The Love Shack

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.