by Irene Hannon
She’d forgotten that lesson with Mark. But his betrayal had been a wake-up call. She’d been fooled once, and the shame was on him. The next time around, the shame would be hers.
Letting the delicate lace curtain fall back into place, Heather turned away from the window. Considering she hadn’t seen him once in the past eight days, avoiding J.C. shouldn’t be a problem, she assured herself.
And as the old saying went, out of sight, out of mind.
She hoped.
Propped against a large piece of driftwood on Ladies Beach, J.C. adjusted his baseball cap, settled his sunglasses into a more comfortable position on his nose and flipped the tab on his soda can.
This was why he’d come to Nantucket.
Not a soul was visible in either direction down the long expanse of golden sand. Edith’s recommendation for a getaway spot had been perfect. At the end of a dirt road not traveled by most tourists, this secluded stretch was, as she’d promised, a quiet refuge among the busy South Shore beaches.
Tucked in at the base of a sheltered dune, his bike propped beside him, J.C. had a panoramic view of the glistening sea. It was the perfect place to spend the afternoon of his first full day off since starting work, and he intended to make the most of it.
A boat appeared in the distance, and he watched its steady progress as it followed a course parallel to the beach. Although it was rocked by swells, it rode them out without faltering or deviating from its route, secure in its ability to hold fast to its destination despite choppy seas.
That was how he wanted to be. Steadfast, confident, un-shakable even in rough water. Until the shooting, he’d thought he was that way. He’d seen plenty of bad stuff in his thirteen years on the force. Some of it had kept him awake at night. Some of it had given him nightmares. But he’d always managed to move on. Until last month.
Because this time, the responsibility for two innocent deaths rested on his shoulders.
Not everyone agreed with that conclusion, he conceded. The internal review panel had absolved him of fault. Dennis and Ben hadn’t blamed him. Nor had the families of the two men who’d lost their lives. Burke didn’t, either. Everyone knew undercover work was dangerous. You accepted the risks, or you didn’t volunteer.
But risks were different than mistakes. And it had to have been a mistake that had aroused his contacts’ suspicions. There was no other way to explain the setup he, Jack and Scott had walked into in that cold, empty warehouse.
For the thousandth time, J.C. reviewed the facts.
Surveillance had been in place, cover officers had been in position and he’d been wired and armed. Documented identities had been provided for Jack and Scott under the assumption that the drug kingpins would do background checks on their new customers, and the men had been prepared to play their parts.
The only thing unusual about the situation had been the size of the deal, which involved the first deep-pockets customers he’d solicited for the ring. It had been big enough to persuade the leader himself to handle the transaction. Meaning it had shaped up to be exactly the kind of deal J.C. had been assigned to arrange. Catching the main man in an incriminating position would be the payoff for his nine miserable months undercover.
Bottom line, the department had expected to take down one of the most powerful narcotics rings in the city.
Then everything had fallen apart.
And two of his buddies had died.
Moisture gathered in his eyes, obscuring his vision of the sea, and he lifted an arm to wipe it away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Those bullets had been meant for him, too.
Once more, the two questions that continued to haunt him echoed in his mind.
Why had he been allowed to live, while other good men had died?
What had gone wrong?
As he lost sight of the boat, J.C. picked up his Bible. He wouldn’t find an answer to the second question in the Good Book. But perhaps it would shed some light on the first one.
Heather opened the trunk of her car, grabbed a beach chair and her suspense novel, and headed toward the sand. Although an occasional visitor did discover her secret hide-away, Ladies Beach wasn’t on most of the tourist maps—and she hoped it never would be. It was her favorite place to come on Monday afternoons in the summer. And today, with no other cars in sight, she should have the place to herself.
But as she kicked her flip-flops onto the warm sand and bent to pick them up, she spotted a lone figure in the distance. A man sitting against a piece of driftwood, reading a book.
A wave of disappointment washed over her. So much for solitude.
But it was a big beach, she consoled herself. She’d head the other way and find her own place in the sun.
She started to turn away from the interloper, but a movement caught her attention. When she cast a glance over her shoulder, he waved.
Squinting, Heather tried to identify him. But with a baseball cap covering his hair and reflective sunglasses masking his eyes, she didn’t have a clue who he was.
Then he solved the mystery by removing both.
It was J.C.
And there was only one way to explain his presence, she concluded, clamping her lips together.
Edith.
The Lighthouse Lane matchmaker was at it again.
Heather held on to her temper—with an effort. But Ms. Busybody was going to get an earful later!
Taking her time, she strolled toward J.C., trying to decide on a plan of action. But when he rose—a lithe movement that revealed long, muscular legs beneath black swimming trunks and impressive biceps bulging below the sleeves of a chest-hugging T-shirt—it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.
The man was a hunk, pure and simple.
Funny. Usually, Heather wasn’t impressed by muscles and testosterone. Why J.C. was an exception, she had no idea. But alerts were sounding in her brain, reminding her to protect her heart.
Stopping a few feet away, Heather slipped on her sunglasses, which allowed her to give him a discreet perusal. She noticed the logo on his T-shirt—for a team called the Titan Tigers—but it was the broad chest underneath that fascinated her more.
Until he reached down to set his can of soda on the sand and his sleeve pulled up to reveal the tail end of a scar that appeared to be fairly new.
Straightening, he gave her that roguish, adrenaline-producing half smile as he put his own sunglasses back on. “I thought it was you. But the outfit threw me for a minute.” He gave her a swift scan. “Quite a switch from pearls and silk.”
Heather shifted in the sand, regretting her choice of faded denim shorts that revealed a tad too much leg and a T-shirt that had shrunk too much from frequent washing.
She tugged at the hem and switched subjects. “Interesting logo.” She gestured toward his shirt.
He looked down, as if he’d forgotten what he’d put on that morning. “Oh, yeah, it is. The Titans are a primary-school softball team I coach at my church. Small but mighty, according to their motto, though their win record might dispute that. But they have a lot of fun, and that’s what counts.”
His grin turned her insides to mush. As did his philosophy. A lot of kids’ coaches lost sight of the fact that there were more important things than winning. “So…how did you find this out-of-the-way spot?”
“Edith recommended it when I asked about a secluded place to spend some time with a good book.”
Yep, a talk with her neighbor was high on her agenda for later in the day. “What are you reading?”
He gestured to his feet, where a book bearing the name The Holy Bible rested on a towel next to the remnants of a sandwich.
Heather did a double take.
“You seem surprised,” he remarked.
“A little.”
“Why?”
She was struck by his tone. Rather than defensive or embarrassed, as she half expected it to be, it was mild—and more curious than self-conscious.
“You
don’t strike me as the Bible-toting type.”
“Is there such a thing?”
His relaxed question threw her. The truth was, she’d always thought of Bible readers as holier-than-thou and a bit nerdy. Yet none of the people of faith she knew fit that stereotype, she acknowledged. This man was certainly far removed from that image.
“I guess not. I just assumed you’d prefer action stories in your reading, given your background.”
A subtle tautness sharpened his features. “I have enough action in real life. Besides, the Bible isn’t dull reading. And it offers great guidance.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that. When it comes to dealing with life, I prefer to rely on myself.”
It occurred to her he might take offense at her remark, but his demeanor remained placid. “You sound like my sister.”
She caught the hint of affection in his tone, and a smile tugged at her lips. “If she’s independent and self-sufficient, I expect we have a lot in common.”
“That pretty much describes Marci.”
“I have a feeling I’d like her.” She took a step back. “Well…I’ll let you get back to your reading. And your lunch.”
“I finished lunch. I’m moving on to dessert.” He snagged a bag from the towel and withdrew a smaller sack. Holding it out to her, he smiled. “Would you like to share? Edith tells me these are great.”
Leaning forward, she peeked into the bag and narrowed her eyes. “Are those almond macaroons from Bartlett’s Farm?”
“Yes. Edith suggested I pick up lunch there, and she said these were fantastic.”
They were also one of her favorite treats. As Edith well knew, Heather thought darkly.
Capitulating, she reached into the bag and took one. She was going to have lots to talk about with her neighbor when she got home. “Thanks. These happen to be a particular favorite of mine.”
“They can’t beat the stuff you serve at your teas. Those were some of the best desserts I’ve ever had.”
Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she backed up a few more steps. “Thanks. I think I’ll head down that way.” She motioned vaguely to the west. “Enjoy your reading.”
“You, too.”
Swiveling around, Heather trekked down the sand in search of her own secluded spot, trying not to wonder if the dark-eyed cop was watching her.
Selecting a niche in the side of a wind-and surf-carved dune, she set up her chair, wiggled into a comfortable position, stretched her feet out in front of her, and opened her book. The novel that had kept her enthralled far too late into the night for the past week would dispel any further thoughts of J.C., she assured herself.
But today, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t focus on the heart-racing suspense between the covers of her book.
Because her heart was already racing—thanks to a certain transplanted Chicago cop who’d staked out a spot on her private territory that was way too close for comfort.
“Is Edith here, Chester?” Heather pushed through the gate into her neighbor’s backyard, passing under the rose-covered arched arbor.
Chester paused from tinkering with the lawn mower and waved a wrench toward the house. “Inside.”
“Thanks.”
Marching toward the back porch, she mounted the steps and called through the open door. “Edith?”
“In the dining room, dear. Come right in. And help yourself to a muffin.”
Heather pulled open the screen door, ignored the fresh-baked treat on the counter in the homey kitchen—an appeasement offering…or Edith’s standard prelude to a good gab session? Heather wondered—and strode into the dining room.
Her neighbor sent her a rueful grimace from her seat at the table. “I don’t know how I got roped into assembling the buzz book for the Women’s Club at church.” She gestured to the stacks of paper in front of her. Selecting a sheet from each pile, she tapped them into a stack and positioned the long-armed stapler. “You didn’t take a muffin.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Heather sent Edith a pointed look. “I already had an almond macaroon from Bartlett’s Farm.”
Heather caught the flash of smug satisfaction on Edith’s face.
“Did you go there today?”
Planting both palms flat on the table, Heather leaned closer. “Don’t play innocent with me, Edith Shaw. J.C. told me you sent him to Ladies Beach.”
With a determined push on the stapler, Edith linked together the individual pages she’d assembled. “What can I say? The poor man asked me to recommend a quiet beach to do some reading. Can you think of a better spot?”
“You know that’s my special place on Mondays.” Heather straightened up and propped her hands on her hips. “I love you dearly, Edith. But back off on this. I’m not in the market.”
“Too bad.” Edith tapped the next set of pages into an even line. “You couldn’t do any better in the looks department. And Burke has high regard for him. Said he had to overcome a lot to get where he is on the Chicago force.”
Despite herself, Heather’s interest was piqued. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Burke didn’t offer anything else. You could always ask J.C. himself if you’re interested. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the man once in a while, you being neighbors and all.”
Engaging J.C. in conversation was the last thing Heather intended to do. Every encounter with him left her on edge—and yearning for things she’d told herself she didn’t need.
“We’re both too busy for idle chatter. Besides, our paths don’t cross very often.”
“That could be remedied.”
Heather sighed. “Look, could you just try to restrain yourself with the matchmaking? I don’t have the time or the interest. And I’m sure it will annoy J.C., too.”
“Did he seem annoyed when you showed up?”
Far from it, Heather thought. But she didn’t share that with Edith. “I have scones to bake. I’ll talk to you later.”
Heading to The Devon Rose, Heather resolved to forget about the Chicago cop who’d taken up residence next door.
Unfortunately, he’d taken up residence in her mind as well, she realized. Every time she stepped into the foyer or passed table four, an image of him flashed through her mind. Thoughts of him even invaded her kitchen. Distracted, she found herself adding baking soda instead of baking powder to the scone recipe she’d made thousands of times.
Angry at her mistake—and at herself—Heather dumped the ruined batch of dough in the trash. If she was the praying type, she’d be calling on the Lord about now, asking Him to give her something else to think about. Anything but the cop with the dark, appealing eyes and the potent magnetism.
But maybe—if she was lucky—He’d hear her silent plea anyway.
Chapter Five
Three days later, as Heather reached across the precision-trimmed row of miniature boxwoods for one of the weeds that had dared to invade her manicured garden, her cell phone began to ring.
Snagging the offending sprout from among the hot-pink begonias, she deposited it in a bucket by her side, sat back on her heels and stripped off her gardening gloves before retrieving the phone from the brick path beside her.
“The Devon Rose.”
“Hi, Heather. Do you have a minute?”
At the underlying thread of tension in her sister’s question, Heather’s grip on the phone tightened. “Sure. Is everything okay?”
“No.” Susan’s voice wavered. “Brian’s in trouble again.”
Since her sister had separated from her philandering husband several months ago, Heather knew thirteen-year-old Brian had been getting into minor scrapes. This one sounded major.
“What happened?”
“He and some of the kids he’s been hanging around with spray painted a vulgar message on a garage door. A neighbor spotted them and called the police.”
“Did the owners press charges?”
“Not after the parents chipped in to pay for the damage. But now I�
�m really worried about leaving Brian at home alone all summer. When I decided to get a job after Peter and I split, I felt comfortable about him being on his own. He’s always been a responsible, levelheaded kid. But last week, I found a squashed beer can by the picnic table in back. Brian says he didn’t drink anything, but his buddies obviously did. I just don’t trust him at this point.”
“What does Peter think?”
“To quote him, ‘Boys will be boys.’”
“Why am I not surprised?” Disgust laced Heather’s reply. She’d never thought much of Susan’s husband. Even less after he began cheating on his wife.
“Here’s the thing, Heather. I need to get him away from his so-called friends before he finds himself in real trouble. I know this is a huge imposition, but…could I send him to Nantucket for three weeks? I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”
The shakiness in her sister’s voice told Heather that Susan wasn’t exaggerating her worry. But the notion of taking in a nephew she hadn’t seen since her mother’s funeral two years ago—one with delinquent tendencies, no less—freaked her out.
“Why don’t you just ask his grandfather to keep an eye on him while you’re at work?”
Heather wasn’t surprised when her suggestion was greeted with shocked silence. If she hadn’t been desperate herself to find an alternate solution to Susan’s dilemma, she would never have mentioned their father. Talking about him had been off-limits ever since the divorce that had ripped her family apart two decades ago. Heather had never understood why Susan had kept in touch with the man who had destroyed their family, and Susan had never understood how Heather could shut out the father she’d once idolized. To protect their own relationship, they’d agreed to table any discussion about him.
“You mentioned Dad.” Susan sounded stunned.
