Too Close for Comfort. Heidi Rice

       ‘Now, stop arguing with me or I’ll kick you out of the car and leave you in the middle of nowhere.’

      It was an empty threat. He wouldn’t do that to any woman—especially not one who had no money, no ID, who’d just bolted down a burger as if she hadn’t eaten in days and had eyes like Bambi.

      But instead of being cowed she stuck her chin out. ‘Fine. Dump me here if you want. I’ve no got a problem with that.’

      Damn, she was actually serious.

      What kind of guys had she been dealing with? Then he thought of the seedy motel and had a pretty good idea.

      ‘Yeah? Well, unfortunately I do.’

      ‘Then take me back to the motel. I’ll get my stuff and stay somewhere else.’

      Maybe it was the flinty determination in her voice, or the way her gaze never wavered, but he wanted to believe her.

      Which only made him sure he shouldn’t. Ten years on the force had taught him that trust was a dangerous thing—and following your gut instead of having proof could get you killed.

      He slid the car into Reverse. ‘Forget it. You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you.’

      About the Author

      HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon^® novel.

      Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at [email protected], or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

      

       Recent titles by the same author:

      ONE NIGHT, SO PREGNANT!

      THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE WILD

      ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF CHRISTMAS

      CUPCAKES AND KILLER HEELS

       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Too Close

      for Comfort

      Heidi Rice

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Special thanks go to fellow authors Scarlet Wilson and Libby Mercer for their help in making my Scottish heroine and my Californian hero sound real (I hope).

      And to the lovely Roberto, who gave me an invaluable insight into the culture and traditions of California’s Mexican-American community—any mistakes in the portrayal are entirely mine.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘HEY, MITCH, WAS there anything on a kid in Demarest’s file? About five-two or-three, hundred and ten pounds?’

      Zane Montoya squinted into the shadows of the motel parking lot, trying to make out any other usable details. But whoever the kid was, he was being real careful not to stray into the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, making the fine hairs on Zane’s neck prickle. He’d been staking out Brad Demarest’s motel room for five hours—taking over right after Mitch had called in with the flu—and Montoya Investigations had been on the guy’s tail for six months now. Getting the tip that this by-the-hour motel on the outskirts of Morro Bay was Demarest’s latest bolt hole had been their first break in weeks. And his gut was telling him the kid was casing the joint. And he didn’t like it, because if Demarest showed up the last thing Zane needed was some little troublemaker alerting the guy to their presence—or, worse, spooking him before they could do a citizen’s arrest.

      ‘Is this kid a girl or a boy?’ Mitch’s voice croaked.

      ‘Don’t you think I would have…?’ Zane’s frustrated whisper cut off as the kid stepped back and the yellow glow of the streetlamp illuminated a sprinkle of freckles, vivid red-and-gold curls springing out from under a low-riding ball cap and the curve of a full breast beneath the skintight black tank she wore over camo trousers and boots. ‘It’s a girl.’

      A girl who had to be up to no good. Why else would she be dressed up like GI Jane?

      ‘Make that a young woman—eighteen to twenty-five—Caucasian with red shoulder-length hair.’

      The girl melted into the shadows as he tried to picture the intriguing features he’d glimpsed on a mugshot.

      ‘She doesn’t look familiar,’ he murmured, more to himself than Mitch.

      He’d reread Demarest’s file while gorging himself on the endless supply of junk food Mitch had stashed in the glove compartment, but he couldn’t remember any of Demarest’s known associates fitting her description.

      Mitch gave a weighty sigh. ‘If she’s hanging round his motel room, she’s probably another mark.’

      ‘I don’t think so—she’s too young,’ Zane replied. And way too cute. He cut off the thought. If she was mixed up with Demarest, she couldn’t be that cute. A one-time B-movie producer who’d taken a brief detour into porn before finding a more lucrative income duping rich women by promising to make them movie stars, Demarest was a typical LA parasite. But this kid with her pale skin, her freckles, her silicone-free breasts and her furtive activities looked anything but his typical mark.

      ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Mitch replied. ‘The guy cast a wide net and he wasn’t choosy.’

      ‘Oh, hell,’ Zane muttered as the girl approached the door to Demarest’s room. ‘Call Jim for back-up,’ he added sharply. ‘And get him over here now.’

      ‘Has Demarest showed up?’ Mitch’s croak rippled with excitement.

      ‘No.’ Thank God. ‘But Jim’ll have to take over the surveillance. We’ve got trouble.’ He glared across the lot, his irritation levels rising as his stomach sank. ‘Because whoever the heck she is, she’s just broken into his motel room.’

      He shoved the cell into his back pocket as he lurched out of the car and headed across the parking lot.

      Just what he needed after five hours sitting in a damn car—A GI Jane lookalike with freckles on her nose screwing up a six-month-operation.

      Iona MacCabe eased the door open, and clutched a sweaty palm around the skeleton key she’d spent a week doing the job from hell to get hold of. The tiny strip of light coming through the curtains was alive with dust motes, but didn’t give her much of an idea of the room’s contents bar the two queen-size beds.

      Her heart pounded into her throat at the footstep behind her, but as she whipped round to slam the door a tall figure blocked the doorway.

       Brad!

      Her stomach hit her tonsils as the apparition shot out a hand and wedged the door open.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ came the gruff voice—tight with anger.

      Not Brad.

      The knee-watering