Chapter 1
Shana hated that Dane could make her uncomfortable with just a look. Not the kind of discomfort that came from trepidation or embarrassment. It was the kind of discomfort that was all about need.
She watched him—stared really. He sat across from her in their special semicircular booth at the Lucky Parrot, leveling that look at her. She kept herself still. They were partners, for pity’s sake, not lovers.
She flipped her middle finger at him.
It was extreme, but she was extremely out of sorts.
He grinned. It was the whole-enchilada grin—the one that crinkled the corners of his irresistible hazel eyes and made him look vulnerable in spite of his invincible persona.
She resisted lunging across the table at him to either grab him around the neck and strangle him breathless, or to grab a fistful of his hair and kiss him breathless. Her nostrils flared.
He grinned wider and she watched his full, trumpet-player-sensual lips move as he said, “What’s the matter Shana? Nothing on the menu interests you?”
“I don’t eat crap.” Two could play at innuendos.
“Touché.”
He gentled his grin, possibly calling a truce to the tension, but she couldn’t let it go.
“I never eat this crap. I don’t know why you insist on coming here for breakfast. We should be back at the office—if you can call it an office—scaring up some work.”
He quirked one brow and turned as Marylu Deluzio appeared on cue.
She always appeared on cue and had probably overheard every single word.
Probably had the table wired. It was Dane’s special table after all.
He’d probably given her the latest listening device to plant in case he wanted to bring some nefarious suspect here for secret questioning.
Shana said, “Coffee. Black,” and resisted smacking the plastic menu on the table. She handed it to Marylu. No need to take her mood out on the poor girl.
“Looks like spring is in the air,” Marylu said.
“That must be what has Shana all hot and bothered.” Dane didn’t look at her when he said it. She took a deep breath and did not kick him under the table. He was probably right. Partly right. But then he knew the real problem.
“I’ll have the usual,” he said.
Marylu took the menus and sashayed off, dressed in her barmaid uniform.
The Lucky Parrot had only recently opened in the mornings for breakfast. It had been all Dane’s idea.
He’d convinced the bar owner that he was wasting his perfectly good kitchen every morning.
Once the summer people left Martha’s Vineyard, the Lucky Parrot never stayed open late at night and the owner could use the extra revenue on the off-season.
Apparently Dane’s ideal vision of Vineyard Haven included an all-year-round greasy spoon breakfast diner. He promised he would show up and lend some local color—make sure the Lucky Parrot had a morning crowd.
He was true to his word. The Lucky Parrot was busy. Dane was the draw. He told stories. Old special forces stories. No way of telling whether or not he made them up, but Shana figured at least parts of them were true.
She shuddered.
That made Dane give her that special invitational smile again. She kicked him under the table.
“Why do you eat this stuff? You used to eat healthy. You used to have only coffee for breakfast,” she said.
“Did I? How would you know? I once ate a lizard for breakfast.”
She clenched her jaw to prevent another shudder.
“A live lizard.”
“Bullshit.”
He shrugged. Marylu delivered their coffees and he took a sip of his. Shana waited until he had a mouthful before she drank her own. She didn’t want him saying anything to disturb her sip of scalding coffee. It was something he might do. Then he’d claim he was testing her for her own good.
What the hell was she doing here anyway?
He put his cup down and was still, then said, “You thinking of leaving the island, girlie?” He gave her a mild inquiring look as if he were asking her whether she slept well—which she hadn’t.
She ought to be used to his sixth sense—his ability to read her mind and see right through her and know what was on her mind before she did.
“No.” It was a knee-jerk response. Telling in itself. She would rise to any challenge he posed. No matter what. He knew that, of course. He made the preemptive challenge so that she would not leave the island. To spite him. In spite of her own restlessness.
“We’ll get a case soon. I feel it.”
She snorted. “That won’t pay for my coffee.”
“I’ll pay for—”
She put up a hand. They’d had this conversation before.
“I don’t want your charity.”
“You’re my partner. We’re in business together. I’m staking some money is all.”
“Call it what you will. I’m taking the next divorce case that comes in and I don’t care what you say.”
“Rash words.”
She kicked him under the table again and he laughed. “Seriously, Shana. You don’t really want to take a divorce case any more than I do. Besides, the summer people will be back in a couple weeks and you’ll have to give up your place and move back in with me for the season—that’ll save you money.”
She looked at him. He looked serious and unconcerned, like he had no hidden agenda, like there was nothing amiss, no problem at all with anything he’d said.
“Move back in—”
“Mrs. Jones is going to start renting the place weekly soon. Didn’t she mention it to you?”
“You can’t mean—”
“Yes I can. We’ll be fine.” He shut her down and took a long sip of coffee.
Gone was the easy smile. Gone was the noncommittal look and there was no sexy invitation in sight.
His eyes took on that other look he had that made her shudder in a completely different way.
It was his menacing shark look. He was not going to discuss it further.
She’d have to live with him or leave the island.
Because she was certain he’d fix it so no one else would rent to her for any price.
“I need a case for my sanity. We both do.” They couldn’t have a relationship discussion right now, so business was the only way to go.
It had been a long time since Valentine’s Day— and their last case. It was already the end of May and it had been a long hard winter.
They’d had a truce up until that minute.
Their truce had been helped in part by their friend and sometimes partner in crime-fighting, Captain Colin Lynch, in between his keeping the residents of Martha’s Vineyard safe during harsh weather and keeping communication and travel open.
At one point a ferry had been stranded and the supermarket shelves almost emptied.
Cap had his state troopers guarding the supplies and Shana and Dane had lent a hand.
Shana bristled at remembering how Dane had turned down their last offer of a case—a divorce case. Dane refused to follow some guy with a jealous wife.
“Maybe I’ll call the governor,” Shana said. “He might have something for us.
Dane raised one brow.
“Maybe I’ll call Mrs. Governor.” She lifted her chin. Dane chuckled.
“You’d better call her Madeline or she’ll shoot you.” He ate another forkful of something slimy with grease off his plate, and then looked up at her again. She waited. She was getting good at waiting him out.
“Go ahead. Call him. Never know. Maybe he will have something.”
“But?”
He let his fork clatter onto the plate. “But he would have called if he had something.”
“Not if it was off-island. Not necessarily.”
He gave her a neutral stare for a beat and then shrugged. Picking up the napkin, he swiped it across those lips and stood all in one motion. Sometimes she hated the way he had of taking charge. She stood.
But sometimes she loved it and the ripple of awareness strummed through her as if he were a master cellist and she were his—
Shit. “I’m calling as soon as we get back. On the secure line.” She followed him outside and said to his back as he headed for their transportation—the ratty old Jeep with an immortal engine and not much else going for it. “So you’re okay with off-island?”
“It depends.”
That was the entire approval she needed. Because she knew that was the only approval she would get.
They drove the two point three miles back to the beach shack and she wondered how Dane—normally a man of action—could be so Zen about hanging around this tiny godforsaken island all winter.
But he’d kept himself busy over the Internet and helping out friends long distance with information and advice.
And his relentless physical training, target shooting and what she could only describe as stockpiling of armaments.
*****
As soon as they got back to the house, Dane dropped her off and took off for his daily run.
He would return in about an hour to work out in his state-of-the-art gym in his otherwise dingy basement.
It made no sense to her after the breakfast he’d eaten, but she didn’t bother saying anything beyond the scowl. Shana called Governor Douglas.
“It must be kismet because I was just wondering who I should call about a delicate case,” the governor said.
“How delicate?”
“It involves a child.”
“How young?”
“Less than a year old.” He paused and added, “Three months old.” There was no give in the governor’s voice.
“Oh.” A baby. Shana could feel her uterus contracting in pain.
“It’s a ...different kind of case. Maybe I should—”
“No—we’ll take it. Is it a missing baby? Someone stole a baby?”
“No. Someone found a baby.”
“Oh.” She had no idea what to say about that, no idea how she’d fit in, but she breathed easier and her uterus relaxed a little.
“It’s a little girl. She was left with a church and my wife happened to be visiting that same morning and found out about it. They refuse to turn the baby over to the authorities and asked for some time.”
“Time?”
“We gave Father Donahue one week to find the mother or some family member.”
“When?”
“That was yesterday. They called today and asked if I knew of a good, discreet private investigator.”
“Tell them Beachcomber Investigations.”
“You’re sure? You don’t need to consult with your evil partner?”
She laughed. “Not even Dane is that evil.”
“I’ll have Father Donahue call you.”
She broke off the call on the secure landline. It was a deceptively old-fashioned-looking phone and she liked it. Liked putting the bulky receiver in the cradle. Liked slamming it on occasion. Whenever Dane was on the other end of the call. She stood and pumped her fist into the air.
Then she sat back down and logged onto the Internet to do a background check on Father Donahue. One couldn’t be too careful.
*****
Two hours later, Dane walked into the room—his dining room—all sweaty.
“Well? What did you get us into?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not a divorce case.”
He waited, slouched back against the arched doorway, wiped the back of his neck with a towel, and put that annoying implacable-wall face on.
“It’s an easy one. The opposite of a missing person.”
He raised a brow but still said nothing.
“You’re no fun at all sometimes, Dane. Do you realize that?”
“But I make up for it those other times when I am fun.” His grin was like pretty poison. Like that evil poisoned apple. Tempting, but lethal.
She stalled. She didn’t have enough details to give him anyway.
“The client will call later and fill us in.”
“Spill it, Shana. What did you get us into?”
“You’re so cynical. It’s harmless. A baby was found. We find the parents—or someone—some family member. That’s it.”
“An abandoned baby? So why isn’t this with social services?”
“The governor gave Father Donahue a week—”
“Father Donahue? Don’t tell me—the baby was left at a church?”
“You got it. See? Easy. And a feel-good case—nice change of pace. No bad guys involved.”
He gave her a skeptical look, damn him, and said, “I don’t want to do it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Too boring. And don’t kid yourself. Feel-good case my ass. You’re less interested than I am. You’re settling, Shana. That’s the first sign.”
“Bull—”
“Tut, tut, tut. You ought to listen to me. I’m the wise old mentor, remember?”
She knew boring wasn’t his reason, but she knew he was right. It probably would be a boring case.
“I could use the money. I’m not semiretired and sitting on a pile of cash from the spoils of war—or whatever trouble you were up to during your years as a globe-trotting mercenar—”
“Not a mercenary. Troubleshooter.”
She waved a hand through the air sweeping away the distinction. “Either way, you probably have an account in the Cayman Islands.”
“Switzerland. I’m old school.” He heaved a sigh. “Look, it’s almost summer. We’re coming into the busy season. We’ve got a reputation to keep up and I bet if you call the governor back—”
“What is the real problem, Dane?” She used her super quiet mother’s voice—the one that errant boys everywhere answered to, like her kid brothers always had.
He gave her a look and shook his head. Then he said, “I don’t like babies. I don’t get involved in cases with babies. Nothing good ever comes of them.”
“What the hell—”
“I’m serious, Shana.” He turned and walked out.
She had a bad feeling that there was a bad case involving a baby in his past. Now she’d have to spend the rest of the afternoon getting him to talk about it. She got up and followed him into the kitchen. He pulled two beers from the fridge and handed her one.
Then he walked out the backdoor to his small patio overlooking the harbor. It was a mild day.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said without turning around.
“You don’t have to. You don’t have to be involved in the case. I’ll take it. I’ll handle it myself. No need for both of us to bother with such an easy one.”
He scoffed. “Never easy. Not ever. Not with babies.”
“This isn’t a missing baby. The baby is perfectly fine. We’re just looking for a parent or family member. That’s all.”
“You said we.”
“Sorry, I meant me. I will find the baby’s mother and all will be well.”
She really believed that. Sort of. If she didn’t think about it too hard. Until she got the call later that afternoon.