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.
“Got it in one. I always knew you were more than just a pretty face, McQuaid. Surely if they were satanists, we’d have found a lot more than this? Eyewitnesses at least. But no, we’re supposed to assume said satanists have the power of invisibility. Get real. And Bull doesn’t want to know. Far be it from me to cast aspersions….”
She halted midflight as if waiting for a comment about glass houses and stones. He didn’t oblige. “You know Rocky used to be Bull’s sergeant, huh? Skelton could still have set the fire himself,” she continued.
“Why? Why would he torch the place?”
She looked surprised, as if suddenly finding him wanting. “Money, of course.”
“How do you explain the cuts on his back?” He riffled the tops of the pages with a thumbnail. “Satan’s initials it said here.”
“Self-inflicted.” Her tone said, “I ain’t taking any crap.” “You have to agree, they’re indecipherable. On the other hand, diving through the glass door could go a long way to explaining them.”
“You really don’t like the guy, do you?”
His question merited a minimal lift of her shoulders and a pout. “That’s neither here nor there. In all my time in Nicks Landing, I’ve never heard one whisper about satanists or black-magic cults. And Rocky can’t come up with a good reason why, if one existed, they’d want to roast him. Come on! The man’s lying. He pulled the story out of thin air, and now he’s stuck with it.”
As
