never protested. She had, long and loud. Which was one reason why the boys had handed over the one case they hadn’t known she wanted. The one they’d decided would never be solved. An assault on Rocky Skelton, local innkeeper, purportedly by satanists who’d torched his house with him inside.
It was the kind of tale that made her eyes roll. Satanists in Nicks Landing…it sounded like a play on words, but when she’d mentioned “Old Nicks Landing,” no one had laughed.
She’d had her eyes on Skelton from the moment she’d hit town. Finding her father’s ex-partner running a bar in Nicks Landing had been like striking gold. And landing the case had been finding the mother lode, as if some power was at work, nudging her on, helping her to resolve the past. So what if her means of getting to Nicks Landing had come through a sideways demotion? They’d blamed her for what happened to Rowan. But in comparison, none of that mattered now. She’d been in the right place at the right time. Her father had been innocent and this might be her chance to prove it.
Harry’s expression grew paternal, a ridiculous state of affairs as barely eight years separated them. “Nothing to worry your head about, little lady,” he said in reference to the drug bust.
Maybe it was just Harry’s protective instincts, and if so the disease was endemic. Where once she’d found it amusing, slightly endearing, now she felt smothered by living in male-chauvinist territory. If anyone in Nicks County had ever heard of equal rights for women, they’d quickly forgotten it.
Nicks Landing was about two hundred and fifty miles from Auckland where she’d worked before, and about fifty years backward in time. Located on New Zealand’s East Coast, it was the sort of place needing a detour—and a damn good reason—to visit. It certainly wasn’t on anyone’s way to anywhere else.
The reasons she’d been transferred there were solid, nothing to be proud of, and she’d taken her licks, no sense in making excuses. She hadn’t expected to be the only woman working out of the station house, or that she’d still be the only one today.
“Who have we got here?” Harry asked, nodding toward Ginny.
Jo’s mind shifted gear and she told Harry. “Ginny Wilks. The owner of the Two Dollar Shop caught her slipping some plastic barrettes into her pocket. He didn’t want to press charges, though, just give her a warning. Can you call this number and get her mother to come pick her up? She should be all right sitting here with you. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Call me when her mother arrives.”
Jo had just turned away when she remembered. “Someone stole my space again.”
“I keep telling you, take one of the other guys’.”
Shaking her head, she didn’t pursue it. Harry didn’t realize she couldn’t do the very thing she was complaining of to someone else. She couldn’t be that hypocritical, or dishonest. Twelve years’ service and she still felt the need to mind her p’s and q’s.
“I just wondered who owned the S-type Jag.”
Harry’s smile deepened, becoming more knowing than friendly. “Go on upstairs and find out for yourself. He’s in your office.”
The words your office were a misnomer. Harry knew it and so did she. Jo shared with two other detectives, including Detective Senior Sergeant Bull Cowan. Since his section took up half the space, the likelihood of the car’s owner actually waiting to see her, in her office, wasn’t something she contemplated.
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
