Bungalow Nights(21)

Ignoring the press of tears behind her eyes, she smiled softly, suddenly remembering sitting between her father and Phil at the kitchen table, playing hearts. The two men, so different in temperament and ambition, had come together seamlessly over one thing—Layla. They’d both cheated like crazy to ensure she always won.

On impulse, she hugged her uncle, and he gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder then moved away.

She watched as Uncle Phil took a seat at the small table adjacent to the baking area, drawing close one of his travel guidebooks. He opened it, but she didn’t think he was seeing the words any more than she’d absorbed her cupcake lineup.

Her uncle grieved for her father.

And it made her ache not only for him, but for what was going on between Vance and his brother. Sure, Fitz hadn’t been particularly polite to her, but the expression on his face as he’d looked at “V.T.” had spoken of something deep and painful running beneath the surface.

Of course, Vance hadn’t shed any light on the situation.

Of course, she hadn’t pressed, either. She had basically attached her hip to Addy’s and counted the minutes until she could escape to her room and try to figure out what came next.

Did he assume they’d share more kisses...and beyond?

Or were they going to pretend that night never happened?

Layla liked the latter option. It avoided embarrassing conversation. It was safe. Because no matter how attractive the man, how hot the kisses, two things stood out.

He was a soldier. And at the end of the month he’d be out of her life.

She glanced over at Uncle Phil. In a month, where would he be? He seemed to be more attentive to his book now, and was making notes in the margin. His lifelong dream of world travel was almost in his grasp.

When he left, who would Layla have?

Her mother had gone away long ago.

Her father was never coming home again.

A dark desolation threatened to sweep over her. She straightened her spine, holding steady against it. Don’t think about being alone, she told herself, pressing her fingertips to her forehead to contain a rising sense of panic. Instead, think about...think about Vance and his brother.

Fitz’s attitude and Vance’s near-violent tension told her there was great emotion there. A bond. And didn’t she, with so little family remaining, know its value? Instead of focusing on her loss, maybe she could do something to heal the rift between the combat medic and those who cared for him.

Crossing to her laptop, she flipped it open and gazed on the email she’d written to her father.





Dear Dad,

Did you send Vance to me for a reason?





Her fingers flew over the keys, altering the question.





Dear Dad,

Did you send me to Vance for a reason?

Love, Layla.





Then she clicked Send.

* * *

THOUGH HE’D BEEN WAITING on Layla’s return to Beach House No. 9, Vance jumped when she pushed open the sliding glass door and entered the living room from the deck. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“Did I scare you?” she asked.

He would never admit it. Instead, he grunted, lifting the newspaper in his lap and pretending absorption in the headlines. “You’ve made yourself scarce all day.” The sun was now low in the sky and as usual she’d left the house not long after dawn.

That’s when he’d finally managed a little sleep. In the dark hours of the night, when normal people took their shut-eye, he’d lain awake staring at the ceiling.

The only noise in the house had been the wet rush of the waves against the sand, but he could have sworn he heard Layla breathing, as well.

He’d imagined it, anyway, her breath warm on his bare chest as they lay entwined in his bed. The weight of her head on his shoulder had been nearly palpable, as well as the silky coolness of her hair between his fingers as he toyed with it in postcoital contentment.

Yeah, he’d imagined that, too—the whole thing, from foreplay to afterglow.

So the truth was, she scared him all right. Because, of all the promises he’d made her father, getting naked with the man’s daughter wasn’t one of them.

As Vance still pretended avid interest in the news of the day, the sofa cushion beside him bounced. Glancing over, he confirmed that Layla had taken the seat beside his.

That was good, he guessed, directing his attention back to the paper. He’d been concerned when she hadn’t arrived back at the house after her morning baking, afraid awkwardness over the kiss had driven her to avoid him. But she looked unruffled. Serene. Apparently she wasn’t embarrassed, nor was she experiencing the same aftereffects as he.

So, yeah, good. It made him effing thrilled to know she wasn’t suffering from the I-want-mores.

“I need a taster,” she said, in that slightly scratchy voice of hers.

His whole body jolted, the L.A. Times in his hands rattling. A taster? Her mouth? Or— Dropping the newspaper, he whipped his head around.

Her expression innocent, Layla gazed on him, a plate of small, two-bite cupcakes in her hands.

I’m a very bad man, he thought. I’m a very bad man and an idiot. He cleared his throat. “What do you have there?”

“A new flavor,” she answered, holding the plate closer. “Tell me what you think.”

What I think? I think you’re incredibly beddable, with those big brown eyes and that lush, top-heavy mouth and—

“Vance?”

With a grimace, he reined back his wayward mind. If Layla could waltz in, apparently unaffected and feeling no residual weirdness, surely he could act like a civilized human being. Blessing the newspaper that hid his overeager hard-on, he reached for one of the treats. His nose told him... “Lemon?”

“With a hint of candied ginger.”

He took a bite. Tart yet delicate, the flavor spread on his tongue and was so delicious he resisted swallowing for a moment. Then he popped the rest in his mouth, chewing as he reached for another.

“Good?” she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

“Great.” Possibly addictive.

Now she did laugh. “Slow down. You’re getting crumbs all over yourself.” Her hand reached out and her fingertips grazed his bottom lip.

Vance stilled. So did Layla, her gaze shifting upward to lock with his. They stared at each other and their kiss played out in his memory once more. He recalled the sweet warmth of her mouth, the smooth skin of her shoulder, her moan that he felt on his tongue as he thrust deep.

The walls seemed to close in, the room becoming a bubble that contained only him and Layla. And a driving need for sex.

Of all the promises he’d made her father, getting naked with the man’s daughter wasn’t one of them.

Slowly, as if a sudden movement might shatter his tenuous restraint, Vance returned the cupcake to the plate. Her hand dropped from his face, but her big eyes remained trained on him.

It was up to him to end this dangerous intimacy.

“We need to go outside,” he said. “I’ll get a blanket. You put on a sweatshirt.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Time to put another check mark on the Helmet List.”

It was the plan he’d come up with when he’d woken, bleary-eyed and nearly strangled by the disordered sheets. Getting on with the Helmet List would remind them both of their purpose at Crescent Cove.

Which wasn’t to forge an unwanted closeness.

He snagged a bottle of wine and a couple of plastic glasses. They weren’t elegant, but the alcohol might blunt the edge of his need. Just beyond the deck steps, he spread the blanket on the beach, then settled himself on it, assuming Layla would join him there when she was ready.

But after a few minutes he found himself impatient and he glanced around, just in time to see her put her foot on the sand. She wore a pair of stretchy exercise pants that clung to the slender length of her long legs. A matching zippered sweatshirt covered her top half. They were a striking shade of blue-green and with her wavy brown hair sliding against her shoulder, she looked like a landlocked mermaid.

Jesus, she was sexy. The way she walked gave her hips just the slightest sinuous swing, and it made his belly clench. What worried him more was the accompanying gnawing want that he found harder and harder to ignore. He’d spent years indulging every reckless urge: fast cars, extreme sports, hard drinking. He was much less practiced at self-denial.

It’ll be good for your soul, he told himself. You’ll be a better man for it.

But the man in him wasn’t any better once Layla gracefully settled onto the blanket beside him. He stared at her bare ankles and toes and thought about her legs twined around his hips and those pretty feet crossed at the small of his back, bringing him deeper inside the wet and heated softness of her. Closer. As intimate as two people could be.

Damn.

He put several more inches between them, then snatched up the bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Without looking her way, he passed one over, then drank deeply of his own. Her gaze was on his face, he could feel it, so he gestured toward the horizon with his wine. “We’re here to see the green flash at sunset.” An object of myth and superstition, the flash was a real but rare optical phenomenon. As the trailing edge of the sun appeared to hit the water, a green light could sometimes be seen shooting upward.