Bungalow Nights(10)

“Huh?” Baxter knew exactly where he’d been yesterday afternoon. Face-to-face with the woman who had been his singular out-of-character event. His lone antimerit badge. The one and only time he’d gone off the BSLS—Baxter Smith Life Schedule.

She shrugged. “I talked about all this at lunch and I suspected then you weren’t listening. Vance calls you All Business Baxter, so I suppose while your body was sitting at Captain Crow’s, your brain was back at your desk or something.”

Or something. His brain had actually been recalling a summer night nearly six years before. The night of the Smith family’s annual Picnic Day, a noon-through-night celebration at their avocado ranch. Open to the public, it featured food, drink and a dance band. Lights were strung everywhere...except in the dark shadowy corners where kisses could be stolen.

And peace of mind lost.

Addy gave him a strange look, then bent to ruffle through the box he’d opened. “I’m a grad student in film studies. My thesis focuses on the history of Sunrise Pictures—the company famous for its silent films made here at Crescent Cove.”

She peeked into another box, then lifted it onto the tabletop. “That closet is supposed to hold everything from the studio’s business records to the original scripts to the correspondence from movie stars of the time. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“I made a deal with the descendant of the original owner of Sunrise. I’ll spend the month cataloging what I find in return for unlimited access to the material.”

“Oh,” Baxter said again, because he wasn’t listening with any more attentiveness than he had yesterday. Then, he’d been unbalanced by the flood of memories seeing her had invoked. He hadn’t liked the feeling. He was a sensible, rational, always-on-an-even-keel sort of man. Seeing Addy had reminded him of the night that impulse had overridden common sense. The night that he’d done things and said things without considering the consequences. With no regard to the Schedule.

Afterward, the memories had preyed upon his conscience. Finally, he’d managed to assuage the reawakened guilt by promising himself he’d right things with her someday. The very next time he happened to see her.

Which had taken much longer than he’d expected to come about.

But that time felt too short now because broaching That Night with this near-stranger didn’t seem as if it would be an easy thing.

With a little cry of pleasure, she yanked out a handful of old-looking postcards, the ends of her hair seeming to vibrate with enthusiasm. Six years ago, she’d had masses of the stuff, curling like crimped ribbons away from her scalp and then floating in the air toward her elbows. The slightest breeze had wafted the fluffy strands over her features and across her chest, and he’d had to part it like clouds to find the heart shape of her face.

She wore a different style now, and he recognized an expensive cut when he saw one. The platinum locks had been sheared to work with her hair’s texture, the curled pieces a frame for her smooth forehead, her pointed chin, her amazing green eyes. It was short enough to reveal her dainty earlobes and her graceful neck.

As she dug back into the box, he saw her swallow, the thin skin of her throat moving in the direction of her collarbone. A dandelion, he mused, with that fluff of hair and slender stem of neck. One wrong breath and he’d lose her on the breeze.

As if she heard his thoughts, she jerked her head toward him. “What?” she asked, catching him staring.

His brain scrambled for something he could say. He couldn’t just launch into his apology, could he? “Well...” Glancing away from her questioning expression, he took in the boxes and tried remembering what she’d told him about them. “What made you pursue...uh...film studies?”

She was staring at him.

Had he gotten it wrong? “Or, um, film studios?” God, he sounded like an idiot.

“Film studies.” She returned her attention to the box. “I love movies. Always have, since I was a little kid.”

“I remember that.”

Her head whipped around. “You couldn’t. You didn’t know me then.” She looked anxious at the thought he might.

Baxter couldn’t figure out why. He frowned, searching back in his mind for a picture of Addy as a schoolgirl. But his memory stalled on her at nineteen, heat rushing to his groin as he pictured her blushing cheeks, her sun-kissed shoulders, her—

Stop! he ordered himself, shaking the images from his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “I remember you getting a boatload of DVDs as birthday presents. Your parents threw a big bash for one occasion and invited the entire neighborhood. Vance and I breezed through...” His words trailed off as her face turned scarlet.

She rubbed her palms on the fabric of her pants. “It was my thirteenth. I can’t believe you came to it.”

“We were probably hoping to score some cake and make our mothers happy.” He studied her still-red face. “The memory doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one for you.”

“I didn’t like being the center of attention at that age.”

Baxter frowned, thinking back again. “Yeah, I remember the party, but I don’t remember you there.”

“Good,” Addy said, her voice fervent. She half turned from him, her focus back on the box.

The bare nape of her neck drew him closer. Six years ago, it had been hidden under all that hair. Her skin was so pretty there, smooth and vulnerable. “Which means,” Baxter murmured as he moved in, driven by some undeniable impulse, “that I owe you a birthday ki—”

“No!” She spun to face him, so close their toes were an inch apart. Her voice lowered and her gaze dropped away. “No.”

His attention focused on the pink perfection of her lips. 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.”