Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  “Them?”

  He made a slashing gesture. “You know. My family. God, I’m pissed. And I shouldn’t take that out on you. Like this.”

  The mattress dipped as she moved toward him. “They’ve disappointed you.” Her voice was soft. “Today, they hurt you.”

  He didn’t want to admit it.

  “It’s okay. I understand.” Her hand touched his back, smoothed down. “My mother walked away from me when I was two years old. My father left me for good two months ago. I can get a little mad about those things.”

  “Ah, sweetheart...” Half turning, he gazed at her face. Her eyes were big, vulnerable pools in the darkness. He cupped her cheek with his hand.

  She nudged her chin into his palm so her mouth could press a kiss to his flesh. “And lonely.”

  God, didn’t that just hit him square in the chest? In a quick move, Vance pulled her into his lap, her nakedness against his. He was still angry and frustrated, not to mention stirred up by lust, but now tenderness infused him, too. Layla was lonely. Of course she was. And though it only added to his already-crowded emotional landscape, he didn’t seem to have a choice.

  Her arms went around him. “You know what, Vance?” she whispered.

  “What?” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  “Sometimes...sometimes a person just needs to be held.”

  And like that, he took another blow. But the pain turned into a pulsing sexual ache as his mouth found hers and their tongues tangled and their skin heated. The decision was done, the die cast, the outcome destined. And it was okay now because he no longer was doing this only for himself.

  Sometimes a person just needs to be held.

  So he held her in a dozen ways. Her body against him. Her tongue in his mouth. Her pearling nipples between his lips. She took him in, as well. Arching when he slid a finger inside the wet clasp of her core. Crying out when he made it two, then three. He thumbed her clit until she was making those sweet, urgent sounds again, and then he turned her to her belly and used his tongue to paint the long valley of her spine and the sweet curve of her bottom cheeks.

  The frantic clamor of need quieted the longer he had her under his hands and his mouth. The desire was still insistent, but he found finesse, and used it to nudge her in small increments toward the edge. Putting her once again on her back, he bent to her breasts, tonguing and sucking as his fingers moved to toy with the hard little knot between her thighs. He listened to her breathing, paid attention to the coiling tension in her body and, when he felt her rise up to his hand, her hips tilting toward him, he replaced his fingers with his sheathed cock. They both groaned as he began to thrust.

  As his hips moved, he lifted onto his elbows and cradled her face in his good hand. “Lonely now, baby?”

  Her low husky laugh sent heat up his spine and her knees bent so the silky insides of her thighs clasped him. “No, Vance.”

  He kissed each cheek, her nose, her chin. “This is good,” he said.

  “So good,” she agreed, and then she smiled.

  He smiled back, but then turned serious as her internal muscles tightened on his cock. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

  She lifted into his next thrust. “Oh, now,” she said.

  He drew back, then pressed deeper, pushing into the melting, yielding, pulsing heat. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Reaching between them, he brushed the wet, upstanding knot of nerves and Layla jolted, her body jerking into his. She came around him, her muscles clenching his cock, her moans sweet music as he felt the new flush of heat crossing her skin and entering his.

  He took her mouth then, pushing his tongue inside, penetrating her there, too, in a rhythm matching the carnal beat of his heart and the erotic demand of his desire. She surrendered to him, her arms and legs holding him against her as he groaned in climax.

  Breath still moving fast in his chest, he rose up to look at her pretty, pretty face. Everything he’d felt all day was still inside him, but it was frosted with the sweetness of Layla’s fine-grained skin and her swollen mouth. He’d gotten rid of nothing in the bedding of her, he acknowledged, but only added her flavor, her voice, the miracle of her coming around his cock to his memory. Filling him up instead of purging anything.

  And at that moment it all felt too damn good to regret.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LAYLA WOKE UP LIKE SHE never did anymore, in a room warmed by sunshine. Usually, dawn’s gray fingers tickled her into wakefulness, the need to get to the cupcake truck and get to work foremost in her mind. But because she’d not known how late her Picnic Day duties would go, she and Uncle Phil had decided to take the day off, their first, and she stretched her toes along the sleek sheets and—

  Shot upright in bed.

  Vance’s bed.

  The place beside her was empty now. He’d been there all night long, though, his muscled male warmth, his even breathing. Sinking back onto the pillow, Layla let herself remember what that was like. The sex beforehand had been scary-wondrous, an experience that later she’d break down layer by layer, detail by detail in order to marvel over each and every one. But, oh, how sweet was the companionship in sleep, she mused, closing her eyes against their sudden sting.

  While she’d never intended to get physically involved with Vance, last night seemed as right to her now as it had been when she’d been pulled, naked, into his lap. She had wanted to be held, he’d needed the skin-to-skin contact, too, and the results...well, who could complain about the results?

  Not Layla. What’s done was done and regrets were for women who didn’t know how transient life could be.

  The smell of coffee lured her from the covers a short while later. She dashed for her own room, showered quickly then pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. At the last moment she grabbed a baseball cap and tugged it low over her forehead, threading her long hair out the back gap. It would provide a shield of sorts.

  Sure, she had no regrets, but she did have a healthy sense of self-preservation. Which meant she didn’t want to give Vance a clear shot at reading her emotions on her face—not until she had a chance to assess his.

  The kitchen was empty. Was he avoiding her like he’d avoided his famiily the day before? Trying to ignore the disappointing thought, she filled a mug from the coffee carafe and added a splash of half-and-half. Cocking her head, she listened for any sign of Vance, but though the toaster was still warm and a loaf of bread lay on the counter, the house was silent.

  Her bare feet quiet on the hardwood floors, she drifted across the living room, drawn by the view of blue sky, gold-dappled ocean and the small waves flouncing against the sand like sassy little girls with white-edged petticoats. Then she saw Vance. Pleasured relief filled her as she took in his relaxed figure. In jeans and a T-shirt, he sat on the deck by the stairs that led to the beach. His back was propped against one newel and an empty mug rested beside his hip. As she watched, he broke off pieces of toasted bread and tossed them into the air.

  Greedy seagulls had figured out his game and wheeled for them, somehow just managing to avoid midair collisions. Pigeons gathered, too, hoping for a missed crumb or two. Their tubby, sooty-feathered bodies waddled around the sand at the bottom of the steps, looking as out of place in the beach setting as the tourists who showed up wearing their dress socks with sandals.

  She pushed open the sliding glass door, and the outside air washed over her, warm and salty and welcoming. Vance had yet to notice her arrival and she indulged in another moment of observation. He tossed another piece of toast into the air, his face lifted, and she saw the small smile on his face. It made her own lips curve.

  He looked at ease, she thought, a rare state for him. Even when he was still, there was an alertness about him, as if he was waiting. Something like a runner braced for the starting gun at a race, she decided. Or, considering where he’d been and what he did, waiting for the sound of a real gun.

  Her hand went to her belly as it suddenly jittered.
Vance, at war. Her fingers curled and she moved the fist to the space between her breasts, cursing her hard-thumping heart. After the many times she’d waved goodbye to her father, she thought she’d learned how to manage these sudden bouts of anxiety.

  Vance, at war.

  Did she make a sound? Because his head swiftly turned and his gaze landed on her. He raised his half-casted arm and waved two fingers. “Hey.” Layla held her breath, then released it as he followed that up with an easy smile. Happy to see you, it said.

  Hot goose bumps skittered across her skin as she stepped farther onto the deck. “Good morning.”

  He glanced toward the surf, then back at her. “Looks that way. Sleep well?”

  “Mmm.” Without being able to help herself, she continued toward him, drawn by this new mood of his. Maybe they’d have more scary-wondrous sex, maybe not. For now it was enough to see that look of contentment on his face.

  His fingers caught hers, pulling her nearer. He shifted around to face the beach, leaving a spot for her on the step. As she sat down, he purloined her mug and brought it to his own mouth, his blue eyes warm over the rim.

  More hot chills burst over her skin and her nipples budded, remembering the heat of his mouth. Okay, for sure she wanted more scary-wondrous sexy times with him. And also moments like this, when they shared a morning and a cup of coffee.

  Maybe she was beginning to believe in the Beach House No. 9 magic, after all.

  “V.T.,” a voice said, and a figure came around the corner of the deck, approaching from the beach.

  Vance stiffened, and his fingers untangled from hers. “Fitz,” he said, and the name sounded more like a snarl. “One dance with Layla and you can’t keep away? Are you trying to steal another of my girls?”

  The other man flicked a glance at her. She gave him a small nod. He hadn’t said much during their dance the night before—a dance he’d clearly orchestrated to give Vance and Blythe a chance to clear the air, not that it had seemed to do much good—but she had more sympathy for him than maybe she ought. He had hurt his brother.

  Fitz returned his attention to Vance. “We have unfinished business, V.T. Me and you.”

  Layla made to rise. “I’ll go.”

  “Stay,” the two men said together.

  Great, she thought, but settled back on the step.

  Fitz wore a pair of khakis and a white polo shirt. He hesitated a moment, then dug into his pocket for something he then tossed to his brother.

  Vance’s reflexes were good, but his cast got in the way of the catch. The small item bounced off the hard surface crossing his palm and arced toward Layla to land in her lap. A jeweler’s box. Slowly, she picked it up and passed it to the man seated beside her.

  He looked at it for a long moment, then flipped open the lid. A diamond solitaire winked in the sunlight. Elegant and classy, it suited a woman like Blythe. The lack of expression on Vance’s face confirmed it had been hers.

  “She’s been wanting to return it to you,” Fitz said. “Last night she had it with her, but you didn’t stick around long enough for her to give it back.”

  The ring box shut with a snap and Vance looked at his brother. “She can keep it,” he said, holding it out.

  The other man shook his head. “No, she can’t.” There was another long hesitation. “Because as of early this morning, she’s wearing my ring.”

  Oh, no. Layla froze, remembering the last confrontation between the two on this deck. There’d been bloodshed and bruises in the offing, she’d smelled it like brimstone on the breeze as she’d stood on the sand eavesdropping. And now that Blythe wasn’t just Fitz’s girlfriend, but his full-fledged fiancée...? She slid a cautious look at Vance.

  He didn’t move a muscle. “Congratulations,” he finally said, his voice carefully neutral.

  Fitz frowned. Clearly he hadn’t been expecting felicitations. “Uh...” His gaze darted to Layla.

  “I hope you’ll be very happy,” she said, suppressing her sigh. No matter what Vance’s attitude appeared to be, this couldn’t be happy news to him.

  Fitz cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, withdrew them. At his obvious discomfort she felt another spurt of sympathy. This wouldn’t bring the brothers any closer to the reconciliation that the older of the two so clearly desired.

  His hands ran through his hair. “Look, Vance...”

  An awkward silence welled up. Layla tried breathing through it, tried appearing as impassive as the man seated beside her, but one of her legs started moving, the knee bouncing up and down. She stole another glance at Vance, thinking of his earlier sunny mood. He wasn’t tearing his brother limb from limb, so maybe it was still there, just waiting behind his stony expression. Just waiting for Fitz to be on his way.

  “Well,” she finally said, unable to bear the tension—and eager for the confrontation to end without bloodshed. “You’ve made your delivery. We don’t want to keep you any longer.” Her knee was pumping now, like a telegraph key under the fingers of an experienced operator.

  Vance reached over and pressed the twitchy joint, stilling the movement. “I don’t think Fitz is finished.”

  “V.T....” His brother started, stopped again.

  “Just spit it out,” Vance said. “Layla’s right. We have things we want to get to.” He turned his head to nuzzle her cheek.

  The touch of his lips on her skin, his breath on the shell of her ear made her blood run hot again. But Fitz was standing there, watching, so she managed not to melt into the floorboards. Instead, she covered the fingers Vance had on her knee with hers.

  His brother cleared his throat once more. “I know...of course, I know about that letter she wrote you. Blythe’s letter.”

  “The one breaking our engagement?”

  “I’m talking about the second letter,” Fitz said. “After you two were over. In it she said we had begun dating, though it was nothing serious.”

  “What?” Vance still sounded calm. “You thought I didn’t guess it was more than that?”

  “I...” Shrugging, his brother let the word drift off.

  “Fitz, I know you. You’re always serious. It didn’t fool me for a second.” Then he turned his head to press another kiss on Layla’s cheek. “So, if you’ve finally gotten everything off your chest...”

  Implying—and she wasn’t sure if it was solely for his brother’s benefit or not—that there were some scary-wondrous sexy times in the offing. Layla squirmed a little on her wooden seat, having mixed feelings about that now. Was she still just a prop to disguise his wounded feelings? Now that something real had happened between them, that didn’t sit so well any longer.

  Vance caught her chin and turned her face toward him, his gaze searching hers as if he sensed her new disquiet. “Go away, Fitz.”

  “Just one more thing.”

  Vance’s sigh was warm against her face. “What?” he said, glancing toward his brother.

  “Mom wants you at the engagement party. A brunch deal.”

  Vance stilled. “I don’t think—”

  “Please. We have to do this right for the family. You need to be there.”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me you’re with Layla now.” Fitz lifted his arms. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m returning to Afghanistan,” Vance said. “Soon.”

  “That’s why we’ll have it soon. You’re here at Crescent Cove until the end of the month, you told Mom. So the party’s scheduled for the last Sunday in July.”

  “Fitz—”

  “We picked that date just for you, Vance.”

  “For me,” Vance repeated. “You’re doing this for me.”

  “Hell,” his brother said, spinning around. “Never mind. But you’ll tell Mom you refuse, not me.” He began to stalk off.

  “Fitz!” Layla called out.

  With a sigh, he halted. When he turned back, the misery on his face made her feel sorry for him all over again. “I forgot my manners,”
he said. “Goodbye, Layla.”

  Without looking at Vance, she twined her fingers with his and addressed his brother. “You tell us where and what time—we’ll be there.” She didn’t dare look at the man sitting beside her, but she could feel his temper in his rigid posture and the way his hand tightened on hers. Still, it seemed like the right action to take, and if Vance couldn’t commit to it, she’d do it for him.

  Anything else was retreat, and her father had taught her to never tolerate such a thing.

  Fitz glanced from her face to Vance’s. “V.T.?”

  “What the lady wants,” he said, shrugging, then lifted their joined fingers in order to kiss the back of her hand. “Whatever she desires.”

  When Fitz was gone, Vance dropped her like a hot potato and rose to his feet. Layla looked up at him, uncertain about what mood he might reveal next. Happiness again, she hoped. But it was a vain hope; she knew it when he ran down the steps, racing toward the surf. Two chubby pigeons twittered in alarm and fluttered out of his way. One of the seagulls he’d befriended sailed close on the wind as Vance drew back his arm.

  The gull tried snatching at the ring box on its long arc toward the water. But it missed, and the splash was small and silent as Blythe’s ring sank into the depths.

  Vance was silent, too—though not small at all as he stalked back toward the house. His expression hard, he brushed past Layla to mount the steps.

  “Are you all right?”

  He grunted.

  She scrambled to her feet. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to hunt down a calendar.”

  Confused, she tried to keep up with him. “A calendar? Why?”

  “In order to count down how many more goddamn days are left before I can get the hell out of California.”

  * * *

  ADDY KNEW BAXTER had returned. Though she didn’t look up from her laptop screen, she sensed him looming in the doorway of the Sunrise Pictures archives room. I’ll ignore him, she thought. Then he’ll go away.