She swallowed. "I don't want to take a turn with anyone. Excuse me." But Ricky still had hold of her wrist.
"She's with me, Jer."
"Aaah, she'll share, won't you...?"
"Jane," she said, in her most quelling tone. To heck with Jana, Janelle or Jezebel. Her real name had turned men off before. Like Griffin. "I'm Jane, and I want to go now."
"Me Tarzan," Jer said, thumping his chest, and then moved into the small room. "Want to make Boy with me, baby?"
She was never wearing a bathing suit again. Or wedge heels. Or so much mascara - though with her gold-tipped lashes, she couldn't give it up entirely.
"Get out of my way," she said, yanking her wrist free of Ricky to give him a push. When he stumbled away, she was left with Jer between her and the exit. Though she told herself she wasn't in any real danger, her heart was pounding against her breastbone, and her blood was running ice-cold under her suddenly hot skin. "I'm leaving now."
"Ah, babe - " Jer started, and then he was yanked backward, into the narrow hall. "Hey!"
Griffin Lowell pushed the man farther down the passage, then took his place in the doorway. Another pair of shorts hung on his hips and a wedge of bare chest showed between the sides of his half-buttoned shirt, which was decorated with pineapples and busty, half-naked hula girls. His whiskers were grittier than they'd been that morning and only called attention to his - frowning - mouth. "What's going on?"
Ricky moved closer to Jane and slid a proprietary arm around her. "Have you met the new girl?"
Griffin's turquoise eyes slid toward her. Her exposed flesh prickled all over again, and her blood turned as hot as the surface of her skin. Was that a hint of appreciation in his eyes? "She's my girl," he said with a straight face.
"Nice try." Ricky laughed. "You haven't had a woman in the three months you've been living here."
"I've been waiting for this one."
Ricky frowned now. "Well, you can't have her. I saw her first. Squatter's rights and all that."
Squatter's rights? She sent the guy a baleful look. Now that Griffin stood two feet away, her sense of impending danger had evaporated.
"Let go of the lady, Rick."
"I won't." He yanked Jane close to his side, and when she struggled to escape his grip, he wrapped an arm around her front too. "Just because you want her doesn't mean you get to have her."
"But she wants me right back," Griffin said, his eyes glittering. "Don't you, honey-pie?"
With her bare skin, bathing suit, straight hair and several coats of mascara, she hadn't been entirely sure he'd recognized her. The "honey-pie" made clear that he definitely had, and she wasn't too proud to accept help. She answered him in as sweet a voice as possible. "Of course I want you, chili-dog."
His gaze zeroed in on her face. "Chili-dog."
"I just love our little names for each other." She reached out a hand toward him.
Ricky was frowning. "I'm not buying any of this," he said, his attitude bordering on belligerent.
Griffin's fingers closed over hers. A zing of heat flamed up her arm and that sense of impending danger returned tenfold. Uh-oh. Maybe playing along with him had been the riskier choice. "Then believe this," he said.
A quick jerk had her free of the other man and pressed against Griffin's hard chest. Then his mouth slammed onto Jane's.
CHAPTER THREE
"SHUT THE PARTY down early last night, eh?" Old Man Monroe called to Griffin as he monitored Private's morning sniff-and-pee. The front of the nonagenarian's upslope property bordered the side yard of Beach House No. 9.
Griffin grunted in response. He'd shut down Party Central for good. The crabby coot currently frowning at him might have managed to do that himself by complaining about the nightly noise, but without his hearing aids he was apparently stone-deaf. When he saw the crowd gather at Griffin's, he said he just removed the "fiendish devices" and turned on the History Channel's closed captions.
What had prompted Griffin to kick everyone out the night before hadn't been concern over his neighbor. He'd been furious that - No, there'd been no fury about it. He'd been ice-cold when he'd cut the music and ejected the partygoers from the premises, starting with that bastard Rick. The man had mumbled something - an apology, an excuse? - but Griffin had shoved him so hard down the porch steps that he'd landed on his dumb ass.