Beach House Beginnings

by Christie Ridgway

  Meg gasped. “Where did you get it?” she asked, staring as it swung gently from Caleb’s hand.

  “It was another part of that dream. Peter showed it to me, Meg. He showed me where he’d stashed it that day, and told me it was way past time for you to have it back.”

  She gave her head a little shake. “No—” But then she remembered that she believed in love now, and was that any less a strange and wondrous miracle than a dream filled with portents or a man surviving critical surgery and near-death? Her hand reached out, her fingers closed over the abalone shell.

  Caleb released the thong it was strung upon.

  Letting her lashes fall, Meg cradled the shell in her palm as if it was something precious. In her mind’s eye she saw Peter standing on the beach, saw his brilliant grin, saw him take his young lover by the hand. The girl clasped his fingers, then threw a happy smile over her shoulder at Meg as the two turned to stroll along the sand stretching endlessly in front of them.

  And this time, finally, forever, Meg really let them go—both Peter and her younger self. Goodbye, she thought, squeezing the shell to cement that last, sweet vision of the pair. Farewell.

  Then she lifted her lashes and turned her gaze to Caleb. “This was Starr’s heart.”

  He nodded. “Yours again.”

  “No,” Meg said. “Though I’ve kept it deep under wraps, I actually have—had—my own.”

  Caleb’s brows came together. “‘Had?’”

  “So I think I’ll return this one to the merfolk whose it was in the first place.” With that, Meg held her arm over the side of the kayak and let the necklace fall. It drifted atop the water for a few moments, and then it started to sink beneath the ocean. Maybe it was her long-suppressed imagination coming alive again, her old belief in magic, but she could swear she saw the slim, pale fingers of a mermaid reach up to close around the shell and then disappear.

  Warm hands cupped her shoulders. Caleb turned Meg to face him. “‘Had?’” he demanded again, his expression serious.

  “It’s yours now,” she confessed, her voice a little hoarse with emotion. “I’m in love with you, Caleb, and when you get me, my heart is part of the package.”

  His eyes searched hers. Then he smiled, and it was the sun breaking through the fog. “You love me,” he said, the smile turning even brighter. “You really do.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she teased.

  “It already has,” he murmured against her mouth, the kiss at first a promise that quickly turned to passionate intent. Then the kayak’s rocking rhythm was no longer so gentle. Almost unseated, they were forced to come up for air.

  The merfolk urging them to dry land? A joyful bark turned their attention to the beach. Bitzer was there, pacing impatiently, as if he was eager to be part of their happiness.

  Caleb slanted a look at Meg as he fished for the paddle that had dropped to the bottom of the craft. “Well, my love? What next?”

  “Forward,” she directed with a grin. “We have a dog on shore. And a forever just waiting to get started.”

  * * * * *

  The magic of summer is only beginning! More Beach House No. 9 stories are coming soon from Christie Ridgway and Harlequin HQN:

  BEACH HOUSE NO. 9 (February 2013)

  BUNGALOW NIGHTS (March 2013)

  THE LOVE SHACK (April 2013)

  What will bring sunshine to the life of dark and brooding Griffin Lowell? Read on for a sneak peek of Beach House No. 9….

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  About the Author

  Christie Ridgway is the award-winning author of over thirty-five contemporary romances. Known for her stories that make readers laugh and cry, Christie began writing romances in fifth grade, inspired by the Harlequin books she loved to read (as well as by a certain teen idol). Later, after marrying her college sweetheart and having two sons, she left the geeky field of computer programming and returned to what she loved best—telling stories of strong men and determined women finding their happy ever afters. In beautiful Southern California she continues what she considers to be the best job in the world. Not only does it satisfy her soul, but it provides a mental escape from her guy-centric home, where surfboards are propped in corners, volleyballs roll about underfoot and football dominates the TV screen. To keep up with Christie and her books, and to preorder Beach House No. 9, visit www.christieridgway.com.

  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 leane
d 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 eyelet 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 hiccupped, 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, but 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 t
one. “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.”

  The second brow lifted to the level of the first. “You game?”

  * * *

  Jane didn’t have time to respond with more than a sputter before someone shouted Griffin’s name and he was gone, leaving her alone with the empty recliner and the bikinis. “Finally,” one said. “I’ll bet it’s the diet cherry cola.” She wandered off, presumably to check.

  The second bikini smiled at Jane, who managed to smile back. “Nice, uh, party. A special occasion?”

  The sleek-haired woman shrugged. “It’s Tuesday?”

  “Actually,” Jane said, “it’s Wednesday.”

  “Oh.” The bikini rubbed a spot between her brows. “I’ve lost track. Finals week, you know.”