Heidi Rice - Too Close for Comfort

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

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

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

Damn, she was actually serious.

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

‘Yeah? Well, unfortunately I do.’

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

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

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

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

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 Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon ®novel.

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

Recent titles by the same author:

ONE NIGHT, SO PREGNANT!

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE WILD

ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF CHRISTMAS

CUPCAKES AND KILLER HEELS

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brad!

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

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

Not Brad .

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

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

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

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

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

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

No way!

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t smell like a low life .

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

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

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

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

Arrest .

Her mind grabbed hold of the word.

He’s a cop. He won’t kill me .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not even a proper cop?