Too Close For Comfort. Heidi Rice

you don’t have a reputation for charming the chiquitas out of their panties?’ she said, intrigued by his reaction.

      Instead of taking the bait, he laughed. The low rumble of amusement shivered down her spine and re-ignited the stupid pinpricks she’d been trying to forget.

      ‘I do,’ he conceded. ‘But I didn’t do a whole lot to earn it.’

      She didn’t believe him. Either he was being falsely modest, or he was lying. From the lazy, casually seductive tone he’d slipped into so effortlessly, she’d bet he could charm the average chiquita out of her panties from five hundred paces.

      ‘Ramirez tends to exaggerate my exploits.’ He protested a bit too much. ‘Because he’s been happily married for twenty-five years.’ He sent her a dimpled smile and the pinpricks were toast. ‘Don’t worry, Iona, you’re safe with me.’

      The pulse of awareness that warmed the air at his softly spoken guarantee had her nipples hardening under the thin black camisole. She folded her arms over the tell-tale buds and cursed the knee-jerk thought that she wouldn’t completely object to a little danger.

      ‘Good to know,’ she replied, trying to convince herself she was grateful he had no designs on her panties.

      Given her disastrous relationship history, the last thing she needed right now was to develop some ridiculous crush on Detective Sexy. She was already at enough of a disadvantage with the man.

      ‘So how did Demarest manage to relieve your old man of twenty-five grand?’ he asked, sliding effortlessly from charm offensive back to cop mode.

      ‘Why do you ask?’ she said, attempting to deflect the question. While she’d much rather be dealing with Montoya the cop, than Montoya the pantie charmer, she had no intention of revealing the grim details of her affair with Brad.

      ‘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