Too Close for Comfort Page 5

  But then she suspected he was probably used to that reaction from women.

  What with that devastating face—not to mention that subtle I-can-have-you-any-time-I-want-you smile—she already knew he was an expert at charming women out of their panties. She’d only got a glimpse of his charm the night before—but she was standing in the full glare of it now, and getting a little light-headed.

  Then she made the mistake of drawing a breath into her lungs. The fresh scent of laundry soap, a zesty hint of aftershave and something musky and entirely masculine drifted up her nostrils.

  Good Lord, he’s got so many let’s-get-naked hormones pumping off him, I can actually smell them.

  She pressed her arms into her breasts as her traitorous nipples began to ache.

  ‘But why…?’ she began, struggling to come up with a coherent response.

  He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Because I’m starving, querida. Aren’t you?’

  His breath feathered her earlobe and sent the pinpricks careering down her neck and straight into her nether regions. She drew her head back, and got fixated on those penetrating blue eyes. She didn’t answer the question, because she was fairly certain they weren’t talking about enchiladas any more.

  His smile widened—and the nuclear blush radiated up her neck.

  ‘Well, I…?’ she began again, fighting to stem the tide of brain cells leaking out of her head.

  He chuckled. ‘Say yes, Iona. They really are the best. I don’t lie to women.’ He winked, the playful gesture as dazzlingly sexy as that azure gaze. ‘It’s one of my many charms.’

  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.

  ‘And how I’m going to get home if it gets towed,’ she finished, trying not to make too much of the possessive touch. He wasn’t deliberately trying to electrocute her erogenous zones, it was all in her head.

  His low chuckle rumbled through her, upping the voltage.

  ‘Don’t worry, I have connections.’ He caressed the words the same way he was caressing her back, his palm skimming under the denim jacket she’d worn to ward off the spring chill. ‘One of my primos owns the place,’ he added. ‘The Mustang will be safe.’

  She shivered and he rubbed gently, the absent caress instantly chasing away the chill. The electrical tingles morphed into tantalising zaps of energy and her nipples drew into tight buds, trapped against her bra.

  And she wished this date weren’t as safe as his Mustang.

  ‘You’re cold.’ His gaze dipped to her cleavage as he led her past the queue of people waiting in line for a table. ‘Let’s grab a booth inside.’

  She spotted the booths against the back wall in the darkest part of the restaurant. Their high leather backs and the tea lights flickering on the tables made them look intimate and inviting—and a bit too romantic.

  ‘I’m not that cold. Let’s sit outside, over the ocean.’ Sharing a booth with him and his let’s-get-naked hormones would be risky. She might well get high on them and start purring, especially if he touched her again. And that had the potential to be embarrassing.

  His brow quirked, the sceptical smile calling her on her cowardice. ‘You sure about that? It’s chilly tonight.’

  ‘Absolutely, positively,’ she said, determined to avoid purring at all costs.

  Montoya’s questions in the car and the light flirtatious banter had made her feel important and special. Even if it was a routine he used with every woman he met, her battered ego appreciated the boost. Not only that, but the restaurant was fabulous, the smell of roasting meat and Mexican spices almost as delicious as the lively buzz of friendly people having friendly conversations—and not shouting out obscenities at the top of their voices in the middle of the night.

  She felt safe here and really rather fabulous under Montoya’s attentive gaze—but she didn’t want to get carried away.

  A young waiter with bright ginger hair and an eager smile greeted Zane like an old friend and showed them to a table tucked at the end of the terrace.

  Iona absorbed the sound of the waves lapping on the beach below and the glittering lights of the funfair across the bay, her stomach grumbling.

  As pity dates went, this was shaping up to be one of her best.

  Get your eyes off her butt.

  Zane lifted his gaze from Iona’s perfect rear end as Benji pulled out their chairs.

  He kept his gaze above her waistline as he held her chair. But then she smoothed her dress over that delicious tush and planted it on the seat. And his blood pressure shot up another notch.

  So now you’re a butt man—when did that happen?

  Then again, Iona McCabe had a lot of exceptional parts he decided as a gust of sea air plastered her dress against her breasts. Benji handed them both menus and Zane took in a lungful of the salty breeze to calm himself down. This was supposed to be fun and flirtatious—and a fact-finding mission. He wasn’t planning on taking things any further till he knew a lot more about her. She’d relaxed on the drive up and he’d managed to get some details out of her, but she’d clammed up again before he’d even got to talking about her association with Demarest.

  So he needed to relax, turn up the charm and stop fixating on her assets, or he was never going to find out what he wanted to know.

  Benji filled their water glasses. ‘Welcome to Manuel’s Cantina.’ He nodded at Zane. ‘I’ll tell Mani you’re here, Zane.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Benj—I’m sure he’s busy,’ he said, tensing up at the thought of seeing his primo. He liked Mani well enough, and the food here was terrific, but he never felt comfortable pretending their family connection meant something.

  ‘No problem,’ Benji remarked, before reeling off the specials and then leaving them to decide.

  ‘That all sounded delicious.’ Iona picked up the menu, and he was struck again by how young she looked. He knew now she was twenty-four—he’d checked out the birth date on her passport—but she looked younger. The image of Demarest sitting behind the mirrored glass with a cruel smile on his face made his stomach knot.

  Forget it. Whatever the guy had done to her, she was safe from him now. He put his menu down on the table. ‘So, Iona, what do you want?’ he asked, making an effort to keep his tone G-rated.

  ‘Quite a lot actually,’ she murmured, the sparkle of flirtation in rich caramel making the knot sink lower. A lot lower.

  ‘Uh-huh, well, why don’t I help you to decide?’ He stretched out his legs, rested his forearms on the table—and forced himself to ignore the insistent pulse of heat.

  He never slept with a woman on a first date, no matter how much he desired her, because it meant making demands that might be misconstrued later. He respected women, he enjoyed their company, but if sex was going to happen it would be on his terms and at his pace.

  ‘My personal favourite is the blackened catfish enchiladas with green chilli salsa.’

  Her lips quirked. ‘Are they now? And why’s that?’

  ‘Because they’ve got heat and spice—which is the way I like my enchiladas.’

  She tilted her head to one side, propped her elbow on the table and ran her tongue over her bottom lip, torturing him. ‘Sold, Montoya.’

  ‘Call me Zane.’

  ‘Yes, Zane.’ The quick smile became astute. ‘Tell me something, do you date a lot of women?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ That was a lot more direct than he was used to.

  ‘Because you’re very good at it. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I never date more than one at a time,’ he replied, not wanting to tell her it had been six months since he’d dated—and give this evening more significance than it deserved.

  ‘You’re very cagey. Is that part of the detective code? Not divulging personal information?’

  ‘No.’ He gave a half laugh, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. But he knew he’d been busted, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Women generally enjoyed it when you made them the focus of the conversation. He’d sure as hell never had one turn the tables on him this fast.

  ‘I’m an open book,’ he lied smoothly. He leaned back in his chair—the picture of relaxed indifference. ‘What do you want to know?

  ‘Why did you ask me out tonight?’

  ‘For all the usual reasons,’ he said carefully. Was that a trick question? No way was he going to tell her about his recently acquired butt-fetish.

  ‘Which are?’ she prompted.

  The confusion cleared and he relaxed for real. She was looking for a compliment. Not surprising, given her recent association with Demarest. He leaned forward, happy to oblige.

  ‘You’re cute and tenacious. I admire your spirit—even if you do need a keeper when it comes to your personal safety—and I wanted to get to know you better.’

  Truth was, he wanted to get to know her a lot better, but no need to go there yet.

  Instead of her looking pleased with his answer, though, the light in her eyes dimmed and the colour in her cheeks bloomed. She stared out to sea for a moment, her smile pensive and more than a little sad. And he wondered where she’d gone.

  ‘You’re really a nice guy, aren’t you?’ she said at last. ‘I’m sorry I was so rude to you yesterday—you didn’t deserve that.’

  Nice? What the hell?

  Zane bristled, the spurt of irritation catching him off guard. No one had ever called him nice before. But before he could think of how to respond, a huge hand clasped his
shoulder, and he glanced round to find his primo Manuel—the last person he wanted to see—standing by the table.

  ‘Great to see you, compadre,’ Manuel boomed, the hearty smile making Zane tense even more. ‘Welcome back to my humble cantina.’

  Cute!

  Wasn’t that what Brad had once called her? And she’d despised it even then. Why couldn’t she be sexy, or, better yet, irresistible?

  Iona let the grudging disappointment melt away as she listened to Zane’s friend Manuel wax lyrical about the blackened catfish enchiladas, which she already knew were Zane’s favourites. Her stomach rumbled loudly and the excitement of the evening seeped back.

  Enough with the pity party. If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have asked.

  And cute was better than what she’d begun to fear. That the only reason he’d asked her here was to interrogate her about her association with Brad. As long as the man sitting opposite never found out the truth about that, she could live with cute.

  ‘They sound ravishing, Manuel,’ she said, smiling when the proprietor’s warm mahogany eyes lit with enthusiasm. ‘But I already know how good they are from Zane’s sales pitch.’

  Manuel beamed at Zane. ‘You like them? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s hardly a secret how much I like the food here. I come here often enough.’

  The statement was brusque, and lacked Zane’s usual charm.

  ‘And I appreciate your custom, cousin,’ Manuel replied.

  Her curiosity was piqued. How odd—why did Zane seem so tense if Manuel was his cousin?

  ‘Enjoy your meals.’ Manuel pasted the smile back on, smoothing over the discomfort. ‘I’ll see you Saturday, Zane, at Maricruz’s quinceañera.’

  A muscle in Zane’s jaw jumped. ‘Yeah, sure.’ But from the look on his face as his cousin left, Iona didn’t think he was looking forward to it at all. Which only piqued her curiosity more.

  ‘Who’s Maricruz?’

  Zane watched Iona lick the salt from the rim of her margarita glass and tried to focus on the question, instead of the coil of desire descending south.