Bungalow Nights(3)

So they’d have lunch. Share a meal before bidding goodbye. Layla was more than twice the age he’d expected and surely she had better things to do than hang out at the beach with a virtual stranger.

Just as he had the comforting thought, she addressed him. “My dad wrote me about you.”

Vance blinked, looking up from the photograph he’d tossed on the table before, now half-obscured by a place mat. “He did?” They’d known each other, of course—the officer had held a keen interest in the men under his command and he’d been deeply respected and admired in return—but their real closeness had come on that fateful day when Vance had been one of the patrol accompanying the colonel across the valley to his meet with a tribal elder. Fighting to save someone’s life brought about a profound intimacy.

Her gaze dropped to the stack of thin metal bracelets circling one delicate wrist. She spun them one way and then another. “He sent me long letters, describing the people he worked with, the scenery around him, that sort of thing.”

Vance thought of the stingy emails he tapped off to his family and for the first time experienced a pinch of guilt. “Ah.”

“He was a good storyteller,” she said in that sweet rasp of hers. “If he hadn’t been a soldier...”

Her words dropped away, leaving behind an awkward pause. The fact was he had been a soldier and they all knew how that had turned out.

Addy broke the uncomfortable silence. “What is it you do?”

Yeah, Vance thought, good lead-in. Layla would want him to know she had a life that made spending four weeks at Crescent Cove inconvenient, if not downright impossible.

“Karma Cupcakes,” she answered.

Karma cupcakes? He didn’t know what the hell she meant, but it reminded him of something else. “Where’s your uncle?” he asked abruptly. For God’s sake, surely the man should have realized Vance had been operating under a misconception. I was expecting a ten-year-old, Phil!

Layla shrugged. “About now? When he can, he practices tai chi in a city park from noon to one.”

Didn’t that just figure. Namaste. It only solidified Vance’s burgeoning belief that the man was flaky enough not to pick up on the oddness of the situation he’d arranged for his grown niece. No wonder Layla’s father hadn’t entrusted his last request to his brother. “And after that?”

“He drives the cupcake truck.” Glancing around at their confused expressions, she released a laugh.

A little husky. Young.

Yet dangerous miles more mature than the laughter of the female he’d been expecting to entertain at Beach House No. 9. God, what a joke.

“We operate a mobile bakery, Uncle Phil and I,” Layla informed them.

Addy looked interested. “Gourmet food trucks are the new big thing.”

“Exactly,” Layla said, nodding. “We’re called Karma Cupcakes, and we make the batter and bake the cakes in our truck. Then we sell them at various locations in Southern California. We have a regular schedule of farmers’ markets and popular stopping points. Our customers happen upon us or track our whereabouts via social media.”

Baxter straightened in his chair. “I read this article in Commerce Weekly—”

“That’s got to keep you very busy, Layla,” Vance said over him. He’d moved into Beach House No. 9 that morning, but because he’d let go of his apartment upon being called up, since returning to Southern California he’d squatted in the second bedroom at Bax’s city town house for a few days. It was more than enough time to know that the other man devoted himself to business twenty-three-and-a-half hours out of twenty-four. His cousin could go on forever about some dry article he’d read in a financial journal, only postponing the understanding at which Vance and Layla needed to arrive.

The understanding that they’d part ways as soon as he took care of the lunch check. “And summer’s probably a hectic time of year for you,” Vance added.

“Sure,” she agreed. “But we have it worked out so I can stay at Beach House No. 9, if that’s got you worried.”

Of course that had him worried, dammit.

“Uncle Phil can make friends in a minute, including with the couple who owns this restaurant. Once they heard our story, they agreed to let us park the truck overnight in their lot adjacent to the coast highway. In the mornings I’ll do the mixing and baking as usual, in the afternoons, we can...” She shrugged.

We can... Oh, God, he was a bad man, because the we cans instantly spread across Vance’s mind like a set of erotic playing cards. Blame it on the dearth of female companionship a combat tour offered. Blame it on the train wreck that was his last romantic relationship. Hell, place the blame squarely on the beautiful young woman who was sitting a tabletop away, the summer sunshine edging her feminine figure. Who could blame him for his sudden and sharp sexual response? She was big eyes and a tender mouth, soft tresses and golden skin. Nothing could stop his gaze from tracing the column of her throat to the hint of cleavage revealed by the V neckline of her dress.

Unbidden, he pictured himself nuzzling the fabric aside with his mouth, tasting the sweet flavor of her flesh, finding her secret points of arousal and exploiting them with his hot breath and wet tongue. Her long legs would move restlessly, creating a space for his hips, and she’d open to him with a blissful sigh of surrender that was the single best turn-on a man could experience.

A man who’d made promises to her father.

Dammit!

His gaze refocused on the little-girl photo on the tabletop. “This isn’t going to work,” he said, emphatic.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Vance stifled a groan and met her eyes. “Look, I didn’t expect you—uh, it to be like this.”

She stared at him, clearly perplexed. “But you said my father spoke about it. About me being here.”

“Yes, yes. You were in his thoughts at the very last. However...” Vance could feel Addy and Bax looking at him like he was a monster, but hell, he felt like a monster. Juiced up on sex and ready to grab the fair maiden and abscond with her to his deep, dark den. As a reaction it was near violent and damn embarrassing. “Maybe we could meet for a walk someday and talk about it. Or perhaps a phone conversation would be better. I know, I’ll tell you the whole story in an email.”

“You said July at Beach House No. 9,” Layla insisted, her brows meeting over a small, straight nose, betraying she had more backbone than he’d assumed at first glance. “That was my dad’s request—it was his last wish and I think I should fulfill that. It’s what you said you wanted, as well.”

Yeah, he could certainly understand that the colonel’s daughter felt compelled to follow through with what her father had asked of them. It was something he took very seriously himself. But...but...

I thought you were a little kid!

He’d have to find some way to let her down easy. What kind of man would admit he was afraid of getting behind a closed door with her? It would have to be some other excuse, an emergency, or...

He was considering and discarding options when the server reappeared, a tray of drinks in hand. She rearranged items already on the table, scooting the photograph closer toward Layla to make room for a sweating glass of tea.

Layla’s gaze landed on it and her brows came together in another small frown. Shit. Deciding he’d only feel more foolish if she knew of his misunderstanding, he shifted forward to grab the picture before she could connect the dots.

Only to realize he still had a lapful of teddy bear. Wonderful. He was worried about his dignity while sharing a chair with ten pounds of stuffing and fake fur. What else could he do but get rid of it?

“I forgot,” he said, half standing to thrust it in her direction, “this is for you.”

Layla stood, too, automatically reaching for it, then froze, Teddy clutched between her hands. Her gaze flicked to the photo, flicked back to the bear, flicked again to the photo. A flag of bright pink appeared on each cheek. “Oh,” she said, her voice going small. “Oh, God.”

Consider dots connected, Vance thought. Grimacing, he reached out with his casted arm to snatch the picture off the table.

Now she was staring at the colorfully covered plaster wrapped around his hand and wrist, her face losing its pretty blush. “How...how did you do that?” she asked slowly.

He looked down. Damn Baxter. “They’re not real tattoos.”

She made a little face. Her mouth wasn’t wide, but it was top-heavy, the upper lip more prominent than the lower.

Sue him, he found it fascinating.

“I know that,” she said. “I meant...how did you get hurt?”

He hesitated.

“I heard... Uncle Phil said...” She swallowed. “It was while you were trying to save my father, right?”

“It was while I was trying to get us both out of the danger zone,” he admitted, never wishing more that the attempt had turned out differently. “To my deep, deep regret, I wasn’t successful.”