Beach House No. 9

by Christie Ridgway

  USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway introduces a sizzling new series set in Crescent Cove, California, where the magic of summer can last forever…

  When Jane Pearson arrives at Griffin Lowell’s beach house, she expects a brooding loner. After all, his agent hired her to help the reclusive war journalist write his stalled memoir. Instead, Jane finds a tanned, ocean-blue-eyed man in a Hawaiian shirt, hosting a beach party and surrounded by beauties. Faster than he can untie a bikini top, Griffin lets Jane know he doesn’t want her. But she desperately needs this job and digs her toes in the sand.

  Griffin intends to spend the coming weeks at Beach House No. 9 taking refuge from his painful memories—and from the primly sexy Jane, who wants to bare his soul. But warm nights, moonlit walks and sultry kisses just may unlock both their guarded hearts….

  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

  “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

  Dear Reader,

  This California girl invites you to a very special California place…your own cottage, right on the sand, where the Pacific Ocean races forward to give your bare feet its cool kiss. The keys to Beach House No. 9 are at your fingertips. Turn the page and you’re in!

  Some years ago, the title Beach House No. 9 popped into my head. Busy with other projects, I scribbled it on a piece of paper and pinned it to my office bulletin board. And there it was, waiting for me, after I took a jaunt up the coast and found a very special cove that became the inspiration for the Crescent Cove in my back-to-back-to-back trilogy. Yep, the next two books in the series, Bungalow Nights and The Love Shack, are coming right up—and offer more No. 9 magic. The romances are sexy and fun, but I expect a tear or two may be shed…making the happy-ever-afters all the sweeter.

  In this book, heroine Jane Pearson is everything I love in a woman—she’s talented and she’s no pushover, not even for a gorgeous man with a chip on his shoulder. Griffin Lowell tells himself she’s all wrong for him…enjoy watching him find out how right she really is.

  Here comes the sun!

  Christie

  CHRISTIE RIDGWAY

  BEACH HOUSE NO. 9

  Also available from Christie Ridgway

  and Harlequin HQN

  Beach House Beginnings

  (a prequel novella)

  Coming soon

  Bungalow Nights

  The Love Shack

  Acknowledgments

  I sold my very first book to Harlequin

  and it’s with great pleasure that I continue our association. Many thanks to Margaret Marbury,

  who showed such enthusiasm for the idea and

  made it happen. Another round of the same to

  my editor, Margo Lipschultz, who has taken the time

  to get to know me and my books and

  who has made this trilogy so, so much better.

  Last, I must raise my glass to Harlequin’s

  art department. The beautiful covers for this series perfectly capture the enchantment of Crescent Cove.

  To the brothers in my life:

  my own, my husband and his brother, my two sons.

  I’ve seen what’s underneath those all-guy exteriors—deep family bonds and strong yet tender hearts

  that are reflected by every hero in my stories.

  Contents

  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

  At last we are in it up to our necks, and everything is changed, even your outlook on life.

  —Ernie Pyle, Pulitzer Prize–winning war correspondent

  Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.

  —Zora Neale Hurston, 20th century author

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SALT AIR, Jane Pearson realized, was hampering the success of her impending mission. First, it made her normally normal hair fuzzy. Not such a big deal, she supposed as she picked her way downhill, taking the narrow track of crushed shells that led from the coastal road to the picturesque cottages of Crescent Cove, but it was also wilting the white linen dress she wore.

  At home, the garment had seemed perfect I-mean-business wear for a June late afternoon. It had short cap sleeves and a collar she’d buttoned tight to the neck, but the swing hemline no longer moved crisply about her knees, instead clinging damply to her thighs. By the time she reached Beach House No. 9, she feared she wouldn’t appear the no-nonsense professional. Kleenex ghost might be a better comparison, the kind that kids made at Halloween—this one spritzed with water and topped with frizzy blondish tendrils.

  No matter, she thought. Her determination remained firm. Despite the state of her attire, she wouldn’t soften when facing the man she was here to confront. Griffin Lowell had been ignoring her calls—all eleven of them!—and she wasn’t willing to wait any longer for a response. According to his literary agent, the writer was way behind on his memoir. Jane had been hired to cure his critical case of deadline denial and then help shape the pages she prodded him to produce. It was time to get started.

  He needed her.

  You need him too, Jane, a little voice in her head added.

  She ignored the unwelcome reminder and focused instead on her surroundings. Crescent Cove wasn’t a hardship to visit. It was actually an amazing find in this Southern California county notable for the recently built, oh-so-alike housing developments and shopping malls that sprouted like beige-stuccoed fungi along the Pacific Coast Highway. About those red terra-cotta tile roofs…didn’t anyone realize that too much of a good thing made a bad thing?

  By contrast, this beach colony was straight from another time. The fifty or so unconventional bungalows and colorful cottages were prime examples of beach vernacular architectural design—she’d read that—and snuggled the bluffs along a two-mile stretch of sand. Each appeared as cheery and appealing as the bougainvillea that grew like weeds around them in colors ranging from pale salmon to the brightest scarlet. The prevailing sound at the cove
was the rhythmic shush of the waves, as the growl of tires on the highway above was screened by a stand of tall eucalyptus. Their medicinal tang mingled with the scents of seaweed, sand and ocean.

  A black Labrador in a tie-dyed kerchief ambled toward her, and she smiled at him. Jane loved dogs, though she’d never actually owned one. Growing up, her famed scientist of a father had claimed that pets would distract children from the rigor of their studies. And these days, her hours were too unpredictable to allow for a pet.

  “Hello,” she called out to the canine, wiggling her fingers in his direction. His moseying pace didn’t check, however, and he turned down an alley that snaked between two rows of houses. Well. Just another male wrapped up in his own pursuits.

  Continuing forward, she approached No. 9 from the rear, where more crushed shells led to a double garage, its door painted a seafoam-green. A handful of beach cruiser bicycles leaned against the dark brown shingled siding. Six cars were parked nearby, half of them luxury sedans, half in dubious running condition, all with two or more surfboards strapped on top, bright-striped beach towels sandwiched between them.

  Did Griffin Lowell have houseguests? The thought made Jane pause while she was still fifty feet from the back door. Surely not. His agent had told her the man in question had gone completely hermit, ignoring phone calls, texts and emails—even from friends and family. Jane knew all too well how effectively he’d snubbed her.

  “Before he went incommunicado, I spoke to him about getting some assistance with the book,” Frank, the agent, had said. “He agreed. So light a firecracker under him, will you, Jane?”

  Of course she would. She was excellent at her job, and after the disaster of her last assignment, it was imperative she prove that again.

  Her short-heeled pumps had slender ankle straps and cutouts like eyelets scattered across the toe cap. She watched them carefully as she navigated another fifteen feet on the unsteady shell surface before pausing a second time. Taking in some deep breaths, she tried smoothing down her wisping-every-which-way hair and palm-ironing the damp fabric of her dress. The stakes had her a little tense.

  Not to mention that there was the whole recluse thing to consider. Griffin had spent a year embedded with American troops in Afghanistan. He’d seen things, experienced things—hence the memoir—that without a doubt had impacted him. Was he right now sitting alone, staring out to sea, brooding over the nature of God and man? She felt her uneasiness tick up another notch as she imagined that scene, and then herself interrupting his silent solitude.

  But you’ve been given a second chance, Jane, and you can’t afford to balk.

  With that mantra echoing in her head, she made it to the mat lying outside the front door. It looked like a Jolly Roger, and beneath the skull and crossbones was written: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.

  Another woman might add that warning to the eleven disregarded phone calls, her jittering nerves, plus the limp state of her clothing and then decide to tackle the author another day. Jane, however, lifted her chin as well as her fist, prepared to rap on the door.

  It swung open before her knuckles met wood. A guy in bare feet, yellow board shorts and bleached blond curls stared down at her. From inside came the unmistakable sound of a party. Rap music, raised voices, the shattering of a beer bottle followed by curses worthy of a sailor. Two women passed behind the beach boy, wearing near-identical denim miniskirts and mini bikini tops too, their long highlighted locks straightened to shiny perfection. They clutched tropical-colored drinks complete with umbrellas and didn’t spare a glance for Jane with her fuzzy hair and drooping dress. In the distance, she heard a masculine voice say, “I’m drunk. Smashed. Pissed.” Another someone yelled, “Hey, Brittany, how ’bout you and me get naked?”

  Oh, the man she was after was so not a hermit.

  “Griffin?” she said, eyeing the surfer dude.

  “Nah, I’m Ted. You want him?”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad that Beach Boy wasn’t the man she was after. “Is he available?” As in, not inebriated and not getting bare with Brittany.

  “For you? Sure.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Inside. Can’t miss him.”

  As she scooted past, the dude yelled, “Hey, Griffin! Guess who the liquor store sent out to deliver the chips and booze? Some little thing from librarian school!”

  Ignoring her annoyance at the comment, she took in her surroundings. A party was definitely going on at Griffin’s. Twenty or so people milled about a rectangular living room that had a whitewashed brick fireplace on the wall opposite sliding glass doors leading to an ocean-view deck. There, more people were gathered. The rap song gave way to something by Jimmy Buffett as she moved through the crowd, wondering how she “couldn’t miss” the reporter. He worked for magazines, so she’d never seen him on television. The black-and-white photo her preliminary research had uncovered depicted a scruffy figure wearing a combat helmet, flak jacket and dusty sunglasses.

  The music blasting from the speakers hiccuped, and the Jimmy Buffett song started again from the top just as she reached those rear doors. Her gaze shifted right, drawn to a twirling mobile hanging in the corner that was made from driftwood and worn, mismatched flip-flops suspended with fishing line. Beneath that piece of “art” was where she found him. She didn’t know how she knew, but she’d bet a hundred-dollar bill she didn’t have to spare that she’d located Griffin Lowell.

  In fatigue-green cargo shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, he was tipped back in a distressed-leather recliner, a buxom bikini babe perched on each of its arms. A red bandanna covered his head like a biker’s do-rag—or probably a pirate’s, because there was a gold earring in one ear and a patch over each eye. A lean, tan hand was curved around a beer bottle resting on his taut belly. He appeared to be sleeping. Perhaps meditating, if buccaneers did such a thing.

  She took a breath. “Griffin? Griffin Lowell?”

  His free hand slid toward his crotch. She yanked her gaze away, but then realized he was merely reaching for his front pocket. “How much do I owe you?” he rumbled. “You didn’t forget the tequila, did you?”

  “And the diet cherry cola,” one of the bikinis added. “I can’t drink tequila without diet cherry cola.”

  He grimaced but repeated her anyway. “And the diet cherry cola.”

  Jane just stared at him, shaking her head. It was hard to get a read on the man, what with his hair covered in fabric and his face obscured by those ridiculous eye patches. Peering more closely at them, she could see the black rubber was embossed with, once again, the Jolly Roger skull and bones. “I didn’t bring anything at all,” Jane said, her voice rising a little as Buffett made way for a band she didn’t know. “But, Griffin Lowell, you still owe me.”

  After a second’s hesitation, the chair jumped upright, dislodging the girls. Griffin held out his beer and one of the bikinis took it, leaving him free to strip away his pirate paraphernalia: earring, bandanna, eye patch one and eye patch two. For the first time, she got a real look at him.

  Oh, Jane thought, swallowing. Shiver me timbers.

  He was undeniably attractive, with a lean face as tan as his hand, its bones stark and masculine. There was a grit of black stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his head hair was only a half inch or so longer. A soldier’s style, she supposed. But the eyes that studied her beneath his dark brows were a startling aqua-blue that both observed and assessed with a spotlight intensity. Reporter’s eyes.

  They seemed cold at first, but as his gaze roamed lower, to her mouth, then to the too-tight collar that suddenly seemed to choke off her airway and on to her clingy dress and now-rubbery knees, the skin he visually explored began to heat, inch by inch. It was like those beacon fires of old, used to signal an enemy’s approach. A kindling at one location spurred the lighting of the next and so on and so on until everyone—or in this case, every nerve—was on alert. And then Jane recalled that pirates had used such fires too, b
ut as false navigational beacons that lured ships to dangerous waters where they would run aground or even sink.

  She should have been chilled by the thought, but instead another wave of heat tumbled over her body. In reaction, she could actually feel her hair lifting away from her scalp and twisting itself into curls she’d never had before.

  Willing herself not to touch them, she cleared her throat and spoke with authority. “You haven’t been taking my calls, so I’ve come here to discuss your book.”

  At her words, his gaze immediately shuttered, and he shoved back into a reclined position. “I’m not interested.” He held out his hand for his beer and drained it in one long draw.

  Jane didn’t let his closed eyes deter her even as annoyance ignited at his clear—and yes, rude—dismissal. “You signed a contract to write a memoir,” she reminded him crisply, then forced herself to soften her tone. “But you don’t have to do it alone. That’s why I’m here—for you.”

  When his eyes popped open at that, she even managed a friendly smile. His gaze started running down her body again, causing her lips to flatten and her insides to squirm so her outside wouldn’t. As his eyes resettled on her mouth, she bit her bottom lip to hold back the odd little whimper that was slinking up her throat. It was as unusual as the sudden impulse she felt to turn tail and run.

  You can’t afford to balk, Jane.

  That little voice acted like a bucket of ice water. “You have pages due soon,” she told Griffin, steady again. “I’ve been hired to help you meet your obligation.”

  He cocked his head at her, clearly unenthused.

  She continued anyway. “To that end, I’m ready to provide you everything you need.” And in her experience, sometimes that meant applying a swift kick to the seat of an author’s pants, an option that was sounding better and better by the moment. “Whatever you need.”

  “Yeah?” One of those black brows lifted, and his voice drawled. “The only things I need, honey-pie, are a couple of shots of tequila, another six-pack of beer and a night of sweaty sex.”