Heidi Rice - Too Close For Comfort

‘It’s not Demarest’s usual MO.’

‘What is his usual MO?’

He paused, and she had the uneasy feeling he had seen right through the stalling tactic. ‘All the victims we questioned were women, mostly over fifty, recently divorced or widowed. He poses as a producer, gives them a line about casting them in his latest movie, sweetens the deal with a little recreational sex and then asks for an investment.’

The flush spread up Iona’s throat at Montoya’s matter-of-fact statement. But she managed to choke back the urge to correct him.

Sex with Brad had been the opposite of recreational, at least in her experience. He’d been rough and demanding, but because he’d been her ticket out of Kelross Glen, she’d wanted to please him. Her stomach sank to her toes, her scalp burning at the memory of how hard she’d tried. Hard enough to persuade herself she actually liked Brad.

When Brad had dangled the carrot of knowing a wealthy benefactor in LA who might be keen to commission her artwork, she’d had no qualms about mentioning the opportunity to her Dad. But while her gullibility made her sick with shame, it was the way she’d let Brad use her in bed that made her feel sordid.

‘Demarest’s a sick bastard,’ Montoya continued. ‘The money’s not the main kick for him, it’s sleeping with the women he’s exploiting,’ Montoya hesitated. ‘Which is why I’m wondering how your old man fits into that? Where was the kick?’

She flinched at the perceptive comment. Montoya wasn’t buying it. Had he guessed her father hadn’t been the real mark? And why did the thought that he might find out the truth only make her feel a thousand times more unclean?

It really shouldn’t matter what this man knew or didn’t know. He was a stranger. And she didn’t even like him. In anything other than a hormonal sense, she added grudgingly.

But somehow it did matter.

‘Demarest was going to make a tourist film for my dad,’ she said, remembering one of Brad’s earlier carrots—that her father hadn’t taken. ‘We have a gift shop in Kelross. Demarest suggested making a movie about the history of the place for US investors,’ she added. It had almost been true.

‘How long was this movie going to be?’

‘I’m not sure…’ She scrabbled around trying to remember if Brad had even got that far with the con. ‘An hour, maybe.’

‘An hour? For twenty-five grand?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Your old man sounds like an easy mark.’

Iona bristled, knowing she’d been the easiest mark of all. ‘He just doesn’t know much about movie making.’ And unfortunately neither did she.

‘Although it still seems kind of weird,’ Montoya murmured, the continued scepticism making her tense. ‘For there not to be a woman in there somewhere.’ He bumped his thumb against the steering wheel, the insistent tapping making Iona feel like Captain Hook listening to the tick-tock of the approaching crocodile. ‘What about your mother? Where does she fit into the picture?’

The question was so unexpected, she answered without thinking. ‘Nowhere. She ran off when I was small. We haven’t seen her since.’

The recently eaten burger turned over as the ugly truth made her feel suddenly vulnerable, scraping at an old wound. A scabbed over, forgotten wound that she thought had healed years ago.

‘That’s tough.’ Montoya’s gruff condolence only made her feel more exposed.

‘Not that tough. I can barely remember her,’ she lied, ashamed of having revealed too much, too easily.

She curled away from him, gazed at the stars sprinkled over the dark line of the cliffs, and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of her mother—so beautiful, so careless and so indifferent.

Don’t think about her. You’ve got quite enough to deal with already .

Fatigue made her eyelids gritty. She blinked furiously, determined to stay awake. She couldn’t afford to give into sleep yet, because that would mean trusting Montoya and she’d known ever since she was a child she shouldn’t trust anyone.

And her experience with Brad had only confirmed that.

Montoya didn’t offer any more useless platitudes or ask any more probing questions. Something she was pathetically grateful for as she pressed her cheek into the soft leather, listened to the soothing hum of the car’s engine—and plummeted into a dreamless sleep.

Zane braked gently in the driveway of the small cottage—and studied his sleeping passenger.

She’d dropped off like a stone an hour ago, and hadn’t made a sound since. The engine stilled and the only sound was the chirp of crickets and night crawlers and the distant hum of a passing car. He unclicked her seatbelt, eased it over her bare shoulder and got a lungful of her scent.

The fresh fragrance of baby talc and some flowery soap mixed with the sultry scent of her invaded his senses, and the inevitable pulse of arousal hit.

He tensed, annoyed with his inability to control the response. The cottage’s nightlight illuminated her pale face and the varying shades of red in her unruly hair. The thick lashes resting on her cheeks and the even breathing made her look impossibly young. The heat subsided as he imagined her as a kid, losing her mother. The dart of sympathy was sharp and undeniable.

What would he have done if Maria had abandoned him? And she’d had more cause than any mother.

He shook his head, to dispel the thought.

Don’t make this personal, Montoya. You’re having enough trouble keeping a professional distance .

He didn’t even know how old she was. Or how much of her story was true.

And exactly how mixed up with Demarest was she? She’d lied to him about the con. He’d spotted it straight away, the hitch in her breathing, the hesitation as she stumbled over the explanation. Had she been the mark all along? Was that why she’d been so determined to get her father’s money back? Because she felt responsible for the loss? Exactly how much danger had she put herself in, while tracking Demarest?

And why did the thought of that bother him so much?

She wasn’t his problem, not in the long-term.

He retrieved the key buried in the glove compartment. Then thrust a hand through his hair as it occurred to him he was glad she was here tonight, and under his protection, instead of back at that seedy motel.

He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger door and stared at her cuddled into the seat. he should shake her awake, get her to go into the cottage under her own steam, but she looked so peaceful, he couldn’t do it.

Without giving himself too much time to think, he scooped her into his arms.

The sultry scent enveloped him as he carried her onto the cottage’s porch. She let out a puff of breath and her soft hair brushed against his chin as she burrowed into his chest like a thrusting child.

He fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with his foot and stepped into the dark interior, an emotion he didn’t like banding across his chest.

She didn’t stir as he placed her on the small queen-size in the cottage’s only bedroom, untied the laces on her combat boots and slipped them off, then covered her with the throw before he got fixated on the slow rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tank.

He found a note pad in the kitchen, scribbled a note and pinned it to the corkboard above the fridge. Unplugging the phone and tucking it under his arm, he walked out of the door, closing and locking it behind him. Then dropped the key through the letter slot.

As he drove back to his place he sent a voicemail to Nate’s business line, to inform him of his new house guest, and left one with his PA.

If they didn’t pick up Demarest tonight, he was diverting every free man he had to the case tomorrow. He needed to get this damn case closed, before it got any more complicated.