Grabbing the table furthest from the bar, she squeezed into the corner with her back to the wall. The walls were painted a dull blue, yellowed to green from decades of tobacco smoke. She glanced across the bar and there was her father. For once she held herself still rather than chase him out the door.
Too tired to sit up straight, she lay her head in her hands. The table was cool and soothing against her cheek. Maybe it was exhaustion making her see things. Exhaustion mixed with vague memories.
The headache lanced her skull. She’d been up at six. Work by seven. Reviewing protocols, demonstrating practical classes, listening to a lunchtime seminar on neurophysiology. Followed by a tedious afternoon finding references in order to write a literature review that combined puffin behavioral ecology with the use of seabirds as bio-indicators of pollution. This evening she felt as if she’d read papers until her eyes bled.
Now it was 10:00 p.m. and she was knackered, and tomorrow morning she had to demonstrate the same practical class over again.
She also needed to deal with her other headache. The camera she’d set up on the Isle of May ready to transmit live images of puffins had malfunctioned, and she needed to check it out.
She cracked an eyelid when a glass of beer clunked down in front of her. Carolyn dumped her coat on the bench, clearly expecting an introduction to their new acquaintance. Sorcha reached out, wrapped her fingers around the pint glass and shivered as condensation pooled against her skin.
Reluctantly, she met his gaze and realized how handsome he was. Plus he was wearing a leather jacket she’d love to steal, a midnight sweater and soft-looking worn-out jeans. The outer package was perfect. And that was a distraction she didn’t want or need.
Damn.
“Carolyn, this is Ben Foley. Ben, meet Carolyn Jamieson. Ben’s the guy who helped me with the dead man on the beach yesterday.”
There. She’d done it. Been polite and encouraging. Ben shook Carolyn’s hand and her friend smiled so hard all five of her dimples flashed.
God, the woman was fickle. One minute going gaga about Kevin as though he was the greatest man on Earth, the next mooning over this guy. Or maybe she just wanted to be loved.
The thought crept into Sorcha’s consciousness and her fingers gripped the glass tighter.
They sat around the small circular table, Ben’s knees brushing hers in the cramped space. He looked straight into her eyes and shifted the point of contact.
O-kay.
So Carolyn wasn’t the only one feeling the draw. However Sorcha was immune. Thanks to one Australian surfer boy.
“What’re two beautiful girls like you doing in a dive like this?”
What a line.
She rolled her eyes as Carolyn laughed on cue.
“Having a drink after a long hard day.” The other girl’s eyes twinkled.
“I thought you guys were students?” Ben made a joke of it, but anger rose and Sorcha narrowed her eyes.
“That’s right. We sleep all morning, have sex all afternoon and drink all night.” She raised her pint and took a big swallow. She held his gaze as she put the glass back down on the scarred wood, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. He shifted and his elbow brushed her arm.
She jumped. She shouldn’t have mentioned sex. Feeling irritable, she looked away. Most days she wasn’t this cantankerous, but this guy aggravated her and she didn’t know why.
Carolyn put a hand over Sorcha’s and squeezed. “Ignore her, she’s had a long boring day and she doesn’t get out much.” Sorcha’s discomfort intensified and she tried to twist her hand away, but the other girl held tight. “Plus, she’s an Aquarian. Unpredictable and stubborn.” Carolyn nodded sagely and Ben laughed.
“That stuff is—”
“—horse shit,” Sorcha finished for him.
He grinned and once again his thigh brushed hers. Tingles shimmered across her skin and her breath cramped in her lungs, but she didn’t retreat. There was nowhere to go anyway.
Carolyn was enjoying her game. “You’re a what? Hmm, a fire sign. Let me guess. Leo? No? Aries?” At his nod, Carolyn thumped her hand in the air as if she’d won the lottery.
“Very good.” He smiled as if impressed.
“She’s a two-faced Gemini. Don’t encourage her.” Sorcha kept her tone dry and let go of some of her animosity. Carolyn was so cheerful she felt reluctant to bring her down.
Ben angled his body toward Sorcha, his eyes intent on her face. Unsettled, she rested her head against the ugly green walls and closed her eyes. Shutting him out.
“Headache?” The question was intimate in the noise of the pub.
Her pulse skipped. She didn’t want intimate, didn’t want comfort, didn’t want anything from a man whose eyes melted one moment and pierced the next. She nodded as if she weren’t blowing him off, finished her drink and pulled on her coat. The skin around his mouth tightened.
“Sorry, I have to go.”
Carolyn was trying to drink up. Sorcha put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Don’t rush, Caro, I’m sure Ben will keep you company?”
He nodded and leaned back, all sprawled bones and fluid muscle. They exchanged a look, his eyes narrowing at her brush-off.
“I’d love to.” The smile he aimed at Carolyn contained enough heat to melt sand, and Sorcha hated the lash of hurt that whipped through her. Men weren’t fussy about which girls they chatted up. Being
there
seemed to be the main criteria.
“Right.” Buttoning her coat, she squared her shoulders and squeezed past Ben, who stood to let her by. He didn’t give her much room though, and she tried to ignore the sensations that flooded each point of contact with heightened sexual awareness.
A moment later Duncan Mackenzie barged through the door with two of his mates. She stood stunned as if ten thousand volts of electricity arc-flashed through the air and welded her feet to the ground. She’d seen him from a distance a couple of times but this was the first time she hadn’t had an escape route. Her personal demon hadn’t changed much in the last fifteen years. Mackenzie just looked bigger and meaner.
If he hadn’t spotted her, Sorcha might’ve slunk back down and hidden behind Ben, but Duncan’s initial sweep of the bar hooked her. His lips curved upward like a scimitar, his eyes hot and nasty, just the way she remembered. Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hand.
“Problem?” Ben asked.
Nothing he needed to know about. She took a step forward. Even after all these years, the thought of confronting Duncan Mackenzie turned her blood to water.
Leaning against the bar, Duncan’s eyes swept over her body. Her heart hammered in her ears and she hoped no one could see her distress. Still, she wasn’t ten anymore. And she wasn’t running away.
Dark-haired and handsome in his own blunt way, Duncan blocked her path. For some reason he’d always harbored a dislike of her. Time hadn’t changed anything.
“Hello, Duncan, long time no see.” Sorcha gave him a smile, but he scowled.
“Not long enough.”
The whole bar went quiet and watchful. The barman picked up the telephone and started dialing.
“What are you doing back, witch?” Duncan spat.
She flinched from the hatred that glittered in his eyes and the shared memories of a day that had shaped her whole life.
Mouth dry, her voice cracked. “I came home—”
“You don’t belong here!” He leaned closer until his nose almost touched hers. The American stared—she could feel his gaze drilling into her back. Carolyn’s concern trickled through her as Duncan’s breath brushed her face with loathing.
He’d been drinking. The stench alone made her stumble back a half step. He straightened with a leer, as if satisfied his bullying techniques were once again working.
She fingered a clean cotton handkerchief in her pocket. An image of her grandmother flared through her mind. A memory she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers tightened on the handkerchief. With great showmanship she drew it out and tied a knot in one of its four corners.
“That’s for you, Duncan Mackenzie.” She reached out and placed it in his shirt pocket, patted his shoulder
And the blood drained from his ruddy cheeks. He didn’t move. It was as if he’d been turned to stone. Or cursed.
Sorcha pushed past him and walked out of the smoke-filled pub. The drumming waves reverberated thunderously off ancient stone, emphasizing her inner turmoil. She wasn’t a witch, but her grandmother had known things. Duncan was no more cursed than she was, but the ploy had stopped him for now.
Old hurts clung to her with the residue of odium, a stale perfume of childhood memories. Taking a steadying breath of fresh air, she looked up, wishing answers
were
written in the stars.
But the stars were hidden and all she could see was the gloom of mist-laden skies, and all she could feel was the cold press of moisture, sharp against her skin.
An ephemeral whisper brushed past her and suddenly there was her father walking along the road. She fisted her hands, wanted to let him walk away and fade into the ether. Instead, she started running through the abandoned streets, desperate for answers from a dead man’s ghost.
Adrenaline spiking through his system, Ben moved swiftly through the streets toward the harbor.
Sorcha hadn’t gone home.
Blood rushed through his body, anticipation sharpening his senses. She’d had her little encounter with the local bully boy and disappeared. He frowned. That scene bothered him. Men intimidating women always bothered him, but he’d needed to see it play out in case any secrets were revealed.
She’d impressed him the way she handled it, though the stunt with the handkerchief confused the crap out of him. What the hell was that all about?
Where had she gone? A pre-arranged rendezvous? A midnight meet? He didn’t know, though he intended to find out.
Waves crashed on the beach, the sound amplified by the sea mist that hung in the air. Despite his stomach-twisting fear of water, he forced himself to walk to the harbor, toward the
Kilmore,
Sorcha Logan’s fishing trawler. He skirted a group of kids who wouldn’t have looked out of place on Chicago’s South Side. Passed the unlit lifeboat station, tucking his face into his collar out of the wind.
Halyards clinked and moorings creaked. He snuck past boarded-up amusement rides and dry-docked sailboats in the inner harbor. The wind snapped at the canvases and he jumped, his hand itching for his Glock 23. Even after what happened in Magangue, he wasn’t authorized to carry a firearm while working undercover on foreign soil. But, dammit, he wanted to.
The end of the pier loomed in the darkness, and panic raced over his skin. Taking small shallow breaths, Ben forced himself to stand at the edge of the wharf and look into the depths below. This was the least he could do for his dead partner. The grief was still raw and aching. No way was he going to screw up this investigation, not even for a phobia that had dogged his whole life. But his fear of water, combined with this darkly suspicious town, made him edgy. He was a damn good undercover operative, but the potential to panic, the magnitude of his reaction to the sea, undermined his expertise.
He’d already screwed up one investigation. He wasn’t going to fuck up another.
The sea clamored on the far side of the outer quay and it took all his concentration not to throw up, especially with the smell of rotten kelp pungent in the air. To get through DEA training, he’d had to jump into a pool wearing a flotation vest. If he could do that, he could stand here and look.
Hands shoved him in the back.
Suddenly he was falling, his arms and legs cycling as if to reverse the force that rocketed him over the edge.
“Oh, shiiiiiit!” Water closed over his head and he sank into the oily abyss, tasted salt, fish and dirt in that first mouthful. Clamped his lips shut. Held his breath.
The current sucked him down.
Jesus!
His pulse hammered through his veins in the otherwise silent void. Palpitations shook his ribcage. Heart racing, lungs bursting, he thrashed his arms and got nowhere.
Mud and silt grabbed his feet. Frantically he kicked against the softness that held him, like the hands that had held him all those years ago.
He was going to die. The drug runners were going to win and no one would give a damn about avenging Jacob’s death.
His hands clawed through the water, the pressure in his chest tightening to crushing force. The burning in his lungs, the desperate pounding of his heart, sent emergency flares to his brain that told him to open his mouth and
breathe!
He didn’t want to die.
The vague outline of a woman appeared, blond hair streaming around pale shoulders. She grabbed his arms and propelled him upward, and he followed the rush of bubbles breaking through the surface with a huge gasp.
“Damn.” He coughed. Spluttered. Grabbed his savior with desperate fingers.
“I’ve got you.” Her voice was calm and soothing. Sorcha Logan. Prime suspect. She pushed away from him, treading water to keep them both afloat.
He took in another ragged breath. Forced himself to relax. It was trust her or die, and he’d have roasted small children over a fire pit if it meant getting out of the water. The strength was gone from his limbs, but he kicked, trying to help drag his sorry ass to the nearest ladder.
Once he reached the rusted metal, his grip was unbreakable. He leaned his forehead against the back of his hands.
Thank God.
He raised his head. Sorcha Logan was floating beside him. She pushed dirt-streaked hair back off her face to reveal a cheeky grin.
“You think this is
funny?
” He lowered his brows, fixing her with a hard stare. “I nearly drowned!”
“What? No.” Her eyes lost their sparkle. She raised her hand out of the oily blackness and reached into his hair. “You have this—” bobbing in the water, she dangled a piece of twisted kelp from her fingers before letting it glide away, “—in your hair.”
He swallowed, his mouth rancid, his throat raw, yet the hint of hurt in her eyes penetrated his guard. What the hell was he thinking? Drug trafficker or not, he should be down on his knees thanking her. Unclenching one hand from the rung, he reached out and touched her cheek.
“Sorry. I…thanks.” How did you deal with a prime suspect who saved your life?
Innocent until proven guilty.
The doctrine of judges and lawyers, but not law enforcement. Cops went after the bad guys with everything they had and tried not to get killed in the process.
Jacob’s image flashed through his mind.
“No problem.” She smiled, appearing more relaxed in this hellish environment than he’d ever seen her.
It made no sense.
“I used to be a Surf Life Saver,” she told him, as if she could read minds. “In Australia.”
A current dragged her away and he grabbed her with his free hand, gripping the ladder with the other, terrified she’d disappear into the depths. He absorbed the sensation of bare flesh and a naked arm.
Frowning, he changed his focus. He’d told her he couldn’t swim the first day they’d met. Had she pushed him in? So he’d be grateful to her for saving his life?
You think I’m stupid?
His fingers tightened around her arm, and her eyes widened in alarm. She tried to break his grip, only he wasn’t letting go.
“Where are your clothes?” Each word was hissed through gritted teeth.
“I wasn’t going to ruin my best cardy because some crazy Yank jumped in the harbor.” The first vestige of anxiety made her eyes go black and she started splashing water as she struggled.
He swore, loosening his grip because he didn’t want to drown them. “I didn’t
jump
in. I was pushed.” The foul water made his voice rough and his throat ache.
“And you think
I
did it?” She finally pried away his thumb and, shoving his hand from her, climbed the ladder to the top of the harbor wall.
He scrambled to follow, relief shooting through his system as he pulled clear of the water.
“You ungrateful…” She clamped down on a curse. “I freeze my ass off in the harbor saving your life because you’re too dumb to learn how to swim, and you think I pushed you in? Ha!”
She hauled herself over the side. Ben crawled up behind her, clinging to hold onto something. Anything. His stomach went into spasm, getting rid of all the crap he’d swallowed. Staring at the tarmac, he knew he’d rather face guns, killers and natural disasters than go back in the water.
Sorcha was still pissed. “Why, for God’s sake? To get your attention? In your dreams, pal.” She stomped away, water pouring off her near-naked body, butt cheeks bouncing with every step she took.
He wiped his mouth. Even when he was freezing and puking up his guts, she still had the power to turn him on.
Great.
Freakin’ great.
He rolled onto his back, trying to regain control of his body. The only thing that could make this worse was contracting diphtheria or having his cover blown wide open—if it wasn’t already. He glanced across the small chasm toward the inner harbor. Saw nothing except shadows.
Realizing he was stretched out on the blacktop like a crime victim, he staggered to his feet and followed Sorcha. She didn’t go far, a few yards down the pier and then she clambered down another rickety ladder onto a little red yacht.
Hot daggers plunged into his innards.
It took a couple of deep breaths to work up courage to follow her, but finally he scaled the ladder and lurched unsteadily on a tiny deck.
Clothes were cast haphazardly upon the polished wood. Her clothes. The ones she’d been wearing in the pub. And the boat was on the opposite pier to the one he’d been standing on when someone had shoved his ass into the water.
Damn.
She couldn’t have pushed him in. Not unless she’d been running around town in her underwear.
He ran his fingers through his hair, which held the residual slickness of oil. He owed her an apology. The lights on the pier obliterated the stars as he raised his face to heaven and cursed. He headed down the step and knocked on the tiny door that led inside the boat’s cabin.
She opened it, naked except for a thick towel.
Thought disintegrated. Wetting his lips, he tried to speak, but his eyes got stuck on the line of her collarbone and his tongue stopped working. Her skin looked as soft as peaches—except for a ring of bruises on her arm.
“Dammit.” He reached out to touch the redness. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s nothing.” She jerked her arm away. “People do stupid things when they’re scared.”
He watched her swallow and knew he’d hurt her with more than bruises. A drug dealer with a conscience—who knew?
“I’m sorry.” What else could he say?
“Okay.” She looked at him from beneath her brows. “But I didn’t push you into the harbor. I’ve spent too much time pulling people out of the ocean to mess around with water.”
The memory of the brutal glare from the bottom of a pool hurt his eyes. He blinked it away.
Get a grip, Foley. Do the job.
He nodded and she thrust a towel at him. “Strip,” she ordered, shutting the door in his face. This Sorcha Logan, the one who spat nails, he recognized. The knowledge made his mouth twitch.
He stripped, in full view of whatever sonofabitch had pushed him in the water, grateful for the wintry air that cooled his brain and his libido.
Sorcha banged around inside the small cabin as he dropped his clothes into a wet heap. Then he sat on the step with a towel wrapped around his dignity. Waiting.
She opened the door, shoved sweatpants and a sweatshirt into his arms, and closed the door back in his face. Still pissed.
He dressed, patient now. Ignored the fact that the pants were too short. It beat wearing wet clothes or being bare-ass naked on the walk back to his rental. After a few minutes he heard footsteps. She opened the door and looked at him. Dark brows contrasted with the hair she’d drawn back off her face into a straggly ponytail. Was she a natural blonde?
Whoa, don’t go there.
“I didn’t push you into the harbor.” Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pinched tight.
“Got it.” Ben’s position on the step effectively blocked her escape.
She was tall. At least five-nine. Why hadn’t he registered
that
before?
He’d always appreciated women he didn’t have to stoop down to talk to. Or kiss.
He’d never had a problem being attracted to his suspects before. Not Emilio Santayana, or the other creeps he’d dealt with in Colombia. He leaned forward, resting his hand against the doorjamb, and noted the way her nostrils flared and her gaze instinctively flicked over all the relevant body parts.
Body language was a beautiful thing.
He smiled. What better way to use the unexpected attraction that sizzled between them? He needed her trust. He needed her secrets. He needed to know when and where Santayana’s last cocaine shipment was being delivered and who was on the receiving end. He was closing this snow train down for good.
The boat bumped against the stone wall. Once. Twice. He glanced at the inky water, mere feet away, and forced his mind away from the gentle swell that rocked the boat. His hands shook, but two more minutes and he’d be back on dry land. Two more minutes and he’d never have to do this again. He had her here now, and he might never have this opportunity again.
“You saved my life.” Ben handed her the towel. She avoided touching him as she took it. “And I acted like a jackass. I’m sorry.” When was the last time he’d had to charm a woman? Not in a long time. “Water—” the words died in his throat. He could not admit to that god-awful hang-up, not even to stir up a little sympathy. He shrugged one shoulder, sounding like an idiot. “I can’t swim.”
“I know. You told me.” She shook out the towel and nodded as if that explained everything. Either that or she didn’t give a damn. Her gaze rested on his bare feet and she bit her lip. “I don’t have any shoes to fit you.”
Walking home in wet boots wouldn’t kill him. He flexed his toes. “I’ll survive.”
Her lips turned down. In ragged jeans, a University of Queensland sweatshirt and battered sneakers, she looked like some displaced Californian cheerleader. As if suddenly realizing he was blocking her way, she pushed past him, close enough for him to wish they’d met under different circumstances. She bent and gathered the clothes strewn about the deck, stuffing them into a plastic bag.
He picked up a high-heeled boot. She grabbed it and its mate, flung them into the cabin, only to swear, change her mind and dash in to retrieve them again.
“I’ll only have to carry them tomorrow if I don’t bring them tonight,” she explained, packing them into the bag. They stuck out of the top awkwardly, though she seemed satisfied. She grabbed another bag and handed it to him for his wet gear.
“You don’t have a car?” A safe topic, he leaped on it as he gathered his wet clothes. They stank and he doubted he smelled any better.
“No.” Sorcha doused the lights, closed the cabin door. “A boat and cottage are expensive enough.”
Weird.
He didn’t know a single drug dealer who didn’t own a car. They were running checks on her finances, but hadn’t unearthed anything unusual. Yet.