He probably lied to women all the time, but the firm ‘no’ that should have been hovering on the tip of her tongue wasn’t.
Taking Detective Sexy up on his offer of a dinner date was probably not a smart move. Especially as she might end up getting zapped to a crisp by his let’s-get-naked hormones. She’d promised herself she’d be polite and sensible and keep her interaction with him impersonal. But as soon as she’d opened the door, and seen him standing on the porch, a sunbeam spotlighting that blue-black hair and breathtaking face, she’d had to concede that impersonal was always going to be a hard sell. And then he’d started talking, in that patronising but oh-so-sexy way and polite and sensible had taken a nosedive too.
Plus she finally had something to celebrate. The news that Brad Demarest was out of her life for ever. It had been a blow to discover her father’s money really was gone, but she wasn’t going to worry about that. If she could make a go of her artwork in Monterey, at least something good might come of the loss.
And then there was the fact that she hadn’t been out on a date in—well, for ever. The boyfriends she’d had in Kelross had never been able to stretch to much more than a visit to the local chip shop. And Brad had only ever been interested in getting her naked and then getting the sex over with as soon as he was satisfied.
She blitzed the thought.
Do not go there. Concentrate on the enchiladas—the best on the West Coast no less—they sounded delicious. And being in the company of a guy who made her pulse vibrate, instead of one who made her feel as if she didn’t have a pulse.
Plus there was no danger of her doing anything stupid, no matter how much her pulse vibrated. because post-Brad she was pretty sure she was man-proof—or at the very least man-averse—with or without the pinpricks.
And Montoya was probably only asking her because he felt bad about threatening to have her arrested last night. So this had to be a pity date.
‘Okay, you’re on,’ she said, reckless excitement thrumming through her veins.
Brad had destroyed her confidence in ways she hadn’t even realised. And she’d let him. But she couldn’t think of a better way to get some of it back. If ever there was a cure for a woman’s shattered ego, it had to be spending an evening with someone as drop-dead gorgeous as Detective Sexy.
CHAPTER FOUR
IONA TIED THE silk scarf around her head as Zane’s vintage convertible bulleted down the coast road. She gazed out across the dark blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The rolling breakers created a mighty backdrop to the soft tangerine glow of sunset hitting the low cliffs. The zing of exhilaration made her pulse throb, especially as the dramatic splendour of Monterey Bay wasn’t the only spectacular view on offer.
‘Exactly how many cars have you got?’ she shouted, stealing a glance at the man beside her.
He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, giving her a gratifying glimpse of tanned forearms dusted with dark hair while he negotiated the road’s hairpin bends. His dark hair ruffled in the wind around his face and made him look relaxed and gorgeous. A bit too gorgeous, really. Nerves fluttered.
Relax. Pity date, remember. Absolutely no call to panic.
The quick grin gave her a flash of even white teeth in his darkly handsome face. Designer sunglasses hid those diamond-bright eyes from view, thankfully, but she could still sense the twinkle of amusement. ‘Several.’ He glanced at her. ‘Automobiles are a passion of mine.’
She stroked the shiny red paintwork, and laughed at the way he’d emphasized the word passion. He was definitely flirting with her. Which felt ridiculously good.
‘So how did you get into drawing flora and fauna?’ he asked.
‘There happens to be a lot of it about in Kelross Glen, so it was a no-brainer really,’ she replied.
‘Kelross Glen? That’s the town you’re from in Scotland, right? What’s it like?’
‘Small,’ she said—but decided not to elaborate. That was more than enough about her.
During the half-hour drive along the coast road, Zane Montoya had used those killer looks and that killer smile to prise information out of her about everything from her childhood, to her education, to her father’s depression, to her job in the gift shop her dad owned in Kelross Glen, while at the same time neatly sidestepping any personal questions about himself. She’d basically undergone a charm offensive that Lieutenant Columbo would be proud of. No wonder the man made a living as a private detective.
But she was wise to his tactics now. And she wasn’t going to divulge another iota of information about herself, until she managed to get him to reciprocate—because all the things he wasn’t saying were making her unbearably curious.
The car slowed as they entered the city limits of Santa Cruz. The engine noise dropped to a well-oiled hum as the open road gave way to neighbourhoods of brightly painted clapboard houses with their obligatory picket fences. Teenagers skateboarded on sidewalks whooping out the joys of spring while grey-rinse cyclists thronged the bike paths leading to the boardwalk. Everything was so safe and normal and non-seedy it was enchanting.
The scent of sea salt and fish was a pungent reminder of the beach community’s nearby marina. But instead of heading towards Santa Cruz’s famous funfair, or the historic Main Street she’d read about in the guidebooks, Zane took a small side road, which wound its way down to a sandy cove.
The restaurant came into view perched on a bluff. A large wooden terrace packed with Friday-night diners jutted out over the ocean. The fairy lights strung from its canopy twinkled festively in the gathering dusk. Cars lined the narrow access road. The joint was jumping and Iona wondered where they were going to park. Her question was answered when Zane drove round to the back lot and slotted his convertible into the only available space under a huge yellow sign that read in ominous black letters: ‘Unauthorized Vehicles WILL BE Towed, 24 Hours A Day.’ And then underneath scrawled in red graffiti: ‘Don’t even think about it, Amigo.’
‘Shouldn’t you think about this, Amigo?’ she asked, pointing to the sign as Zane opened the passenger door. He sent her a rakish grin. ‘You’re worried about me.’ He offered her his hand as she climbed out. ‘I’m touched.’
‘I’m more worried about your beautiful car, actually,’ she said, her pulse skipping pleasantly as his palm settled on her hip. His fingers slid against the linen of the short shift dress she’d changed into as he direc
ted her to the restaurant’s entrance.
The slope of her back felt as if it were being stroked with a low-voltage cattle prod, the sensation a little shocking and a lot exhilarating.