Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Love Under Fire

Love Under Fire
Frances Housden


Two years ago Rowan McQuaid paid the ultimate price when he took a bullet meant for fellow cop Jo Jellic, causing permanent damage to both himself and his career.Now Rowan had arrived in the town of Nicks Landing to investigate an insurance claim and was standing face-to-face with the woman whose life he'd never regretted saving. In the time since he'd last seen her, Jo had gone from beautiful to stunning, making their professional relationship fraught with a powerful, sizzling attraction.And as they tracked a criminal hell-bent on revenge, Rowan found himself struggling to keep his feelings under wraps and his passion for his partner from bursting into flames.









They had to get out of the burning house or a lack of oxygen would suffocate them.


Two kicks and the barrier fell outward. Rowan turned to Jo and swung her into his arms. With her clasped against his chest, he ducked his head and stepped sideways through the gap and into the sunlight.

God, life was great!

He made it to the lawn. With his lungs heaving, he halted and watched the fire swallow up the room they’d fled from with less than a second to spare.

Rowan threw back his head as relief ripped a huge bellow of glad-to-be-alive laughter from his throat. Then he turned his attention to Jo.

Perspiration beaded her forehead, and smoky trails of tears painted her cheeks. She’d never looked more beautiful. She was alive. They were alive.

“Rowan…” Her lips seemed to tremble on his name. Her beautiful mouth filled his vision. His head dipped to take her lips with his own. Just one kiss. A hero’s kiss. He was entitled, and this time he would claim it.




Love Under Fire

Frances Housden










FRANCES HOUSDEN


has always been a voracious reader, but she never thought of being a writer until a teacher gave her the encouragement she needed to put pen to paper. As a result, Frances was a finalist for the 1998 Clendon Award and won the award in 1999, which led to the sale of her first book for Silhouette, The Man for Maggie. Frances also teaches a continuing education course in romance writing at the University of Auckland.

Frances’s marriage to a Navy man took her from her birthplace in Scotland to New Zealand. Now he’s a land-lubber and most of the traveling they do is together. They live on a ten-acre bush block in the heart of Auckland’s Wine District. She has two large sons, two tiny grandsons and a wheaten terrier named Siobhan. Thanks to one teacher’s dedication, Frances now gets to write about the kinds of men a woman would travel to the ends of the earth for.


This one is for family. My darling husband, Keith, for all his encouragement, my sister-in-law, Susan Church, for her courage to read my first draft, and in memory of my mother-in-law, Yvonne, who introduced me to the delights of reading romance. Also, my thanks to Graham Pelham for teaching this perennially bad sailor to drive a boat without ever having to leave solid ground.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue




Prologue


Life as Jo Jellic knew it had become increasingly filled with little quirks. Okay, so she was being facetious, yet less than an hour and a half ago, she’d anticipated spending the evening in the local pub with her colleagues. After letting out a collective sigh, they’d have let off a little steam, celebrating the successful conclusion of a case which had tied them up 24/7 for four months.

Instead, she was up to her elbows in dirt, listening to an ultimatum—“I’ll give you five minutes to back off or I’ll shoot the girl”—with the whaump, whaump, whaump of the helicopter they’d arrived in still hanging in the air.

Every breath was filled with dust, its bitter tang coating her tongue, no matter how hard she swallowed.

Her meager cover was a scrubby pittosporum bush and twenty yards away, on the other side, Maggie, the best friend she’d ever had, was being held hostage.

Jo squinted, eyes straining to cut through the darkness. “Where the hell is Max?” She shred the words between teeth clamped as tight as her jaw. No need for anyone but her to know her boss had gone walkabout. Only a minute ago, Detective Sergeant Max Strachan had been positioned not less than five yards away. His disappearance wasn’t part of the plan, though understanding his desperation, she couldn’t give him away. Just this afternoon, Max had asked Maggie to marry him.

This was the man she’d actually imagined herself in love with for years, but naturally it had been one-sided. Max didn’t find her all that lovable and who could blame him? She was a product of the job she did, made by the career she loved. A person couldn’t work the homicide cases she had and remain the same naive girl she’d been when she joined the force.

It was as if she’d locked all her finer feelings inside and thrown away the key. The truth about love had struck her that afternoon when she’d watched Max and Maggie together. If she ever found a man who could bring out her softer side, she’d know the love was real.

What a time to start bleating, Jellic. She had more immediate problems, like what could she do about Max?

Senior Sergeant Rowan McQuaid on her other side was in no doubt of her feelings for Max. Hell, they’d been making book on it at Auckland Central, betting on the outcome, but their money hadn’t been on her. Soon they’d be able to collect. She’d a notion if she started fussing over Max, Rowan would think she’d given in to her own brand of paranoia.

Jo huffed out air to release her tension. It didn’t work. Her heartbeat raced on a full head of steam, her grip tightening on the 9mm Glock held against her cheek. Metal that had once been cool to the touch now burned in her hand.

She stared into the growing darkness on her left. This shouldn’t be happening now, not in the middle of a hostage drama. Max was in charge. He’d no right to leave. They’d departed Auckland on what seemed a whim, unprepared for an armed siege.

Sure, the Armed Offenders Squad were on their way, but for now, they had to make do with two detectives, including herself, a senior sergeant and the helicopter jockey who had ferried them to the vineyard. Add to that four local cops, country cops, nervous as hell and excited to boot, who’d probably be about as much use as her Glock when it came to hitting a target in the gloomy light.

“Ooh.” Darned if there wasn’t a bug crawling up her arm on the inside of her sleeve. She shuddered. Man, she hated bugs. She hated dirt, too, yet her fingernails had clawed grooves in the ground. Pushing up on the ball of her palm, she paid for her view with the fetid stench of wormy earth on a defrost cycle.

Give her the city any day. She breathed easier with asphalt underfoot and streetlights overhead. This country stuff was a whole other world.

She pushed up higher. Well, the view was better, but Max wasn’t part of it. Drat the man. She hoped he wasn’t doing something stupid.

Glancing over her shoulder she watched Rowan. At least he was still in position, though facing toward the youngest of the cops they’d brought in to help. Knowing Rowan, he’d be doing his level best to calm the kid’s nerves. Something about his size was reassuring; the sergeant had muscles to die for, and didn’t have a nervous bone in his body. Always in control, that was Rowan.

Turning back, she caught a glimpse of movement, a glimpse of black hair slashed with silver darting through the trees. Max.

Anger and fear clutched at her chest, followed by guilt. She might have missed him by letting her attention wander. The urge to haul Max back screamed up her arm. As if he gave a snap of the fingers for her wants. Maggie, the woman Max loved, was inside the house. Nothing, absolutely nothing, she or anyone else said was going stop him acting the fool for love.

“Is Max all right?” Rowan whispered as a movement at the window caught her eye. A glimmer of light slid down the dull-gray barrel of the rifle following Max’s trail like a heat-seeking missile.

Everything she’d ever been taught about safety sloughed right off. Distract the gunman or Max’s as good as dead. “He’s gone!” she shouted to warn Rowan as she leaped to her feet. The rifle in the window swung, taking a bead on her position. She couldn’t move as fast.

“Damn and blast!” yelled Rowan.

A thud of feet and snap of twigs raced time, raced the swing of the barrel. No time to yell, “Stay down!” Although time appeared to stop, she didn’t have any. Then his hand gripped her shoulder.

An inane thought that this was the first time he’d ever laid hands on her, struck at the same moment a shot cracked and the air beside them opened in a rush.

Rowan lunged, his legs straddling hers. His large body barreling into hers dragged her down. She tasted dirt. The scent of dead leaves, grave-cold earth and the coppery tang of blood filled every breath.

Blood? Who was bleeding?

Though Rowan’s weight crushed her, she felt no pain.

As the truth hit, she wanted to scream, “Noooooo!” And she did. “No, no, no,” she repeated the word, repeated the prayer.

She squeezed out from under his lax body and struggled to her knees as if daring the gunman to try again. Blood and some other stuff she didn’t want to put a name to covered her shoes. “God, don’t let him be dead.” Groaning, she rolled him over.

There was no need to feel for his carotid pulse. Proof of life pulsed in the fountain of blood gushing from a hole the size of a fist in his thigh. “You fool, McQuaid. What you want to go and do that for?” She dragged the sleeves of her jacket down her arms and flung it aside.

“I don’t want you to die for me.” There were no other sounds in the world except her beating heart and Velcro ripping as she pulled at the straps of her Kevlar vest. Peeling the vest off, she started in on her shirt buttons. “I don’t need a stand-in. I’m quite capable of dying by myself.”

“Is Sergeant McQuaid all right?”

She’d forgotten that anyone but Rowan and her existed. Her shirt was off, and the kid Rowan had helped was staring at her underwear. “No, he’s not all right. We need an ambulance.”

“I already called the paramedics.”

He hunkered down at Rowan’s head and continued to stare. She knew he was waiting for orders, but her mind raced faster than her lips could frame the words. And no wonder. She was kneeling in the dirt, her hands fighting to staunch the flow of blood with her second-best shirt, while all she wanted to do was howl, to let her feminine side have its way and cry her damn eyes out. But there was no time. She didn’t know where Max had gone but Rowan was down and that made her in charge.

“Press down on this, kid. Let’s hope the ambulance doesn’t take too long,” she told him and shrugged back into her vest, then jacket while he complied. She nudged his hand aside, replacing it with hers. “Now give me your shirt and your belt,” she ordered, digging her other fist into Rowan’s groin in search of the pressure point.

Too busy now for tears, she’d save them for another day, praying that it wouldn’t be at his funeral.




Chapter 1


A little over two years later

“Babe alert.”

The shout jarred Jo out of a daydream. Her head jerked around in time to see the fierce concentration on Ginny’s face as a piercing, two-note twist of air whistled through the gap in her front teeth. Then awe threaded a breathless gasp. “Cooool.”

Good grief, had she ever been so young?

Thank heavens the air-conditioning god insisted on tightly closed windows; she’d hate anyone to think the wolf whistle came from her.

Jo had been quite content to layer her own thoughts over her passenger’s prattle—prisoner was too harsh a word. Ginny sure could talk, and had started the moment she entered the car taking her to the station house. The constant stream of words laced with a mixture of nerves and relief, had settled into a comfortable drone in her ears when Ginny’s shout brought her out of her reverie.

By rights, it should have been the owner of the Two Dollar Shop on the receiving end of all her youthful fervor. The suggestion to let Ginny off with a warning for shoplifting had come from him. Yet from the moment Jo had explained the conditions she’d been promoted to saint…well, let’s say knighthood.

It was kind of nice, really.

Half an hour later she was redundant. Ginny had found someone new to worship. Replaced by a babe no less.

“Where? I can’t see him.” She might be twice Ginny’s age, and then some, but she wasn’t immune to an attractive male, so she let her gaze follow the direction of Ginny’s pointing finger. No use. The glare of late-October spring sunshine against the windshield blinded her. All she got for her effort was the impression of an elongated black shadow sliding across the white weatherboards cladding the Nicks Landing station house.

Wasn’t that always the way? One bright spot in a mediocre day, and she’d missed it. Win some, lose some, usually the latter.

A designated parking space was one of the perks of being a detective, and Jo automatically swung into hers.

“Look out!”

Heart pumping, Jo slammed the brake pedal to the floor, skinning a week’s worth of rubber off the tires in the process.

“Darn,” she spat, ever mindful of her fourteen-year-old passenger, the ineffectual curse bearing no resemblance to her true feelings. “I don’t believe this.”

She blinked and shook her head but the Jaguar S-type, squatting between the white lines of her parking space, was still there. Two vacant spaces, yet again, someone stole hers. Some people simply failed to comprehend the meaning of the word reserved.

Jo spun her car back into the road. Chances were she’d find a spot in the small, crowded visitor’s parking lot on the far side of the station house.

Two years she’d worked out of this station house, and still was no wiser why, out of the three spaces assigned to detectives, no one ever pinched the other two?

“Now that’s what I call a car,” said Ginny.

About to agree, she caught the tail end of Ginny’s expression. So her car wasn’t top of the line. She liked it. Tongue in cheek, Jo responded, “Pretty good huh? Maybe they’ll deliver mine next week.” Ginny’s jaw dropped. Jo’s smile said, “tit for tat.”

“So…did you recognize the babe, Ginny?”

The girl’s smile was dreamy. “I wish.”

“What do you think, should I give him a ticket?” Jo joked.

“Noooo!” Ginny squealed. “The guy wouldn’t know any better. He’s not from Nicks Landing. Him I would have remembered.”

Same goes. Of course it was that Jag, Jo had in mind.

Who was she kidding? Since arriving in Nicks Landing, there had been a dearth of any male who could draw a wolf whistle from her lips, or she suspected, even Ginny’s.

She wasn’t sure why, but she felt drawn to the girl. Perhaps she found an echo of her own patchy youth in Ginny’s overbright chatter.

Rounding the side of the station house, her car began to whine. Envious of the leashed power nestling under the Jag’s hood, no doubt. Well, her mind had been on other matters, too. Male matters. Changing down a notch fixed her car’s complaint, but didn’t stop her wondering what kind of man it took to handle such lethal-looking power.

Slotting her car into the only available space, she imagined her palms wrapped round the walnut steering wheel of the Jag, and took vicarious pleasure in imagining the money-flavored newness of the leather. She resisted an envious sigh and instead, unfolded her six-foot length from the driver’s seat.

Once, she’d been secure in the knowledge of her own personal worth, her own capabilities. Not anymore. Living in Nicks Landing had done a number on her ego. A few more friends might have sweetened her stay, made her feel less of an outsider. Maybe…

With Ginny skipping to keep up with her longer stride, Jo glanced at the white station house. Two years on and she still hadn’t gotten over her first impression. That down-home, country look didn’t quite gel with what went on inside. Friday and Saturday nights were the worst. That’s when the drunks came out to play. The local innkeeper couldn’t seem to tell when they’d had enough. Oh, he’d excuses aplenty. Personally, Jo figured it had more to do with getting back at them for still being cops while he’d been made redundant, though no one else saw it that way. Hell, maybe her prejudice was showing.

Since it was closer, she shepherded Ginny to the back entrance.

“Coming through.”

The warning left barely enough time to pull Ginny to the side of the ramp as Seth McAllister, the cop who manned the reception, ran past. “Where’s the fire?” she called to his back view.

“Personal emergency.”

Jo could have said, “Again?” but kept her own counsel. Seemed Seth had one of those emergencies at least once a month. The fact that he and his wife were desperately trying to conceive a child couldn’t have anything to do with it. And pigs could fly!

The air in the station house rang blue with curses. Someone was putting the boot into one of the metal cell doors. The lockup was pretty rowdy considering it was only two in the afternoon. She noticed Ginny wince and hardened her heart against an urge to erase the fear she could see in her young eyes. Fist clenched close to her thigh, Jo’s emotions warred between duty and empathy. There was a lesson for Ginny to learn here. A lesson that would do the girl more good than harm. Jo swallowed the tightness clogging her throat as she guided the teenager to a bench on the wall. Jo remembered the first time she’d visited the cells. Yeah, she knew what it felt like.

“Sit.” She squeezed out the command, aware of how brusque she sounded. And when Ginny bobbed up again, hovering nervously a few inches above the seat, added, “Stay.” Ginny’s blue eyes paled against the whites as they widened. Blood drained from her face and promoted her carrot-colored frizz from unusual to startling.

The color of that hair was one reason Jo had known the kid couldn’t seriously have intended to steal. The idea of pink barrettes holding back such riotous brilliance put the mind on hold. Though she allowed there was something about pink that tempted with its sheer femininity. That was something else she’d remembered since picking up the girl.

Gently, she pressed Ginny down to the bench. “You’re okay here. No one will hurt you.” Jo nodded toward the desk. “See the sergeant over there? He’ll look out for you.”

As always, Jo’s first glimpse of Senior Sergeant Harry Jackson reminded her of her father. Maybe it was the silver buttons sparkling against the navy uniform, or an echo in the mannerisms. After all this time, the subject was still up for discussion.

Her first memories of her father had to be of those buttons. She’d sit on his knee, feel the scratchy wool under her skinny little legs, and play with the shiny baubles while he told her about the events of his day. Of course he’d always been the knight in shining armor, rescuing fair maidens, locking the bad guys up.

Even after he’d made detective, she’d waited for his stories, sometimes falling asleep before he got home. Two weeks into the job she’d realized he’d always given her the abridged edition.

The day he died had felt like they’d amputated her soul.

Four sons and one daughter he’d had, and out of them all, she was the only one following in his footsteps. Maybe being the youngest, she’d been the only one not taken in with their lies about him.

Jo caught her bottom lip in her teeth, stifling a grin at the way Harry ignored the clamor around him. He looked up as she approached, putting down his pen.

“Busy day, Sergeant?”

“Just a couple of local bad guys Bull and Jake caught growing cannabis in a house they’d rented. A right pair of smart-asses! They lined the walls with foil and grew the weed under lights.”

Jo’s hearing pricked up at the mention of drugs. Features bland, she prevented her longings from showing. Those kinds of cases seldom came her way now, and though her homicide training might have given her an edge in that area, no one had been murdered in Nicks County since the day she’d arrived.

Her immediate superiors seemed to be under the impression shoplifting and breaking-and-entering were more her speed. It wasn’t as if she’d 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 came into view at last. Now here was a man who lived up to his name. He had the kind of body that owed more to lifting a handle of beer than working out at the gym. Heaven only knew how he ever passed a physical.

Jo kept her eyes lowered slightly, her gaze hitting the stranger about midchest. It lingered over the glint of gold-edged sunglasses casually hooked in his shirt pocket, as a quick, indrawn breath tightened the fit of his shirt.

The view was everything she’d imagined.

Pretending disinterest, she didn’t raise her eyes until she drew level and Bull was saying, “This is the little lady you want to talk to. Detective Jo Jellic.”

Bull’s too precious diminutive put a hex on the smile she’d been holding back to blind the stranger with. Deliberately, she thrust out her hand, getting in first.

At chin level she got her first surprise. Not at the few days growth of dark gold beard that covered his skin, but the several weeks older sun-tinted moustache. Her eyes held on it as if counting each hair, each sun-lightened strand above his full, firm mouth. If he’d been smiling, his teeth would have made a dazzling contrast to all that gold. But he wasn’t.

Tilting her head—for the man topped her by at least five inches—Jo added another point to his total. It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop, then her breath caught in her throat, and her greeting stuttered to a halt.

Shocked, her hand clutched air while she doubted her own eyes.

“Jo, meet Rowan…er…McQuaid,” said Bull with a quick look at the business card in his hand.

“Rowan McQuaid,” she wheezed as her oxygen ran out.

God, he’d changed!

Time froze as he looked down his long nose at her, nostrils flaring slightly, with eyes the opaque green of glass that has been battered by rough waves. Cold as ice, his hand enveloped hers. A shiver she badly wanted to hide slowly crept up her spine, never missing a notch. Jo let out another breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as his eyes lightened and hazel flecks patterned the green, the way she remembered.

“As they say, long time no see,” he drawled, a dry sound, lacking warmth.

And where was the surprise in that? The changes she perceived in this man, who had once been her friend, had all been her doing. All her fault.

“You…you look well. I hardly recognized you, Rowan.”

“Well, it’s been two years, and you know what they say about time.” It healed all wounds.

But what about their friendship, could it even come close to fixing that? Jo let her hand drop, and took the opportunity to ease her tense body through the narrow space between him and her desk, wary of brushing against him.

She’d once prided herself on nerves of steel, yet they quivered now, like a plucked bowstring. It puzzled her mightily when the dull, leaden feeling of guilt she’d expected was superseded by feelings of uncertainty. As if she was indeed that little lady her colleagues kept calling her.

Sitting down, she took advantage of the distance the width of the desktop allowed, and sheltered behind it.

A frown shaped her brows in a V of futility. What couldn’t be mended would have to be endured, for she’d demolished everything that had held them together the night Rowan had busted his leg taking a bullet meant for her.

Oh, she had paid. Paid well. Lost touch with most of her friends while she frittered away her homicide experience on jobs any beat cop could handle. But at least she still had her career.

She wanted to give him a great big hug to show she knew his pain, that she cared, but she was afraid any expression of empathy from her would go over like a lead balloon. Instead she asked, “How are you really doing, Rowan?”



Jo was the last person Rowan had expected to meet in Nicks Landing. Clutching tight to control, he chivvied her to prevent betraying himself. “Lighten up, Jo. Don’t take it so seriously.”

Don’t do as I do, do as I say.

He’d outgrown the habit of enclosing his senses in a protective coating when Jo was near. He’d even ousted her from his dreams. Deliberately, he hadn’t kept up with her whereabouts. Seeing her today had come as a shock. But he would be damned if he’d let her know why, or pity him for it. Feigning a grin, he put his weight on his injured leg and lifted his arms. “Look, no hands.”

Jo’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Their dark brown irises melted like chocolate. A look that Rowan wanted to reach out and smooth away. And therein lay the danger.

Now he knew why the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted, as if a ghostly hand ruffled them, filling his palm with an urge to brush them down. Now he knew it was a ghost from his past.

“So, Rowan, what brings you to Nicks Landing?”

“McQuaid’s here about that case you’re working on. Wants it cleared up fast,” Bull answered for him, rushing the gate like the animal he was named for. Unlike most other things in Nicks Landing, Bull hadn’t changed. He still acted the way he had when they were both boys, running wild during summer vacation.

“I thought you’d left the force….”

Her words dwindled away softly, but Rowan noticed she hadn’t said “had to.” Or “you were unfit.” No, he’d give her that. She’d finally learned discretion. The art of not running off at the mouth and saying exactly what she was thinking.

“Take a look at this.” Bull handed over Rowan’s business card. “Insurance Investigator.”

Rowan watched Jo’s eyes linger over the card. He’d had a few of them made under two or three different headings, today’s one for Allied Insurance. Few knew that even his name was misleading, only people like Bull and Harry Jackson who remembered him from the old days. He’d counted on their friendship not to give him away, using it to oil the wheels with this Skelton business.

“And what’s that to do with me or my case?” Jo gasped, her mouth quivering as if disturbed by the turn of events.

Bull answered, “Allied has been taking a lot of crap from Rocky and his wife, and they want this puppy put to bed.”

“Just like that. I can’t just call it quits to suit your employer.” Her chair bumped the wall as she stood leaning forward, fists clenched. “This case is important to me.”

“C’mon now, girlie. You know that case is going nowhere.”

Jo blinked, and under her lashes her eyes flashed a warning in Bull’s direction before turning back in his.

She was good and mad now. He preferred her spitting fire than looking all soft and sad, tempting him to do something about it.

“I’ve only been on this case two weeks. That’s not enough time. I need more. I deserve more.”

Bull came round the side of her desk, mouth open to speak. She cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say, Sergeant. You only gave me the case so I could tidy it up and stick it away in a file, but that’s not the way I work.”

“Don’t worry, Bull. I know what Jo’s like. Once she gets her teeth into something it’s hard to prise them apart.”

Bull looked from one to the other. Rowan could almost see his mind working. His brow furrowed and black eyebrows twitched. His mouth twisted to one side, then the other, as if making a decision his divided loyalties found difficult to spit out. “Just to be fair, I’ll give you a week.”

“A week!” blurted Jo.

Drawing himself up to full height, Bull sucked in air, pushing his gut up to his chest. “One week. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Regretfully, Bull wasn’t done. He eyed Rowan with a lift of one brow. “McQuaid here can help you. Two heads are better than one, and maybe that way you’ll both be satisfied.”

Satisfied? Rowan would never dare to be satisfied when it came to Jo. He’d spent years avoiding that kind of satisfaction. He’d recognized the danger the first moment he saw her. Like reading an old map that warned, here be dragons.

Although he still counted meeting Jo as the point in time when his life started going downhill, the image had fixed in his mind. A memory, which the unlikely scent of locker rooms could trigger off.

That’s where he’d been, Auckland Central locker room, reading a long boring letter from his brother, Scott, after a hard night keeping his friend Max Strachan company. When your best friend’s first marriage breaks up, what else can you do but help him tie one on over a bottle of whiskey?

Someone barging through the door of the shower room had jarred him from a miasma of facts and figures he really couldn’t be bothered sorting, but Scott insisted on relaying. Downing a cup of coffee at his desk had suddenly seemed like a much better deal. Prepared to slip by with a quick wave and a “Hi,” he’d stopped dead in his tracks, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Wild animals took notice of the time-honored signal and ran for their lives. He hadn’t been able to drag his gaze away.

He’d yet to see a woman who could match her. Smooth, honey-colored skin all the way down to her toes; lush, rounded hips and long, long legs that were stepping into a pair of scarlet, silky French knickers. God knows how long he stood there caught in a trap by his hormones like a pubescent schoolboy. It seemed like forever. He’d wanted it to be forever, even while he recognized the danger as the elastic snapped on a scrap of red silk that would color his fantasies for the rest of his life, he’d known he should leave—get out of there quick. Instead he’d taken a step back, and watched her turn to snag a matching bra from the locker.

Instant arousal!

Her long tangle of black curls swung back, revealing the face behind their curtain. Strong features, straight nose, high Slavic cheekbones and lips that even memory couldn’t improve upon. All that before he’d seen her breasts. Once that happened, his hands itched to cup them and his mouth went dry at the thought of suckling their treacle-dark nipples.

Honey and treacle.

Poison where he was concerned.

The last thing he’d wanted from life was to meet a woman who could tempt him to fall in love.

So, he’d worked alongside her, knowing the pain he endured was nothing compared to the hurt that loving and losing her could bring. And he’d based his security in the knowledge that Jo couldn’t see him for Max, his best friend, and the man Jo loved.

How was he going to get through this week and still maintain that distance? He’d shaken the dust of Nicks Landing off his boots once before and all he could think of now was how soon could he do it again?



A week. Seven days. A hundred and sixty-eight hours, give or take a few if she wanted to sleep. It was going to be difficult working alongside Rowan. She’d never felt so unsure of herself in her life. Never felt as if her life was balanced on a knife’s edge with Rowan responsible for which way she’d fall. Never in all the years she’d known Rowan had she felt the mouth-gaping, heart-stopping attraction he had for her now.

She and Ginny had more in common than she had realized, for when she looked at Rowan she didn’t feel any older than the kid she’d left downstairs with Sergeant Jackson.

Why did it have to happen now, when she was on the most important case of her life, and the prize her father’s reputation?

She took a deep breath and settled the squirmy feeling in her gut. “Okay. Here’s where we start. I’ll give you all I’ve got to look over….”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly, their cool, flecked green at odds with the slight curl of his lips. “Generous of you, Jo, but don’t you think the work on hand should be our first consideration?”

Well, she’d left herself wide open to that one and blushed. Rowan was sharp, too sharp, but maybe she could turn it to her advantage.

“Exactly what do you think we’re investigating here, Rowan? Attempted murder, attempted suicide, or just plain old fraud?”

Bull went first. “Jeez, Jo. This is Rocky Skelton you’re talking about. One of us.”

Jo swung around. She could see everything slipping away from her, from her father. She wanted to shut up, hold her tongue and not get into trouble, but she couldn’t. “Great, well why don’t we ask Rocky to help out? It’s already turning into Old Boys’ Week around here.”

She lifted one hand, not to swipe at the tears frustration had brought to her eyes, but to disguise them by brushing back her hair, and found her wrist enclosed in a firm grip. Rowan’s.

His fingers burned where they touched her skin. She looked up, ready to tell him not to manhandle her, and couldn’t. One look at his face whitening under his tan and she was distracted. He didn’t look well. Maybe the tan was simply camouflage he’d gotten up in the islands where he’d gone for some much-needed R and R.

Her mind drifted as his grip softened, warmed.

“Okay, Jo, we’ll do it your way. Where do we start?”




Chapter 2


Get over it, McQuaid.

The warning in Rowan’s mind didn’t go unheeded. It was simply impossible to implement while Jo’s scent filled his head with every breath. It was torture. Sheer bloody torture. And he was no masochist. Neither was he a coward, but what he wanted now was to exit her office without making an ass of himself, and take a few hours to get his act together. He was positive that’s all it would take. Just a little time to get his head on straight.

The words on the papers he was supposedly reading merged into one, making nonsense of the evidence. The utilitarian clock on the wall behind Jo made it plain only an hour had passed since her arrival had caught him off guard. Eyes closed, his gaze turned inwards as if his parole lay in the dark behind his lids. Damn, this had to be the longest afternoon of his life.

The hairs on his arms prickled each time she passed a piece of evidence, or pointed out a particularly interesting photograph. It was as if his body reiterated what his mind denied. He wanted to touch her. To hell with the weight of regrets lying in the pit of his stomach since he’d grasped her wrist and felt her heartbeat race under his thumb. Felt it pulse, tinting her soft skin blue, and still it hadn’t been enough. Not when he’d wanted the whole of her under him, naked and writhing as they joined for the first time right there on top of the desk.

A wry grimace crossed his mind at the thought of Bull’s face if he’d actually given in to his urges under his old mate’s nose, so to speak. Out of the three there, he’d be hard put to say who’d be the most shocked. And with Bull out of the office, Rowan knew even that small hindrance to temptation was lost to him.

Jo’s 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 if there had been a wind shift, she changed tack.

Experience had taught him to be wary of that glint in her eyes. It meant she wanted something. “Getting back to the subject of money, does Skelton’s insurance policy have a clause setting aside his right to privacy once he makes a claim?”

The glint brightened when he confirmed her supposition. “Most of them do these days.”

“That’s it then. I think we’ve got him. You can look into his finances, banking and etceteras, where I can’t. The bar at the Hard Luck Inn couldn’t possibly cover all his expenses. Losing his shirt would be a helluva incentive for torching his house.”

“Then why didn’t he simply sell the house?”

“Molly, his wife. It was her pride and joy. I’ll take you to Rocky’s tonight and let you get the feel of the Hard Luck Inn. That should give you enough time to go over what you’ve got there.” She nodded toward the envelope. “Personally, I don’t think Rocky had any notion how prophetic the name of his bar would be. He named it that because he was made redundant.”

Now that his afternoon and evening had been arranged to Jo’s satisfaction, all he wanted was out of there. It simplified matters to go along with her plans. “What time?”

She picked up his business card and glanced over it. “I’ll call your cell phone when I’m done, and arrange a time.”

From under her desk she produced a sturdy leather bag, too large to be called a purse, quickly slipping his card into a front pocket. Her next move set his heart racing. Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she slid her fingers through the long black silkiness of her hair before loosing it to fall in a flurry of waves and curls onto her shoulders.

The movement lifted her pink shirt’s miniscule tail above her waistband, allowing a glimpse of smooth satin skin. Her pants slipped lower on her hips, and the shadowy hollow that was her navel, broke up the curve of her honey-colored belly. How would it feel to cradle his head on its softness and simply lie there breathing her in?

Bad move.

Rowan lifted his stunned gaze and swallowed hard.

Their eyes caught as she tucked her shirt in, patted the side of her leather bag and started to walk round the desk. “Ready?”

If he were any more ready he’d be lethal. He’d been half-hard for the past hour, and now he had an ache pressing against his zipper that had to be noticeable. Who’d have thought he’d ever be grateful for the protection of a yellow envelope.

Waving his free hand in the direction of the door, he said, “After you.” Following the convention of ladies first, with heartfelt thanks.



Jeez, she couldn’t believe she’d actually done that. Jo stood at the top of the stairs feeling ashamed of testing the waters the way she had, lifting her arms above her head, knowing it would emphasize her breasts.

She’d watched him swallow the knot in his throat, an involuntary action that only confirmed he was human.

Knowingly, she’d set out on this provocative path, hating to think the buzz zapping her nerves every time he glanced her way was one-sided. That all these hot, bothered and bewildered feelings affected Rowan not one iota. Honestly. Some people read auras, whereas she could sense Rowan’s presence even without hearing his tread on the stairs behind her.

Where had it sprung from, this awareness? When?

Was it really new, or simply something she’d chosen to ignore? With each glance she’d cast his way, hoping he wouldn’t catch her, the hum in her temples increased and the blood in her head bubbled and fizzed as if she had the bends. She couldn’t remember getting this worked up over any man, not even Max Strachan, the last man she’d imagined she loved.

Imagined being the operative word. God, he would have the last laugh now. Max, the one man who’d been honest with her, even if only to tell her she’d no shot of him ever returning her affections.

And Rowan? She’d always thought of him as slightly uptight, at least in her company. First and foremost a by-the-rules guy. Never a step out of place until the last night they had worked together.

On the only occasions they’d met since, he’d acted pretty cagey, accepting her apology for darn near getting him killed with his usual stony face. As if nothing touched him, not even death.

So who had changed, her or him?

Jo stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned, waiting till Rowan drew level. “I have business with Sergeant Jackson. I’ll call you this evening.”

“No problem. I’ll walk with you. I want to tell the sergeant I’m leaving and thank him for his help. I expect to be in and out of the station house quite a bit. Might as well stay on the guy’s good side.”

Jo rolled her eyes and shrugged, a small piece of body language she’d inherited from her Dalmatian grandmother along with her cheekbones and black curls. “Suit yourself.”

What was he really after? It was unlike Rowan to be ingratiating. And how could he bear to watch Harry doing the work he’d had to give up? If she’d lost her job, the way Rowan had, she’d never enter another police station.

Spinning on her heel, she marched along the corridor, her steps brisk, concealing her doleful thoughts. But soon her true nature won through. She had a comic mental flash of what might have been, if Rowan had still been there when she’d arrived with Ginny. She broke into a grin as she pictured Rowan’s face.

All teenagers morphed into an alien life-form these days. What was the betting Ginny would have gone off the planet? Jo was grateful Rowan hadn’t heard the wolf whistle of approval coming from her car. With a sigh, she acknowledged she’d made a few hormone-driven moves herself in the last hour, as if her body had been taken over. The green light had gone on the moment he teased her about her offer to show him everything she had.

Then later…her feeble attempt to get a reaction from him, well that memory was plain embarrassing. Rowan would never really be attracted to her. She’d known him too long. In future it would pay to keep her eyes to herself and off Rowan. The problem being, the new Rowan was just so easy on the eye.

Dear heavens, now there was a thought to jump-start her brain. She was responsible for the new and improved model. Responsible for all the pain he’d gone through while they’d fought to piece his shattered leg together. She forgot how many times he’d gone under the surgeon’s knife.

Rowan’s strength of mind showed in taut, sleek muscles that couldn’t be bought. She ought to be thankful he hadn’t lost himself in the pain her foolish actions had inflicted.

How would she fare if she lost her career?

Would she even know herself anymore?

She burst through the door, mind made up. All thoughts of Rowan as a living, breathing babe were banned. All her priorities were in a straight line. She needed his help to prove her father’s ex-partner had burned down his house, not to discover how it felt to kiss a man with a moustache.

Of greater importance was a chance to prove to her superiors that she’d always known Rocky Skelton was a liar. Maybe then they would take a fresh look at the black marks on her father’s record. She simply had to place that doubt in their minds, and make them realize Milo Jellic had been done wrong.



Rowan had barely passed through the doors when Harry Jackson asked, “How’s it going, McQuaid? Was Jo able to set your mind at rest?”

Rest wasn’t exactly the way Rowan would phrase it. Set fire to his libido? Yeah. Tightened the thumbscrews on his hormones? You bet! After this, he’d be lucky to get a good night’s sleep for dreaming of Jo. Being over her, under her, inside her.

Damage control! He pulled a lead curtain across his thoughts.

Harry’s grin didn’t attempt to hide that he’d been conniving as he looked from one to the other of them. He and Bull were the only two who knew he’d come home. The only two he wanted to know. His old friend probably thought he’d been doing Rowan a favor by not warning him the detective he’d come to see was six feet of luscious curves. No way could Harry know they had a history together, or that most of his friends blamed Jo for his departure from the force. The way they told it he would have done the same for anyone. Anyone stupid enough to become a target. He wasn’t so sure. He’d only known he couldn’t let the bastard shoot her.

“Bull has given us a week to pull it together. Then I can okay Skelton’s payment.” The black look he’d expected from Jo didn’t materialize. Instead her attention focused on a little redhead, sitting on a bench by the far wall staring at him with her mouth gaping. He gave a mental shrug. Kids.

“Harry. Why is Ginny still here?”

The sergeant’s voice dropped a notch while he spoke to Jo, “Her mother had to work and her father won’t be home till later. Ms. Wilks said to send her on home, she’d be all right. But I had a feeling you’d rather see she got there.”

“That’s for real. Thanks, Harry, I’ll still have to speak to the mother, though. Where does she work?”

“The Hard Luck Inn.”

One black eyebrow rose as Jo’s gaze left Harry and zeroed in on him. “Looks like we’ve got two birds to kill tonight.” The lopsided smile quirked her lips, producing a dimple. “That will be Ms. Wilks’s hard luck.”

The conversation was interrupted by Bull and Jake bringing two men through the door from the cells under protest.

“Uh-oh, gotta go,” muttered Jo, her gaze on the girl. “I’ll catch you tonight, McQuaid. For now, I have to baby-sit.”

Harry let Jo get out of earshot before he produced the question Rowan could see hovering on his lips. “You two got a date tonight?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. We’re going to visit Jo’s chief suspect.” As soon as he’d said it, he remembered Bull’s reaction and wished he could pull the words back.

“You mean Rocky?”

“Yeah, but keep it under your hat. I don’t think it’s for public consumption. You know the guy, Harry. What do you think of him? Is he capable of flights of fantasy? Satanists?”

“Must admit I thought it far-fetched when I first heard the story, but everyone else was convinced.”

“Everyone but Jo?”

“I guess you could say if I took it with a pinch of salt, she used a bloody ladle. But then, she never worked with Rocky, didn’t know him the way we do.”

“And what do you know?”

Harry’s mouth twisted as he considered. “He can be pretty sharp, and if that’s how things are shaping, watch you don’t get cut.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He hitched one trouser leg and sat down on the corner of Harry’s desk, getting comfortable. “Talking about warnings, why didn’t you do me the same favor with Jo?”

“Made your heart jump, did she? She’s one beautiful woman.”

“There are lots of beautiful women.”

“Yeah, but you still haven’t married any of them.”

“Hell, you’re as bad as Scott—”

“Oh, I can tell you and him are the same. Time you were both married.”

“Well, he’s decided he doesn’t need an heir as long as Taine and I are around, but Taine can’t do the same for me, so I ought to marry and beget heirs.”

“Been matchmaking, has he?”

“You could say that. Now that I’ve left the force, he feels obliged to introduce me to all the eligible women in his circle. He never once said anything against me leaving him to look after the firm to become a cop, but I can tell he’s glad it’s behind me now. I guess he’d always had this idea I was invincible because of being so much bigger.”

“Yeah, it always was you who got him out of trouble.”

“Well, he’s turned that around now with the firm.” He slipped Harry a wry grin. “If it hadn’t been for Scott, we wouldn’t be living in the style we’ve become accustomed to.”

“Scott’s done well by us all.”

“Have you got shares as well?”

“I’ve got the ones your father gave mine, when he worked for him. Probably thought Dad earned them putting up with you lot.”

“Come off it, you spent as much time at our house as you did at your own.”

Harry had the grace to look sheepish. “I helped Dad.”

“Is that what you called it? Well, I’m helping Jo and I’ll probably be about as much use. You can’t find what’s not there.”

Heaven help him, was he starting to think like her? The last thing he wanted was to suspect Rocky Skelton of fraud. If that happened he could be here for longer than a week, long enough for the woman to get under his skin again.

Hell, she was under there now.

Damn, this was a complication. No matter how much he treasured his own hide, he had a dislike of paying out the firm’s money for nothing, probably part of the Scottish heritage he’d been so quick to deny after what his mother did. It was all right for the hierarchy to say, “Write it off as public relations.” In this district most people put their money with the Stanhopes, thinking it would benefit them in the long run.

Rowan stood. “I’d better get going. I’m living on the Fancy. Scott said he’d have someone leave it ready for me, but you never know with him.”

“I for one never thought he’d play matchmaker. Shows how wrong you can be. It’s usually us married guys who’re pushing all their mates into the same boat. Has he managed to set you up with someone then?”

Hoping it would keep Harry off his back, he told him, “There’s a woman I’ve taken out a couple of times, but it’s early days. Might never come to anything.” Hell, he knew it wouldn’t, not now he’d met Jo again.

The shame of it was, he liked Barbara, and had thought maybe he could make it work, since she filled all his requirements. A woman he could be friends with, but who didn’t stir his blood. It was a decision he’d made a long time ago. He wasn’t looking for love. That way he wouldn’t be hurt when she found someone else. The pain his father went through when his mother left wasn’t going to be part of his inheritance.

No, it definitely wasn’t for him.

Harry pushed back his chair and stood up to face him. He was two to three inches shorter, but he’d never carried the bulk that Rowan had, even when they’d both been desk jockeys. “No problem then. I wasn’t really shoving Jo your way.”

“No point. Jo and I have known each other for years. We worked together in Auckland.” It didn’t take more than that for Harry to cotton on. Not that he liked doing it to Jo, but if it would help his old friend mind his own business…

“So, she the one…the one who… Look say the word and I’ll get Bull to put Jake back on the arson job.”

“Hell, no!” He leaned over the desk and stared Harry in the eye. “And if word of this gets out I’ll know who to blame. Right? I’ve no animosity toward Jo. I threw myself in the way of that bullet. My choice. Okay?”

“Sure thing. But if you know each other so well, how come she didn’t give you an earful for pinching her parking space?”

“I didn’t know I had.”

Harry’s chin jutted slightly, his eyes narrowing as if hiding the wheels turning behind them. He’d always been easy to read.

“Look, to Jo, I’m simply Rowan McQuaid, and I’d like it to stay that way. I won’t be here long enough for involved explanations. And as much as she thinks she knows me, I know her better. Her mouth is inclined to go into self-destruct mode at the most inopportune moments.”

A grin split the sergeant’s face. “You really do know her.”

“Let’s put it this way, it’s not so much Jo I’m worried about, but if Molly Skelton finds out who I am my life won’t be worth living.”

“Got it in one, mate.”



Outside, Jo was saying, “Will you stop looking like a sick puppy, get into the car and shut the door?” Ginny’s pathetic show of reluctance was ruffling Jo’s patience. The girl was lovesick. Jo sighed, then clamped her lips on the smile forming as she watched the teenager’s crablike shuffle. Each time Ginny’s feet crossed, Jo held her breath, waiting the inevitable tumble while doing a mental inventory of the first-aid stuff she carried in her bag.

Eventually the kid made it to the passenger’s seat without taking her star-glazed eyes off the exit, and fastened her seat belt. Heaven help the boys when the girl grew up; Ginny wasn’t backward at coming forward when someone took her fancy.

“He’s not going to come out. He’s too busy. Besides, his car’s parked out front.” And he would pay for pinching her spot. A chance to drive his Jag would just about cover it. A decision punctuated with an ellipse as her car crawled into Main Street. Hers had to be the oldest model in the fleet. Not simply a case of first come first served, more that with her work schedule, they didn’t expect her to be in any high-speed chases. And in the unlikely scenario of them presenting her with a newer one, she’d have to make do with a tune-up.

Finally, Jo had Ginny’s attention, albeit secondhand. “You mean that beaut car is his? Isn’t he just, just too awesome?”

Awesome was hardly a description she would have used herself, but Rowan was definitely something. She just couldn’t make up her mind what. She wouldn’t go so far as to agree with the hoary old saying that absence made the heart fonder, but in her case it certainly beat faster.

“I think your earlier description was more apt, Ginny. The man is definitely a babe.”

It was as if she’d been given a new and improved pair of eyes that saw past the facade he’d used before. Details she’d missed took on a shimmering quality that beckoned her like a light in the window after dark. Like going home.

God, was that it? She was homesick for Auckland?

No way. The rest of her symptoms were definitely hormonal.

“What’s his name, Miss? Has he come to live in Nicks Landing?” The words came out in a breathless rush.

The title Miss hurt, like suddenly being reduced to the status of maiden aunt, or schoolteacher instead of teen idol. “His name is Rowan McQuaid, he’s only in town for a week, and for heaven’s sake, call me Detective…Jo,” she compromised, on the spur of the moment.

“Is he a detective, too?”

“He’s a private investigator.”

“A private eye…wow, even better. Is he here…like on some big case?”

The child definitely watched too much TV. Philosophical at being reduced to second fiddle, Jo got ready to disappoint the kid. “Nothing exciting, a case of arson, is all. We’ll be working on it together.”

She glanced at Ginny to ask, “It’s the next left, isn’t it?” only to find her status had been restored.

“That’s ace,” she said, all big eyed. “Yes, turn here, it’s just two blocks down. Top apartment on the corner.”

Jo pulled up outside a run-down apartment building crying out for refurbishment. It was a shame. A lick of light-colored paint over the sea of won’t-show-the-dirt-khaki could give the whole neighborhood a face-lift and send it rocketing up a price bracket.

“Okay,” she said, catching her breath as the dung-colored entrance door creaked open and a woman with a frown carved into her features came out. No wonder the kid had tried to heist pink barrettes. They were an antidote for living here.

“When I visit your mother at work, I’ll discuss which form your punishment will take. Though I guess grounding would be as good as any.”

“Oh no, not grounding, it’s almost Halloween. My friends and I have something planned.”

“Even better.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped. “Can’t I just help someone? An old lady or something? Granny Monroe lives down the hall from us. I could do some cleaning for her.”

Jo pretended to consider a moment. She couldn’t blame the kid not wanting to miss out on a night of trick-or-treating. “I’d have to check with her that you’d done a good job.”

“Sure. No problem. I’ll go right in and ask her now. I can phone you when it’s done. Will that do?”

“Sounds good to me.” Jo dug into the pocket of her shirt and pulled out a business card and gave it to Ginny. “My number’s on there. That doesn’t mean I won’t talk to your mother, but I’ll tell her I’ve okayed you helping Granny Monroe.”

The weight of the world seemed to pull Ginny’s mouth down at the corners. “Molly’s okay, but Rocky doesn’t like it when people take Mom’s mind off her work.”

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll flash my badge and tell them it’s police business.” She winked at Ginny. “So, what’s wrong with the inn? Don’t you like her working there?”

“I guess it’s all right, but Dad and I hardly see her. Mom says it’s the only way we’re ever going to get out of this dump.” Unfastening her seat belt, Ginny sat with fingers on the handle as if reluctant to press it down.

“Sounds like a wise woman. I’ll talk to her tonight. Rowan and I were going there anyway, but if I were you, I’d tell my Dad what I’d been up to, before your mother gets home.”

The teenager brightened a fraction, her eyes dreamy at the mention of Rowan. “Have you got a date?”

“No, it’s business. We’re working together this week.”

Ginny’s shoulders drooped as if she’d been hoping to live out her fantasies vicariously. “Have a good time anyway.”

“I’ll try.” And she would; hanging around with Rowan for seven days wasn’t her idea of punishment.

Ginny was halfway out the door, her face glum when Jo attempted changing the direction of her thoughts. “So, what are you and your friends doing at Halloween?”

“It’s going to be real exciting. We heard where the black-magic cult have their meetings. It’s at Te Kohanga National Park, and we thought it would be a hoot to spy on them. They’re bound to be up to something on Halloween.”




Chapter 3


Eight o’clock. If Rowan was still on board surely he would be ready, waiting for her call? A call that frankly refused to go through. If Jo heard that computerized voice saying the number she’d dialed was either switched off or out of range one more time, she would spit. But then that’s why she was walking down one of the floating wooden fingers of the marina. To see for herself.

The sea was remarkably calm, due to the huge anticyclone covering the country. A circumstance she gave thanks for. She hated that feeling, as if the bottom had dropped out of her world when she put her foot down, and the floor disappeared. Besides, these were her best high-heeled shoes.

At last she spied it, Stanhope’s Fancy II. Larger than life and twice the size of the boats moored alongside, it was hard to miss its gleaming white hull. On the couple of occasions she’d ventured out on one of these, she’d learned this type of craft was called a midpilothouse motor yacht.

With one arm wrapped round a mooring post, she leaned out over the wooden lip to peer inside. No one around. Hmmm. She looked down at the toes of her red-and-black, faux-lizard shoes, and past them to the flotsam floating in the gap with a sinking feeling. They would have to come off.

Her bag landed with a thump on the boarding platform, but no one came to investigate. With a grin, she did a quick scan of the area, imagining the headlines if she got caught: Detective charged with indecent exposure.

Her red skirt hit just above the knee. Hands on both sides, she hitched it eighteen inches higher, just below her panties, and stepped into space, shoes clutched in one hand.

“Easy,” she told herself, balancing by a fingertip on the stern rail, ignoring the slap of water against the hull as it slopped over her feet. Happiness was planting them on the other side of that rail.

She gave the glass door two loud bangs, then tried the handle. Like a hot knife through butter, the door slid open.

“Hey, Rowan! It’s me, Jo. Can I come aboard?”

Silence spiked tiny tremors of fear at the base of her skull. From the depths of her overactive imagination, she culled the ghost ship, Marie Celeste. And the thought gelled as she took in a galley to one side of the entrance; it sparkled as if neither dish nor spoon had ever cluttered its counters.

Mmm. Her feet sunk into thick blue-gray carpet. She curled her toes into it, drying her damp panty hose. Sheer luxury. So this was what it meant to be a Stanhope. Rowan had landed on his feet working for Allied Insurance. On her side of the line this would smack of corruption, but from Rowan’s the label read, perks of the job.

On the lush, woolen pile, she crossed the main saloon as if walking on water, then drifted up two short flights of steps, passing the upper saloon by, and into the pilothouse. Silence thundered in her ears as if the soft suede walls swallowed every sound she made. Her skin prickled. The horizon slid up and down the outside of huge wraparound windows as the boat tugged at its moorings as if eager to be gone.

“Good idea, I’m outta here, too,” she muttered, spinning on her heel to retrace her steps, coming to an abrupt halt on the top one. Shaking her head, she laughed. “Good Lord, you need a change of reading material. You didn’t used to be so easily spooked.”

The briefcase on the dining table didn’t catch her attention until her return journey. Immediately, she reversed her decision to leave. Rowan had to be around. He wouldn’t go off, leaving the place open for just anyone to enter the way she had. Once more, she called his name, “Rowan!”

At the next set of steps, she hesitated. The sleeping quarters lay below. No problem, all she had to do was knock first.

She went on down.

The door on her right stood ajar. L-shaped bunks took up two walls, all of them made up as neat as a new pin. Across the companionway the door was closed. She rapped on it with her knuckles, then gradually eased it open, but saw no signs of occupation. Her choices narrowed to one last door.

Her shoulders drooped as she spied another neatly made-up bed without even a hollow in its surface to say someone had sat there. Expelling a gusty breath did nothing to relieve the disappointment threatening to swamp her. “Wrong darn boat!”

“Depends which boat you were looking for.”

“Rowan!” she gasped, caught off guard, her mouth gaping at his half-naked figure framed in wisps of steam in a doorway that was hidden among the paneling.

“I…I did knock,” she stammered, trying to make sense of a breathless response that tied her larynx in knots, cutting off the air to her lungs.

Water darkened his hair to burned sugar, molding it tightly to his scalp, until it fell into damp curls at his nape. His broad, broad shoulders glistened where diamond-bright drops of water beaded, pausing momentarily before the slide down the long muscles of his arms.

She had never seen Rowan without clothes. Had never expected to. Never even imagined it before today, and still she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Was it any wonder he’d taken her breath away? Sculpted satin-smooth curves and hollows fitted his upper body as God had intended. Perfectly.

His chest shuddered lightly on the aftermath of a sigh. Even as she watched, his flat, male nipples set wide on the curve of his pectoral muscles, crested, tensing in the wake of her gaze.

Jo’s blood leaped from her heart to her face.

Embarrassment was no hindrance to eating up his manly beauty with her eyes. No power on this earth could make her drag them away.

A narrow white strip, edging his charcoal-gray shorts, deepened his tan in contrast. Languor weighed her eyelids, a sensual heaviness. She knew she should look somewhere else, up…down…anywhere and pretend his body hadn’t responded to her blatant voyeurism. But Lord, the sight of cotton knit molding his form stole her breath away.

Jo swallowed. Oh, my.

The seconds it took to remove her gaze dawdled like hours. Yet one glance at his thighs sent her reeling back to the safety of the companionway. Her stomach shot up to meet her throat and devoured every particle of heat from her body.

Cold. She felt so cold.

And sick.

She had done that. Blighted all that perfection in one unthinking second, with no other justification than she had been focused on Max. But after Rowan’s sacrifice, how could she make excuses? And whom could she make them to?

The scars alone mightn’t have been so bad, time would take care of them, turn scarlet into silver. The missing muscle, though, could never be replaced. Not after the bullet that should have been hers, had ripped it apart, spraying it over the grass where she stood.

“I’d better go back up…” she whispered through chattering teeth “…until you get dressed.” The complete understanding in his eyes was worse than anything she’d ever experienced.



God help him, he hadn’t been able to control his body’s reaction to her. He’d stepped out of the shower, thoughts of her running through his mind, and suddenly she’d been there, as if he had conjured her out of thin air.

The same but different.

Her dark curls, as riotous and ruffled as a black, Oriental poppy after a storm, caught in a tangle at the back of her collar, unveiling a secret. Revealing another layer of the mysterious sway she held over his libido.

If he’d had the courage to ignore the danger of her thrall, when he’d first known her, he would already have pushed back that black silk curtain to discover for himself the smooth tender hollow where her jawline met her neck.

Instead, he’d been in control. Hell, he’d congratulated himself on it. So he’d never known that the pink slashing her high, Slavic cheekbones would match the rose of her earlobes.

The loss had been his.

Rowan’s chest heaved. Until today he’d never known her ears were pierced or that she’d choose anything as feminine as creamy pearls to highlight their petal-soft lobes.

Damn, why was he torturing himself?

An unwelcome hunger prowled his reason like a ravenous beast full of suppressed urges and needs. Habit pushed it back into the black cave at the back of his mind where it had hibernated for the past two years. Too late, far too late. The mere thought of claiming one of those glowing pink morsels with his mouth, and circling a pearl with the tip of his tongue, made him hard.

Harder.

Then she’d blushed.

In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never known Jo to blush. It gave him a whole new take on her. A fresh angle corroborated by the way her cocoa-brown eyes had darkened to onyx. Arousal.

The other signs might be hidden from view, yet he’d bet bullet-hard nipples strained against her bra and her female core would have been slick and damp to his touch. Yeah, she’d been ready, every bit as ready as himself, as ready as the bed waiting in the corner of the cabin.

All he’d had to do was reach out, cup the back of her neck and the wanting would have been quenched.

Jo would have been his.

The salutary lesson had come with a look that took in his mangled leg. What else had he expected?

Yet he still wanted her, ached with it.

Shielding his unrelieved erection with one hand, Rowan zipped up his jeans. He’d given himself away. Years of self-discipline blown in a heartbeat.

Time for more damage control.

One large, black loafer slipped on to his feet followed by the next. He stood up, patted his belt buckle and pulled in a breath, ready to face Jo. From outside, the crimson tails of day’s end whipped color into the steamy haze as he left his cabin and followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee up the stairs and into the galley. Jo had made herself at home.

She stood at the counter, staring out the window. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said to the back of her head.

The low hills behind the town were aflame with red, orange and purple. His mouth twisted slightly. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. So, they were going to have a good day tomorrow. He could certainly use one.

She turned to face him, her eyes slightly red as if they’d captured the sunset. A smile poised precariously on her lips as if afraid the arms she’d folded across her breasts weren’t her best defense.

Looking down the length of her body, he noticed what he hadn’t seen before, when his gaze had been fixed on her face. Jo had dolled herself up for their outing. The sleeves of her pearl-gray twinset were pushed up, businesslike, to her elbows, and the hem of her red skirt kissed the crease at the back of her knees.

Her shoeless feet nearly floored him. The way she crossed the toes of one over the other, like a little girl awaiting punishment, and through the nylon he could see she’d painted her toenails red. Any ire or anger left inside him washed away as she changed from one foot to the other.

He’d never thought he’d want to smile at a time like this, when life as he knew it hung in the balance, but he did. “Lost your shoes somewhere?”

“They’re outside…on the deck…” She trailed off, and her explanation turned into a jumble of words and a spill of tears.

Though he understood the risk, he had to go to her, comfort her. Place his hands on her shoulders, and feel her flesh mold beneath them. “Hey, hey, what’s all this?”

“Don’t hate me, Rowan. Please. I didn’t know…it’s dreadful what I did to you, and I don’t know how to make it better.”

“Aw, hell, Jo. Not pity.” Not from you. “I’m a tough guy and I’ve learned to live with it. I even made a New Year’s resolution. No pity allowed.”

Though his mouth felt dry, he chanced a rendition of the phrase, “Big boys don’t cry.” His voice was husky and off-key from the lump strangling his throat, but it achieved the desired result.

Jo smiled. “Don’t take up singing. You just murdered that.”

He threw a quick retort into the ring. “Maybe you ought to call a cop.”

His mind went back ten months, to New Year. He’d been two weeks out of hospital, in time for Christmas, taken a good look at himself and disliked what he’d seen.

Life didn’t come with guarantees. Bone reconstruction, either, as he’d discovered the morning he’d put his foot on the floor and found the pin in his thigh had slid up inside the bone. Having one leg that was four inches shorter played hell on the ego.

As the year began, he’d decided to get on with his life and make the best of what came. Meeting Jo again had thrown a spanner in the workings of his brave new life with the discovery he still hurt.

“Want a cop, you’ve got one,” said Jo. “What can I do?”

“You can pour me a cup of that delicious-smelling coffee and we’ll call it quits,” he said, not blinking at the lie.

“That’s not near enough. If you’d like me to give up beating this dead horse of a case, it’s yours. Just say the word.”

Hell, she was serious. She’d been so hung up on proving Rocky was guilty a few hours ago. Now, she was offering to stand aside, and make his problems with Skelton fade away. His leg must look a helluva lot worse than he’d feared. For as long as he’d known Jo she’d pokered up at the faintest whiff of payback.

“Look, it’s no big deal. As long as I don’t try to run the mile in under four, I’ll be okay. I’m used to it.”

She swallowed. Hell, he hoped she wouldn’t cry again. His resolve couldn’t cope with drying her tears.

“That’s the problem, I’m not used to it. If only…”

Rowan held up a hand as if to ward off the flow of regrets he could see coming. “Okay, I won’t keep on about it. Let me pour you that coffee.”

Jo was rinsing their cups and saying, “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Rocky’s house, what’s left of it, at Lonely Track Road. I’ll walk you through his explanation of what happened.”

“I’ll want the afternoon free to check into his finances.”

“That’s okay. I know Bull’s only given me a week, but that doesn’t mean I can put the rest of my cases on hold. He’d be chagrined if I didn’t keep up with them. That said, I received some new information this afternoon. No guarantees, in fact it sounds a bit iffy, but I should follow it up.” Her lip quivered. “If it comes up trumps, you can wipe out two with one blow, pay Rocky off, and still keep your bosses happy.”

She sounded defensive and he couldn’t understand why, but she didn’t keep him in suspense for long. “Don’t think I made you that offer because I realized Rocky might be telling the truth. I don’t trust the man. If I’m wrong about this, I’ll admit it. I’ll even buy you dinner. But, if Rocky isn’t concealing the truth about the fire, then it’s something else. It might take me a while to suss exactly what, but I’ll do it. My biggest hurdle is Bull. The dope thinks the sun shines out of Rocky’s sorry behind and refuses to hear a word against him.”

Wondering when she’d get around to hitting him with the punch line, Rowan asked, “Is this new information secret, or are you gonna share?”



By the time they’d walked the length of the harbor wall and reached the Hard Luck Inn on the corner of Main and Broad Streets, she’d talked out Ginny’s information about Halloween with Rowan.

“You’re right,” she told him. “Even though it disses any hope I had of pulling Rocky in, I can’t not check it out.”

“From where I stand it looks like we’ve got Tuesday and Wednesday scheduled. Friday night we could be crawling through the bush in the dark, Saturday looks like a day off. Any thoughts on Thursday or are we just gonna go with the flow?”

Though Rowan’s tone was conversational, Jo got the message. “I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m organizing you. You did say I could be in charge.”

“Remind me next time to think before I speak. It’s the only way to stay out of trouble.” A white grin split his face between the dusting of gold designer stubble and slightly darker moustache, softening his words. “One thing I insist on. We take my car to Te Kohanga. It’ll be quicker.”

“Can I drive?”

“I don’t know, can you? You looked a bit shaky getting out of the station house car park this afternoon.”

“Oh, you…were you watching?”

“Came out to apologize for stealing your space.”

“My car gets that way when the engine’s cold. Once it warms it’s hell-on-wheels,” she said sticking up for the car she cursed six days out of seven.

“I’ve known people like that.”

In the lights from the bar, Rowan looked serious. Too serious. Tension that hadn’t crackled since she burst in on Rowan, half-naked in his cabin, and devoured him with her eyes, was suddenly alive and well and sparking between them.

Confused, Jo sought to diffuse the situation by putting on a tough act. “Yeah, yeah, McQuaid, don’t think you can get away with distracting me. It’s payback time, buddy. At the very least, you owe me a drive for not giving you a parking ticket.”

The tangle of emotions in her chest almost unraveled her. It didn’t matter which string she pulled, the knots just fell apart. Man, could she pick her moments. Her timing was always off. It was as if the minute puberty hit, they had handed her a certificate with an F in Relationships 101.

Rowan raised his thick brown eyebrows. The creases at the corners of his eyes looked pale in contrast to his face. “Okay, I’ll think about giving you a turn at the wheel. Now let’s go inside and get this over with.”

Jo turned the handle and Rowan stretched a long arm overhead, pushing the heavy door open. As she stepped into the noise and smoke, she turned, glancing at him. The strafe of lights flashing round the bar caught him square in the face. He looked like a stranger. What if they’d met for the first time today, this afternoon, as strangers? Would she still be having these feelings? Or was the fact that they weren’t strangers the reason she felt all screwed up inside?

Rowan stopped just inside the bar, lifting his voice to be heard over the heavy-metal music blasting from the sound system. Rowan yelled, “What?”

“I was just wondering why the moustache?”

“Maybe I’m hiding behind it.”

“Come off it. The Rowan McQuaid I know never hid from anything in his life.”

He tagged her with a look that had “that’s what you think” written all over it. “All right, you got me. I was scuba diving up in Fiji and my brother thought he was being funny and grabbed me from behind. I turned too quick and my momentum thrust me into some jagged coral that cut my lip.” A wry twist pulled at his moustache. “I don’t know what frightened him more, all the blood from the wound, or the chance of it attracting sharks. He had me out of there and onto the boat in no time flat.”

As if he couldn’t resist touching it, Rowan ran one finger across the toffee and gold bristles covering his top lip. Jo wished she had the courage to repeat the move.

“Anyhow, I couldn’t shave until the stitches came out and by then I’d gotten used to it.”

“It certainly changes your appearance. I guess that’s why I didn’t recognize you at first. So tell me, who is this brother? I never heard you mention him before.”

This time the look said, “See? You don’t know me as well as you thought.”

Rowan took his time about answering. The biker paraphernalia hanging round the walls finally caught his eye. He blinked, twice, then looked back at her and finally answered her question. “He’s just a regulation-size big brother who thinks he can boss me around.”

But Jo had already lost the scent, and set off down another trail. “So what do you think?” she asked. The black painted ceiling and walls were hung with a mass of number plates; helmets, handlebars, front spokes even. A selection of chrome wheels looped in chains glittered like tinsel alongside brilliantly polished Harley signs being given pride of place. And among the clutter, a tangle of red-white-and-blue tattered flags, a mix of Confederate, Stars and Stripes, and New Zealand’s Southern Cross, added color where the spotlights caught them.

“Bloody amazing. I never thought I’d see anything like this here in Nicks Landing.”

Her eyes narrowed curiously, then she shrugged as if the thought evaporated in the booming noise. “Well don’t let it turn your head. Remember we’re here on business.”

For the first time since he’d helped her off the boat, Rowan touched her. As his arm went round her shoulder, she felt the weight of his gaze slide over her body like a living, breathing thing. “Too bad you haven’t dressed for it.”

“Maybe I’m hiding, too.”

His arm stayed put as he walked her up to the U-shaped bar, and she couldn’t prevent slanting an obvious glance at his fingers cupping her shoulder. “Camouflage,” he said, giving her a squeeze. After the excuse she’d made for her own attire, she could hardly complain.

“I take it that’s Skelton?” he asked, lifting a brow in the direction of a man drawing a beer from the tap, dressed in a black T-shirt emblazoned with a long-dead singer’s face.

Jo’s gaze slid between the customers leaning on the dark-oak edifice Rocky had bought at a demolition sale and transported to Nicks Landing in sections. But before she could answer, Rowan’s eyes latched on to a woman serving at one of the tables. “And that would be Molly. The woman who’s been blighting the life of everyone at head office.”

Jo followed his gaze. As soon as she saw the red hair, she knew she’d found Ginny’s mom. “Sorry, that would be Ms. Wilks. I need to discuss her daughter with her. Molly does all the cooking. No doubt you’ll find her in the kitchen.”

Jo accepted one of the stools Rowan pulled out from the bar, hooking her toes under the brass rail that ran a foot off the floor to pull herself in closer. She kept her bag over her shoulder instead of dangling it from the back of her stool. With the 9mm Glock she carried, she couldn’t afford to be careless.

“What can I get you folks?” Rocky rubbed his hands together as if expecting a big sale. She wasn’t sorry to disappoint him. He was just short of being tall, but built wiry. He’d never have escaped the flames otherwise. One of the firemen had given her a lurid male description of how he’d found Rocky, trussed up like a chicken with duct tape wrapped round his sorry carcass. All plucked and dressed, ready for the oven.

“I’ll just have coffee.”

“Oh, c’mon, Johanna. Surely we can tempt you to have something stronger. A glass of wine.” Rocky smiled at her and the steel-gray sideboards he affected, bunched on his cheeks. There was more hair on his face than on top of his head, where he wore it long in a comb over.

She hated when he used her full name, taking advantage of his supposed friendship with her father to hint at a familiarity that didn’t exist. And she hated the noise which made it necessary to lean forward to hear him. Her hands fisted on the bar and she ground out, “Bring me a cup of coffee” or else.

“I’ll have coffee, too,” Rowan bit out in a way that brooked no opposition.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Johanna?” wheedled Rocky.

Thankfully, Rowan let her off the hook by thrusting his hand out. “Rowan McQuaid.”

“Rocky Skelton, owner. Glad to meet anyone who can drag Johanna in here. We don’t see enough of her.”

Jo found it hard to keep the glee out of her voice as she butted in. “Rowan’s from Allied Insurance. He’s come to investigate your fire.”

She watched Rocky closely. Tension bunched in his shoulders as he wiped his hands on the towel he kept hanging at his waist for polishing glasses. Though his body language said flight, he hadn’t been a cop all those years without learning how to bluff.

“About time. Maybe we’ll get some action round here.” His friendliness wasn’t apparent in the look he darted at Jo. “I thought you two were an item when you came in. Sorry, my mistake,” Rocky said.

“You weren’t too far out. Jo and I have been friends for a good many years.”

“Give me a second and I’ll get those coffees. On the house, of course.”

Rowan didn’t bat an eye as he refused. “No need, I’m on an expense account.”

Rocky grabbed a couple of cups from the top of the espresso machine and began making noises with milk and steam.

With his elbows on the bar, Rowan angled his body to face her. It put them close, close enough for his breath to brush her cheek. Close enough to taste it on her lips. But soon it became clear he only wanted to speak without being overheard. “Bad news, we’ve given him time to get his act together.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with Skelton, Johanna. Anything I should know about?”

“It’s a long story, nothing that affects this case.” Whoa, back up girl. Lord, she’d nearly caught herself out on a lie. “Well, only indirectly, but this isn’t the place.”

She drummed her fingers on the bar impatiently. The coffee was taking forever. Rocky kept breaking off to serve someone else. At this rate the coffee would be cold before they were served. She watched Rocky scowl at a grungy-looking kid who hardly looked old enough to be in the bar. Should she check him out? The kid kept on calling and Rocky just kept on ignoring him.

She noticed Rowan watching the byplay. “Interesting, don’t you think?” Sliding down off her stool, she said, “I can’t wait any longer for that coffee. Tell Rocky I’ve gone to speak with Ginny’s mom.”

With one eye on Ms. Wilks and her one-handed balancing act with a tray filled with bottles and glasses as she wiped up spills from the table, Jo walked idly past the kid sitting alone on the far side of the bar. The closer she got, the more she thought she knew him from somewhere, but she decided not to approach him. Instead she salted his features away in her memory for future reference.

She’d always had a nose for sussing if something was out of kilter, but the whiff of cannabis was unexpected. The air in the bar was quite blue with smoke, even in the nonsmoking area, it hung close to the ceiling. But this was different.

Without making it too obvious she checked out his hands for a cigarette. He wasn’t holding one.

No matter, fire was needed for smoke and a pinpoint of flame glowed at the back of her mind. Let it burn long enough… Oh yeah, sometimes her patience surprised her, only look at this business with Rocky and her dad.

The waiting would simply make a positive result all the sweeter.




Chapter 4


Rowan watched Jo, his hackles rising as he saw several other men in the bar do the same. He couldn’t control the spurt of possessiveness awakening the sleeping beast in the back of his mind. And he had to admit, letting it stretch a time or two before reining it in lessened the strain acting so damn nice all the time put on his back teeth. They ached.

Hell, he wanted her.

What man wouldn’t? She was so easy on the eye.

For an extratall woman she gave the appearance of being comfortable in her own skin. No hunching her shoulders. No wearing flat-heeled shoes. No pretence. She was simply herself. Beautiful without seemingly aware of it.

Casually, she walked by the stools on far side of the U-shape, hardly appearing to notice the guy whose clenched fist vibrated with impatience on the bar top. Yet, Rowan knew she wouldn’t forget him in a hurry.

The intrusion of china clattering on the counter by his elbow broke his concentration.

“Worth looking at, isn’t she, McQuaid?”

Eyes off, you sonofabitch! It was all he could do to hold the growl at the back of his throat and swallow it down.

Skelton wasn’t finished, more’s the pity. “Reminds me of her old man. He was a looker too, a real babe magnet. Pity.”

He leaned toward McQuaid, confidential-like. Intuition told Rowan he wasn’t going to like what was coming. Looking away, he took his time, ripping open the paper tube, pouring the sugar into his coffee, stirring until it dissolved.

“You probably know the story. Milo, her father, was my partner, but I don’t think I ever really knew him. He was the kind of guy who played his cards close to his chest. That’s another trait Johanna gets from him. I’ll tell you it shook me up when he committed suicide.”

Rowan had heard enough. He jerked his head toward the other side of the bar. “There’s a guy over there so dry looks like he could spit tacks.”

Skelton didn’t need telling who Rowan was referring to. He looked over his shoulder, saying, “He’ll keep.”

“I don’t think so, you deal with him, then come back and we can deal. No more interruptions.”

“Sure, no worries,” said Skelton. Moving with the smoothness of long familiarity, he slid open the glass fridge door, grabbed a long-necked bottle, an import, and cracked the top.

The round base hit the counter loud enough for Rowan to hear, but their conversation was another matter. The guy scowled down at the beer. It lasted maybe two seconds then his gaze widened fractionally before his pale lids shuttered his eyes, masking his expression. Skelton turned his back on him and like cock-of-the-walk, chest and biceps pumped, stretching the face of the dead rock star on the front, he stalked away. Behind him the guy twisted the top off the bottle. A fountain of froth spewed up the neck and over the counter.

Rowan saw the shape of the curse on his lips, but couldn’t hear. Skelton could. Turning, he glanced over his shoulder as the guy slouched away, leaving the bottle slicked in foam, and untouched by human lips. Skelton simply shook his head, saying, “Kids. You can’t win. Now what do you want to know?”

“Not a lot.” Rowan took a long swig of coffee, checked out Jo over the rim of his cup, and said, “I’ve read your police statement, and I’ve brought a copy of your claim. Tomorrow morning I’ll check out your house. And in the afternoon, with your cooperation, I’ll do the same to your financial situation.”

“You what?” Skelton shrank inside his black T-shirt and the white plastic face of Jim Morrison on the front sagged.

“Cast your mind back to when you took out the policy on your house. Remember the privacy waiver?” Rowan reached into the pocket inside his leather jacket. The papers were folded in four. He spread them out on the counter, rubbing out the creases with his thumb. “Unless you sign this form giving me access to all your accounts, your policy becomes null and void.”

Five minutes later, Rowan had an inventory of all Skelton’s banking, and the name of his accountant. He knew he’d been coming on strong, but the man had brought it on himself with his oh, so innocent, throw-away remarks about Jo’s father. The jerk knew what he was doing; he was just too dumb to realize Rowan knew it, too. At last he had an inkling, if not all, of why Jo didn’t trust the guy. He knew if he’d given the jerk another inch he’d have stabbed her in the back.

Hell, he was banking on being out of Nicks Landing in under a week, could hardly wait. But if Jo’s secrets were going to be blabbed, he’d prefer to hear them from her lips.

And as for his secrets…same goes.



Jo recognized that the resemblance between Ginny and her mother was more than a mass of red curls. As she walked up behind Ms. Wilks, she heard her talking to the patrons in the same gotta-get-it-all-out-in-one-breath style as her daughter.

“Ms. Wilks?”

The woman gave the table a last flick with her cloth and turned, balancing the full tray on her hip. “Get yourself a table, hon. I’ll take your order in a sec.”

“No. I don’t want to order. I wondered if I could have a word?” She wasn’t a short woman but she looked up at Jo, giving her a familiar wide, blue-eyed stare.

“I’m sure the check’s in the mail….” She laughed then, but there wasn’t much humor in it, only the ring of resignation. “I bet you hear that all the time.”

“Actually, no. It’s usually some other excuse. I’m a cop.”

“Omigod! Something bad’s happened. Who is it? Carter or Ginny?” All the color leached out of her face, and in contrast, her hair swung in bright flames as her eyes flicked from side to side as if wondering where next to turn. “Has Carter taken another of his spells?”

Jo felt dreadful. She spoke up quickly, wanting to reassure the distressed woman. “Relax. It’s okay, nothing major. I only wanted a word about Ginny.”

Ms. Wilks released her white-knuckle grip on the tray and Jo made a dive for it, before its weight could send it crashing to the floor. Color returned to the woman’s face as they faced one another, each with a hand on the tray.

“Thanks,” she said shakily. “I couldn’t afford to pay for that lot.” She nodded toward Rocky. “Not out of the wages he pays.”

“My fault. I could have picked my moment better.”

“So what’s Ginny been up to this time?”

“Nothing too awful. Look, why don’t you put down that tray and we can talk about it?”

“Sorry.” Ginny’s mother looked in the direction of the bar again. Rocky was serving the guy Jo had been watching. “I have to keep moving. He’ll dock my wages if I fall behind with my work.”

“How about I walk round with you and we can talk as you work.” Jo asked as she carefully framed her next question. “See that young guy Rocky’s serving, do you know his name? Is he a regular in here?”

“Who, Jeff Smale? Yes, he’s pretty regular. Not that I have much to do with him.” Her nose curled as she sniffed. “Always looks as if he needs a good wash. So, what’s he done?”

“Nothing.” Nothing that she knew of, at the moment. “I thought I’d met him someplace but I don’t recognize the name.”

“Maybe it was one of his brothers? There are three of them, and they all look alike.”

“Maybe that’s it, thanks for your help, Ms. Wilks.” Jo said, but Ginny’s mother was already heading for another table.

She looked over her shoulder. “Call me Betty. I’m more used to it than Ms. Wilks. Now, you were going to tell me about Ginny. I take it she’s in trouble again. She’s not a bad kid, but she’s impulsive. Doesn’t stop to think things through.”




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