Chapter 2
“Beachcomber Investigations. Shana George speaking.” She practiced her newly acquired American accent.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was less obvious that she was a foreigner.
Dane thought she was crazy for trying to get rid of her accent.
He found her Aussie accent charming. Reason enough there to change it.
“Hello, Ms. George, this is Father Donahue. I believe Governor Douglas told you I’d be calling.”
“Yes, about a baby.”
“Her name is Paulette.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Not exactly.”
Cagey answer for a priest. Not that Shana was any expert, but she had a notion that priests were a breed apart—above the fray in manners and agendas—sexual deviants aside.
“Would you like to meet,” Shana asked, “or do you want to—”
“I’d like to arrange for you to pick up the babe—”
“Pick her up? I thought we—I was supposed to find her parents or relatives.”
“There’s been a change of plans.”
Dane’s voice popped into her head. I don’t get involved in cases with babies. Nothing good ever comes of them.
“Let’s start over, shall we Father Donahue? What exactly is it you are hiring me for?”
“Protection.”
Her grip tightened on the phone and nerves churned her stomach, but she kept her voice even and professional.
“What exactly makes you think the baby needs protecting?”
“Someone came to the church rectory early this morning and tried to take her—then shot Sister Anne and fled.”
Ramp up the heart pumping and the uterus screaming.
“This is a police matter, Father.” Everything in her wanted to jump on the next plane and tear the baby from Donahue’s arms to protect her. And she’d never even laid eyes on Paulette. What if she was adorable? What would Dane do?
“Not yet. I have six days left. The governor gave his word.”
“Don’t you think a shooting changes things?” Dane should be proud of her professionalism.
“Makes it more urgent to find Paulette’s mother—and find out what’s going on—and to protect her. Peter assured me you were the best. I was somewhat reassured that you could take care of her—you’re a woman—and that your partner, Dane Blaise, is tough and experienced in matters of violence.”
Shana bit her lip. Reminded herself the priest was old school even if he didn’t sound particularly old. But the crack about her partner galled her. Goddamn Dane Blaise. She took a breath.
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll have to find someone else. We can’t afford to get the police involved. We need this to be handled discreetly.”
She didn’t ask. She was afraid to even guess. She’d find out soon enough. Right now the baby needed protecting. She felt her uterus cry out to her in excruciating awareness. The damn priest was right. She was a woman. It was impossible for her to resist a baby in distress.
“Where are you located? I’ll catch a plane and get there as soon—”
“No need. I’m at The Black Dog. Down the street from the grocery store on Water Street.”
“That’s—right here in Vineyard Haven.” She stated the obvious.
“How soon can you get here? I need to get back to the church before I’m missed.”
“You came here—weren’t you worried about being followed? Did you notice anyone watching you on the ferry—”
“I came by helicopter. I took a cab here. Paulette needed some things from the grocery store.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”
“Then you’ll take the case?”
“I’ll decide after we’ve had a talk,” she said, and hung up the phone with a satisfying clunk in the old-fashioned cradle.
Dane appeared again and hovered in the door expectantly.
“How much did you hear?”
“All of it. I was listening in from the extension.”
“You goddamned no good—”
“Have a little respect for the tough and experienced partner.”
Shana looked around for something to throw at him.
“Remember, I’m good with violence,” he said, but then he added, “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
“I thought you didn’t like baby cases?”
“I’m only driving. This is your case. And if I detect any kind of odor of something foul—you’re off the case too.”
“You can’t—”
Dane turned and glared his menacing look—the real one.
She followed him as he headed for the door.
*****
He hoped she couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart in the close quarters of the Jeep on the short ride over to The Black Dog.
“What’s the problem, Dane? Are you changing your mind about the case? About baby cases?” She darted the challenge at him like a well-aimed spear to his gut.
“It was obvious you were anxious,” he said. “It was also obvious there’s something up with this Father Donahue. He did not tell the governor about the shooting this morning or the governor would have mentioned it to you.”
“Don’t tell me—it’s also obvious to you that now that there’s violence involved poor little Shana can’t handle it on her own and big bad Dane Blaise needs to come to the rescue.”
“Well if you already knew the answer, why’d you ask?
” He smirked and took a breath of relief, letting her punch him in the shoulder.
Enjoyed it in fact, but not in the brother-sister way of the usual shoulder punch.
More like the second grade boy-girl romance version of the shoulder punch.
The love tap was a time-honored tradition in schoolyards everywhere that somehow miraculously morphed into kissing under the tree and then—
“I do all the talking.” Shana interrupted his reminiscing. He was good at self-distraction. “It’s still my case. No matter what Father Donahue may think,” she said.
He pulled up to the curb—still empty since it was mid-week in May and not many vacationers were about.
Shana jumped from the car before it stopped, slammed her door and took several of her beautiful long-legged strides before Dane opened his door.
He watched her push open the door and go in.
Dane had already determined there were no strangers about or he would have stopped her tempestuous show of competition—her race to the new client.
Everything was a race or a contest between them.
Everything except one thing. One time. So far.
He sighed, pushed Shana from his mind, and when the baby popped in, he pushed that from his mind too.
Instead, he thought of Father Donahue. This guy—priestliness aside—was hiding something, possibly flat-out lying to the governor.
Dane got out of the car to follow Shana inside the normally tourist-filled coffee shop and let the cool ocean breeze work its magic on his tension.
It wasn’t a baby case. It was a shooting at a church.
He stopped at the glass door with his hand on the brass handle and saw Shana pick up a pink-swathed bundle.
He felt the world spin and his muscles go rigid.
He concentrated on regaining his equilibrium.
He stood like a man made of stone. Because he couldn’t move himself forward.
But it felt like his heart had been torn from him, leaving a gaping, writhing hole that caused his blood to run wild and his head to whirl out of control.
This was a bad idea. He hated baby cases. Because there was nothing on this godforsaken planet worse than failing on a mission to save a baby. He ought to know. And he never, ever, ever wanted a repeat of that again.