Too Close for Comfort

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He eased the kinks out of his shoulders and rapped again.

He should be feeling great now. Six months’ work had finally paid off and Montoya Investigations was in line for a nice fat bonus payment. Plus his firm had been instrumental in catching one of the nastiest and most parasitic low lives in California and bringing him to book. But somehow it didn’t feel like enough—because it could never undo the damage the bastard had done.

He squinted through the clouded glass again, and a little of the tension dissolved as he spotted the petite silhouette coming to the door from the back of the house. Then the door swung open and the punch of lust hit full force.

The setting sun glinted on her hair, highlighting the different shades of red, and making her skin almost transparent. Her rich caramel eyes glowed with energy, and, while the wary caution of the night before was still there, the bruised shadows underneath were gone. In a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that hugged the generous breasts he recalled a little too well pressing against his forearm, her feet encased in the boots he’d taken off her the night before, she should have looked like a tomboy. She didn’t.

‘Hello, Mr Montoya. Sorry I didn’t hear you knocking—I was in the back garden.’ The Celtic lilt and the hitch in her breathing called to his inner caveman.

Down, Montoya. You’re here on business. Not pleasure. However tempted you might be to stray over that line.

He noticed the pad under her arm, which was covered in a series of intricate drawings of a small bird.

‘You’re an artist?’ he asked, although the answer was obvious from the quality of the work.

‘Yes, I…’ She shrugged. ‘I specialise in drawing flora and fauna. It’s a passion of mine.’

She stumbled over the word passion and two pink flags appeared on her cheekbones, making the sprinkle of freckles on her nose more vivid.

‘A passion, huh?’ he said, not quite able to hold back the grin when she squirmed. So he wasn’t the only one struggling to remain professional.

Good to know.

‘Come in, Mr Montoya,’ she said, the cool, polite tone disconcerting as she stepped back and held the door open. He wondered what had happened to the firebrand he’d met last night.

‘The name’s Zane.’ He dumped the phone on the coffee table. ‘I brought this in case you want to call your father. You got the groceries okay this morning?’

‘Yes, you should tell me what I owe you for them,’ she said, the cool tone turning chilly. ‘Although it’s going to be hard to pay you without my purse.’

He tugged her purse and passport out of his back pocket. But when she reached for them, he lifted them above her head. ‘Not so fast. I’ll need your word you’re not going to run off.’

The beguiling almond-shaped eyes narrowed. And the firebrand came out of hiding.

‘And what would you be needing my word for?’ she asked, propping her hands on her hips and making her breasts flatten against the tight T-shirt. ‘If you don’t believe a single thing I say?’

‘It’ll go some way to putting my suspicious mind at rest,’ he said, enjoying the view probably a bit too much.

The fire in her eyes flared. ‘Is it just me you don’t trust?’ she asked her tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘Or do you have this low an opinion of all women, Mr Montoya?’

He choked out a laugh. No one had ever accused him of that before. Especially not a woman. But then Iona MacCabe was turning out to be an original in more ways than one.

His gaze wandered over her face and he watched with satisfaction as her cheeks pinkened. ‘On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of women.’

The pulse of awareness warmed the air as her cheeks heated to a dull red. And pert nipples protruded against the T-shirt.

It was a crisp spring evening outside, but the sun shining through the cottage’s front window meant the atmosphere was warm and close.

She crossed her arms to cover the stiff buds.

Too late, your secret’s out, querida. You’re no more immune to me than I am to you.

‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I can’t think of a single thing about women I don’t enjoy.’

Professionalism be damned. Iona McCabe was too cute to resist flirting with.

‘So perhaps we should start over—and forget about last night.’ He held out his hand. ‘Zane Montoya, at your service.’

Suspicion clouded her eyes, but then she thrust her slim hand into his much larger, much darker one. He clasped her fingers for barely a second, the handshake quick and impersonal, but the cool, soft touch of her skin contrasted sharply with the arrow of heat that darted straight to his groin.

She stuffed her hand into the back pocket of the jeans. But her pupils dilated with something he recognised only too well, before her gaze flickered away.

You felt it too.

Endorphins flowed freely through his system. He’d always been a connoisseur of women, in all their myriad and wonderful varieties. Which was why he didn’t have a type. But for some reason, this girl hit all his happy buttons, without even trying.

And he was through fighting it.

As of today, Demarest was in a cell and would be for a very long time. The case was closed as far as Montoya Investigations was concerned. So there was no professional reason why he shouldn’t push a few of her happy buttons right back.

‘I’ve got some news on the case, Iona,’ he said, planning to ask her if she wanted to discuss it over dinner, but before he could say any more her head shot up.

‘News about Brad?’

He frowned, his happy buttons not feeling all that happy any more. ‘We picked him up at ten this morning. He’s in a cell facing more charges than he can count.’

‘I see.’ Her voice sounded casual, but then she fixed him with that cautious gaze and he knew it wasn’t. ‘Did he have any of my dad’s money on him?’

He shook his head and her face fell.

‘Right.’ She looked down, but not before he saw the shadow of distress.

He shoved his hand into his pocket, resisting the urge to run his finger down her cheek, and stroke the distress away.

For one tense moment he thought she might cry. But then she seemed to pull herself back from the brink.

‘Well, I guess this is where we part company, then, Montoya,’ she murmured.

Something tugged hard under his breastbone. And that surprised him.

The threat of female tears didn’t usually faze him, but there was something about Iona McCabe’s stoicism—and those sultry eyes, so large and wary in her small face—that had fazed him.

She let out a weighty sigh. ‘Do you think it would be okay for me to stay here another night? I could pay any rent that’s due.’

His sympathy dissolved. She looked scared but defiant, like a puppy who expected to be kicked but was determined not to yelp.

He didn’t deserve that.

He trusted her. In fact, she sort of fascinated him. She was feisty and unpredictable And refreshingly transparent and he hadn’t been able to get his mind off her, even though he’d tried. But it was real clear that however attracted she might be to him, she didn’t trust him. And while he’d understood her animosity last night, he was finding it hard not to take it personally now.

‘Damn it, Iona, you can stay here as long as you need.’ In fact, he planned to insist on it. She might think she was safe, but he knew different. A woman alone was always vulnerable, but especially a woman as impulsive as her. ‘And there’s no charge—the place was empty anyway.’

‘Why would you do that? I’m not your responsibility.’ She sounded genuinely confused, making his annoyance increase.

‘Because, weirdly enough, I’m not the kind of guy who kicks women when they’re down.’ Unlike your pal Brad.

‘Okay, well, thank you, I appreciate not having to leave tonight,’ she said. But then her chin stuck out in a stubborn show of strength. ‘But I’ll make sure I’m gone by tomorrow.’

I don’t think so. Not until I’m sure you’ll be safe.

He bit back the retort, seeing the mutinous expression on her face. In his experience, pushing her only made her push back. And anyhow, he didn’t want to argue with her. Not tonight.

‘How about we talk about it over dinner in Santa Cruz? I know a place that does the best enchiladas on the West Coast.’

Her face went completely blank for a second and she blinked, her eyes going round with astonishment.

That had sure shut her up.

‘You’re n-not serious?’ she stammered, her accent thickening.

Damn, she’s even cuter when she’s flustered.

Had Detective Sexy just asked her on a date? Or was she hallucinating?

‘I’m always serious about Manuel’s enchiladas,’ he replied, while the tempting glint in his eye implied the opposite. ‘My treat,’ he continued, apparently not the least bit bothered by her shock.

But then she suspected he was probably used to that reaction from women.

What with that devastating face—not to mention that subtle I-can-have-you-any-time-I-want-you smile—she already knew he was an expert at charming women out of their panties. She’d only got a glimpse of his charm the night before—but she was standing in the full glare of it now, and getting a little light-headed.

Then she made the mistake of drawing a breath into her lungs. The fresh scent of laundry soap, a zesty hint of aftershave and something musky and entirely masculine drifted up her nostrils.

Good Lord, he’s got so many let’s-get-naked hormones pumping off him, I can actually smell them.

She pressed her arms into her breasts as her traitorous nipples began to ache.

‘But why…?’ she began, struggling to come up with a coherent response.

He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Because I’m starving, querida. Aren’t you?’

His breath feathered her earlobe and sent the pinpricks careering down her neck and straight into her nether regions. She drew her head back, and got fixated on those penetrating blue eyes. She didn’t answer the question, because she was fairly certain they weren’t talking about enchiladas any more.