Bungalow Nights(17)

Layla turned her head toward Vance. Even though the innocuous duo was walking away, he didn’t relax his posture. He stood there, glaring at them until they disappeared in the crowd, all junkyard dog.

Or older brother.

Her ire rose as he settled back onto his stool. How dare he...

She couldn’t decide exactly how she wanted to end that sentence. She only knew she couldn’t stand his guardian act any more than she could stand his cool control any more than she could stand this ridiculous attraction to him she couldn’t seem to stifle—and he’d been engaged just a short time ago! He was in love with someone else!

Her gaze settled on the saltshaker that he’d placed in front of her. The only man she’ll be licking is me. Without giving herself time for second thoughts, she grabbed it up at the same moment she grabbed Vance’s left hand. The cast covered part of it, but she didn’t let that stop her. Before he could have a chance to yank away, she leaned down and licked a wet line across his knuckles. Then she dashed the salt there, tongued up the granules and knocked back the tequila.

Feeling triumphant, she dropped the empty glass, bit into the lime and met the gaze of her “big brother.”

Her mood died as she saw the bright smolder in his eyes. The wedge of citrus fell from her limp fingers as she watched him reclaim his hand. Without breaking her gaze, he ran his own tongue across his knuckles, licking up the remaining salt granules—taking the same path as hers.

She shivered, his gesture like a stroke of wet velvet against her own skin. Goose bumps rose on her spine and feathered along the ticklish skin covering her ribs. Her intent had been to poke at him. To shake him up like he’d shaken her at the idea that he’d been engaged. That he was in love with some other woman. She’d wanted to rattle him because she despised being looked upon like a little sister.

But the blue fire in his eyes told the true story. Vance didn’t think of her as a sibling any more than she thought of him as a brother.

He was just better at hiding it.

* * *

ALONE, VANCE STRODE from Captain Crow’s toward Beach House No. 9. Addy had been located and she’d shared the information that Baxter had recently departed for home and that she’d be returning to No. 9 just as soon as she gave her old college pals a brief tour of the Sunrise Pictures memorabilia stash. Layla was trailing in Vance’s wake, but he wasn’t inclined to slow for her. He needed to put distance between them.

Again.

On the way to the bar, he’d thought the buffer of the crowd would provide that distance, but then he’d caught sight of the raucous mob. Instinct had warned there was trouble brewing. Someone was going to spill a drink on Layla, he’d thought. Or a fight would break out and she would get caught by an errant fist.

Hah.

The fight had been with himself, trying to keep from snatching her bodily away from those two aloha-shirted ass-hats on the make. As for the fist... Vance looked down at his hand and remembered her soft tongue sliding across the bumps of his knuckles, lapping delicately at him like a cat. His fingers curled, his nails biting into the hard surface of his cast as heat started smoldering in his belly.

Dammit! He had to find a way to smother this sexual fire that kept flaring up between them despite his best intentions.

Suggesting he play big brother had worked for shit. So...what now? Maybe he should initiate a civilized conversation about the situation and lay out the exact boundaries.

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.

All very calm. All very polite.

He took a deep breath of damp ocean air and released it, his stress starting to ease. The straightforward approach would work, right? Honesty was always best.

His gaze narrowed as he caught sight of Beach House No. 9 just ahead. There was a male figure standing on the deck, his facial features indistinct in the dusk. But Vance didn’t need to see the face to recognize who it was.

The very last person he wanted to see.

A bitter cocktail of emotions poured like bile into his belly and adrenaline blasted through his blood, once more tensing his muscles to battle-readiness. He was going to kill him, Vance thought, surging forward as his fingers again curled into fists. He was going to knock the bastard’s head from his shoulders and—

No.

God, no, he decided, coming to a sudden halt. That reaction would only prove he cared a whit about the betrayal. No way would he give the guy the satisfaction. So chill, he told himself. Be chill.

Forcing a second long breath into his tight chest, he allowed himself another moment to calm. Then he mounted the stairs from the sand and confronted the man leaning against the deck railing.

“What the hell do you want?” he demanded of his brother. Because being chill didn’t mean being polite.

Fucking Perfect Fitz stared at him in silence. His chiseled features hadn’t changed since Vance had seen him last. He still looked as if he’d been born with a label reading Most Likely to Succeed.

“You were wounded,” he finally said. Running his hand over the smooth layers of his nut-brown hair, he cleared his throat. “You were really hurt.”

Vance ignored the comment. “How did you find me?” he asked, then made a disgusted sound as the obvious answer presented itself. “I’m going to kick Baxter’s ass.”

Fitz shook his head. “Not Bax— Wait, Bax knows?”

Vance pressed his lips together.

“It was Addison,” his brother said, crossing his arms over his chest. “She told her mother where and with whom she was staying. I guess Mrs. March missed the memo that it was a big secret you were hiding out here at the beach, a mere hour away from your family home, and injured to boot.”

“I’m not injured.” He was never going to admit to Fucking Perfect Fitz that he’d been hurt by anything...or anyone. “I’m fine.”

Fitz was silent another long beat, just staring at Vance as if assessing that for himself.

Impatient with the examination, Vance huffed out a breath. He didn’t know how long he could keep his temper in check, so this show had better get on the road. “You never answered the question. What do you want?”

“Go visit Mom, V.T.”

He found the use of the old nickname his brother had coined—V.T. for Vance Thomas—rankled as much as the order. But he stayed silent.

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.”