Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (12 page)

Fitz sighed. “She’s upset.”

“And Dad?” The question slipped out before Vance could haul it back. Then he shook his head. “Don’t bothering answering. I’m disappointing him. What else is new?”

Fitz pushed away from the railing to stand at his full height, an inch and a half less than Vance’s. “Do you know what it’s like for them—for us—when you’re in Afghanistan? It was bad enough the first round, after you enlisted—”

“I had no choice this time, you get that, right? They called me up, I had to go.”

Fitz ignored the point. “You should have told Mom in person that you had to return—and then that you were back in California, safe. For God’s sake, you should have let her know you’d been wounded.”

“Yeah, because that would have eased her mind,” Vance scoffed.

His brother shook his head in obvious frustration. “You forget she’s accustomed to seeing you banged up.”

That was the thing with family. Their ammo never ran out, making them the most formidable of combatants. Sure, Vance had once been young and stupid, but man, didn’t Fitz see how it had been? His brother had done everything so older son–ideal that a guy had needed to carve out a different place for himself.

Or maybe he’d just been an immature idiot.

The thoughts only further frayed the tether on his anger. “I don’t want to be having this conversation with you, Fitz.”

The ambient lights around the deck clicked on, activated by the deepening darkness. In their glow, Vance saw an unfamiliar, uncertain expression cross his brother’s face. “Look, V.T., about—”

“We’re done talking.” A few minutes more and he’d lose it. Hell, he was itching to deck his brother and he’d do so without a qualm if it wouldn’t reveal how close to the bone Fitz’s betrayal had cut.

“We’re going to have to clear the air,” Fitz started again. “We’re family—”

“No,” he answered, his voice turning sharp. “We’re not. Not anymore.”

“Vance
.
”

Just his name in that censuring, self-righteous tone unleashed his temper. “That’s it,” he bit out, moving forward. “That’s
it
.”

One hand was reaching for the collar of his brother’s shirt and his other arm was drawing back for the first punch when a tipsy female voice called up from the sand. “Va-ance,” it sang. “I talked to Addy and we both want more margaritas.”

Oh, God. Layla. The thought of her checked his momentum and his hands dropped. He’d forgotten all about the woman, he realized in surprise. His brother got him just that riled up. Spinning around, he saw her reach the top of the steps. She stood there, swaying slightly, her big eyes blinking against the light. It illuminated her flushed cheeks, her breeze-tousled hair and her dainty sundress. One of its skinny straps had slid down her arm and she carried both sandals in her right hand, giving her an appearance that was both innocent and suggestive.

Like she’d just finished playing a round of blanket bingo on the beach—or was about to go to bed in Beach House No. 9.

Obviously—as he should have suspected—she was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. During the short walk down the beach it must have caught up with her. One blended icy drink and those two shots had left her a little blurry around the edges.

She smiled at him, apparently oblivious to the other man on the deck. “You do know how to make margaritas, don’t you, Vance? Vance-Vance-Smartypants?”

He winced. Under his watch, she was never being served tequila again.

“‘Vance-Vance-Smartypants’?” Fitz murmured.

“Shut up,” he said, glancing back. He was still a hairsbreadth from clobbering Fitz. It was only the presence of Layla that kept his brother’s handsome face intact. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it very well,” the other man responded. “I’ve met her before, or girls just like her, dozens of times. Color me unsurprised to find you’re back to your old ways of picking up random beach honeys in bars.”

Sanctimonious jerk. “That’s no random beach honey,” he gritted out. “That’s Layla.”

Fitz didn’t appear to recognize the name. Which meant Mrs. March didn’t know or hadn’t shared the whole reason Vance was here at Crescent Cove.

His brother still wore a disapproving expression as he glanced at the tipsy woman, then back at Vance. “Layla, Leila, Lila, Lola, they’re all the same to you. I thought you’d grown out of this kind of behavior, though. Is this because of Blythe? Because of Blythe and—”

“Layla’s not a pickup, Fitz,” he said, furious all over again. He couldn’t stomach his brother seeing Colonel Parker’s pretty daughter as some replaceable and interchangeable temporary bed partner, just as he couldn’t bear him bringing up Blythe. “We’re...we’re...uh...”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. You’re the big ‘uh’ to each other. Do you even know her full name?”

“Parker,” Vance said from between his teeth. “It’s Layla Jean Parker.”

“June,” his housemate corrected in a helpful tone. “Layla
June
Parker.”

Fitz snorted a derisive laugh. “See—”

“You don’t see anything,” Vance shot back.

“I see you with yet another of your one-night stands.”

Red tinged the edges of Vance’s vision. “She and I aren’t only together for tonight,” he said. “We’re living together.”

Fitz’s jaw dropped. “You’re
living together?
”

His brother’s shock revealed his misinterpretation of Vance’s words. “I don’t mean—” But then he halted. Why not? Why not let Fitz believe he was shacking up with a beautiful woman?

Even though part of him felt guilty for the deception, still he crossed the deck to Layla. At least the fib would prove he wasn’t pining after someone he couldn’t have. He curled his arm around the colonel’s daughter, at the same time catching that drooping strap and drawing it onto her shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he said, wondering if he had a chance of her getting the message he was trying to send with his eyes, “this is my brother, Fitz.”
Did you hear what I said, Layla? We’re
together
. Play along.

“Fitz?” she repeated in a low, sweet voice. Leaning into Vance’s body, she looked owlishly up at him and then over at his brother. “He doesn’t look so fucking perfect to me.”

The affront on Fitz’s face was priceless. All at once, both Vance’s tension and his temper evaporated and he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh out loud or kiss her silly. Then he remembered the conversation he’d told himself that he and Layla needed to have—
We’re just going to be friends. There’s no point in getting any more intimate than that. You stomp out your sexual sparks and I’ll stomp out mine
—and settled for keeping her close to his side.

“I’m sure you have plans for tonight,” he remarked to his brother. “Don’t let us keep you.”

Thank God Fitz didn’t try to delay his dismissal. He strode toward the deck steps, but paused before descending. “This isn’t over, V.T. Before you leave this place, you and I—and the rest of our family—are going to have it out once and for all.”

“No, we’re...” But the other man was already gone.
Hell
. Vance let his head drop back, staring at the stars just starting to poke through the dark blue canvas of the sky. Fucking Perfect Fitz was like a dog with a bone, dammit, and for the next month he knew exactly where to find Vance. Which meant more potential confrontations...and that his impulsive Layla-lie might have unpleasant repercussions.

Cursing himself for his rash words, he squeezed her shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you in that.”

“I went right along with you,” she said. “It was that Layla, Leila, Lila, Lola speech. If brothers are that judgmental, I don’t want one, after all.”

“It’s Fitz’s specialty,” Vance murmured, gazing down at his companion. There was something different about her now. She glanced up, looking decidedly more sober—which struck him as highly suspicious.

He frowned. “Did you really just arrive, or were you down there on the beach eavesdropping?”

“I was giving you privacy, not eavesdropping,” she said primly. “But then it sounded as if the conversation could use some redirection and you could use some backup.”

He stared at her. Right as Vance was about to haul back and slug his brother, thus exposing the dent in his own pride, Layla Parker had sensed the danger and come to his rescue. He, the Black Sheep Smith, had a champion.

Scarcely aware of moving, Vance turned into her body so they were chest to chest. He nudged her chin higher with the same knuckles she’d licked earlier. Her breath hitched, and her breasts brushed his chest as he crowded closer. “You’re not drunk, are you?” he asked, looking into those long-lashed eyes.

“Not even a little bit.” A small smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “Uncle Phil claims the Parkers are special. He knows this from forty years of surfing trips down the coast of Baja. Our constitutions have a natural resistance to tequila.”

“Unfortunately,” Vance murmured as his mouth lowered, “I don’t seem to have a natural resistance to this.”

If he’d been in the mood for lying again, he might have told himself he meant only to brush his lips against hers in gratitude. But there was nothing but naked honesty in the compulsion to have his first taste of her. Her lashes swept low and he touched the tip of his tongue to the center of her lush upper lip. A sharp tremor ran through her body, but her mouth opened on the smallest of sighs. Vance slid into the tart, sweet taste of her.

God
.

Fire flashed over his skin. The half-casted arm slid around her hips to yank her closer. Her body molded to his and he lifted her onto her toes, his sex—already hard—pushing into the juncture of her thighs.

It was too hot, it was too fast, it was wrong for some reason he couldn’t quite dredge up now. Layla threw an arm around his neck and he angled his head to take the kiss in a different direction.

Harder. Deeper.

She stroked her tongue against his, sending his head spinning. His fingers slid over the curve of her ass, cupping her close and tight. She shuddered again, and he lifted his mouth, giving them both a moment to breathe. “Layla,” he whispered, then his lips were on her again, testing the softness of her cheek and the edge of her jaw.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he nuzzled the hollow behind her ear. He took her mouth once more, easier now, tickling the ridged roof, teasing her with soft touches to the slick inner surfaces of her lips. From deep in her throat came a frustrated noise and he smiled, amused by the sound of it.

Her nails bit once again into his skin, she thrust her tongue into his mouth, and nothing was funny anymore.

Under the influence of that deep, hot kiss, he caressed the bare skin of her arm to her shoulder, then flicked the thin strap of her dress toward her elbow. The back of his knuckles traced its path, then slid around to brush the top slope of her breast. Layla went breathless; he could feel her sudden stillness. Her anticipation.

He let her wait a moment, then used two fingers to catch the nipple jutting through the fabric. Her body sagged into him and her head fell back. Sweet God. Her response only made his fire jump higher. He dragged his lips down her neck while toying with the hard peak of her breast.

She clutched at him, her ragged breathing loud in the night, even over the
shush, shush, shush
of the incoming waves. But then he heard something else.

Footsteps on the wooden stairs.

His head shot up and he glanced back. Addy’s curly blond hair came into view.
Dammit.

He looked back at Layla. “Sweetheart, I—”

But she was already stepping away, her stunned gaze on his face, her palms covering her red cheeks. “Uh-oh,” she said.

It almost made him smile.
Uh-oh
was right. He was pretty sure he’d lost his chance to have that straightforward conversation he’d planned to stymie all this.

Which meant he had a problem. And, he remembered, it got worse.

Because as far as his family was concerned, he also had a girlfriend.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE SOUND OF
B
AXTER’S
whistling warned Addy of his approach. In the small room designated as the Sunrise Pictures archives, she froze, torn between wanting to run to her purse for lipstick and a hairbrush and wanting to just...run.

She didn’t want him back in her life.

Not that he’d ever left it, if she was honest with herself. For years, he’d been her comfort crush, something she’d turned to like she’d turned to cookies and potato chips from the age of five until eighteen. Lonely? Bask in the memory of being in Baxter’s arms. Low? Call up the memory of the effervescence flooding her bloodstream as he swung her onto the dance floor. Who knew Baxter Smith could two-step? But he had, and he’d deftly taught her the rudiments, as well, shuffling the two of them through and around the other couples as the country band played “Like We Never Loved At All.”

The same Faith Hill/Tim McGraw tune Baxter was whistling now as he stepped into Addy’s workspace. The sound cut off as she turned to face him.

Her heart stuttered. Oh, wow. He was a gorgeous specimen of a man. Most of the males in her world were hungry-looking grad students, with hair barbered by their mothers or their girlfriends and clothes that came straight from laundry baskets that were filled straight from dryers, without any folding in between. Baxter had left the jacket to his suit behind, but his dark olive slacks were pressed and his white shirt starched. The leather of his dress shoes and matching belt gleamed.

By contrast, Addy felt nearly naked in her nylon running shorts, tank top and lightweight hiking boots. She wasn’t taller than five foot two, but it seemed there was an awful lot of bare skin between her ankles and the tops of her thighs.

Baxter appeared to be studying every inch.

She cleared her throat and his gaze took a lazy path upward. When his blue eyes met hers, he smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Her heart fluttered again. Oh, she was in such big trouble! She knew better than to like something too much—say, donuts or ice cream—and that applied to Baxter, as well. While he might be fine in the abstract, in the flesh there was the danger that she might find him addictive.