“This isn’t Chicago. Nantucket is safe. You scared me to death! Is that a gun in your hand?” Heather asked.

“Yes, and crime happens everywhere,” J.C. responded.

“The noise we heard is probably feral cats. I caught them rooting through my trash a few days ago.”

J.C. took a quick look around her backyard and confirmed that two cats had indeed stuck their noses in the trash bin.

“Sorry to raise an unnecessary alarm,” he said.

“You must travel in rough circles.”

In Heather Anderson’s world, cats were the biggest predators on the street.

He, on the other hand, had spent his career dealing with lowlifes. And he’d been doing it for so long he didn’t know how to behave around a woman who was untouched by the raw side of life.

“Well, thanks again.” Turning, she disappeared through her back door.

Suddenly, an odd sensation settled in J.C.’s chest. One that had nothing to do with the guilt he’d been carrying for the last month. This was related to a woman with beautiful hazel eyes.

MILLS & BOON

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IRENE HANNON

Irene Hannon, who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is an author of more than twenty-five novels. Her books have been honored with both a coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction) and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOK reviews magazine. More than a million copies of her novels have been sold worldwide.

A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.

For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

The Hero Next Door
Irene Hannon

Love never fails.

—I Corinthians 13:8

To my husband, Tom—

who is just my cup of tea!

Acknowledgment

Special thanks to Chief William J. Pittman,

Nantucket Police Department,

for his generous assistance.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Justin Clay had always considered June 1 to be the true beginning of summer. The day that marked the transition from cold and dark to warm and bright.

And on this June 1, as the ferry from Hyannis churned into Nantucket Harbor under cloudless blue skies, he hoped that was as true for his life as it was for the weather.

Forearms resting on the railing, he took in the view as the ferry rounded diminutive Brant Point Light and the Coast Guard station. Boats of every type and size dotted the blue water below the tree-filled town, which perched on a gentle hillside in the background. The gold dome of a clock tower and a tall white steeple soared over the leafy branches, while weathered gray clapboard buildings with white trim predominated along the waterfront.

Lifting his face to the warmth of the sun, Justin took a deep breath. He’d wanted a complete change of scene, and this qualified. The tranquil, pristine vista felt a world removed from the violent, gritty backstreets of Chicago he frequented. Perhaps here, twenty-six miles from the mainland, on this fourteen-by-three-and-a-half-mile speck of land in the Atlantic Ocean, he would find release from the pain and guilt that gnawed at his soul.

As the ferry eased beside the wharf, Justin picked up his oversize duffel bag, slung his backpack over one shoulder and sent a silent prayer heavenward that when he boarded this boat again in three months to head home, he’d be leaving a lot of baggage behind.

Sliding a tray of mini-scones onto the cooling rack on the stainless-steel prep table, Heather Anderson checked the clock. 1:10 p.m. In less than an hour, thirty-four customers would be arriving for a proper British high tea.

Where was Julie?

As she cast a worried glance out the window, the gate by the garage swung open to admit her assistant, and Heather released a relieved breath. The Devon Rose might be a one-woman show for most of the day, but she needed help with the actual serving.

Pushing through the back door, her white blouse and black skirt immaculate even if her French braid was slightly askew, Julie sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry. I had a flat tire.”

“No problem. I’m just glad you’re here.” Heather adjusted the oven temperature, strode over to the commercial-size refrigerator and pulled out a tray of mini-quiches. “Did Todd change it for you?”

“Yes. But I hated to wake him.” Julie began arranging the scones on the second level of the three-tiered silver serving stands lined up on the counter, tucking flowers among them. “There was some kind of drug incident in the wee hours of the morning, and he was beat when he got home. But he didn’t complain about the tire.”

“And you’ve been married how long? Twenty years?” Heather shook her head as she took the lids off fifteen teapots in a variety of styles and arranged them on a long counter. “He’s one in a million, Julie. Count your blessings.”

“I do. Every day. But there are other good guys out there, too, you know.” She sent Heather a meaningful glance.

“Maybe.” Heather slid the quiches into the oven. “But they’re few and far between. And based on past experience, not likely to come calling at my door. I’d have to beat the bushes to find one.” She closed the oven door and turned to Julie. “And as far as I’m concerned, it’s not worth the effort.”

Justin hoisted his backpack into a more comfortable position, pulled the Nantucket town map out of the back pocket of his jeans and perused the maze of streets. In one more block he’d be at Lighthouse Lane—and the cottage he’d be calling home for the next three months.

Refolding the map, he shoved it back into his pocket, hefted his duffel bag and continued down the sidewalk. As he’d already discovered on his trek from the wharf, unlike the dirty, decaying back alleys of Chicago, Nantucket was clean and well kept. The people he’d passed, many on bicycles, had been dressed nicely, and they’d smiled at him. A welcome change of pace from the suspicious looks he was used to, cast by questionable characters as they slunk into dark doorways.

Nantucket wasn’t crime free, Justin knew. But he doubted he’d have to worry about double crosses here—or mistakes that could snuff out lives.

A lump rose in his throat, and he paused at the corner of Lighthouse Lane to blink away the sudden film of moisture that blurred his vision. With memories so fresh and raw, maybe coming to Nantucket hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should have used the last three months of his four-month leave to veg. Rent a cabin in the woods and disappear. Or borrow a boat and hang out on Lake Michigan.

Yet prayer had led him here, back to his roots as a beat cop. He’d asked the Lord to help him find answers—and direction. To give him some quiet time to work through the issues that weighed him down. So this summer job opportunity had seemed providential.

Things would be better here.

They had to be.

Crossing the street, he turned left onto Lighthouse Lane. His landlady, Edith Shaw, had said hers was the third—and last—house on the right, and he had no trouble spotting the Federal-style home she’d described.

But far more impressive was the two-story structure on the corner. Constructed of clapboard, like the Shaw house, but painted white instead of yellow, it featured black shutters. Thanks to a Greek Revival roofline with a deep frieze—along with a small, elevated, white-pillared front porch—it had a grand, stately air. A discreet sign beside the door said The Devon Rose.

Squinting, Justin could just make out the elaborate script below the name: Serving Wednesday through Sunday. Sounded like a restaurant. And mere steps away from his new digs. Pretty convenient. Once he dropped his bags off at his cottage, he might come back here for a quick bite to tide him over until he stocked his kitchen.

His stomach growled, and taking the cue, he picked up his pace, passing a snug, weathered clapboard cottage with sage-colored trim that was sandwiched on a shallow lot between The Devon Rose and the Shaw house. The backyards of the two larger houses must adjoin in the rear, he concluded.

Continuing to Edith Shaw’s house, he found an envelope bearing his name taped beside the doorbell. The note inside directed him through the gate in the tall privet hedge to a spacious private backyard. From there he followed a flagstone path across the thick carpet of grass to the cottage, which was surrounded by budding hydrangea bushes. It was tucked into the back corner, separated from The Devon Rose property only by the privet hedge.

As he’d been warned, the structure was small. But that was okay; he didn’t require a lot of square footage. At six-one, however, he considered headroom important. He hoped the compact accommodations wouldn’t be too claustrophobic.

Much to his relief, when he stepped inside, he realized the outward appearance had been deceptive. Or perhaps the sense of spaciousness was due to the vaulted ceiling. A queen-size bed stood in the far left corner of the room, while a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric stood against the wall to the left of the front door, a brass reading lamp beside it. An old chest, topped with a glass bowl of hard candy, served as a coffee table.

In the tiny kitchenette to the right, a wooden café table was flanked by matching chairs with blue-and-yellow plaid seat cushions. A quick peek confirmed that the bath was behind the kitchen. No tub, but a decent-size shower, Jason noted.

Setting his luggage on the polished pine floor, he spotted a plate of what appeared to be homemade pumpkin bread in the middle of the café table.

His stomach growled again and, stripping off the plastic wrap, Justin devoured one of the slices. But it barely put a dent in his appetite. He needed real food.

Rewrapping the plate of sweet bread, he freshened up and headed back out the door to the closest restaurant.

The Devon Rose.

“Table six asked for more scones. And nine wants a refill of Earl Grey.” Julie swept into the kitchen carrying a china teapot.

Heather arranged three more scones on a small serving plate. “I’ll deliver these if you’ll handle the Earl.”

“Will do.” Julie headed toward the shelves above the counter, where an array of canisters held white, black, green, oolong and herbal teas.

Plate of scones in hand, Heather pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. As she emerged from behind the ornate wooden grill that blocked patrons’ views into the more functional areas of the house, the calm oasis of The Devon Rose soothed her, as always. Soft classical music provided a genteel backdrop to the muted conversation and tinkle of silver spoons against fine china cups. Silk draperies at the tall windows and crisp white linen tablecloths helped absorb the echo produced by the ten-foot ceilings, marble mantels and polished hardwood floors in the three rooms where tea was served.

Here in the original dining room, a century-old hand-painted mural of a Tudor garden lent a touch of elegance. Her great aunt’s antique mahogany table still stood under an ornate crystal chandelier and accommodated larger groups for special occasions. Today it was set for eight, and Heather stopped to exchange a few words with the guest of honor, who was celebrating her eightieth birthday.

Crossing the foyer, with its elaborate stairway that hugged the wall as it wound up to the second floor, Heather passed through an arched doorway into twin parlors connected by open pocket doors. Intimate tables for two lined the walls of both rooms, with a table for four in the center of each. Table six was beside the mantel on the far wall.

“I understand I have some scone lovers here.” With a smile, she set the plate on the pristine linen, checking to confirm that the couple had a sufficient quantity of wild strawberry jam and the clotted cream she imported from Devon.

“My dear, they’re divine! Just like the ones we had in Cornwall last year,” the older woman gushed.

“Mighty fine,” her companion seconded as he reached for one of the scones.

Heather made a leisurely circuit of the room, exchanging a few words with the customers at each table. As usual, she had a full house. Tea was by reservation only, and she was often booked weeks in advance. It was rare to have a no-show.

Today, however, table four was the exception to that rule. A tourist reservation, Heather assumed as she passed it on her way to the foyer. Visitors to the island often changed their plans on a whim. That was one of the reasons she preferred her local clientele.

The front door swung open as she exited the parlor, and she stopped in surprise. Tea began at two, and it was well past that now. Perhaps tardy arrivals for table four?

But the tall, dark-haired man who stepped into the foyer was alone. Attired in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, he was nothing like her typical male customers—older men accompanying their wives. This guy was in his midthirties, she estimated—and very masculine. With brown eyes so dark they could pass for black, he was well built and radiated an intense, ready-for-action energy.

The tranquil mood in the tearoom suddenly shifted. The clatter of spoons and forks ceased, and an expectant hush replaced the quiet conversation.

If the man who’d crossed her threshold noticed the newly charged atmosphere, he didn’t let on. Instead, he closed the door behind him and gave Heather a swift scan. She had a feeling he missed nothing—from her black leather pumps and slim black skirt to her short-sleeved silk blouse, her single strand of pearls and the tortoiseshell barrette that restrained her shoulder-length light brown hair at her nape.

She’d call the look practiced, except that implied ogling. His sweep felt almost…professional. Automatic. As if he were accustomed to assessing everyone he met.

When the silence lengthened, she arched an eyebrow. “May I help you?”

“I was hoping to get some lunch.” One corner of his mouth hitched up into an appealing half smile.

To Heather’s annoyance, her pulse accelerated. “I’m afraid we serve afternoon tea, not lunch.”

He surveyed the dining room, giving her an excellent view of the chiseled planes of his face and the strong line of his jaw. All the women watching him seemed to smile in unison, Heather noted.

“I suppose I’m not dressed for a fancy place like this. But I’m hungry, and this was the closest spot serving food.” Facing her again, his half smile edged up a notch. “I’m staying in Edith Shaw’s cottage for the summer, and I just arrived on the ferry. I’m Justin Clay, by the way. J.C. to my friends.” He held out his hand.

The police officer from Chicago, Heather realized as she moved forward. Edith had mentioned him.

At five foot six, she didn’t think of herself as short, but she had to tip her head back to return his greeting. “Heather Anderson.”

His warm, lean fingers closed over hers in a strong grip, and her breath got stuck in her throat. Talk about good-looking! Yet at close range, she couldn’t help noticing fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, as well as fatigue in their depths. Both projected a soul-deep weariness that went way beyond physical tiredness.

Her conscience pricking, Heather wavered. She couldn’t send him away hungry. Not when he was a neighbor—and she had an empty table. “You’re welcome to stay, if tea fare will be sufficient.”

The other side of his mouth hitched up to form a complete smile, and his fingers tightened for an instant before he released her hand. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Telling her heart to behave, Heather led the way to table four. “In general, we’re fully booked. This was a rare no-show.”

“My lucky day, I guess.”

She turned to find him watching her. With some men, Heather might have interpreted that comment as a come-on. With this one, she wasn’t certain. His neutral expression told her nothing. Nor did his eyes reveal the motivation behind his remark. It was as if he’d had a lot of practice masking his emotions.

“What sort of tea would you like?” She plucked a printed list of offerings out of a small silver holder on the table and handed it to him.

After a cursory scan, he passed it back. “What are the chances I could get a cup of coffee?”

She gave him a bemused look. “In a tearoom? None, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

“Okay. Then I’ll take your strongest tea.”

Assam, she decided at once. It was full-bodied, robust and malty. They didn’t have many takers for that potent brew. But she figured he could handle it.

“I think we have one you’ll like. Your food will be out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Turning, Heather crossed the room toward the foyer. She was tempted to check and see if Justin Clay was still watching her, but she squelched that silly impulse. Why should she care?

Yet as she passed the front door, she couldn’t help recalling what she’d told Julie a couple of hours ago, about good guys being few and far between—and not likely to come calling at her door.

She didn’t know a thing about the man who’d just arrived, except that he seemed out of place in The Devon Rose. But intuition told her he might fall into the good-guy camp.

Of course, her intuition had failed her before, with her old boyfriend Mark. As had her mother’s, with Heather’s unfaithful father. As had her sister Susan’s, with her philandering husband. All of those examples reinforced the sad truth—the Anderson women had no luck when it came to men.

So while Justin Clay might, indeed, be a good guy, Heather didn’t intend to find out.

Because she didn’t trust her judgment when it came to the opposite sex.

And there was no way she’d risk putting her heart in jeopardy ever again. No matter how appealing the man.

Chapter Two

J.C. swirled his last French fry in the generous dollop of ketchup on his plate and popped it in his mouth. The fries and the burger had been the perfect chaser to his afternoon tea, which had done little more than take the edge off his hunger.

Not that he had any complaints about the food at the swanky tearoom. Those little puffy dough things filled with chicken salad had been tasty. The quiche had been okay. As for those little scones with jam and that cream stuff—he could have eaten a dozen of them. And every one of the five desserts had been amazing.

It was the amount, not the flavor, of the food that had sent him in hot pursuit of the nearest restaurant the instant he’d stepped out the door of The Devon Rose. None of the items on that three-tiered contraption had been bigger than a sausage patty.

And the bill had been a shocker. He calculated that his foray into the world of high tea had cost him close to two bucks a bite.

Wiping his mouth on a napkin, J.C. leaned back in his seat. In fairness, the prices were on the high side in this establishment, too. He wasn’t used to twelve-dollar hamburgers. At this rate, he’d eat up his first month’s salary in a week. A trip to the grocery store was high on his agenda for tomorrow, after he had breakfast with his new boss—and Chicago PD alumnus—Adam Burke.

As for the cost of the tea—he didn’t regret the budget-straining expense. It had been a unique experience, in an atmosphere he could only describe as elegant.

A word that fit the owner as well.

Taking a sip of coffee, he thought about Heather Anderson. Now there was a lady. From her every-hair-in-place wispy bangs, to her graceful, ringless fingers as she’d poured his tea, to her classy attire, she’d oozed culture and refinement.

In other words, she was way out of his league.

Not that it mattered. His priorities for his stay on Nantucket didn’t include a relationship. He had enough to deal with without adding romance to the mix.

Draining his mug, he pulled some bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. Before the day ended, he had several more things to do—and thinking about the lovely tearoom owner wasn’t on his list.

Yet try as he might, he couldn’t stop images of her from floating through his mind as he strolled down the cobblestone street and veered off toward Lighthouse Lane.

“Knock, knock. Anyone home?”

Wiping her hands on a towel, Heather smiled at the stout older woman who stood on the other side of her screen door. Since Edith and Chester Shaw had retired to Nantucket eleven years ago, the couple had become like family to her.

“Come on in.” Heather reached for the two leftover scones, added a generous portion of clotted cream and strawberry jam to the plate, and edged it toward Edith. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, my. I shouldn’t.” Her neighbor cast a longing glance at the offering. Then, with a shrug, she pulled a stool up to the stainless-steel prep table and slathered the scones with jam and cream. “But these are impossible to resist, as you well know.”

Chuckling, Heather continued measuring ingredients for the chocolate tarts that would grace tomorrow’s three-tiered servers. “What’s up?”

“Did you notice any activity at my place while Chester and I were away? The note’s gone from my front door, so I know my tenant arrived. I’d planned to invite him to dinner since he doesn’t know a soul here other than Burke, but I’m afraid he may already have gone out to get a bite.”

Julie pushed through the door from the dining room. “Hi, Edith. Heather, I set the tables for tomorrow and refilled the sugar bowls. Anything else before I take off?”

“That should do it, thanks. To answer your question, Edith, he stopped in here around three in search of food. He thought we served lunch.” Heather stirred the chocolate in the double boiler. “I assumed he went back to your place when he left.”

“No one answered my knock. How long was he here?”

“He stayed for tea,” Julie offered, retrieving her purse and sweater from a chair and heading for the door.

Edith arched an eyebrow.

“I think he liked what we had to offer,” Julie added.

Heather turned in time to see her assistant wink at Edith and incline her head toward her employer before pushing through the door.

As it banged shut behind her, Edith tipped her head and appraised Heather. “So Justin Clay stayed for tea.”

Heather shot her a warning look. “Don’t make anything out of this, Edith.”

“What’s there to make anything out of?” She took a bite of her second scone. “I haven’t met Mr. Clay, but I understand from Burke that he’s got quite a reputation on the Chicago force for some pretty high-stakes undercover work. I sort of pictured him as the tall, muscular, rugged type. I guess I’m having a little trouble imagining him holding a dainty teacup and eating finger sandwiches. Unless he had an ulterior motive.”

Planting her hands on her hips, Heather narrowed her eyes. “Just because you had a hand in getting Kate and Craig together doesn’t give you the right to work on my love life, Edith.” Charter fishing boat captain Kate MacDonald, who occupied the little cottage between her house and Edith’s, had recently married Nantucket’s Coast Guard commander, and Heather knew Edith was proud of her role as matchmaker.

“How can I work on something that doesn’t exist?”

“Very funny.”

“No. Very true. And sad.”

“You know I’m not in the market for romance, Edith. And you know why.”

“Not all men are like your father. Or Mark.”

Removing the melted chocolate from the stove, Heather poured it into a mixing bowl containing the remaining ingredients for the filling and began to stir. Even after two years, the mere mention of the dashing Boston hotel executive who’d come to the island to manage a collection of boutique properties—and who’d finagled his way past her defenses—left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“I agree, Edith. But the Anderson women always seem to pick losers.”

“Humph.” The older woman licked a speck of cream off her finger. “What does the island’s newest police officer look like?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes, six-one or two.” Heather began scooping the filling into the miniature tart shells.

“As in tall, dark and handsome?”

“I didn’t say handsome.”

“You mean he’s ugly?”

As a mental image of her unexpected customer flashed across her mind, Heather lost her methodical scooping rhythm and a ball of filling plopped onto the stainless-steel counter. Expelling an irritated breath, she gritted her teeth and swiped it up. “He’s not ugly.”

“Well, I’m anxious to meet him. I already like his name. Justin Clay. It sounds very strong and masculine.”

“He goes by J.C.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

She was in too deep now to do anything but tell the truth, Heather realized, regretting the slip. “When he introduced himself, he said that’s what his friends call him.”

“His friends.” Edith mulled that over as she slid off the stool. Ambling toward the back porch, she tossed one parting comment over her shoulder. “Well, that’s a start.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed through the door and disappeared down the steps.

Dismayed, Heather blew out a breath and shook her head. She’d seen that look in Edith’s eyes before, and she knew what it meant—the older woman was in matchmaking mode. Now that Kate and Craig had tied the knot, she was on the prowl for new victims.

Meaning J.C. would probably end up ruing the day he’d stepped into The Devon Rose.

“Marci, it’s J.C.”

“Hey, big brother. You arrived safe and sound, I assume.”

“Yep.” He stretched out on the bed in his new digs, testing the mattress. Nice and firm. Just the way he liked it.

“So how’s life on a ritzy island?”

“I haven’t seen the ritzy parts yet. But I did have a ritzy experience today. I went to tea.”

Her response was preceded by several beats of silence. “You hate tea.”

“The food was good,” J.C. countered. “You would have liked it, Marci. White tablecloths, classical music, flowers.”

“You hate tea.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. I’m trying to make sense of this. What on earth prompted you to go to tea?”

An elegant, graceful woman with hazel eyes.

As that thought echoed in his mind, J.C. frowned. He wished he could attribute his foray into that civilized ritual to hunger, but he couldn’t dispute the truth. Had it not been for Heather Anderson’s quiet loveliness and refinement, he would have vacated the rarified atmosphere of The Devon Rose in a heartbeat, no matter how loudly his stomach protested.

“The question wasn’t that hard, J.C.”

At Marci’s wry prompt, he pulled himself back to the present. “I was hungry. And the tea place is next door to my cottage. Anyway, it’s nice here. Quiet.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll sleep better.”

“I slept okay in Chicago.”

“Hey, you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m your sister, okay? I know you’ve been through hell this past month. So rest. Relax. Think. And move on.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.” Her words came out scratchy, and she cleared her throat. “Pray some more to that God of yours. Maybe He’ll come through for you if you keep bending His ear.”

“I intend to. And He’s your God, too, Marci. I wish you and Nathan would give Him a chance.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. As for Nathan…he’s a lost cause. Do you still write to him every week?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt he even reads the letters.”

“Maybe not. But he gets them. And knows I’m thinking about him.”

“Talk about a wasted life.” Disgust laced her words.

“It’s not too late for him to turn things around.” J.C. tried to sound optimistic as he stared at the ceiling, but in truth, his hope was dimming. His younger brother’s bitterness hadn’t abated one iota since the day eight years ago when he’d been sentenced to a decade behind bars for armed robbery.

“Give it up, J.C. All those trips you made down to Pontiac…What good did they do? Most of the time he wouldn’t even talk to you. He doesn’t like cops.”

“I was his brother first, Marci. And I have to try.”

“Yeah. I know.” Her words grew softer. “Too bad you were saddled with two reprobates for siblings.”

There was a hint of humor in her voice, but J.C. knew how she’d struggled with self-image. And hated that deep inside, for reasons he’d never been able to fathom, she might continue to feel less than worthy. “I don’t think of you that way, Marci. And neither does anyone else. You’ve done great.” Then he lightened his tone, knowing praise made her uncomfortable. “I’m impressed with that big word, by the way. Reprobate, huh? All that schooling you’re getting must be paying off.”

“Very funny.”

A knock sounded at his door, and he swung his legs to the floor. “Someone’s come calling, kiddo. Gotta run.”

“Okay, bro. Take care and don’t be a stranger.”

As the line went dead, J.C. stood and slipped his cell phone into his pocket. Smoothing down the back of his hair with one hand, he opened the door with the other.

“You must be Justin. Or J.C., as I’m told you prefer to be called. You’re just the way Heather described you. Welcome to Nantucket. I’m Edith Shaw, and this is my husband, Chester.” An older woman with short, silvery-gray hair stuck out her hand.

As J.C. returned her firm clasp and leaned forward to grasp her husband’s fingers, he gave his landlords a quick once-over.

Edith’s blue eyes sparked with interest, radiating energy. Although she wore black slacks and a simple short-sleeved blue blouse, J.C. sensed there was a mischievous streak beneath her conservative attire.

Pink-cheeked Chester, on the other hand, struck him as an aw-shucks kind of guy, content to let his lively wife run the show. He wore grass-stained overalls, suggesting he was a gardener, and a shock of gray hair fell over his forehead. Someone had tried to tame his ornery cowlick, but it had refused to be subdued.

“I’m happy to meet you both.” J.C. smiled and gestured toward the inside of the cottage. “This place is perfect. And thank you for the pumpkin bread, Mrs. Shaw.”

She waved his thanks aside. “Plenty more where that came from. And it’s Edith and Chester. I was going to invite you to dinner, but I understand you’ve already eaten next door.”

J.C. nodded, admiring her investigative skills. “That’s right.”

“Well, Heather does a fine job. But—” she sized him up “—it’s not a lot of food for a full-grown man. You’d be welcome to join us. I guarantee my beef stew will stick to your ribs.”

After consuming the tea goodies, a burger and fries, and the last of Edith’s pumpkin bread, there was no way he could eat another meal. “To be honest, I also paid a visit to Arno’s.”

Chester chuckled. “I’m with you. I like Heather’s food just fine, but it’s not enough to keep a bird alive.”

“Now, Chester,” Edith chided. “Heather’s a wonderful cook and a great hostess. I’m sure she made you feel welcome, didn’t she?”

Her keen look took him off guard. As did the odd undertone, which he couldn’t identify. “Yes. She was very hospitable.”

She gave him a satisfied smile. “Well, then, I’ll bring you out a plate of stew later, and you can put it in the fridge for tomorrow night. And anytime you need anything, you let us know. We’re just a holler away.”

As she marched across the lawn to her back door, Chester following a step behind, J.C. regarded the stately clapboard house where he’d had tea earlier. Only the roof and parts of the second floor were visible through the trees.

So the tearoom owner had described him to Edith. Interesting. And intriguing. What had she said? he wondered.

More to the point, however, why should he care?

Looking back toward the Shaw house, he found Edith observing him, her pleased smile still in place. With a wave, she disappeared inside.

Planting his fists on his hips, he studied her closed door. What was that all about?

But considering the glint in her eyes, maybe he didn’t want to know.

Chapter Three

“Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” J.C. sat back in the booth and dropped his napkin beside his plate. “And the price was right. What’s the name of this place again?”

“Downyflake. Or, as the locals call it, The Flake.” Burke signaled to the waitress. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You look like you could use a few good meals.”

That was true. But until yesterday, his appetite had been nonexistent. “I’ve been eating well since I’ve been here. Must be the salt air. And it’s been good for you, too. You look younger than when you left Chicago.”

Three years ago, when Burke had announced he was taking the chief job on Nantucket, J.C. hadn’t been convinced the senior detective would acclimate to the slower pace. He was glad his fears had been unfounded. At fifty-three, Burke’s trademark buzz cut might be more salt than pepper, but the tension in his features had eased.

“The life here suits me,” Burke confirmed.

“Here you go, Chief.” The blond-haired, college-age waitress set the bill on the table, flashed them each a smile and trotted on to the next customer.

When J.C. reached for his wallet, Burke shook his head and picked up the bill. “The first one’s on me. Let’s go take a tour of the station.”

Less than five minutes later, Burke pulled into a parking space in front of an attractive brick building that sported a row of dormer windows.

“Used to be the fire station,” Burke told him as he set the brake. “Won’t take long to do a walk-through.”

Within fifteen minutes J.C. had met the dispatcher on duty—who also served as telephone operator and receptionist. She was ensconced behind a window that looked into the small lobby. The first floor housed the sergeant’s office, interview rooms, a five-cell lockup and a juvenile holding cell; upstairs was home to the department’s four detectives, a briefing room and a few other staff offices.

At the end of the tour, Burke ushered J.C. into his office. The chief’s desk stood in front of the room’s single window and faced the door, a credenza on the right and a bookcase on the left. Cream-colored walls brightened the space.

“Quite an improvement over your digs in Chicago.” J.C. grinned as he inspected the room.

“No kidding. I not only have walls, I have a window.”

“Yeah.” J.C. strolled over to peruse the view of nearby businesses. “And if you get hungry for sushi, it’s just steps away.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. There’s more to life than greasy burgers and stale donuts. So how’s the cottage?”

“It’s perfect. Thanks for recommending it. How do you know the Shaws?”

“From church. It’s a nice little congregation. You’d be welcome to join us.”

“I’ll probably take you up on that. I need to find a place to worship while I’m here.”

Burke gestured toward the chairs to the left of the door. “Now that you’ve seen the station, any questions?”

“Not yet.”

“How about if I ask a few, then?” Burke closed the door. J.C. had assumed this was coming. To his credit, Burke hadn’t pushed for information when he’d offered him the temporary summer position. But now that J.C. was here, he wasn’t surprised Burke wanted more details. Besides, they’d been friends for more than ten years. His interest would be both professional and personal.

Taking one of the chairs, J.C. leaned forward. His breakfast congealed into a cold lump in the pit of his stomach, and he kept his gaze fixed on his clasped hands. “What do you want to know?”

“Relax, J.C.” Burke sat and crossed an ankle over a knee. “This isn’t an interrogation. It’s one friend lending an ear to another. And just so you know, I called Dennis and Ben. After I offered you the job.”

J.C. jerked his head up. Dennis had been the office supervisor and Ben his street supervisor during his nine-month deep-cover assignment. They knew the details of that fateful night as well as anyone.

“If you talked to them, you know what happened.”

“I’d like to hear your side of it.”

Rising abruptly, J.C. shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strode back to the window. There were lots of people on the street now. Laughing, smiling, chatting. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

He turned his back on them.

“It was in the report. I’m sure Dennis would give you a copy.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

J.C. fisted his hands in his pockets. “And I’d rather not talk about it.”

The chief pursed his lips. “I’m going to assume the required counseling didn’t help a whole lot.”

J.C. snorted in disgust. “She didn’t have a clue about the stresses of undercover work. The isolation. The no-man’s-land existence, pretending to belong one place but cut off from the place you do belong. The strain of putting your life on hold to bring about justice. And that’s when things are going well.” He took a deep breath and let it out as his shoulders slumped. “But after all that effort, all that sacrifice, to watch two of your buddies take bullets because you made a mistake…” His voice turned to gravel, and he gripped the back of Burke’s desk chair.

“According to everything I heard, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I slipped up somewhere. If I hadn’t, Jack and Scott would still be alive. We walked into an ambush, Burke.”

“I heard you came pretty close to getting taken out yourself.” J.C. averted his head. “There are days I wish I had been.” A fresh wave of anguish swept over him, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. “Or that it had been me instead of them. They each left a wife and young children. No one would have missed me.”

In the ensuing silence, J.C.’s words echoed in his mind. If he was in Burke’s shoes, he’d be having serious second thoughts about now. No chief wanted a troubled cop on the force. Traumatized people didn’t think clearly. They were distracted and emotional, and they often overreacted—or underreacted—to stressful situations. In law enforcement, that could be deadly.

Steeling himself, J.C. faced the older man. Although he didn’t detect any doubt, cops were good at hiding their feelings.

“Did I just shoot myself in the foot?”

Burke cocked his head. “Should I be worried?”

“No. I’ll admit I haven’t resolved all my issues. But I’m working on them. That’s why I asked for an extended leave. I knew I needed some time to regroup in a different environment. Since I started as a beat cop, it felt right to go back to those roots. And after all my years undercover, I know how to compartmentalize. I can promise you I won’t let what happened in Chicago compromise my performance here.”

As Burke regarded him, J.C. held his breath. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he was sent packing. But in the twenty-four hours he’d been on Nantucket, he’d sensed that this place held the key to a lot of the questions he’d been unable to answer in Chicago. And he didn’t want to leave.

“Okay, J.C.” Burke stood. “I wouldn’t touch most guys in your situation with a ten-foot pole. What you’ve been through can mess with a person’s mind. But I’ve seen you in a lot of tough situations, and you’ve always been steady under pressure. From what I’ve heard and observed, I don’t have any reason to think that’s changed.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Nantucket PD.”

As J.C. returned Burke’s solid clasp, he forced his stiff shoulders to relax. And sent a silent plea to the Lord to stick close.

Because while he was confident his training would kick in should he find himself in a volatile situation, he was counting on the summer being quiet relative to the Chicago crime scene. None of the lawbreaking he was likely to encounter here—petty theft, traffic violations, even drug issues—should involve altercations where lives hung in the balance.

And that was good. He didn’t want any more baggage.

What he did want was a quiet, uncomplicated summer that gave him plenty of opportunity to sit on a beach and do some serious thinking about the rest of his life.

The muffled rattling sounded suspicious.

J.C. slowed his pace as he approached the gate leading to the garden beside The Devon Rose. Since his breakfast with Burke, he’d spent the day exploring the town, including an all-important visit to the grocery store. He was ready to call it a night. But he wasn’t wired to ignore odd sounds, and this one fell into that category.

Juggling his bags of groceries, he listened. It sounded as if a metal object was being shaken.

In Chicago, following that kind of rattle into a dark alley often led him to a homeless person rooting through a Dumpster or trash can. But as near as he could tell, homeless people were rare on Nantucket.

Thieves were another story. Due to the private backyards, which were often hidden from the street by lush vegetation or privet hedges, burglars could pull off robberies without detection. According to Burke, that was one of the biggest problems in the quiet season, when many vacation homes were vacant.

This wasn’t the quiet season, however. Nor did The Devon Rose appear to be vacant. Light from an upper window spilled into the deepening dusk.

Another subtle rattle sounded, and a light was flipped on on the lower level of the house. Heather must have heard the sound, too, and was going out to investigate.

Not a good plan if an intruder was nearby.

A shot of adrenaline sharpened his reflexes, and J.C. set his bags on the sidewalk. Unlike the entrance to Edith’s backyard—a rose-covered arbor with a three-foot-high picket gate—Heather had gone the privacy route. Her gate, framed by a tall privet hedge, was six feet high and solid wood. The U-shaped latch, however, provided easy access.

Stepping to one side of the gate, J.C. lifted the latch. To his relief, it moved noiselessly. He opened the gate enough to slip through, shutting it behind him as he melted into the shadows of a nearby bush.

Any other time, J.C. would have admired the precise, geometric pattern of Heather’s formal boxwood garden, with its ornate birdbath and beds of colorful flowers that reflected a well-planned symmetry. Instead, he focused on the back of the house, where he expected her to emerge any second—and perhaps step into a dangerous situation.

He heard the door open at the same time the rattling resumed. Both sounds came from the rear. Sprinting down the brick path that bordered her side garden, he crouched at the back corner of the house and stole a look at the porch.

As he’d feared, Heather was standing in clear sight, the porch light spotlighting her.

Providing a perfect target.

Another rattle. Now he could pinpoint the source. It was coming from behind a privet hedge at the back of her property.

Pulling his off-duty snub-nosed .38 revolver from its concealed holster on his belt, he stepped forward as Heather descended the two steps from the porch. She gasped at his sudden appearance, but when he put a finger to his lips and motioned her to join him, she followed his instructions in silence. Taking her arm, he drew her into the shadows beside the house.

As he pressed her against the siding, shielding her body from the rear of the yard, he spoke near her ear. “I was walking by and heard a noise in the back.”

“So did I. That’s why I came out.”

Her whispered breath was warm on his neck, and a faint, pleasing…distracting…floral scent filled his nostrils. “It would have been safer to call the police.”

She blinked up at him in the dusky light. “This isn’t Chicago. Nantucket is safe. And you scared me to death.” She flicked a quick look at his hand. “Is that a gun?”

“Yes. And crime happens everywhere.”

“Not in my backyard. The noise we heard is probably feral cats. They’re a big problem on the island. I caught them rooting through my trash a few days ago. The cans are inside a wooden box with a heavy lid, but it’s not shutting quite right. I think one of the cats must have squeezed in again. Chester’s going to fix it one of these days.”

Heat crept up the back of J.C.’s neck. If Heather’s assumption was correct, he’d pulled his gun on a cat.

Not the most auspicious beginning for his Nantucket law enforcement interlude.

But he’d come this far. He might as well follow through. “I’ll check it out, just to be on the safe side. Wait here.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, J.C. worked his way to the hedge in back. A quick look around the side confirmed her theory. Two cats had their noses stuck under the slightly opened lid of the trash bin, while a rustling sound came from inside.

At the same time he saw them, the cats got wind of his presence. With amazing speed and agility, the two outside the bin leaped to the ground, bounded toward the privet hedge and dove through. The third scrambled out and followed his friends.

Holstering his gun, J.C. tried to tamp down his embarrassment. Accustomed as he was to finding danger around every corner, the relative safety of Nantucket was obviously going to take some getting used to.

Heather was leaning against one of the back porch posts when he emerged, arms folded across her chest. “I heard them scrambling over the wood. I assumed it was safe to come out.”

“Sorry to raise an unnecessary alarm. It was an instinctive reaction.”

“You must travel in rough circles.”

“Yeah.”

“I appreciate the thought, anyway.”

Amusement glinted in the depths of her eyes, and J.C. had a feeling she’d have a good chuckle about this later. He could only hope she’d keep the incident to herself. If she told Edith, he suspected half the island would hear about the feral felines’ caper within twenty-four hours. Burke had told him his landlord was well-connected and a better source of Nantucket news than the newspapers.

But he’d worry about that later. At the moment, he was too busy enjoying the view. Backlit by the lantern beside the door, Heather’s shoulder-length hair hung soft and full, free of restraint, the gold highlights shimmering. The light also silhouetted her willowy frame, which was accentuated by jeans and a soft tank top. Gone were the classy pearls and silk that had made her seem so inaccessible.

He had to remind himself to breathe.

Yet if yesterday he’d felt outclassed in her presence, tonight he found a different reason to keep his distance.

Heather Anderson had never been tainted by exposure to violence. In her world, cats were the biggest predators.

He, on the other hand, had spent his career dealing with the lowlifes of Chicago. And he’d been doing it for so long, he didn’t even know how to behave around a woman who was untouched by the raw side of life.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and shifted from one foot to the other. “Well…thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Turning, she disappeared through the door. Thirty seconds later, the downstairs light was extinguished.

As J.C. retraced his steps to the gate, an odd heaviness settled in his chest. One that had nothing to do with the burden of guilt he’d been carrying for the past month. This was related to a woman with hazel eyes.

Though he knew little about her, J.C. sensed that Heather was a kind, decent, caring person. The sort of woman who would add warmth and sunlight and joy to a man’s life.

But not to his.

As appealing as she was, as tempted as he might be to explore the magnetic pull he felt in her presence, in three months he’d be returning to Chicago. Working the grittiest cases. Dealing with sources in the worst parts of town. Putting his life on the line every single day. And if no one he’d yet dated had had the stomach for that risk long-term, there was no way a woman like Heather would.

Besides, her life was here. His was in Chicago. End of story.

Pushing through the gate, J.C.’s spirits took another nose dive. His plastic grocery bags had been ripped apart, the package of deli ham meant to provide lunches for the next week decimated.

And it didn’t take a detective to figure out what had happened.

While the feral cats he’d chased off had been scavenging behind the house, their friends had had a picnic on his lunch meat.

As he bent to salvage what he could, he took one last look at the lighted upstairs window in the back of The Devon Rose. A silhouette moved past the closed shade, and J.C. was struck by the symbolism. Heather was there, in the shadows. Close, but out of reach.

Just like the redemption and forgiveness he yearned for.

He was working hard to find the latter. And in time, with prayer, he trusted he would succeed.

In terms of connecting with Heather, however, he was far less optimistic.

But it shouldn’t matter, he reminded himself, tossing a frozen dinner into one of the bags as he stood. He hadn’t come to Nantucket for romance. He should just accept that the attractive tearoom owner was off-limits and do his best to put her out of his mind.

Except that wasn’t going to be easy when he could see her lighted window every night from the doorway of his cottage.

Chapter Four

A ray of sun teased Heather awake, and with a contented sigh she turned on her side and bunched her pillow under her head. No way was she getting up yet. Monday was her day to sleep late and lounge around. And after the past busy week, she deserved a few hours of leisure.

At least there’d been no unexpected customers this Saturday or Sunday, as there had been last weekend. In fact, she hadn’t had even a glimpse of Justin—J.C., she reminded herself—since the cat incident his second day on the island.

Edith kept her informed of his activities, however. So Heather was aware he’d rented a bike. Aware he’d been using his off-hours to explore the island. Aware he’d begun attending church with the Shaws.

But most of all, she was simply aware. Of him.

And that scared her.

Flopping onto her back, she turned her head to observe the new green leaves of her prized October Glory maple tree as they fluttered against a cloudless deep-blue sky. A gentle breeze wafted through her open window, and she inhaled the fresh, salty scent of the Nantucket morning, trying to relax.

That wasn’t going to happen today, however, she acknowledged. Thanks to the arrival of a certain Chicago cop who’d managed to disrupt her peace of mind.

With an irritated huff, Heather threw back the covers and padded over to push the lace curtain aside and lower the sash against the slight morning chill. Most of the little guest cottage tucked among the hydrangea bushes at the back of Edith’s property was hidden from her view, though she could catch a glimpse of the front door and roof if she tried. Which she did, despite a warning voice that told her to turn away. And to her dismay, that quick peek was enough to quicken her pulse.

Not good.

How in the world could she be so attracted to a man she’d spoken to for less than five minutes?

Yet she couldn’t deny the almost-palpable chemistry—on her side, anyway. She’d felt it in the foyer of The Devon Rose, when J.C. had taken her hand in his strong grip and looked at her with those intense dark eyes. And she’d felt it again when he’d pulled her into the shadows by the house the night of the cat invasion. A whisper away, she’d inhaled his rugged aftershave. Felt the warmth of his hand seep into her arm and radiate through her body. Sensed that with this man protecting her, she’d be safe from any threat.

Except the one he himself represented.

That was what scared her.

Because J.C. wasn’t for her. The Anderson women’s bad judgment about men aside, the Chicago detective was here only for the summer. Besides, she’d learned an important lesson from her mother’s experience—and from the histories she’d read about the independent Nantucket women of the past who’d run the town while the men were away on long whaling trips: take control of your own destiny. Never give anyone jurisdiction over your life—materially or emotionally.

She’d forgotten that lesson with Mark. But his betrayal had been a wake-up call. She’d been fooled once, and the shame was on him. The next time around, the shame would be hers.

Letting the delicate lace curtain fall back into place, Heather turned away from the window. Considering she hadn’t seen him once in the past eight days, avoiding J.C. shouldn’t be a problem, she assured herself.

And as the old saying went, out of sight, out of mind.

She hoped.

Propped against a large piece of driftwood on Ladies Beach, J.C. adjusted his baseball cap, settled his sunglasses into a more comfortable position on his nose and flipped the tab on his soda can.

This was why he’d come to Nantucket.

Not a soul was visible in either direction down the long expanse of golden sand. Edith’s recommendation for a getaway spot had been perfect. At the end of a dirt road not traveled by most tourists, this secluded stretch was, as she’d promised, a quiet refuge among the busy South Shore beaches.

Tucked in at the base of a sheltered dune, his bike propped beside him, J.C. had a panoramic view of the glistening sea. It was the perfect place to spend the afternoon of his first full day off since starting work, and he intended to make the most of it.

A boat appeared in the distance, and he watched its steady progress as it followed a course parallel to the beach. Although it was rocked by swells, it rode them out without faltering or deviating from its route, secure in its ability to hold fast to its destination despite choppy seas.

That was how he wanted to be. Steadfast, confident, un-shakable even in rough water. Until the shooting, he’d thought he was that way. He’d seen plenty of bad stuff in his thirteen years on the force. Some of it had kept him awake at night. Some of it had given him nightmares. But he’d always managed to move on. Until last month.

Because this time, the responsibility for two innocent deaths rested on his shoulders.

Not everyone agreed with that conclusion, he conceded. The internal review panel had absolved him of fault. Dennis and Ben hadn’t blamed him. Nor had the families of the two men who’d lost their lives. Burke didn’t, either. Everyone knew undercover work was dangerous. You accepted the risks, or you didn’t volunteer.

But risks were different than mistakes. And it had to have been a mistake that had aroused his contacts’ suspicions. There was no other way to explain the setup he, Jack and Scott had walked into in that cold, empty warehouse.

For the thousandth time, J.C. reviewed the facts.

Surveillance had been in place, cover officers had been in position and he’d been wired and armed. Documented identities had been provided for Jack and Scott under the assumption that the drug kingpins would do background checks on their new customers, and the men had been prepared to play their parts.

The only thing unusual about the situation had been the size of the deal, which involved the first deep-pockets customers he’d solicited for the ring. It had been big enough to persuade the leader himself to handle the transaction. Meaning it had shaped up to be exactly the kind of deal J.C. had been assigned to arrange. Catching the main man in an incriminating position would be the payoff for his nine miserable months undercover.

Bottom line, the department had expected to take down one of the most powerful narcotics rings in the city.

Then everything had fallen apart.

And two of his buddies had died.

Moisture gathered in his eyes, obscuring his vision of the sea, and he lifted an arm to wipe it away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Those bullets had been meant for him, too.

Once more, the two questions that continued to haunt him echoed in his mind.

Why had he been allowed to live, while other good men had died?

What had gone wrong?

As he lost sight of the boat, J.C. picked up his Bible. He wouldn’t find an answer to the second question in the Good Book. But perhaps it would shed some light on the first one.

Heather opened the trunk of her car, grabbed a beach chair and her suspense novel, and headed toward the sand. Although an occasional visitor did discover her secret hide-away, Ladies Beach wasn’t on most of the tourist maps—and she hoped it never would be. It was her favorite place to come on Monday afternoons in the summer. And today, with no other cars in sight, she should have the place to herself.

But as she kicked her flip-flops onto the warm sand and bent to pick them up, she spotted a lone figure in the distance. A man sitting against a piece of driftwood, reading a book.

A wave of disappointment washed over her. So much for solitude.

But it was a big beach, she consoled herself. She’d head the other way and find her own place in the sun.

She started to turn away from the interloper, but a movement caught her attention. When she cast a glance over her shoulder, he waved.

Squinting, Heather tried to identify him. But with a baseball cap covering his hair and reflective sunglasses masking his eyes, she didn’t have a clue who he was.

Then he solved the mystery by removing both.

It was J.C.

And there was only one way to explain his presence, she concluded, clamping her lips together.

Edith.

The Lighthouse Lane matchmaker was at it again.

Heather held on to her temper—with an effort. But Ms. Busybody was going to get an earful later!

Taking her time, she strolled toward J.C., trying to decide on a plan of action. But when he rose—a lithe movement that revealed long, muscular legs beneath black swimming trunks and impressive biceps bulging below the sleeves of a chest-hugging T-shirt—it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.

The man was a hunk, pure and simple.

Funny. Usually, Heather wasn’t impressed by muscles and testosterone. Why J.C. was an exception, she had no idea. But alerts were sounding in her brain, reminding her to protect her heart.

Stopping a few feet away, Heather slipped on her sunglasses, which allowed her to give him a discreet perusal. She noticed the logo on his T-shirt—for a team called the Titan Tigers—but it was the broad chest underneath that fascinated her more.

Until he reached down to set his can of soda on the sand and his sleeve pulled up to reveal the tail end of a scar that appeared to be fairly new.

Straightening, he gave her that roguish, adrenaline-producing half smile as he put his own sunglasses back on. “I thought it was you. But the outfit threw me for a minute.” He gave her a swift scan. “Quite a switch from pearls and silk.”

Heather shifted in the sand, regretting her choice of faded denim shorts that revealed a tad too much leg and a T-shirt that had shrunk too much from frequent washing.

She tugged at the hem and switched subjects. “Interesting logo.” She gestured toward his shirt.

He looked down, as if he’d forgotten what he’d put on that morning. “Oh, yeah, it is. The Titans are a primary-school softball team I coach at my church. Small but mighty, according to their motto, though their win record might dispute that. But they have a lot of fun, and that’s what counts.”

His grin turned her insides to mush. As did his philosophy. A lot of kids’ coaches lost sight of the fact that there were more important things than winning. “So…how did you find this out-of-the-way spot?”

“Edith recommended it when I asked about a secluded place to spend some time with a good book.”

Yep, a talk with her neighbor was high on her agenda for later in the day. “What are you reading?”

He gestured to his feet, where a book bearing the name The Holy Bible rested on a towel next to the remnants of a sandwich.

Heather did a double take.

“You seem surprised,” he remarked.

“A little.”

“Why?”

She was struck by his tone. Rather than defensive or embarrassed, as she half expected it to be, it was mild—and more curious than self-conscious.

“You don’t strike me as the Bible-toting type.”

“Is there such a thing?”

His relaxed question threw her. The truth was, she’d always thought of Bible readers as holier-than-thou and a bit nerdy. Yet none of the people of faith she knew fit that stereotype, she acknowledged. This man was certainly far removed from that image.

“I guess not. I just assumed you’d prefer action stories in your reading, given your background.”

A subtle tautness sharpened his features. “I have enough action in real life. Besides, the Bible isn’t dull reading. And it offers great guidance.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that. When it comes to dealing with life, I prefer to rely on myself.”

It occurred to her he might take offense at her remark, but his demeanor remained placid. “You sound like my sister.”

She caught the hint of affection in his tone, and a smile tugged at her lips. “If she’s independent and self-sufficient, I expect we have a lot in common.”

“That pretty much describes Marci.”

“I have a feeling I’d like her.” She took a step back. “Well…I’ll let you get back to your reading. And your lunch.”

“I finished lunch. I’m moving on to dessert.” He snagged a bag from the towel and withdrew a smaller sack. Holding it out to her, he smiled. “Would you like to share? Edith tells me these are great.”

Leaning forward, she peeked into the bag and narrowed her eyes. “Are those almond macaroons from Bartlett’s Farm?”

“Yes. Edith suggested I pick up lunch there, and she said these were fantastic.”

They were also one of her favorite treats. As Edith well knew, Heather thought darkly.

Capitulating, she reached into the bag and took one. She was going to have lots to talk about with her neighbor when she got home. “Thanks. These happen to be a particular favorite of mine.”

“They can’t beat the stuff you serve at your teas. Those were some of the best desserts I’ve ever had.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she backed up a few more steps. “Thanks. I think I’ll head down that way.” She motioned vaguely to the west. “Enjoy your reading.”

“You, too.”

Swiveling around, Heather trekked down the sand in search of her own secluded spot, trying not to wonder if the dark-eyed cop was watching her.

Selecting a niche in the side of a wind-and surf-carved dune, she set up her chair, wiggled into a comfortable position, stretched her feet out in front of her, and opened her book. The novel that had kept her enthralled far too late into the night for the past week would dispel any further thoughts of J.C., she assured herself.

But today, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t focus on the heart-racing suspense between the covers of her book.

Because her heart was already racing—thanks to a certain transplanted Chicago cop who’d staked out a spot on her private territory that was way too close for comfort.

“Is Edith here, Chester?” Heather pushed through the gate into her neighbor’s backyard, passing under the rose-covered arched arbor.

Chester paused from tinkering with the lawn mower and waved a wrench toward the house. “Inside.”

“Thanks.”

Marching toward the back porch, she mounted the steps and called through the open door. “Edith?”

“In the dining room, dear. Come right in. And help yourself to a muffin.”

Heather pulled open the screen door, ignored the fresh-baked treat on the counter in the homey kitchen—an appeasement offering…or Edith’s standard prelude to a good gab session? Heather wondered—and strode into the dining room.

Her neighbor sent her a rueful grimace from her seat at the table. “I don’t know how I got roped into assembling the buzz book for the Women’s Club at church.” She gestured to the stacks of paper in front of her. Selecting a sheet from each pile, she tapped them into a stack and positioned the long-armed stapler. “You didn’t take a muffin.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Heather sent Edith a pointed look. “I already had an almond macaroon from Bartlett’s Farm.”

Heather caught the flash of smug satisfaction on Edith’s face.

“Did you go there today?”

Planting both palms flat on the table, Heather leaned closer. “Don’t play innocent with me, Edith Shaw. J.C. told me you sent him to Ladies Beach.”

With a determined push on the stapler, Edith linked together the individual pages she’d assembled. “What can I say? The poor man asked me to recommend a quiet beach to do some reading. Can you think of a better spot?”

“You know that’s my special place on Mondays.” Heather straightened up and propped her hands on her hips. “I love you dearly, Edith. But back off on this. I’m not in the market.”

“Too bad.” Edith tapped the next set of pages into an even line. “You couldn’t do any better in the looks department. And Burke has high regard for him. Said he had to overcome a lot to get where he is on the Chicago force.”

Despite herself, Heather’s interest was piqued. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Burke didn’t offer anything else. You could always ask J.C. himself if you’re interested. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the man once in a while, you being neighbors and all.”

Engaging J.C. in conversation was the last thing Heather intended to do. Every encounter with him left her on edge—and yearning for things she’d told herself she didn’t need.

“We’re both too busy for idle chatter. Besides, our paths don’t cross very often.”

“That could be remedied.”

Heather sighed. “Look, could you just try to restrain yourself with the matchmaking? I don’t have the time or the interest. And I’m sure it will annoy J.C., too.”

“Did he seem annoyed when you showed up?”

Far from it, Heather thought. But she didn’t share that with Edith. “I have scones to bake. I’ll talk to you later.”

Heading to The Devon Rose, Heather resolved to forget about the Chicago cop who’d taken up residence next door.

Unfortunately, he’d taken up residence in her mind as well, she realized. Every time she stepped into the foyer or passed table four, an image of him flashed through her mind. Thoughts of him even invaded her kitchen. Distracted, she found herself adding baking soda instead of baking powder to the scone recipe she’d made thousands of times.

Angry at her mistake—and at herself—Heather dumped the ruined batch of dough in the trash. If she was the praying type, she’d be calling on the Lord about now, asking Him to give her something else to think about. Anything but the cop with the dark, appealing eyes and the potent magnetism.

But maybe—if she was lucky—He’d hear her silent plea anyway.

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