murmured as he moved in, driven by some undeniable impulse, “that I owe you a birthday ki—”

“No!” She spun to face him, so close their toes were an inch apart. Her voice lowered and her gaze dropped away. “No.”

His attention focused on the pink perfection of her lips. They looked soft, too, and as vulnerable as that sweet spot on the back of her neck. He wanted to taste both.

“You don’t owe me anything, Baxter.”

He froze. Oh, God, but he did. That apology! He’d come to square things between them so he could erase her from the “Owe” side of his personal ledger book. More kissing would only add another entry.

Dammit all.

Clearing his throat again, he stepped back. “You’re right. What I came to do, to say that is—”

“You found everything!” a female voice exclaimed.

Both Baxter and Addy swung toward the slender brunette striding into the room. She wore a man-size shirt, the tails brushing just above her knees and the ragged hems of her long jean cutoffs. On her feet were a pair of faded, shoelaceless Keds. On her face, not a stitch of makeup.

Her smile died as she caught sight of Baxter. Her gaze darted to the other woman even as she halted in her tracks. “You’re all right, Addy? He’s not bothering you?”

“No, no! This is an old, uh, family friend. Baxter Smith. Baxter, this is Skye Alexander, the descendant of the movie studio owner I was telling you about. She manages the Crescent Cove properties.”

He didn’t reach out to shake her hand. Something told him she wouldn’t appreciate the contact. “Nice to meet you.”

“He was just leaving,” Addy put in.

Baxter frowned at her. No, he wasn’t. He had that apology to deliver and being deterred would mean he’d only have to face her another day. “Addy—”

“Look at this,” she said to Skye, ignoring him as she brandished a sheet of paper covered with spidery writing. “I think it’s the inventory of props from The Egyptian. That’s the famous Cleopatra movie we were talking about.”

Skye skirted Baxter to peer at the list in Addy’s hand. “You located it already?”

“I can’t claim any special powers. The film’s name is right here on the outside of the box.” Addy smiled.

Baxter had forgotten her smile. But how could that be? She had an elfin kind of grin, the curve of her mouth tilting the outside corners of her bright green eyes. A dimple in her right cheek teased him.

He felt himself going hard again.

No.

To get his body under control, he tried thinking of arctic swims, dental drilling without Novocain, scratches in the finish of his beloved Beemer. But his gaze didn’t drift from Addy and the animation on her face as she chattered away, something about the infamy of the movie and the rumors of a jeweled collar that was associated with it, a gift to the married starring actress from her leading man-slash-lover. Scandal had ensued and the priceless necklace had gone missing all those years ago. Rumors of its existence persisted to this day.

“The starring actress...” Skye said, quirking a brow. “Edith Essex, my great-great-grandmother.”

“Yep. And her husband was the owner of Sunrise Pictures—as well as the man who discovered her.” Addy cleared her throat. “About Edith’s infidelity—that could only be a story.”

“But it’s a relentless one, just like that of the missing necklace.”

“Very, very valuable necklace.” Addy hesitated. “Are you...are you still okay with me looking into those rumors? I’m interested in uncovering what made Sunrise shut down—whether in expectation of the takeover of talkies or bad business dealings or perhaps the destructive power of an extramarital affair.”

“Go ahead, I’m okay with it.” Skye shrugged. “Broken hearts are nothing new to the cove.”

That last comment gave Addy visible pause. She shivered a little, and Baxter saw her jaw tighten.

Which gave him pause.

This clearly wasn’t the time for them to talk, he decided, moving toward the exit. They needed privacy for that, and Addison March in a relaxed frame of mind.

Or better, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. Maybe with a little more time and space he could talk himself out of having such a conversation with Addy altogether.

* * *

ON HER SECOND MORNING at Crescent Cove, Layla again walked down the sand on her way from the bakery truck to Beach House No. 9. It was another beautiful day, the sun warming the air, the breeze cooling her skin. The waves hit the sand with an unceasing rhythm, the ocean’s steady breathing.

She moved with purpose, winding her way around scattered “camps” on the sand delineated by colorful towels, beach chairs and baskets stuffed with sunscreen, magazines and sand toys. Then her gaze caught on the weaving and bobbing Stars and Stripes kite flying from the second-floor balcony of the last house in the cove. Her insides mimicked the flutter of the red, white and blue fabric and she pressed her palm against her stomach, cursing her sudden jittering nerves.

That were anticipating seeing Vance again.

This was so not the way the month was allowed to go, she scolded herself. They were together to fulfill a promise, nothing more. He was a soldier, on leave from war, and he’d be back to it once he healed, out of her life and out of her reach as surely as her father. Remember that.

Straightening her spine, she forced her feet to forward march. Letting herself develop an emotional attachment to Vance wasn’t smart—and would only serve to make her soft. And ultimately...hurt.

Anyway, he wasn’t interested in any sort of connection between them himself. Why would he be? It was her father’s wish that had Vance staying at Beach House No. 9, not his own choice. And yesterday, after explaining to her about his commanding officer’s Helmet List, he’d seemed to extinguish the sexual spark that had singed her before—almost enough to convince her it had been her imagination.

But then she’d brushed past him in the kitchen when she and Addy were putting together an easy dinner. The flash of heat she’d felt had made her stumble a little, and Vance had caught her elbow...and then his fingers had lingered on her bare flesh, his thumb stroking the tender inner skin at the joint. She’d shot her gaze to his, and he’d smiled a little, given a shrug and let her go.

Just one of those things, that casual shoulder movement had seemed to say. Whatcha gonna do? He’d proceeded to comment on the precise way she’d arranged the cut-up fruits and cold salads on a platter, teasing her like a pesky sister or that ten-year-old he’d expected her to be.

After dinner he’d sprawled his big body on the sofa and conked out with a baseball game playing on TV, as if her presence in an adjoining armchair didn’t register. A situation which, once Addy retreated upstairs, allowed Layla the guilty pleasure of stealing glances at his long limbs and handsome features while she pretended to herself she had an interest in the outcome of the nine innings.

Game over, she’d done the courteous thing and shaken him awake. He’d responded with the same good manners, rousing himself and wishing her a polite good-night as they peeled off into separate rooms down the hall. Not by a single blink betraying any awareness that she was a woman who’d be sleeping a mere few walls away and that he was a healthy and virile single man whose thumbprint she still felt like a new tattoo at the bend of her arm.

Layla’s feet halted once more as her gaze took in the figure of a woman standing near the short flight of steps leading from the beach to No. 9’s deck. She wasn’t dressed in the swimsuit-and-cover-up uniform of the other females on the beach, but was instead in cropped pants and an oversize sweatshirt. Layla might have thought she was an occupant from one of the neighboring cottages, but Addy had shared that an elderly gentleman lived in the residence behind No. 9. For now, he was visiting his niece in Oxnard. As for No. 8, this month it housed a middle-aged couple on a spiritual retreat that prescribed an all-green diet and no verbal exchanges between themselves or anyone else.

Was the stranger here to see Vance then? Maybe his cool composure last night was because he wasn’t single, after all.

As she approached, the other woman’s gaze remained focused on the house and Layla realized the sand was muffling her footsteps. She cleared her throat to make herself known. “Can I—”

A half-swallowed shriek rent the air as the stranger spun around. Her eyes were wide and her fingers clawed at the neckline of her long sweatshirt as if the ribbed fabric was intent on strangling her. “Oh,” she choked out. “Sorry.”

“My line,” Layla said with an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no.” The stranger took a breath and tucked her long, coffee-colored hair behind her ears. In her mid- to late-twenties, she was swathed in too-large clothes that did nothing to camouflage the high-cheekboned beauty of her face. “It’s all my fault. I usually walk around with one eye over my shoulder, but my mind was somewhere else.”

On Vance? Layla wondered.

“I’m Skye Alexander.” The brunette held out a slender palm.

“Layla Parker.” She shook hands, then nodded toward the beach house. “I’m staying here for the month,” she said, then hesitated. If this was Vance’s girl, she should probably clarify the nonsexual nature of the situation. “I don’t know if Vance told you, but I’m here with him because—”

“You don’t need to explain. I’m the one your father made the original arrangements with,” Skye put in. “And I’m the one who Vance contacted about the change in circumstance. I manage the cove’s rental properties.”

“Oh.”

Skye touched Layla’s arm with cool fingertips. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

Loss, Layla thought. My loss. Her father was gone, wasn’t he? The truth dug deep again, pain stabbing the center of her chest, a burning, breathless ache. She fisted her fingers, her nails biting into her palms. He’s really gone.

“Are you all right?” Skye asked, and her gaze darted toward the house. “Should I get Vance?”

“No.” Reaching out to him when she felt vulnerable was the dumbest idea yet. “I’m good.” Layla inhaled a deliberate breath, then let it go. “Just fine.”

When she could almost believe that, she again addressed the other woman. “Is there something I could help you with?” At Skye’s quizzical glance, she added, “You were staring at No. 9 when I walked up.”

“Preoccupied with old memories,” Skye admitted. “And some new ones.” She smiled, and it transformed her classic, cool beauty. She looked younger, more...relaxed.

“Good memories,” Layla guessed.

“I grew up at the cove.” Skye made a small gesture with an arm.

“Addy March told me a little of its history. You’re a descendant of the original owners?”

“That’s right. My great-great-grandparents owned the property and operated Sunrise Pictures from here into the late 1920s. Its colorful history doesn’t stop there, though. During Prohibition, rumrunners were known to use it as a drop-off point. Later, my family rented out the property to families during the summer. Finally, we sold off some plots for residential use—though most of the cottages we still own and lease as vacation rentals.”

“My father heard about Crescent Cove from a journalist that was embedded with the troops in Afghanistan.”

That radiant smile lit her face again. “Griffin Lowell.”

Aaah. “Special friend?”

“Griffin and his family spent every June through September here when we were kids. Idyllic summers.”

Layla nodded. “Like I said, special friend?”

Skye blinked, then shook her head. “He has a twin, Gage—” She stopped, a blush rising on her neck. “Both of them are friends, but not special like you mean.”

Sure, Layla thought, keep telling yourself that.

“Griffin’s getting married next month, to a woman—Jane—he met right here at No. 9.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I warn you, there are people who claim the cottage is magic—like the love potion.”

“You don’t say.” Layla didn’t buy such romantic drivel.

Skye buried her hands in the front pouch of her sweatshirt. “But I stopped by because the party who signed for August failed to pay the balance of the deposit. I can’t seem to reach them through their email address, so it’s possible the house will be free next month.”

“You can rent it to someone else.”

“Technically, yes,” Skye said. “Though I’m thinking I’ll leave it open. If it’s left vacant, fine, that will work with this brilliant idea I have. And if the money comes through late, I’ll take it—but in exchange for the use of the house for one very important day.”

“Do you want to come up on the deck?” Layla asked, finding herself curious.

Skye looked pleased. “Just the invitation I was hoping for.”

Layla led the way. It wasn’t the first time she’d trusted her instincts and warmed to a stranger. The transient lifestyle of an army brat had taught her to size up people in an instant, separating ally from enemy. It was a useful ability, that of forging the right friendships quickly, because military kids knew relationships weren’t destined to last long.

So you also learned to let them go just as easily.

Skye came to a stop in the middle of the deck, and she seemed lost in thought again, her gaze traveling about the space. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Settling on one of the chairs surrounding a round table topped by an umbrella, Layla looked over. “Okay, I’ll bite. Perfect for what?”

“A wedding.”

“Let me guess.” It wasn’t very hard. “Griffin and...Jane?”

Skye nodded, then crossed the deck to take another chair. “I’m going to call them today and suggest it. They don’t want to wait long to get married but have yet to find the right venue.”

“And you think here will do,” Layla said.

A smile once again curled the other woman’s mouth. “Can’t you just picture it?”

“Uh...” Maybe it was the result of being raised by two men, one her army officer father and the other her new-age uncle, that as a little girl Layla had been given compasses and canteens, prayer flags and polished rocks instead of paper dolls and princess clothes. Sure, she’d found her feminine side, but she’d never developed a full-blown bridal fantasy. Sharing a childhood with a pair of perennial bachelors had meant she never thought much about matrimony at all.

Perhaps it was the permanence of the idea that made it seem so foreign.

Skye wasn’t waiting for her input. Instead, she was already waxing on about the upcoming nuptials. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Rows of white painted chairs. An aisle created by a spread of sand on the deck. The backdrop for the bride and groom will be the view of the Pacific. Pretty, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Layla shrugged, again aware of her lack of matrimonial imagination. She knew most girls honed the ability to envision romantic tableaus of frilly lace and fancy rings from an early age. “I mean, I guess it would be just fine.”

“The ceremony right before dusk. White pillar candles everywhere, each one protected from the wind by hurricane glass.” Skye’s expression was dreamy. “Picture it...we can wrap the deck railing with swathes of white tulle and hang buckets of flowers from each post.”

“Uh-huh.” Layla voiced the rote agreement, though she was as unmoved as before—and felt just the slightest bit superior about that. She slouched in her seat and let her head rest against the back of the chair. Her eyes drifted shut. The candles, the flowers, the white frothy fabric had just never clicked with her.

And then, suddenly, they did.

All at once, Layla could picture it. The chairs, the guests, golden sand creating a wide aisle on the painted surface of the deck. Roses in buckets. Fat, sunset-colored blossoms and glossy green leaves. The tulle would ripple in a breeze that would lift the bride’s veil, as well, tugging it away from her face, which would be glowing in the candlelight. The groom would catch the filmy material, his fingers trailing her cheek as he bent toward her for a kiss...

She and Skye sighed at the exact same moment.

The sound woke Layla from the beguiling daydream. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the other woman as if she might be a witch. “You’re dangerous,” Layla said. “I’m not given to flights of fancy.”

Skye shook her head. “It’s not me. Maybe you’ve been touched by the magic of Beach House No. 9.”

“Hey, ladies.”

Vance’s deep voice was a welcome intrusion into the hearts and flowers that still seemed to float about the deck. Grateful for the conversation he started up with the property manager, Layla took time to blink away the ridiculous fairy dust that lingered in her eyes.

The masculine rumble of his laugh brought her feet straight back to earth. Thank God. Mushy marriage stuff was not for her. Returned to her normal, practical self, she glanced over at Vance.

She couldn’t imagine him in groom wear. Instead, he looked right at home in a pair of beat-up jeans, leather flip-flops and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that matched his eyes but was rebelliously wrinkled. The tat sleeve covered his cast.

His real-man persona blew the last of the romantic cobwebs from her brain. Yep, she absolutely felt like herself again, the unsentimental soldier’s daughter who didn’t believe in anything more magical than the alchemy of baking powder and heat that caused a cake to rise.

Her spine straightened, and she sat up in her chair. At the movement, Vance glanced over. He smiled.

A bubble of apprehension hiccupped in her chest. Her nerves danced again.

No.

She was too strong for this. Too unsentimental. Too smart to go soft, despite that gilded daydream Skye had painted with her words. We’ve already gone over this, Layla reminded herself.

“Hey,” Vance said again, meeting her gaze. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Layla jumped to her feet, deciding she needed coffee or a shower or space she didn’t have to share with the handsome combat medic. The door to the house was just a few feet away and surely she could make it there without incident.

“Hold up.”

Gritting her teeth, she turned, walking backward now.

Vance caught her arm, though, and tugged her to him. At his touch, her imagination went wild once more, filling with candlelight and flowers and now naked bodies twining. A hard thigh sliding between two smooth ones. A long finger brushing a tight nipple. The aggressive thrust of a tongue.

Oh, God, Layla thought, feeling heat climb her face. Time to go!

“Too late,” Vance murmured, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. “We have a date with an amusement park ride.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“THE SANTA MONICA Pier?” Layla asked.

“It’s the closest Ferris wheel,” Vance replied. “Number one on your dad’s Helmet List.” Without glancing at her, he pulled his Jeep into a spot in the parking lot across the street from the famous landmark that included restaurants, shops and a designated fun zone built on a wide, pillar-supported platform extending into the Pacific Ocean.

That was his strategy. Not to look at her too long, talk to her too much or even breathe too deeply of her sweet perfume.

He’d hit upon it last night, when they’d settled in to watch a baseball game together. Hyperaware of her every move, he’d finally closed his eyes and willed himself into sleep. It was an ability soldiers developed, and he’d been grateful for it, though it had been a near thing when he’d awoken to find her leaning over him, her hand on his shoulder, the ends of her hair tickling his forehead. For a critical fifteen seconds he’d struggled against dragging her down to the couch, his libido clamoring for action.

He’d resisted then; he’d resist her now. The important thing to focus on was ticking off entries on the Helmet List, and that made the Ferris wheel poised at the end of the pier their destination.

And not looking at her too long, talking to her too much or breathing too deep in her presence his policy. It required maintaining some decided personal space, but even that shouldn’t be overly onerous. They’d beat feet down the three hundred or so yards to the ride at the end of the pier, circle beneath the sun a time or two, then reverse the process and return to Crescent Cove.

No harm, no foul, no inappropriate thoughts or actions.

Avoiding Layla’s perfume didn’t appear to be a problem—as they crossed beneath the arched entrance, they entered an olfactory atmosphere that was a heady combination of sunscreen chemicals, fruity sno-cone syrup and salty sea air. But that cacophony of scents also heralded the fact that they weren’t the only people in Southern California who’d decided on a visit today, and the throng of bodies streaming onto the pier almost immediately carried his companion away from him. Helpless to stop the outgoing tide of humanity, Vance caught a glimpse of her wide eyes as she glanced around for him.

With a groan, he surged into the crowd after her, his gaze following the top of her head, but he lost even that when a pair of rollerbladers cut across his path. Forced to a halt, he turned in a circle, searching for the lacy camisole she wore with a denim skirt. Damn. It was stupid to feel panicked, but a shot of sick worry coursed through him, anyway.

What the hell had Colonel Parker done, putting Vance in charge of his darling daughter? He’d been “that rowdy and reckless Smith boy” from the age of four onward, and even though he’d grown out of most of that behavior—finally—Blythe’s defection had made it clear he still wasn’t responsible enough for any kind of commitment.

Hell, he obviously couldn’t hold on to a woman for fifteen minutes! With quick strides, he made his way to the wall beside the entrance to a small shop. Plastering his back to it, he peered down the long crowded walkway, trying to catch sight of Layla again.

Then he felt a hand pinch the sleeve of his T-shirt and yank him around, into the little store. It was littler than little, almost a closet, and filled with decals, keychains, cheap sunglasses and the woman he sought.

“There you are.” Layla was laughing softly, her voice breathless. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Annoyed by how relieved he felt, Vance grabbed up the darkest-of-dark lenses he could find, slipping them on his face to obscure her loveliness. Then he reached into his back pocket for his wallet and forked over five bucks to the clerk on the other side of a glass case that held Disney watches. Fakes, most likely. “You’re the one who wandered off,” he groused. He’d bet his bad temper showed on his face. “You need to stay in sight.”

He could feel her roll her eyes. “Sorry, Grandpa Vance. But I promise to find a nice policeman or another adult I can trust if we get separated again.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” With that, he took a firm grip on her hand and towed her back out into the sunshine.

“Hey,” she protested, her fingers wiggling like fish on a line, but even with the clumsy bulk of the wrist brace impeding his grip, he didn’t let go.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her into the mass of visitors.

With the two of them attached, though, they made less progress than before. The swarm of people was just that hard to navigate, or maybe it was Layla, who seemed to hang back even as he tried to move forward. He glanced down at her, noting the sudden faraway look on her face. Was there a problem?

Then it hit him. She had to be missing her dad. This was something she was supposed to be doing with him, after all. Vance couldn’t blame her for finding him a poor substitute.

He leaned nearer, close enough for the scent of Layla to reach him. It was her shampoo, he decided, as the wind stirred her hair and a lock of it caught in the bristle of whiskers on his unshaven cheek. He brushed it away with his free hand, the silky strands caressing the inner surfaces between two of his fingers. “Is everything okay?”

Pausing, she glanced up. Their faces were close, her mouth near enough to kiss. “Vance, I...” She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Of course she wasn’t. Her head turned away from his again and he saw she was staring at a boardwalk game, one of those carnival contests that gave you three chances to win for a dollar. He didn’t think she was actually seeing it, but an idea came, anyway. “Hey,” he said. “Would you like to try that?” He’d planned to hustle her down to the wheel ride, but now that seemed the wrong move. “You could win a stuffed animal.”

She slid him a look. “I already have a teddy bear.”

“You could win me a stuffed animal.” He squeezed her hand. “They’ve got Garfield the cat. My favorite.”

Before she could reply, he was steering her toward the booth. Money changed hands and the old guy running the game passed over three baseballs to Layla. Her expression bemused, she focused on the targets, three neon-painted cartoon figures just waiting to be knocked down. “You really want a Garfield?” she asked. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s going to cost you.”

Vance could see a little smile quivering at the corners of her lips. “Positive,” he said. He positively wanted to see that smile let loose, no matter what the price.

It took twenty-two dollars and the mercy of the game operator. By the time she finally clutched her prize, that grin he’d been after came with a touch of more-fool-you. “We could have bought one of these for half that much at the toy store,” she said, presenting the orange feline to him.

“Wouldn’t be the same,” he said, tucking it under one arm and reclaiming her hand. “Because this guy comes with the indelible knowledge that you have the throwing arm of a girl.”

She punched him in the shoulder as they headed down the pier again.

“You do that like a girl, too,” he said. “When you hit somebody you should curl your thumb over your fingers, not put it inside your fist.”

“Really?” She blinked. “I never knew that.”

“That’s why boys are so much better than girls.” He smiled at her little harumph and lowered his voice to murmur in her ear. “Stick with me, baby, I’ll teach you everything you’ve yet to learn.”

Her feet stumbled. Her gaze jerked toward his.

Just like that, the crowds evaporated. The sun seemed to shine on Layla like a beacon, burnishing the rich brown of her hair, adding a glow to the smooth curve of her naked shoulders. There was a flush on her cheeks and her mouth glistened when her tongue wet her top lip, then the bottom one.

Hell, Vance thought, a surge of lust coursing through him. It wrapped around his balls like a caress. His cock went heavy, then hard, and all he could think of was sex. Sex with Layla.

“Let’s go back to the car,” he murmured. There he could get his hands on her, run his fingertips against her throat, lick the slope of that golden shoulder, press his face between her breasts. His gaze flicked down to them and he saw the tight buds of her nipples pressing through her bra and the thin cotton of her top.

His belly tightened as he imagined turning his cheek and taking a nipple into his mouth, wetting the material with his tongue as he sucked it inside. “The car,” he said again, his voice low and tight. “We could be there in ten minutes.”

Her eyes widened. “And skip the Ferris wheel?”

The Ferris wheel? Oh, hell. The Ferris wheel. He was supposed to be playing Boy Scout and fulfilling a promise, not letting his imagination and his sex drive run wild.

Cursing himself, he dropped her hand like a hot potato and resumed striding onward, reminding himself of his earlier strategy. Resist her, dammit. And don’t look at her too long, talk to her too much, or breathe too deeply in her presence.

And for God’s sake, no touching!

Without glancing right or left, he led the way to the attraction at the west end of the pier. It had been the backdrop in movies and TV shows and maybe that added to its appeal. For whatever reason, the line was a zigzagger, one that would take some time and patience to get through. Resigned to it, Vance planted his feet behind the last group in the queue and prepared to endure.

“I guess it’s going to be a wait,” Layla said.

Vance grunted, keeping his gaze on the blue crown of the Dodgers baseball cap the guy in front of him was wearing. It was safer to pretend she wasn’t even there.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The question instantly made him feel like an ass. It wasn’t her fault that he was horny and she was lovely. He shoved his hand through his hair, welcoming the clunk of his cast against his forehead. The small pain was not even close to what he deserved. “I’m fine,” he said, finally glancing over at her.

She was looking up at him with those big eyes of hers, puzzlement putting a crease between her brows. “Then what’s the problem?”

He wanted to bash his head all over again. Instead, he signaled to a vendor walking past and without asking first, bought her a paper cone topped with pink candy the height and consistency of a 1950s beehive hairdo. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at her. If she had something to eat she wouldn’t have a chance to question him further. He wouldn’t have to search for some half-baked answer to explain his mood.

Of course, fate was still conspiring against him. He supposed he could have bought a worse item for her to consume—a corn dog maybe?—but watching her pluck pieces of spun sugar from the cone and slide them into her mouth wasn’t soothing his lust any. After waving off an offer to share, he went back to staring at the Dodgers cap and shuffling his feet forward as the line moved ahead.

He was doing damn well with his not looking/not speaking/not breathing policy and then it was their turn to step into a rocking bucket. Vance climbed in first, then he glanced over as Layla lifted her foot...and froze. Her stricken gaze jerked to his face.

Uh-oh. “What’s the matter?”

“I...” She swallowed, hard.

The attendant steadying their seat spoke with the tone of experience. “Ferris fear,” he announced. “Strikes all kinds, all ages. You can exit over there,” he added, pointing with a finger.

Layla stared at Vance, her head shaking back and forth. “I have to do this.”

“Of course you don’t,” he assured her, starting to rise.

“I have to do this.” Though her face was pale and now her gaze was trained over his shoulder.

Vance glanced back and saw that the view—which gave the impression they were suspended over the ocean—wasn’t helping her any. “Layla—”

“Please, Vance. It’s on the list. Dad’s Helmet List.”

He couldn’t resist the plea. “All right, all right.” He slid down the molded plastic seat and reached for her hand. “Look at me. Now take a step inside. I won’t let go.”

She landed beside him with a gentle plop that sent the bucket swaying. Her free hand clutched his thigh.

“Look at me,” he directed, angling her chin so her big brown eyes didn’t leave his face. “Just keep looking at me.”

“Okay,” she said, and a little tremor ran through her.

He brushed at the bangs that were tangling with her long eyelashes. “You’re afraid of heights?”

She made a face, both sets of fingers still clinging to him. “I don’t know. Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just like the man said, Ferris fear. This is my first ride on one.” Her breath caught as their bucket moved upward in order to let other people into the next on the line.

Over Layla’s shoulder, the view was incredible as the ride continued to slowly revolve and the buckets were filled. The Pacific was far below them, boats gliding across its surface, leaving white trails on the glassy water. Antlike people crawled across the sand of Santa Monica Beach, some of them playing in the lacy edges of the waves. Vance didn’t dare direct her attention to any of it.

Instead, he slung an arm around her shoulders and didn’t flinch when she nestled closer to his chest. She was cool to the touch, and he let her snuggle close, noting that her long lashes were squeezed tightly together.

“Do you know why they call this a Ferris wheel?” he asked.

Her head moved in a short, negative shake.

“It was named after the designer, one George W. Ferris, who came up with the idea for the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. The organizers wanted an attraction to rival the Eiffel Tower, which had wowed visitors in Paris four years before. The ride is based on the waterwheel he remembered watching move in the river near his childhood home. He completed it in four months’ time and with some of his own money because no one had any faith in him.”

Vance knew how that felt, didn’t he? No wonder he’d always held a soft spot for ol’ George, whose wife had ultimately left him and who had died penniless.

He glanced down. Layla’s eyes were open now, but again fixed on his face. “How do you know all that?”

“Report in the sixth grade.” With his forefinger, he tapped his temple. “The facts never left me. Best grade I ever got on anything until I joined the army, though I never told my folks a thing about it.”

Layla frowned. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Fucking Perfect Fitz had the honor roll role already sewn up.”

“Who?”

“That would be my older brother. Never a hair out of place, a grade less than A, the slightest smudge on his permanent record.”

“A big brother?” She sighed a little. “I always wanted one of those.” Then the wheel lurched into motion again, but instead of stopping shortly, it became a smooth revolution that took them even higher.

Layla made a little squeak and burrowed closer, her face turning into him, her mouth touching the side of his throat.

Vance sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the almost-kiss. “How about I be a big brother to you then, during this next month,” he proposed, keeping his voice light. “I’ll teach you how to throw, how to punch, how to survive your fears.”

Of course, he didn’t feel like any kind of brother to Layla at all. And damn, she felt good in his arms, despite the contact being everything he’d tried to avoid. He felt good, period, he decided with some surprise. Until now, the month had struck him as an obligation, not the least like his own vacation. Huh.

Propping his chin on the top of her head, he allowed himself, for a few minutes, anyway, to just enjoy the ride.

* * *

AS THE SUN SANK TOWARD THE horizon, Baxter climbed the steps from the beach onto the open-air deck of Captain Crow’s, his gaze sweeping the space. Looking for Addy.

He’d tried releasing his guilt. He’d tried to tell himself he could let the past go, that his effort at talking to her two days before was enough to clear it from his conscience.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fluffy-haired female—and it was affecting his work.

All Business Baxter couldn’t have that.

So he’d called Vance, and he’d not even begun to fish for the woman’s whereabouts before his cousin had extended an invitation to spend the Fourth of July evening at the beach house. Baxter had quickly accepted.

Not that he’d intended to stay for long. No, he headed to Crescent Cove with the purpose of getting Addy alone and once and for all addressing what had been said and done—and then ignored—That Night all those years ago.

But upon arrival at No. 9, he’d learned the woman he sought was meeting some friends for drinks at the restaurant on the sand. Waiting for her return smacked of stalling, so he’d taken himself up the beach. Once he spotted her, he’d pull her aside and spit out the apology that had to be made.

His gaze caught on Addy’s bright hair. Then he took in the fact that she already had male companionship. Surrounding her at a table were four guys in scruffy-casual: cargo shorts, T-shirts and beat-up running shoes. Baxter didn’t allow himself to feel overdressed, even though his khakis and sports shirt were pressed. So what that his leather sandals were Ferragamo?

The soles of them were silent as he came up behind her. The fivesome didn’t notice him as they passed around a pitcher of beer and continued their discussion. The topic of the moment was Sunrise Pictures, what Addy had discovered so far about it, how much material there was for her to sift through.

One of the men leaned close to her, his narrow fingers wrapping around her glass to top off the beer. “Sign of the jeweled collar?” he asked. His neck was skinny and his complexion pale, made sallower by the contrast to his faded black T-shirt.

Addy shook her head. “It could just be old Hollywood gossip, you know.”

“It’s gotta be,” another of the group concurred. “Priceless treasure still undiscovered after all these years? Not a chance.”

“You should let me help you look for it,” Skinny Neck said, scooting his chair closer to Addy’s. “I have some free time. I could be here every day.” He put his hand on her arm.

The gesture made Baxter move forward. “Addison,” he said.

Her head whipped around and she turned in her chair, causing the man to release his hold on her. “Baxter!” She said it with such enthusiasm he couldn’t help but suppose she didn’t like Skinny’s touch.

Baxter didn’t like it, either.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He yanked a free chair from an adjacent table and insinuated it between her and the guy in the black T-shirt. The other man didn’t move an inch, but Addy obligingly shifted her chair to give Baxter room. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, when it was already done. He smiled genially about the table. “I’ll buy the next pitcher.”

He’d learned a thing or two about managing people over the years. Ask for permission after the deed was already done. Never overlook the opportunity to buy a round of drinks for your friends...or enemies.

Holding out his hand toward Skinny, he gave him a full-wattage Smith smile. “Baxter. Addy and I go way back.”

Introductions garnered him the knowledge that the others at the table hadn’t known her nearly as long. They were fellow students from her undergrad years, and all seemed to still hold a passion for film. Two worked in the industry, one was in law school, Skinny put in part-time hours as a barista while monitoring a chat room dedicated to all things movie.

And he was itching to get into that small archives room with Addison.

“Listen, Addy, I’m serious about the offer,” he said, after the waitress delivered the pitcher of brew that Baxter had ordered. “I got the time, you got the access.” He leaned over the table to send her a smile that was close to a leer. “We could have some fun.”

Baxter glanced at Addy, then went with his instincts. “I don’t think so,” he told the guy.

“Huh?” Skinny frowned at him.

Sliding an arm around Addy’s shoulders, he tugged her closer to his body. “Let me explain...”

What could he possibly say? Six years ago they’d had one intense night together when, for some reason he still couldn’t explain to himself, he’d gone off the BSLS. He was only here now to apologize for what he’d said then and what he hadn’t done afterward. Once that was over they were never going to see each other again.

“Fine,” the man said, as Baxter hesitated. “I get it. You’re bumping boots with Ad. That doesn’t mean I can’t help her out with her research.”

“Bumping boots!” Addy bristled.

Baxter cursed himself. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. He had no business laying claim to any kind of relationship with her. He was trying to lay the past to rest. Get on with it, Smith. Get it out, then get yourself out.

The pitcher of beer was making the rounds again and under the cover of that Baxter turned to her, sliding his arm from her shoulder so he could take both of her hands in his. They were small and cool and resisted his grip until he tightened his fingers. “Listen,” he said. “I’m...I, uh...”

Crap.

He took a quick breath. “I didn’t mean to insinuate something to your friends.”

Her eyes narrowing, she gave a careless shrug. “Why are you here, Baxter? It can’t be a coincidence. Shouldn’t you be at the office?”

“It’s a holiday.” He actually had been at the office, but she didn’t need to know that. “And it’s after five.” Though he often stayed at his desk beyond 8:00 p.m.

“What do you want?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it, staring as her face started to flush. Or was that merely from the pinkish cast of the lowering sun’s light? In either case, it distracted him, and he chased the color downward, aware for the first time of what she wore. It was a dark blue sundress of a gauzy fabric that bared her shoulders and cupped her breasts.

Nothing good could come from allowing his gaze to linger there, so he jerked it upward, noticing the wire-and-beads headband that was half-hidden by her curling hair. The small seeds of glass were colored red, white and blue.

It was the Fourth of July, he reminded himself, and he was here to claim independence from That Night that had been shadowing him for years, staying tucked behind his shoulder until it was clear no amount of paperwork and meetings and conference calls could keep his brain occupied enough to forget it.

“Look,” he said quickly. “I’m here because we really need to talk. What happened six years ago, what we did, what I said... It should have been resolved differently.” It hadn’t been resolved at all, that was the problem. The things that had come out of his mouth as he held her in his arms... Sweet Lord.

His last words had been the assurance that he’d be calling her and yet he’d never dialed her number, sent an email or even posted on her Facebook wall. He didn’t even know if she had an account.

“Will you accept my apology?” he asked.

She blinked, those green eyes of hers expressing...what? Christ, he couldn’t read her. Six years ago she’d been an open book.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Addy said.

“I...uh, what?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated. Her brows came together and she looked perplexed. “Six years ago? We did? You said? It doesn’t ring any bells.”

Baxter may have been gaping at her. She didn’t recall? She didn’t remember That Night? Okay, she’d had one beer, but he didn’t think she’d been drunk.

Not drunk enough to forget being with him.

To forget he’d taken her virginity. And what he’d said after the fact.

As he tried to wrap his mind around her apparent forgetfulness, she turned away from him to respond to one of her college pals. Banter circled the table as they told old stories, brought up shared classes, dissed clueless professors.

Rocked by the revelation that what had eaten at him for six years apparently didn’t rate a single memory in her brain’s filing cabinet, Baxter sat frozen. After a few minutes he reached into his pocket for his smartphone, but even calling up his email and checking for voice messages didn’t shore him up.

Work always shored him up. Routine. Sticking to the BSLS.

He only tuned back into the conversation when Skinny Neck spoke up again. He leaned around Baxter to address Addy. “As I mentioned,” he said, “I can help you with your research. I have a lot of free time.”

Baxter didn’t like the guy on sight and even less now that he wanted to “help” Addy with such insistence. But he steeled himself to stay silent. Heck, if she didn’t remember him from That Night six years ago, he shouldn’t stick his nose into her affairs.

“Well?” Skinny prodded.

“Steve...” Addy hesitated, looking down, then her lashes swept up and her gaze touched Baxter’s face.

He could read her well enough now, he thought. And she was clearly saying, Help.

Before he could even think it through, he had his arm around her again. “She doesn’t need anything from you, Sk—Steve. You see, I’ve already volunteered my services. When Addy needs an extra hand, it’s going to be mine that comes to her aid.”

Then he shined his smile on her, the foundation firm beneath his feet again. If she’d forgotten what they’d been to each other, he now had a reason to be around her to remind her of it.

After that he’d apologize and put That Night to bed.

He winced, not sure if it was because of his mind’s turn of phrase or the sneaking suspicion that his logic held a serious fatal flaw. But her warmth at his side felt too good for him to reason it out now.

CHAPTER SIX

LAYLA FIDGETED IN THE KITCHEN, rotating the plate of cupcakes she’d frosted in red, white and blue as the dessert for the Fourth of July dinner she’d thought she’d be sharing with Vance and Addy. But the other woman had gone to Captain Crow’s to meet some friends for a quick drink and she’d yet to return. Vance’s cousin Baxter had arrived at Beach House No. 9 not long after Addy had left, and he’d headed straightaway after her. He was still MIA, as well.

That meant Layla was alone with Vance, who was seated on the couch in the adjacent living room, staring out the sliding glass door that led to the deck and then the ocean beyond. Over the past couple of days, being by herself with him was a circumstance she’d done her best to avoid. Taking her gaze off him, she played once again with the placement of the baked treats, her twitchy nerves making it impossible to keep still.

Unable to help herself, she stole another glance at Vance and wondered about his mood. Was he edgy, too? Without other company as a buffer between them, the atmosphere in the house felt heavy with tension and her nerves stretched thin enough to snap. As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head and she quickly redirected her attention to the cupcakes. Boy, were they fascinating.

Not. Even as she pretended an interest in them, she could tell that Vance continued looking at her. The nape of her neck went hot beneath the long fall of her hair and her sundress, a patriotic red with white polka dots, suddenly seemed to cling too tightly to her ribs. The nervous shuffle of her feet made the hemline tickle the sensitive spots at the back of her knees.

As more minutes passed, her breath bounced back at her from the old-fashioned tile backsplash, sounding much too loud. And was it just her, or were the walls now closing in?

Layla spun away from the countertop. “I’m going to find Addy.”

In a move just as abrupt, Vance shoved up from the couch. “Sounds good to me.”

He was going with her? She wanted to refuse his company, but that would only seem rude and...immature. God knew she’d appeared childish enough when she’d clung to him during the Ferris wheel ride. She couldn’t help that the height of the metal contraption had triggered a bout of panic, but it only had added to her humiliation that he’d been prompted to offer up his services as her big brother.

Big brother! He was a step or two ahead of her now as they descended the stairs from the deck to the beach. The thin fabric of his short-sleeved, white chambray shirt fluttered against the strong muscles of his broad back. His ancient Levi’s had a rip in one rear pocket, which drew her eyes and made her all too aware of the way only a man could fill out a pair of jeans. She heaved a sigh.

He glanced around at the sound, just in time to see her trip on the last step. Her neck blazed hot again as his hand shot out to steady her.

“I’m fine,” she bit out, jerking to avoid his touch. “I don’t need a keeper.”

Then, sucking in a breath, she started striding along the sand in the direction of the restaurant. Okay, maybe she sounded as if she needed a keeper.

Or a big brother.

Gah!

The mere fact that he’d mentioned it on the Ferris wheel proved he’d managed to bury what she’d thought was a mutual attraction. Or perhaps on his end it had evaporated all on its own. In any case, clearly she’d morphed in his mind from sexy to sibling.

Great.

She was still grinding away on that when they approached the deck at Captain Crow’s. It was a much different place from where she’d eaten lunch a few days before. Then it had been relaxed. Quiet. The tables half-full.

Now a rock band was playing in one corner. People were sitting, standing, dancing. Drinking.

As they entered the throng, a man let out a loud whoop and lifted a scantily clad woman to his shoulders, where she swayed to the heavy beat. Vance leaned into Layla and spoke directly into her ear. “This place is nuts. Let’s go back.”

For another session of her nerves on the torture rack? No, thank you. Pretending not to hear him, she side-scooted around another piggyback-dancing couple. Addy had to be around somewhere.

A guy with curly blond hair, wearing board shorts and a tan, grabbed her arm as she went by. He swung her onto the dance floor, a good-natured grin on his face. “I’m Ted,” he shouted over the guitar licks. “I bet you like to dance.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but a different hand found her wrist and spun her away from her would-be partner. It was Vance. Her back to his front, he held her against his body with his half cast and used the other arm as a shield of sorts to push them through the throng and toward the bar.

He had the devil’s own luck, or maybe it was his set expression that had two stools opening up just as they approached. He half lifted her onto the leather-strapped seat and then took the other. It was quieter here than near the dance floor, so she didn’t have to resort to lip-reading to hear his opening remark. “This was a bad idea.”

She frowned at him. “I might have wanted to dance, you know.”

“What? With that surfer dude? He was drunk.”

Her chance to retort was interrupted by the bartender, who slapped a couple of napkin squares in front of them and asked for their orders. Vance wanted beer. Layla put in for a margarita.

It didn’t add to her dignity that the guy pouring drinks followed up by requesting her ID and from the corner of her eye she saw Vance smirk. Ignoring him, she fished her license out of her sundress pocket and at the bartender’s satisfied nod reiterated her desire for a margarita and tacked on an order for a tequila shot, salt and a slice of lime.

Vance made a noise. “Do you think you should—”

“It’s a patriotic choice,” she hissed at him.

“Today’s July Fourth, not Cinco de Mayo,” he said as their drinks were delivered.

Instead of answering him, she grabbed up the saltshaker that had been placed in front of her. With her tongue, she wet the web of skin between her left forefinger and thumb, sprinkled salt on the damp spot, then traded the shaker for the shot glass. After licking at the salt, the tequila went down fiery and hot, and she chased the flames by biting into the tangy citrus pulp of the lime.

Then she smiled at Vance.

His expression didn’t tell her anything. He watched her coolly over his bottle of beer, unnerving her again, so she turned to the margarita and took a hefty swallow. The chill of the blended drink mitigated the burn in her belly, the combination creating a warm glow that traveled through her blood.

Feeling more relaxed than she had in days, she lifted her margarita glass again.

“Maybe you should take that slow,” Vance warned.

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