Maybe this wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had.
The flames danced higher and Sorcha wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. She was down to her underwear, alone with a strange man, a dead body in the garden, and only his word that the police were on their way.
***
Outside the storm intensified. Gulls screamed and the wind rattled the windowpanes. Ben barely noticed. Anger worked through his veins as blood headed south. Jacob would have found the situation amusing. But Jacob was dead.
Ben hadn’t expected her to strip in front of him and he didn’t like surprises. Her sports bra and panties were more than some women wore on the beach, but they weren’t designed to be wet.
Was this part of her game?
Hiding his reaction, Ben took his time and examined every inch of exposed flesh, from her high-arched feet to her thick blond hair. His palms itched and heat stirred. No doubt about it, she was hot. One sexy lady. Not what he’d expected from a Ph.D. candidate, or his prime suspect—the phone call to Santayana’s mansion having been traced to Sorcha Logan’s cottage.
The flaws had to be hidden deep beneath the surface.
“Have you never seen a naked woman before?” Her accent was scathing. She dropped her pants next to her shirt and raised a brow, toying with him.
If she hoped to disconcert him, she was shit out of luck. He ate girls like her for breakfast.
He let a smile curl his lips, rocked back on his heels, wondering how far she’d go. Nipples pressed against the damp fabric of her bra, drawing his attention. “You’re not naked…yet.” He gave himself points when her eyes flashed and she crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Yeah, well today isn’t your lucky day, pal, and tomorrow doesn’t look good either.”
Her attitude amused him despite himself. He smothered a grin, but she spotted it.
“Brilliant. A comedian. Move over, Billy Connolly.” Her accent grew stronger, but an edge of caution crept into her tight lips and watchful eyes. “Do you have a towel and some clothes I can borrow? Please? Before I freeze to death?”
Her mouth settled into a pout. Probably pissed he wasn’t so easily manipulated by a wet-dream body and dumb-blonde hair.
Jerking himself out of his distraction, he strode to the bedroom through a small door at the end of the room. He ducked his head going through the low opening. Place was built for midgets. His notes and photographs were out of sight, nevertheless he couldn’t risk her snooping around. He grabbed a towel and some sweats and headed back to the living room.
She hadn’t moved from beside the fireplace. She rose awkwardly to her feet and took a big quivering breath. Ben wrestled his gaze above her chest. She might be down to her skivvies, but he was the one risking exposure.
He held out the clothes, yet, despite her complaints about being cold, she hesitated before taking them from him. When she finally reached for them, her fingers brushed his sweater and he felt a spark. Her irises flared in reaction.
Well, what do you know?
A little animal attraction.
How could he use it?
He drew his hands along the soft skin of her inner arms as he stepped back, but she broke the connection and looked away. She smelled like brine, her hair tangling around her face in wet strands. Pretty though. Not that it mattered. Beauty was skin deep and evil didn’t always wear horns.
Lights strobed outside the window, blue spots gyroscoping around the room. The cops.
“Oh, bugger,” she muttered.
“You got something against cops?”
She scrubbed her hair vigorously with the towel. “Not exactly.” She tried to appear nonchalant though she was unable to lie worth a damn.
Interesting. Women like her were usually naturals.
There was a rap on the door and he opened it. A police officer in a crisp black uniform stared first at him and then at the half-naked woman who was trembling in front of the fire.
Damn
. Ben hadn’t even considered
that
possibility. An assault charge would get him off the case before it even began.
“Sorcha?” the police officer questioned.
“Uncle Davy.”
“Everything all right, lass?” The skin around the man’s eyes pinched with suspicion. He fixed Ben with a look.
“I’m fine.” She sounded upbeat, totally at odds with how she’d looked just seconds before. Maybe she was a better liar than Ben had given her credit for.
Sergeant David Logan of Fife Constabulary was shorter than he looked in photographs. “Come on in. You two are related?” Ben faked surprise. He faked a lot of stuff. He’d probably be able to drum up a few tears when his grandfather passed away. Then again, maybe not.
“We are.” Nodding, Davy Logan took one step across the threshold out of the driving rain. Sorcha remained silent. Neither oozed warmth nor hospitality. “And who are you?” He stuck out his hand. The accent was broad Scots, but he spoke slowly enough for Ben to unravel the words, even if his grip was crushing.
“Ben Foley.” He put a little extra teeth into his smile.
Sorcha pulled on the sweatpants he’d given her.
About damn time.
“You found a body?” Davy Logan addressed him, but his eyes darted to his niece.
“Yes—”
“Yeah.” They spoke simultaneously. Ben jammed his fists in his pockets and waited to see what the cop would do next.
“Do you know who it is?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t live around here.”
“Sorcha?” the cop asked.
She shook her head.
“Where is it?” Sergeant Logan removed his cap, raindrops dripping off and splashing onto the tile.
“In the yard.” Ben nodded in the direction of the sea. The dead boy might have been in the water for minutes or hours for all Ben knew. The thought made his gut churn. The corpse didn’t bother him—it was the water that freaked him out.
“And why is Sorcha the one all wet?”
Her head jerked up, unspoken tension stretching between her and her uncle, so thick Ben could taste it.
“I saw her from the window.” And though he’d been shadowing the woman for days, it felt too weird to say her given name. “She was already in the pool by the time I got there.”
Freeing her hair from the collar of the sweatshirt, she straightened and regarded him with turbulent blue eyes.
Ben stared right back. Then he produced a smile he wasn’t feeling. “Figured I’d have to go in and haul her out myself.”
And that would have topped off his year, like it wasn’t already screwed to hell.
“What’s the matter?” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “Can’t you swim?”
So the kitty has claws.
He controlled his anger, not wanting to scare her. Yet. “As a matter of fact, no, I can’t swim.” Turning to the policeman, Ben consciously hid his irritation. He trusted the cop less than he trusted the woman, but neither of them needed to know that. “She got there first. Not that it mattered in the end—”
“What do you mean—” her voice rose an octave, “‘—not that it mattered in the end’?”
“Well, he was dead, wasn’t he?” Damn. So much for his self-control.
“I didn’t know that!” She blinked rapidly, fighting her emotions. “At least his family will have a body to bury. At least now—”
“Sorcha, don’t worry yourself.” Sergeant Davy Logan strode across the room and pulled her into his arms, squeezing her tight to his short barrel frame. “Don’t fret, lass. It must have brought it all back.”
“Brought all
what
back?” Ben’s patience had crashed and burned the day his best friend had bled out on a Colombian drug lord’s floor. He needed answers. But all he got were more questions and an anger that ripped and gnawed inside him like a rabid dog.
Sorcha Logan’s gaze locked on his, her expression catching him off guard. Pain and desolation shone brightly in the depths of her eyes.
Oh shit.
He recognized that look.
“Well, the last time she found a dead body on the beach, of course,” the policeman carried on, oblivious to the effect his words had on his niece. She clamped her eyes shut and buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder. “Only that time…it was her father.”
Sorcha needed balm for her bruised soul. Instead she got bass so loud she thought her head might explode. She crossed to the music system and turned down the volume.
“Hey!” Carolyn stalked out of the kitchen wearing an apron that depicted a semi-naked woman in a Scotsman’s kilt. “What did you do that for?”
A fellow grad student at St. Andrews University, Carolyn Jamieson was a nice girl but a terrible roommate. At times like this, Sorcha wished she could afford to live alone. She threw herself on the couch. Admitted finally that the Yank had unnerved her as much as the corpse.
“You were gone ages. Did you get caught in the storm? What are you wearing?” Concern tugged Carolyn’s brow into a furrow. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“I…” Unable to sit, Sorcha stood and paced. She didn’t want to talk about finding that boy, but it was a small town and her flatmate would find out soon enough. “I found a body.”
“Oh my God! What?” Carolyn’s bottom jaw dropped. “A dead body?”
Was there any other kind? “Yes.”
“Was it a murder?” Carolyn grabbed her throat dramatically.
The memory of vacant eyes flashed through Sorcha’s mind. “I don’t think so. He was washed up on the beach.”
“Who was it? Anyone we know?” Carolyn’s eyes turned anxious.
“I didn’t recognize him—” which made her feel an inexplicable mix of guilt and relief, “—but he was about our age. Maybe younger.” Adrenaline bottomed out and Sorcha ached with exertion and weariness.
“That’s awful.”
Emotions fought inside her. Yes, it was awful, but there was a satisfaction in reclaiming that body from the sea. She became aware of the curiosity in Carolyn’s eyes and pivoted to head for the shower. Right now her emotions were too vulnerable to talk about it.
She was halfway across the room before Carolyn stopped her. “You’ll have to wait a bit for a shower, Kevin’s in the bath. Sorry.”
Sorcha’s step faltered.
“Kevin’s in the tub?” She tried to keep her voice reasonable and not irritated, but knew she’d failed when a defensive light entered Carolyn’s eyes.
“He got caught in the rain.” She scrunched up her nose in apology.
Kevin was a post-doc in their lab, with an overinflated opinion of himself. He was arrogant, lazy, and collected notches on the bedpost the way old ladies clipped coupons.
Carolyn was besotted with him. Sorcha wanted to beat him with a big stick.
“Right.” But she didn’t have the energy to cope with Kevin on top of all the other problems kickboxing inside her head. Seeing that body today brought back memories of her father’s death and she needed to be alone.
“Sorcha…”
She pressed her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut as the voices hounded her.
“Are you okay?” Carolyn asked.
She tried to smile. “Just another headache.”
“You get a lot of headaches.” Carolyn took a step closer. “You need to go see the doctor.”
“Yeah.” And she couldn’t wait to describe her symptoms.
Someone hammered on the front door, making the old horseshoe nailed to the wall bounce and driving another bolus of epinephrine through her bloodstream. Her heart jackknifed.
Damn.
People associated horseshoes with good luck, although really the iron was supposed to keep out evil.
Some days you needed more than a hook of iron.
She strode across the room and unlocked the door. Two people burst in with a flurry of rain and oilskins.
“Uncle Angus? Robbie?” Her mood sank though she kept a smile pinned to her lips. She knew why they were here. Nonetheless she’d wanted to avoid the inquisition for one night.
“What happened, lass?”
“We heard you found a body,” her cousin cut in. “Are you all right?” Tall and dark like the American, Robbie was lanky with a lovely smile. The greatest joy Sorcha found being back in Scotland was getting reacquainted with her father’s two brothers and her cousin. The only blood relatives she had left.
“Yes, Robbie, I’m fine.” She reached up and tucked his hair off his forehead, behind his ear.
He blushed, his eyes darting to Carolyn. He’d asked her out a couple of months ago, but she’d told him she wasn’t looking for a relationship. A week later she’d started dating Kevin. Sorcha glanced up at the ceiling and hoped he didn’t make an unexpected appearance. She should have told Robbie that Carolyn had a boyfriend now, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings.
She’d idolized him as a child. He’d been her constant companion and personal hero. When she was five and they snuck across a farmer’s field, he’d saved her from an angry Friesian bull. If Robbie hadn’t been there, she was sure the fiery demon would have stomped her into the ground with mindless pounding fury. She could still remember how the ground had shook as it had charged toward them. She could still see the bloodshot eyes and remember the terror that had fused her into immobility. Robbie had stood his ground and the bull had backed down long enough for him to drag her over the hedge. That damn bovine was one of the few clear memories of her childhood.
“Can I get you some tea?” Carolyn asked, heading for the kitchen, probably embarrassed to be caught wearing that apron.
“Aye—” Robbie’s reply was cut off by his father.
“No, lass. We’ve to be at the lifeboat station—”
“Sheila said six-thirty.” Robbie reminded him. “We’ve got half an hour yet.”
Sheila Morgan had worked as the lifeboat mechanic even when Sorcha was a child. Angus checked his watch and she held back a groan as he wavered. The old man switched his focus to her. Obviously he’d been on the phone to his brother, her uncle Davy, exchanging the latest news about their crazy niece.
Who said men didn’t gossip?
“Are you sure you’re all right?” his voice sounded gruff.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Come in and take off your coats.”
May as well get it over with.
If she didn’t answer their questions now, she’d only have to do it tomorrow.
“What happened?” Robbie shook the rain off his slicker and hung it on the back of the door.
Sorcha avoided his eyes by going to the unlit fireplace and fingering one of the abalone shells she’d collected on a trip to New Zealand. “I cut along the beach on the way back from my run and found a body in the big rock pool.”
The mirror above the mantle showed her relatives exchanging a worried glance, as if concerned about her mental health.
Digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she grounded herself. “I pulled him out and someone helped me get him up the beach.”
“The Yank?” Derision was palpable in Uncle Angus’s tone. He scratched his whiskered chin.
“Just some guy.” She shrugged and left it at that. She didn’t want to talk about Ben Foley or think about the way he’d looked at her with that cold, calculating precision. There was something much more important on her mind. While her courage held, she asked, “Angus, did they ever find out what happened…that day?”
His watery blue eyes swept over her in horror.
“To Daddy?” Her voice trailed to a whisper
Angus sent a glare to Robbie, pinching his lips up tight. “Do you not remember, lass?”
She only remembered waking up to a nightmare that never ended.
The old man rubbed his straggly gray hair. “I don’t know what to tell you, lass,” he said finally. “No one knows exactly what happened that day, except maybe Iain himself.” His old eyes crinkled with sadness. “And he’s not saying.”
Isn’t he?
“Was it a blond laddie you found today? Young, early twenties?” Always the peacemaker, Robbie changed the subject. Both men volunteered on the lifeboats. They knew most of the corpses unaccounted for in the Firth of Forth.
“Yes, he was blond.” She shivered beneath the thick sweatshirt and caught the elusive scent of the American. Her head jerked up. She didn’t want to think about him. Cold eyes, cold heart.
“It’ll be the McCabe boy,” Angus declared.
Robbie nodded, the corners of his mouth dragged down with sadness. “Aye.”
She rubbed her arms to fight the chill. “I need to find out when the funeral is. I want to attend.” The connection to the dead boy went deep and she needed to see him laid to rest.
“I’ll come with you if I’m not working, or you can borrow the van.” Robbie took her hand. “Poor bugger threw himself off the Forth Road Bridge last night after a row with his girlfriend.”
Such a waste.
She hadn’t known him, but suicide was such a waste. It left a path of untold destruction in its wake.
“A pretty terminal solution if you ask me.” Kevin had crept silently down the stairs. His laughter boomed off the ceiling, inappropriate and cruel given the circumstances. “Should have just gotten himself a new girlfriend.”
The silence throbbed with tension.
“Not everyone would feel that way.” Robbie gathered himself up to his full gangly height, anger moving through his soft brown eyes.
Carolyn, minus the apron, carried a tray of tea out of the kitchen, but Angus and Robbie were busy retrieving their coats. “You’re not leaving are you?” she asked.
Kevin threw his arm over Carolyn’s shoulder, rattling cups and spilling tea. The brunette grimaced, then bit her lip. Sorcha grabbed the tray and placed it on the coffee table before anyone got scalded.
“Aye, we’re off.” Robbie looked from Kevin to Carolyn, disappointment obvious as his lips flatlined. Sorcha felt guilty. She should have warned him.
“We’ll be seeing you then.” Angus kissed Sorcha’s cheek and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Look after yourself, lass. Come on, Robbie lad.”
Robbie gave Sorcha a hug and a rueful smile. “At least tell me he’s rich and drives a Porsche?” he whispered close to her ear.
“Unfortunately
not
,” she murmured, walking him to the door.
The wind howled and rain spat. He pulled his hood over his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, as a child they said you were a—”
“Don’t even say it!”
Robbie laughed and tapped a knuckle under her chin. “Could you not make me a wee love potion?”
Rain hissed under the tires of a car driving by. Sorcha huddled into the thick sweatshirt Ben Foley had lent her. “If I was what they said I was, I’d have already turned him into a toad.” She threw a look over her shoulder, but Kevin and Carolyn had turned on the TV and were settling down to watch a show. “Come to think of it, someone beat me to it.”
***
Cold crept down Ben’s collar despite the layers of wool and Gortex he wore. It was midnight on the storm-tossed coast and he wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into. After a lifetime of avoiding the ocean, he was now so close he could taste it without even opening his mouth.
The vehicle he’d been told to expect sat idling in a dark corner of a deserted parking lot. After watching the area for a few minutes he walked over, reached for the door handle. The door burst open to reveal a shaggy mass of fur that raced toward the beach.
“Jesus!” His heart imploded.
With the open door, the interior light came on and revealed a sharp-featured man behind the wheel. “Foley?”
Ben nodded.
“Nick Archer. Get in.”
Detective Inspector Nick Archer had the sort of crime-fighting reputation that could have taken him anywhere in the world. Why the hell had he chosen this dank corner of hell?
“What have you got for me?” A week ago Ben had held Jacob’s mother’s hand while they buried his best friend. He’d spent the last few days shadowing their only suspect, and now he wanted this over.
Archer flicked on the overhead light and pulled an envelope out of the side pocket of his door. “Not a lot. Sorcha Logan was born in the town but left when she was still a kid after her dad’s drowning. Then she lived with her mother until
she
died. Then she went to Australia to do a M.Sc. and moved back here just a few months ago.”
“Why would anyone swap Australia for this place?”
“Some people like it.” Archer’s smile had a quality of menace to it and Ben relaxed for the first time in days. He could deal with the threat of imminent violence much better than he could handle Jacob’s death or his own crippling hydrophobia.
Archer tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “She rents a room in her cottage to another student at St. Andrews University, a girl called Carolyn Jamieson. Neither has a record of ever having been in trouble with the police, here or abroad.”
“How many men can you spare to help with this investigation?”
Archer laughed. “Well, we have a small problem with that.”
“What?”
“You know Sorcha Logan’s uncle is a police officer in Anstruther and her other uncle is one of the lifeboat crew? Well, all the officers in Fife Constabulary play fucking golf together and there’s no way I can guarantee keeping your investigation under wraps if I start asking questions. They’ll know something’s up.”
Irritation swelled inside him. “So drug dealers get a free ride if they have police connections, is that it?” He thrust the photographs onto the dash.
Nick Archer’s eyes took on a fierce gleam. “I know you just lost your partner so I’m going to forget you said that.”
Ben rubbed his eye sockets and slumped in his seat. He had better people skills than this. His charm had been his most effective weapon in Colombia—combined with his innate emotional distance, he was tailor-made for deep undercover operations. But the recent carnage had changed him, damaged him. He had an awful feeling he might never be the same again.
Archer narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to give my detective sergeant time off on compassionate grounds—that’s the official line anyway. Ewan McKnight’s the best man I know and a bloody good officer. He’s going to liaise between you and the Lothian and Borders Police on the other side of the river. They can set up surveillance cameras, phone taps and any other electronic gadgets deemed necessary to see if this girl really is involved in drug trafficking.”
“But what about people on the ground?”
Archer grinned. “Look in the mirror, Foley. You’re it.”
“Fuck.”
Archer’s smile turned grim. “If this thing is as big as you say it is, I want these bastards caught.” He clenched his hands over the wheel. “So it’s up to you to get close to Sorcha Logan and figure out how she fits into this mess.”