Love Under Fire

Logic told her the driver and the stranger Ginny had admired earlier were one and the same. It could prove interesting to discover if he lived up to his car’s image, and Ginny’s high approbation.

In less than a minute she would know.

The stairs disappeared behind her two at a time. She stopped her momentum by grasping the door handle, her palm sweating lightly in anticipation of the babe being inside. She heard a rumble of male voices through the gaps where the door didn’t fit the frame, too indistinct to decipher, and behind the gold-leaf lettering and frosted glass panel, their images blurred grotesquely.

Silently, she eased the door open, keeping hold of the handle so it wouldn’t spring back and give her presence away. She indulged her curiosity by watching through the six-inch gap. Disappointment, she decided, wasn’t a word she would use in the same breath as this man, not even from behind.

He had legs a mile high slicked in black denim. The supple, wash-softened fabric gloved his muscled thighs and calves in a way that set her mouth watering.

She knew her weaknesses.

His butt wasn’t half-bad, either. At least nine on a scale of ten. Just looking at those firm glutes made Jo’s hormones twitchy—a sensation she’d almost forgotten existed. And as if anything more was needed, he drove a Jag, her favorite car. Together they made one very attractive combination.

Sunshine caressed his tawny hair, the way a woman might to determine if the waves were real. It tipped the collar of his black cotton Polo shirt, which told her he wasn’t a cop, another point in his favor. To date, her association with the male members of her fraternity had been doomed to failure. She’d found that breed never let a lie stand in the way of a good story.

As a child, she’d grown up glorifying the force and its aims. Seeing it through her father’s eyes. But her father’s death had shattered her rose-colored glasses and she’d mourned the loss of her ideal almost as much as she’d mourned her father.

Jo’s mouth twisted as she puzzled over his presence. Could be the guy was undercover. In that case, why Nicks Landing? Nothing here ever warranted that kind of scenario. The biggest excitement to hit the sleepy little burg occurred two and a half months ago, and was the case they’d handed her on a platter. Because of its black-magic aspects, the media, TV and newspapers, had given the story a whirl at first, but that had died a natural death. Hence her male colleagues’ unconditional generosity toward her.

She’d never believed Rocky Skelton’s story. Satanists lurking in small-town New Zealand? Give her a break. Besides, she’d known for most of her life that the man was a liar.

Why should this time be any different?

Jo’s gaze slid up the tall stranger’s spine. It was a long, long spine, supporting a broad back and wide shoulders that hid the man he was talking to. Although, Bull Cowan’s flat country twang was more distinct now that the door was open.

It wasn’t every day of the week a woman got to see shoulders that broad. The fine knit of his shirt clung to them like a lover’s caress. Jo sighed. She should be so lucky.

As she continued to watch, the palm of his large hand fanned over the back of his neck. His muscles flexed under the sheen of taut, golden skin, stretching the ribbed band on his sleeve. He had the kind of lean strength she liked, powerful without being bulky or obvious, hardly an ounce of fat on his body. As she speculated about the amount of work it took to look that good, Jo felt something curl deep in her belly, then expand as heat, sending a bloom of warmth across her skin.

With a twitch of her nose, she delivered a small personal chastisement. Too much fantasizing, that was it. Why, she still hadn’t seen his face. Knowing her luck, he would be dog ugly, though likely he’d have more in common with a Doberman than a Saint Bernard, seeing as he was so lean.

Mind made up, she swung open the door and went to find out for herself. Both men turned as the door banged shut behind her, and Bull came into view at last. Now here was a man who lived up to his name. He had the kind of body that owed more to lifting a handle of beer than working out at the gym. Heaven only knew how he ever passed a physical.

Jo kept her eyes lowered slightly, her gaze hitting the stranger about midchest. It lingered over the glint of gold-edged sunglasses casually hooked in his shirt pocket, as a quick, indrawn breath tightened the fit of his shirt.

The view was everything she’d imagined.

Pretending disinterest, she didn’t raise her eyes until she drew level and Bull was saying, “This is the little lady you want to talk to. Detective Jo Jellic.”

Bull’s too precious diminutive put a hex on the smile she’d been holding back to blind the stranger with. Deliberately, she thrust out her hand, getting in first.

At chin level she got her first surprise. Not at the few days growth of dark gold beard that covered his skin, but the several weeks older sun-tinted moustache. Her eyes held on it as if counting each hair, each sun-lightened strand above his full, firm mouth. If he’d been smiling, his teeth would have made a dazzling contrast to all that gold. But he wasn’t.

Tilting her head—for the man topped her by at least five inches—Jo added another point to his total. It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop, then her breath caught in her throat, and her greeting stuttered to a halt.

Shocked, her hand clutched air while she doubted her own eyes.

“Jo, meet Rowan…er…McQuaid,” said Bull with a quick look at the business card in his hand.

“Rowan McQuaid,” she wheezed as her oxygen ran out.

God, he’d changed!

Time froze as he looked down his long nose at her, nostrils flaring slightly, with eyes the opaque green of glass that has been battered by rough waves. Cold as ice, his hand enveloped hers. A shiver she badly wanted to hide slowly crept up her spine, never missing a notch. Jo let out another breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as his eyes lightened and hazel flecks patterned the green, the way she remembered.

“As they say, long time no see,” he drawled, a dry sound, lacking warmth.

And where was the surprise in that? The changes she perceived in this man, who had once been her friend, had all been her doing. All her fault.

“You…you look well. I hardly recognized you, Rowan.”

“Well, it’s been two years, and you know what they say about time.” It healed all wounds.

But what about their friendship, could it even come close to fixing that? Jo let her hand drop, and took the opportunity to ease her tense body through the narrow space between him and her desk, wary of brushing against him.

She’d once prided herself on nerves of steel, yet they quivered now, like a plucked bowstring. It puzzled her mightily when the dull, leaden feeling of guilt she’d expected was superseded by feelings of uncertainty. As if she was indeed that little lady her colleagues kept calling her.

Sitting down, she took advantage of the distance the width of the desktop allowed, and sheltered behind it.

A frown shaped her brows in a V of futility. What couldn’t be mended would have to be endured, for she’d demolished everything that had held them together the night Rowan had busted his leg taking a bullet meant for her.

Oh, she had paid. Paid well. Lost touch with most of her friends while she frittered away her homicide experience on jobs any beat cop could handle. But at least she still had her career.

She wanted to give him a great big hug to show she knew his pain, that she cared, but she was afraid any expression of empathy from her would go over like a lead balloon. Instead she asked, “How are you really doing, Rowan?”

Jo was the last person Rowan had expected to meet in Nicks Landing. Clutching tight to control, he chivvied her to prevent betraying himself. “Lighten up, Jo. Don’t take it so seriously.”

Don’t do as I do, do as I say.

He’d outgrown the habit of enclosing his senses in a protective coating when Jo was near. He’d even ousted her from his dreams. Deliberately, he hadn’t kept up with her whereabouts. Seeing her today had come as a shock. But he would be damned if he’d let her know why, or pity him for it. Feigning a grin, he put his weight on his injured leg and lifted his arms. “Look, no hands.”

Jo’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Their dark brown irises melted like chocolate. A look that Rowan wanted to reach out and smooth away. And therein lay the danger.

Now he knew why the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted, as if a ghostly hand ruffled them, filling his palm with an urge to brush them down. Now he knew it was a ghost from his past.

“So, Rowan, what brings you to Nicks Landing?”

“McQuaid’s here about that case you’re working on. Wants it cleared up fast,” Bull answered for him, rushing the gate like the animal he was named for. Unlike most other things in Nicks Landing, Bull hadn’t changed. He still acted the way he had when they were both boys, running wild during summer vacation.

“I thought you’d left the force….”

Her words dwindled away softly, but Rowan noticed she hadn’t said “had to.” Or “you were unfit.” No, he’d give her that. She’d finally learned discretion. The art of not running off at the mouth and saying exactly what she was thinking.

“Take a look at this.” Bull handed over Rowan’s business card. “Insurance Investigator.”

Rowan watched Jo’s eyes linger over the card. He’d had a few of them made under two or three different headings, today’s one for Allied Insurance. Few knew that even his name was misleading, only people like Bull and Harry Jackson who remembered him from the old days. He’d counted on their friendship not to give him away, using it to oil the wheels with this Skelton business.

“And what’s that to do with me or my case?” Jo gasped, her mouth quivering as if disturbed by the turn of events.

Bull answered, “Allied has been taking a lot of crap from Rocky and his wife, and they want this puppy put to bed.”

“Just like that. I can’t just call it quits to suit your employer.” Her chair bumped the wall as she stood leaning forward, fists clenched. “This case is important to me.”

“C’mon now, girlie. You know that case is going nowhere.”

Jo blinked, and under her lashes her eyes flashed a warning in Bull’s direction before turning back in his.

She was good and mad now. He preferred her spitting fire than looking all soft and sad, tempting him to do something about it.

“I’ve only been on this case two weeks. That’s not enough time. I need more. I deserve more.”

Bull came round the side of her desk, mouth open to speak. She cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say, Sergeant. You only gave me the case so I could tidy it up and stick it away in a file, but that’s not the way I work.”

“Don’t worry, Bull. I know what Jo’s like. Once she gets her teeth into something it’s hard to prise them apart.”

Bull looked from one to the other. Rowan could almost see his mind working. His brow furrowed and black eyebrows twitched. His mouth twisted to one side, then the other, as if making a decision his divided loyalties found difficult to spit out. “Just to be fair, I’ll give you a week.”

“A week!” blurted Jo.

Drawing himself up to full height, Bull sucked in air, pushing his gut up to his chest. “One week. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Regretfully, Bull wasn’t done. He eyed Rowan with a lift of one brow. “McQuaid here can help you. Two heads are better than one, and maybe that way you’ll both be satisfied.”

Satisfied? Rowan would never dare to be satisfied when it came to Jo. He’d spent years avoiding that kind of satisfaction. He’d recognized the danger the first moment he saw her. Like reading an old map that warned, here be dragons.

Although he still counted meeting Jo as the point in time when his life started going downhill, the image had fixed in his mind. A memory, which the unlikely scent of locker rooms could trigger off.

That’s where he’d been, Auckland Central locker room, reading a long boring letter from his brother, Scott, after a hard night keeping his friend Max Strachan company. When your best friend’s first marriage breaks up, what else can you do but help him tie one on over a bottle of whiskey?

Someone barging through the door of the shower room had jarred him from a miasma of facts and figures he really couldn’t be bothered sorting, but Scott insisted on relaying. Downing a cup of coffee at his desk had suddenly seemed like a much better deal. Prepared to slip by with a quick wave and a “Hi,” he’d stopped dead in his tracks, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Wild animals took notice of the time-honored signal and ran for their lives. He hadn’t been able to drag his gaze away.

He’d yet to see a woman who could match her. Smooth, honey-colored skin all the way down to her toes; lush, rounded hips and long, long legs that were stepping into a pair of scarlet, silky French knickers. God knows how long he stood there caught in a trap by his hormones like a pubescent schoolboy. It seemed like forever. He’d wanted it to be forever, even while he recognized the danger as the elastic snapped on a scrap of red silk that would color his fantasies for the rest of his life, he’d known he should leave—get out of there quick. Instead he’d taken a step back, and watched her turn to snag a matching bra from the locker.

Instant arousal!

Her long tangle of black curls swung back, revealing the face behind their curtain. Strong features, straight nose, high Slavic cheekbones and lips that even memory couldn’t improve upon. All that before he’d seen her breasts. Once that happened, his hands itched to cup them and his mouth went dry at the thought of suckling their treacle-dark nipples.

Honey and treacle.

Poison where he was concerned.

The last thing he’d wanted from life was to meet a woman who could tempt him to fall in love.

So, he’d worked alongside her, knowing the pain he endured was nothing compared to the hurt that loving and losing her could bring. And he’d based his security in the knowledge that Jo couldn’t see him for Max, his best friend, and the man Jo loved.

How was he going to get through this week and still maintain that distance? He’d shaken the dust of Nicks Landing off his boots once before and all he could think of now was how soon could he do it again?

A week. Seven days. A hundred and sixty-eight hours, give or take a few if she wanted to sleep. It was going to be difficult working alongside Rowan. She’d never felt so unsure of herself in her life. Never felt as if her life was balanced on a knife’s edge with Rowan responsible for which way she’d fall. Never in all the years she’d known Rowan had she felt the mouth-gaping, heart-stopping attraction he had for her now.

She and Ginny had more in common than she had realized, for when she looked at Rowan she didn’t feel any older than the kid she’d left downstairs with Sergeant Jackson.

Why did it have to happen now, when she was on the most important case of her life, and the prize her father’s reputation?

She took a deep breath and settled the squirmy feeling in her gut. “Okay. Here’s where we start. I’ll give you all I’ve got to look over….”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly, their cool, flecked green at odds with the slight curl of his lips. “Generous of you, Jo, but don’t you think the work on hand should be our first consideration?”

Well, she’d left herself wide open to that one and blushed. Rowan was sharp, too sharp, but maybe she could turn it to her advantage.

“Exactly what do you think we’re investigating here, Rowan? Attempted murder, attempted suicide, or just plain old fraud?”

Bull went first. “Jeez, Jo. This is Rocky Skelton you’re talking about. One of us.”

Jo swung around. She could see everything slipping away from her, from her father. She wanted to shut up, hold her tongue and not get into trouble, but she couldn’t. “Great, well why don’t we ask Rocky to help out? It’s already turning into Old Boys’ Week around here.”

She lifted one hand, not to swipe at the tears frustration had brought to her eyes, but to disguise them by brushing back her hair, and found her wrist enclosed in a firm grip. Rowan’s.

His fingers burned where they touched her skin. She looked up, ready to tell him not to manhandle her, and couldn’t. One look at his face whitening under his tan and she was distracted. He didn’t look well. Maybe the tan was simply camouflage he’d gotten up in the islands where he’d gone for some much-needed R and R.

Her mind drifted as his grip softened, warmed.

“Okay, Jo, we’ll do it your way. Where do we start?”

Chapter 2

Get over it, McQuaid.

The warning in Rowan’s mind didn’t go unheeded. It was simply impossible to implement while Jo’s scent filled his head with every breath. It was torture. Sheer bloody torture. And he was no masochist. Neither was he a coward, but what he wanted now was to exit her office without making an ass of himself, and take a few hours to get his act together. He was positive that’s all it would take. Just a little time to get his head on straight.

The words on the papers he was supposedly reading merged into one, making nonsense of the evidence. The utilitarian clock on the wall behind Jo made it plain only an hour had passed since her arrival had caught him off guard. Eyes closed, his gaze turned inwards as if his parole lay in the dark behind his lids. Damn, this had to be the longest afternoon of his life.

The hairs on his arms prickled each time she passed a piece of evidence, or pointed out a particularly interesting photograph. It was as if his body reiterated what his mind denied. He wanted to touch her. To hell with the weight of regrets lying in the pit of his stomach since he’d grasped her wrist and felt her heartbeat race under his thumb. Felt it pulse, tinting her soft skin blue, and still it hadn’t been enough. Not when he’d wanted the whole of her under him, naked and writhing as they joined for the first time right there on top of the desk.

A wry grimace crossed his mind at the thought of Bull’s face if he’d actually given in to his urges under his old mate’s nose, so to speak. Out of the three there, he’d be hard put to say who’d be the most shocked. And with Bull out of the office, Rowan knew even that small hindrance to temptation was lost to him.

Jo’s attention switched from the papers in her hand to her watch. “Hey, why don’t I just bundle this lot up and let you take it away to work on? I presume Bull won’t have any beef with that.” The pun lit a small smile in her features, the first to brighten them since they’d begun sifting through information which neither confirmed nor denied Jo’s theory of Rocky conning them.

Shoulder level and palm out she raised her hand as if to say pax or peace. If only she knew. Peace could never exist between them while this primitive tempo surged through his veins.

Then, very un-Jo-like, she giggled. “Don’t give me away. The one-liner was straight off the cuff, not a jibe at my boss. I can see how he got the name though, Bill Cowan. Bull. Perfect.”

Rowan nodded. Old nicknames stuck, Bull’s and his, McQuaid, his middle name and mother’s maiden one. Back then he’d been a real pain in the ass about being half-Scottish, and he’d put it to good use when he’d decided to join the force because he answered to it naturally, and made the powers-that-be less inclined to nix his application. Sure, McQuaid didn’t have the same ring of power as Stanhope, but it wasn’t as tempting to the lowlifes he’d dealt with as Stanhope spelled R-A-N-S-O-M.

Jo turned her back on him and stepped over to a gray, chipped metal stationery cupboard. She didn’t have the kind of walk that shouted, “Hey, guys, look at me.” She didn’t need it. The way her black linen pants curved into her waist, and fit snugly across womanly hips and thighs was enough publicity, a tall woman, neat without being skinny. But, hey, he hated skinny, and life would have been a lot easier if she’d been built like a plank.

Jo returned with a large yellow envelope and passed it to him. “None of these are originals, so I’m sure Bull won’t mind you taking them home to study.”

Though her hands worked quickly, collating photos and statements, she kept rearranging the order, as if changing her mind about more than the papers. “By the way, where are you staying?” she asked, as if she’d just that moment thought of it.

Bloody hell! Was she about to offer him a bed? Petrified that he might be tempted to accept, he rushed out with, “I borrowed a boat from a friend. It’s at the marina. The Landings.”

It was a lie, but a white one, or maybe gray. His brother, Scott, used the boat most of the time, though the craft belonged to the family, two brothers and himself, all that was left.

“Good. I was about to warn you against the local motel, an experience I never want to repeat, but a boat at the Landings, how lucky are you? It’s lovely along the harbor. I often go walking there. I might even know the boat. What’s it called?”

“Stanhope’s Fancy Two.”

“So, what happened to number one?”

Trust Jo to pick up on a subject he wanted to avoid. “It sank,” he said, shrugging, as if the tragedy had absolutely nothing to do with him. Hadn’t changed his life at a time when his emotions still bled from the earlier blow. His feelings on the disaster were nobody’s business but his.

It had been seventeen years since the boat went to the bottom. Everyone said Scott was tempting fate when he named the new boat after the first. But Scott didn’t give a damn. If it made anyone squirm to know their parents had drowned on the original Fancy, let them stay home.

“You be careful.”

“Didn’t know you were superstitious. Doubt it’ll come to much harm tied alongside.”

“I guess not.”

With everything in a pile, she squared the papers, bumping the bottom edges against the desk like playing cards. Her eyelids tilted at the corners as she watched him through long, thick lashes. “Hold the envelope while I slip these inside.”

“Sure thing,” he said, suiting action to words, trying not to acknowledge certain parts of her anatomy might get too close for comfort, trying not to imagine touching them during the exchange. And knowing he’d be a darn sight better off setting his thoughts on leaving as soon as he had the evidence in his hands.

“I take it you’ve heard of the Stanhopes? After all, they’re lending you their boat.”

“You could say that, considering they have a substantial holding in Allied Insurance.”

His answer achieved a lift of Jo’s dark winged eyebrows. Under them, stars twinkled naughtily in the dark brown depths. Rowan knew that look. Knew from experience the pull that teasing warmth had on his libido, and braced himself.

“Then you’ll know they’re what passes for nobility round here. World famous in Nicks Landing.”

Jo’s words hit a nerve. Luckily, he knew it was just her quirky sense of humor, she didn’t mean anything by it. She’d no way of knowing it applied personally. And no need to for the few days he’d be in town.

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“Guess my city origins are showing. No offence to the Stanhopes but it makes me laugh to hear the locals hold them in such awe when Auckland is swimming in millionaires. I heard they’re pretty lavish spenders though, so the boat must be out of this world. Maybe I could come down and let you show me around?”

Not if I can help it! The Fancy was fairly large as boats went in these waters, but the thought of being in its confined quarters with Jo made him break out in a cold sweat. As far as he was concerned, this office was as up close and personal as he dared get with her.

As if it had never come up, he deftly changed the subject, hoping he’d heard the last of the idea. Gauging the envelope’s contents with his hands, he remarked, “Not much here for two and a half months’ work.” His plan worked.