Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10

by Tracey Alvarez

  Suddenly the collar of his uniform shirt felt as if it had shrunk a size, constricting his throat, cutting off his supply of breathable air. He swallowed hard and picked up a pen from the desk, clenching it in his fist. He clicked the pen’s nib in and out a few times before tossing it aside. As a cop and a pretty good poker player, he knew all about tells.

  Apparently, so did Tilly.

  “Noah?” The soft concern laced through his name plucked at the thread that would unravel him. And he couldn’t let himself become unraveled. Not again.

  He forced a smirk onto his mouth and leaned back in his office chair with folded arms. “So you want to steal my life for a TV script?”

  “Bits of it, kinda. You know, the interesting parts.” Tilly aimed an encouraging smile in his direction. “Like how you handle conflict differently here than you would in the city. It’s not like you can call for immediate backup if things get out of hand. You must’ve had, like, a crash course in peacekeeping.”

  He snorted. “Something like that.”

  “I’d change anything you told me or anything I saw so that no one’s privacy would be invaded.”

  “Now you’re wheedling.” And it was pretty cute, especially if you added in the way her breasts squeezed up between her arms as she leaned on his desk.

  “I could do some ride-alongs with you. Maybe play with your siren on the way.” She quirked her eyebrows and sent him a smile chock-full of wickedness.

  “Really? That’s your best pitch?” He hoped his voice came out deadpan instead of desperately wanting to say hell yeah.

  “It’ll be fun,” she said. “You and me, chasing bad guys down blind alleys and busting up crack houses. Drinking coffee and eating donuts—my treat, of course. We’d be like Beckett and Castle on the show. Except you’d be Beckett the detective, and I’d be Castle the mystery writer, or in this case, scriptwriter.”

  “Uh-huh.” Though he couldn’t prevent his mouth from turning up in a grin at her enthusiasm. “You’ve had way too much screen time.”

  “You remind me of a young Nathan Fillion.”

  He rose slowly from his chair and braced both palms on his desk.

  “Take that back,” he fake growled at her.

  Her hazel eyes danced with mirth. “No can do. Though he is prettier than you. Sorry.” She tilted her head. “So this ride-along, it’s a go?”

  “It’s not usual protocol to have a civilian with me.”

  “Protocol, schmotocol. Whaddya say?” She reached into her bag and withdrew a business card, sliding it across his desk to him. “My cell number. Give me a call.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She must’ve figured giving him some space was the wisest option as she gathered up her bike helmet and stood. “Excellent. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She strolled to the doorway, turning back to deliver another sunny smile that sucked all available oxygen from the room and combusted it into an explosion of heat that slammed into him. “You can have almost as much fun bending the rules as breaking them. See you later.”

  He sank back into his seat, watching the sweet sway of her denim-covered ass as she strode out of the station.

  Scrubbing his fingertips along his jaw—he’d somehow forgotten to shave this morning so his stubble prickled—he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. Tilly was enough temptation to bend then break every rule he’d constructed around his heart for the past six years.

  Chapter 9

  From Mary Duncan’s secret journal:

  I don’t need a whole bunch of female friends, just one who’ll kick my backside when required. One who’ll provide a shoulder to cry on. And maybe two or three who can carry me home after one too many G&Ts.

  * * *

  After Tilly had sashayed her mad negotiating self out of the little police station, she took a moment to flake against the outside wall and catch her breath.

  Phew!

  That hadn’t quite gone the way she’d earlier played the scene out in her head. The Tilly in her imagination had swept into Noah’s lair with cool professionalism, made her case with precise, calculated logic, garnered his agreement after a short negotiating discussion in which she’d dazzled him with her creative reasoning, then swept back out of his office secure in her awesome persuasion skills.

  Ehhhh…wrong.

  She’d been anything but professional and he’d been anything but agreeable. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away a few beads of nervous sweat. Her face felt hot enough to fry eggs for a whole family, and butterflies and bats swooped around her stomach. The winged brigade was fueled by the little zaps of awareness shooting through her as she re-pictured her first glimpse of buff, bad-ass Noah looking all official and sinfully doable behind his desk. The bats—not as pleasantly ticklish as the butterflies—beat their leathery wings in time with her racing pulse.

  Something she’d said had bumped into one of the man’s sore spots.

  She’d seen it in his eyes as the walls came down, and she didn’t think it was the idea of them spending time together. He was interested in her on a personal level—an I want to get to know you better and by better I mean naked level—but she suspected the walls hid parts of himself that he wouldn’t be willing to share.

  And damn her natural curiosity, but now she wanted even more to find out what made Noah Daniels tick.

  After her heart rate had finally returned to normal, Tilly mounted her trusty two-wheeled steed and pedaled into town. It was once again a beautiful autumn day. She coasted along the main road, smiling inanely at the squabbling seagulls fighting over a crust of bread on the sand. Out in the harbor, only a few boats bobbed on the gentle waves, most of the charter and tour boats gone for the day, she guessed. They’d be loaded with people feverishly hoping to catch a glimpse of Stewart Island’s wildlife, which according to tourist brochures included sea lions, rare birds, and of course, the great white sharks. One of the biggest attractions was the kiwi, Stewart Island being the only place the iconic bird wasn’t endangered. Seeing one was most definitely on her bucket list.

  But in the meantime, lunch.

  Tilly hopped off Scotty outside Due South and wheeled it into one of the available bike stands. She found a quiet, comfy spot in the corner of the pub and ordered a bowl of seasoned wedges with extra sour cream from the stupidly handsome bartender. Only a few other people sat drinking and noshing on pub food—which smelled a-mah-zing—none of whom Tilly knew.

  While she waited for a plate of carbs that didn’t count because she’d been cleaning then cycling that morning, she slipped Mary’s journal from her bag. Before she could open it, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. The number displayed on the screen was unfamiliar, but she knew immediately who it was from.

  Noah: Ride along = bad idea. But at least you have my number now in case of a kākā emergency.

  Bad idea? She skewered the phone screen with a slitted glare and stuffed it back into her bag. She’d see about that.

  Tilly flipped open Mary’s journal to a bookmark and skimmed through a dry description of the political climate of 1965 until she spotted Jim’s name on the page again. She felt her mouth curving up as Mary drew her into her story of the ongoing flirtation developing as Mary walked past the construction site each day to buy her lunch. Either her great-aunt had inherited a creative writing gene or she’d an uncanny memory, as on a couple of occasions Tilly had to bite her lip to prevent a burst of giggles erupting. Who knew Mary had such a sharp wit? Poor Jim wouldn’t have known what had hit him.

  “Good book?” asked a voice from right beside her elbow.

  Tilly started, slapping the book shut in one smooth motion. Her gaze shot sideways—and up—to a tall woman with a piercing stare. Piper, she remembered. The ex-cop. Perfect.

  “It’s my great-aunt’s journal,” she said, then gestured to an empty seat at her table. “Want to join me? I’ve got wedges coming.”

  Piper’s face crumpled into
a whatever expression, but it was a friendly enough whatever, and she slid into a chair. “Don’t mind if I do.” After a beat, Piper said, “I’m sorry about your aunt. She was a sweetheart and a real character.”

  “Thanks.” Tilly laid a hand on the journal. “I didn’t know her as well as I should’ve. But it’s nice to let her tell me her story in her words.”

  “We all have a story.”

  “What’s Noah’s?” The question popped out of her like a cork from a bottle.

  Piper’s stare turned sharp.

  “I mean professionally,” Tilly added before the other woman could speak. “I’m a scriptwriter working on a cop character for a show. I’m interested in what you think of Noah on a professional one-police-officer-to-another professional level.”

  “Uh-huh.” Piper leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Because that’s your interest in Noah—professional. You said professional twice in one breath, you know.”

  “Did I?”

  “Uh-huh,” Piper said again. The friendliness of her expression had shuttered to a bland mask.

  Heat exploded onto Tilly’s face and her stomach lurched down to her shoes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I asked him to take me on a drive-along this morning so I could find out more about him, but he wasn’t very forthcoming.”

  “He’s not a forthcoming kind of man.”

  “No kidding. He’s a vault.” Tilly crinkled her nose. “And he didn’t give much away when we had dinner the other night—other than his father and brothers are in the police force, too.”

  “He’s a good cop.”

  A pretty redhead with a wide smile and a big bowl of delicious-smelling wedges appeared at their table. “Who is? Are we talking about Noah?”

  The woman had an American accent, and while Tilly was speed-flipping through her internal notebook of accents to guess what part of the US the woman originally came from, the redhead slid into another of the empty seats.

  “Please join us, oh sister-in-law to be.” Piper rolled her eyes. “And yeah, we were talking about Noah.”

  “He’s a cutie,” the redhead said. “If I weren’t marrying that big lug back there”—she flicked a glance back at the bar—“I’d lick him up like melting hokey pokey ice cream.”

  Piper tipped her head in introduction. “This is Carly, my husband’s oversharing little sister.”

  Carly shot out a hand to her with another huge smile. “Pleased to meetcha, Tilly.”

  Tilly shook her hand. “Does everyone on this island know my name before we’ve been introduced?”

  “Everyone knew your name, your family history, and probably your preferred brand of toothpaste five minutes after you walked off the ferry,” Carly said.

  Piper laughed. “True dat.”

  Tilly picked up a potato wedge and swiped it through the small bowl of sour cream. “Have you ever worked with Noah?”

  Piper’s eyebrows rose. “Officially? Yeah, once. When I first arrived back in Oban there was an incident with one of the locals, Gavin Reynolds, going missing in the harbor.”

  Reynolds? Noah had said something about a Pete Reynolds. “A relative of Pete Reynolds?”

  “His youngest son.” Piper seemed impressed that Tilly was clued up on the local who’s who. “Noah coordinated the search and worked brilliantly with the dive squad who arrived to hunt for him in the harbor and surrounding bays.”

  “Did they find Gavin?”

  Fine lines appeared around Piper’s mouth as her lips thinned. “I found him. That was the last dive I did for the police, the last death by drowning I wanted to be involved with. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  Carly reached across the table, bypassing the plate of wedges, and gripped Piper’s hand. “You gave him back to his family. That means a lot.”

  Tilly dropped the uneaten wedge back into the bowl, her appetite momentarily gone. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be doing that sort of job. You’re very brave.”

  Piper’s flatlined gaze met hers. “I only returned the dead, I didn’t prevent the tragedies from happening in the first place like Noah used to. That’s bravery.”

  Noah used to prevent tragedies? Drowning tragedies?

  Tilly leaned toward Piper with her best politely interested but not nosy expression on her face. “Oh? Was Noah a police diver, too?”

  Piper’s forehead wrinkled. “What? No. He—” Her mouth snapped shut and she pointed a finger at Tilly. “Aha. You’re a slippery one, aren’t you?”

  Carly did a tennis spectator imitation between them. “Noah moved here to get away from big city crime, didn’t he, Pipe? He likes the peace and quiet, the laid-back lifestyle. That’s all.”

  “Yep. Write up a few parking violations, keep the peace when things get a bit rowdy in here, cups of tea with the octogenarian brigade, and the odd domestic callout. Peace and quiet.”

  Carly had obviously swallowed Noah’s propaganda without questioning. Tilly? Not so much. Especially after Piper’s teeny-tiny slip. Heart slamming sickly against her rib cage, she picked up the sour-cream-smothered wedge and nibbled it.

  Piper helped herself to a wedge and sour cream. She paused, the wedge halfway to her mouth—which was curved in a cheeky smile. “But now you’re practically next door to Noah, maybe things won’t be so peacefully quiet for him.”

  Carly did the zip-zapping gaze between them again and also helped herself to a wedge. “Oooh.” She pointed the wedge at Tilly. “Like that, is it? Good job. The man needs a bit of a nudge so far as romance goes.”

  Tilly nearly choked on her mouthful of potato. She swallowed hard and purposefully. “Somethin’ somethin’ with Noah is not on my agenda. I’m only here for a few weeks.”

  Carly and Piper exchanged amused glances.

  “That’s all it takes, honey buns.” Carly stood and brushed her hands down her server’s apron. “I’ll go fetch you two a drink while Piper tells you her and West’s origin story.”

  As she walked away, Tilly heard her snicker and say, “Few weeks. Hah!”

  Tilly Montgomery was persistent, he’d give her that. Subtle, though, she wasn’t.

  He guessed a part of him had known she’d ignore his text, so for the next two days he’d been tailed at a distance by a brunette on a bicycle. Unsubtle as hell. Wherever he’d gone, she’d pedaled her ass off behind him keeping up. When he’d been flagged down by a tourist outside Due South claiming his new iPhone had been stolen, Tilly had positioned herself close by, supposedly to take photos of the historic hotel.

  Not even his best you’re on thin ice glare seemed to faze her. She’d just smiled at him and raised her phone again. She’d also trailed after him and the tourist as they retraced the man’s steps through Due South’s restaurant—and waited huffily outside the men’s bathroom, where Noah discovered the phone on top of a stall’s toilet paper dispenser.

  “Nicely done, constable,” she’d said as Noah waved goodbye to the red-faced tourist and climbed back into his ute.

  He’d sent her a sour glance and buzzed the window up. Which didn’t prevent the sound of her laughter reaching his ears.

  When he’d driven home for the evening, he finally lost her. He imagined her huffing and puffing up the hill in hot pursuit, and he was tempted to wait by his vehicle just to smirk. But did he really want to pursue Tilly? To hotly pursue her? He raked a hand through his hair, swore, and went inside to shower off the day. He made it a cold shower, too.

  It cleared his brain, and after a solo dinner of last night’s leftovers, he stretched out on his couch with a book to while away the hours until he could hit the sack without feeling like a total loser for being in bed before ten. It took longer than usual for the words to drag him away from himself, but eventually he was sucked into another world—until the shrill tone of his phone hauled him back to reality.

  He picked it up, squinting at the screen. He’d already added Tilly’s number to his address book earlier that day—yeah, it was
a move he didn’t want to think too closely about—and it was her name showing. She was ringing him at 10:37 p.m.? A late-night booty call, maybe?

  He grinned at the phone and answered it on speaker. “Hey, Til. ’Sup?”

  “There’s someone creeping around outside,” the voice on the phone whispered. “I can hear them in the bushes.”

  Tilly’s voice sounded muffled, as if she used her hand to cover the phone’s speaker. Noah stretched out his legs and propped them on his coffee table. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Aunt Mary’s closet.”

  “You’re hiding in a closet?”

  “Well, the bathroom has windows,” she said impatiently. “The perp could see where I am.”

  The perp? Noah pressed his lips together to smother a grin. “Sensible. We have had a crime spree of Peeping Toms lately. Still don’t know who he is, but he seems to favor brunettes wearing fancy lingerie.”

  “Not helping, Noah.” Tilly sounded even more breathless.

  “What sort of lingerie are you wearing?”

  There was a beat of silence. Loaded silence. “I’m not wearing any lingerie and this is serious. Someone is outside my house—aren’t you going to come and check it out?”

  Not wearing lingerie? His imagination provided the rest. He kicked his feet off the coffee table and stood. “I’m on my way. You can come out of the closet now.”

  She must’ve heard the laughter in his voice as she muttered, “Bite me,” and disconnected.