Too Close for Comfort

by Heidi Rice

  ‘Trust you?’ He sent her a long look. ‘You think?’

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘I already told you Brad stole money from my father.’

  So it was Brad now.

  ‘I was trying to get it back,’ she finished, crossing her arms, and making her breasts plump up under the scoop neck of the tank.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have a heck of a lot of proof.’ He dragged his eyes away from her cleavage. Annoyed with himself. And her. Was she doing that on purpose? ‘And until I do, we’re stuck with each other.’

  He reversed out of the lot, deciding the argument was over.

  ‘Now hang on,’ she piped up. ‘If you don’t trust me, why the heck should I trust you? You say you’re a private investigator, but for all I know you could be an axe-murderer.’

  ‘I showed you my licence,’ he said, humouring her.

  ‘Which you could have had forged for you by axe-murderers.com.’

  His lips quirked at her tenacity, but he bit back the chuckle. The accusation wasn’t funny, it was insulting.

  He braked and pulled out his smartphone, then keyed in the number for the LAPD. He passed the phone to her as it started ringing. ‘Ask for Detective Stone, or Detective Ramirez in Vice, whichever one is on shift. They can vouch for me.’

  He waited while she spoke to the dispatcher, and spent some time verifying that she was talking to a genuine LAPD officer—and not one of his axe-murdering pals.

  Smart girl.

  ‘Excuse me, Detective Ramirez,’ came her smoky voice when she got his former partner on the line. ‘My name is Iona MacCabe and I’m here with a man called Zane Montoya. He says he’s a private detective and that you know him. Is that true?’ She listened for a moment, her teeth releasing her bottom lip as she nodded. ‘Can you tell me what he looks like?’ Her gaze roamed over his face as she listened to Ram’s reply. Her scrutiny was sharp and dispassionate, and so unlike the glassy-eyed stares he had come to expect from women that something perverse happened. His nape heated, triggering a flash back to high school, when those glassy-eyed stares had allowed him to charm any girl he wanted into his bed—or more often the back seat of his uncle Raoul’s Chevy.

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

  Damn it, Montoya. Get real. You’re not in high school any more and you don’t want Iona MacCabe in your bed, or anywhere else.

  ‘All right, I guess this is the same guy,’ she murmured, that smoky accent only making him more uncomfortable. ‘And you’re sure he’s no an axe-murderer?’

  Her eyebrows inched up her forehead and then she laughed, the sound low and amused and so unexpected it arrowed right through him.

  He didn’t even want to think what Ram had said. His ex-partner had a sense of humour coarsened by twenty-five years spent in a squad car and a locker room. It wasn’t exactly subtle.

  At last she passed him back his phone. ‘Okay, you check out,’ she said a little grudgingly. ‘The detective wants to speak to you.’

  Terrific.

  ‘Hey, Ram,’ he said without a lot of enthusiasm. He usually enjoyed shooting the breeze with the guy, but not now, not with this woman in the car—who was becoming way more of a complication than he needed.

  Ramirez’s amused voice boomed down the phone. ‘Lancelot, man, who’s the chiquita? She sounds cute.’

  Zane kept his eyes on Iona, and hoped she hadn’t heard the dumb remark. ‘I’m on a case, man,’ he said sternly, relieved when Iona broke eye contact and stared out of the window, ignoring him.

  ‘I’ll bet.’ The rusty laugh caused by two packs a day wheezed out as Ram replied. ‘What happened, man? You finally find one you can’t charm out of her panties with that pretty face of yours?’

  ‘I appreciate you vouching for me, Ram,’ he said, wishing to hell it had been Stone on the late shift tonight—whose sense of humour was about as animated as his name. And ended the call.

  He dumped the smartphone on the dash, tunnelled his fingers through his hair. This night had started badly and gone downhill from there.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked Iona.

  ‘I guess so,’ she said, sounding snotty again.

  She wasn’t the only one in a snit now, though.

  He started the car and pulled out.

  ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’

  ‘Monterey,’ he said, being as vague as possible. ‘It’s about two hours’ drive so you might as well get comfortable.’

  ‘And why are we going there?’

  ‘I have a friend who owns some vacation rentals in Pacific Grove,’ he said, remembering the key he still had in his glove compartment to Nate’s property, which he’d stayed at a month ago while his kitchen was being remodelled. He could stash her in the picturesque little cottage for tonight, then review his options.

  Without a car, or any cash or ID, she wouldn’t be able to get far. And it was close enough to his place on Seventeen Mile to be convenient.

  ‘You can stay there tonight—and I’ll bring over your stuff tomorrow.’

  When he planned to interrogate her—and find out exactly what she knew about Demarest.

  It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was taking her back to his place for the night. He had five bedrooms in the timber-and-glass beach house he’d bought a year ago, and it was a little more remote than Pacific Grove. But he’d kicked the idea into touch almost as soon as it had occurred to him.

  He rarely did sleepovers, even with women he was dating. And he’d sure as hell never had one he was planning to interrogate stay over. Plus, given his unpredictable reaction to Iona already, having her under his roof had the potential to turn a complication into a catastrophe.

  ‘And what if I don’t want to stay at your friend’s vacation rental in Pacific Grove?’ she demanded.

  ‘I turn you over to the cops,’ he said, not sure why he wasn’t doing that already. ‘Your choice.’

  The weighty silence told him what his passenger thought about the proposed sleeping arrangements.

  ‘Why are you even giving me the option?’ she said at last, the note of caution making it clear she’d accepted the lesser of two evils. ‘I could wreck the place to spite you.’

  Good question, and not one he wanted to answer.

  ‘True enough, but you’d be facing a lot more than a B and E charge when I caught you.’ He slanted her a long look, frustrated that he trusted her even though he didn’t want to—and letting every ounce of that frustration show. ‘And I would catch you.’

  Her musical voice didn’t pipe up again until they hit the coastal highway.

  ‘Fine, I’ll stay where you put me—until tomorrow. But only because I don’t have a choice.’ The Celtic mist of her accent did nothing to disguise the annoyance. ‘But I’m not your chiquita. So don’t get any funny ideas, Lancelot.’

  Zane’s fingers tensed on the wheel until he could feel the stitching on the leather biting into his palms.

  Gee, thanks, Ramirez.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE VICARIOUS PLEASURE at getting the final word didn’t last long when Montoya’s only response was the creak of leather—as he held the steering wheel in a death grip.

  Way to go, Iona. Why not draw attention to his reputation for charming women out of their knickers? Because that’s just what you want, to make this encounter personal.

  ‘Did Ram say something dumb about me?’ he asked after twenty seconds that had stretched over several lifetimes.

  Iona risked a glance at him. His eyes remained fixed on the road as if he were trying to burn off a layer of tarmac.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said carefully, feeling increasingly awkward. Why hadn’t she kept her smart mouth shut?

  With a face like that, the guy probably got hit on by supermodels—despite his less-than-charming personality—which meant snide remarks about being indifferent to his charms probably made her sound delusional.

  He sighed. ‘Ram’s got a big mouth
and he gets a kick out of busting my balls. Don’t pay any attention to him.’

  The knot of tension in Iona’s stomach released. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded embarrassed.

  ‘So you don’t have a reputation for charming the chiquitas out of their panties?’ she said, intrigued by his reaction.

  Instead of taking the bait, he laughed. The low rumble of amusement shivered down her spine and re-ignited the stupid pinpricks she’d been trying to forget.

  ‘I do,’ he conceded. ‘But I didn’t do a whole lot to earn it.’

  She didn’t believe him. Either he was being falsely modest, or he was lying. From the lazy, casually seductive tone he’d slipped into so effortlessly, she’d bet he could charm the average chiquita out of her panties from five hundred paces.

  ‘Ramirez tends to exaggerate my exploits.’ He protested a bit too much. ‘Because he’s been happily married for twenty-five years.’ He sent her a dimpled smile and the pinpricks were toast. ‘Don’t worry, Iona, you’re safe with me.’

  The pulse of awareness that warmed the air at his softly spoken guarantee had her nipples hardening under the thin black camisole. She folded her arms over the tell-tale buds and cursed the knee-jerk thought that she wouldn’t completely object to a little danger.

  ‘Good to know,’ she replied, trying to convince herself she was grateful he had no designs on her panties.

  Given her disastrous relationship history, the last thing she needed right now was to develop some ridiculous crush on Detective Sexy. She was already at enough of a disadvantage with the man.

  ‘So how did Demarest manage to relieve your old man of twenty-five grand?’ he asked, sliding effortlessly from charm offensive back to cop mode.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said, attempting to deflect the question. While she’d much rather be dealing with Montoya the cop, than Montoya the pantie charmer, she had no intention of revealing the grim details of her affair with Brad.

  ‘It’s not Demarest’s usual MO.’

  ‘What is his usual MO?’

  He paused, and she had the uneasy feeling he had seen right through the stalling tactic. ‘All the victims we questioned were women, mostly over fifty, recently divorced or widowed. He poses as a producer, gives them a line about casting them in his latest movie, sweetens the deal with a little recreational sex and then asks for an investment.’

  The flush spread up Iona’s throat at Montoya’s matter-of-fact statement. But she managed to choke back the urge to correct him.

  Sex with Brad had been the opposite of recreational, at least in her experience. He’d been rough and demanding, but because he’d been her ticket out of Kelross Glen, she’d wanted to please him. Her stomach sank to her toes, her scalp burning at the memory of how hard she’d tried. Hard enough to persuade herself she actually liked Brad.

  When Brad had dangled the carrot of knowing a wealthy benefactor in LA who might be keen to commission her artwork, she’d had no qualms about mentioning the opportunity to her Dad. But while her gullibility made her sick with shame, it was the way she’d let Brad use her in bed that made her feel sordid.

  ‘Demarest’s a sick bastard,’ Montoya continued. ‘The money’s not the main kick for him, it’s sleeping with the women he’s exploiting,’ Montoya hesitated. ‘Which is why I’m wondering how your old man fits into that? Where was the kick?’

  She flinched at the perceptive comment. Montoya wasn’t buying it. Had he guessed her father hadn’t been the real mark? And why did the thought that he might find out the truth only make her feel a thousand times more unclean?

  It really shouldn’t matter what this man knew or didn’t know. He was a stranger. And she didn’t even like him. In anything other than a hormonal sense, she added grudgingly.

  But somehow it did matter.

  ‘Demarest was going to make a tourist film for my dad,’ she said, remembering one of Brad’s earlier carrots—that her father hadn’t taken. ‘We have a gift shop in Kelross. Demarest suggested making a movie about the history of the place for US investors,’ she added. It had almost been true.

  ‘How long was this movie going to be?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ She scrabbled around trying to remember if Brad had even got that far with the con. ‘An hour, maybe.’

  ‘An hour? For twenty-five grand?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Your old man sounds like an easy mark.’

  Iona bristled, knowing she’d been the easiest mark of all. ‘He just doesn’t know much about movie making.’ And unfortunately neither did she.

  ‘Although it still seems kind of weird,’ Montoya murmured, the continued scepticism making her tense. ‘For there not to be a woman in there somewhere.’ He bumped his thumb against the steering wheel, the insistent tapping making Iona feel like Captain Hook listening to the tick-tock of the approaching crocodile. ‘What about your mother? Where does she fit into the picture?’

  The question was so unexpected, she answered without thinking. ‘Nowhere. She ran off when I was small. We haven’t seen her since.’

  The recently eaten burger turned over as the ugly truth made her feel suddenly vulnerable, scraping at an old wound. A scabbed over, forgotten wound that she thought had healed years ago.

  ‘That’s tough.’ Montoya’s gruff condolence only made her feel more exposed.

  ‘Not that tough. I can barely remember her,’ she lied, ashamed of having revealed too much, too easily.

  She curled away from him, gazed at the stars sprinkled over the dark line of the cliffs, and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of her mother—so beautiful, so careless and so indifferent.

  Don’t think about her. You’ve got quite enough to deal with already.

  Fatigue made her eyelids gritty. She blinked furiously, determined to stay awake. She couldn’t afford to give into sleep yet, because that would mean trusting Montoya and she’d known ever since she was a child she shouldn’t trust anyone.

  And her experience with Brad had only confirmed that.

  Montoya didn’t offer any more useless platitudes or ask any more probing questions. Something she was pathetically grateful for as she pressed her cheek into the soft leather, listened to the soothing hum of the car’s engine—and plummeted into a dreamless sleep.

  Zane braked gently in the driveway of the small cottage—and studied his sleeping passenger.

  She’d dropped off like a stone an hour ago, and hadn’t made a sound since. The engine stilled and the only sound was the chirp of crickets and night crawlers and the distant hum of a passing car. He unclicked her seatbelt, eased it over her bare shoulder and got a lungful of her scent.

  The fresh fragrance of baby talc and some flowery soap mixed with the sultry scent of her invaded his senses, and the inevitable pulse of arousal hit.

  He tensed, annoyed with his inability to control the response. The cottage’s nightlight illuminated her pale face and the varying shades of red in her unruly hair. The thick lashes resting on her cheeks and the even breathing made her look impossibly young. The heat subsided as he imagined her as a kid, losing her mother. The dart of sympathy was sharp and undeniable.

  What would he have done if Maria had abandoned him? And she’d had more cause than any mother.

  He shook his head, to dispel the thought.

  Don’t make this personal, Montoya. You’re having enough trouble keeping a professional distance.

  He didn’t even know how old she was. Or how much of her story was true.

  And exactly how mixed up with Demarest was she? She’d lied to him about the con. He’d spotted it straight away, the hitch in her breathing, the hesitation as she stumbled over the explanation. Had she been the mark all along? Was that why she’d been so determined to get her father’s money back? Because she felt responsible for the loss? Exactly how much danger had she put herself in, while tracking Demarest?

  And why did the thought of that bother him so much?

  She wasn’t his problem, not in the
long-term.

  He retrieved the key buried in the glove compartment. Then thrust a hand through his hair as it occurred to him he was glad she was here tonight, and under his protection, instead of back at that seedy motel.

  He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger door and stared at her cuddled into the seat. he should shake her awake, get her to go into the cottage under her own steam, but she looked so peaceful, he couldn’t do it.

  Without giving himself too much time to think, he scooped her into his arms.

  The sultry scent enveloped him as he carried her onto the cottage’s porch. She let out a puff of breath and her soft hair brushed against his chin as she burrowed into his chest like a thrusting child.

  He fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with his foot and stepped into the dark interior, an emotion he didn’t like banding across his chest.

  She didn’t stir as he placed her on the small queen-size in the cottage’s only bedroom, untied the laces on her combat boots and slipped them off, then covered her with the throw before he got fixated on the slow rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tank.

  He found a note pad in the kitchen, scribbled a note and pinned it to the corkboard above the fridge. Unplugging the phone and tucking it under his arm, he walked out of the door, closing and locking it behind him. Then dropped the key through the letter slot.

  As he drove back to his place he sent a voicemail to Nate’s business line, to inform him of his new house guest, and left one with his PA.

  If they didn’t pick up Demarest tonight, he was diverting every free man he had to the case tomorrow. He needed to get this damn case closed, before it got any more complicated.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stay put, I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you what’s going to happen next.

  Montoya

  IONA RAN HER fingers through her damp curls, tucked the towel between her breasts and glared at the thick black writing—particularly the shouty capitals.

  Where did Detective Sexy get off giving her orders like a pet dog?