Too Close For Comfort. Heidi Rice

you? You say you’re a private investigator, but for all I know you could be an axe-murderer.’

      ‘I showed you my licence,’ he said, humouring her.

      ‘Which you could have had forged for you by axe-murderers.com.’

      His lips quirked at her tenacity, but he bit back the chuckle. The accusation wasn’t funny, it was insulting.

      He braked and pulled out his smartphone, then keyed in the number for the LAPD. He passed the phone to her as it started ringing. ‘Ask for Detective Stone, or Detective Ramirez in Vice, whichever one is on shift. They can vouch for me.’

      He waited while she spoke to the dispatcher, and spent some time verifying that she was talking to a genuine LAPD officer—and not one of his axe-murdering pals.

      Smart girl.

      ‘Excuse me, Detective Ramirez,’ came her smoky voice when she got his former partner on the line. ‘My name is Iona MacCabe and I’m here with a man called Zane Montoya. He says he’s a private detective and that you know him. Is that true?’ She listened for a moment, her teeth releasing her bottom lip as she nodded. ‘Can you tell me what he looks like?’ Her gaze roamed over his face as she listened to Ram’s reply. Her scrutiny was sharp and dispassionate, and so unlike the glassy-eyed stares he had come to expect from women that something perverse happened. His nape heated, triggering a flash back to high school, when those glassy-eyed stares had allowed him to charm any girl he wanted into his bed—or more often the back seat of his uncle Raoul’s Chevy.

      He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

      Damn it, Montoya. Get real. You’re not in high school any more and you don’t want Iona MacCabe in your bed, or anywhere else.

      ‘All right, I guess this is the same guy,’ she murmured, that smoky accent only making him more uncomfortable. ‘And you’re sure he’s no an axe-murderer?’

      Her eyebrows inched up her forehead and then she laughed, the sound low and amused and so unexpected it arrowed right through him.

      He didn’t even want to think what Ram had said. His ex-partner had a sense of humour coarsened by twenty-five years spent in a squad car and a locker room. It wasn’t exactly subtle.

      At last she passed him back his phone. ‘Okay, you check out,’ she said a little grudgingly. ‘The detective wants to speak to you.’

      Terrific.

      ‘Hey, Ram,’ he said without a lot of enthusiasm. He usually enjoyed shooting the breeze with the guy, but not now, not with this woman in the car—who was becoming way more of a complication than he needed.

      Ramirez’s amused voice boomed down the phone. ‘Lancelot, man, who’s the chiquita? She sounds cute.’

      Zane kept his eyes on Iona, and hoped she hadn’t heard the dumb remark. ‘I’m on a case, man,’ he said sternly, relieved when Iona broke eye contact and stared out of the window, ignoring him.

      ‘I’ll bet.’ The rusty laugh caused by two packs a day wheezed out as Ram replied. ‘What happened, man? You finally find one you can’t charm out of her panties with that pretty face of yours?’

      ‘I appreciate you vouching for me, Ram,’ he said, wishing to hell it had been Stone on the late shift tonight—whose sense of humour was about as animated as his name. And ended the call.

      He dumped the smartphone on the dash, tunnelled his fingers through his hair. This night had started badly and gone downhill from there.

      ‘Satisfied?’ he asked Iona.

      ‘I guess so,’ she said, sounding snotty again.

      She wasn’t the only one in a snit now, though.

      He started the car and pulled out.

      ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’

      ‘Monterey,’ he said, being as vague as possible. ‘It’s about two hours’ drive so you might as well get comfortable.’

      ‘And why are we going there?’

      ‘I have a friend who owns some vacation rentals in Pacific Grove,’ he said, remembering the key he still had in his glove compartment to Nate’s property, which he’d stayed at a month ago while his kitchen was being remodelled. He could stash her in the picturesque little cottage for tonight, then review his options.

      Without a car, or any cash or ID, she wouldn’t be able to get far. And it was close enough to his place on Seventeen Mile to be convenient.

      ‘You can stay there tonight—and I’ll bring over your stuff tomorrow.’

      When he planned to interrogate her—and find out exactly what she knew about Demarest.

      It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was taking her back to his place for the night. He had five bedrooms in the timber-and-glass beach house he’d bought a year ago, and it was a little more remote than Pacific Grove. But he’d kicked the idea into touch almost as soon as it had occurred to him.

      He rarely did sleepovers, even with women he was dating. And he’d sure as hell never had one he was planning to interrogate stay over. Plus, given his unpredictable reaction to Iona already, having her under his roof had the potential to turn a complication into a catastrophe.

      ‘And what if I don’t want to stay at your friend’s vacation rental in Pacific Grove?’ she demanded.

      ‘I turn you over to the cops,’ he said, not sure why he wasn’t doing that already. ‘Your choice.’

      The weighty silence told him what his passenger thought about the proposed sleeping arrangements.

      ‘Why are you even giving me the option?’ she said at last, the note of caution making it clear she’d accepted the lesser of two evils. ‘I could wreck the place to spite you.’

      Good question, and not one he wanted to answer.

      ‘True enough, but you’d be facing a lot more than a B and E charge when I caught you.’ He slanted her a long look, frustrated that he trusted her even though he didn’t want to—and letting every ounce of that frustration show. ‘And I would catch you.’

      Her musical voice didn’t pipe up again until they hit the coastal highway.

      ‘Fine, I’ll stay where you put me—until tomorrow. But only because I don’t have a choice.’ The Celtic mist of her accent did nothing to disguise the annoyance. ‘But I’m not your chiquita. So don’t get any funny ideas, Lancelot.’

      Zane’s fingers tensed on the wheel until he could feel the stitching on the leather biting into his palms.

      Gee, thanks, Ramirez.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE VICARIOUS PLEASURE at getting the final word didn’t last long when Montoya’s only response was the creak of leather—as he held the steering wheel in a death grip.

      Way to go, Iona. Why not draw attention to his reputation for charming women out of their knickers? Because that’s just what you want, to make this encounter personal.

      ‘Did Ram say something dumb about me?’ he asked after twenty seconds that had stretched over several lifetimes.

      Iona risked a glance at him. His eyes remained fixed on the road as if he were trying to burn off a layer of tarmac.

      ‘Maybe,’ she said carefully, feeling increasingly awkward. Why hadn’t she kept her smart mouth shut?

      With a face like that, the guy probably got hit on by supermodels—despite his less-than-charming personality—which meant snide remarks about being indifferent to his charms probably made her sound delusional.

      He sighed. ‘Ram’s got a big mouth and he gets a kick out