her and her flapping mouth and nosy manner and governess tone and be gone - his composure, his chilly control, still intact.
As he went by, she caught his arm. "You know I'm right," she said, her voice steady. "And you won't have to do it alone. I told you. I'll do whatever you need."
"And I told you - "
"Griffin, Erica deserves this."
Erica. Despite his best intentions, his gaze dropped to her photo. It was not how he'd seen her last: lifeless, dirtied, bloodied. It was Erica, vitally attractive. Full of expectations.
Deserving.
As if from a distance, he saw himself wrench his arm from Jane's hold. Then he scooped up the ruby-colored plate. In a gesture that betrayed a rage and frustration he could swear he didn't feel, he flung the platter against the wall. Cookies flew. The plate broke, and glass shards rained like drops of blood.
He hurried out of the house, telling himself the mess he'd made was no reflection of his inner self.
* * *
AT THE OPPOSITE END of the cove from Beach House No. 9, Jane sat railside at Captain Crow's, a restaurant/bar that was one of only two commercial establishments on the beach - the other being an adjacent gallery that sold plein air paintings and beautiful handmade boxes, frames and jewelry crafted from items of the sea. She'd poked her nose inside, taking in sun-drenched landscapes and rainbow-hued earbobs of abalone and beach glass, but her urge to admire couldn't overshadow her certainty that the open floor plan made it a lousy place to hide.
Now Captain Crow's, that was another matter.
It was as if Party Central had moved north by a couple miles. Pleasure-seekers peopled the open-air tables and sat elbow-to-elbow on stools pulled up to a narrow, westward-facing counter. Dressed in her usual conservative wear - cropped khakis, a thin, bottle-green button-down shirt and a straw hat settled low on her brow - Jane went unnoticed among the rhinestoned tees and short shorts, the boho skirts and macramed halter tops. The typical California confluence of Hollywood high culture and laid-back hippie fashion. Nearly overpowering the scent of salt air were the mixed aromas of SPF 30 sunscreen, Rodeo Drive perfumes and top-shelf tequila.
She'd collected a glass of white wine from the bar and slipped onto a free stool, unsure of her next move in her goal of getting Griffin to work. The only short-term certainty was her need to steer clear of him for the moment, giving him a chance to cool off following the plate-throwing incident. Seeing her again too soon might antagonize him further, causing him to do something rash, like ordering her from the cove altogether.
As she took a sip of her straw-colored beverage, she caught a glimpse of Skye Alexander strolling through the restaurant, her roaming gaze suggesting she was looking for someone. Jane pulled her hat lower on her brow and fixed her attention on the orange orb in the blue sky, tracking its descent. She figured it was better to avoid Skye too. Jane wouldn't put it past Griffin to send the other woman to scout her out...and then toss her from the beach colony, despite the fact that it was his own agent who had hired her. Slumping in her seat, she tried lifting her shoulders to her ears, going Quasimodo as camouflage.
But the world hadn't gone her way in ages, so she felt the tap on her back with no surprise. Turning, she consoled herself with the knowledge that there wasn't a free space on either side of her. That thought came too soon as well, though, because someone shouted, and the crowd around her scattered, people rushing down the steps to the sand.
Befuddled, Jane watched them gather near a flagpole at the base of the stairs to the beach. Skye perched on the freed seat next to Jane, her gaze also on the excited throng. A man wearing ragged, low-slung shorts and the ubiquitous tan lifted a conch shell to his lips. The blast of sound set the crowd cheering again, and then a blue flag slowly rose on the pole. When it reached the peak, the bystanders saluted the fluttering fabric. Jane saw it was printed with the universal symbol for martini.
"Cocktail time," Skye explained. "Five o'clock."
Jane's brows lifted, taking in the beverages already in hands, including her own half-full wineglass.
"Official cocktail time at Crescent Cove. This ritual goes back to the fifties."
"That's when this beach was discovered?" If Jane kept the other woman talking