She lingered in his mind, damn it. That absurd way she gave herself to his kiss. Feisty, prickly Jane was stubborn as hell until he got his mouth on her. Cool as could be until he put his hand between her thighs. There he found her as hot and sweet as melted candy. As addictive.
A man could get used to pleasing a woman who came so damn easy and so damn hard. Hell. It was only a small leap of thought to those pink panties he'd tucked away in a drawer. He needed to return them - or better yet, throw them into a fire. Somehow he needed to neutralize the spell they'd cast, the one that had made him obsessed with all that Jane hid beneath her buttons and bows.
"I still don't get the lure," she said now, on the deck outside the window. "What's the point of daring death like that?"
Griffin glanced at the firefighters and almost laughed. They weren't daring anything. They were prepping to jump from approximately one-third the distance that was the cove record. The record that belonged to Griffin.
"For the adrenaline rush," Tess said. "At least that's what Gage told me once. He said it's powerful enough to numb pain."
This time he was sure Jane sighed. "And anesthetize emotion? That would explain why Griffin made his latest leap after hearing about his soldier friend's accident."
"'Epic leap,'" Tess corrected. "Said that surfer dude who hangs out around here."
"Remembering makes my stomach hurt," Jane murmured. "Let's not talk about it anymore."
Perfect, Griffin thought. He didn't need his sister and the governess psychoanalyzing him about cliff-jumping or about Brian. The other man was on the mend; they'd spoken just yesterday. Bent on returning to solitaire and dismissing the women from his mind, Griffin stepped over Private, sprawled in the patch of sunshine on the hardwood floor.
"Let's talk about Ian Stone instead," Skye put in, an excited note in her voice. "Tess, did you know that Jane worked with the famous author? That she's his acknowledged muse?"
Griffin's head swiveled back to the window. Ian Stone? The writer responsible for romantic dramas that hit the top of the bestseller lists and stayed there? He'd never read one - women were the intended audience, he surmised - but he couldn't miss the guy's name as he passed through airport sundry stores. The foil letters were four inches high on glossy dust jackets featuring bucolic, color-saturated scenes.
"No kidding?" Tess said.
Skye answered instead of Jane. "The last three books are dedicated to her. It's in black-and-white. 'For my muse, the lovely and generous Jane Pearson.'"
"Wow." Tess was clearly impressed.
Griffin, not so much. If Jane had worked with the man, then she'd likely hounded him into writing those words. She'd probably added the line herself when the author wasn't looking.
"I can't believe you know him. What's Ian Stone really like?" Tess asked, an annoying trace of celebrity worship in her voice.
She should know better, Griffin thought. Hadn't chewing gum made hers a household face?
"Norm Scrogman."
"Huh?"
"You didn't hear this from me," Jane said, "but his real name is Norm Scrogman."
"No. No way." Skye sounded put out. "A guy who looks like that can't be a Norm Scrogman. A Norm Scrogman doesn't have burnished gold hair and dreamy green eyes and the kind of smile that hits a woman right where...well, you know."
Griffin found himself standing at the window again, and he could see his sister staring at the younger woman. "I didn't know you knew, Skye. From what I hear, as far as you're concerned, Crescent Cove might as well be Celibacy Cove."
Mumbling, Skye slid lower in her seat. "Ian Stone's a gorgeous literary superstar. I'm not made of ice."
A tickle on the back of his neck made Griffin switch his gaze to Jane. She was paying careful attention to a handful of green grapes. Did she find Ian Stone gorgeous? And what exactly was there to this muse business?
It pissed him off that he was even posing the questions. Though he tolerated her dallying in his office, he was working at getting Jane off his mind. He'd made clear he didn't want her in his bed, hadn't he?
He saw her glance up at the cliff again. "Hey, look! Another firefighter's going to jump."
It seemed a clear attempt at redirecting the conversation. Tess took the bait. "Teague," she said.
A sly little grin overtook Skye's face. As had been her usual uniform this summer, she was dressed in shapeless clothes that might have come