The Love Shack (2 page)

A husky male laugh drew her attention back to the head of the table where Gage was now engaged in flirtatious banter with their waitress, Tina. As Skye watched, the server toyed with the name tag pinned to her blouse, drawing attention to cleavage she could swear hadn’t been on display when she’d ordered her swordfish and steamed vegetables. Clearly Tina had made a wardrobe adjustment for the man of honor’s benefit.

“See?” she told Polly. “That’s the kind of woman Gage finds appealing.”

Her friend glanced over. “What kind of woman is that?”

Skye made a vague gesture with her hand.
The kind who can bear to show some skin.

“You’re twelve times more beautiful than that hussy.”

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” Skye said, grimacing.

“I’m not giving any,” Polly said. “Just the facts, ma’am. But if you want an opinion, I suggest you ditch the boy-wear and play with makeup again. I know you have pretty clothes in your closet. I remember when lipstick and mascara still mattered to you.”

Skye did, too, but now peace of mind mattered more. Though it was true that baggy sweatshirts and medicated lip balm hadn’t exactly brought that about. Head down, she ran her fingertip around and around the edge of her water glass.

“Want to dance?” came a voice, close to her ear.

Skye’s head popped up, her eyes widening at Gage’s hovering form. He wanted to dance? He wanted to dance with
her?
It was then she noticed that the sun had set, leaving the sky a fading orange. The tiki torches plunged in the sand at the corners of the deck were flaming now, and the atmosphere at Captain Crow’s was starting to pump. Customers were two-deep at the bar. People were moving about the small parquet dance area to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Griffin and Jane were out there, wrapped in each other’s arms. Tess was dragging her husband, David, in their direction, though he was laughing and protesting at the same time.

“Dance?” Gage said again.

He’d probably been sitting too long, Skye thought. He’d always been on the go as a kid and there was good reason his sister labeled him “restless.” She knew for a fact that he only slept six hours a night—one of the personal details he’d shared in his letters.

An amused glint entered Gage’s blue eyes as she continued to hesitate. “Am I speaking the wrong language?”

“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Skye said. “Polly will do it.”

“What?” Polly looked up from the phone cradled in her palms, her thumbs poised over the touch screen. “He didn’t ask me.”

“You like to dance.”

“I’m texting with Teague.” She shook her head. “He’s having an emotional emergency.”

Skye glanced up at Gage again. “Teague White. Remember him? He spent summers here, too.”

He blinked. “Tea— No! Tee-Wee White?”

“Not so tee-wee anymore,” Polly muttered, her thumbs tapping away. “More like big fat idiot.”

Not fat,
Skye mouthed to Gage.

He laughed, then bent to grip her elbow and tug her to her feet in one quick move. “Let’s dance, Skye.”

Freezing, she stared at the large, masculine hand circling her cotton-knit-covered arm. Her common sense warred with her fight-or-flight response.
Don’t bolt,
she told herself.
Or punch him.
Either option would only bring up embarrassing questions.

“You okay?”

“S-sure.” As sure as someone could be who’d broken up with her boyfriend because she’d developed an aversion to being touched.

Before she could think of how to get away from the situation without sacrificing dignity or courtesy, he was towing her toward the other couples moving to the music. One song ended and another began, ukulele notes and the sweet voice of IZ Kamakawiwo’ole singing “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i” floating through the air like feathers.

Gage released her arm, and, sensing this was her moment, Skye took a big step back. But he grabbed for her hand, reeling her close.

Scattering her thoughts. Honing her senses.

They focused on him, his large, lean frame, and on the nuances of his skin against hers. His fingers were long, his palm hard and calloused, the rough skin scratching the tender hollow at the center of her hand. She didn’t think she was breathing as his other palm settled at her waist, just the lightest of touches over the material.

It wasn’t a close hold, it was almost impersonal, she knew that, but her blood was shooting through her veins like a comet. Anxiety, she thought, as the heat sizzled her nerve endings. It stole her oxygen along with the words that would get her off the dance floor. Mute, she looked up at him.

Gage returned her gaze, his expression enigmatic but his amazing eyes bright with... Skye didn’t know what. He gave her hand a small squeeze. It felt...reassuring.

Maybe. She was so messed up, she’d been so messed up for months that her brain was unable to interpret normal signals. Behind her eyes came the hot prick of tears. Another flush rose up her neck as she imagined the humiliation of bursting into sobs.
Keep it together,
she thought, desperate not to look the fool in front of this beautiful man.

He blew out a little sigh as he moved them to the slow beat of the song. His body didn’t brush hers, yet she couldn’t help being aware of the breadth of his chest and the lean strength of his arms and legs. “Dinner was excellent,” he said. “Nothing better than a heaping serving of beach fries along with sixteen ounces of aged beef.”

Skye redirected her gaze to the safer vicinity of his heavy shoulder and told herself to try to relax. “You missed American food.”

“I’ve been dreaming of rare steak for months.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t like your meat bloody.”

“Oh, God, did I confess that to you?” he said, his tone aghast.

“You did.” She felt a little smile break through her tension.

“What’ll it take for you to keep that to yourself?” he demanded. “In most circles it’s considered unmanly to like meat well-done.”

She smiled again. “You’re plenty manly.” Without thinking, she glanced up.

He was grinning, his expression amused, but as their gazes held, his smile died away.

Skye felt another surge of that breathless, uncomfortable anxiety, and a rush of goose bumps shivered across her skin.

The song ended. Gage dropped his hands. The loss of contact didn’t calm her jangling nerves and they continued to stand on the dance floor, staring at each other.

A long moment passed, and then Gage shook his head with a wry laugh. “I suppose it’s past time to regret that you know so many of my secrets.”

Skye didn’t answer either way, though she understood his concern. To her mind, it was imperative he stay ignorant of hers.

CHAPTER TWO

G
AGE
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.

* * *

T
HE
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.