Almost Paradise (Book 4)

by Christie Ridgway

  “All right,” she said, suddenly wary again.

  “During the drive to the airport, questions kept running through my head. First and foremost, why I’d been avoiding taking pictures. Hell, I couldn’t even make myself take a final photo of you last night.”

  “I thought maybe it was because of my sunburned nose.”

  “Brat,” he said, then kissed it. “The answer was actually pretty simple. I’d always used the camera lens as a buffer between me and my subjects. I didn’t want any buffer from you. Not last night. Not ever.”

  Skye’s heart was pounding in her chest. The merfolk must be fast workers, she thought, dizzy with the new rush of blood zinging through her veins.

  “I love you, Skye,” Gage said. “I’m so in love with you.”

  Her body started to tremble. “You know, you know I—”

  “I know.” His grin was easy, and very pleased. “No doubt I’ll insist you say it a hell of a lot, too, but let me finish telling you why I didn’t make that plane.”

  She clasped her hands together.

  “When I learned about Griff’s PTSD, I did a little research. Scientists have named another condition that happens to people who experience an impactful life event—PTG, post-traumatic growth. It leaves a person with a new outlook on life and relationships. A man may discover that he wants to spend more time with family instead of his career. Maybe he sees himself putting down roots—still taking photographs, mind you—but from a home base and with a woman beside him who can fill his heart, not just his zest for adventure.”

  Skye frowned. “That woman might not like the idea of being the one who curtails his zest.”

  He smiled at her. “She’s going to provide plenty of zest, don’t you worry.”

  At her doubtful expression, he laughed.

  “Trust me, honey,” he said, then, sobering, he gathered her even closer. “While I was driving, I kept remembering Charlie, something he told me. Just a few weeks before his kidnapping, he was walking through Kabul and a bullet pierced a wall right by his head. Pure good luck that it didn’t kill him outright. And he wondered if that wasn’t a sign from the universe. He thought about going home to Mara and Anthony, right then and there.”

  Skye frowned. “So your sign from the universe was the kidnapping?”

  “My sign from the universe was you. At first your letters, and then your smile, and then your love. It made no sense not to heed it...not to be with you, the person who makes me happy. So...here I am.”

  “So...here you are.” She smiled, her heart whole and clamoring for its turn to talk. “Do I get to say I love you now?”

  “Sure, I—” His gaze suddenly shifted over her shoulder, and he blinked. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Skye, there’s...there’s merpeople out there.”

  Seals. “But of course,” she replied, without even bothering to look. “They’re here to welcome you home.”

  EPILOGUE

  SKYE STOOD AT THE RAILING on the deck of Beach House No. 9, her hand shading her eyes as she gazed up the sand. No fog shrouded the cove this afternoon; instead the sun was beaming down in warm welcome for the Memorial Day weekend visitors. Her shoulder muscles ached a little, but she didn’t mind, because the hard work of preparing for another Crescent Cove summer was now completed.

  Their group of friends had even managed to make time for a simultaneous week-long visit, with the exception of Addy and her husband, Baxter, who were living in France. For the rest of them, those who considered themselves the happy recipients of No. 9’s magic, it was going to be seven days of horseshoes on the beach and barbecues on the deck. There was talk of making some after-dark visits to Captain Crow’s for a little dancing.

  That was, if they could talk Tess and David’s teenage boys into babysitting. Their daughter Rebecca would want to go along to the bar with the other adults.

  The passel of kids she was expecting came into view and Skye smiled, remembering her days as part of a Neverland tribe just like this one. It only made the memory sweeter to know that a good number of those jostling each other as they made their way along the beach were the progeny of her own childhood posse. Jane and Griffin’s two children, dark-haired R.J.—Rex Joseph—and dainty Amaryllis led the way. Skye’s sister’s daughter with her husband, Caleb, was named Starr just like her mother had once been, and she had her arms slung around Tina and Karen, the offspring of Polly and Teague White, who had fallen in love here at the cove a decade before.

  Ten years had indeed elapsed since that fateful summer, and it would seem like the time had passed in the blink of an eye unless you took into account the growing families. Vance and Layla Smith had managed to produce three kids in those years, though only the oldest two—boys—were part of the group heading for No. 9. Baby Katherine was napping with her mother inside the house.

  Straggling behind the rest of the kids were a pair of scamps. Hard to believe Max and Neal were six already, Skye thought, but Gage claimed they’d lost two years in a sleepless delirium of diapers and spit-up. As if sensing her regard, Max looked up, saw her on the deck, and gave her the exuberant wave of a sailor sighting land. Then Neal did the same, and she grinned, her heart swelling with intense, almost painful love. Her little men.

  She put her hand over her belly and wondered if she’d be introducing a daughter to this paradise next. Tonight, when she was snuggled in bed with her husband at their house just up the beach, she’d give him the news of the pregnancy and see if he had a prediction.

  I bet it’s a girl, she thought, rubbing her palm over her navel. Edith.

  Her sons were waving at her again and in response, she threw up her arm. It hit solid metal.

  And she woke up.

  Blinking, Skye struggled to orient herself. She wasn’t standing on No. 9’s deck. She was stretched out on one of its loungers, under the shade of a patio umbrella. Her dream gesture had caused her hand to encounter its center pole. Sitting up, she rubbed at her tender knuckles. What a dream! It had felt so real, even though ten years had not passed since the Summer of Love—as she and Gage had come to talk of it—at Beach House No. 9.

  It was only the end of September, and just a few weeks since her pen pal who was also the man she loved had entered her life. She’d come here this afternoon to shut up the house for the season since Gage had moved in with her. After doing all the necessary chores, she’d taken a break on the lounger and then apparently taken a nap.

  Smiling, she got to her feet. She and Gage had stayed up too late the night before, practicing for that babymaking that her dream portended. Max and Neal and Edith? Wow.

  She gathered the lounge cushions in her arms, intending to stow them in the storage area beneath the deck. Using her foot, she shoved the lounger’s metal frame against the side of the house and heard an ominous crack.

  “Darn,” she muttered, dropping the cushions to survey the damage. The metal teeth that propped up the chair’s back had caught one of the siding shingles at the base of the house and half ripped it away. After moving the metal frame, she hunkered down and fiddled with the broken piece. It came off in her hand and with another curse she went belly-down on the deck to see if she could retrieve the rest from beneath its overlapping partner.

  What she saw instead was a small, shadowy niche that had a canvas drawstring bag stuffed inside.

  “What are you doing?”

  Skye started, then turned her head toward her fiancé, who was striding across the deck. “I think I’m playing pirate and this is the hidden treasure.” Refusing to think about spiders and snakes, she reached in the shallow nook and pulled out the fabric sack. It was heavy in her hand.

  She rolled over and sat up as Gage settled on the painted wooden surface beside her. Her pulse fluttered as she looked at him. “Could it be...?”

  “Only one way to find out, honey.” He leaned close to kiss her temple. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know.” Her fingers tightened on the dirty, yellowed material and sh
e forced them to loosen. “You do it,” she said, holding the package toward him.

  He held up both hands. “Not me.”

  She hesitated another moment, then with a little growl, attacked the strings. There was another sack inside the first, this one made of oilcloth. Inside that was a velvet pouch.

  From the soft, silk-lined material, Skye drew out a magnificent necklace made up of four parallel lines of precious stones, graduating from the size of her thumbnail to the size of a pea. “The Collar,” she breathed, and held it with two hands, the jeweled rows flowing like water over her palms.

  Gage let out a long whistle. “I’m no gem expert, but I would guess those are rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and amethysts.”

  “They say Nicky Aston adored Edith,” Skye said slowly, dazzled by the way the sun set the colors blazing. “She thought his avowed feelings were more publicity stunt than sincerity, but you have to wonder...”

  They studied it in silence for several long moments, the only sound that of the ocean breathing in and breathing out. “What are you going to do with it?” Gage finally asked.

  “Good question. I don’t know...” But then she thought she did. She looked over her shoulder, through the glass that led into Beach House No. 9. The bungalow had brought several lives together this summer, and probably other times, as well. Her mother had always claimed so, anyway.

  Without its magic, would she be sitting here with the love of her life?

  “You might think I’m crazy,” she warned Gage.

  “As long as you’re still crazy about me,” he said, smiling, “I’m happy.”

  She stretched over to kiss his mouth, fierce and hot. “That’s a foregone conclusion.” Then, with only the slightest twinge of regret, she bundled the magnificent piece into its protective layers and returned it to the hidey-hole, carefully positioning the half-broken shingle over it. Tomorrow she’d come back for a more secure repair.

  Gage’s eyebrows were raised when she turned to face him. “You’re leaving it then?” he asked.

  “At least for now.” Because as woo-woo as it might sound, she sensed its placement could be part of Crescent Cove’s mystique—perhaps the very source of the enchantment that Beach House No. 9 held. To her mind, the necklace symbolized a yearning heart, the kind of heart that had found its mate here this summer—and hopefully for many more seasons to come.

  Gage got to his feet, pulling her up with him. “What now?”

  She smiled, thrilling again that this beautiful man was hers. “Let’s go for a walk to the tide pools. I want to tell you about my dream.”

  And how she felt certain that it was sure to come true.

  # # #

  Dear Reader:

  Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the fourth book in the Almost series. I loved writing the story of Gage and Skye who went from pen-pals to lovers at the beautiful Crescent Cove.

  Continue on to read some information about the real-life place that inspired the fictional Crescent Cove as well as view some photos of the area. If you want to hear my audio introduction to the story and your device does not support audio, you can find the mp3 file in which I talk about the book at my website, www.christieridgway.com.

  Interested in sharing your thoughts about Almost Paradise with other readers? I hope you’ll leave a review for the book here and look for the first three in the series, ALMOST WONDERFUL, ALMOST ALWAYS, and ALMOST EVERYTHING.

  To not miss out on new Christie Ridgway releases and to get other information about upcoming books and specials, sign up for my newsletter. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or visit my website.

  I’ve also included here an excerpt of LIGHT MY FIRE (Rock Royalty Book 1) and TAKE ME TENDER (Billionaire’s Beach Book 1).

  All the best!

  Christie Ridgway

  Excerpt – LIGHT MY FIRE

  Rock Royalty Book 1

  © Copyright 2014 Christie Ridgway

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Chapter One

  The children of America's premier rock band learned early to sleep through anything. Late night jam sessions, liquor (and worse) -fueled arguments, raucous parties raging from dark to dawn that were peppered with wild laughter, breaking glass, and the squishy thud of fists against skin. At twenty-four, Cilla Maddox had not lost that skill, though she'd recently come to view it as something less than a gift.

  Still, she didn't stir from her curled position on the edge of the king-sized bed when a tall, broad figure entered the room in the middle of the night. No streetlights disturbed the darkness this deep in Laurel Canyon and the newcomer found the bed only by deduction. When, at his sixth cautious step, his shin met an immoveable object, he dropped the motorcycle boots and duffel bag he carried to the plush carpet and took a leap of faith by tipping his long body forward. Finding firm mattress and feathery pillow, he instantly fell into sleep.

  Hours later, Cilla came awake to the sound of birds tweeting and chirping their odes to another Southern California morning as they flitted through the shrubbery and tall eucalyptus trees that grew inside and outside the canyon compound where she'd grown up. Eyes closed, she breathed in the country-scented air, such a surprise when the famous Hollywood Boulevard and its twin in notoriety, the Sunset Strip, were less than a mile away. Flopping to her back, she stretched to her full five-feet, five inches. Then she pushed her arms overhead and swept them back down until her fingertips met—

  Something solid. Warm. Alive.

  On a gasp, her eyes flew open and her head whipped right. She yanked her hand from a man's heavy shoulder to press it against her thrashing heart.

  As it continued to beat wildly against her ribs, she stared at her bedmate. Though his body was plastered to the mattress belly-down, his face was turned toward hers and it only took another instant to realize he was no stranger. But recognition didn't calm the overactive organ in her chest that continued sending blood sprinting through her body.

  She blinked, just to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her. They apparently had told the truth, she decided. After years of adolescent fantasies, she was actually sharing a bed with him. With Renford Colson.

  No mistake, it was her teenage fantasy man. His glossy black hair that tangled nearly to his shoulders. His days'-old stubble of beard that made his mouth look softer, fuller, more kissable if that was even possible. Those were his spiky lashes resting against his sharp-angled face.

  Yet...was he really here? To make herself believe it, she mouthed his name. Ren.

  As if he heard the silent syllable, his eyes flipped open.

  She started, their distinctive color—a silvered green, just like eucalyptus leaves—jolting her to the marrow.

  Dark brows met over his straight nose and she watched the drowsiness seep from him as his gaze sharpened. "Priss?"

  She frowned. He was the only one to call her that nickname and it had annoyed her since she was old enough to understand it telegraphed something about the way he viewed her. "Excessively proper," she remembered reading in the dictionary. "Prim."

  "Cilla." Her voice sounded morning-husky as she made the correction.

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. "Priscilla."

  Ugh. That was worse. To her mind, Priscilla was the name of some old-fashioned china doll that was deemed too nice to play with and so grew dusty on a high, forgotten closet shelf. As the youngest "princess" of rock royalty (an article in Rolling Stone had described the nine collective children of the Velvet Lemons in just such terms), she'd often been overlooked. Likely Ren hadn't given her a single thought in the nine years since she'd last seen him.

  "Why are you here?" she asked, sitting up.

  His gaze dropped from her face to the size XL T-shirt she wore, an authentic Byrds concert souvenir, one of the several such clothing items she'd collected (read: purloined from her careless father) during her lifetime. "Priss," Ren remarked with a note of mild surprise, "you've grown up."

  Grown-ups didn't react to the red flush
they could feel crawling over their skin. Grown-ups didn't check out their chest to determine if it was a modest B-cup that led him to such a conclusion. So ignoring both compulsions, she repeated her question. "Why are you here?"

  "Couple reasons." Ren flipped over then jackknifed on the mattress to face her. Both palms rubbed over his eyes and down his cheeks, his beard making a scratchy sound. He'd fallen asleep in his worn jeans and wrinkled dress shirt. On the floor near him were a pair of battered boots and a leather bag, both as black as his hair. His hands went to the buttons marching down his chest.

  She swallowed. "What are you doing?"

  "I've been wearing this damn thing for—Christ, who knows?—it's got to be a couple of days. However long it took me to get here from Russia with a fucking long layover in Paris."

  Her gaze didn't leave his nimble fingers as they continued unbuttoning to reveal a stark white undershirt beneath. "You didn't stop off in London?" That was where he was based. Ren had started as a roadie for the band, then moved into concert tour planning and security. When he'd left the employ of the Velvet Lemons, he'd set up shop across the pond and continued doing the same thing—just not for their fathers' band.

  Cilla couldn't blame him for that. The three Lemons might as well have been named the Odd Ducks. They'd achieved superstardom in the 1970s and when they were nearing forty, somehow decided they wanted more than sex, riches, and scandalous reputations. Each had produced three kids before declaring their paternal urges satisfied. No mothers came attached to the children they'd fathered. They'd been bought off or wandered off and as long as Cilla could remember the nine rock progeny had spent their childhoods in the expansive Laurel Canyon compound that consisted of three separate houses and then this smaller cottage where she and Ren had chosen to sleep.

  Inspecting the hand-tied quilt covering the bed, Cilla ran her fingers over the psychedelic-inspired design. "You know about Gwen?" she asked, referring to Guinevere Moon, an original Velvet Lemons groupie who'd been the closest to a mother figure the band's offspring ever had. This had been her house.