Bungalow Nights

chapter ELEVEN



LAYLA WOKE UP LIKE SHE never did anymore, in a room warmed by sunshine. Usually, dawn’s gray fingers tickled her into wakefulness, the need to get to the cupcake truck and get to work foremost in her mind. But because she’d not known how late her Picnic Day duties would go, she and Uncle Phil had decided to take the day off, their first, and she stretched her toes along the sleek sheets and—

Shot upright in bed.

Vance’s bed.

The place beside her was empty now. He’d been there all night long, though, his muscled male warmth, his even breathing. Sinking back onto the pillow, Layla let herself remember what that was like. The sex beforehand had been scary-wondrous, an experience that later she’d break down layer by layer, detail by detail in order to marvel over each and every one. But, oh, how sweet was the companionship in sleep, she mused, closing her eyes against their sudden sting.

While she’d never intended to get physically involved with Vance, last night seemed as right to her now as it had been when she’d been pulled, naked, into his lap. She had wanted to be held, he’d needed the skin-to-skin contact, too, and the results...well, who could complain about the results?

Not Layla. What’s done was done and regrets were for women who didn’t know how transient life could be.

The smell of coffee lured her from the covers a short while later. She dashed for her own room, showered quickly then pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. At the last moment she grabbed a baseball cap and tugged it low over her forehead, threading her long hair out the back gap. It would provide a shield of sorts.

Sure, she had no regrets, but she did have a healthy sense of self-preservation. Which meant she didn’t want to give Vance a clear shot at reading her emotions on her face—not until she had a chance to assess his.

The kitchen was empty. Was he avoiding her like he’d avoided his famiily the day before? Trying to ignore the disappointing thought, she filled a mug from the coffee carafe and added a splash of half-and-half. Cocking her head, she listened for any sign of Vance, but though the toaster was still warm and a loaf of bread lay on the counter, the house was silent.

Her bare feet quiet on the hardwood floors, she drifted across the living room, drawn by the view of blue sky, gold-dappled ocean and the small waves flouncing against the sand like sassy little girls with white-edged petticoats. Then she saw Vance. Pleasured relief filled her as she took in his relaxed figure. In jeans and a T-shirt, he sat on the deck by the stairs that led to the beach. His back was propped against one newel and an empty mug rested beside his hip. As she watched, he broke off pieces of toasted bread and tossed them into the air.

Greedy seagulls had figured out his game and wheeled for them, somehow just managing to avoid midair collisions. Pigeons gathered, too, hoping for a missed crumb or two. Their tubby, sooty-feathered bodies waddled around the sand at the bottom of the steps, looking as out of place in the beach setting as the tourists who showed up wearing their dress socks with sandals.

She pushed open the sliding glass door, and the outside air washed over her, warm and salty and welcoming. Vance had yet to notice her arrival and she indulged in another moment of observation. He tossed another piece of toast into the air, his face lifted, and she saw the small smile on his face. It made her own lips curve.

He looked at ease, she thought, a rare state for him. Even when he was still, there was an alertness about him, as if he was waiting. Something like a runner braced for the starting gun at a race, she decided. Or, considering where he’d been and what he did, waiting for the sound of a real gun.

Her hand went to her belly as it suddenly jittered. Vance, at war. Her fingers curled and she moved the fist to the space between her breasts, cursing her hard-thumping heart. After the many times she’d waved goodbye to her father, she thought she’d learned how to manage these sudden bouts of anxiety.

Vance, at war.

Did she make a sound? Because his head swiftly turned and his gaze landed on her. He raised his half-casted arm and waved two fingers. “Hey.” Layla held her breath, then released it as he followed that up with an easy smile. Happy to see you, it said.

Hot goose bumps skittered across her skin as she stepped farther onto the deck. “Good morning.”

He glanced toward the surf, then back at her. “Looks that way. Sleep well?”

“Mmm.” Without being able to help herself, she continued toward him, drawn by this new mood of his. Maybe they’d have more scary-wondrous sex, maybe not. For now it was enough to see that look of contentment on his face.

His fingers caught hers, pulling her nearer. He shifted around to face the beach, leaving a spot for her on the step. As she sat down, he purloined her mug and brought it to his own mouth, his blue eyes warm over the rim.

More hot chills burst over her skin and her nipples budded, remembering the heat of his mouth. Okay, for sure she wanted more scary-wondrous sexy times with him. And also moments like this, when they shared a morning and a cup of coffee.

Maybe she was beginning to believe in the Beach House No. 9 magic, after all.

“V.T.,” a voice said, and a figure came around the corner of the deck, approaching from the beach.

Vance stiffened, and his fingers untangled from hers. “Fitz,” he said, and the name sounded more like a snarl. “One dance with Layla and you can’t keep away? Are you trying to steal another of my girls?”

The other man flicked a glance at her. She gave him a small nod. He hadn’t said much during their dance the night before—a dance he’d clearly orchestrated to give Vance and Blythe a chance to clear the air, not that it had seemed to do much good—but she had more sympathy for him than maybe she ought. He had hurt his brother.

Fitz returned his attention to Vance. “We have unfinished business, V.T. Me and you.”

Layla made to rise. “I’ll go.”

“Stay,” the two men said together.

Great, she thought, but settled back on the step.

Fitz wore a pair of khakis and a white polo shirt. He hesitated a moment, then dug into his pocket for something he then tossed to his brother.

Vance’s reflexes were good, but his cast got in the way of the catch. The small item bounced off the hard surface crossing his palm and arced toward Layla to land in her lap. A jeweler’s box. Slowly, she picked it up and passed it to the man seated beside her.

He looked at it for a long moment, then flipped open the lid. A diamond solitaire winked in the sunlight. Elegant and classy, it suited a woman like Blythe. The lack of expression on Vance’s face confirmed it had been hers.

“She’s been wanting to return it to you,” Fitz said. “Last night she had it with her, but you didn’t stick around long enough for her to give it back.”

The ring box shut with a snap and Vance looked at his brother. “She can keep it,” he said, holding it out.

The other man shook his head. “No, she can’t.” There was another long hesitation. “Because as of early this morning, she’s wearing my ring.”

Oh, no. Layla froze, remembering the last confrontation between the two on this deck. There’d been bloodshed and bruises in the offing, she’d smelled it like brimstone on the breeze as she’d stood on the sand eavesdropping. And now that Blythe wasn’t just Fitz’s girlfriend, but his full-fledged fiancée...? She slid a cautious look at Vance.

He didn’t move a muscle. “Congratulations,” he finally said, his voice carefully neutral.

Fitz frowned. Clearly he hadn’t been expecting felicitations. “Uh...” His gaze darted to Layla.

“I hope you’ll be very happy,” she said, suppressing her sigh. No matter what Vance’s attitude appeared to be, this couldn’t be happy news to him.

Fitz cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, withdrew them. At his obvious discomfort she felt another spurt of sympathy. This wouldn’t bring the brothers any closer to the reconciliation that the older of the two so clearly desired.

His hands ran through his hair. “Look, Vance...”

An awkward silence welled up. Layla tried breathing through it, tried appearing as impassive as the man seated beside her, but one of her legs started moving, the knee bouncing up and down. She stole another glance at Vance, thinking of his earlier sunny mood. He wasn’t tearing his brother limb from limb, so maybe it was still there, just waiting behind his stony expression. Just waiting for Fitz to be on his way.

“Well,” she finally said, unable to bear the tension—and eager for the confrontation to end without bloodshed. “You’ve made your delivery. We don’t want to keep you any longer.” Her knee was pumping now, like a telegraph key under the fingers of an experienced operator.

Vance reached over and pressed the twitchy joint, stilling the movement. “I don’t think Fitz is finished.”

“V.T....” His brother started, stopped again.

“Just spit it out,” Vance said. “Layla’s right. We have things we want to get to.” He turned his head to nuzzle her cheek.

The touch of his lips on her skin, his breath on the shell of her ear made her blood run hot again. But Fitz was standing there, watching, so she managed not to melt into the floorboards. Instead, she covered the fingers Vance had on her knee with hers.

His brother cleared his throat once more. “I know...of course, I know about that letter she wrote you. Blythe’s letter.”

“The one breaking our engagement?”

“I’m talking about the second letter,” Fitz said. “After you two were over. In it she said we had begun dating, though it was nothing serious.”

“What?” Vance still sounded calm. “You thought I didn’t guess it was more than that?”

“I...” Shrugging, his brother let the word drift off.

“Fitz, I know you. You’re always serious. It didn’t fool me for a second.” Then he turned his head to press another kiss on Layla’s cheek. “So, if you’ve finally gotten everything off your chest...”

Implying—and she wasn’t sure if it was solely for his brother’s benefit or not—that there were some scary-wondrous sexy times in the offing. Layla squirmed a little on her wooden seat, having mixed feelings about that now. Was she still just a prop to disguise his wounded feelings? Now that something real had happened between them, that didn’t sit so well any longer.

Vance caught her chin and turned her face toward him, his gaze searching hers as if he sensed her new disquiet. “Go away, Fitz.”

“Just one more thing.”

Vance’s sigh was warm against her face. “What?” he said, glancing toward his brother.

“Mom wants you at the engagement party. A brunch deal.”

Vance stilled. “I don’t think—”

“Please. We have to do this right for the family. You need to be there.”

“I told you—”

“You told me you’re with Layla now.” Fitz lifted his arms. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m returning to Afghanistan,” Vance said. “Soon.”

“That’s why we’ll have it soon. You’re here at Crescent Cove until the end of the month, you told Mom. So the party’s scheduled for the last Sunday in July.”

“Fitz—”

“We picked that date just for you, Vance.”

“For me,” Vance repeated. “You’re doing this for me.”

“Hell,” his brother said, spinning around. “Never mind. But you’ll tell Mom you refuse, not me.” He began to stalk off.

“Fitz!” Layla called out.

With a sigh, he halted. When he turned back, the misery on his face made her feel sorry for him all over again. “I forgot my manners,” he said. “Goodbye, Layla.”

Without looking at Vance, she twined her fingers with his and addressed his brother. “You tell us where and what time—we’ll be there.” She didn’t dare look at the man sitting beside her, but she could feel his temper in his rigid posture and the way his hand tightened on hers. Still, it seemed like the right action to take, and if Vance couldn’t commit to it, she’d do it for him.

Anything else was retreat, and her father had taught her to never tolerate such a thing.

Fitz glanced from her face to Vance’s. “V.T.?”

“What the lady wants,” he said, shrugging, then lifted their joined fingers in order to kiss the back of her hand. “Whatever she desires.”

When Fitz was gone, Vance dropped her like a hot potato and rose to his feet. Layla looked up at him, uncertain about what mood he might reveal next. Happiness again, she hoped. But it was a vain hope; she knew it when he ran down the steps, racing toward the surf. Two chubby pigeons twittered in alarm and fluttered out of his way. One of the seagulls he’d befriended sailed close on the wind as Vance drew back his arm.

The gull tried snatching at the ring box on its long arc toward the water. But it missed, and the splash was small and silent as Blythe’s ring sank into the depths.

Vance was silent, too—though not small at all as he stalked back toward the house. His expression hard, he brushed past Layla to mount the steps.

“Are you all right?”

He grunted.

She scrambled to her feet. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to hunt down a calendar.”

Confused, she tried to keep up with him. “A calendar? Why?”

“In order to count down how many more goddamn days are left before I can get the hell out of California.”

* * *

ADDY KNEW BAXTER had returned. Though she didn’t look up from her laptop screen, she sensed him looming in the doorway of the Sunrise Pictures archives room. I’ll ignore him, she thought. Then he’ll go away.

She was done with him. She had to be done with him.

It’s what she’d been telling herself since that day in his condo. She’d kept herself busy since then, working by day on the archives and then distracting herself in the evenings by visits with old friends. She’d even gritted her teeth and managed a dinner with her mother and then another with her father.

Thoughts of Baxter hadn’t bothered her at all.

At least not as much as his silent presence was bugging her, as he continued to stand just a few feet away. “What are you doing here?” she groused, her gaze still focused on her computer. “Your reputation as All Business Baxter is going to be downgraded if you keep escaping your office like this.”

Instead of answering, he moved into the room. From the corner of her eye, she saw him riffle through one of the boxes. She’d been sorting the paperwork, and had put what she termed the “numbers stuff” into its own carton. The ledgers were bound by olive-green, cloth-covered cardboard, and she’d barely spared them a glance before separating them from the business and personal letters that she hoped held clues to Sunrise’s demise as well as the truth of the relationship between Edith Essex and her husband.

She’d scanned the correspondence page by page into her computer so she could examine it as much as she liked without damaging the originals. That process now done, she’d entered them into a database, arranged them by date and was now reading through them one at a time.

Baxter moved to stand behind her. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“No,” she said, but continued on in hopes of quickly satisfying his curiosity. Perhaps then he’d go. “From what I can tell, Sunrise Pictures was fine financially—though I confess I’m not an expert at deciphering that side of things. But the letters between Sunrise and its various vendors and suppliers don’t hint at money problems.”

“What about the personal correspondence?”

That made her sigh. “There’s a dearth of it, actually. I hoped to find letters between Edith and her husband, but so far, nothing. There are a few dozen from some of the leading men and ladies of the day to Max Sunstrum, Sunrise’s president, and there’s a nugget or two there. In between discussions of schedules and salary and availability I’ve found references to parties they’d mutually attended. As time goes on, however, more than one correspondent questions where Edith has been and why she’s been absent from the Hollywood scene.”

“Because there was trouble in the marriage? The affair that’s rumored?”

Addy lifted a shoulder. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m too busy for interruptions.” Now she glanced back to see if he got her unsubtle hint.

Damn. She shouldn’t have looked at him. Of course, he’d come right from the office. His hair was in those impeccable layers, as smooth and shiny as golden fish scales. He wore his summer-weight suit like most men wore T-shirts and jeans. The tie around his neck had been loosened.

The tie.

Oh, God. She stared at the navy-and-white stripes, remembering the one she’d secured around his eyes so she’d have the courage to go to bed with him. And she’d gone to bed with him to get him out of her life.

“Why are you still here?” she demanded, frowning.

He frowned right back. “Why did you leave the other night without saying goodbye?”

Addy shrugged again. Not for a million dollars would she admit she’d been grateful he’d dozed off afterward so she could escape. He’d been her first, though not her only lover. A time or two over the years she’d looked into the face of a man she’d been intimate with and managed to make clear there wasn’t going to be another encounter between the sheets.

So it shouldn’t have been hard—once she was back in her clothes—to have said so long to Baxter in a way that made clear she meant it as a permanent goodbye. Except she’d slipped out instead.

“Was that payback for what happened six years ago?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “Because I essentially sneaked away, you figured you should have your chance to do the same?”

She glared at him. “I don’t know what—”

“Can the crap, Addy,” he said. “I’m not buying for a second your story that you don’t remember our night together then. You gasped in shock when I licked your nipple for the first time. I kissed the tears from your cheek when I entered you—your first time.”

She opened her mouth to emit some matching sort of answer, but nothing came out. He was the one with the confidence to be so blunt. Addy March had nowhere near that kind of self-assurance, and being with Baxter only made her feel the lack more.

“I want to see you again,” he said. “I want to find some way to make it up to you for—”

“Why?” she interrupted, exasperated. “I’m not expecting you to make anything up to me.”

“But—”

“I didn’t expect anything from you after that night six years ago.”

Baxter blinked. He rubbed his palm along the length of his tie, a gesture she might label as nervous if he didn’t always appear so annoyingly poised. “You really don’t remember that night.”

Addy rolled her eyes. Maybe he wasn’t as intimidatingly smart as she’d always thought. “I just admitted I do, okay? I’d had a little crush on you for years, that’s the truth. When you asked me to dance, you’re lucky I didn’t keel over at your feet. My heart was going so fast when you took me in your arms that I thought I might pass out.”

“A crush?” He was smiling, the smug bastard. “I kind of knew the second half of that. Even with only those twinkling lights overhead, I could see the pulse at your throat. Racing. Your skin is so fragile there, so thin and sweet. It’s the first place I put my mouth.”

Addy swallowed, nonplussed again.

“It’s racing now, too,” he said quietly.

She spun back toward her laptop. “The thrill of near-discovery. I’m excited about unraveling the mystery of Edith, Max and Sunrise Pictures.”

Baxter put his hands on her shoulders and began to knead. “You’re so tense, Addy. I’m not going to let you down again. I don’t want it to be that way with us.”

“I told you, you didn’t ever let me down. Why do you keep insisting you did?”

“The things I said, the promises I made—”

“Not for one minute did I expect you to follow through on any of those.”

His hands stilled, then dropped away. “I didn’t think I could feel much worse about what happened, but you just proved me wrong.”

Surprised, she turned to face him again, the casters on the chair legs squeaking in the quiet room. It wasn’t something she’d said to hurt him, but the expression on his chiseled, nearly too-handsome face was pained. “Baxter...”

He threw himself into the seat beside her. It was wheeled, like hers, and he used the heel of one elegant leather shoe to push himself away from the table. “I guess I deserve that. Clearly I have an overinflated sense of my own integrity.”

“What?” Addy stared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Despite what I did that night, I’ve always considered myself one of the good guys, okay? I’m ethical, I pay all my taxes, I always buy my mother her favorite candy on Valentine’s Day.”

Addy told herself not to be charmed. But he bought his mother candy on Valentine’s Day! “You are one of the good guys...at least I’ve always thought so.”

“But you say you disbelieved me that night...even before I had the chance to prove your distrust was well-founded.” He groaned, and ran his palms over his hair. “I am a jerk.”

“No, Baxter. I don’t think you’re a jerk. I didn’t put any credence into what you said because...because I’m me, and you’re you.”

“The jerk.”

“No.” It was frustrating and more than a little humiliating to clear this up. “You’re Baxter Smith,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the hair, the suit, the shiny shoes, “and I’m me.”

He frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re you, and I’m me. Pl—plain Addy.” She’d almost said “plump,” but no need to go into that. “Nose-in-a-book, eyes-on-a-screen, head-in-the-clouds Addy March.”

He just stared at her.

“You know Little Women, the book by Louisa May Alcott? The ‘little women’ are the March sisters. I used to pretend that I was one of them. They performed plays and told each other stories and had their loving Marmee and Father.” When Baxter continued to stare at her she thought she wasn’t making herself clear. “I pretended I was pretend people. I could pretend I was pretend people for days on end.”

He still looked puzzled. “If this is about swapping childhood stories, I should probably tell you about the BSLS.”

It wasn’t about swapping childhood stories, it was about why they were ill-suited for each other, but now she was intrigued. “All right, I’ll bite. BSLS?”

“The BSLS. The Baxter Smith Life Schedule.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a very, uh, goal-oriented person. Maybe a little obsessive-compulsive. Even as a kid, I made lists, developed agendas, tracked my progress on spreadsheets. The summer after eighth grade, I got into running. I had a target. In the twelve weeks before school started—and the high school cross country season began—I wanted to log five hundred miles.”

“That was very ambitious.” Not that she’d admit it, but that was the summer her crush had begun. She’d been waiting for fifth grade to start, dreading another school year where she’d be ignored, or worse, made fun of. Always a dreamer, she’d been ripe for falling for a teen heartthrob. The first time she’d seen him run by, it had been chance, but after that she’d sit in wait by her bedroom window, a box of Pop-Tarts and another of Cap’n Crunch beside her, munching and crunching until he passed her window as he left on his run. She’d be there on his return, too, a little sick on sugar and puppy love. “Five hundred miles.”

“They weren’t all logged on the road. My father and I assigned a mile value to other things—sets of tennis, a round of golf, laps in the pool.” He shrugged. “I think it was the next year that I developed the BSLS.”

“The Baxter Smith Life Schedule.”

“Yes. I’ve kept it all these years...kept to it. It’s a timetable of important dates and milestones. I listed my high school graduation date, college graduation. I already figured I wanted a year of work before getting my MBA. Then, after that degree, I’d go directly into a job with the family.”

She nodded. Baxter would be ordered that way. Precise in what he wanted, knowing it early, sticking to it like glue. It was the confidence thing again. That innate understanding of himself and his place in the world.

The golden boy.

Using the heel of his shoe, he rolled his chair closer to Addy’s. His left kneecap brushed her right one. She moved it quickly away.

“The BSLS didn’t just cover career plans,” Baxter continued. “I charted my future personal life, too, in a logical, sensible fashion. No serious dating until after business school graduation. No living with a woman until marriage. And no thought of matrimony, or even falling in love for that matter, until somewhere past my thirty-first birthday.”

Addy could think of nothing to say, though for the first time he seemed a little more human. Because only a man would come up with a prescribed system like that one.

“Oh, and that falling-in-love part? It would take six months, minimum, of dating before I’d even think of spilling those words.” Baxter slid his hand down his tie again. “So you see, what happened that night was just so...so antithetical to those plans of mine.”

“Off the Baxter Smith Life Schedule.”

He spread his hands. “Yes. And I’ve felt lousy about the way I handled things ever since I impetuously made those promises. I woke up the next morning, panicked, and for what it’s worth, I guessed and second-guessed myself over not calling you after promising I would. It’s eaten at me for the last six years.”

Addy turned back to her computer screen. “Well, don’t worry about it. I didn’t take you seriously. Like I said before, I didn’t pencil you into my life schedule then, not even for a moment. So we’re clear.”

An odd sound echoed in the small room. From Baxter? She turned her head, stunned at the frustrated expression on his face and the tufts of hair sticking up on his head. As she watched, his fingers speared through the golden stuff again, creating more disorder. Baxter was never disordered.

“What’s the matter now?” she asked.

“I want to see you, Addy. You know, go out with you. Date you.”

“No—”

“We could take our time. As a matter of fact, that’s best, right? Get to know each other, figure things out...”

Break her heart, when he finally opened his eyes and figured out an Addy March was not a proper match for a Baxter Smith. “No,” she said again.

He shoved out of the chair and started pacing the small room. Slightly alarmed, Addy watched his quick strides, his lean figure moving past the movie posters for Country Caroline and The Ghost and the Girl and then the wall of framed movie stills of Edith Essex as an intrepid explorer, a rising nightclub star, a heartbroken lover. He stopped in front of this last, staring at it, she thought, without really seeing it.

“Look, Addy, I can explore long-term relationships now.”

“But I can’t.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. Then he spun to face her. “We deserve a chance to see where this could go, don’t you think? Look, you know I’ve never forgotten you. And we’re great together in bed.”

“Baxter—”

“I’ve got a business trip coming up the first week of August. Seattle. Come with me and we’ll make a weekend of it.”

“Baxter, I can’t.” When he made to protest again, she held up her hand. “I’m leaving the country—I’ll be spending the next year in Paris studying at the Sorbonne. I leave the first week in August, which means it’s better we say goodbye now.”

“Paris. For a year.” He looked staggered by the news. She supposed the Baxter Smiths of the world were rarely stymied.

But she knew well how to handle giving up her heart’s desire, so she merely said, “Yes,” then turned away from him and focused back on her laptop. Still, she was hyperaware of him as he started moving again. His sandalwood scent reached her and she suppressed the desperate urge to turn toward it, ignoring the yearning she had to bury her nose against his neck and warm her suddenly cold face against the heat at his throat.

Goodbye, she whispered in her mind. Live well. Be happy.

“This box of ledgers,” he said at length. “Can I take it with me? Page through them?”

“Sure,” she replied absently, hardly aware of the question as her own misery closed in on her. Think of the Seine, she told herself. Of studying in the City of Light. Of some future French lover, dark-haired and seductive, who would whisper to her, demanding a kiss. “Donne-moi un bisou.”

Except all seductive men in Addy’s fantasies were golden-haired Americans who whispered, “Dance with me.”

Desolate, she glanced over just as Baxter breached the exit. She’d wanted him gone, she reminded herself. Out of the archives room, out of her life. But then she noticed the box in his hands, the one she’d given him permission to take...and realized she’d also given him a reason to return.