Bungalow Nights

“Okay?” A ray of sunshine seemed to brighten her bereaved heart. She smiled, even as another mortifying tear blinked from her eye. When she reached to wipe it away, her fingers tangled with Vance’s, which were bent on the same mission. They both froze this time, and the drop was left to roll down her cheek and off her chin.

Feeling awkward and awful all over again, Layla broke away from him. “I...I’ll go get my things,” she said, hurrying away as she mentally composed yet another undeliverable email. Dear Dad, I hope I haven’t just made a huge mistake....

* * *

LAYLA WAS MISSING WHEN Vance emerged from his bedroom the next morning. She’d moved her stuff into the beach house the day before as the sun began to set and he’d left her to it when she assured him she didn’t need his help. His dinner offer had been waved away, too, so he’d wandered down the beach for another meal at Captain Crow’s.

When he’d returned, the door to the bedroom she’d selected had been shut. He’d been relieved, of course, and not alarmed.

But now, with dawn coloring the sky the pearly gray-pink of the inside of an abalone shell, worry niggled at him. Her bedroom door was ajar but she wasn’t inside. The pristine kitchen testified she’d not even made a cup of coffee.

Addy wasn’t any help. He trudged upstairs and knocked on her door, but she clearly wasn’t a morning person and was just as clear that she had no idea where to find Layla.

Where the hell had she gone? And why the hell hadn’t he been able to quash the deal yesterday? Not only had he found himself keeping to the plan of a month with her at Crescent Cove, he’d even assured Big Brown Bambi Eyes that “things will be all right.” As if that would happen when he couldn’t even keep tabs on the woman!

Christ. He had to steer clear of this promise business.

After fumbling through the brewing of a carafe of coffee, he managed to down a cup and then headed toward the beach. The briny air dampened the denim of his jeans, and his leather flip-flops kicked up a trail of cold sand behind him. Everyone else in the cove appeared to be asleep except for himself...and Layla, wherever she was.

He walked northward, trying to tamp down his concern even though he’d noted her car was parked in the driveway and her clothes still hung in the bedroom closet. Frustrated, he made to shove his hand through his short hair and cursed when his cast clunked against his skull, knocking some sense into him.

“I’m an idiot,” he told the clutch of sandpipers playing a version of Red Rover with the surf line. They didn’t look up. “She’ll be at the bakery truck.”

He’d assure himself of that, he decided. Get a glimpse of her, then return to No. 9 without giving away he’d been worried.

She was all grown up, wasn’t she?

Dammit.

It was the aroma that reached him first. Even before his soles hit the parking lot’s blacktop, he breathed in something sweet and delicious. His mouth watered and, though that could have been enough to confirm Layla’s whereabouts, he continued toward the food truck parked by the highway, lured like the Big Bad Wolf after Little Red’s basket of Grandma goodies.

Just a quick peek, he told himself, and then he’d hightail it home.

Swirls of pink-and-green paint in a paisley design covered the surface of the vehicle and Karma Cupcakes was blazoned in black letters that appeared vaguely Sanskrit in style. It should have been advance notice, he supposed, but he still started when a spare figure appeared from around the side of the truck. “Namaste,” the man said, pressing his palms together and giving Vance a shallow bow.

“Yeah,” Vance answered. “Uncle Phil, I presume?”

The man wore baggy cargo shorts, a Che Guevara T-shirt and a puka shell necklace. Cocking his head, he grinned, then came forward with fingers outstretched. “You must be Layla’s Vance.”

“No!” Jesus, he wasn’t Layla’s anything. “I mean, uh, I am Vance Smith.” The hand-to-brace shake over, Vance stepped back. “But I was just leaving—”

“Not without a conversation first,” Phil said, still smiling. “It comes with coffee and cupcakes.”

Hell. What could he do but agree? In seconds he found himself sitting at a small table for two positioned on the asphalt, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him as well as a paper plate filled with a selection of unfrosted bite-size treats. Their smell said oven-fresh.

“You don’t play fair, Phil,” he muttered as the other man sat down.

“What’s that?”

“I...” His words trailed off as the food truck’s order window slid open.

Layla leaned out. Her face was flushed—by an oven maybe?—and she wore a pink-and-green paisley kerchief over her hair. “Uncle Phil,” she began, but then her voice died, too, as she caught sight of Vance.

She frowned, her gaze shifting under those luxurious mink lashes. “Uncle Phil,” she said, a warning in her voice.

“We’re only eating cupcakes,” her relative answered, all innocence.

She blew out a breath from her bottom lip, stirring the fringe of bangs that skimmed her eyebrows. “I’m concerned he’s uncovered a latent meddling streak,” she cautioned Vance. “Don’t let him give you the third degree.” Then she disappeared.

Layla gone was good. Much of the problem when it came to her was that Vance’s mind muddied in her proximity, those tender brown eyes and pretty mouth just too diverting. Per usual, after a brief delay, his stalled brain reengaged. He’s uncovered a latent meddling streak.

It was his turn to glare at the older man. “You should have meddled a little harder. What were you thinking? I could have been some freak! You set up your ten-year-old niece—”

“But she’s not ten,” Phil pointed out. “I didn’t realize you thought so.”

“I told you in the emails I was going to hire a nanny.”

The older man shrugged. “Whoops. Sometimes the particulars pass me by.”

Vance ground his back teeth, not sure if Layla’s uncle was really that clueless or just playing the part. “Phil—”

“Anyway, I knew you were a friend of my brother’s.”

That overstated the case. “I—”

“Clearly he trusted you.”

Shit. “Maybe he shouldn’t have,” Vance muttered.

Phil pushed the plate of cupcakes closer. “What makes you say that?”

Instead of answering, Vance selected a cake that was pale blond on the sides and golden on top. Vanilla, he figured, popping it into his mouth. But when it melted on his tongue it offered up a surprising wealth of flavor. Warm milk and brown sugar, he decided, and the luscious taste left him speechless.

“On the menu board it’s Dharma Dulce—a dulce de leche cupcake,” Phil said in response to his unspoken question. “And for the record, I didn’t agree to let her spend a month with just anyone. I have my ways of discovering the truth.”

Vance grunted, unwilling to open his mouth and lose any of the sweet taste still lingering on his tongue.

Phil sat back in his chair. “At twenty-three, you dropped out of college and joined the army. Spent four years as a combat medic, then you were out for a couple before being called back to active duty through the Individual Ready Reserve. You were in Afghanistan for seven months when you were injured in the process of saving my brother.”

Now Vance was forced to speak. “Didn’t save him,” he corrected, though hell, it was painful to say the words aloud.

“No one could expect—”

“I expected!” Startled by his own outburst, Vance looked away, staring off across the parking lot. “Look, it’s...”

“It’s...?”

Vance shook his head. “I had a good run all those years, okay? I never lost anyone on the battlefield.”

“Is that right?”

Yes, it was true. “Every time I reached a fallen man I told him the same thing. I’d say, ‘I’m going to get you out of here, soldier. I’m going to get you to the best doctors and nurses we have available.’”

“And you did?”

“Every time,” Vance said. “That’s not to say I didn’t see death while racing to the wounded. And there were guys I patched up and got onto the choppers who didn’t make it out of the hospital alive. But I...I fulfilled my battlefield vow to all of them.”

Phil regarded him pensively. “All of them?”

“Except one,” Vance answered, closing his eyes. A small sound had them flying open again. His gaze found Layla. She was standing in the open doorway of the truck, a hand over her mouth, her brown eyes wide. Their expression transported him to the day before, to that moment when she’d passed him the errant pen and his fingers had found hers.

He held himself rigid, remembering the jolt of heat, that blast of purely physical sensation that had dried his mouth and dizzied his head. Even under its influence he’d known the reaction was trouble. The last thing he needed was some unwelcome and hard-to-control chemical combustion.

He’d been wild in his younger days, acting on impulse and always riding an edge of danger, but years at war had finally leeched that from him. Plenty of soldiers came back from combat with adrenaline still flooding their system and no place for it to go. Those were the guys who operated at the whim of their cocks instead of their common sense, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of them.

Because he was smarter than that now.

And because he’d made promises. Though the colonel’s daughter deserved more than a horny bastard who’d do better waiting out his return to service by tossing back beers on a Mexican beach than by babysitting an enticing woman he couldn’t in good conscience touch.

He probably scowled, because Layla made another little sound and then disappeared inside the cupcake truck.

“Shit,” he said. “I wish she hadn’t heard that.”

Phil appeared unconcerned. “Now she understands you have your own reasons for being here.” He nudged the plate of cupcakes closer. “Try the one we call Berry Bliss.”

Strawberry? Raspberry? Cherry? His taste buds couldn’t pinpoint the exact flavor. But it definitely tasted like bliss.

“So,” Phil said, “I understand you have family in California?”

Oh, yeah, Vance thought, nodding as he swallowed the cake. Layla’s uncle was cannier than he initially let on. Because Vance did have a family, one with tighter connections than many, because his father and his uncle had married twins and lived in side-by-side houses on a compound at their sprawling avocado ranch about an hour from Crescent Cove. William and Roy Smith continued to lead the business together, with Vance’s older brother, Fucking Perfect Fitz, and their cousin Baxter being groomed to take over.

Thinking of all that made him scowl again, as old bitterness mixed with new disquiet. Bax was sworn to secrecy, but it worried Vance that he might not be able to keep his return to the area quiet. He was determined to avoid a face-to-face with any other members of his family, including his mother.

That brought on a new thought and he shifted his gaze toward the other man. “Phil, where’s Layla’s mom? Her father implied he was divorced, but his ex—”

“Is in the wind. She left her marriage and her daughter behind when Layla was two. My niece has only me now,” Phil said. “And for the next month, you.”

“Me?” She sure as hell didn’t “have” him.

Then Vance thought of finding her on the beach yesterday afternoon, how the instant she’d known she was being observed she’d brushed away the telltale tear. The save-face gesture had found some soft spot inside him. Then she’d said, Doesn’t keeping your word mean anything? and the question had burrowed deeper.

But the truth was, she’d gotten under his skin from the moment he’d turned his head at the restaurant and glimpsed that stunner of a face. It didn’t bode well, not when he’d been sure his years of rash impulses and hasty reactions were well behind him.

“Things will turn out all right,” Phil said.

Vance shot him a look. That had been his line yesterday, and he still regretted it.

“You won’t let her get hurt.”

What could he say to that? Of course, he couldn’t deny it. It was never his intention to hurt her, and the truth was, his final promise to her father had been—

“As a matter of fact,” Phil went on, “you might just make her happy.”

Good God, Vance thought, his chair legs scraping against asphalt as instinct sent him into full retreat. He wouldn’t be trapped into giving his word on that. Make Layla happy?

He was the Smith family’s black sheep. He’d never been able to do that for anybody.

CHAPTER THREE

WITH THE BAKING DONE for the day and having waved off Uncle Phil as he embarked on a morning-to-midday route that included stops at two public libraries and two parks popular with the Mommy and Me set, Layla headed back to Beach House No. 9. At the sand, she paused to remove her gladiator-style sandals, then carried them hooked on a finger as she strolled southward.

Unlike the early a.m., she didn’t have the beach to herself. Little kids dug holes near the surf, bigger kids splashed through the shallows, adults lounged on towels or tossed footballs and Frisbees. She ambled, the sun striking the left side of her body, its heat tempered by the cool breeze buffeting her right. The air tasted salty and clean and she took in great gulps of it, letting it refresh her lungs and clear her head.

For fifteen minutes she was lost in the sensations of sun, sand and surf. Then Beach House No. 9 came into clear view, its windows thrown open to the breeze, a red, white and blue kite attached to a fishing pole on the second-floor balcony spinning in circles, and on the beachside deck below, the figure of a man stretched on a lounge chair in the shade of a market umbrella.

Vance Smith, denim-covered legs crossed at the ankles. What looked to be a classic pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses concealing his eyes. Nothing covering his chest.

Layla’s feet came to a sudden stop. Oh.

Oh, wow.

Maybe it was the cast and the brace, she thought. They drew attention to his heavy biceps and the tanned, rugged contours of his shoulders and chest. She knew the amount of gear combat soldiers regularly carried on their backs; those muscles of his hadn’t been honed in a gym but had been carved by regularly transporting sixty to a hundred pounds of weaponry and essentials.

Her skin prickled under the soft knit of her cotton sundress. The breeze fluttered the hem, tickling the backs of her knees and making her hyperaware of her sensitivity there. Dismayed, she told herself to blink, to move, to do something, but she was powerless against her reaction. He’d bewitched her, and her body was struck still by the powerful sexual response she’d told herself yesterday was nothing more than her psyche’s excuse—and not at all real.

Wrong.

“Watch out!” a voice called from behind her, but her preoccupation inhibited her reaction time. A body bumped Layla’s, knocking her forward two unsteady steps.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman said, catching her arm to keep her upright. “The Frisbee toss went long. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Layla answered. She shot a glance toward the deck, hoping Vance hadn’t witnessed her clumsiness. “It was my fault. My mind was, uh, somewhere else.”

The other woman followed Layla’s gaze, tossing back her hair for a better look. Then she grinned, her white teeth a match for the bikini top she wore above a pair of hip-riding board shorts. “Can’t blame you there. That’s some distracting man candy.”

“Man candy,” Layla echoed.

“He’s a handsome guy,” the other woman said. “No harm in looking, is there?”

No harm in looking. “You’re right.” Layla smiled, her alarm evaporating. There was no harm in looking and nothing particularly unusual about the fact that she wanted to. If Vance caused another woman to do a double take, then Layla’s own response was perfectly normal.

Like admiring a...a pretty butterfly.

She stole another glance at him, taking in the wealth of sunbaked skin. “It’s not just me, right?”

The stranger grinned again. “Hey, I’m here with a posse of firefighters,” she said, turning to fling the Frisbee down the beach, “and your guy caught my eye.”

Layla diverted her attention to the handful of young men pushing each other aside in order to retrieve the plastic disc. Weren’t they photo spread–worthy as well with their bright swim trunks and athletic builds?

“Man candy, too,” Layla pronounced, and with a farewell wave, turned toward the beach house, a new lightness in her step. Any woman alive would experience a little quickening of the blood. It was nothing uncivilized, nothing to be anxious about, and now that she’d indulged in her short session of Vance-gawking, she was even over admiring him.

The man in question sat up, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head as she mounted the steps from the sand. She gave him her best bright smile. “Hey!”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re cheery.”

“I’m a morning person,” she confessed. Not to mention that she’d defeated her apprehension. Thousands upon thousands of attractive men populated the world, dozens of them on this very beach even, and there wasn’t anything special about her brief fascination with this particular one’s appearance.

Everybody liked butterflies.

He frowned. “Butterflies?”

Oops. Had she said that out loud? “Sorry, I do that sometimes. Talk to myself when I’m, uh, developing recipes.”

“Butterflies?” he asked again, more skeptical.

“Or buttermilk.” She waved a hand. Then, because he still radiated suspicion, she perched one hip on the cushion at the level of his knees, all casual friendliness. Looking him straight in the eye, she smiled. “So...how do you like my cupcakes?”

His face went strangely still. It gave her a moment to study him, though from the very first she’d tried to avoid a detailed examination. Even while being dispassionate about the whole thing—as she insisted to herself she was—his looks were striking. His dark blond hair was thick and sun-lightened a brighter caramel around the edges. He had strong cheekbones and jawline, with straight, sandy-colored brows over summer-sky eyes. The face was saved from pretty by the firmness of his mouth and the strong column of his neck. Those tough-guy shoulders dispatched the last of any spoiled playboy impression left by the golden hair and angel eyes.

Weird, how her heart was racing again.

“Your cupcakes?” Vance cleared his throat, and just for a second, his gaze flicked to a spot below her neck, before quickly jerking up again. “I like your cupcakes just fine.”

Oh, jeez. She felt the skin between her collarbone and modest décolletage go hot. Her “cupcakes” tingled inside the cups of her bra. Why hadn’t she used a more innocuous phrase like baked goods? she thought, burning with mortification. “Um—”

“Oh, hell,” he said quickly. “I apologize. Forget I said that. Forget I looked... Just for a second my brain went stupid.”

It was the first time, she realized, she’d seen him disconcerted. Even when she’d shown up at the restaurant, unexpectedly adult, his cool demeanor hadn’t broken. It was an army thing maybe, because her dad had been like that, so good at projecting chill one could suppose he had an ice tray in his chest where a heart should be.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, willing the warmth on her cheeks to fade.

“It’s not.” He shook his head. “It’s... Call it combat-conditioning. Before coming back to the States I lived in the crudest of circumstances with a bunch of guys who could make me blush.”

“I get it. It’s okay.”

“Nah.” A sheepish grin quirked his lips. “It’s not.”

It was the grin. That sheepish grin. Her skin flushed hot all over again as she felt her pulse start to pound at the tender skin of her wrists and at those sensitive hollows behind her knees. She could only stare at him and the lingering rueful smile on his face.

Vance didn’t seem to notice. “What can I do to make it up to you?” He reached out and casually touched her hand.

He shouldn’t do that, she thought, unable to move. Something was going on here, a situation she didn’t have control over, and she’d never wanted to believe this kind of thing would happen. You couldn’t choose? Without your permission this...this fever overcame you, or rather, reached out to you, or rather, exploded all around you...and you were at its mercy. Layla began to tremble.

His long fingers curled over hers. The edge of his cast pressed into her skin but she barely registered it over the hot-cold shiver that shot toward her elbow. “Vance...”

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, his voice light. “I’m a bad man.”

And then her hand slipped from his to press his cheek. Why? Because he wasn’t a bad man, that was certain. There was a slight bristle against her palm, gritty, masculine, and the sensation pinballed more tingles to her toes and then to the top of her head. She didn’t move. She just held her soft flesh against the hard plane of his cheek.

Their gazes met.

She didn’t try to read anything into his because his expression had shut down and she wished she didn’t feel this way. Knowing what was going on in Vance’s mind didn’t seem like any kind of win for Layla. “Hey...” she finally said. Her voice was so hoarse she had to stop and lubricate her throat. “Um.”

“Yeah?”

Her hand slid away from his face. She saw his cheek muscle jump. “I have an idea.” She swallowed again. “A good idea.”

“Oh?”

She stood, jolting upward so fast she swayed a little. He reached to steady her, but didn’t make contact. Good. “We’re here for the month. My father wanted that. But we don’t have to...to...be in each other’s pockets.”

His gaze was so blue it should have steadied her.

But it was only more heat, not a cool, calm blue at all anymore. “Layla—”

“We’ll live in the same house, but there’s plenty of room. We’ll go our separate ways. Live, uh, totally separate lives.”

Now he touched her. The back of his fingers skimmed the flesh of her forearm. She felt it to the marrow. “No,” he said. “We can’t do that. If we’ve come this far, we’ve got to do it right. Because I made another promise, too.”

* * *

VANCE CURSED HIMSELF for the wary look on Layla’s face. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew damn well her father wouldn’t approve of him messing up the agenda he’d laid out with this man-woman complication. The colonel had still considered his daughter a little girl, and Vance should be seeing her as the same.

Except she’d been sitting so close a few minutes before, her womanly hip against the denim of his jeans, her pretty face smiling at him, so that when she’d said “cupcakes” his baser self had reared its prurient head and, well...

Checked out her cupcakes.

He didn’t allow his gaze to stray in that direction again, but his memory worked just fine and yes, she had very nice cupcakes.

As if she could read his mind, she shuffled back a step, and he swung his feet off the lounge and onto the planks of the deck. “Let me explain—”

“Not necessary,” Layla interjected. “Really. I think my ships-in-the-night plan is a good one.”

Vance stifled a sigh. It was all his fault. He should have made an effort to get laid between leaving Afghanistan and moving into the beach house, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. Six months had passed since he’d opened Blythe’s Dear John letter, and it had served as an effective sexual appetite suppressant until yesterday. Until he’d caught sight of a certain soft-eyed brunette who just happened to make his mouth water.

“You should hear me out,” he said, keeping his expression harmless and his voice mild.

Layla was already edging toward the house. She touched the handle of the sliding-glass door. “Not—”

Addison slid it open from the inside. “There you are!” she said, stepping onto the deck and effectively pushing Layla toward Vance again. Addy had a yogurt cup in one hand, a spoon sunk inside like the business end of a butter churn. “Our host was looking for you earlier, knocking on my door in the dead of the night.”