by JoAnn Ross
“You’re a detective who could well end up chief of the department,” Lani corrected. “Nate told me all about you tracking down that Cascades Killer. And he also mentioned, when he and Tess were down here for Thanksgiving, that you’d nearly gotten killed while working to keep a Russian mobster in prison.”
“I wasn’t injured that badly. Some glass in my eye, bumps and bruises. And a sprained ankle.” Which was taking its own sweet time getting back to full strength. “And it never would’ve happened if I’d just moved faster.”
She tilted her head. “Gracious, I had no idea being a detective required superpowers capable of outrunning an SUV.”
She still had a smart mouth. As he found himself wondering if it would taste as good as it looked, Donovan firmly reminded himself that this was his best friend’s sister. Still, one thing Nate hadn’t embellished was the beauty of at least one of the island’s women.
She picked up her hammer and slid it into a loop on the tool belt she wore low on her hips. “Why don’t I come down so we can continue this conversation without you getting a crick in your neck?”
As he steadied the ladder, Donovan decided watching Nate’s sister’s butt, as she deftly backed down the aluminum steps, was definitely off-limits.
“You’re not in the market for a wife, by any chance, are you?” she asked as she reached the ground. She yanked the elastic band from around the knot, allowing a cloud of sunset hair to tumble over her bare shoulders. When she took off the oversized sunglasses, he found himself drowning in her mermaid-green eyes.
“Absolutely not.” Realizing how that swift rejection might have sounded, he backtracked. “It’s just that my life is complicated, and in flux right now and I don’t believe I could give a relationship the time and energy…”
Hell, if he’d stumbled around for words that badly during all those Cascades Killer’s press conferences, the FBI never would have come calling. His only excuse, as lame as it admittedly might be, was that it had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman capable of muddling his thoughts and tangling his tongue.
“Don’t panic,” she said, gilt lights sparkling in those remarkable eyes. “I was merely curious about whether or not you were in on Nate’s devious plot.”
“Plot?” He rubbed the spot between his brows where a headache had begun to throb.
“My brother has been threatening to marry me off,” she said conversationally. As she bent to pick up one of the pieces of luggage, the cutoff jeans rode up enticingly, momentarily capturing his attention with the backs of smooth, tanned thighs. “He obviously sent you down here as bait.”
“I seriously doubt he’d do that,” Donovan objected. “Here, let me take those.”
“I’ve got them,” she said as she headed toward the door. “You bring the large bag and that other case. Which, please tell me isn’t a computer.”
“It’s a new laptop. I figured I’d use the peace and quiet to get some work done.”
“You came here to work?” Lani’s incredulous expression suggested that he’d confessed to plans to settle beneath the banyan tree in the front yard and spend his holiday vacation watching Internet porn.
“Something wrong with that?”
“Everyone’s entitled to his own idiosyncrasies, I suppose.” She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder to give him a slow, appraising look. “Nate’s told me all about you, Donovan.”
“He did?” Donovan racked his brain for something, anything, Nate knew that he might inadvertently let slip during an FBI background investigation.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, apparently picking up on his concern. “According to my brother, you’re intelligent, honest, and a terrific judge of literature.” She flashed him a quick but still devastating female smile that took him back to high school when just the sight of Madison Mayhue crossing her legs across the aisle during first-period English class could give him a boner that would last until lunch. “That last is because you read all his books, of course.”
“He’s a great storyteller.”
“You don’t have to convince me. After he sent me the advance copy of Nighthawk , I locked my doors every night for a month.”
He frowned. “You don’t now?”
“This isn’t Portland, Donovan,” Lani replied mildly. “We’re not accustomed to much crime here on Orchid Island.”
“True, but…” His voice trailed off, and he forced an abashed smile. “Sorry. That was the cop talking.”
“I suppose, given your line of work, you could develop a jaded view of the world after a while,” Lani murmured.
“Or a realistic one,” he countered, even as her words hit a bull’s-eye, making him aware of the fact that she wasn’t the only one who’d changed since that long-ago winter. “So what other deep, dark secret about my personal life has your brother let out of the bag?”
“He said you’ve become a driven workaholic who needs to relearn how to relax. Tess, by the way, agreed with his assessment.”
“Which is a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black,” he muttered, a little annoyed that he’d apparently been a topic of conversation during Nate and Tess’s visit.
“My soon-to-be sister-in-law was wound a little tightly when she first arrived,” Lani allowed. “But it didn’t take all that long for her to slip into island time. Watch that third step,” she warned as she continued toward the front door. “It’s loose. I was going to nail it down after I put in the skylight.”
“You’re putting in a skylight?”
“Nate suggested one when he asked me to do the remodel.” She entered the house, leaving him to follow. Zeroing in on the orchid tattoo rising from the waist of those cutoffs, he wondered how low that ink might go. “He didn’t tell me why he needed it done right away, especially since he and Tess are spending Christmas at her family’s winery, but as soon as I saw you struggling up the beach, I knew what my sneaky brother had in mind. He’s obviously selected you to rescue me from a lonely, celibate spinsterhood.”
“Nate only offered this place out of friendship,” Donovan assured her even as he wondered how celibate an existence any woman who looked like Lani Breslin could possibly be leading. Nate hadn’t mentioned that all the males on the island were blind.
“Not that you haven’t grown into a remarkably attractive woman,” he said sincerely, as they entered the open-concept home that, to his uneducated design eye, appeared to be a fusion of casual beach living and Asian Zen, punctuated with native carvings and bright art. “But I’m not in the market to get married right now.”
“Damn. There goes my big plan to go wedding dress shopping tomorrow. And I guess it also means we won’t be picking out a china pattern anytime soon.”
She crossed the wood floor scattered with sisal rugs. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “we’re in full agreement on the topic. Although I think we’re in the minority these days. Even my best friend has fallen victim to the matrimonial bug.
“I’m going to be maid of honor at her ceremony at the Fern Grotto next June, and when she throws that orchid bouquet, I’m definitely going to duck. Not that I actually believe in that old wives’ tale of the woman who catches the bouquet becoming the next to wed, but there’s no point in taking any unnecessary chances, is there?”
She opened a door and waved a graceful hand in a sweeping gesture around the bedroom. “Well, welcome to Shangri-La.”
Donovan came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of the bedroom as he took in the tall, four-poster king-size bed. Draped in mosquito netting from the vaulted ceiling to the floor, the bed dominated the room. A broad beam of buttery sunshine from the overhead skylight Lani had mentioned installing cast a soft sheen on a leopard throw tossed across the end of the white sheets. The silvery sound of water tumbling over the lava stones, drew his attention to a waterfall fountain surrounded by lush, tropical green plants in a far corner of th
e vast room. Moroccan hammered lanterns and large, patterned pillows had been strategically placed on the dark teak floor, inviting occupants of the room to lounge in front of the fountain.
“It’s certainly…inviting,” he said, taking in the sybaritic scene.
“That’s exactly what Nate had in mind,” Lani said dryly. “Watch this.” She crossed the room and pushed a button, causing bamboo blinds to open and reveal a folding wall of glass that opened to a tropical outdoor rain shower surrounded by yet more plants. Beyond the shower, turquoise water lapping onto coral sand enhanced the unabashed sensuality of the room’s decor.
Blaming the erotic atmosphere for his runaway imagination, Donovan found himself wondering if Lani’s breasts, barely concealed by the flowered bikini top, were as tanned as the visible parts of her body. Then rigidly tamped down lustful thoughts of moonlight skinny-dipping in the lagoon.
“Would you like to know when he requested this little rush remodeling job?” Before he could venture a guess, she answered her own question. “Ten days ago. I’ve been working like a demon in order to get everything done on time.”
“You did all this?”
“I’m something of a local handyman in my spare time,” she said offhandedly. “By the way, the fur is definitely fake. I put my foot down at killing animals just so my brother could create a tropical version of the Playboy Mansion.”
She stuck her hands in her back pockets as she looked around the room. “I did all this with my own two hands at Nate’s request, never realizing that I was setting the scene for my own seduction.”
The sight of her sea-green, thickly lashed eyes and full, lushly inviting lips the hue of a ripe peach, caused an unbidden and inappropriate image of her lying beneath him on the gauze-draped bed to flash on a huge flat-screen in his mind. “You really are mistaken about my reason for being here,” he said.
Lani eyed him consideringly. “Oh, I believe you when you say you’re here in order to get some work done. But believe me , Nate has entirely different plans for us.”
He shook his head. “Do all the Breslins have such vivid imaginations?”
She waved away his protest. “I’ll explain later. Right now, I need a shower, and you need to get out of those city clothes. I’ll run over to my place and meet you back here in an hour.”
“Your place?”
“Right around the bend.” Lani pointed out the window to the beach. “Handy, isn’t it?” she said dryly. “Although I stocked the kitchen for you, it seems only right that I should play a proper hostess by taking you out for dinner. But you don’t have to worry.” Soothing him with an indulgent smile, she placed a slender hand on his arm. “I have no intention of setting any feminine traps for you, Donovan Quinn. So, you’re perfectly safe with me.”
With that, she was gone, leaving Donovan to stare out the expanse of glass, admiring the sway of her hips in those faded cutoffs. Glancing down at the spot where her coral polish-tipped fingers had rested briefly on his arm, he imagined he could still feel the heat.
Despite her reassuring words, Donovan had an uneasy feeling that he knew exactly how Adam must have felt when Eve had suddenly shown up in Paradise.
2
Lani hadn’t always lived on Orchid Island. She had, before returning to the island, lived for six years in Los Angeles, where you couldn’t throw a stick on a beach without hitting a hot guy. It hadn’t taken her that long to become immune to flawlessly straight Hollywood white teeth, sexily shaggy sun-streaked hair, and toned-to-the-nth-degree-of-perfection bodies. So how was it that the too-thin, exhausted-looking Donovan Quinn could, after all these years, still make her go weak at the knees while other, more significant parts had definitely leaped to attention?
The same way they had that first time she’d seen him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had crushes before. She’d even taped magazine photos of Joshua Jackson, the poster bad-boy-turned-good from Dawson’s Creek , onto her bedroom mirror frame and had practiced writing Lani Jackson in her journal. Over and over again.
But a crush on a TV character was a whole lot safer than the way Donovan Quinn had made her feel. Just looking at him in that blue uniform with the big, dangerous gun strapped to his hip had taught her what actual, real life lust felt like. In a desperate attempt to hide her tangled, confused teenage emotions, she’d hidden them behind a mask of petulant hostility.
Proving current appearances deceiving, according to her brother, Donovan was on the fast track. Whether he ended up in the FBI, on some Homeland Security task force, or even, as she could easily see him, Portland Chief of Police, the chances of him staying on the island were about the same as the volcanic Mt. Waipanukai erupting on Christmas Eve.
As were the chances of her ever moving off island again.
So, the question was…now that Nate had thrown them together again, did she follow her heart (which had apparently hung on to that long-ago crush as if it were a virus it hadn’t quite shaken off) and those awakened body parts?
Or her head, which was sternly reminding her that any chance of a long-term relationship was slim-to-none?
Fortunately, Lani decided, unless a crime spree needing Detective Donovan Quinn’s attention suddenly broke out in Oregon, the man wasn’t going anywhere right away. And neither was she.
* * *
Although his body felt as if it had just finished a triathlon, and his ankle was throbbing, Donovan took the time to hang up his clothes before taking a shower and shaving. The shave might have been a mistake, since getting rid of the dark stubble revealed a pallor that reminded him of the faces of lifers he’d sent off to the Oregon State Penitentiary.
The bathroom had come equipped with shampoo, body and face soap, along with toothpaste and extra brushes. Making a mental note to pay Lani back for whatever she’d spent on the bath and well-stocked kitchen, he debated taking a nap and knew from experience the buzzing, like a hive of angry wasps, would start up in his brain again, the same way it did whenever he tried to sleep.
Churned up and edgy, he wandered outdoors. Unable to sit down, he stood on the beach and watched the wavelets rolling in to kiss the sand. As the setting sun turned the sky to apricot and the sea to beaten gold, he tried to remember the last time he’d allowed himself to relax and came up blank.
There’d been a helluva lot to deal with the past few years. A divorce, hunting down the Cascades Killer, investigating Tess’s money-laundering case, along with the legal appeal of the Russian mobster she’d been determined to keep in prison, not to mention trying to uncover her stalker. Add in being hit by the driver of that SUV who’d tried to kill him, leaving him with this damn gimpy ankle, and it was no wonder he’d been walking a very thin razor’s edge.
Then, just when he could see a light at the end of the criminal tunnel, he’d shown up at his partner’s apartment with a six-pack and plans to watch the Seahawks-Forty Niners’ game only to find the dull beige wall behind the ratty, thrift store recliner splattered with blood and brains.
Donovan didn’t give a flying fuck what his chief, the department shrink, and the chaplain said. Matt Osborne, who, next to Nate, had been the closest thing he’d had to a brother, had been wallowing in a world of pain, and Donovan hadn’t recognized how bad the problem had become.
Whenever he and Matt would talk about the Cascades Killer case, their conversations had revolved around the investigation, then working with the district attorney’s office to prepare a slam-dunk case for trial. They’d never talked about the victims. The fathers, the mothers, and, God help them, those poor innocent kids who hadn’t done anything but gone on a family camping trip. Something his late partner had been deprived of when his ex-wife had returned to her hometown in North Carolina with their children.
Like most police departments, the Portland Police Bureau was populated with men and women who fit into the tough-guy mold that had existed long before Donovan had been born. Cops don
’t cry. That was the unspoken code. Which ignored the unsavory fact that as many, if not more, cops died by their own gun as they did in the line of duty.
Although many cities, including his own, were getting better about tackling that outwardly strong, silent culture, the truth remained that suicide had long been the black sheep in the blue police family.
Donovan was back to beating himself up over the fact that despite being a hot shot detective, he hadn’t caught the clues of his own partner’s downward spiral when Lani came around the cove, appearing like something from a fairy tale.
Her hair, gilded by the last rays of the sun and fanned by the soft trade winds, was adorned with a bright yellow blossom. A strapless dress covered with bright tropical flowers bared her sun-kissed shoulders and skimmed her body enticingly, the full skirt billowing around her legs as she walked toward him, a pair of red sandals in her hand.
Revealing he wasn’t quite dead yet himself, a spark of heat inside Donovan flickered. When she reached the bottom of the steps, stopped, and smiled, the flicker flamed up. Which was definitely problematic. Because after months of living like a monk, the female who’d started his juices flowing again was the wrong damn woman. Seducing the sister of his best friend was absolutely against the Bro Code.
Lani didn’t need to be a detective to catch that spark of interest. One he’d quickly and rigidly banked. Too tense, she thought. And too sad. And once again, dressed as grimly as his expression. Granted, he’d changed out of the charcoal-gray business suit, but the tan slacks and black silk T-shirt were still a far cry from appropriate beach attire. As her eyes moved to his feet, she supposed the supple Italian loafers were his attempt at informality and wondered what had happened to those raggedy old Nikes he’d practically lived in while off duty.
“Don’t you own anything casual?”