Tara Quinn - Full Contact

Her smile, though tentative, seemed genuine. “You might be in for a surprise.”

“I doubt it,” he said easily. Then something about her, or about the damned town, had him adding, “I’m good at what I do, Dr. Bostwick. I’m in this business because I care. Because I want to help people. You can rest assured that I won’t let you down.”

She grinned at him. “I’ve read your résumé. I’m not worried. But I do think you might want to get your hair cut. And lose the vest.”

“My only transportation is a motorcycle.” He told her what she’d find out soon enough anyway. Who would have believed he would find a Western town without a Harley dealership? Or any other signs of motorcycle ownership? “Leather deflects bugs and is more impervious to wind.”

“And the hair?”

He shrugged. He could have cut it, if he’d wanted to give a false first impression. Jay was who he was. A free spirit. A man who didn’t conform to social pressure. His hair told people that up front.

And it reminded him every single day that his freedom was in personal expression and belief, not in the making of his own laws—either moral or physical.

“It’s taken me eleven years to grow it.” That was all the explanation anyone would get.

Jay noticed the doctor’s firm backside at the tail end of the blue blouse that hung over her jeans as he followed her down the hall to his new space. The room would suit and, once his table arrived tomorrow, he would set up quickly.

He’d only been in town an hour and had already seen two very fine-looking women—a jogger and his new professional sponsor.

Too bad he wasn’t in Shelter Valley to have sex.

JAY SWAM IN THE NUDE. His temporary backyard was completely enclosed by a cement block privacy fence. He had to traverse the entire length of the pool four times to get what he determined to be one lap. Somewhere around forty lengths he lost count.

The cool water sluicing against his skin was like the wind pulling at his hair when he rode full-out. A communion between nature and man—raw life. Something he could trust. Count on.

When his body was tired enough to stay put on the stool awaiting him inside the house at the breakfast bar, he hauled himself out of the deep end and grabbed the jeans he’d left in a pile on the patio.

Zipping the pants with care born of practice, he grabbed a cola from the fridge and glanced at the neatly stacked folders awaiting him. Usually his investigative skills itched to be used. This time, Jay was reluctant to begin.

Finding the man who’d deserted him—who’d walked out only weeks before Jay’s mother’s murder—was on his top ten list of things he most wanted to avoid. Right up there with going back to prison.

Or ever again being out of control of his mental faculties.

His aversion to the task at hand was the only reason he was glad to hear the knock on his front door. The uninvited intrusion delayed having to open those folders.

He wasn’t so sure he hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire when he saw a uniformed lawman standing on the front porch. “Jay Billingsley?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sheriff Richards.”

Greg Richards, Jay read the official identification the man held out. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

“You have a second?”

As many of them as he wanted to have. “Sure.” Jay stepped back, leaving Greg to come in, close the door behind him and follow Jay to the second of the two bar stools at the kitchen counter.

He offered the lawman something to drink, retrieved the bottle of water Richards requested from the fridge. The sheriff perched on the stool, both feet planted on the floor. The man’s hair was dark. Short. Proper.

“I had some complaints about that motorcycle of yours.”

Jay met his gaze head-on, drinking from his can of cola while he did so, his bare feet resting on the silver metal ring along the bottom of his stool. “There a law against motorcycles in Shelter Valley?”

“No. I’ve got one myself,” Richards said, and Jay reminded himself that those who judged prematurely generally ended up making asses of themselves. “But we do have noise restriction laws.”

“No semi engines after six o’clock?” Jay guessed.

“No excessive noise within city limits, period.”

“Who defines excessive?”

“I do.”

Jay nodded. Less than twelve hours in town and he was already being run out. If only the sheriff knew how happy Jay would be to oblige….

“I’ll run my machine on low throttle in city limits.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The lawman hadn’t opened his bottle of water. And he wasn’t leaving, either.

“There something else?”

“I talked to Martin Wesley. He says you’re renting this place month to month.”

Jay had found Martin’s rental ad on the internet. “That’s right.”

“He says you’re a medical massage therapist working with Shawna Bostwick.”

“That’s right.” And if Jay was a betting man, he’d put money on the fact that Richards had already been in touch with the pretty doctor for confirmation.

“We don’t have a lot of call for that around here. Seems like you’d find more work in a city like Phoenix.”

“Or Miami,” Jay agreed, “which is where I’ve lived a lot of the past ten years.”

“So why here? Why now?” The sheriff’s expression wasn’t unfriendly. But he wasn’t making small talk, either.

“I’ve got some business in the area.” Until he knew what he was going to find, his father was his secret. “Personal business.”

“And when you’ve completed your business? What then?”

Shrugging, Jay took another sip of cola and tried not to get depressed. “Who knows?” He wondered what the hell his life would look like when he was through messing it up.

“Is a life here in Shelter Valley among the choices?”

At least he could put one man out of his misery. “No.”

“You did some time in prison.”

Were there laws against that in Shelter Valley, too?

Jay didn’t respond. There was no point. Richards had access to Jay’s records. The man knew what he knew and he’d make of it what he would.

“Possession with intent to sell.”

Those were the charges. He hadn’t had a hope in hell of proving his innocence. Mostly because he’d been high on cocaine when the cops raided the frat party he’d been attending.

It didn’t help that his so-called friends had all been rich kids with daddies—or more importantly, daddies’ lawyers—who made sure that Jay, the scholarship kid without family, took the fall.

Still, he’d made choices. And he’d deserved to pay for them.

“I hope that it’s just coincidence that you’ve chosen to work in a clinical environment.” The sheriff’s words threw Jay for a second. Until he put it all together. Clinics had drugs, giving him potential access to them.

“I was arrested at a frat party. We were doing cocaine. No one there was making a living off the stuff,” he said. “My professional record is as available to you as is my criminal one, Sheriff. You’re welcome to take a look at that, too. I don’t use drugs, nor have I been caught with any in my possession.”

“I’ve seen your professional résumé. You come highly recommended. In the field of medicinal massage, but also as a private investigator. I’m told you’ve done some impressive work assisting detectives with cold cases.”

“Mostly volunteer.”

“You don’t make a full-time career at anything.”

“I’m not a white picket fence kind of guy.”

“Most people who can’t settle down have something to hide.”

“Criminal types, you mean.”