He tugged her purse and passport out of his back pocket. But when she reached for them, he lifted them above her head. ‘Not so fast. I’ll need your word you’re not going to run off.’
The beguiling almond-shaped eyes narrowed. And the firebrand came out of hiding.
‘And what would you be needing my word for?’ she asked, propping her hands on her hips and making her breasts flatten against the tight T-shirt. ‘If you don’t believe a single thing I say?’
‘It’ll go some way to putting my suspicious mind at rest,’ he said, enjoying the view probably a bit too much.
The fire in her eyes flared. ‘Is it just me you don’t trust?’ she asked her tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘Or do you have this low an opinion of all women, Mr Montoya?’
He choked out a laugh. No one had ever accused him of that before. Especially not a woman. But then Iona MacCabe was turning out to be an original in more ways than one.
His gaze wandered over her face and he watched with satisfaction as her cheeks pinkened. ‘On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of women.’
The pulse of awareness warmed the air as her cheeks heated to a dull red. And pert nipples protruded against the T-shirt.
It was a crisp spring evening outside, but the sun shining through the cottage’s front window meant the atmosphere was warm and close.
She crossed her arms to cover the stiff buds.
Too late, your secret’s out, querida. You’re no more immune to me than I am to you.
‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I can’t think of a single thing about women I don’t enjoy.’
Professionalism be damned. Iona McCabe was too cute to resist flirting with.
‘So perhaps we should start over—and forget about last night.’ He held out his hand. ‘Zane Montoya, at your service.’
Suspicion clouded her eyes, but then she thrust her slim hand into his much larger, much darker one. He clasped her fingers for barely a second, the handshake quick and impersonal, but the cool, soft touch of her skin contrasted sharply with the arrow of heat that darted straight to his groin.
She stuffed her hand into the back pocket of the jeans. But her pupils dilated with something he recognised only too well, before her gaze flickered away.
You felt it too.
Endorphins flowed freely through his system. He’d always been a connoisseur of women, in all their myriad and wonderful varieties. Which was why he didn’t have a type. But for some reason, this girl hit all his happy buttons, without even trying.
And he was through fighting it.
As of today, Demarest was in a cell and would be for a very long time. The case was closed as far as Montoya Investigations was concerned. So there was no professional reason why he shouldn’t push a few of her happy buttons right back.
‘I’ve got some news on the case, Iona,’ he said, planning to ask her if she wanted to discuss it over dinner, but before he could say any more her head shot up.
‘News about Brad?’
He frowned, his happy buttons not feeling all that happy any more. ‘We picked him up at ten this morning. He’s in a cell facing more charges than he can count.’
‘I see.’ Her voice sounded casual, but then she fixed him with that cautious gaze and he knew it wasn’t. ‘Did he have any of my dad’s money on him?’
He shook his head and her face fell.
‘Right.’ She looked down, but not before he saw the shadow of distress.
He shoved his hand into his pocket, resisting the urge to run his finger down her cheek, and stroke the distress away.
For one tense moment he thought she might cry. But then she seemed to pull herself back from the brink.
‘Well, I guess this is where we part company, then, Montoya,’ she murmured.
Something tugged hard under his breastbone. And that surprised him.