Love Under Fire

by Frances Housden

  Gently, she pressed Ginny down to the bench. “You’re okay here. No one will hurt you.” Jo nodded toward the desk. “See the sergeant over there? He’ll look out for you.”

  As always, Jo’s first glimpse of Senior Sergeant Harry Jackson reminded her of her father. Maybe it was the silver buttons sparkling against the navy uniform, or an echo in the mannerisms. After all this time, the subject was still up for discussion.

  Her first memories of her father had to be of those buttons. She’d sit on his knee, feel the scratchy wool under her skinny little legs, and play with the shiny baubles while he told her about the events of his day. Of course he’d always been the knight in shining armor, rescuing fair maidens, locking the bad guys up.

  Even after he’d made detective, she’d waited for his stories, sometimes falling asleep before he got home. Two weeks into the job she’d realized he’d always given her the abridged edition.

  The day he died had felt like they’d amputated her soul.

  Four sons and one daughter he’d had, and out of them all, she was the only one following in his footsteps. Maybe being the youngest, she’d been the only one not taken in with their lies about him.

  Jo caught her bottom lip in her teeth, stifling a grin at the way Harry ignored the clamor around him. He looked up as she approached, putting down his pen.

  “Busy day, Sergeant?”

  “Just a couple of local bad guys Bull and Jake caught growing cannabis in a house they’d rented. A right pair of smart-asses! They lined the walls with foil and grew the weed under lights.”

  Jo’s hearing pricked up at the mention of drugs. Features bland, she prevented her longings from showing. Those kinds of cases seldom came her way now, and though her homicide training might have given her an edge in that area, no one had been murdered in Nicks County since the day she’d arrived.

  Her immediate superiors seemed to be under the impression shoplifting and breaking-and-entering were more her speed. It wasn’t as if she’d never protested. She had, long and loud. Which was one reason why the boys had handed over the one case they hadn’t known she wanted. The one they’d decided would never be solved. An assault on Rocky Skelton, local innkeeper, purportedly by satanists who’d torched his house with him inside.

  It was the kind of tale that made her eyes roll. Satanists in Nicks Landing…it sounded like a play on words, but when she’d mentioned “Old Nicks Landing,” no one had laughed.

  She’d had her eyes on Skelton from the moment she’d hit town. Finding her father’s ex-partner running a bar in Nicks Landing had been like striking gold. And landing the case had been finding the mother lode, as if some power was at work, nudging her on, helping her to resolve the past. So what if her means of getting to Nicks Landing had come through a sideways demotion? They’d blamed her for what happened to Rowan. But in comparison, none of that mattered now. She’d been in the right place at the right time. Her father had been innocent and this might be her chance to prove it.

  Harry’s expression grew paternal, a ridiculous state of affairs as barely eight years separated them. “Nothing to worry your head about, little lady,” he said in reference to the drug bust.

  Maybe it was just Harry’s protective instincts, and if so the disease was endemic. Where once she’d found it amusing, slightly endearing, now she felt smothered by living in male-chauvinist territory. If anyone in Nicks County had ever heard of equal rights for women, they’d quickly forgotten it.

  Nicks Landing was about two hundred and fifty miles from Auckland where she’d worked before, and about fifty years backward in time. Located on New Zealand’s East Coast, it was the sort of place needing a detour—and a damn good reason—to visit. It certainly wasn’t on anyone’s way to anywhere else.

  The reasons she’d been transferred there were solid, nothing to be proud of, and she’d taken her licks, no sense in making excuses. She hadn’t expected to be the only woman working out of the station house, or that she’d still be the only one today.

  “Who have we got here?” Harry asked, nodding toward Ginny.

  Jo’s mind shifted gear and she told Harry. “Ginny Wilks. The owner of the Two Dollar Shop caught her slipping some plastic barrettes into her pocket. He didn’t want to press charges, though, just give her a warning. Can you call this number and get her mother to come pick her up? She should be all right sitting here with you. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Call me when her mother arrives.”

  Jo had just turned away when she remembered. “Someone stole my space again.”

  “I keep telling you, take one of the other guys’.”

  Shaking her head, she didn’t pursue it. Harry didn’t realize she couldn’t do the very thing she was complaining of to someone else. She couldn’t be that hypocritical, or dishonest. Twelve years’ service and she still felt the need to mind her p’s and q’s.

  “I just wondered who owned the S-type Jag.”

  Harry’s smile deepened, becoming more knowing than friendly. “Go on upstairs and find out for yourself. He’s in your office.”

  The words your office were a misnomer. Harry knew it and so did she. Jo shared with two other detectives, including Detective Senior Sergeant Bull Cowan. Since his section took up half the space, the likelihood of the car’s owner actually waiting to see her, in her office, wasn’t something she contemplated.

  Logic told her the driver and the stranger Ginny had admired earlier were one and the same. It could prove interesting to discover if he lived up to his car’s image, and Ginny’s high approbation.

  In less than a minute she would know.

  The stairs disappeared behind her two at a time. She stopped her momentum by grasping the door handle, her palm sweating lightly in anticipation of the babe being inside. She heard a rumble of male voices through the gaps where the door didn’t fit the frame, too indistinct to decipher, and behind the gold-leaf lettering and frosted glass panel, their images blurred grotesquely.

  Silently, she eased the door open, keeping hold of the handle so it wouldn’t spring back and give her presence away. She indulged her curiosity by watching through the six-inch gap. Disappointment, she decided, wasn’t a word she would use in the same breath as this man, not even from behind.

  He had legs a mile high slicked in black denim. The supple, wash-softened fabric gloved his muscled thighs and calves in a way that set her mouth watering.

  She knew her weaknesses.

  His butt wasn’t half-bad, either. At least nine on a scale of ten. Just looking at those firm glutes made Jo’s hormones twitchy—a sensation she’d almost forgotten existed. And as if anything more was needed, he drove a Jag, her favorite car. Together they made one very attractive combination.

  Sunshine caressed his tawny hair, the way a woman might to determine if the waves were real. It tipped the collar of his black cotton Polo shirt, which told her he wasn’t a cop, another point in his favor. To date, her association with the male members of her fraternity had been doomed to failure. She’d found that breed never let a lie stand in the way of a good story.

  As a child, she’d grown up glorifying the force and its aims. Seeing it through her father’s eyes. But her father’s death had shattered her rose-colored glasses and she’d mourned the loss of her ideal almost as much as she’d mourned her father.

  Jo’s mouth twisted as she puzzled over his presence. Could be the guy was undercover. In that case, why Nicks Landing? Nothing here ever warranted that kind of scenario. The biggest excitement to hit the sleepy little burg occurred two and a half months ago, and was the case they’d handed her on a platter. Because of its black-magic aspects, the media, TV and newspapers, had given the story a whirl at first, but that had died a natural death. Hence her male colleagues’ unconditional generosity toward her.

  She’d never believed Rocky Skelton’s story. Satanists lurking in small-town New Zealand? Give her a break. Besides, she’d known for most of her life that the man was a liar.

  Why should
this time be any different?

  Jo’s gaze slid up the tall stranger’s spine. It was a long, long spine, supporting a broad back and wide shoulders that hid the man he was talking to. Although, Bull Cowan’s flat country twang was more distinct now that the door was open.

  It wasn’t every day of the week a woman got to see shoulders that broad. The fine knit of his shirt clung to them like a lover’s caress. Jo sighed. She should be so lucky.

  As she continued to watch, the palm of his large hand fanned over the back of his neck. His muscles flexed under the sheen of taut, golden skin, stretching the ribbed band on his sleeve. He had the kind of lean strength she liked, powerful without being bulky or obvious, hardly an ounce of fat on his body. As she speculated about the amount of work it took to look that good, Jo felt something curl deep in her belly, then expand as heat, sending a bloom of warmth across her skin.

  With a twitch of her nose, she delivered a small personal chastisement. Too much fantasizing, that was it. Why, she still hadn’t seen his face. Knowing her luck, he would be dog ugly, though likely he’d have more in common with a Doberman than a Saint Bernard, seeing as he was so lean.

  Mind made up, she swung open the door and went to find out for herself. Both men turned as the door banged shut behind her, and Bull came into view at last. Now here was a man who lived up to his name. He had the kind of body that owed more to lifting a handle of beer than working out at the gym. Heaven only knew how he ever passed a physical.

  Jo kept her eyes lowered slightly, her gaze hitting the stranger about midchest. It lingered over the glint of gold-edged sunglasses casually hooked in his shirt pocket, as a quick, indrawn breath tightened the fit of his shirt.

  The view was everything she’d imagined.

  Pretending disinterest, she didn’t raise her eyes until she drew level and Bull was saying, “This is the little lady you want to talk to. Detective Jo Jellic.”

  Bull’s too precious diminutive put a hex on the smile she’d been holding back to blind the stranger with. Deliberately, she thrust out her hand, getting in first.

  At chin level she got her first surprise. Not at the few days growth of dark gold beard that covered his skin, but the several weeks older sun-tinted moustache. Her eyes held on it as if counting each hair, each sun-lightened strand above his full, firm mouth. If he’d been smiling, his teeth would have made a dazzling contrast to all that gold. But he wasn’t.

  Tilting her head—for the man topped her by at least five inches—Jo added another point to his total. It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop, then her breath caught in her throat, and her greeting stuttered to a halt.

  Shocked, her hand clutched air while she doubted her own eyes.

  “Jo, meet Rowan…er…McQuaid,” said Bull with a quick look at the business card in his hand.

  “Rowan McQuaid,” she wheezed as her oxygen ran out.

  God, he’d changed!

  Time froze as he looked down his long nose at her, nostrils flaring slightly, with eyes the opaque green of glass that has been battered by rough waves. Cold as ice, his hand enveloped hers. A shiver she badly wanted to hide slowly crept up her spine, never missing a notch. Jo let out another breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as his eyes lightened and hazel flecks patterned the green, the way she remembered.

  “As they say, long time no see,” he drawled, a dry sound, lacking warmth.

  And where was the surprise in that? The changes she perceived in this man, who had once been her friend, had all been her doing. All her fault.

  “You…you look well. I hardly recognized you, Rowan.”

  “Well, it’s been two years, and you know what they say about time.” It healed all wounds.

  But what about their friendship, could it even come close to fixing that? Jo let her hand drop, and took the opportunity to ease her tense body through the narrow space between him and her desk, wary of brushing against him.

  She’d once prided herself on nerves of steel, yet they quivered now, like a plucked bowstring. It puzzled her mightily when the dull, leaden feeling of guilt she’d expected was superseded by feelings of uncertainty. As if she was indeed that little lady her colleagues kept calling her.

  Sitting down, she took advantage of the distance the width of the desktop allowed, and sheltered behind it.

  A frown shaped her brows in a V of futility. What couldn’t be mended would have to be endured, for she’d demolished everything that had held them together the night Rowan had busted his leg taking a bullet meant for her.

  Oh, she had paid. Paid well. Lost touch with most of her friends while she frittered away her homicide experience on jobs any beat cop could handle. But at least she still had her career.

  She wanted to give him a great big hug to show she knew his pain, that she cared, but she was afraid any expression of empathy from her would go over like a lead balloon. Instead she asked, “How are you really doing, Rowan?”

  Jo was the last person Rowan had expected to meet in Nicks Landing. Clutching tight to control, he chivvied her to prevent betraying himself. “Lighten up, Jo. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  Don’t do as I do, do as I say.

  He’d outgrown the habit of enclosing his senses in a protective coating when Jo was near. He’d even ousted her from his dreams. Deliberately, he hadn’t kept up with her whereabouts. Seeing her today had come as a shock. But he would be damned if he’d let her know why, or pity him for it. Feigning a grin, he put his weight on his injured leg and lifted his arms. “Look, no hands.”

  Jo’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Their dark brown irises melted like chocolate. A look that Rowan wanted to reach out and smooth away. And therein lay the danger.

  Now he knew why the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted, as if a ghostly hand ruffled them, filling his palm with an urge to brush them down. Now he knew it was a ghost from his past.

  “So, Rowan, what brings you to Nicks Landing?”

  “McQuaid’s here about that case you’re working on. Wants it cleared up fast,” Bull answered for him, rushing the gate like the animal he was named for. Unlike most other things in Nicks Landing, Bull hadn’t changed. He still acted the way he had when they were both boys, running wild during summer vacation.

  “I thought you’d left the force….”

  Her words dwindled away softly, but Rowan noticed she hadn’t said “had to.” Or “you were unfit.” No, he’d give her that. She’d finally learned discretion. The art of not running off at the mouth and saying exactly what she was thinking.

  “Take a look at this.” Bull handed over Rowan’s business card. “Insurance Investigator.”

  Rowan watched Jo’s eyes linger over the card. He’d had a few of them made under two or three different headings, today’s one for Allied Insurance. Few knew that even his name was misleading, only people like Bull and Harry Jackson who remembered him from the old days. He’d counted on their friendship not to give him away, using it to oil the wheels with this Skelton business.

  “And what’s that to do with me or my case?” Jo gasped, her mouth quivering as if disturbed by the turn of events.

  Bull answered, “Allied has been taking a lot of crap from Rocky and his wife, and they want this puppy put to bed.”

  “Just like that. I can’t just call it quits to suit your employer.” Her chair bumped the wall as she stood leaning forward, fists clenched. “This case is important to me.”

  “C’mon now, girlie. You know that case is going nowhere.”

  Jo blinked, and under her lashes her eyes flashed a warning in Bull’s direction before turning back in his.

  She was good and mad now. He preferred her spitting fire than looking all soft and sad, tempting him to do something about it.

  “I’ve only been on this case two weeks. That’s not enough time. I need more. I deserve more.”

  Bull came round the side of her desk, mouth open to speak. She cut him off. “I know what you’re going to
say, Sergeant. You only gave me the case so I could tidy it up and stick it away in a file, but that’s not the way I work.”

  “Don’t worry, Bull. I know what Jo’s like. Once she gets her teeth into something it’s hard to prise them apart.”

  Bull looked from one to the other. Rowan could almost see his mind working. His brow furrowed and black eyebrows twitched. His mouth twisted to one side, then the other, as if making a decision his divided loyalties found difficult to spit out. “Just to be fair, I’ll give you a week.”

  “A week!” blurted Jo.

  Drawing himself up to full height, Bull sucked in air, pushing his gut up to his chest. “One week. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Regretfully, Bull wasn’t done. He eyed Rowan with a lift of one brow. “McQuaid here can help you. Two heads are better than one, and maybe that way you’ll both be satisfied.”

  Satisfied? Rowan would never dare to be satisfied when it came to Jo. He’d spent years avoiding that kind of satisfaction. He’d recognized the danger the first moment he saw her. Like reading an old map that warned, here be dragons.

  Although he still counted meeting Jo as the point in time when his life started going downhill, the image had fixed in his mind. A memory, which the unlikely scent of locker rooms could trigger off.

  That’s where he’d been, Auckland Central locker room, reading a long boring letter from his brother, Scott, after a hard night keeping his friend Max Strachan company. When your best friend’s first marriage breaks up, what else can you do but help him tie one on over a bottle of whiskey?

  Someone barging through the door of the shower room had jarred him from a miasma of facts and figures he really couldn’t be bothered sorting, but Scott insisted on relaying. Downing a cup of coffee at his desk had suddenly seemed like a much better deal. Prepared to slip by with a quick wave and a “Hi,” he’d stopped dead in his tracks, adrenaline pumping through his veins.