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

Globe-trotting photojournalist Gage Lowell spent carefree childhood summers in Crescent Cove. Now that he desperately needs some R & R, he books a vacation at Beach House No. 9—ready to soak up some sun and surprise old friend and property manager Skye Alexander. Their long-distance letters got him through a dangerous time he can’t otherwise talk about. But when he arrives, the tightly wound beauty isn’t exactly happy to see him.

Skye knows any red-blooded woman would be thrilled to spend time with gorgeous, sexy Gage. But she harbors secrets of her own, including that she might just be a little bit in love with him. And she’s convinced the restless wanderer won’t stay long enough for her to dare share her past—or dream of a future together. Luckily for them both, summer at Crescent Cove has a way of making the impossible happen….

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway

“Kick off your shoes and escape to endless summer. This is romance at its best.”

—Emily March, New York Times bestselling author of Nightingale Way, on Bungalow Nights

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

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

“A beach-worthy seaside contemporary...[with] an adorable retro beach setting and intriguing supporting characters.”

—Publishers Weekly 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 is winding down at Crescent Cove but the magic is still alive and well at Beach House No. 9. Songs about surfing carry through the air, the scents of coconut sunscreen and salty ocean mingle on the breeze. Walk barefoot through the sand and lift your face to the warmth beaming down...another romance is ready to bloom.

Skye Alexander isn’t looking for love, however, even when the man she’s been corresponding with for months moves into No. 9. Gage Lowell’s only here for some brief R&R before returning to photograph danger zones overseas—so there’s no sense in getting dreamy over ever-afters. Gage came to the cove eager to get to know his pen pal in person, but pretty Skye might be messing with his impending plans. He never stays in one place for long, but when he leaves Beach House No. 9, might he be leaving his heart behind? I hope you’ll enjoy watching these two people come to terms with their feelings and their futures.

How much pleasure I’ve had sharing with you a summer of love in this enchanting place. I hope you carry with you all its tears and laughter, all its sexiness and fun, for a very long while.

Here comes the sun!

Christie Ridgway

The Love Shack

Christie Ridgway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my mom, for all those summers filled with books.

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

Epilogue

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,

Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;

Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

E’en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

—Stanza 2, “Beautiful Dreamer” by Stephen Foster

CHAPTER ONE

FOR THE PAST decade, Gage Lowell had lived on risk the way other people sucked down caffeine. It had been his morning fix, his noonday pick-me-up, his after-dinner beverage with dessert. So the anticipation building in his belly as he approached beautiful but tranquil Crescent Cove didn’t make much sense.

It was no Durand Line, that porous border between Afghanistan and Pakistan where he’d braved danger that ran the gamut from Taliban bullets to half-wild bulls. The natives were certain to be less suspicious than the Syrian rebels he’d photographed the spring before. And though the house he’d rented was situated on the sand, just steps away from the Pacific Ocean, not for a second did he suppose this vacation would end like the one he’d taken some years ago—with Gage running for his life and high ground, holding his cameras overhead.

Of course, that tsunami had come out of the blue.

But he really couldn’t see how this holiday would hold any such surprise.

Still, expectation continued to hum through his veins. “Stop here,” he said to his twin as the car turned onto the narrow road that led off the coastal highway. They’d come straight from the airport. “I’ll hoof it to the property management office for the keys. You drive my stuff to Beach House No. 9 and I’ll meet you there.”

Griffin frowned over at him. “What, I’m your bellboy now?” Though the sarcasm was typical brother bullshit, there was something in his expression that tickled Gage’s spine.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.

His twin braked the car but didn’t answer. Up ahead were the first of the fifty or so eclectic cottages that made up the beachside community where the Lowell family had spent every summer until he’d turned fifteen. The dwellings’ designs were a little bit funky and a lot colorful, nestled in lush vegetation—palm trees, hibiscus bushes and various other flowering plants—that had originally been planted so that the two-mile-long curve of sand could serve as a variety of backdrops during the silent movie era: deserted island, cannibal-infested jungle, ancient Egypt.

It had been paradise for Gage, Griffin and the rest of their posse of kids who’d run wild every June through September.

Rolling down his window, Gage breathed deeply of the salt-and-sun-laden air and dismissed his disquiet. He had a few weeks to rest and recharge before his next assignment overseas, and Crescent Cove was the best place in the world for that. “It’s still got that ol’ magic, doesn’t it?” he murmured, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” Griffin said. “Maybe I should go with you to collect the keys.”

Uh-oh. Uneasiness kicked up again. “What’s going on?”

“Look. About Skye—”

“Don’t say any more,” Gage said, already irritated. The older by eleven minutes, Griffin often acted as if he were the much-wiser sibling. “I know her as well as you. Better than you.”

“You haven’t seen her since we were kids. You might be, uh, I don’t know, surprised by how she looks.”

“I don’t care how she looks,” Gage said, aware he sounded a little angry. What? His brother thought he had some shallow set of standards when it came to female companions? Okay, he supposed it could be true when it came to a certain kind of female companion, but that didn’t apply here.

“I’m not interested in her appearance.” Gage pressed his shoulder against the passenger door and pushed it open. “She’s not a woman to me.”

His brother might have mumbled, “Oh, hell,” but Gage was already on his way toward the footpath that would lead him straight to Skye Alexander.

He knew exactly where the property management office was, just as he knew all the cove’s other landmarks from his childhood explorations. Then, Skye’s father had been in charge, always dressed in his trademark khakis, wilted denim shirt and bush hat. Skye and her sister could often be found in his office, playing with paper dolls or with their shell collections, leaving Mrs. Alexander free to stay engrossed in her easel and paints.

Skye held her dad’s job now. Gage knew this, because they’d fallen into an accidental correspondence nearly a year ago. When planning his R & R a few months back, he’d thought of her and the cove and made a snap decision to rent the beach house where he’d spent those idyllic summers. To surprise his pen pal, he’d reserved it under a fictitious name.

He couldn’t wait for her reaction when she saw him.

His palms itched, and for a moment he regretted leaving his cameras packed in the car. His hands seemed too empty without them, though he hadn’t felt much like taking photos lately, which worried him a little.

A lot.

Maybe Beach House No. 9 would be the antidote to that, too.

Ahead was the simple clapboard structure that was the one-room management office. He slowed his approach, taking in the small yard enclosed by a white picket fence that was brightened by bougainvillea vines of varied colors: fuchsia, white, coral and red. The front door stood open, and a woman’s voice floated over the threshold, the notes snatched away by the cool breeze before he could make out the words.

He stepped over the low gate instead of chancing squeaky hinges that might give him away. Then he strolled up the path until he came to a stop on the small, stamp-sized doorstep. The midmorning sun was bright, the interior of the office dark in comparison. Feet planted on the concrete, Gage peered into the dim interior.

A woman was half-turned away from him, a phone pressed to her ear. “Sure, I can email you a scanned copy of Edith’s letter to Max. Yes, they are my great-great-grandparents. Sure. Fine.” She paused to listen.

For the life of him, Gage couldn’t figure out what Griffin’s warning was all about. Yeah, his recollection of Skye stalled on her at about eleven years old, but this grown-up version didn’t clash with his memory. She’d had that long, coffee-dark hair as a little girl. The woman before him was average height, he’d say, and looked slender, though she was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt that could have been her father’s.

The phone conversation seemed to be winding down, and Gage felt another surge of eagerness. He couldn’t remember the color of her eyes or the shape of her nose, but any moment now she’d turn his way and he’d have a face to put with those letters that had become so vital to him during his hellish two-week ordeal in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m thrilled you’ll be featuring the cove in an upcoming edition of the paper. Thank you. If I can answer any more questions, Ali, don’t hesitate to call.” She clicked off the phone, but still didn’t glance toward the door.

Gage felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t move or say anything for another long moment, while the ocean breeze played with the hem of his jeans and the tail of his thin white shirt. It was stupid, maybe, but he felt as if he was poised on the brink of something and he wondered, weirdly, if he should have brought flowers.

Then, rejecting the odd thought, he lifted his foot to enter Skye’s domain. The movement must have alerted her to his presence. She whirled to face him.

And screamed bloody murder.

September 15

Dear Gage,

Salutations from a childhood friend! Your missive to your twin reached me at Crescent Cove’s property management office. Thought you should know Griffin’s not expected at Beach House No. 9 until April. Loved the picture on the front of the postcard—one of yours? Over the years, I’ve noticed your photo credit lines in magazines and newspapers and remember the camera you carried every summer, strapped to your chest like a second heart.

Hope this finds you in good health, Skye Alexander

Skye,

Thanks for the info re: Griff. Are you still playing tea party at your dad’s desk in the Crescent Cove office? Because I can see you there in my memory. What summers we had! When it’s blistering hot here, I take off to the cove in my imagination and lie on the wet sand, letting the cool Pacific wash over my skin. When the temperature turns freezing, I remember our tribe of Cove kids playing beach soccer under a burning sun. Do shore crabs still make you squeal?

Gage

Skye Alexander’s friend and neighbor Polly Weber leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You didn’t tell me Gage Lowell was gorgeous.”

“You’ve become friends with Griffin. Since they’re twins, it should come as no surprise.” Skye didn’t even glance at the man seated at the head of their table on the open-air deck. Besides Gage, Polly and Skye, there were five more people attending the welcome dinner at Captain Crow’s, the restaurant/bar located at the northern end of the cove. Griffin and his fiancée, the twins’ sister, Tess, and her husband, and an elderly family friend were gathered close to the man of honor. Skye had chosen a seat as far from him as possible.

She was counting on distance to calm her heart—it had been beating with an erratic wildness since she’d looked up that morning and found a dark figure looming in her office doorway.

He was telling the story now, speaking up so that Rex Monroe, the nearly deaf nonagenarian who lived full-time at the cove, could hear him. “My ears are still ringing from her scream,” Gage said. “I meant to surprise her, not send her into a full-blown panic.”

“She’s been jumpy for months,” Rex said, shaking his head. “Nervous like a rabbit since March.”

“Really?” There was a new alertness in the younger man’s voice, and Skye sensed he was studying her over the plates and glasses.

She pretended an avid interest in the surface of her white wine and ignored the embarrassed heat crawling toward her cheeks. Good thing she was wearing a cotton turtleneck with her boy-styled black trousers.

“Since the spring, you say?” Gage spoke again to Rex.

Before the elderly man could reveal anything more, Skye felt compelled to offer a rationale. “It’s the off-season quiet that gets to me, what with the tiny number of full-time residents.” And if she didn’t find a way to control her persistent anxiety, she doubted she’d survive this year’s transition from summer’s bustle to autumn hush. “That’s all.”

She glanced up to judge how Gage took the explanation.

Mistake. Their eyes met. His turquoise-blue gaze shot another electric jolt to her heart. Its beat went crazy again, thudding heavy and uneven against her ribs.

“Fenton Hardy,” she heard herself say, her mouth so dry her tongue clicked against its roof.

“Yes, what was that about?” Jane Pearson, Griffin’s fiancée, asked. “When Skye told us that was the name of No. 9’s upcoming tenant, I recognized the literary allusion, but your brother knew right away that meant it was you.”

Skye tore her eyes from Gage and pinned Griffin with a stare. “You did?”

The man shrugged. “It was our secret identity name when we were kids. Fenton is the father in the Hardy Boys books. I figured Gage had a reason to be mysterious.”

“I told you, I wanted to surprise Skye...I was planning on surprising everyone, actually, but I didn’t realize she’d talk to you about who’d rented the place.”

“We were going over wedding details when it came out,” Jane said, and she grinned, clearly thrilled about her upcoming marriage to Griffin. “How handy that you’ll be the one we inconvenience when we say ‘I do’ on No. 9’s deck at the end of the month.”

Gage shook his head. “I’ve only known you a few hours, Jane, but it’s clear you can do better than ol’ Griff. I’d suggest myself—”

“I’m sticking with the twin whose globe-trotting days are over,” Jane said, emphatic.

“Gage would make a terrible husband,” a new voice put in. It was Tess Quincy, the older sister of Griffin and Gage. “He’s restless and selfish and likely doesn’t wash his clothes often enough.”

“Gee, thanks, Tessie,” Gage replied, and lifted his arm, pretending to sniff at the sleeve of his shirt. “Love you, too.”

“I’m just saying.” His sister’s eyes went suspiciously bright. “Think about it. Think about if you made some poor woman fall in love with you and then you fell off the face of the earth for over two weeks.”

An awkward silence descended, as Gage had been MIA for just that amount of time, troubling family and friends until he’d resurfaced a few days ago.

“You know communication is spotty where I was, Tessie,” he said, a new tension in his voice.

“Well, Griffin was very concerned. His twin sense was tingling.”

“He’s always been a worrywart.” Gage’s smile looked forced. “I’m here, aren’t I? Safe and sound.”

Skye couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d had the same sense that something was wrong when she’d gone too long between letters from him. Her apprehension hadn’t eased until Griffin let her know that Gage had checked in by phone—though she’d never in a million years expected him to show up at the cove. “But you’re late. Fenton Hardy was scheduled to arrive at the first of the month.”

This time it was Gage who didn’t seem to want to look at her. “Travel plans changed. Now, can someone tell me more about this upcoming wedding? I’m still having a hard time buying that anyone wants a lifetime with my brother.”

The atmosphere lightened considerably after that. Food was consumed. Liquor flowed.

At Skye’s side, Polly released a pensive sigh.

She glanced over at the other woman. “Okay, Pol?”

“Oh, I’m good,” she said, straightening in her seat. A burst of laughter from the head of the table drew their attention in that direction. “Like I said,” Polly reiterated, her gaze resting on Gage, “really, really gorgeous.”

Skye allowed herself a moment to study him. “Yeah.” She took in his rumpled black hair and tanned complexion. His cheekbones were chiseled, his jaw firm and beneath two dark slashes of brow were his incredible eyes. His beard was heavy enough that he had noticeable after-five stubble that only served to draw attention to his mobile mouth and white grin.

“No wonder you broke up with Dalton,” Polly said.

Startled, Skye jerked her head toward her friend. “I didn’t break up with Dalton because of Gage.” She didn’t want to think about why she’d broken up with Dalton. Crossing one leg tightly over the other, she rubbed at her upper arms with her palms.

A husky male laugh drew her attention back to the head of the table where Gage was now engaged in flirtatious banter with their waitress, Tina. As Skye watched, the server toyed with the name tag pinned to her blouse, drawing attention to cleavage she could swear hadn’t been on display when she’d ordered her swordfish and steamed vegetables. Clearly Tina had made a wardrobe adjustment for the man of honor’s benefit.

“See?” she told Polly. “That’s the kind of woman Gage finds appealing.”

Her friend glanced over. “What kind of woman is that?”

Skye made a vague gesture with her hand. The kind who can bear to show some skin.

“You’re twelve times more beautiful than that hussy.”

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” Skye said, grimacing.

“I’m not giving any,” Polly said. “Just the facts, ma’am. But if you want an opinion, I suggest you ditch the boy-wear and play with makeup again. I know you have pretty clothes in your closet. I remember when lipstick and mascara still mattered to you.”

Skye did, too, but now peace of mind mattered more. Though it was true that baggy sweatshirts and medicated lip balm hadn’t exactly brought that about. Head down, she ran her fingertip around and around the edge of her water glass.

“Want to dance?” came a voice, close to her ear.

Skye’s head popped up, her eyes widening at Gage’s hovering form. He wanted to dance? He wanted to dance with her? It was then she noticed that the sun had set, leaving the sky a fading orange. The tiki torches plunged in the sand at the corners of the deck were flaming now, and the atmosphere at Captain Crow’s was starting to pump. Customers were two-deep at the bar. People were moving about the small parquet dance area to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Griffin and Jane were out there, wrapped in each other’s arms. Tess was dragging her husband, David, in their direction, though he was laughing and protesting at the same time.

“Dance?” Gage said again.

He’d probably been sitting too long, Skye thought. He’d always been on the go as a kid and there was good reason his sister labeled him “restless.” She knew for a fact that he only slept six hours a night—one of the personal details he’d shared in his letters.

An amused glint entered Gage’s blue eyes as she continued to hesitate. “Am I speaking the wrong language?”

“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Skye said. “Polly will do it.”

“What?” Polly looked up from the phone cradled in her palms, her thumbs poised over the touch screen. “He didn’t ask me.”

“You like to dance.”

“I’m texting with Teague.” She shook her head. “He’s having an emotional emergency.”

Skye glanced up at Gage again. “Teague White. Remember him? He spent summers here, too.”

He blinked. “Tea— No! Tee-Wee White?”

“Not so tee-wee anymore,” Polly muttered, her thumbs tapping away. “More like big fat idiot.”

Not fat, Skye mouthed to Gage.

He laughed, then bent to grip her elbow and tug her to her feet in one quick move. “Let’s dance, Skye.”

Freezing, she stared at the large, masculine hand circling her cotton-knit-covered arm. Her common sense warred with her fight-or-flight response. Don’t bolt, she told herself. Or punch him. Either option would only bring up embarrassing questions.

“You okay?”

“S-sure.” As sure as someone could be who’d broken up with her boyfriend because she’d developed an aversion to being touched.

Before she could think of how to get away from the situation without sacrificing dignity or courtesy, he was towing her toward the other couples moving to the music. One song ended and another began, ukulele notes and the sweet voice of IZ Kamakawiwo’ole singing “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i” floating through the air like feathers.

Gage released her arm, and, sensing this was her moment, Skye took a big step back. But he grabbed for her hand, reeling her close.

Scattering her thoughts. Honing her senses.

They focused on him, his large, lean frame, and on the nuances of his skin against hers. His fingers were long, his palm hard and calloused, the rough skin scratching the tender hollow at the center of her hand. She didn’t think she was breathing as his other palm settled at her waist, just the lightest of touches over the material.

It wasn’t a close hold, it was almost impersonal, she knew that, but her blood was shooting through her veins like a comet. Anxiety, she thought, as the heat sizzled her nerve endings. It stole her oxygen along with the words that would get her off the dance floor. Mute, she looked up at him.

Gage returned her gaze, his expression enigmatic but his amazing eyes bright with... Skye didn’t know what. He gave her hand a small squeeze. It felt...reassuring.

Maybe. She was so messed up, she’d been so messed up for months that her brain was unable to interpret normal signals. Behind her eyes came the hot prick of tears. Another flush rose up her neck as she imagined the humiliation of bursting into sobs. Keep it together, she thought, desperate not to look the fool in front of this beautiful man.

He blew out a little sigh as he moved them to the slow beat of the song. His body didn’t brush hers, yet she couldn’t help being aware of the breadth of his chest and the lean strength of his arms and legs. “Dinner was excellent,” he said. “Nothing better than a heaping serving of beach fries along with sixteen ounces of aged beef.”

Skye redirected her gaze to the safer vicinity of his heavy shoulder and told herself to try to relax. “You missed American food.”

“I’ve been dreaming of rare steak for months.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t like your meat bloody.”

“Oh, God, did I confess that to you?” he said, his tone aghast.

“You did.” She felt a little smile break through her tension.

“What’ll it take for you to keep that to yourself?” he demanded. “In most circles it’s considered unmanly to like meat well-done.”

She smiled again. “You’re plenty manly.” Without thinking, she glanced up.

He was grinning, his expression amused, but as their gazes held, his smile died away.

Skye felt another surge of that breathless, uncomfortable anxiety, and a rush of goose bumps shivered across her skin.

The song ended. Gage dropped his hands. The loss of contact didn’t calm her jangling nerves and they continued to stand on the dance floor, staring at each other.

A long moment passed, and then Gage shook his head with a wry laugh. “I suppose it’s past time to regret that you know so many of my secrets.”

Skye didn’t answer either way, though she understood his concern. To her mind, it was imperative he stay ignorant of hers.

CHAPTER TWO

GAGE GOT A GOOD NIGHT’S sleep, despite or perhaps because of the jet lag brought on by seventy-nine hundred miles of travel. Upon waking to a sun-bright room, he leaned over and clicked off the bedside lamp. It was his new habit to sleep with a light on like a three-year-old, but he wasn’t going to try weaning himself for a while.

After dressing in cargo pants and a T-shirt that was probably older than his own thirty-one years, he rummaged through the groceries he’d stashed in the kitchen. Finding an apple, he polished it against his thigh and then took it with him as he stepped through the sliding glass door that led from the living room onto the deck facing the ocean.

No. 9 was the best beach house in the cove. At least he’d always thought so. They’d come here for a decade of summers, and it didn’t appear as if much—or anything—about it had changed. Dark brown shingles covered the two-story structure, and the trim around the doors and windows was still painted a bluish-green. It was situated at the southern end of the cove, cozied up to a bluff that pushed into the ocean. The trails snaking up the cliff’s rocky side told Gage that daredevils likely still used it as a jumping-off place, just as he and Griffin had when they were kids.

The ocean called to him, so he crossed the deck and jogged down the steps leading to the sand. The stuff under his bare feet was the consistency of cornmeal, and he continued through it until the grains were wet and moisture sucked at his soles. Then, with his apple held in the grip of his teeth, he bent to roll his pant legs above the ankle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“We caught someone vandalizing the place.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good for her. Good for them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” she said.

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

“Sure,” she said again.

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

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

“Polly Weber.”

“Cute.”

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

“Think about what?”

“Polly’s a kindergarten teacher. She just moved to the cove and, besides me and Rex, will likely be the only one living here come fall.”

“So?”

“So if you break her heart, she’ll leave the cove. That’s just what my sister did. She ran away and didn’t come back for ten long years. I don’t want that for Polly. I like my friend living nearby.”

“What makes you think that I—”

“Three words.” She paused, then continued gravely, “The Gage Gorge.”

Jesus Christ. A dull heat crept from the back of his neck to his face. “I wrote you about that?”

“Your twin told me about that.”

“Which is the slower death, strangulation or drowning?”

“I have no idea,” she said, her tone cool.

She should have no idea about the Gage Gorge, either. “For the record, Griffin coined that phrase, not me.”

Her silence said more than actual words.

“Look, any guy would do the same. After months of crappy meals and crappy booze, it’s natural to want to consume mass quantities of my favorite foods and beverages.” And he never wanted to see another juice box or packaged cheese and crackers for the rest of his life.

When she didn’t say anything, he plucked at his T-shirt. “I’ve lost weight!” He’d worried about dysentery when the water they’d given him had arrived in a rusty watering can and from some unknown source. He’d tried sticking with the mango juice, but the thick stuff had eventually made him sicker than the thought of parasites in his H2O.

“By all means,” she said, still in that chilly voice, “indulge in your desires. It’s really none of my business—as long as your...your feasting doesn’t extend to my friends and neighbors.”

Okay, she was just being snotty now. Feasting, she’d said, as if he were bellying up to a banquet. But they both knew she was referring to something other than nutrients. “It’s not a crime to want to get laid.”

“But when you’re on a ‘Gage Gorge’ your goal is to get laid as often as possible.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it with a snap. After a few long breaths, he tried again. “I think my brother thought he was, uh, enhancing my reputation with that kind of talk.”

She sent him a skewering look over her shoulder. “You think being a man-ho enhances your reputation?”

“I’m not a man-ho. Jesus, Skye. I’m just a guy who likes sex and when I haven’t had a chance to get any for a few months, then I...I want to have some.”

She stood and brushed at the dirty knees of her jeans. “And some more and some more and some more.”

He got to his feet, too, and glared at her, because he didn’t understand why he felt so damn guilty. “Well, excuse me, Sister Josephina Henry.”

“Who?”

“The meanest nun I ever met. Told me I was going to hell when I was seven years old. Ugly old bag, with a wart on her chin.”

Her expression told him he’d gone too far. He replayed his words, blanched. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you have a wart on your chin.”

“Just that I’m an ugly old bag.”

“No! No, wait, don’t go off in a huff.”

But she did just that, disappearing into her house and shutting her front door with a decisive snap. He stared after her, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

He was pretty sure it had something to do with sex. Why she should care about his interest in that, he didn’t know. It was Griffin’s fault, he thought. No, Skye’s. No, both Griffin and Skye were to blame, he decided as he started back down the beach, kicking at the soft sand.

Damn both of them.

And him, too, for pissing off the woman who, sometime during the course of their correspondence, had gone from casual pen pal to personal talisman.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Gage was once again up early. He set out for another walk, keeping to wet sand and the neutral company of the shorebirds. The tide was low and he headed for a favorite haunt just beyond the restaurant. There, where another bluff met the ocean, was an extensive series of tide pools, some small, some shallow, some twice as big and twice as deep as a bathtub.

Eyes cast down, he picked his way around them, also carefully avoiding the exposed rock faces where sharp-edged barnacles and dark-shelled mussels crowded together like villagers confronting a common enemy. Peering into a cup-sized crevice in the rock, he started when he heard his name, the soles of his leather flip-flops slipping on the wet rock.

Regaining his balance, he looked over. Ponytailed Skye stood nearby, dressed in drawstring linen pants and a matching tunic the color of dry sand. Despite how they’d parted the day before, he couldn’t help smiling at her. For two wretched weeks, she’d walked through his imagination, keeping him sane. Seeing her in the flesh was testament to his fortitude. He’d made it back.

Who wouldn’t be glad?

The wind came up, swirling escaped pieces of her dark hair and pressing the thin material of her clothes against her skin. For the first time he could make out the contours of her figure: small high breasts, slender waist, the flare of feminine hips. A flash of heat shot down his spine and curled around his balls. His cock reacted in typical horny male fashion and his smile died.

Hell. She didn’t want his “feasting” to involve her friends or family, so he figured she didn’t want it to involve herself, either. He didn’t want it to involve Skye and mess up what she already was to him. Childhood friend. Charming correspondent. Survival technique.

So he shut down his baser urges and approached her with slow steps, smiling again. “Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too.” The strap of a backpack was slung over one shoulder and she let it slip down her arm as she returned her own smile. “I have coffee.”

He watched her pull out a silver thermos. “Is that an offer?”

She glanced up as she poured some steaming liquid into the cap. “How about a peace offering?” The smell of the brew wafted his way as she held it out. “I’m sorry about yesterday... I...I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Me, neither.” He took the small cup from her and brought the coffee to his lips. “Maybe we should start hanging out together in the wee hours of the night.”

She was rummaging in her backpack again, and he saw her withdraw an empty plastic container. Then she crossed to a large, high-and-dry flat boulder and sat down, dropping the pack near her hip. Gage followed suit, hoisting himself onto the rock beside her, then passing the cup of coffee in her direction.

After a little hesitation, she took it, and swallowed a small sip before handing it back to him. They shared the beverage and a companionable silence, each of them looking out to sea.

“I picked up your last couple of letters before I returned to the States,” he finally said. “I’m sorry you were worried.”

She kept her gaze on the horizon line. “I think it was because you wrote you had a new contact who was taking you to a region you hadn’t explored before. It sounded dangerous.”

He’d probably telegraphed his own unease. His internal debate over trusting the new guy had gone on for several days. He wasn’t stupid—journalists in that part of the world ran into all kinds of trouble, from muggings to murder. But the truth was, every footstep made in a war-torn country was a judgment call and the accolades went to those willing to take the most risk. It had seemed an acceptable trade-off at the time.

Gage realized that Skye was looking at him expectantly. “What?”

“I asked how that worked out—your new contact,” she said.

He hesitated. The wind whipped past again, propelling a lock of her long hair across his lips. It was silky-soft and smelled like a flowered breeze. Catching it between his fingers, he made to tuck it behind her ear.

She hunched away from him and grabbed the stuff herself, drawing it around her far shoulder. “Your contact?”

Thinking of Jahandar, Gage fought the urge to spit. “He turned out to be not so good.” Understatement.

They subsided into silence again.

“How’s your friend’s widow doing?” Skye asked eventually. “And her son?”

“Okay,” he replied, easily following her train of thought. Ten months ago, a colleague, Charlie Butler, had been abducted and held for ransom by the Taliban. His wife, Mara, the mother of a four-year-old, had been forced to navigate the complex maze of negotiation and counternegotiation along with the crisis management team hired by Charlie’s newspaper. The foreign correspondent community had done what they could, suggesting people to call and offering support, even as they’d kept the story out of the news. It was safer for the kidnap victim that way. “I’ll try to see them while I’m here. They don’t live far.”

“You could invite them to the cove. Sun and sand can be healing.”

Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping, Gage mused, then turned his thoughts back to Mara and her son. No doubt they could use a dose of sun and sand. It had come down to Charlie’s next of kin—to Mara—to give the go-ahead on an American military raid to rescue her husband. He hadn’t survived the attempt. One of his kidnappers had shot him as soldiers stormed the compound where he’d been held.

“I’m glad Griffin has made the choice to stick close to his woman,” Gage said abruptly. “If you love somebody enough, you won’t chance putting them through that.”

“He loves Jane a lot.”

“He does,” Gage agreed, shaking off his dark thoughts and breathing deep of the clean, open air. “Speaking of love lives, how’s yours?”

Skye made a great show of screwing the empty cap back onto her thermos. “Oh, let’s not talk about me.”

“Why not? Did something go wrong with you and Dagwood?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Dalton.”

“Dalton, Dagwood.” With a vague wave of his hand, he dismissed his mistake. Fact was, Dalton felt like the mistake. He didn’t know the guy, but she’d written that he worked in commercial real estate. Probably wore a suit seven days a week and didn’t like to get sand or seawater on his feet.

“We broke up,” Skye said.

“Good—wait, what?” Gage turned to face her. “When did this happen?”

“A while back.” Now it was her turn to make an offhand gesture. “He still keeps coming around, but it’s over.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

She shrugged.

Call him nosy, but he couldn’t let it go at that. They’d shared quite a bit of themselves through their letters. “What was the trouble?”

A flush suffused her face. Her wet tongue came out to paint her upper, then her lower, lip. Gage watched the nervous movement, aware he was getting aroused again. Damn. And damn her for the hesitation that had his hackles rising, too.

“Skye?”

“We...uh...” She cleared her throat. “There were some physical problems.”

Dumbfounded, he stared at her. He’d expected to hear the guy was married. Or maybe two-timing Skye with some other single woman. But...physical problems? What the hell did that mean?

Without thinking, he slid close and gripped her upper arms to turn her toward him, a sharp urgency driving him. “Did he hurt you? I’ll kill him if he hurt you.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t him. He didn’t hurt me.”

Gage frowned, searching her face for the truth. “Okay. Good.” Then, driven again, he yanked her close and buried his face in her hair, breathing in more floral sweetness. “You scared the shit out of me for a minute.”

It took another of those minutes for him to realize she was stiff in his hold. God, he thought, releasing her to put some distance between them. She probably considered him nuts. He was nuts, because he could still feel the imprint of her delicate form against his chest, the soft mounds of her breasts snuggled against his pecs. His cock throbbed and he shoved a hand through his hair, trying to push from his mind how good she’d felt in his arms.

Fuck. He needed to get laid, whether or not it insulted Skye’s prudish sensibilities. Not that she’d have any reason to know about who and what he did between the sheets. He could be discreet.

Though he wondered about his erection, because it was still upright and clamoring for immediate action.

Gage shot to his feet. “I should get back. Give Griffin a call.” If his brother refused to go babe-trolling with him, maybe Jane had a friend who was up for sexual adventure. Because that was exactly what he needed.

Skye stood, too, her plastic container in hand. “See you later.”

“What are you doing today?”

“This and that.” Then she crossed the uneven surface at her feet to peer into the nearest tide pool. “First, I’m gathering some sea lettuce.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a bright green seaweed—looks just like lettuce.”

“I know what it is, I just don’t know what you want with it.”

She sent him a smile. “I’m going to eat it in a salad. Want to come over for dinner tonight and share it with me?”

“Tell me you’re not going to serve it with sea cucumber.” They were unattractive orange, sluglike creatures, about as long as a man’s hand, with a bumpy, leathery skin.

Her gaze went back to the tide pool. “I think I see one or two of those in here, as well.”

He made his way over to take his own look. “You don’t really eat them.”

“I don’t really eat them.” She leaped over a nearby pool to approach yet another. “Oh, here’s an octopus.”

Who could resist an eight-armed animal? Gage walked toward her, sliding a little on some slimy surf grass covering the exposed rock.

“Be careful,” Skye admonished.

He shot her a grin. “Thanks, Mom.” Upon reaching the edge, he squatted for a better view.

Skye mimicked his position. They were shoulder to shoulder. Her arm lifted, and she pointed toward a small underwater cavern below the surface. “See?”

Gage studied nature’s temporary goldfish bowl. It took him a moment, but then he saw the creature, its brown-speckled body about the size of his fist. As they watched, one of its tentacles drifted out and explored the rock overhead. It touched a bright green anemone, which immediately drew in its petals. A trio of starfish, one orange, one brown, one rose, clung to another shelf of rock nearby, huddled close to each other. A small sculpin fish wiggled about the sandy bottom on its own mission.

“Beautiful,” Gage said, turning his head to give Skye another grin.

Her head turned, too, and she smiled back.

Beautiful, he thought again, gazing into her face, then homing in on that soft, tender mouth. Her smile slid away and it was so serious now. So seriously in need of a kiss.

Gage leaned forward.

Skye scrambled back, stumbling as she rose. He shot up, too, taken aback by her sudden movement. Her left heel caught on a jut of rock, and the right sole of her slip-on canvas shoe slid on a patch of surf grass. Then she was falling, going ass-first into one of the larger, deeper tide pools.

She didn’t submerge all the way, but managed to come to a stand, wet from the neck down. They both stared at each other a moment, and then she burst out laughing. “So much for my dignity,” she said, apropos of nothing and between bouts of laughter. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You look like one, too,” Gage confirmed and leaned down, palm outstretched to help her out. After a moment, her wet hand met his and he pulled, her light weight making it nothing to get her back onto land, water streaming from her clothes and puddling at her feet.

“I probably terrified some poor little sea creature,” she said, turning around to inspect the still-sloshing surface of the pool.

Gage’s gaze got stuck on her backside, the thin linen of her clothing now transparent and plastered to her skin. Oh, God. She had the sweetest—the sweetest—of high, firm asses. His favorite kind.

Then she spun back and the fabric was only the frailest of veils here, too. He could see every lovely line of her: the delicate framework of her collarbone, the gentle slope of her breasts with their cold-hardened peaks, the flat plane of her belly between her hip bones, the gentle rise of her sex.

Gage flashed hot all over. He could have used his cock as a hammer.

“We should get you back home,” he said, poleaxed by the strength and insistence of his physical reaction. Want to have her, his body was demanding. Got to have her.

And Gage had this worrisome premonition that no other woman would do.

CHAPTER THREE

SKYE HAD MADE A DATE with Polly for a caffeine boost in the form of an afternoon latte at Captain Crow’s. Her friend was already seated at the bar, blowing across the top of her overlarge cup as Skye approached. “How are you?” she asked.

Polly responded with her usual cloudless smile, “Me? I’m good. I’m always good.”

Settling herself onto a stool, Skye glanced around. Starting at about four o’clock, the place would fill with people demanding beer and cocktails, but it was relatively quiet now and there was someone new attending the espresso machine.

He turned and started toward her. “What can I get you, Skye?”

She frowned. He was in his mid-twenties, with shaggy dark hair and a skinny build. His face wasn’t familiar. “I’m sorry, do I—”

“Oh, you probably don’t.” He appeared suddenly self-conscious. “I’m Steve. I went to college with Addy...Addison March, who stayed at the cove last month? We met here for drinks one time and she showed me the Sunrise Pictures stuff.”

“Oh. Sure.” A grad student in film studies, Addy had cataloged the memorabilia in exchange for a first look at the complete collection. “But did we meet then?”

The barista was a little red in the face now. “No, no. I think she pointed you out to me, that’s all. Can I make you a latte, as well?”

“Yes, thanks,” Skye said, then watched him hurry toward the big machine at the end of the bar.

“Just another of your admirers,” Polly murmured.

“What? No! I don’t even know that guy.” And she didn’t want to know him, because he gave off a weird enough vibe to make her stomach knot. Though to be fair, these days all men gave off a weird vibe to her.

“Well, Gage Lowell seemed very attentive yesterday. I saw him with you in your yard.”

“You were the one he was paying attention to. He told me he thinks you’re cute.” And then she’d warned him off with a rabid intensity that made her squirm a little, remembering it.

“I hate that word,” Polly said, suddenly looking as if she’d swallowed something sour. “Cute. I think it’s preventing me from having a fulfilling love life.”

“I thought it was the word perky that was to blame. At least that’s what you told me last week.”

“I’ve rethought that. I’m a kindergarten teacher. Perky is part of the job description, so I can’t wish it away.”

The barista was back. He placed Skye’s drink in front of her but was called over to attend another customer before he could strike up more conversation. She blew out a relieved breath that disturbed the froth of foam layered over her drink like coastal fog. “We both know your biggest stumbling block to a fulfilling love life is Teague.” Though she’d yet to admit to it, her best friend had it bad for a man who considered Polly his best friend, too.

The other woman’s scowl made it clear she wouldn’t be confessing today, either, even as a telltale flush crawled up her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, then pinned Skye with a stare. “What’s yours?”

She blinked. “My biggest stumbling block? Uh...how about that I’m not seeking a fulfilling love life?”

“Well, you’re not seeking an unfulfilling one, either,” Polly grumbled. “Why is that? You haven’t been out with anyone since giving Dalton the boot, and that was months ago.”

“He’s been calling again,” Skye confessed, sidestepping the subject. “What makes a man unable to take no for an answer?”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right man to ask the question. I get that you don’t want Dalton in your life. But what if some other guy—say some other guy named Gage Lowell who insisted on having that dance the other night—came on to you and—”

“Gage would never come on to me.” That wasn’t what had happened this morning at the tide pools, was it? They’d been side by side, gazing into the water. and then they’d been gazing into each other’s eyes.

She’d experienced another spurt of that hot, anxious panic that made her skin burn and her heart beat too hard in her chest. Flustered, she’d had the strange idea that he was about to kiss her and something low, somewhere below her belly button, had clenched—more panic, she supposed. And even as she struggled to stay calm and dignified, her nerves had sent her staggering back.

Foolish Skye.

This whole conversation was foolish. “Do we only have men to talk about?” she asked Polly. “I feel as if I’m at a seventh-grade slumber party.”

“Did I put your bra in the freezer?” her friend demanded. “Have we divvied up which member of the latest boy band will take which of us to the prom?”

“Ah.” Skye smiled, reminiscing. “I always wanted the devilish-looking one. All the rest of the girls went for the blond or the lead that looked like he should be class president.”

“What band are we talking about?” Polly asked, lifting her cup for a sip.

Skye did the same. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all made up of one of each type. And my favorite was always the guy who looked like trouble.”

Polly slid her a sly glance. “He might not be in a band, but Gage looks like trouble to me.”

“Why do you keep bringing him up? He is the most commitment-averse man I know. He doesn’t stay in one place long enough to have two-night stands.”

“You don’t have to have a relationship with him. My God. It’s summer. He’s here for a few weeks. Have a fling.”

A fling with Gage Lowell? Skye felt herself flush, thinking of his tall body, his wide chest, the intense turquoise-blue of his eyes. He’d held her hand, his fingers lean and sure, and now she thought of them working at buttons, undoing clasps, baring skin. That spot below her navel clenched again, just as it had by the tide pools.

“Think about it,” Polly continued. “It’s been so long since you’ve had sex.”

Gage. Sex. Skye pushed her latte away, not wanting to add caffeine to her already jittering insides and that low-belly clenching. How she wished Polly had not brought it up, not put those images in her head, not made her think about all she couldn’t have.

With anyone.

* * *

“I’M REALLY HERE,” Gage said as he sat on Captain Crow’s deck beside his twin, watching the daily 5:00 p.m. ritual. A man in board shorts stood at the base of a ten-foot pole poked in the sand. He blew a long blast on a football-sized conch shell. Then it was the raising of the flag—a blue rectangle of cloth printed with the internationally recognized shape of a martini glass.

Lifting his beer, Gage toasted the fluttering scrap of fabric. “To cocktail hour.” Then he clacked his bottle against Griffin’s. “Dogs bark but the caravan moves on.”

Griffin ignored that bit of Arabic wisdom and narrowed his gaze at his brother. “You don’t have a camera.”

“As usual, your powers of observation are staggering. No wonder you won that big hairy prize for your reporting.”

“Why don’t you have a camera?” his brother persisted, paying no attention to the teasing.

Gage shrugged. He couldn’t explain to himself his disinterest in having near what for years had been an extension of his own body.

“Something’s wrong,” Griffin said flatly. “Damn it, I knew something was wrong. I’ve known it for weeks.”

Gage took a slow swallow of beer. “Where’s your evidence? I’m here, I’m whole—”

“You’re without a camera—”

“I don’t have one with me all the time.”

“Yes, you do, unless you’re having sex. And that’s only because you told me it inhibits naked women. They worry they might become the subject of your camera’s eye.”

“And I don’t want to waste my time with inhibited women, that’s true. Life’s too short.” He took another swig of his beer, enjoying the warm air, the cool breeze off the ocean, the happy, drinking people around them.

Griffin stayed silent, but Gage could feel his considering stare. “And why are you just sitting there—no drumming fingers, no fidgety knees?” his twin finally asked. “I’ve never seen you sit this still your whole life.”

“Maybe I’ve learned some patience.” Cramped quarters and no way out of them could affect a man. When his brother made a scoffing sound, he pointed his bottle at him. “You’ve changed, too. Good God, you’re engaged.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes. “You’re avoiding my questions.”

“Ask one that makes some sense.”

“Why Crescent Cove?”

Gage blinked. He hadn’t seen that coming. “You’re getting married here at the end of the month.”

“You didn’t know that when you booked No. 9 as Fenton Hardy.”

“Does it really matter?” The notion had been seeded by Griffin, he supposed, when his brother had told him he’d decided to take three months at the cove to write his war memoir. But Gage had to admit that there’d been something else—someone else cementing the deal.

Even before his two weeks in hell, he’d had this itch to visit Skye-with-the-unnecessary-e. He smiled, thinking about her.

Across the table from him, Griffin groaned. “All right, who is she?”

“Who is who?”

“You’re thinking about some girl. You’re thinking about boning some girl.”

Gage frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“That’s how you always say it.”

“You want me to talk that way about you making love with your Jane?”

His brother hooted. “You’re calling it ‘making love’ now?” His two fingers put little scare quotes around the term. “And by the way, if you insult Jane in any way, shape or form, I’ll kick your ass. And then she’ll do it all over again, only harder. And with sexier shoes.”

“Whoa,” Gage said, tilting his head. “You’ve really fallen for her.”

Griffin’s expression softened. “Best thing that ever happened to me. I was...messed up when I got back. She helped me find my balance again. She is the balance.”

Gage nodded. Griffin’s yearlong experience embedded with the troops in Afghanistan had been harrowing, he’d known that.

His brother hesitated, took another long swig of beer, hesitated again. “I’ve been seeing a counselor.”

“Finally,” Gage said, faking relief without missing a beat. “Good to know you’re getting some professional assistance for that little premature ejaculation problem you’ve always had.”

Griffin’s grin broke quick, felt sweet. “For PTSD, smart-ass.”

Gage merely nodded, careful not to offer judgment or advice. “Helping?”

“Yeah.” Then he grinned again. “Though regular sex isn’t bad for the cure, either.”

“Which reminds me,” Gage said, frowning. “Did you have to tell Skye about the Gage Gorge? Jesus!”

His brother laughed. “I don’t remember relating that odd little quirk of yours.”

“It’s not a quirk. It’s a...it’s a...” He glared across the table. “You like sex, too.”

“Yeah, and committed sex is the best there is,” his twin said, smug.

“Oh, come on.” It was Gage’s turn to scoff.

“Think about it. You get to know her magic switches and it’s a sure thing time after time after time.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Oh, it can be a fast bump or a slow ride and everything in between. I set up these little challenges for myself. Forty-five minutes of just kissing, say, or using only my index finger to get her off. My ultimate goal is to take her there by hot whispers and above-the-waist touches only.”

“Now, that just sounds like work, bro.” Though he shifted in his chair, finally restless.

“Not when you’re doing it with someone you really care about. It’s the one-night stands that sound like work after that.”

Without Gage’s permission, images formed in his mind—not of Griff and Jane, thank God—but of dark hair and green-and-amber eyes, delicate breasts and a spectacular booty. Then he saw himself closing in for that kiss and the way Skye had leaped away from him—as if he were toxic.

As if she was spooked.

“There were some physical problems.”

She’d said that, and he’d gone all caveman, ready to bust Dagwood’s chops if he’d hurt her—which she’d denied. So why had she said it?

He turned to his brother, in sudden critical need of an answer. “What’s it mean when a woman claims she and a man had some ‘physical problems’?”

And this time it was Griffin who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reply. And Gage who felt in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

THE SUN WAS LOW IN THE SKY when Skye stepped outside her cottage to the miniature lemon tree planted in a pot near the side of her house. Fresh citrus slices would keep moist the piece of salmon she was planning to grill on a cedar plank. She wrapped her fingers around one of the ripe fruits, then yelped when a man suddenly came around the corner.

“Dalton!” She clutched the lemon in both hands at chest level, over the startled beat of her heart. “What are you doing here?”

He was handsome, well built if not tall, smooth-looking in a summer-weight suit, white shirt and gold-and-brown diamond-patterned tie that mirrored the dark honey of his hair and eyes. “A man can’t visit the beach on a summer evening?”

She lifted an eyebrow.

His smile was white. A little rueful. “A man can’t visit the woman who unceremoniously dumped him on a summer evening?”

“I didn’t—”

Now he raised a brow.

Skye pressed her lips together, wishing she could honestly deny it. Still, their relationship had been more of the casual dating kind, as opposed to steady and heading for something more. At least to her mind. It was only after she’d said she wouldn’t see him any longer that he’d appeared so seriously interested.

He put a foot on the pathway to her front door, even as she pressed her shoulders against its pink-painted wood surface. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.

She’d not willingly allowed any man into her place in months. “I’m just getting ready to fix dinner,” she said.

He waited as if he thought she’d extend an invitation, then shrugged. “I’ll take you out. We can go to that place in Laguna—”

“Dalton, we’ve been through this.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Frustration puckered his forehead. “We were going along just fine, seeing each other a couple of times a week. We were even talking about catching some spring season training games in Arizona.”

Dalton took his Dodgers baseball very seriously.

“I know. And I’m sorry that it seemed so...abrupt. You’re a very nice man—”

“Then how come you gave me the big heave-ho?”

Apparently Dalton had run across little rejection in his life. He didn’t take it very gracefully, that was certain. Though to be fair, her goodbye had come without warning.

“I don’t know what else to say—”

“Maybe it’s time to stop talking,” Dalton said, striding up the pathway toward her. “Maybe it’s time I reminded you of a few things.”

Skye froze, even as an unnatural fear rose like bile in her throat. Dalton won’t hurt me, she told herself. Dalton would never hurt me. But he was still coming toward her, the light of sexual intent in his gaze. Even the briefest contact would be intolerable.

When he reached for her, she let out a strangled cry. The tang of lemon filled the air and then Dalton was leaping back, cursing at the juice that had streamed onto his slacks and shoes.

Looking down, Skye realized she’d throttled the innocent citrus, the skin and pulp crushed in her fingers.

“What the hell, Skye?” Giving her a fulminating look, Dalton stepped forward again.

“Is there a problem?” a new male voice asked.

She whipped her head to the left. Gage was stepping across her side yard, a white sack in hand, dressed in those olive cargo pants he’d had on earlier, and a T-shirt so faded the words on it were undecipherable. “I... Please,” she said.

Please, what? She didn’t know; she didn’t know anything beyond how glad she was for the interruption. Her stomach was queasy again, her brain dizzy from lack of oxygen.

“Gage Lowell,” he said to the other man, one of his big feet coming between her and Dalton. It made her ex step back, though he took the outstretched hand.

“Dalton Bradley.” He grimaced, like maybe Gage’s grip was a little too strong.

But Gage’s smile was easy as he looked back at Skye. “I hope I’m not late.” At her blank stare, he added, “For dinner?” Then he swung the white bag at eye level. “I brought dessert.”

“Oh. Um...”

Gage snaked a long arm around her to turn the knob and open the door. She took an automatic step back and he followed her in, causing her to move farther along the entryway. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Dalton, and then shut the door on his surprised expression.

Next, Gage turned, and his gaze ran over Skye, surveying her face, her hands that were filled with the pulverized lemon, her bare feet, their toes curled into the hardwood floor. “Relax, honey.”

When she just stood there, he rattled the bag again. She blinked. “Breathe, Skye. Breathe, honey.”

And she found she could. Even with a large, masculine presence standing so close. In her house.

“Do you have any wine?”

“You like wine?” she asked, dubious. “Aren’t you more a beer type of guy?”

“I like both.” He shrugged. “But the wine’s for you. You look as if you need a little something to settle you down.”

She couldn’t argue with that, so she led him farther into her home. Once they got to the kitchen, as she disposed of the lemon and washed her hands, he stowed his bag in the freezer. Then he rummaged around for glasses and found the three-quarters-full bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc in her refrigerator. Directing her to sit at one of the two stools pulled up to the breakfast bar, he placed a glass in front of her.

The one he held in his hand was clinked against the rim of hers. “If you deal in camels, ensure that your doorways are high.”

That shook her out of her bemused stupor. Blinking, she tilted her head. “What?”

“It’s an old Afghan proverb.”

“But what does it mean?”

“How the hell do I know?” He grinned, then nudged her wine closer to her hand. “Maybe something about making sure an ex stays out of your life.”

“I didn’t ask him to stay in it,” Skye protested.

“The lemon was a good touch. He didn’t look pleased about having a trip to the dry cleaner’s in his future.”

“He’s harmless.” Except that the confrontation had left her sick and shaking, because of the exaggerated fear she’d experienced for the past few months. Maybe she should have found some way to explain it to Dalton, but her violent dislike of a male touch humiliated her. Shamed her. Made her feel less than a woman.

“So, are we really having sea lettuce salad for dinner?”

She opened her mouth, about to tell Gage she’d been joking about the invitation at the tide pool. But why not let him stay? At least if Dalton took it in his mind to return again this evening, Gage would be available as bodyguard. “I have salmon steaks, too,” she said, “but we’ll need another lemon.”

The aftereffects of the unpleasant encounter with Dalton lasted through dinner. Gage didn’t seem to mind her quiet mood, however. Instead, he kept his distance and moved efficiently about her kitchen, doing his half of the work to throw together the meal.

Afterward, he ushered her into the living room and took one corner of the couch while she took the other. Another glass of wine was in each of their hands. “What did he want?” he asked, his voice casual.

“Can we not talk about him?”

“He’s got you twitchy.”

She didn’t want to tell him every male had her twitchy. “I don’t understand why he seems to want me so much more now that I broke it off.”

“He thinks you’re playing hard to get.”

“Whoa.” Irritation burned off the residual of the day’s disquiet. “Then I’m actually starting to dislike him. He should know me better than that. I’m not into games.”

“I’ll bet he is. That’s why he leaped to that conclusion.”

“Well.” Skye flounced on her cushion. “Now I don’t even feel a little bit bad for breaking up with him.”

Gage grinned. “That’s my girl.”

My girl. She felt herself flush, and then she found herself supremely aware that she was inside her house—door closed, drapes drawn—with the very thing she’d been avoiding all these months. A man, confident, big, oozing testosterone without any effort. Her heartbeat spiked high and that low-belly place clenched.

A strange expression flickered across Gage’s face; then he slowly reached for the remote control sitting on the table at his elbow. “Want to watch some TV?”

She swallowed. “As long as it’s not baseball,” she said.

He found a documentary about the Mayan civilization. Maybe it was the narrator’s deep, soothing voice. Maybe it was the fact that her sleep had been disturbed for months. But she found her lashes heavier than bags of sand and even as she told herself she could never drift off with a strange male in the house...she did.

She roused to a hand on her shoulder. Batting at it, she frowned, still mostly asleep. “Go away, Polly.”

A masculine chuckle tried to thread its way into her consciousness. “I’ll try not to be insulted by that.”

“Good,” she murmured, and turned her cheek in order to get more comfortable.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck if I let you sleep here all night.”

Her fuzzy mind started to grow more alert. “You’re not Polly,” she said, still not opening her eyes.

“Not unless she’s been hiding her dick.”

Her lashes popped open and she glowered—albeit sleepily—at Gage. “That’s crude.”

“My middle name.” He had slid down the couch to where she was half-slumped against the arm.

She struggled to sit up and gather her wits. “I wouldn’t think you’d admit to that.”

“I don’t play games, either. I don’t try to conceal who I am. You know that from my letters.”

This close, she could smell his scent. It was clean yet mysterious, with a spicy, foreign note. “I feel sure there are some hidden pockets to your soul.”

“That’s exactly where I keep the crude.”

She couldn’t help smiling at him. “You think you’re funny.”

“Hey, I’ve spent a lot of time alone. If I can’t make myself laugh, I’m in trouble.”

Skye frowned. That had never occurred to her...that when he was out on assignment in wild and dangerous places he didn’t always have a support group around him. “Don’t you get lonely?”

Gage seemed to ponder that a moment. “I think I will.”

He will? What did that mean? She opened her mouth to ask, but he beat her to the next question. “Ice cream?” he asked. “That’s what I put in the freezer. Or should I let myself out so you can go to bed?”

She didn’t want him to leave just yet, she realized. “Ice cream.”

He exited to the kitchen, then returned to the living room with a bowl of her favorite flavor. “Rocky road, right? Man, you got my taste buds screaming for relief when you wrote me about your new favorite shop in Newport.”

“This is from Icy Delights?” Eager, she stretched for the bowl.

Dropping down beside her, he held it out of reach. “You need to run your dishwasher. Only one clean bowl was left, so we have to share.” Scooping up a spoonful, he held it to her mouth.

She opened, took it in, making sure to run her tongue over the utensil to lap up every bit of the delicious treat. “Mmm.” Her eyes closed in ecstatic appreciation.

Gage made a low sound. She looked at him, and the heated blue of his eyes staring at her over the bowl was enough to turn the frozen dessert into sugary soup. Skye felt her blood take on the high temperature as it zipped through her system, smoking nerve endings along the way.

He was so big, she thought. Long limbs, wide shoulders, large feet and hands. Under the tanned skin of his arms, she could see the flex of muscle and the pull of tendons. There was a dive watch strapped on one wrist, and the complex piece of technology only served to make her more aware of the primal masculinity of him.

Her breath stalled in her lungs.

That around-men anxiety was back with a vengeance. She should be used to the panic by now, she thought. Except with Gage it was somehow different. Now the fear made her skin flush and feel too tight on her bones. The sizzle in her system, the breathlessness, the edginess of her mood were a totally separate kind of alarm.

As her heartbeat raced, that place low in her belly tightened. She felt a small rush of moisture between her thighs.

And that’s when she realized her response to Gage wasn’t her usual apprehension at all. This reaction of her body didn’t signal anxiety—it had just been so long since she’d experienced it she hadn’t immediately recognized what it truly was.

Desire.

CHAPTER FOUR

STANDING BESIDE THE open door of her car, Skye tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, lifting her head when she heard the distinctive crackle of footsteps crossing crushed seashells. Warned that someone was approaching from behind, she steeled herself to stay calm. No need to jump out of her skin.

“There you are.”

At Gage’s voice, though, her heart leaped toward her throat and then plummeted to her belly. Pressing her palm there, she pasted on a casual, friendly expression and half turned toward him, determined to maintain her dignity. “Oh, hey.”

“Thought I could take you to lunch,” he said, continuing to stroll forward until he stood nearly toe-to-toe with her. He wore a pair of battered jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt that must have been dyed to exactly match his eyes. “Payback for last night’s dinner.”

Her heart bobbed again, a jerky, marionette-like movement. “That’s not necessary.” Last night’s dinner was something she’d been trying to forget since sending him on his way after he finished the bowl of ice cream. One bite had been enough for her.

He tilted his head, studying her face. She could feel it was flushed, damn it. “Aren’t you a little hot in that sweatshirt?”

Her fingers toyed with the ribbed hem that hit midthigh. “I’m perfectly comfortable.” All covered up from throat to ankles in the overlarge top and relaxed-fit khakis.

He stood silent a moment, then shrugged. “So...lunch?” As if he read her impending refusal, he sent her a wheedling smile. “Indulge a guy.”

Clearly he thought he was irresistible. She swallowed, preparing to deliver an emphatic “no,” partly due to feminine principle, mostly due to self-preservation. More time in his company equaled more time suffering the effects of her unwanted and unexpected physical fascination with him. Her mouth opened just as the breeze kicked up and she was muffled by a long swath of her own hair.

Before she could drag it away, his fingers were there, tucking beneath the strands and brushing her hot cheek as he drew the hair behind her ear. The calloused pads lingered on the rim, which went fiery as he absently rubbed the tender curl of flesh.

She felt the touch in a flash of more fire that arrowed down her neck. The erotic burn paralyzed her and she stared up at him, helpless under his enigmatic gaze and deft caress.

“Say yes,” he said.

And like a subject to a hypnotist, Skye nodded, then caught herself. “Wait. Whoa. I—”

“You don’t wear earrings,” Gage said, his forefinger now tracing the lobe of her ear.

Anyone would shiver at that gentle stroke. Anyone would be confused by the new turn of conversation. She blinked. “Not lately...”

“So fragile,” he murmured, still playing with her ear, so that his knuckles brushed the sensitive hollow behind it. “And without any jewelry, innocent-looking and...naked.”

Oh, God. That word, naked, combined with the almost delicate contact of his hand made her dizzy. She hauled in a breath, and his scent invaded her lungs, that same exotic, evocative male scent as the night before. It smelled like some rare, copper-colored spice kept behind a curtain in the last booth of a foreign bazaar.

It made her want to rub her face against his throat.

“I’m hungry,” Gage said, still touching her.

Naked. Hungry. She was melting, going liquid inside. So much heat. “Me, too,” she heard herself say.

“Lunch, then,” he said, his hand dropping. “You mind driving?” He was already moving aside her purse and climbing into the passenger seat.

Her mind caught up to his actions. “No. I... What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry, you’re hungry. A meal.” His door shut with a decisive click.

Stymied, she slid into the driver’s seat. “I was on my way to the mall.” It was true, and it was also her last-ditch effort to get rid of him. Men hated shopping.

“Sounds good,” Gage said, adjusting his seat to make more room for his long legs. “I need to buy my mom a birthday gift. Maybe I’ll find something for the engaged couple.”

He glanced over when she continued to stare at him. “What? Won’t your trip be more fun with a friend?”

How to answer that? Of course they were friends. They’d been regular correspondents for months, and he’d only be puzzled if she made a big deal about not allowing him along.

And, damn it, she wanted to be his friend.

Nothing more...but nothing less, either. She’d loved their letter exchange.

Without another demur, she headed half an hour up the coast to the outdoor promenade of shops in one of the bigger beach towns. The streets in its center were closed to car traffic, but she and Gage still had to keep an eye open for bicyclists, skateboarders and moms pushing Hummer-sized strollers. He didn’t say anything as they ambled, his gaze roaming the myriad cafés and restaurants as well as the shops that sold everything any used-to-it-all-and-more Southern Californian could want.

“Culture shock?” she asked.

He turned his gaze from the window of a store that sold nothing but ball caps to look into her face. “I always forget how much...stuff there is available for purchase.”

“Is that disapproval I hear?” She tilted her head. “All the ‘stuff’ offends your sensibilities?”

“I don’t have a lot of possessions myself, because I travel so much. I’m like a hermit crab...carry all I need on my back.”

“Nothing to weigh you down?”

He shrugged. “It’s true I’ve lived light. I...” His words faded away as his gaze caught on the bare legs of a woman in short shorts and platform sandals. He watched her swaying hips until they disappeared into a high-end lingerie boutique.

“There’s something to be said for Western excess,” he said, grinning. “Look at all those pretty little nothings.”

The stork-legged mannequins in the shop window were dressed in panties cut high and bras cut low.

“Ironic how Western excess results in a definite shortage of T-and-A coverage,” she grumbled.

He laughed. “Shall we go inside?”

“No!” she said, mortification washing new heat across her skin. “I’m not going in there with you.”

“I’ll buy you a present.”

“No,” she repeated, then quickly stepped into the specialty body and bath products store that had been her destination. Instead of scantily clad mannequins and posters of supermodels in wings, this boutique was decorated with murals of flower fields and lush vineyards. Various lines of organic skin care products were arranged by scent. Skye headed toward the back corner.

“Wait.” Gage’s head swiveled and he drifted toward a display of products nearer the front. There sat bottles and tubes colored a pale, green-tinged blue. Stacked beside them were hand-hewn blocks of soap the same color. They smelled of freshwater and flower petals. “This,” he said, pointing to it. “This is you.”

Skye shrugged a shoulder, half uncomfortable, half pleased. “You’re right. That’s their Melusine line. It’s what I use.”

He brought a waxy bar to his nose, inhaled. “I like it. It suits you, cool and sweet at the same time.”

Another surge of pleasure warmed her, even as her nerves tingled a warning. Should she change her bath products? She didn’t like the idea that her personal fragrance was so recognizable. Drawing attention to herself through looks or even scent didn’t sit well with her any longer. As she watched, he closed his eyes and drew in another breath of the soap’s perfume, clearly enjoying it.

Her nerves tingled again. Maybe it was the kind of detail only Gage would notice, she thought.

Which didn’t make her feel any more at ease. Backing away from him, she cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about sticking close. Go on out, browse the other shops. I can find you when I’m done picking out the bridal present I’m after for Jane.”

If she’d thought the mention of a wedding would send the man on his way, she’d been wrong. He was at her shoulder as she perused a display of orange blossom products packaged in white organza. Hyperaware of him, she selected several items that she’d put together in a gift basket.

“Can I help you?”

They both turned toward a salesgirl, her platinum hair ironed to a shiny fall, her sparkling blue gaze focused on Gage.

His smile spread slowly. “I don’t know,” he said, not looking away from the young woman, who was dressed in a layered trio of tank tops and a napkin-sized skirt. “Do we need any help, Skye?”

Speaking of scents, she could smell the sex appeal he was beaming toward the pretty blonde. “I’m fine,” she said, and turned her back to give the man privacy for his flirtation.

And he did that, flirted, his voice low and warm as he asked the woman’s opinion on a birthday gift for his mother. With half an ear, Skye heard her recommend the Melusine products and couldn’t miss Gage’s quick dismissal of that idea. Next they walked to a row of tester vials and Skye rolled her eyes as the salesgirl insisted on spraying her own skin: wrist, back of hand, crook of elbow, and then held each to Gage’s nose for his appreciation.

Her selections were bought and bagged while he was still sniffing at the blonde. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Skye waiting by the door and frowned. “You’re ready? I’m sorry.”

“Take your time,” she said, with a go-ahead gesture.

But he deftly sidestepped the salesgirl as she lifted yet another inch of her bare, fragrant flesh toward his face. “I’ll take the plumeria set,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “You said you could ship it for me?”

The transaction only took a few more minutes, and then he left behind a clearly disappointed blonde to join Skye at the exit. She started to push at the door, but he took over, swinging it wide with his big hand. “Why didn’t you say something?” he grumbled.

“I wanted to give you plenty of time to ask her out,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Skye...”

“Hey, the Gage Gorge requires—”

“Shut up about that,” he said. “That topic’s off-limits between you and me.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “I understand—”

“Off-limits,” he repeated, implacable.

Still, she couldn’t help being aware of all the pretty women they encountered as they continued to stroll through the streets. More than one female looked at Gage, clearly appreciating his lean good looks and confident gait. A Pilates posse, a small group of women dressed in Lululemon exercise gear and carrying coffees, gave him speculative, sidelong looks. Pairs of office workers in tight suit skirts and sneakers slowed their lunch hour power walks as they passed him by. One nubile young lady, distributing flyers for a new restaurant, made a point of scrawling her number on the piece of paper before handing it to him.

Making the thumb-and-pinky “call me” sign, she grinned as he absently stuffed the sheet into his pocket.

“You’re missing a lot of opportunities,” Skye chided him. “You shouldn’t let my presence stop you.”

He shot her a dark look. “Are you trying to annoy me?”

Maybe. Though she was more annoyed at herself at the surge of ugly green jealousy she felt when she thought of him gorging on anyone. “I don’t know what’s put you in such a mood,” she mumbled, trying to cover her own.

“I need lunch,” he said, then halted, his gaze fixed on a small café across the street. “And God provides.” His tone was nearly reverent. “Fish tacos.”

In minutes they were at a tiny table, both with an iced tea and a plate of tacos in front of them. The lightly breaded white fish smelled delicious and tasted even better cocooned in a small warm corn tortilla and garnished with cabbage, grated cheddar cheese, a spoonful of tart white sauce and a squeeze of lime.

He held one taco high. “The young goose is a good swimmer,” he said, like a blessing, then ate it in three big bites. An appreciative moan followed.

Smiling, Skye tilted her head at him. “Better now?”

“Almost.” Round two went down as quickly as round one.

Her eyes widened as she lifted her first to her mouth. “Until now, I don’t think I had an accurate understanding of the depths of your appetite.”

He glanced up. “You didn’t get a hint last night?”

Skye stilled, remembering the hot look in his eye when he’d fed her ice cream. But surely that had been her imagination—if not projection. Still, her hand twitched, and her taco dropped back to her plate, its contents scattering. Glad for the distraction, she bent her head and busied herself scooping the ingredients back inside the tortilla.

“Maybe we should talk about it,” Gage said, his voice low.

Embarrassment burned up her neck toward her face. Did he mean... Did he suspect... Her brain stumbled over uncomfortable thoughts. When he’d left her house the night before, she’d hoped he’d not noticed the effect he had on her.

The way he was still affecting her.

“Skye?”

She still didn’t want to look at him. But she did, faking a puzzled expression. “Discuss? There’s nothing to discuss.”

And to her relief, he let it go. She didn’t want to squirm through any conversation he’d want to have about her misplaced interest. In her sloppy clothes and scrubbed face, they both knew she wasn’t Gage Gorge material. No need to make them both uncomfortable by spelling it out.

After lunch, they returned to Crescent Cove. Skye pulled into the driveway behind her beach house. The ride back had been silent and, on her side, filled with awkwardness. Gage, however, remained an enigma. For all she knew, he stayed quiet because he was tired, or bored or thinking of that woman whose number he had in his pocket.

“We have to talk about the attraction,” he suddenly said.

Startled, Skye whipped her head toward him. “Huh?”

“Don’t think I didn’t realize.” He pinned her with those bright turquoise eyes.

Damn. She supposed the notion of fooling him had been a pipe dream. An experienced man like Gage would know when a woman was...was drawn to him.

“It was there in the room with us last night, big as life, and I’d like to get past it, Skye. It’s not—”

“Don’t say anything more!” Clearly it was not a feeling he reciprocated. Who could blame him? She knew what she looked like—colorless and camouflaged in baggy clothes. That’s the way she wanted to be, needed to be. Still, the whole situation stung her pride.

Gage cleared his throat. “I’m only trying to say that I—”

“Have really been out of touch for too long. Or your head has been turned by the attention you’ve received since you got back.”

“What?”

She gathered her self-respect around her like a cloak. “Not every woman in the world falls for you, you know.”

“Skye—”

“Your ego is overinflated, Gage. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to...to want you. There’s no way that a woman who looks like this—” she indicated her sweatshirt and wrinkled pants “—would imagine herself with a man like you.”

And on that undignified note, she dashed from the car.

* * *

GAGE TRIED LIGHTENING his expression as he turned toward his sister-in-law-to-be. The scowl he erased was more commonly found on his twin, who had always been the deeper, moodier of the two—at least until Griff had found his Jane. “Wedding stuff going okay?” he asked politely, wrapping his fingers around his beer.

Griffin laughed at him from across the table on Captain Crow’s deck. “Yeah, you’re so interested in the details.”

The couple had arrived at Beach House No. 9 an hour ago to take measurements for...something. Okay, Gage had tuned out the particulars, and only tuned back in when they’d suggested a happy-hour visit to the bar up the beach. His mind had been occupied by other things.

Reaching over, Jane squeezed his hand. “Don’t mind him. Wedding stuff’s going fine. Tell us about your day. What did you do?”

Gage shrugged. “Went shopping with Skye.”

“Oh,” Jane said, her forehead creasing. “You’re spending time with her, then?”

“Some.” Though today’s excursion might be the last occasion. Damn woman made him and his ego both feel like asses for his attempt at discussing that little tug running between them. Had he been wrong about the reciprocal sizzle? He thought not, and if so, then he hadn’t been wrong to address it.

Skye was his lodestar and his talisman, and he didn’t want to compromise those by infusing sex into their friendly, caring relationship.

Except, he reminded himself, feeling another scowl coming on, she didn’t seem to care for him all that much. Tipping back his head, he took another sip of beer. His gaze landed on a pretty girl sitting alone at a table not far away. Their gazes met, and a small smile curled the corners of her lips.

He liked her light brown hair, lifted from her neck in one of those messy updos.

He liked her V-necked blouse that was low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage.

He liked the fact that she seemed to like him back, so different from the prickly woman who’d practically stormed from her car after making clear she considered him an arrogant so-and-so.

Why was she his lodestar again?

What he needed, much more than that, was a sex star. Okay, it didn’t have to be nearly that stellar. He just needed someone with whom to blunt this horny edge. He acknowledged the pretty lady with a dip of his beer, grinning as her long eyelashes fluttered in a half bashful, half teasing manner.

Griffin groaned. “Get a room, bro.”

“Got a room,” Gage said, letting his gaze drift back to his brother. “Gotta get a woman now.”

“Well, have the decency to wait until Jane and I leave, okay?”

His brother’s fiancée had that little pucker between her brows again. “I thought you were, uh, spending time with Skye.”

“That was then.” Now he wanted to forget the annoying, infuriating, insulting female. Your ego is overinflated, Gage.

Jane’s frown deepened. “But, Skye—”

“Look, can we not talk about her?” If he had a chance of getting laid, he had to pretend she didn’t exist. The memory of her naked earlobes, her flower-water scent, the way her nose wrinkled when she used that god-awful phrase, the Gage Gorge, was attempting to interfere with the satiation of his very normal, natural, nothing-to-feel-ashamed-about needs. “I’m declaring this table, this whole night as a matter of fact, a Skye-free zone.”

Griffin and his woman exchanged glances Gage didn’t even try to interpret. Instead, he signaled the waitress for another beer and sent over a whatever-she’s-having to Updo. When his twin and Jane finished their drinks and made their goodbyes, he was gratified to see the pretty stranger get to her feet and approach his table.

Yeah. Screw the afternoon. The evening was going to end so much damn better for him.

Several hours later, Gage squinted, trying to bring the hands of his watch into focus. They wouldn’t stay still. Lifting his wrist, he addressed the man standing on the other side of the bar. “Does this say it’s wiggly time?”

He frowned, because that sounded really idiotic. How much had he had to drink? To clear his head, he sucked in a breath, and a delicate scent he couldn’t forget entered his lungs. “Damn woman,” he groused. “She can’t even leave my air alone.”

“What’s that?” the bartender asked, stepping closer. “I didn’t hear you, friend.”

“That’s what we were supposed to be,” he told the man. “Me ’n’ Skye. Friends.”

Someone slid onto the stool beside his. His head still bent over his watch crystal, he pitched his voice toward the newcomer. “Are you another pretty woman? ’Cuz there were two...no, three sitting there before you.”

“Is that what you’re waiting for?” a voice said, low.

“Apparently not,” Gage grumbled, “since I’ve sent three—or was it four?—on their way.”

“So many,” the person beside him murmured.

The bartender spoke up, a helpful note in his voice. “It was Ladies’ Night. He kept opening his wallet.”

“And yet I still couldn’t cinch the deal,” Gage added glumly. With bleary eyes, he stared at the TV screen over the bar. When had Letterman lost so much of his hair? “I must be getting old, too.”

“Or maybe more discerning.”

The moralistic tone sent Gage’s head swinging to the side. His mood, already on morose, slid straight to grim when he saw it was Skye on the next-door stool, wearing another of her circus-tent sweatshirts and a pair of jeans. “What the hell are you doing here? I declared you off-limits.”

“I didn’t get the memo.”

“Blame me, bud,” the bartender put in. “I knew you were staying in the cove and I called her when I wasn’t sure you were good to drive to your cottage.”

“I walked here,” Gage said.

“Okay. But I’m not sure you’re good to walk to your cottage, either.”

“Of course I...” His voice dropped off. To be honest, he couldn’t feel his toes.

“Give us a couple of coffees, will you, Tom?” Skye asked. “Black, a little sugar?”

When the mugs were set in front of them, she picked hers up and gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m off-limits?”

“In more ways than one,” he muttered, taking his own long swallow of the strong brew. Even if she smelled like damn heaven, he wasn’t interested in her in the way he was interested in other women.

“What’s that?”

He took another drink of coffee. “Look, I didn’t want you around when I...when I...”

“Went on a gorge?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “We discussed that terminology, didn’t we?”

“Sorry—”

“Because it’s probably what ruined my evening. I had Updo in the palm of my hand. Halter Top claimed she could tell I was going to get lucky tonight by reading the foam on my beer. Tiffany—”

“Oh, so at least you bothered to find out one of their names.”

He frowned at her. “It was engraved on the heart-shaped pendant she wore around her neck.”

“What a guy.” Skye rolled her eyes. “That’s not her name, that’s the jeweler it came from.”

“As I was saying,” Gage continued, “every time I was on the verge of suggesting we retire to No. 9 for some private...conversation, I would hear your goddamn prissy voice in my head.”

“I thought it was the margaritas,” the bartender said, pausing to top off their mugs. “That’s what you blamed it on before.”

“Skye can take responsibility for that, too,” he said, using the logic of the inebriated. “Because it had to be a woman who decided to screw around with the perfection of tequila, triple sec and lime juice. Flavored margaritas are clearly a female invention.”

“What are you talking about?” Skye asked, looking between him and the bartender.

“Mango margaritas were the special tonight,” Tom explained. Then he plopped a glass in front of her and poured inside the last icy dregs from a blender. “I don’t think they’re half-bad, myself.”

Gage stared at the orangeish concoction as if it were a snake. He could smell the sticky sweetness from here. Just as pumpkin could take him back to Thanksgiving and peppermint to Christmas, breathing in the mango-redolent air sucked him straight to another time and place. He closed his eyes and felt the grit of dirt on his palms and the sick, uneven thud of his pulse in his ears. His throat closed, rebelling against swallowing, and his belly cringed as he imagined the thick liquid splashing into its aching depths.

“Gage? Gage!”

His eyes flew open and he stared, uncomprehending for a moment, into Skye’s face. “I imagined you a million times down there,” he said absently, “but never could pinpoint your features.”

“What? Down where?” Her brows drew low. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, as if he could shake off the memory like a bad dream. “Never mind.” That glass of mango marg still sat there, mocking him, and he slid from the stool. “It’s time for me to get out of here.”

At his first step, he stumbled a little. “Gage.” Skye put out her hand.

He brushed it aside, heading for the exit. “I’m fine.”

She dogged his footsteps. “I’ll go with you to No. 9.”

“Forget it.”

“Then you escort me to my place,” she suggested.

His feet slowed. Damn. “You walked?”

At her nod, he resigned himself to a few more minutes in her company. By the time they were out of the restaurant and onto the sand, the combination of coffee and chilled air went a long way to sobering him up. He sucked in another long breath and tilted back his head to take in the stars flung against the dark sky. His brain only spun a little.

“You okay?”

“I’d be better if I was with another woman,” he said darkly, starting off down the beach.

She sniffed, trudging beside him. Light from the moon made her face seem to glow. “If your heart was really in it, I doubt anything I might have said could change your mind. Or mango margaritas.”

He didn’t want to go into the whole mango thing. “My heart really isn’t into it. That’s not the body part looking for company. You get that, don’t you, Skye?”

She lifted both arms. “So find some solo relief. What’s the big deal?”

He stared at her.

Her gaze caught on his, skittered away. “What? I think the hairy palms thing is just a myth.”

His laughter snorted out. “Still, honey, it’s not the same.”

One of her shoulders jerked a shrug. “It’s all overrated,” she said under her breath.

But he heard her. Was that what she’d meant when she said she and Dagwood had physical problems?

“All men aren’t selfish in the sack,” he said, guessing at the difficulty. “I make certain my partners have as good a time as I do.”

“I’m sure,” she said, dismissive.

They’d reached her place. She pulled a key from her pocket, reached to insert it into the lock. The mechanism made an audible click, and then she turned toward him, her expression concerned. “Are you sure you don’t need my help getting home? It’s not far and you appear less, uh, inebriated, but...”

Her mouth was moving, but he didn’t absorb any of the words with her insulting I’m sure still echoing in his ears. Her unconvinced tone rubbed him wrong, itching at his skin and worming its way under just like her angel scent, her long lashes, her nude earlobes, that unpainted mouth. It was her fault he was alone tonight, and now she was impugning his ability as a lover?

He took an aggressive step forward, forcing her shoulders against the surface of the door to avoid the brush of his body. They stood so close he could feel her hitching breath against his throat. “I swear I’d do right by you, baby. On my honor, I’d make you come twice before entering you.”

Her head jolted, thudding against the wood. Eyes wide, she stared up at him. The pale silver of the moonlight couldn’t cool the wave of color flagging her cheeks.

On my honor, I’d make you come twice before entering you. Jesus! What had made him speak such a thing out loud? There was horny and then there was clumsy, crude, boorish, and...

...and God, he could see it in his mind. He’d conjured her in his imagination so many times that she slid easily into his bed, under his hands, against his tongue.

“That’s never going to happen,” she whispered, her eyes almost as big as the monster she probably now considered him to be.

“Of course it’s not,” he said, stepping back. His bed, his fantasies, his sex life were all—now and forever—Skye-free zones. The other ways he needed her were just too important.

CHAPTER FIVE

POLLY WAS PUTTING SCISSORS to brown paper bag when Teague White breezed through her open front door. He stopped short, taking in the stack of bags, the scraps of paper scattered at her feet, the tagboard pattern and pencil that lay on the coffee table in front of the love seat where she sat. “What’s up?” he asked.

My pulse rate. But, accustomed to hiding her physical reaction to him, Polly aimed a casual smile at his shoulder—she had to avoid looking too hard at the beautiful face above it. The stark, masculine bones framed by layers of short hair the same color as his almost-black eyes had the power to rock her world. She cleared her throat to answer his question. “I’m making Australian bush hats.”

“Huh,” he said. “Brown bags stand up to the harsh conditions?”

She went wooden as he approached, preparing for his usual kiss on the cheek. He hadn’t shaved and his whiskers prickled her skin, little needles of sensation that pierced her heart as if it were a pincushion. Pressing her knees together, she kept her gaze averted from him as he lifted the pile of cut pieces on the cushion beside her and took its place.

“Polly?”

Intent on not noticing how close he sat, how she could feel his body heat reaching across the few inches between them, she’d missed his question. “Uh, what?”

“I asked again about the bush hats, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” A little laugh burst from her lips. It did not sound nervous. After all this time, it was ridiculous to be nervous around Teague. Their years of friendship had inured her to him by now. “They’re for my class, as you should be able to guess.”

“I’m always surprised at what you kindergarten teachers can do with scissors and paper. Not to mention yarn. I remember the finger-weave belts the kids made last year.”

She felt a dimple dig into her cheek as she smiled, gratified he’d remembered. “Those came out pretty well, I admit.”

One of his long legs crossed over the other. “You’re harshing on my midsummer buzz, though, by prepping for September so soon.”

“I hate to break the news. It’s no longer midsummer. In three weeks I’ll be back in the classroom.”

“Then we’d better make the most out of the time we have left.”

Polly’s scissors paused, midcut. No, there wasn’t going to be any “we” about the next weeks. There shouldn’t be. There wouldn’t be.

She’d made that decision after her coffee with Skye. Her best friend’s words had slapped her like a palm to the face. “We both know your biggest stumbling block to a fulfilling love life is Teague.” How had she guessed? It was Skye who also called her “Very Private Polly.” If her feelings for Teague were wearing through her usual deep reserve, then she was in trouble.

He reached over now, tugging on the end of her ponytail. “You okay?”

“I’m good. I’m always good.”

“Then let’s make you gooder and finalize our August calendar. We’ll make it one to remember.”

“Gooder?”

He grinned. “Hey, I’m just a dumb firefighter.”

She glanced away from that flash of white teeth. He wasn’t dumb. It was her, who had never managed to shut him out of her life. For four and a half years she’d wanted him, wanted him to see her as more than a friend, and even when their physical relationship never went beyond ponytail tugs and busses on the cheek, she hadn’t been able to stifle the yearning in her heart.

Maybe it was because they’d slept together on the first night they’d met, she mused. Just slept. They’d both attended a New Year’s Eve party at Skye’s place, here at the cove. Teague was her childhood friend. Polly had met her in an Asian poetry class in college. The end-of-year celebration had gone on way past midnight and everyone had been invited to crash rather than risk driving home. Accustomed to a much earlier bedtime, Polly had gratefully found her way at 3:00 a.m. to a dark bedroom and an empty pillow.

In the morning, she’d opened her eyes to discover herself sharing a bed with the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Staring into his dark eyes, she’d started in alarm, drawing back so far she’d almost rolled off the mattress. The stranger had rough-whispered, “Easy,” and Polly, who was never easy when it came to men, had found herself settling back.

That had always been the strange dichotomy of her reaction to him. He made her pulse jitter at the same time that he calmed her innate wariness. It was a seductive contradiction, and after that morning when together they’d made breakfast for all the other overnighters, they’d become close friends.

But she wanted so much more.

She needed to look for it elsewhere, though, she knew that.

“I’m going to be seeing Tess a lot this month,” he said now, his dark eyes going bleak.

Polly needed to look elsewhere because of that desolate expression in Teague’s eyes. Because of Tess, the woman he loved.

“Why don’t you just avoid her?” Polly asked, acutely aware of how difficult it could be to stay away from the object of one’s affection. She was going to do it now, though. Really.

Teague sighed. “I would—do you think I want to torture myself? But there’s a lot of events leading up to Griffin and Jane’s wedding. I’ll be expected to attend, since we’ve become so close. She’ll be there, too, of course, as sister to the groom.”

Married sister to the groom. Married sister who was also happy with her husband of almost fifteen years and four kids. According to Teague, there’d been a bump in the couple’s connubial bliss earlier in the summer, which was when he’d had a brief reason to hope, but that had smoothed out now.

“I’m never going to get her, am I?” he asked, his voice low.

Polly kept her gaze on her scissors. “No, you’re never going to get her.” From what she’d been told, it wasn’t as if Tess had even led him to believe there was a chance, not really. But he’d seen the beautiful woman on the beach, remembered her from their childhood summers at Crescent Cove and fallen like a stone in the sea. It probably had something to do with the fact that she’d been the famous face of OM, a chewing gum touted to “tame a wild mind.” More than one adolescent boy had pinned Tess’s yoga-pose poster on the inside of his closet door.

Teague bent for the scraps of paper at her feet, gathering them into a ball that he squeezed between his big hands. “So...what do you want to do before school starts?”

Find another focus besides you. It wouldn’t be easy, but she figured cold turkey was the only way to go. “I’m pretty busy,” she said. “I’m not sure I can commit to anything with you.”

She could feel Teague’s frown. “All work, no play.”

“Hey,” she protested. “I’m not dull.” Though what else would you call four and a half years of pining after someone who only saw you as a buddy?

“Pol...” He waited until she looked over at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m good,” she said, her automatic reply. “I’m always good.”

His dark brows met over his strong, straight nose. “You’re Fort Knox, is what you are. Are you hiding something beneath that cheerleader disguise?”

Now it was her turn to frown. “You know I don’t like it when you throw that in my face. Yes, I was on the squad. But I also ran track and was secretary of the chess club.”

“What moves can the knight make?”

Shoot. Busted.

He laughed at her. “I debunked that myth on our ski trip two years ago, remember? You tried telling me then you were more than pom-poms and herky jumps.”

“I think it’s weird you even know what a herky jump is,” she muttered.

“Sweetheart, I played football. If a cheerleader had a move, all the guys on the team knew exactly what it was. Didn’t you figure that out?”

“I avoided dating football players.”

He tossed the softball-sized ball of scraps from hand to hand. “Now, this is getting interesting. You’re always so reticent about these kinds of details. If you didn’t date football players, who did you date?”

“Nobody from my high school.” Nobody in high school. Polly Weber had held secrets then, too. Confident all-American teen on the outside. On the inside, a vulnerable girl looking for validation in disastrous places. So damn needy.

And even if Polly Weber now loved a man who didn’t love her back, that didn’t make her the same as the insecure, self-destructive child she’d once been.

“...so I could use you,” Teague was saying. “It might be beneficial to you, too.”

She set her scissors in her lap. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying that weddings and all the attending hoopla put people in a romantic mood. Makes ’em want to pair up. You could get some potentials out of it.”

“Potential...?”

Teague shook his head. “You haven’t been listening. I’ve been laying out all the good reasons why you should go along with what I asked.”

Caught up in her memories, she’d apparently missed a chunk of conversation, because she didn’t recall him asking her anything. “Why don’t you start over?”

“You’re not afraid to date, are you?”

“What are you talking about?” She bristled. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“C’mon,” Teague scoffed. “What about heights? Movies with ax murderers? You know you have that thing against clowns.”

“Everybody has a thing against clowns.”

“True. But my point is, you’ve been on a man hiatus for...what? How long has it been?”

“I have men in my life.”

“They’re between five and six years old, Polly. That doesn’t count.”

“And there’s you,” she heard herself blurt out.

“But I don’t count, either.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m talking men who want to...” His words died away, and a strange expression overtook his face.

“Men who want to what?”

“To do things to you that I suddenly realize make me extremely uncomfortable to picture in my mind,” he finished, frowning.

“Oh.” Funny, now Teague couldn’t look at her. “I’m not averse to that kind of man.” It’s what she told herself she needed. A new guy. A focus other than Teague.

He was squeezing the ball of scrap paper. “So agreeing to be my plus-one will be perfect for both of us.”

“What?”

“Is there cotton wool in your ears? I explained it to you. There’re all these wedding things coming up. I need a date.”

“Ask somebody else.”

“Somebody else might think I’m interested. But you’re aware that I’m still hung up on...”

“Tess.”

“Yeah. I’m going to be around her all the time. I need you nearby to stop me from looking like an idiot.”

The idiot was Polly, her resolve already eroding. I need you.

“You can meet some new people, maybe find your Mr. Right.”

Attending social events with Teague at her side? How would that help her goal of walking into kindergarten class come September without the wrong man firmly dug into her heart?

“Please, Pol,” he said. Then his eyes sharpened, and he lifted his hand to her face, using his thumb to rub at a spot between her brows. “No, never mind.”

His hand dropped, but she caught his wrist without thinking. It was hard, strong, and her fingertips could barely meet her thumb. “Teague...”

“I made you frown. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that made you unhappy.”

His skin was warm against her palm. She should release him, but it felt so good to even have this small piece of him. Her pulse thudded in her throat and she felt a dizzying lack of air. Shutting him out of her life, she suddenly realized, wasn’t going to shovel him out of her heart.

That was going to require a more proactive effort.

And being his plus-one for the next month would give her a chance to track her progress. She could establish a mental grade book like the paper one she kept for her kids, where she marked the date they could tie their shoelaces and recognize the letters of the alphabet.

She’d work toward not jumping at the sound of his voice.

Not longing for his clean, citrus scent in her lungs.

Getting through one night without an erotic dream of his whiskered cheek against her breasts.

* * *

THE PLACE WHERE SKYE felt safest at the cove was not her house—where she’d grown up—but the small property management office that was no more than one room and a door that led to an attached half bath. She’d spent a lot of time in the office during the past few months, surrounded by four walls and the sound of the surf outside. Sometimes she brought her dinner there, as she had tonight, and ate a sandwich and drank a soda while sitting at her desk.

The darkness started to deepen and she lit the bookkeeper’s lamp at her elbow, then got up to move around the room, turning on another light sitting on the small table by the leather recliner that had been her father’s favorite, then the overhead fixture in the bathroom. The drapes covering the two windows were already drawn. They featured a thick, insulated lining as protection against the sun, and she supposed that from the outside the little building would appear empty.

Uninteresting.

Nothing to see here.

Nobody inside to bother. To terrify.

Skye moved about the room again, surveying different items, touching them, as if they were good luck charms. First there was the movie poster from The Egyptian, the last picture made at Sunrise Studios by her great-great-grandparents, Max Sunstrum and Edith Essex. She’d been the actress and he’d been the director-producer of a quiver-full of popular movies that had been filmed at the cove into the late 1920s. Why Max had shut down the studio had been a mystery until last month when film student Addy had found a letter from Edith to her husband. Exhausted by the Hollywood gossip and innuendo, she had requested that they retire from the business. Rumor still persisted, however. Edith had been given a magnificent, maybe priceless piece of jewelry by one of her leading men. It was said to be hidden somewhere at the cove, though no one had caught a glimmer of it in over eighty-five years.

Mounted on the opposite wall from the movie advertisement was one of Skye’s mother’s plein air paintings—its “on location” style popular with the artists who flocked to the cove. She stood before it now, admiring how her mother had captured the sand, surf and a stretch of the cottages in impressionistic strokes the colors of summer. Way in the distance, at the far end of the beach depicted on the canvas, two children labored over a sand castle. You almost had to squint to see them, but Skye knew the boy was black-haired and sturdy, while the girl was more birdlike, with long brown tresses waving down her back. It was Skye and Gage.

Turning away from her mother’s work, she went to the bookshelf where her collection of sand dollars sat in a glass candy jar. “‘I’d be rich if I had a penny for every dollar you girls brought home,’” she murmured, repeating her father’s favorite phrase. She and her sister had never tired of finding them, believing they were the currency of the merfolk.

It had been a childhood perfect for such fancies, living at the cove. There was the bustle and excitement of summer, energized by the families moving in and out of the cottages, not to mention the day visitors who came to play at the sand and water. In the off-season, the surrounding beach houses most often stood empty, but the minds of Skye and her sister did not. They’d exercised their imaginations no matter how tranquil the cove became.

Which likely only added to the disquiet she’d experience at this summer’s end. Her ancestors had made movies, she and her sister had made up a thousand stories and this winter she could see herself conjuring up a bogeyman around every corner.

She’d have to leave to save her sanity. Then the other Alexanders, who loved the cove but had left it behind, would tell her it was time to place their property on the market. Even if they wanted to hold on to it for a few more years, that wouldn’t make it easier on Skye, who would be miles away.

If she couldn’t live here, it was no longer home.

Sighing, she returned to the chair behind the desk. In a minute or two she’d go back to her cottage, set all the locks, hang the cowbell on the doors designed to warn her of an intruder. Then she’d settle in for another night of fitful sleep. Until then...

She pulled open the right bottom drawer. Behind a stack of files was an old wooden box that had washed up onshore when she was a child. It was of some sort of resilient wood—it hadn’t warped from its bath in the salt water—and it used to hold a little girl’s treasures: a baby doll the size of her thumb, the shell of a turtle, a book of funny rhymes Rex Monroe had once given her. A packet of letters had been added to the contents.

As she reached for the container, her cell phone chimed. Skye started, cursed her jumpiness, then picked up the device. It was a text message, and the number wasn’t familiar to her. When she tapped to open it, a photograph appeared on the screen.

An open ibuprofen bottle, a ginger ale can tipped on its side and a washcloth folded into a compress.

It could only come from one person, the man she hadn’t seen since he’d walked her home last night.

She texted back: Ouch.

And Gage responded, Ur talking to me?

Feeling sorry for u.

May not deserve ur pity, but will take it. & I apologize.

Smiling a little, she stared at the cryptic sentiments. After last night, she’d wondered—worried—how their first encounter would go after the incendiary exchange at her front door.

No apology necessary, she typed. Wasn’t sure u’d even remember.

She’d hoped he’d forget, actually, because then she wouldn’t have to explain her reaction to what he’d said. He’d been teasing her, of course, and hadn’t been subtle about it, but his words had poked at her all the same. On my honor, I’d make you come twice before entering you.

She was aware she’d gone big-eyed and still, stunned to her marrow.

Gage texted back, U looked as if I’d promised rats to eat ur entrails.

Making a face, she moved her thumbs over the keyboard. Game of Thrones reference?

U betcha, baby.

He’d called her that last night, in a raspy, masculine tone. “Baby. I swear I’d do right by you, baby.” A shiver worked its way down her back and she stared at the screen, mesmerized by the memory. He’d been teasing and sexually frustrated and none of it was really aimed at her personally, but part of her, somewhere deep beneath the layers of clothes and nerves and nightmares, responded to him on a purely female, physical level. Maybe she should be glad about that, she thought.

But those tears stinging her eyes didn’t feel like gladness. They felt like loss. No matter what was stirring deep inside, there was too much ice and fear between it and any man.

She’d never be able to get close to one in that way again.

Her phone pinged again. Skye?

Here.

R u ok?

Sure! The exclamation point was added for emphasis. To cover up any awkwardness he might pick up between them. She wanted him to think she was normal. Like the sanctuary of this little building, the friendship she had with Gage was another thing that made her feel secure. Normal, even.

Her damage had to remain hidden from him.

C u 2morrow? she typed.

C u then.

Her phone went quiet and, letting out a sigh, she slumped back in her chair. If these were her last weeks at the cove, then she wanted to enjoy them as best she could with the pen pal who would be on his way again soon. She’d hide her weakness, her unruly responses and anything else that might reveal too much.

On another sigh, she let her head rest against the seat cushion and wrapped her fingers around her phone. It felt warm to the touch, and she tightened her hold on what seemed like a tangible connection between herself and Gage. Maybe it was dangerous to want to hold even such a small piece of him. After all, she knew he wasn’t going to stay. But then she didn’t have what it took to follow up on the ache she had for him, anyway.

What if he’d arrived last summer? she wondered.

But he hadn’t, and perhaps that was a boon. Perhaps this poignant pain served to underscore how futile it would be to care for a man who would never settle in one place. With one woman.

Maybe she dozed. She must have, because she was suddenly alert, heart galloping in her ears. The phone had fallen from her lax fingers to the desk. Was that what had woken her?

Her breaths were unsteady and loud in the room. Outside the office, the ocean spoke shh shh shh, and she struggled to heed its warning. Something was tickling at her primal brain and she carefully moved her head to look about.

All seemed normal, these four walls still her safest haven.

It was just her skittery nerves, she told herself. Keep it together. Breathe through the anxiety. Don’t be such a ridiculous goose.

It was still summer and she couldn’t afford to let the fear get the best of her so soon.

Then a new noise came from outside. It was a scraping sound. Maybe metal against wood? Like someone prying at the locked door.

Someone was trying to get in!

Her brain screeched the words in her head, and her flesh went cold. Rigor mortis seized her muscles as her gaze glued to the entrance. There was no inward sign of tampering, but that noise came again.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

This time, she lurched out of the chair. Her half-paralyzed body moved with clumsy jerks as she Frankenstein’d toward the bathroom. She could lock herself inside there, she thought in urgent panic. There was a hook and an eyebolt—

—that wouldn’t stop anyone.

She knew it wouldn’t stop him.

Frozen again in fear, Skye stood in the middle of the office as horror dried her mouth and seized her lungs. That other night, she’d managed one scream before his hand had been there, fleshy and foul with bitter sweat, and then he’d gagged her with a kitchen towel. Later, she’d realized she could have yelled until she was hoarse and it wouldn’t have mattered. It had been off-season and there was no one near enough to hear her over the ceaseless surf.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The sounds grated against her hypervigilant nerves. Skye’s skin twitched and she stared down at her feet. Move, she commanded them. Move!

Move where? a dull voice in her head countered, resigned to what she’d been dreading all these months. He’ll just find you. He’ll just touch you again. He promised he’d finish what he started.

And then she thought of the last man who had touched her. It wasn’t him, that disgusting bastard with his stinking sweat. It had been Gage, dancing with her at Captain Crow’s, making her feel like a normal woman for the first time in a very long while.

Gage. Gage!

She found herself by her desk, unaware of how she’d made it there. Snatching up the phone, she fumbled with the buttons. The screen lit, and then she managed to tap Call. His voice sounded in her ear.

Relief and fear made her head spin. “I’m at the office,” she choked out. “I need you.”

“What?” he said. “Skye?”

She swallowed, and then revealed everything she’d vowed to keep from him. “I don’t feel safe. Help me.”

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