A hot shiver speared up her back. His fingertips rubbed her again. Another molten shiver set her quaking. Pleasure was rising, hot and fast.
His fingers stroked once more, and not knowing if she'd have the chance again, not knowing if she'd ever feel such need again, she didn't hold back. Jane pushed into those stroking fingers once, twice. Sweet bliss swooped high. Splintered. At the mercy of her orgasm, she bucked with the undulating pleasure while sucking on his tongue and clutching his shoulders. When it was over, she buried her face in his chest.
Griffin was very, very still for a long moment. Then he removed his hand from her panties and tugged down the hem of her skirt. A palm stroked the back of her head. "Jesus Christ, Jane," he said after a moment, a note of surprise in his voice. "You should warn a man about that hair trigger."
Someone should have warned her! It must be the margaritas. Or the fact that she was another year older. But this kind of gift deserved a reciprocal one, right? Her face burning, she said, "I guess...you...uh, would you like to...?"
He was already shaking his head, his expression flat. "I think that would be a very lousy idea."
Which should have been her line. Mortified all over again, Jane stepped back. "Of course. Anyway..." She made a vague gesture behind her. "I've got to go."
His eyes narrowed. "Go where?"
"You know," she said, shuffling back. "There."
"Jane..."
But she was already on the move, hastening out the back door. She'd go for a walk, inhale some of the chilly, fog-laden air. Take fifteen minutes, twenty, a couple of hours maybe, to sober up. Whatever time she needed away from Griffin to get the tequila and the sex out of her system. Still in a rush, she stepped over the waist-high back fence. Rex Monroe wouldn't mind her taking a shortcut through his yard. He'd understand her need to get away from his neighbor.
She glanced at the steps leading to the elderly man's front door.
Then she was whirling around, dashing back. "Griffin! Griffin!"
He met her at the back entrance, grasping her arms. His touch brought instant comfort, though she knew she shouldn't count on him. He'd said it himself, and hadn't every other man in her life let her down? His grip tightened as her voice went throaty with fear. "Something's happened to Mr. Monroe."
CHAPTER NINE
THE WOMEN WERE hovering. Griffin tried ignoring their chatter, but they weren't just talking among themselves. No, Jane, Tess and Skye were also talking to him - offering up advice on how best to shore up Old Man Monroe's stair railing. Pestering him with questions about what he thought had happened the night before.
Why the old coot had fallen.
"How the hell should I know?" he muttered, but the funny thing was they didn't appear much interested in his answers anyway. With barely a pause, they moved on to some other angle. Always talking, talking, talking.
"I need water," he announced, rising to his feet. He left his tools on the wooden porch and didn't bother taking his cell phone, which he'd tossed on top of the T-shirt he'd left on a cushioned patio chair. Rex Monroe's screen door squealed as he pulled it open. It banged behind him as he headed for the small kitchen.
He was filling a glass when he heard his neighbor's voice. "Skye?"
"It's me," he called out, then stepped to the small adjacent den where Monroe was reclined in a ratty chair. The night before, when Griffin and Jane had run to the crumpled form on the porch, the man had already been rousing. Though they'd wanted to call 911, he'd refused any help beyond getting him back to his feet. As of this morning, he claimed no lingering side effects besides a knot on the head and an ache to go along with it. "You want me to get her?"
"You'll do," Monroe said. "Come here."
Griffin hadn't been in the room in ages, if ever. It was small, holding the recliner, a TV-and-cable setup and rows of bookshelves. One wall was paneled and covered with framed photographs. Some of them were clearly shots of the reporter from his foreign correspondent days. Others looked to be -
His glance darted to the old man. "You have Gage's work in here."
Monroe shrugged a thin shoulder covered in a plaid shirt that must have been straight from the dry cleaner, it was so sharply pressed. "He sends me some from time to