Zane tucked the cottage’s phone under his arm and rapped on the front door. The early evening light beamed off polished wood but as he peered inside it was obvious there was no one in the front room.
He rolled his shoulders as the muscles cramped. He hoped she’d done as she was told and stayed put. After the day he’d put in already, the last thing he needed now was to have to scour Pacific Grove for her.
The original plan had been to swing by first thing that morning. But after having his night’s sleep disturbed by way too many sweaty dreams involving firm breasts, wide caramel-coloured eyes, worn tank tops and full kissable lips glossy with burger grease, he’d held off, and sent Jim to deliver the groceries instead.
Iona MacCabe had an unpredictable effect on him, and until he figured out what—if anything—he was going to do about it, keeping his distance was the smart choice.
Then the case had exploded at ten when Demarest had shown up at the Morro Motel—and all hell had broken loose. Zane had been tied up with the Morro Bay PD for the rest of the day, handing over the case files and contacting the LAPD to make sure Demarest got transferred there before the day was out. As a courtesy, Stone and Ramirez had let him observe their interrogations. He massaged the back of his neck to ease the tension headache that had been building ever since.
Just as he’d guessed after their original profiling, in the interview Demarest had been slick and supremely arrogant. But he soon lost control under pressure, and proved how volatile and dangerous he was.
Zane shuddered. What the hell had Iona been thinking breaking into the guy’s room? What would have happened to her, if it had been Demarest who’d caught her last night and not him? At some point he planned to give her a damn good talking to about personal safety.
The thought of any woman being at the guy’s mercy had sickened him—but worse had been the moment when they’d questioned Demarest about his trip to Scotland. Demarest had laughed and boasted about the Scottish girl who’d been ‘begging for it’ and Zane had been forced to walk out—the urge to leap through the mirrored partition and strangle the guy triggering the sickening memory that had haunted him most of his adult life.
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
