‘Now, stop arguing with me or I’ll kick you out of the car and leave you in the middle of nowhere.’

It was an empty threat. He wouldn’t do that to any woman—especially not one who had no money, no ID, who’d just bolted down a burger as if she hadn’t eaten in days and had eyes like Bambi.

But instead of being cowed she stuck her chin out. ‘Fine. Dump me here if you want. I’ve no got a problem with that.’

Damn, she was actually serious.

What kind of guys had she been dealing with? Then he thought of the seedy motel and had a pretty good idea.

‘Yeah? Well, unfortunately I do.’

‘Then take me back to the motel. I’ll get my stuff and stay somewhere else.’

Maybe it was the flinty determination in her voice, or the way her gaze never wavered, but he wanted to believe her.

Which only made him sure he shouldn’t. Ten years on the force had taught him that trust was a dangerous thing—and following your gut instead of having proof could get you killed.

He slid the car into Reverse. ‘Forget it. You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you.’

About the Author

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com, or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Recent titles by the same author:

ONE NIGHT, SO PREGNANT!

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE WILD

ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF CHRISTMAS

CUPCAKES AND KILLER HEELS

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Too Close
for Comfort
Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks go to fellow authors Scarlet Wilson and Libby Mercer for their help in making my Scottish heroine and my Californian hero sound real (I hope).

And to the lovely Roberto, who gave me an invaluable insight into the culture and traditions of California’s Mexican-American community—any mistakes in the portrayal are entirely mine.

CHAPTER ONE

‘HEY, MITCH, WAS there anything on a kid in Demarest’s file? About five-two or-three, hundred and ten pounds?’

Zane Montoya squinted into the shadows of the motel parking lot, trying to make out any other usable details. But whoever the kid was, he was being real careful not to stray into the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, making the fine hairs on Zane’s neck prickle. He’d been staking out Brad Demarest’s motel room for five hours—taking over right after Mitch had called in with the flu—and Montoya Investigations had been on the guy’s tail for six months now. Getting the tip that this by-the-hour motel on the outskirts of Morro Bay was Demarest’s latest bolt hole had been their first break in weeks. And his gut was telling him the kid was casing the joint. And he didn’t like it, because if Demarest showed up the last thing Zane needed was some little troublemaker alerting the guy to their presence—or, worse, spooking him before they could do a citizen’s arrest.

‘Is this kid a girl or a boy?’ Mitch’s voice croaked.

‘Don’t you think I would have…?’ Zane’s frustrated whisper cut off as the kid stepped back and the yellow glow of the streetlamp illuminated a sprinkle of freckles, vivid red-and-gold curls springing out from under a low-riding ball cap and the curve of a full breast beneath the skintight black tank she wore over camo trousers and boots. ‘It’s a girl.’

A girl who had to be up to no good. Why else would she be dressed up like GI Jane?

‘Make that a young woman—eighteen to twenty-five—Caucasian with red shoulder-length hair.’

The girl melted into the shadows as he tried to picture the intriguing features he’d glimpsed on a mugshot.

‘She doesn’t look familiar,’ he murmured, more to himself than Mitch.

He’d reread Demarest’s file while gorging himself on the endless supply of junk food Mitch had stashed in the glove compartment, but he couldn’t remember any of Demarest’s known associates fitting her description.

Mitch gave a weighty sigh. ‘If she’s hanging round his motel room, she’s probably another mark.’

‘I don’t think so—she’s too young,’ Zane replied. And way too cute. He cut off the thought. If she was mixed up with Demarest, she couldn’t be that cute. A one-time B-movie producer who’d taken a brief detour into porn before finding a more lucrative income duping rich women by promising to make them movie stars, Demarest was a typical LA parasite. But this kid with her pale skin, her freckles, her silicone-free breasts and her furtive activities looked anything but his typical mark.

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Mitch replied. ‘The guy cast a wide net and he wasn’t choosy.’

‘Oh, hell,’ Zane muttered as the girl approached the door to Demarest’s room. ‘Call Jim for back-up,’ he added sharply. ‘And get him over here now.’

‘Has Demarest showed up?’ Mitch’s croak rippled with excitement.

‘No.’ Thank God. ‘But Jim’ll have to take over the surveillance. We’ve got trouble.’ He glared across the lot, his irritation levels rising as his stomach sank. ‘Because whoever the heck she is, she’s just broken into his motel room.’

He shoved the cell into his back pocket as he lurched out of the car and headed across the parking lot.

Just what he needed after five hours sitting in a damn car—A GI Jane lookalike with freckles on her nose screwing up a six-month-operation.

Iona MacCabe eased the door open, and clutched a sweaty palm around the skeleton key she’d spent a week doing the job from hell to get hold of. The tiny strip of light coming through the curtains was alive with dust motes, but didn’t give her much of an idea of the room’s contents bar the two queen-size beds.

Her heart pounded into her throat at the footstep behind her, but as she whipped round to slam the door a tall figure blocked the doorway.

Brad!

Her stomach hit her tonsils as the apparition shot out a hand and wedged the door open.

‘I don’t think so,’ came the gruff voice—tight with anger.

Not Brad.

The knee-watering shaft of relief was quickly quashed as an arm banded round her waist. Her back hit a chest like a brick wall, knocking the wind out of her, as he lifted her off her feet.

‘Let go,’ she squeaked, her reflexes engaging as the shadow man hefted her backwards.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she yelped as he kicked the motel door shut and carted her across the parking lot to who knew where.

The muscular arm tightened under her breasts and her lungs seized as she figured out that getting abducted might actually be worse than being caught by Brad—the thieving love rat.

‘I’m stopping a felony in progress,’ the disembodied voice growled. ‘Now shut up, because this’ll go a lot worse for you if someone spots us.’

She grabbed his arm and tried to prise it loose, but he was holding her too tightly for her to get any leverage. The tensile strength under her fingertips made the panic kick up a notch. She heard the heavy clunk of a car door opening and began to struggle in earnest. He was kidnapping her.

No way!

She’d come five thousand miles, lived on her wits for a fortnight, been cleaning toilets for a week in the grottiest motel in the world and hadn’t had a decent meal since the day before yesterday, only to get murdered by a nutjob in a motel car park a few feet from her goal.

Fury overtook the panic. ‘If you don’t put me down this instant I’ll yell my head off,’ she whispered, then wondered why she was whispering—and why she was giving him a warning.

She drew in a breath and a callused palm slapped over her mouth. The ear-splitting scream choked off into an ineffectual grunt.

She kicked furiously, but only connected with air, as the scent of something clean and intensely male cut through the aroma of rotting garbage that hung in the night air.

He doesn’t smell like a low life.

The thought disconcerted her long enough for him to twist round and dump her into the passenger seat of the car.

With his hand no longer cutting off her air supply, she hitched in a shaky breath—only to have the palm cover her mouth again. His forearm held her immobile.

She tried to bite him, but her jaws were wedged shut. His dark head loomed over her, the features still disguised by the shadows—and her heart battered her ribs with the force of a sledgehammer.

The enticing scent enveloped her as he hissed next to her ear. ‘You let out a single sound and I’m going to arrest you on the spot.’

Arrest.

Her mind grabbed hold of the word.

He’s a cop. He won’t kill me.

But while her heart stopped pummelling, the panic still crawled across her skin and made sweat trickle between her breasts.

Not being murdered thousands of miles from home was good. But getting caught by a cop breaking into Brad’s room was definitely bad. The temporary work visa she’d spent two months getting a hold of would be revoked. She could get deported and then she’d have no chance of getting even a fraction of the twenty-five thousand pounds of her dad’s money Brad had absconded with.

‘Nod if you understand me?’ he said again, low and apparently seriously pissed off.

She nodded, her fingers curling around the key she’d used to get into Brad’s room. She slid the key under her bottom.

He lifted his hand and she sucked in a deep breath.

‘Why didn’t you identify yourself as a cop sooner?’ she demanded in a furious whisper, deciding attack was the best form of defence—and a good way to distract him until she could get away from him. ‘You scared ten years off my life.’

‘I’m not a cop, I’m a private investigator.’ He tugged something out of his back pocket and flipped it open. She guessed the card he was showing her was some form of ID, not that she could see it any better than she could see him in the darkness.

‘Now put your seatbelt on, we’re leaving.’

Outrage welled up her throat as he shut the car door, skirted the bonnet, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.

He’s not even a proper cop?

She grasped the dash as the car reversed out of its slot. ‘Hang on a minute—where are you taking me?’ Maybe she’d been a bit hasty assuming he wasn’t a kidnapper.

‘Put the seatbelt on now or I’ll put it on for you.’

‘No, I will not,’ she announced as he drove down the block of doorways and braked in front of the motel office. ‘I have a room and a job here. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re only a fake cop you can’t make me.’

She reached for the door handle, intending to dive out. But he leaned across her, the roped muscle of his arm skimming her breast, and clamped his hand over hers on the door handle.

‘You’re not staying here any more.’ The menacing growl was so full of suppressed anger she flinched. ‘And I can make you. Just try me.’

She tried to flex her fingers, the iron-hard grip merely tightened.

‘Let go now,’ he murmured, his minty breath feathering her earlobe and making her nape tingle. ‘Or so help me, I’m calling this in and to hell with the investigation.’

‘I can’t,’ she snapped back, her anger not quite as controlled as his. ‘You’re holding on too tightly.’

He released her hand and she let go of the handle, shaking her numb fingers in a bid to restore the blood supply before she got gangrene. ‘That hurt. I think you may have crushed a finger.’

The huff of breath suggested he didn’t care if he had.

A large, square open palm appeared under her nose. ‘Now hand over the key.’

‘What key?’ she squeaked, struggling to sound innocent while the key burned into her left bum cheek.

‘The key that’s under your butt.’ He snapped his fingers, making her jump despite her best efforts to remain aloof. ‘You’ve got ten seconds or I’m going to get it myself.’

And then he started to count. Her nipples tingled at the memory of his forearm wedged under her breasts.

She retrieved the key and slapped it into his palm, conceding defeat at the unpleasant thought of those long, strong fingers delving under her bottom.

‘There, fine, are you satisfied now?’ she asked, disgusted with herself as well as him. ‘I had to scrub fifty toilets to get that. And believe me, the toilets in this dump need more than their fair share of elbow grease.’

The scoffing sound sent another inappropriate prickle of reaction shooting up her spine.

What the heck was wrong with her? This guy was the opposite of sexy. Clearly a fortnight spent living on a shoestring budget doing dead-end jobs in an alien, unfriendly country had melted her brain cells.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘You won’t like me if I have to come get you.’

She folded her arms across her chest, tense with indignation. ‘I don’t like you now.’

He gave a humourless chuckle.

Iona glared at his back as he walked into the motel office and indulged in a brief fantasy of running off into the night. But as his tall frame stepped into the office—and the lean athletic build rippling under a tan polo shirt and dark trousers became apparent under the harsh strip lighting—she let the fantasy go.

After a ten-minute conversation with Greg, the night clerk, he strolled back towards her, silhouetted by moonlight again. As he approached she became painfully aware of the mile-wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs and the predatory stride.

Flipping heck.

Whoever this guy was, he was a lot stronger and bigger than she was—and she already knew he didn’t mind using his physical advantage. Which meant she was going to have to wait to make a clean getaway.

He paused next to the car and pulled out a smartphone. As he talked into the device, the blue light from the neon Vacancy sign hit his face.

Iona gasped. Her abductor could make a living as a male supermodel.

A bubble of hysteria built under her breastbone as she stared at the firm sensual lips, the aquiline nose with a slight bump at the bridge, the sculpted angular cheekbones, the olive-toned skin and the shadow of stubble on his jaw. He glanced towards her and her lungs stopped as she absorbed the deep sapphire-blue of his eyes and the unusual dark blue rim around the irises. Was that a trick of the light? Even Daniel Craig’s eyes weren’t that blue. Surely?

He finished the call—not a word of which she’d managed to catch due to the loud buzzing in her ears from a lack of oxygen—and slipped the smartphone back into his pocket.

He settled into the driver’s seat, thankfully casting his stunning face into darkness again.

She looked away and concentrated on breathing. So what if he was better looking than Adonis? He was still a bullying jerk.

She repeated the mantra in her head as he drove off without acknowledging her.

‘If it’s not too much to ask,’ she said as they left the motel’s lot, ‘where exactly are you taking me? Because my purse, my passport and all my worldly goods happen to be in room 108. And I don’t want someone to nick them.’

Not that she had a great deal of money in her purse, or many worldly goods, but her credit card was kind of important, and her passport if she was ever going to get out of this Godforsaken country.

‘That’s cute, coming from you,’ he said as he flipped the indicator and turned onto Morro Bay’s main street.

She bristled. ‘I’m not a thief, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘Uh-huh. So what were you doing in Demarest’s room? Planning to scrub his john after hours?’

The mention of Brad’s name had her bristling even more. So he knew Demarest? Or knew of him? She tried to decide whether this was good or bad.

‘This is the way it’s gonna work,’ he said, his voice domineering—and deadly calm. ‘Either I report you to the Morro Bay PD and they put you in a cell to keep you out of my way or you do what I say and tell me everything you know about Demarest.’

His thumb tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel as the car drifted out of the small town—taking her farther away from her goal, and her passport.

‘It’s not stealing if someone’s already stolen from you,’ she offered, after considering her options. She didn’t plan to tell this arrogant stranger anything but she didn’t want to end up in a cell either.

His thumb tapped three more times. ‘No, actually, technically it’s still stealing.’

Great, the man wasn’t just a bullying jerk, he was a self-righteous bullying jerk—with eyes bluer than Daniel Craig. Her pulse spiked.

Get over the eyes. Looks can be deceiving—you know that.

‘How much?’

‘How much what?’ she asked, confused by the question.

‘How much did Demarest take you for?’

The toneless enquiry had all the pain and humiliation charging up her throat and threatening to gag her. She swallowed down the bitter taste. So she’d made a mistake. A stupid, selfish mistake by believing in a guy who had never been what he seemed. But she’d spent the last two weeks trying to put that mistake right—that had to count for something.

‘Not me, my father.’ She stared out of the window into the darkness. The car had reached the bluff over Morro Bay and even though she couldn’t see the ocean, she could sense it.

She hit the button to slide down the window, suddenly desperate for the scent of fresh air. The dry ache in her throat caught her unawares as the musty scent of earth, and sea and tree sap brought with it a vivid picture of Kelross Glen. The little Highland town in the foothills of the Cairngorms she’d spent the first twenty-four years of her life trying to escape. And every second of the last two weeks wishing she could return to.

She hit the up switch, sealing out the painful memories. She couldn’t go back, not until she made amends for Brad and the childish wanderlust that had drawn her to him in the first place. She had to get at least some of her father’s money back. And if that meant tracking Brad the Cad through every dive on California’s coastline—and putting up with the arrogant guy seated beside her—she’d do it.

‘How much did he take your father for?’ The sharp question jolted her out of her thoughts.

‘Twenty-five grand,’ she said. Her dad’s life savings. Peter MacCabe had believed he was giving Iona a shot at her dream—but Brad’s promises of setting her up as a wildlife artist in Los Angeles had been as false and shallow as he was.

She pushed out a shaky breath.

Stop being a drama queen.

Once she’d given Detective Sexy the slip and worked out a way to get back into Brad’s room, she’d finally be able to look for her dad’s money.

‘You don’t seriously think he’s got twenty-five grand in Irish bills stashed in his motel room do you?’

The incredulous statement had her head whipping round. And her eyes narrowing.

‘I’m not Irish, I’m Scottish,’ she said, indignation ringing in her voice—how come no one in California knew the difference between a Scottish and an Irish accent—hadn’t any of them ever watched Braveheart? ‘And I don’t see where else he would put the money. He’s not likely to be using a bank account, is he?’

‘When did he hit your old man?’

‘December.’

December the twenty-third, to be precise. What a merry Christmas that had turned out to be. To think she’d actually believed the story he’d told her about popping over to Inverness to get her and her father a Christmas present. Until her father had dropped the bombshell about cashing in all the bonds he owned to ‘give you a chance at happiness with your new young man.’ She hadn’t even had the heart to tell him she and Brad were hardly a love match.

‘That’s three months ago.’ She heard the note of pity in the detective’s voice, and hated him for it. ‘The money’s long gone by now.’

It couldn’t all be gone. Not all twenty-five grand. ‘How? He’s not exactly spending it on his accommodation.’

‘He’s got a cocaine habit. He could lose that much up his nose in a weekend.’

‘But…’ A cocaine habit? Was that why he’d seemed so fragile and vulnerable when he’d walked into The Kelross giftshop?

‘I’m taking it he kept that quiet while he was in…’ The detective paused. ‘Where are you from?’

‘The Scottish Highlands,’ she said absently.

‘So that’s why he disappeared from our radar for a couple of months,’ he murmured more to himself than her. ‘I figured he might have skipped town to avoid his marks, but I didn’t think he had the imagination to skip all the way to Europe.’

‘He has other marks?’ she said dully.

‘Querida, he’s a high-end hustler with a class-A habit—where do you think I come in?’

‘I don’t know, where do you come in?’ she snapped. Did the guy really have to be quite so patronising?

‘My name’s Zane Montoya. I own and operate a private investigations firm based in Carmel. We’ve been investigating Demarest for six months. Gathering evidence, witness statements, establishing a money trail, all on behalf of an insurance company who made the mistake of insuring some of his victims.’ He waited a beat as she struggled to absorb the information.

So her father hadn’t been the only one who’d fallen for Brad’s clever lies? This hadn’t been some arbitrary, opportunistic con? Her stomach pitched at the thought.

Had she really believed this couldn’t get any worse?

She’d got over her ludicrous fantasy that Brad Demarest cared about her and admired her artwork—enough to help her get out of Kelross Glen—months ago. But Montoya’s revelations felt like the final rusty nail in the rotting coffin of her pride and self-respect.

‘A complex, high-level investigation,’ Montoya continued. ‘That your dumb stunt came close to screwing up tonight.’

She ignored Montoya’s irritation. If he expected an apology for her ‘dumb stunt,’ he’d be waiting until they were serving snow cones in hell. She couldn’t care less about him or his anonymous insurance company or his complex, high-level, ‘almost screwed up’ investigation.

All she cared about was her father.

Peter MacCabe was a good man, who’d wanted to give her a dream. A dream she’d destroyed by letting a professional conman into their lives.

They rode in silence for the next few miles. Iona stared into the darkness and tried to get her head around what she was going to do next. It had taken her over two weeks to track Brad this far, in the hope she could get some of the money back. But if all the money was gone, was there even any point in confronting him? The hopelessness of the situation felt debilitating.

The lights of a strip mall shone in the distance as they approached another seaside town, but her mind had gone numb and she simply could not get it to engage.

Even her bones felt tired. She’d been running on adrenaline since she’d got to California, trying to live on as little as possible while she waited for Brad to return to the motel she’d had staked out. Tears of frustration and weariness pricked her eyes. She sucked them up. Crying never solved anything.

The yellow sign of a fast-food franchise flickered on the side of the road. Her stomach protested audibly and the hot flush of shame fired up her neck. Seemed the coffin of her self-respect hadn’t completely rotted away because she’d be mortified if Montoya had heard her hunger pains.

No such luck.

The car bounced across the cracked pavement in the fast-food restaurant’s forecourt, then stopped at the drive-through window.

He slanted a look at her belly. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing, I’m good,’ she said, even though she hadn’t eaten since the coffee and doughnut she’d splurged on at breakfast. She’d rather die of starvation than accept charity from this jerk.

‘What’ll it be, sir?’ The teenage girl in the drive-through window blushed profusely before letting out a choked sigh—clearly suffering from the same asphyxiation problem Iona herself had had after her first good look at Detective Sexy.

He glanced at her over his shoulder and she got another unwelcome eyeful of that staggering face. An alarming series of pinpricks shimmered across her nerve endings.

‘You sure?’ he asked.

‘Positive.’ She lifted her chin.

The flat line of Montoya’s lips curved up at one end, sending a dimple into his cheek. The pinpricks gathered and concentrated in all sorts of inappropriate places.

A dimple? Seriously? Give me a break.

The hint of a smile was more rueful than amused, but there was no denying the spectacular blip in Iona’s heart rate—or the loud answering growl of the lion in her stomach still hoping to get fed.

‘Suit yourself.’ He turned back to the blushing teen. ‘I’ll have two double cheeseburgers with a couple of large fries and a chocolate malt, Serena,’ he purred, reading her name off the badge pinned to her heaving bosom.

‘Yes, sir, coming right up.’ The girl jumped to attention. ‘That’ll be six dollars fifty, sir.’

Iona rolled her eyes. What was with the sir? Couldn’t Serena see Detective Sexy already had an ego the size of Mars? Stroking it would turn it into a supernova.

He paid for the food, thanked Serena with what Iona guessed must have been the full dimple effect—because the girl’s face went radioactive—then drove to the pick-up window.

‘Here, hold these.’ he passed her the two grease-spotted paper bags.

The delicious aroma of grilled meat and freshly fried potatoes swirled around Iona as he steered the car to a parking space one-handed while taking a loud slurp of his malt.

A giant chasm opened in her stomach and began to weep as she thrust the bags back as soon as the car was stationary. ‘Why did you get two?’ she snapped, drool pooling under her tongue. ‘I told you I’m not hungry.’

Was he trying to torture her?

‘They’re both for me.’ He patted what appeared to be a washboard-lean stomach, the rueful twist of his lips mocking her. ‘Stake-outs are hungry work and all I’ve had since lunch is ten Twinkies and a gallon of Dr Pepper.’

She glared across the console. ‘My heart bleeds for you.’

The mention of the sugary treats was torturous enough, but then he produced an enormous cheeseburger from one of the takeout bags.

The lurid orange substance that passed for cheese dripped from the sesame-seed bun as the savoury scent filled the car. The chasm in Iona’s stomach yawned as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down while he demolished the cheeseburger, then made equally fast work of the fries. The crunch of crisp golden potato and the heady fragrance sent her taste buds into overdrive.

He balled up the empty bag and flipped it into a bin outside the car window. She licked her lips as her stomach rolled into her throat.

One down, one to go.

He peered into the second bag, lifted out the last cheeseburger. Wrapping the serviette round one half, he brought it to his lips in slow motion.

‘Wait.’ Her hand shot out to grab hold of one thick wrist as the lion howled.

‘Something you want?’ His tone sounded strangely alluring in the darkness. Her tortured gaze met his mocking one.

‘Yes…I…’ Her tongue swelled, the drool choking her. ‘Please.’

One dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Please, what?’

The bastard was going to make her beg.

‘Could I have a wee bite?’ She begged, ready to sacrifice her pride, her self-respect and anything else he might want for one little nibble.

The intensely blue gaze dipped as her teeth dug into her bottom lip—and the pinpricks radiated up and out from all those inappropriate places. She dismissed her response. It had to be some weird physical reaction brought on by starvation.

She waited, ready for him to torture her some more, but to her relief his lips quirked—making the damn dimple wink at her—and he handed over the precious burger. ‘Knock yourself out.’

She paused for a second as her fingers sank into the spongy bun, then ripped off a huge chunk with her teeth.

Her taste buds sang a hallelujah chorus as the meat juices and the creamy, salty cheese caressed her tongue. A low moan of gratification eased out round the mouthful of burger and his gaze locked on her mouth, the mocking smile gone.

She swallowed quickly and took another massive bite. She could feel the disturbingly intense gaze as she stuffed the rest of burger in—but she didn’t care.

Let him be as appalled as he liked by her terrible table manners. She hadn’t had a decent meal in days. And it hadn’t been her idea to get kidnapped.

Why did that look so damn hot?

Heat shot into Zane’s crotch as the wide full lips shone from the coating of grease.

‘Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick,’ he murmured.

She peered at him, her expression wary as she continued to devour the burger like a ravenous wolf. He shifted in his seat, suppressing the urge to lick off the trickle of juice dribbling down her chin. She swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping off the trickle, but the tug of arousal made it impossible to drag his gaze away.

I must seriously need to get laid.

Had it been six months since he’d had that weekend fling in Sonora with Elena, the public defender? Six months wasn’t that unusual for him—he’d always been choosy about his sexual partners—but this time the abstinence had to be messing with his radar.

The girl was cute, no question. The slanting chocolate eyes, thick red-gold curls, her wide kissable mouth and pale freckled skin made a unique package—but cute was hardly his type. And then there was the biggest turn-off of all. He was involved with her in a professional capacity. She was definitely a witness, possibly even a perp. And he never crossed that line. Ever.

The heat subsided as he watched her gulp down the last of the burger as if her life depended on it. Exactly how old was she? With that petal-soft skin it was hard to tell, but she could be a teenager.

He forced his gaze from her lips as he lifted the bag of fries off the dash, and passed them to her. ‘How long’s it been since you had a decent meal?’

She stiffened. ‘Not long,’ she said grudgingly but took the bag.

Yeah, right.

She popped the fries into her mouth, but continued to watch him, as if she expected him to snatch them back at any moment.

He suppressed the dart of compassion.

Grab a dose of reality, Montoya.

She’s no damsel in distress—she’s a resourceful little operator with her own agenda. Getting a job at Demarest’s motel had been a neat trick. And how the hell had she tracked the guy from Scotland, when they’d had trouble tracking him across California? Until he had the full story of how she fitted into the picture with Demarest, he didn’t plan to trust her an inch.

But that didn’t solve his immediate problem. What to do with her tonight? He hadn’t planned much past getting her away from Demarest’s motel.

He couldn’t take her back to Morro, and booking her into another motel wasn’t an option either, because she’d skip.

Of course he could dump her on the cops. But while handing her over would ‘contain’ the problem, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

‘So how did you find out Demarest had a room at the Morro, Iona?’ he asked, deciding it was about time he started interrogating her properly—and stopped fixating on those damn lips.

She stopped shovelling fries into her mouth. ‘How do you know my name?’ she said in that lilting Celtic brogue.

‘The motel clerk was real talkative when I told him about your crime spree with his key.’

Her rich chocolate eyes went squinty with temper. ‘You told him? How could you? I’ll lose my job.’

‘You’re not going back there anyway,’ he said, dismissing the prickle of guilt. He wasn’t the one who’d decided to indulge in some after hours B and E. ‘I don’t want you alerting Demarest to our presence.’

‘I’m not going to alert him. Why would I?’ She sounded aggrieved. ‘How am I going to pay my bill now? They probably won’t even give me the wages they owe me.’

‘I settled your bill.’ He’d also paid the clerk to keep her valuables in the motel safe. If Demarest showed up tonight, he might not need the bargaining chip Iona’s ID documents represented, but he had a feeling it wasn’t gonna be that simple. Because nothing about this damn case had been simple so far.

And the biggest complication of all was sitting right in front of him.

A complication made a whole lot worse by his perverse reaction to her.

He’d never before got a kick out of manhandling a woman—even on the force he’d earned the nickname Lancelot, because of his preference for using persuasion and persistence when interrogating female suspects, instead of threats and intimidation.

But there was no getting away from the fact that when he’d caught her in Demarest’s room tonight—he’d noticed the generous breasts propped on his forearm and the fresh, subtle fragrance of her hair. And while he might have been able to ignore that momentary loss of control—because it had been six months since he’d had a woman, any woman in his arms—that excuse was nowhere near good enough to explain why he’d come close to getting a hard-on just watching her eat.

‘But you can kiss your paycheck goodbye,’ he said, making sure the chill stayed in his voice.

Her big brown eyes widened, making him feel as if he’d just kicked Bambi.

‘Now stop arguing with me or I’ll kick you out of the car and leave you in the middle of nowhere.’

It was an empty threat, he wouldn’t do that to any woman, especially not one who had no money, no ID, who’d just devoured a burger as if she hadn’t eaten in days and who had eyes like Bambi.

But instead of being cowed, she stuck her chin out. ‘Fine, dump me here if you want. I’ve no got a problem with that.’

Damn, she was actually serious.

What kind of guys had she been dealing with? Then he thought of the seedy motel, and her connection to Demarest and had a pretty good idea.

‘Yeah, well, unfortunately I do.’

‘Then take me back to the motel. I’ll get my stuff and stay somewhere else. I won’t interfere with your case, I swear. I want Brad caught as much as you do.’

Maybe it was the flinty determination in her voice or the way her gaze never wavered. But he wanted to believe her.

Which only made him sure he shouldn’t. Ten years on the force had taught him that trust was a dangerous thing—and following your gut instead of having proof could get you killed.

He slid the car into reverse. ‘Forget it. You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you.’

‘Why?’ she said, the hitch in her voice telegraphing her shock. ‘This is ridiculous. You dislike me as much as I dislike you.’

Unfortunately he didn’t dislike her nearly as much as he should, but he let the observation pass.

Her brow creased. ‘All you have to do is trust me a little bit and we never have to lay eyes on each other again.’

‘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?

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.