But once she’d thanked Montoya and was on her own again, the bigger picture was more complicated. Still, now she was well rested her prospects didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had seemed last night.
She had some money left and a work visa that lasted another five months. There was no reason why she couldn’t look for a better place to live now, away from the seedy motels Brad frequented. And perhaps sell a few more sketches. She’d managed to sell all the hand-painted postcards she’d produced in the cafés along Morro Bay’s Main Street, but keeping an eye on Brad’s motel room had meant she hadn’t had time to replenish her work. But now she was free of Brad-surveillance she could actually devote herself to finding a decent job and spend her evenings sketching. Monterey was supposed to be arty and bohemian—as well as being a tourist mecca. Surely there were bound to be places she could sell her stuff and look for a job. The summer season was only weeks away, so casual work shouldn’t be too hard to find.
The most important thing of all, and the main reason she’d come to America to track Brad, was to stop her dad from ever finding out that he’d been conned again by someone he trusted. And while she most likely wouldn’t be able to get him his money back, she could still achieve that much.
She’d told her father she was travelling to LA at Brad’s invitation, that her ‘new man’ had come through with his promises of a showcase for her work. Even though the lie had nearly choked her at the time, it had kept her father happy. And while getting a gallery showing had always been a foolish pipe dream, in five months if she worked hard and applied herself she might be able to return home with at least some money to replace what her father had lost—and a small degree of success to show for his bogus investment.
She frowned as she grabbed another muffin. But first she had to convince Montoya she was of no significance to his case. To do that, she needed to be polite and cooperative—and keep things impersonal.
Wiping the crumbs off the surface and rinsing out her coffee mug, she picked up her sketch pad again, feeling almost euphoric. Until Montoya arrived, she planned to indulge herself and do what she loved for a change.
Zane tucked the cottage’s phone under his arm and rapped on the front door. The early evening light beamed off polished wood but as he peered inside it was obvious there was no one in the front room.
He rolled his shoulders as the muscles cramped. He hoped she’d done as she was told and stayed put. After the day he’d put in already, the last thing he needed now was to have to scour Pacific Grove for her.
The original plan had been to swing by first thing that morning. But after having his night’s sleep disturbed by way too many sweaty dreams involving firm breasts, wide caramel-coloured eyes, worn tank tops and full kissable lips glossy with burger grease, he’d held off, and sent Jim to deliver the groceries instead.
Iona MacCabe had an unpredictable effect on him, and until he figured out what—if anything—he was going to do about it, keeping his distance was the smart choice.
Then the case had exploded at ten whe
n Demarest had shown up at the Morro Motel—and all hell had broken loose. Zane had been tied up with the Morro Bay PD for the rest of the day, handing over the case files and contacting the LAPD to make sure Demarest got transferred there before the day was out. As a courtesy, Stone and Ramirez had let him observe their interrogations. He massaged the back of his neck to ease the tension headache that had been building ever since.
Just as he’d guessed after their original profiling, in the interview Demarest had been slick and supremely arrogant. But he soon lost control under pressure, and proved how volatile and dangerous he was.
Zane shuddered. What the hell had Iona been thinking breaking into the guy’s room? What would have happened to her, if it had been Demarest who’d caught her last night and not him? At some point he planned to give her a damn good talking to about personal safety.
The thought of any woman being at the guy’s mercy had sickened him—but worse had been the moment when they’d questioned Demarest about his trip to Scotland. Demarest had laughed and boasted about the Scottish girl who’d been ‘begging for it’ and Zane had been forced to walk out—the urge to leap through the mirrored partition and strangle the guy triggering the sickening memory that had haunted him most of his adult life.
He eased the kinks out of his shoulders and rapped again.
He should be feeling great now. Six months’ work had finally paid off and Montoya Investigations was in line for a nice fat bonus payment. Plus his firm had been instrumental in catching one of the nastiest and most parasitic low lives in California and bringing him to book. But somehow it didn’t feel like enough—because it could never undo the damage the bastard had done.
He squinted through the clouded glass again, and a little of the tension dissolved as he spotted the petite silhouette coming to the door from the back of the house. Then the door swung open and the punch of lust hit full force.
The setting sun glinted on her hair, highlighting the different shades of red, and making her skin almost transparent. Her rich caramel eyes glowed with energy, and, while the wary caution of the night before was still there, the bruised shadows underneath were gone. In a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that hugged the generous breasts he recalled a little too well pressing against his forearm, her feet encased in the boots he’d taken off her the night before, she should have looked like a tomboy. She didn’t.
‘Hello, Mr Montoya. Sorry I didn’t hear you knocking—I was in the back garden.’ The Celtic lilt and the hitch in her breathing called to his inner caveman.
Down, Montoya. You’re here on business. Not pleasure. However tempted you might be to stray over that line.
He noticed the pad under her arm, which was covered in a series of intricate drawings of a small bird.
‘You’re an artist?’ he asked, although the answer was obvious from the quality of the work.
‘Yes, I…’ She shrugged. ‘I specialise in drawing flora and fauna. It’s a passion of mine.’
She stumbled over the word passion and two pink flags appeared on her cheekbones, making the sprinkle of freckles on her nose more vivid.
‘A passion, huh?’ he said, not quite able to hold back the grin when she squirmed. So he wasn’t the only one struggling to remain professional.
Good to know.
‘Come in, Mr Montoya,’ she said, the cool, polite tone disconcerting as she stepped back and held the door open. He wondered what had happened to the firebrand he’d met last night.
‘The name’s Zane.’ He dumped the phone on the coffee table. ‘I brought this in case you want to call your father. You got the groceries okay this morning?’
‘Yes, you should tell me what I owe you for them,’ she said, the cool tone turning chilly. ‘Although it’s going to be hard to pay you without my purse.’