Читать книгу Too Close for Comfort - Heidi Rice - Страница 8

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?

No one told her what to do. She’d been taking care of herself since she was ten years old. And taking care of her dad too. And okay, maybe she hadn’t exactly been doing a stellar job of it of late, but that hardly gave him the right to treat her as if she were his to command.

And what exactly did he mean by ‘to tell you what’s going to happen next’?

She struggled to hold on to her indignation and ignore the little blip of disappointment at the fact that so far the only person she’d seen was one of his detectives. A rotund guy called Jim with a gruff but friendly manner, who’d woken her up an hour ago to deliver a bag of groceries, her rucksack—conspicuously minus her purse and passport—and the news that Mr Montoya was busy with the case but would be in touch later in the day.

Pulling the note off the corkboard, she scrunched it up and dumped it in the kitchen bin. Well, hooray for Mr Montoya—it must be nice to get to order everyone around like a demigod.

Goosebumps rose on her arms. She marched back into the cottage’s tiny living area and grabbed fresh underwear, jeans and a T-shirt from her rucksack. He’d better bring her passport when he showed up or there would be trouble. Returning to the compact bedroom, she hunted around for her boots, then stopped dead when she spotted them—placed neatly together on the rug by the bedside table, the laces undone.

Her heartbeat bumped her throat as a picture formed in her mind’s eye. The picture she’d been holding at bay ever since she’d been woken up by the sound of knocking at the front door, snuggled cosy and content and well rested under a clean quilt that smelled pleasantly of fabric conditioner.

The picture of Montoya carrying her into the cottage, taking off her boots and then covering her with said quilt.

The pulse of reaction skittered up her spine, making the pinpricks shimmer back to life and party with the goosebumps.

She swallowed heavily, trying to ease the ache in her throat.

The thought of being fast asleep in his arms was disturbing enough, but much worse was the thought of him putting her to bed so carefully.

When was the last time anyone had bothered to treat her with that much care and attention? Her father had been unable to care for himself after her mother left, let alone her. So at ten years old, she’d become the parent—caring for both of them while he struggled to pull himself back from the brink of depression. She’d had a few boyfriends before Brad, but they’d been young and reckless—providing nothing more than the easy thrill of youthful companionship. And as for her brief liaison with Brad, well Brad had been a user, always quick to take, never willing to give.

Big deal. He just took your boots off for you.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she grabbed one of the boots and shoved it on, staunching the ridiculous tide of her thoughts.

Zane Montoya didn’t care about her; he just cared about his case. And she didn’t care about him either. So why was she turning one moment of consideration into a primetime drama?

She returned to the kitchenette and began taking the groceries out of the brown paper bag Jim had delivered, determined to put the moment of vulnerability behind her and concentrate on finding a solution to her situation.

She almost wept with joy when she found a tin of coffee. She filled the kettle, looking out of the window to find a sweet little patio garden carpeted with climbing vines. As the rich smell of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, a strange contentment settled over her.

The cottage was tiny, but so clean and pretty—and completely adorable compared to the dives she’d been forced to stay in of late. Pouring herself a steaming cup, she smiled as a hummingbird fluttered into view and settled over the bright yellow pegonias in the window box, and began gathering nectar in its long beak. Putting down the mug, she rushed back into the living room and dug out her art supplies, her palms itching to detail the blurred lines of the bird’s movement in the static medium of paper and graphite. Settling in front of the kitchen window, she sketched furiously, trying to capture as much as she could before the bird disappeared. As the hummingbird flitted from flower to flower and the clear lines began to form on the heavy paper the leaden feeling of failure that had bowed her shoulders for so long began to lift.

She relaxed as the bird flew off, and gazed at her drawings. More than enough to create a detailed watercolour later. Refilling her now lukewarm coffee, she took a muffin out of the deli-bag on the counter and realised that for the first time in a long time she felt the bright sheen of possibility peeking out from under the dead weight of failure.

And she had Detective Sexy to thank for that.

When he appeared, she would be conciliatory instead of combative. The truth was, she’d been aggressive and unnecessarily snotty with him last night. Because she’d been exhausted, hungry and terrified—she might as well admit it. But she’d had her first full night’s sleep in weeks. Which meant she owed Montoya—however high-handed he’d been with his little note.

But once she’d thanked Montoya and was on her own again, the bigger picture was more complicated. Still, now she was well rested her prospects didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had seemed last night.

She had some money left and a work visa that lasted another five months. There was no reason why she couldn’t look for a better place to live now, away from the seedy motels Brad frequented. And perhaps sell a few more sketches. She’d managed to sell all the hand-painted postcards she’d produced in the cafés along Morro Bay’s Main Street, but keeping an eye on Brad’s motel room had meant she hadn’t had time to replenish her work. But now she was free of Brad-surveillance she could actually devote herself to finding a decent job and spend her evenings sketching. Monterey was supposed to be arty and bohemian—as well as being a tourist mecca. Surely there were bound to be places she could sell her stuff and look for a job. The summer season was only weeks away, so casual work shouldn’t be too hard to find.

The most important thing of all, and the main reason she’d come to America to track Brad, was to stop her dad from ever finding out that he’d been conned again by someone he trusted. And while she most likely wouldn’t be able to get him his money back, she could still achieve that much.

She’d told her father she was travelling to LA at Brad’s invitation, that her ‘new man’ had come through with his promises of a showcase for her work. Even though the lie had nearly choked her at the time, it had kept her father happy. And while getting a gallery showing had always been a foolish pipe dream, in five months if she worked hard and applied herself she might be able to return home with at least some money to replace what her father had lost—and a small degree of success to show for his bogus investment.

She frowned as she grabbed another muffin. But first she had to convince Montoya she was of no significance to his case. To do that, she needed to be polite and cooperative—and keep things impersonal.

Wiping the crumbs off the surface and rinsing out her coffee mug, she picked up her sketch pad again, feeling almost euphoric. Until Montoya arrived, she planned to indulge herself and do what she loved for a change.

Zane tucked the cottage’s phone under his arm and rapped on the front door. The early evening light beamed off polished wood but as he peered inside it was obvious there was no one in the front room.

He rolled his shoulders as the muscles cramped. He hoped she’d done as she was told and stayed put. After the day he’d put in already, the last thing he needed now was to have to scour Pacific Grove for her.

The original plan had been to swing by first thing that morning. But after having his night’s sleep disturbed by way too many sweaty dreams involving firm breasts, wide caramel-coloured eyes, worn tank tops and full kissable lips glossy with burger grease, he’d held off, and sent Jim to deliver the groceries instead.

Iona MacCabe had an unpredictable effect on him, and until he figured out what—if anything—he was going to do about it, keeping his distance was the smart choice.

Then the case had exploded at ten when Demarest had shown up at the Morro Motel—and all hell had broken loose. Zane had been tied up with the Morro Bay PD for the rest of the day, handing over the case files and contacting the LAPD to make sure Demarest got transferred there before the day was out. As a courtesy, Stone and Ramirez had let him observe their interrogations. He massaged the back of his neck to ease the tension headache that had been building ever since.

Just as he’d guessed after their original profiling, in the interview Demarest had been slick and supremely arrogant. But he soon lost control under pressure, and proved how volatile and dangerous he was.

Zane shuddered. What the hell had Iona been thinking breaking into the guy’s room? What would have happened to her, if it had been Demarest who’d caught her last night and not him? At some point he planned to give her a damn good talking to about personal safety.

The thought of any woman being at the guy’s mercy had sickened him—but worse had been the moment when they’d questioned Demarest about his trip to Scotland. Demarest had laughed and boasted about the Scottish girl who’d been ‘begging for it’ and Zane had been forced to walk out—the urge to leap through the mirrored partition and strangle the guy triggering the sickening memory that had haunted him most of his adult life.

He eased the kinks out of his shoulders and rapped again.

He should be feeling great now. Six months’ work had finally paid off and Montoya Investigations was in line for a nice fat bonus payment. Plus his firm had been instrumental in catching one of the nastiest and most parasitic low lives in California and bringing him to book. But somehow it didn’t feel like enough—because it could never undo the damage the bastard had done.

He squinted through the clouded glass again, and a little of the tension dissolved as he spotted the petite silhouette coming to the door from the back of the house. Then the door swung open and the punch of lust hit full force.

The setting sun glinted on her hair, highlighting the different shades of red, and making her skin almost transparent. Her rich caramel eyes glowed with energy, and, while the wary caution of the night before was still there, the bruised shadows underneath were gone. In a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that hugged the generous breasts he recalled a little too well pressing against his forearm, her feet encased in the boots he’d taken off her the night before, she should have looked like a tomboy. She didn’t.

‘Hello, Mr Montoya. Sorry I didn’t hear you knocking—I was in the back garden.’ The Celtic lilt and the hitch in her breathing called to his inner caveman.

Down, Montoya. You’re here on business. Not pleasure. However tempted you might be to stray over that line.

He noticed the pad under her arm, which was covered in a series of intricate drawings of a small bird.

‘You’re an artist?’ he asked, although the answer was obvious from the quality of the work.

‘Yes, I…’ She shrugged. ‘I specialise in drawing flora and fauna. It’s a passion of mine.’

She stumbled over the word passion and two pink flags appeared on her cheekbones, making the sprinkle of freckles on her nose more vivid.

‘A passion, huh?’ he said, not quite able to hold back the grin when she squirmed. So he wasn’t the only one struggling to remain professional.

Good to know.

‘Come in, Mr Montoya,’ she said, the cool, polite tone disconcerting as she stepped back and held the door open. He wondered what had happened to the firebrand he’d met last night.

‘The name’s Zane.’ He dumped the phone on the coffee table. ‘I brought this in case you want to call your father. You got the groceries okay this morning?’

‘Yes, you should tell me what I owe you for them,’ she said, the cool tone turning chilly. ‘Although it’s going to be hard to pay you without my purse.’

He tugged her purse and passport out of his back pocket. But when she reached for them, he lifted them above her head. ‘Not so fast. I’ll need your word you’re not going to run off.’

The beguiling almond-shaped eyes narrowed. And the firebrand came out of hiding.

‘And what would you be needing my word for?’ she asked, propping her hands on her hips and making her breasts flatten against the tight T-shirt. ‘If you don’t believe a single thing I say?’

‘It’ll go some way to putting my suspicious mind at rest,’ he said, enjoying the view probably a bit too much.

The fire in her eyes flared. ‘Is it just me you don’t trust?’ she asked her tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘Or do you have this low an opinion of all women, Mr Montoya?’

He choked out a laugh. No one had ever accused him of that before. Especially not a woman. But then Iona MacCabe was turning out to be an original in more ways than one.

His gaze wandered over her face and he watched with satisfaction as her cheeks pinkened. ‘On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of women.’

The pulse of awareness warmed the air as her cheeks heated to a dull red. And pert nipples protruded against the T-shirt.

It was a crisp spring evening outside, but the sun shining through the cottage’s front window meant the atmosphere was warm and close.

She crossed her arms to cover the stiff buds.

Too late, your secret’s out, querida. You’re no more immune to me than I am to you.

‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I can’t think of a single thing about women I don’t enjoy.’

Professionalism be damned. Iona McCabe was too cute to resist flirting with.

‘So perhaps we should start over—and forget about last night.’ He held out his hand. ‘Zane Montoya, at your service.’

Suspicion clouded her eyes, but then she thrust her slim hand into his much larger, much darker one. He clasped her fingers for barely a second, the handshake quick and impersonal, but the cool, soft touch of her skin contrasted sharply with the arrow of heat that darted straight to his groin.

She stuffed her hand into the back pocket of the jeans. But her pupils dilated with something he recognised only too well, before her gaze flickered away.

You felt it too.

Endorphins flowed freely through his system. He’d always been a connoisseur of women, in all their myriad and wonderful varieties. Which was why he didn’t have a type. But for some reason, this girl hit all his happy buttons, without even trying.

And he was through fighting it.

As of today, Demarest was in a cell and would be for a very long time. The case was closed as far as Montoya Investigations was concerned. So there was no professional reason why he shouldn’t push a few of her happy buttons right back.

‘I’ve got some news on the case, Iona,’ he said, planning to ask her if she wanted to discuss it over dinner, but before he could say any more her head shot up.

‘News about Brad?’

He frowned, his happy buttons not feeling all that happy any more. ‘We picked him up at ten this morning. He’s in a cell facing more charges than he can count.’

‘I see.’ Her voice sounded casual, but then she fixed him with that cautious gaze and he knew it wasn’t. ‘Did he have any of my dad’s money on him?’

He shook his head and her face fell.

‘Right.’ She looked down, but not before he saw the shadow of distress.

He shoved his hand into his pocket, resisting the urge to run his finger down her cheek, and stroke the distress away.

For one tense moment he thought she might cry. But then she seemed to pull herself back from the brink.

‘Well, I guess this is where we part company, then, Montoya,’ she murmured.

Something tugged hard under his breastbone. And that surprised him.

The threat of female tears didn’t usually faze him, but there was something about Iona McCabe’s stoicism—and those sultry eyes, so large and wary in her small face—that had fazed him.

She let out a weighty sigh. ‘Do you think it would be okay for me to stay here another night? I could pay any rent that’s due.’

His sympathy dissolved. She looked scared but defiant, like a puppy who expected to be kicked but was determined not to yelp.

He didn’t deserve that.

He trusted her. In fact, she sort of fascinated him. She was feisty and unpredictable And refreshingly transparent and he hadn’t been able to get his mind off her, even though he’d tried. But it was real clear that however attracted she might be to him, she didn’t trust him. And while he’d understood her animosity last night, he was finding it hard not to take it personally now.

‘Damn it, Iona, you can stay here as long as you need.’ In fact, he planned to insist on it. She might think she was safe, but he knew different. A woman alone was always vulnerable, but especially a woman as impulsive as her. ‘And there’s no charge—the place was empty anyway.’

‘Why would you do that? I’m not your responsibility.’ She sounded genuinely confused, making his annoyance increase.

‘Because, weirdly enough, I’m not the kind of guy who kicks women when they’re down.’ Unlike your pal Brad.

‘Okay, well, thank you, I appreciate not having to leave tonight,’ she said. But then her chin stuck out in a stubborn show of strength. ‘But I’ll make sure I’m gone by tomorrow.’

I don’t think so. Not until I’m sure you’ll be safe.

He bit back the retort, seeing the mutinous expression on her face. In his experience, pushing her only made her push back. And anyhow, he didn’t want to argue with her. Not tonight.

‘How about we talk about it over dinner in Santa Cruz? I know a place that does the best enchiladas on the West Coast.’

Her face went completely blank for a second and she blinked, her eyes going round with astonishment.

That had sure shut her up.

‘You’re n-not serious?’ she stammered, her accent thickening.

Damn, she’s even cuter when she’s flustered.

Had Detective Sexy just asked her on a date? Or was she hallucinating?

‘I’m always serious about Manuel’s enchiladas,’ he replied, while the tempting glint in his eye implied the opposite. ‘My treat,’ he continued, apparently not the least bit bothered by her shock.

But then she suspected he was probably used to that reaction from women.

What with that devastating face—not to mention that subtle I-can-have-you-any-time-I-want-you smile—she already knew he was an expert at charming women out of their panties. She’d only got a glimpse of his charm the night before—but she was standing in the full glare of it now, and getting a little light-headed.

Then she made the mistake of drawing a breath into her lungs. The fresh scent of laundry soap, a zesty hint of aftershave and something musky and entirely masculine drifted up her nostrils.

Good Lord, he’s got so many let’s-get-naked hormones pumping off him, I can actually smell them.

She pressed her arms into her breasts as her traitorous nipples began to ache.

‘But why…?’ she began, struggling to come up with a coherent response.

He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Because I’m starving, querida. Aren’t you?’

His breath feathered her earlobe and sent the pinpricks careering down her neck and straight into her nether regions. She drew her head back, and got fixated on those penetrating blue eyes. She didn’t answer the question, because she was fairly certain they weren’t talking about enchiladas any more.