He fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with his foot and stepped into the dark interior, an emotion he didn’t like banding across his chest.
She didn’t stir as he placed her on the small queen-size in the cottage’s only bedroom, untied the laces on her combat boots and slipped them off, then covered her with the throw before he got fixated on the slow rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tank.
He found a note pad in the kitchen, scribbled a note and pinned it to the corkboard above the fridge. Unplugging the phone and tucking it under his arm, he walked out of the door, closing and locking it behind him. Then dropped the key through the letter slot.
As he drove back to his place he sent a voicemail to Nate’s business line, to inform him of his new house guest, and left one with his PA.
If they didn’t pick up Demarest tonight, he was diverting every free man he had to the case tomorrow. He needed to get this damn case closed, before it got any more complicated.
CHAPTER THREE
Stay put, I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you what’s going to happen next.
Montoya
IONA RAN HER fingers through her damp curls, tucked the towel between her breasts and glared at the thick black writing—particularly the shouty capitals.
Where did Detective Sexy get off giving her orders like a pet dog?
No one told her what to do. She’d been taking care of herself since she was ten years old. And taking care of her dad too. And okay, maybe she hadn’t exactly been doing a stellar job of it of late, but that hardly gave him the right to treat her as if she were his to command.
And what exactly did he mean by ‘to tell you what’s going to happen next’?
She struggled to hold on to her indignation and ignore the little blip of disappointment at the fact that so far the only person she’d seen was one of his detectives. A rotund guy called Jim with a gruff but friendly manner, who’d woken her up an hour ago to deliver a bag of groceries, her rucksack—conspicuously minus her purse and passport—and the news that Mr Montoya was busy with the case but would be in touch later in the day.
Pulling the note off the corkboard, she scrunched it up and dumped it in the kitchen bin. Well, hooray for Mr Montoya—it must be nice to get to order everyone around like a demigod.
Goosebumps rose on her arms. She marched back into the cottage’s tiny living area and grabbed fresh underwear, jeans and a T-shirt from her rucksack. He’d better bring her passport when he showed up or there would be trouble. Returning to the compact bedroom, she hunted around for her boots, then stopped dead when she spotted them—placed neatly together on the rug by the bedside table, the laces undone.
Her heartbeat bumped her throat as a picture formed in her mind’s eye. The picture she’d been holding at bay ever since she’d been woken up by the sound of knocking at the front door, snuggled cosy and content and well rested under a clean quilt that smelled pleasantly of fabric conditioner.
The picture of Montoya carrying her into the cottage, taking off her boots and then covering her with said quilt.
The pulse of reaction skittered up her spine, making the pinpricks shimmer back to life and party with the goosebumps.
She swallowed heavily, trying to ease the ache in her throat.
The thought of being fast asleep in his arms was disturbing enough, but much worse was the thought of him putting her to bed so carefully.
When was the last time anyone had bothered to treat her with that much care and attention? Her father had been unable to care for himself after her mother left, let alone her. So at ten years old, she’d become the parent—caring for both of them while he struggled to pull himself back from the brink of depression. She’d had a few boyfriends before Brad, but they’d been young and reckless—providing nothing more than the easy thrill of youthful companionship. And as for her brief liaison with Brad, well Brad had been a user, always quick to take, never willing to give.
Big deal. He just took your boots off for you.
Perching on the edge of the bed, she grabbed one of the boots and shoved it on, staunching the ridiculous tide of her thoughts.
Zane Montoya didn’t care about her; he just cared about his case. And she didn’t care about him either. So why was she turning one moment of consideration into a primetime drama?
She returned to the kitchenette and began taking the groceries out of the brown paper bag Jim had delivered, determined to put the moment of vulnerability behind her and concentrate on finding a solution to her situation.
She almost wept with joy when she found a tin of coffee. She filled the kettle, looking out of the window to find a sweet little patio garden carpeted with climbing vines. As the rich smell of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, a strange contentment settled over her.
The cottage was tiny, but so clean and pretty—and completely adorable compared to the dives she’d been forced to stay in of late. Pouring herself a steaming cup, she smiled as a hummingbird fluttered into view and settled over the bright yellow pegonias in the window box, and began gathering nectar in its long beak. Putting down the mug, she rushed back into the living room and dug out her art supplies, her palms itching to detail the blurred lines of the bird’s movement in the static medium of paper and graphite. Settling in front of the kitchen window, she sketched furiously, trying to capture as much as she could before the bird disappeared. As the hummingbird flitted from flower to flower and the clear lines began to form on the heavy paper the leaden feeling of failure that had bowed her shoulders for so long began to lift.
She relaxed as the bird flew off, and gazed at her drawings. More than enough to create a detailed watercolour later. Refilling her now lukewarm coffee, she took a muffin out of the deli-bag on the counter and realised that for the first time in a long time she felt the bright sheen of possibility peeking out from under the dead weight of failure.
And she had Detective Sexy to thank for that.
When he appeared, she would be conciliatory instead of combative. The truth was, she’d been aggressive and unnecessarily snotty with him last night. Because she’d been exhausted, hungry and terrified—she might as well admit it. But she’d had her first full night’s sleep in weeks. Which meant she owed Montoya—however high-handed he’d been with his little note.
But once she’d thanked Montoya and was on her own again, the bigger picture was more complicated. Still, now she was well rested her prospects didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had seemed last night.
She had some money left and a work visa that lasted another five months. There was no reason why she couldn’t look for a better place to live now, away from the seedy motels Brad frequented. And perhaps sell a few more sketches. She’d managed to sell all the hand-painted postcards she’d produced in the cafés along Morro Bay’s Main Street, but keeping an eye on Brad’s motel room had meant she hadn’t had time to replenish her work. But now she was free of Brad-surveillance she could actually devote herself to finding a decent job and spend her evenings sketching. Monterey was supposed to be arty and bohemian—as well as being a tourist mecca. Surely there were bound to be places she could sell her stuff and look for a job. The summer season was only weeks away, so casual work shouldn’t be too hard to find.
The most important thing of all, and the main reason she’d come to America to track Brad, was to stop her dad from ever finding out that he’d been conned again by someone he trusted. And while she most likely wouldn’t be able to get him his money back, she could still achieve that much.
She’d told her father she was travelling to LA at Brad’s invitation, that her ‘new man’ had come through with his promises of a showcase for her work. Even though the lie had nearly choked her at the time, it had kept her father happy. And while