Heidi Rice - Too Close for Comfort

‘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.

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.