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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.”
Layla sank back to her seat.
Vance shot a glance at Addy, who immediately scooted closer to the other woman. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” But Layla’s gaze didn’t move off him, even as he dropped back into his own chair. “Now I understand why you’re worried about our month together, though.”
He was pretty certain she didn’t have a clue that his concerns ran to the limited power of cold showers over a suddenly raging, adolescent-like libido. “Yeah,” he said, anyway.
“Well, you don’t have to be concerned any longer.”
“Good.” She must understand it wouldn’t work, he thought. And if she decided against the plan, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about the cancellation.
“Your injuries won’t affect our month together at all, though.” Her shoulders squared as if she was shrugging off her earlier embarrassment. “Because, of course, I’ll help you while we’re together at Beach House No. 9.”
Oh, damn, she didn’t understand anything. “Layla, no.”
“It’s only right.” She’d gone from soft gold to steely spine. “You were hurt while trying to save my father’s life. So now it’s my turn.”
He frowned as another blast of premonitory chill wafted across the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s karma,” she said, and a little dimple fluttered near the corner of her mouth. “You took care of my father, so for the next month I’ll take care of you.”
CHAPTER TWO
LAYLA HURRIED FROM the restaurant and headed across the parking lot toward the Karma Cupcakes mobile bakery, grateful for the breeze against her hot face. The lunch that started awkward had ended awful and even the cheery pink-and-kiwi paint scheme of the food truck didn’t raise her mood. Uncle Phil had positioned it close to the Pacific Coast Highway to catch the attention of passersby. Its awning was popped open to shade two tiny bistro tables and to reveal the glass cases displaying the baked goods she’d prepared that morning.
As she drew nearer, a car pulled into the lot and parked nearby. A woman rushed to the counter and walked away with a half dozen of Karma Cupcakes’ most popular flavor, a rich devil’s food enhanced with cinnamon and cloves that they called Chai Chocolate.
Layla’s uncle met her eyes as their latest customer drove away. “Been here less than ten minutes and made four sales already,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “A month at Crescent Cove could turn out to be an excellent business decision.”
It should have been a happy thought. Instead, misgiving was squeezing her heart like a cold hand. A month at Crescent Cove. A month with Vance Smith.
Layla frowned at her uncle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him I’m twenty-five,” she said.
“Uh...what?” Uncle Phil looked like a professor emeritus of Surf Culture 101 in his khaki shorts, Guatemalan-weave shirt and stubby gray ponytail. “What’s wrong?”
“He was expecting a ten-year-old.” Recalling her moment of comprehension, another wash of heat crawled up her face. As the server made room on their table, Layla’s gaze had landed on a photo of her much younger self. Suspicion had dawned, only to be confirmed scant moments later when Vance had thrust Teddy into her hands. “A ten-year-old, Uncle Phil.”
His expression turned guilty. “I didn’t realize. I was just so pleased you’d have this vacation...you know, some time to socialize with a young, uh, person about your own age.”
Some time to socialize? Surely Uncle Phil wasn’t trying to matchmake!
He avoided her narrowed eyes and gestured toward the fuzzy bear. “I suppose the age confusion explains the stuffed animal.”
She frowned at the oversize toy clutched in her fist. Yes, when Vance had passed it over, she’d finally fathomed the mix-up—and wished for a sinkhole to open at her feet. “And he should have told you he isn’t old enough to be my father, either,” she grumbled.
Uncle Phil’s eyes widened in what seemed to be faux-innocence. “Oh?”
Too irritated to call him on it, Layla threw herself into one of the folding chairs set out for customers who couldn’t wait to sample their purchased confections. “He must be around thirty.” Rangy, but with powerful shoulders and biceps. Blond hair. Eyes a startling blue. Likely in possession of a nice smile, but she wouldn’t know because he hadn’t found a single reason to send one her way.
Who could blame him? “He hired a nanny.” Addy March herself had revealed that tidbit, then waved off Layla’s apology for the confusion. The other woman was a graduate student researching the movie studio that had made silent films at the cove into the 1920s, and she’d voiced her intention to still use Beach House No. 9 as a home base.
Which meant Layla’s own impulsive offer to “take care” of the man with the two hurt arms was wholly unnecessary. Yes, she’d embarrassed herself like that, too...though wouldn’t anyone feel a certain obligation under the circumstances? He’d been injured trying to save her father. But with Addy there, if he needed to open a pickle jar or fish something from a cupboard, he didn’t need Layla to lend a hand.
She glanced over her shoulder at Captain Crow’s restaurant, a little shiver tracking down her spine as she remembered the moment the afternoon had gone completely haywire. While attempting to sign his credit card receipt, Vance had fumbled the pen. It had rolled across the table toward Layla and when she’d scooped it up and offered it to him, their fingertips had met.
Hers still burned.
She rubbed them against the silky fabric of her dress and directed her focus to the ring on her left index toe. It was hammered gold embedded with a tiny mother-of-pearl quarter moon. “What would you say if we just close shop and head up the highway? We can drive to Zuma. The Malibu crowd loves our cupcakes.”
“I thought you were going to move into Beach House No. 9 this afternoon,” Uncle Phil said, sounding puzzled.
“Maybe I should drop the idea.” That was Vance’s intention. No, he’d declared about their upcoming month together, even after she’d invoked karma. Not gonna happen. Then he’d mumbled something about her father apparently forgetting she was all grown up. She’d been prepared to persist until that moment when they’d touched.
A car whined past on the nearby highway, then she heard the squeak of the food truck’s door and the muffled scrape of her uncle’s hemp sandals on the asphalt. He lowered himself to the opposite chair. “But we talked about all this. When he contacted me, you said yes.”
“I knew it’s what Dad wanted, so it’s what I wanted, too. But that was before I met Vance.”
Uncle Phil straightened in his seat. “He did some—”
“He didn’t do anything,” she said. “Nothing like you’re thinking.” It was what she’d done—how she’d reacted to that simple touch. It felt as if her soul had attempted to jump out of her suddenly scorched skin. She didn’t like it.
“He’s rattled you,” Uncle Phil observed. “That’s a first.”
Exactly. At twenty-five, she didn’t have a legion of exes, but she’d had her share of relationships. They’d been enjoyable and ended amicably, due, she believed, to her training as a soldier’s daughter. She was accustomed to goodbyes, absolutely aware that tears didn’t solve anything, and she didn’t foolishly hope to have a long-term lock on anyone. Dating had been casual and fun, and not once had she felt as though her nerve endings had been set on fire.
Now she was proposing to spend a month at the beach with the one man who lit her flame. A man who was a soldier to boot.
“I’m just thinking the plan’s a mistake.”
Uncle Phil merely raised a brow. He rarely gave out advice, and she loved that about him—that and how he’d stuck around all those times her father was deployed when she was a kid so she’d have clean clothes in her drawers and three meals on the table. He might not always have the strongest grasp on details—which might go some way to explaining why her father had instead picked Vance to carry out his last request—but her uncle had managed to sign every one of her permission slips. Maybe now she could return the favor.
“You’ve been going on about your trip around the world for years and my month in Crescent Cove was postponing your departure date,” she said. “If I bail now, you can leave right away.”
“My passport’s expired.”
“I saw the application in the food truck. If you pay extra they’ll expedite it.”
Uncle Phil rubbed a palm over the silvery whiskers on his cheek. “Well, if you’re going to renege, you better get down to that beach house and let the man know.”
She hesitated. Even though Vance had told her their month was off, he’d also told her he had some things of her father’s to hand over. Maybe Phil could take care of that for her.... But look what had happened when she’d left him in charge before! “You’re right,” she said, rising. “I’ll go see him.”
For the final time.
* * *
VANCE HAD GIVEN Layla written instructions to Beach House No. 9 that included a hand-drawn map. The bungalow was situated at the opposite end of the cove from the restaurant, which meant she had to get back on the highway, then turn off it again onto a narrow road that led to an even narrower track. The path of crushed shells was only wide enough for one car and took her along the backside of the enclave of unique homes, all of them stuccoed or shingled in natural colors and accented with shades that reflected the poppies, bougainvillea and tropical greenery thriving in the summer sunlight.
At the end of the route was the place she was looking for. It was larger than most in the cove, two stories of dark brown shingles and rough-sawn trim painted the blue-green of mermaid scales. Layla parked her compact in the driveway that led to a double garage, then was forced to give herself a stern talking-to in order to exit the car.
Even then she didn’t head straight for the entrance to Beach House No. 9.
Instead, chin down to keep her profile low, she sidled between it and the much smaller cottage next door. A few breaths of clean ocean air would brace her for the conversation ahead. She didn’t flatter herself that Vance Smith would wilt with disappointment because she was leaving without further argument, but she also didn’t want him prying into the reasons for her acquiescence. What would she say?
You make the back of my knees sweat.
I’m allergic to so much sex appeal.
How could I possibly sleep under the same roof as you?
When Layla felt the give of soft sand beneath her feet, she continued onward, not stopping until she reached the angled shelf of damply packed grains left by an outgoing tide. Only then did she lift her gaze, and her heart stuttered a little, overwhelmed by the beauty of her surroundings.
On her left was a craggy bluff that reached like the prow of an ocean liner into the gray-blue water. Behind her and to her right sat the charming abodes of Crescent Cove, maybe fifty of them, stretched along the sand or nestled against the vegetated hillside. In front of her was the expanse of the Pacific, an undulating surface that drew the eye toward the horizon. Above that, the sun hovered like it did in a child’s painting, an unabashed yellow orb against a sky so deep an azure it appeared one-dimensional.
Her father had wanted to bring her here.
Layla’s throat tightened as she heard his voice in her head. I’ll help you build an entire city of sand castles someday, he’d promised her once when they’d had to cancel a planned beach outing due to an emergency at the base. We’ll have weeks together, he’d told her on another occasion as he’d packed in preparation for heading back into combat. Time to relax with a clean wind on our faces and the cool Pacific at our feet.
It would never happen now.
Ducking the truth of that was exactly why she’d allowed Uncle Phil to handle the communication with Vance, she realized. By taking herself out of the loop, she’d put a layer between herself and the reality of her father’s death.
The reality that he was never coming here to Crescent Cove. That he was never coming back anywhere.
You weren’t the child of an active-duty soldier without contemplating the fact that your parent might not return alive. Her father had loved his work—the army was his passion, his identity, his occupation, his preoccupation. He’d accepted the risks. And dutiful daughter that she was, she’d responded with years of cheerful goodbyes, newsy letters and upbeat emails.
If anyone had asked, she’d have said she was as prepared for what might come as anyone could be, though she didn’t dwell on potential disaster. The life of an army brat—and the tutelage of Uncle Phil—had also taught her it was better to go with the flow, to live for the moment and, while acknowledging that the other shoe might drop at any time, not to hold her breath waiting for it to happen.
But the shoe had fallen six weeks ago and she didn’t think she’d taken in oxygen since.
Not to mention the daily emails she’d been sending to the account of a man no longer able to receive them.
“Are you all right?” a voice called. Vance’s voice.
“Stupid wind,” she said, dashing away a hot tear with the back of her hand. “I’m fine.”
She felt him come up beside her and steeled herself not to make any sudden moves. He was inches away, but her skin still twitched, some kind of sexual startle response, despite her damp lashes and clogged throat.
This was why she wouldn’t fight to stay with him.
Vance made a short, awkward gesture with his cast. “It’s a beautiful spot.”
“We always lived inland. I have a duplex northeast of here by forty minutes if the traffic’s not beastly. But my dad and I talked for years about vacationing right on the beach.” And this was the place he’d planned for them. It was where he’d still wanted her to come as he lay dying. Where she supposed he wanted her to say farewell.
A seagull screeched and wheeled too close, causing Layla to stumble back. Vance sidestepped, using his big body to brace hers so she didn’t fall. The sensation of his broad chest against her shoulder blades sent a ripple of pleasure through her and she closed her eyes. “Layla,” he murmured, his warm breath touching her temple. “Things will turn out all right.”
Would they? Wrapping her arms around her waist, she forced herself to move away, planting her heels firmly in the sand and keeping her gaze focused on the horizon. How could they when she was still sending messages ending with “Love, Layla” into the ether? When she was letting herself be run off from fulfilling her father’s last request?
She hugged her body tighter, reconsidering her urge to escape. Perhaps there was another, truer source of her disquiet, she mused. Maybe her reluctance had nothing to do with Vance Smith. More likely, her imagination had conjured up a heated reaction to him as an excuse not to stay.
It made so much sense. She’d dreamed up the medic’s appeal in order to avoid saying her final goodbye.
That avoidance would disappoint her father, she knew. He wouldn’t want her clinging to sadness through emails that were never answered and commitments she eluded. He’d made arrangements for her to spend this month at Beach House No. 9—alongside the man with whom he’d spent his final moments—and that’s what she should do. What she would do, she decided, hauling in a long, deliberate breath.
No over-the-top and surely imaginary sexual attraction would scare her away.
She took in more air, then turned to Vance. He was staring out to sea and she didn’t give herself a moment to appreciate his handsome profile. “I’m staying,” she said. It would mean Uncle Phil couldn’t embark on his trip for a few more weeks, but she knew he’d understand.
Instead of moving his body, Vance shot her a sidelong glance. “I thought we’d decided.”
Layla stepped close, her voice going fierce. “We didn’t decide.”