Hot daggers plunged into his innards.
It took a couple of deep breaths to work up courage to follow her, but finally he scaled the ladder and lurched unsteadily on a tiny deck.
Clothes were cast haphazardly upon the polished wood. Her clothes. The ones she’d been wearing in the pub. And the boat was on the opposite pier to the one he’d been standing on when someone had shoved his ass into the water.
Damn. She couldn’t have pushed him in. Not unless she’d been running around town in her underwear.
He ran his fingers through his hair, which held the residual slickness of oil. He owed her an apology. The lights on the pier obliterated the stars as he raised his face to heaven and cursed. He headed down the step and knocked on the tiny door that led inside the boat’s cabin.
She opened it, naked except for a thick towel.
Thought disintegrated. Wetting his lips, he tried to speak, but his eyes got stuck on the line of her collarbone and his tongue stopped working. Her skin looked as soft as peaches—except for a ring of bruises on her arm.
“Dammit.” He reached out to touch the redness. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s nothing.” She jerked her arm away. “People do stupid things when they’re scared.”
He watched her swallow and knew he’d hurt her with more than bruises. A drug dealer with a conscience—who knew?
“I’m sorry.” What else could he say?
“Okay.” She looked at him from beneath her brows. “But I didn’t push you into the harbor. I’ve spent too much time pulling people out of the ocean to mess around with water.”
The memory of the brutal glare from the bottom of a pool hurt his eyes. He blinked it away. Get a grip, Foley. Do the job.
He nodded and she thrust a towel at him. “Strip,” she ordered, shutting the door in his face. This Sorcha Logan, the one who spat nails, he recognized. The knowledge made his mouth twitch.
He stripped, in full view of whatever sonofabitch had pushed him in the water, grateful for the wintry air that cooled his brain and his libido.
Sorcha banged around inside the small cabin as he dropped his clothes into a wet heap. Then he sat on the step with a towel wrapped around his dignity. Waiting.
She opened the door, shoved sweatpants and a sweatshirt into his arms, and closed the door back in his face. Still pissed.
He dressed, patient now. Ignored the fact that the pants were too short. It beat wearing wet clothes or being bare-ass naked on the walk back to his rental. After a few minutes he heard footsteps. She opened the door and looked at him. Dark brows contrasted with the hair she’d drawn back off her face into a straggly ponytail. Was she a natural blonde?
Whoa, don’t go there.
“I didn’t push you into the harbor.” Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pinched tight.
“Got it.” Ben’s position on the step effectively blocked her escape.
She was tall. At least five-nine. Why hadn’t he registered that before?
He’d always appreciated women he didn’t have to stoop down to talk to. Or kiss.
He’d never had a problem being attracted to his suspects before. Not Emilio Santayana, or the other creeps he’d dealt with in Colombia. He leaned forward, resting his hand against the doorjamb, and noted the way her nostrils flared and her gaze instinctively flicked over all the relevant body parts.
Body language was a beautiful thing.
He smiled. What better way to use the unexpected attraction that sizzled between them? He needed her trust. He needed her secrets. He needed to know when and where Santayana’s last cocaine shipment was being delivered and who was on the receiving end. He was closing this snow train down for good.
The boat bumped against the stone wall. Once. Twice. He glanced at the inky water, mere feet away, and forced his mind away from the gentle swell that rocked the boat. His hands shook, but two more minutes and he’d be back on dry land. Two more minutes and he’d never have to do this again. He had her here now, and he might never have this opportunity again.
“You saved my life.” Ben handed her the towel. She avoided touching him as she took it. “And I acted like a jackass. I’m sorry.” When was the last time he’d had to charm a woman? Not in a long time. “Water—” the words died in his throat. He could not admit to that god-awful hang-up, not even to stir up a little sympathy. He shrugged one shoulder, sounding like an idiot. “I can’t swim.”
“I know. You told me.” She shook out the towel and nodded as if that explained everything. Either that or she didn’t give a damn. Her gaze rested on his bare feet and she bit her lip. “I don’t have any shoes to fit you.”
Walking home in wet boots wouldn’t kill him. He flexed his toes. “I’ll survive.”
Her lips turned down. In ragged jeans, a University of Queensland sweatshirt and battered sneakers, she looked like some displaced Californian cheerleader. As if suddenly realizing he was blocking her way, she pushed past him, close enough for him to wish they’d met under different circumstances. She bent and gathered the clothes strewn about the deck, stuffing them into a plastic bag.
He picked up a high-heeled boot. She grabbed it and its mate, flung them into the cabin, only to swear, change her mind and dash in to retrieve them again.
“I’ll only have to carry them tomorrow if I don’t bring them tonight,” she explained, packing them into the bag. They stuck out of the top awkwardly, though she seemed satisfied. She grabbed another bag and handed it to him for his wet gear.
“You don’t have a car?” A safe topic, he leaped on it as he gathered his wet clothes. They stank and he doubted he smelled any better.
“No.” Sorcha doused the lights, closed the cabin door. “A boat and cottage are expensive enough.”
Weird. He didn’t know a single drug dealer who didn’t own a car. They were running checks on her finances, but hadn’t unearthed anything unusual. Yet.
Climbing the rungs of the ladder up the harbor wall, he followed her back to solid ground and resisted the urge to kiss the asphalt.
Her ponytail left a damp trail down her back that made her look vulnerable. She must be cold.
“I’ll walk you home.”
“No, I’m fine.” Sorcha backed away.
He followed. “I insist. I’m going that way anyway. I’ll even carry your bag.” He took the plastic bag from her fingers.
“Okay.” She finally laughed, her face lighting up as though she’d swallowed starlight.
And if he could get on her good side, get her to open up to him, he’d be way ahead of the game. It was a good plan. Better than watching the waves every day.
“That guy in the bar called you a witch…” he started.
Sorcha flinched, then began walking toward the main street with brisk strides.
“Hey.” He laughed at her suddenly grim expression. He was having a joke, sharing a smile, working her. “Come on.” He raised a palm upward.
She whirled, walking backward, crossing her arms tight. “You’re in Scotland now, and the funny thing is, they burned witches here in the seventeenth century.” Her eyes were full of pain. “And that doesn’t seem so very long ago to me.” She turned and kept going without looking back.
Jogging, he caught up and snagged hold of her arm. “Sorcha.” His voice was soft, gentle even. “For God’s sake, it’s the twenty-first century.”
She jerked out of his grasp and strode away, forcing him to move faster or get left behind.
“Tell that to the ten-year-old girl they tied to a stake and tried to burn.”
***
No matter how fast Sorcha walked, she just grew colder. A chill caressed her shoulders, fluttered across her skin, and she shivered. Ben shadowed her, making no further effort to speak and she was grateful.
The apparition of her father had led her to the edge of the cemetery where he was interred, but she’d lost her nerve at the thought of entering the graveyard. Too wired to sleep, she’d gone to make sure her yacht w
as ready for tomorrow’s excursion and had heard the panicked cry of someone falling into the harbor. She’d been half afraid she was hallucinating again and would find nothing beneath the surface except the gossamer-thin entreaty of a familiar ghost.
Ben might think it was funny, but she had no doubt that if she’d been alive in the seventeenth century, she’d have been fried to a crisp before she’d hit puberty. Hunching her shoulders, she put her head down as she passed the Raven pub, vowing to avoid Duncan Mackenzie’s lair in future. The town was dark now. The haar had lifted to reveal an argent moon that cast thick shadows across narrow streets.
At her front door she stuck her hand in her pocket and dug for her house keys. “Crap.”
Ben touched her shoulder. “What’s up?”
She turned and slid her shoulders against the smooth wood, pressing her back against the door. He stood close. Too close. She could smell the harbor in his hair, mixed with the heat of his skin. His expression was cloaked, giving nothing away. She didn’t trust him. Or maybe it was herself she didn’t trust. Not anymore. Not after her disastrous relationship with Bruce. Not after chasing shadows for so long.
“Carolyn had my keys.” Sorcha lowered her voice, not wanting the whole street to hear her business. “She’d lent hers to Kevin.”
“Ah. Kevin.” There was a thread of amusement in his voice.
“Met Kevin, did you?” The stab of disappointment was tempered by irony. The guy hadn’t got off with Carolyn, so he jumped in the harbor. Figured.
He stared at her as though he could read her mind and she shied away from the thought.
Then he leaned closer and whispered, “You could stay at my place.”
Okay, so he was a man, not a mind-reader. What did she expect?
His breath brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes for an instant, startled by the realization that this heightened sense of awareness, the way she tensed with anticipation whenever he came near, meant she was attracted to him.
And she really didn’t want to be.
“I don’t do consolation prizes.” Sorcha smiled tightly.
“What?” Confusion snapped his brows together.
She didn’t buy it. Ben Foley was a sharp guy. She didn’t have to spell it out for him.
She turned back to the door. Knocked quietly at first, getting louder with each determined bang. The scent of him wrapped around her as he leaned in close and whispered, “They’re probably too busy to hear.”
A coil of sexual awareness exploded through her body.
No kidding, they were too busy.
She propped her forehead against the coolness of the door. He didn’t touch her, didn’t connect physically, but the heat of him behind her was overwhelming. Sensations flowed through her body as she imagined him pressing against her, wrapping her up in those strong arms. Full body contact for a woman who’d gone too long without.
Bloody hell.
She sighed. “I’ll go back to the boat.”
“I’m five houses away.”
“I have spare clothes on the boat,” she insisted.
He held up the plastic bag full of her things, raised his brows. “I have a spare room. And clothes.”
She had no arguments left, except he was a stranger and she didn’t really know him.
A door slammed, loud male voices bouncing down the empty street like a drunken warning. All she needed was to bump into Duncan Mackenzie and his cronies at the witching hour.
She avoided Ben’s eyes by looking at his T-shirt.
Her T-shirt.
At this rate they’d swap wardrobes in about a week. The idea made her smile and she looked up to find his intense eyes ablaze, as if her compliance was crucial. Her breath caught.
“Right.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. The fluttering in her tummy was excitement. Even though she was exhausted, even though she had to get up early the next day, and even though she knew better. “Okay.”
She followed him down the street and he waved her inside old Maggie Johnstone’s cottage. Ten minutes later flames bit into kindling and a blue-edged glow warmed the night, as it had the first time they’d met.
And again, the man with jet-black eyes prowled, restless and on edge.
An old upright piano stood against one wall. He lifted the casing and keyed a couple of notes. It was out of tune and they both winced.
“Always wanted to learn how to play,” he told her, not looking up from the battered instrument.
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged, his shoulders straining the seams of her old T-shirt. “No cash for lessons, I guess.”
She nodded. Money had been tight for her growing up too.
Silence stretched between them. Awkward. The fire spat and a spark flew onto the rug. Sorcha grabbed the fireguard and placed it in front of the flames. It would be just her luck for the place to catch fire. She shuddered.
He’d gotten her something to wear for pajamas and a big fluffy towel, and she clutched them uncertainly to her chest.
Should she feel disappointed or relieved he hadn’t made a move on her? She knew what she should feel, but disappointment won anyway. Had she misread that whispered heat? Probably. Hell. When it came to men she was more than blind. She was deaf, dumb and stupid.
Curious, she glanced around, taking in the computer, telescope and notebook. She had no clue what he did. “What exactly are you doing in Anstruther?”
For the first time, he looked self-conscious. Uncomfortable. “I’m a writer.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows stretched wide in surprise. “I would never have pegged you for a man of the arts.”
He stopped moving, the utter stillness of his body requiring absolute self-control. It was a little unnerving, like watching someone turn to stone. He stared at her with eyes so dark they didn’t even shine.
“Why not?” he said finally.
“You seem too…I don’t know.” She laughed, suddenly uneasy. “Too practical? Too grounded.”
“How’d you feel if I said you seemed too flighty and fanciful to be a scientist?” His tone held censure, as though she’d done him a disservice.
It was a fair point.
She frowned. “How do you know I’m a scientist?” He knew a lot about her, whereas she knew almost nothing about him.
He put his hands on his hips and examined the floor, raised his eyes to look at her from beneath heavy brows. “I asked Carolyn.”
She shouldn’t be taken in. She shouldn’t be so ridiculously pleased, but her ego had been obliterated during the past year and she was helpless against the tiny thread of pleasure that snaked inside. “You asked Carolyn about me?”
“What did you think we’d talk about?” He studied her without blinking.
Not her, that was for damn sure. She pressed her lips together. Thank heavens Carolyn didn’t know about her ghost or the voices in her head. She knew about Bruce, sure…“What exactly did she tell you?”
He walked toward her, his face unreadable despite the flickering orange firelight. A chill ran down her spine, and her body coiled in anticipation. He stopped an arm’s length away, and even though she tried, she could not look away.
“That you found your last boyfriend in bed with another woman.” His voice was soft, tender even.
“Ah.” Heat flooded her cheeks and she hid her face in the bundle of clothes she held, her nose brushing the softness of the towel. Honesty forced her to mumble, “They weren’t exactly in bed.”
She didn’t want to remember Bruce or how she’d naively told him her secrets, and how much she’d loved him. The sound of his hoarse cries as he came in another woman’s body still reverberated around her mind. The memory of smug satisfaction on the other girl’s face when Sorcha had confronted them still contained the power to stab deep and hard.
“Losers like that aren’t worth worrying about,” he told her.
“You had a lot of boyfriends cheat on you?” Her humor was weak even to her own ears, though
his lips quirked
She liked that smile.
He lifted a finger to graze her cheek and softly stroked her jawline, a sensual journey that made her skin tingle and her pulse zip. He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip and drew it down. She held her breath.
Then he dropped his hand.
“It was a long time ago,” she said. A very long time ago, and right now she wanted to forget all her problems and kiss Ben Foley, and he sure looked as though he wanted to kiss her. But he didn’t move. Didn’t dip his head. Instead, he took a step back.
“You can shower first.” He walked over to his laptop and booted it up, putting the sofa and dining table between them. “Doesn’t matter what time I get up in the morning.” His cool smile was totally at odds with the heat of his touch seconds earlier.
Self-conscious, she ran a hand over her frizzy hair and grimaced, feeling as if she’d jumped him and he’d turned her down.
Maybe she had?
And he was letting her down gently.
Nice.
She wanted to kill him.
“Right. Thanks.” She walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, leaning on it until she regained her composure. It felt strange to be with a man she found attractive, and not even have the nerve to kiss him.
At least she’d learned something from Bruce.
Her watch said 12:30 a.m. She closed her eyes and groaned. She needed sleep, not kisses. God save her from men and hormones.
Chapter Five
Ben stared at the door Sorcha Logan closed, squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead on the table. Using guile and seduction to obtain information was one thing, banging her was quite another.
It was not a line he could cross.
Hissing through clenched teeth did nothing to relieve the pressure that gripped his chest, nor the strain against his zipper. He’d been within an inch of laying one on her. An inch from blowing his career for the sake of a quick and easy screw. What was he thinking?
Ben smacked his fist down on the desk and even that didn’t convince him he’d made the right decision.
The sound of the shower captured his attention, and God help him, all he could do was stare at the bathroom door. Jesus. Now he got to picture her naked.
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