Bungalow Nights. Christie RidgwayЧитать онлайн книгу.
They looked soft, too, and as vulnerable as that sweet spot on the back of her neck. He wanted to taste both.
“You don’t owe me anything, Baxter.”
He froze. Oh, God, but he did. That apology! He’d come to square things between them so he could erase her from the “Owe” side of his personal ledger book. More kissing would only add another entry.
Dammit all.
Clearing his throat again, he stepped back. “You’re right. What I came to do, to say that is—”
“You found everything!” a female voice exclaimed.
Both Baxter and Addy swung toward the slender brunette striding into the room. She wore a man-size shirt, the tails brushing just above her knees and the ragged hems of her long jean cutoffs. On her feet were a pair of faded, shoelaceless Keds. On her face, not a stitch of makeup.
Her smile died as she caught sight of Baxter. Her gaze darted to the other woman even as she halted in her tracks. “You’re all right, Addy? He’s not bothering you?”
“No, no! This is an old, uh, family friend. Baxter Smith. Baxter, this is Skye Alexander, the descendant of the movie studio owner I was telling you about. She manages the Crescent Cove properties.”
He didn’t reach out to shake her hand. Something told him she wouldn’t appreciate the contact. “Nice to meet you.”
“He was just leaving,” Addy put in.
Baxter frowned at her. No, he wasn’t. He had that apology to deliver and being deterred would mean he’d only have to face her another day. “Addy—”
“Look at this,” she said to Skye, ignoring him as she brandished a sheet of paper covered with spidery writing. “I think it’s the inventory of props from The Egyptian. That’s the famous Cleopatra movie we were talking about.”
Skye skirted Baxter to peer at the list in Addy’s hand. “You located it already?”
“I can’t claim any special powers. The film’s name is right here on the outside of the box.” Addy smiled.
Baxter had forgotten her smile. But how could that be? She had an elfin kind of grin, the curve of her mouth tilting the outside corners of her bright green eyes. A dimple in her right cheek teased him.
He felt himself going hard again.
No.
To get his body under control, he tried thinking of arctic swims, dental drilling without Novocain, scratches in the finish of his beloved Beemer. But his gaze didn’t drift from Addy and the animation on her face as she chattered away, something about the infamy of the movie and the rumors of a jeweled collar that was associated with it, a gift to the married starring actress from her leading man-slash-lover. Scandal had ensued and the priceless necklace had gone missing all those years ago. Rumors of its existence persisted to this day.
“The starring actress...” Skye said, quirking a brow. “Edith Essex, my great-great-grandmother.”
“Yep. And her husband was the owner of Sunrise Pictures—as well as the man who discovered her.” Addy cleared her throat. “About Edith’s infidelity—that could only be a story.”
“But it’s a relentless one, just like that of the missing necklace.”
“Very, very valuable necklace.” Addy hesitated. “Are you...are you still okay with me looking into those rumors? I’m interested in uncovering what made Sunrise shut down—whether in expectation of the takeover of talkies or bad business dealings or perhaps the destructive power of an extramarital affair.”
“Go ahead, I’m okay with it.” Skye shrugged. “Broken hearts are nothing new to the cove.”
That last comment gave Addy visible pause. She shivered a little, and Baxter saw her jaw tighten.
Which gave him pause.
This clearly wasn’t the time for them to talk, he decided, moving toward the exit. They needed privacy for that, and Addison March in a relaxed frame of mind.
Or better, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. Maybe with a little more time and space he could talk himself out of having such a conversation with Addy altogether.
* * *
ON HER SECOND MORNING at Crescent Cove, Layla again walked down the sand on her way from the bakery truck to Beach House No. 9. It was another beautiful day, the sun warming the air, the breeze cooling her skin. The waves hit the sand with an unceasing rhythm, the ocean’s steady breathing.
She moved with purpose, winding her way around scattered “camps” on the sand delineated by colorful towels, beach chairs and baskets stuffed with sunscreen, magazines and sand toys. Then her gaze caught on the weaving and bobbing Stars and Stripes kite flying from the second-floor balcony of the last house in the cove. Her insides mimicked the flutter of the red, white and blue fabric and she pressed her palm against her stomach, cursing her sudden jittering nerves.
That were anticipating seeing Vance again.
This was so not the way the month was allowed to go, she scolded herself. They were together to fulfill a promise, nothing more. He was a soldier, on leave from war, and he’d be back to it once he healed, out of her life and out of her reach as surely as her father. Remember that.
Straightening her spine, she forced her feet to forward march. Letting herself develop an emotional attachment to Vance wasn’t smart—and would only serve to make her soft. And ultimately...hurt.
Anyway, he wasn’t interested in any sort of connection between them himself. Why would he be? It was her father’s wish that had Vance staying at Beach House No. 9, not his own choice. And yesterday, after explaining to her about his commanding officer’s Helmet List, he’d seemed to extinguish the sexual spark that had singed her before—almost enough to convince her it had been her imagination.
But then she’d brushed past him in the kitchen when she and Addy were putting together an easy dinner. The flash of heat she’d felt had made her stumble a little, and Vance had caught her elbow...and then his fingers had lingered on her bare flesh, his thumb stroking the tender inner skin at the joint. She’d shot her gaze to his, and he’d smiled a little, given a shrug and let her go.
Just one of those things, that casual shoulder movement had seemed to say. Whatcha gonna do? He’d proceeded to comment on the precise way she’d arranged the cut-up fruits and cold salads on a platter, teasing her like a pesky sister or that ten-year-old he’d expected her to be.
After dinner he’d sprawled his big body on the sofa and conked out with a baseball game playing on TV, as if her presence in an adjoining armchair didn’t register. A situation which, once Addy retreated upstairs, allowed Layla the guilty pleasure of stealing glances at his long limbs and handsome features while she pretended to herself she had an interest in the outcome of the nine innings.
Game over, she’d done the courteous thing and shaken him awake. He’d responded with the same good manners, rousing himself and wishing her a polite good-night as they peeled off into separate rooms down the hall. Not by a single blink betraying any awareness that she was a woman who’d be sleeping a mere few walls away and that he was a healthy and virile single man whose thumbprint she still felt like a new tattoo at the bend of her arm.
Layla’s feet halted once more as her gaze took in the figure of a woman standing near the short flight of steps leading from the beach to No. 9’s deck. She wasn’t dressed in the swimsuit-and-cover-up uniform of the other females on the beach, but was instead in cropped pants and an oversize sweatshirt. Layla might have thought she was an occupant from one of the neighboring cottages, but Addy had shared that an elderly gentleman lived in the residence behind No. 9. For now, he was visiting his niece in Oxnard. As for No. 8, this month it housed a middle-aged couple on a spiritual retreat that prescribed an all-green diet and no verbal exchanges between themselves or anyone else.
Was the stranger here to