the biggest complication of all was sitting right in front of him.
A complication made a whole lot worse by his perverse reaction to her.
He’d never before got a kick out of manhandling a woman—even on the force he’d earned the nickname Lancelot, because of his preference for using persuasion and persistence when interrogating female suspects, instead of threats and intimidation.
But there was no getting away from the fact that when he’d caught her in Demarest’s room tonight—he’d noticed the generous breasts propped on his forearm and the fresh, subtle fragrance of her hair. And while he might have been able to ignore that momentary loss of control—because it had been six months since he’d had a woman, any woman in his arms—that excuse was nowhere near good enough to explain why he’d come close to getting a hard-on just watching her eat.
‘But you can kiss your paycheck goodbye,’ he said, making sure the chill stayed in his voice.
Her big brown eyes widened, making him feel as if he’d just kicked Bambi.
‘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 devoured a burger as if she hadn’t eaten in days and who 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 her connection to Demarest 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. I won’t interfere with your case, I swear. I want Brad caught as much as you do.’
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.’
‘Why?’ she said, the hitch in her voice telegraphing her shock. ‘This is ridiculous. You dislike me as much as I dislike you.’
Unfortunately he didn’t dislike her nearly as much as he should, but he let the observation pass.
Her brow creased. ‘All you have to do is trust me a little bit and we never have to lay eyes on each other again.’
‘Trust you?’ He sent her a long look. ‘You think?’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘I already told you Brad stole money from my father.’
So it was Brad now.
‘I was trying to get it back,’ she finished, crossing her arms, and making her breasts plump up under the scoop neck of the tank.
‘Yeah, but I don’t have a heck of a lot of proof.’ He dragged his eyes away from her cleavage. Annoyed with himself. And her. Was she doing that on purpose? ‘And until I do, we’re stuck with each other.’
He reversed out of the lot, deciding the argument was over.
‘Now hang on,’ she piped up. ‘If you don’t trust me, why the heck should I trust you? You say you’re a private investigator, but for all I know you could be an axe-murderer.’
‘I showed you my licence,’ he said, humouring her.
‘Which you could have had forged for you by axe-murderers.com.’
His lips quirked at her tenacity, but he bit back the chuckle. The accusation wasn’t funny, it was insulting.
He braked and pulled out his smartphone, then keyed in the number for the LAPD. He passed the phone to her as it started ringing. ‘Ask for Detective Stone, or Detective Ramirez in Vice, whichever one is on shift. They can vouch for me.’
He waited while she spoke to the dispatcher, and spent some time verifying that she was talking to a genuine LAPD officer—and not one of his axe-murdering pals.
Smart girl.
‘Excuse me, Detective Ramirez,’ came her smoky voice when she got his former partner on the line. ‘My name is Iona MacCabe and I’m here with a man called Zane Montoya. He says he’s a private detective and that you know him. Is that true?’ She listened for a moment, her teeth releasing her bottom lip as she nodded. ‘Can you tell me what he looks like?’ Her gaze roamed over his face as she listened to Ram’s reply. Her scrutiny was sharp and dispassionate, and so unlike the glassy-eyed stares he had come to expect from women that something perverse happened. His nape heated, triggering a flash back to high school, when those glassy-eyed stares had allowed him to charm any girl he wanted into his bed—or more often the back seat of his uncle Raoul’s Chevy.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
Damn it, Montoya. Get real. You’re not in high school any more and you don’t want Iona MacCabe in your bed, or anywhere else.
‘All right, I guess this is the same guy,’ she murmured, that smoky accent only making him more uncomfortable. ‘And you’re sure he’s no an axe-murderer?’
Her eyebrows inched up her forehead and then she laughed, the sound low and amused and so unexpected it arrowed right through him.
He didn’t even want to think what Ram had said. His ex-partner had a sense of humour coarsened by twenty-five years spent in a squad car and a locker room. It wasn’t exactly subtle.
At last she passed him back his phone. ‘Okay, you check out,’ she said a little grudgingly. ‘The detective wants to speak to you.’
Terrific.
‘Hey, Ram,’ he said without a lot of enthusiasm. He usually enjoyed shooting the breeze with the guy, but not now, not with this woman in the car—who was becoming way more of a complication than he needed.
Ramirez’s amused voice boomed down the phone. ‘Lancelot, man, who’s the chiquita? She sounds cute.’
Zane kept his eyes on Iona, and hoped she hadn’t heard the dumb remark. ‘I’m on a case, man,’ he said sternly, relieved when Iona broke eye contact and stared out of the window, ignoring him.
‘I’ll bet.’ The rusty laugh caused by two packs a day wheezed out as Ram replied. ‘What happened, man? You finally find one you can’t charm out of her panties with that pretty face of yours?’
‘I appreciate you vouching for me, Ram,’ he said, wishing to hell it had been Stone on the late shift tonight—whose sense of humour was about as animated as his name. And ended the call.
He
