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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.
