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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.