of the dogs cocked open an eye, regarded him warily.
He knew their names now—Scout and Blue. He’d persuaded the clinic staff to allow the animals into the waiting area while Louisa had been wheeled in for emergency angioplasty. It hadn’t been a tough sell. Jenny, one of the emerg nurses, was engaged to Mitch Ogden, an old mate of Dylan’s. Mitch, Henry, Dylan and his older brother Liam used to hang together as young boys.
It was a time when Dylan was still a Smith, not a Hastings.
A time when he still had a brother.
Dylan’s step-dad had officially adopted him much later, long after Liam’s murder. Long after the family moved to Sydney, where his real father had turned into a morose drunk unable to come to terms with his son’s brutal death, and Dylan’s mum had finally remarried.
Dylan hesitated at the waiting-room doors, oddly conflicted by the old memories that really had no relevance to this moment, other than being somehow tied back to Louisa Fairchild. Arresting her had stirred it all back up to the surface. And it wasn’t something he wanted to deal with.
But at the same time, the soft and unexpected compassion blooming in his chest as he studied Megan sleeping in her chair was almost pleasurable.
She didn’t look so slick right now. She looked vulnerable. Dylan was born to care, to protect. To defend. And he felt these instincts rustle in him now.
It had been almost two hours since he’d left her here and gone back to the station to prepare the formal homicide charge.
He’d brought a copy with him.
Megan was going to be furious.
He removed his hat, dragging his hand over his hair before stepping into the room. He felt tired. Responsible for Louisa’s heart attack.
He’d judged Louisa’s stress at the station to be a display of guilt. Had he been too intent on hammering her for personal reasons—for a sense of retribution—to notice the warning signs?
Self-reproach bit at him.
As much as Dylan despised the old dame, he did not want to be the cause of her death. And with guilt came an even deeper sense of unease. This incident was going to provide D’Angelo with a devastating round of ammunition when he finally made it through those APEC barricades and saw firsthand what was going down with his client.
This case really could end up costing Dylan his job.
He’d seen it happen to better cops than himself. The firm of D’Angelo, Fischer and Associates had gone after a couple of Newcastle officers for alleged police brutality last year and won on procedural technicalities. Bloody pack of dingoes.
Dylan couldn’t afford to lose this job. It was his life. He’d returned to Pepper Flats specifically for this posting. It had been his way of trying to hold on to his family ten years ago, after Sally’s affair. And even when Sally had split before the first year was out, it had still proved a good place to raise his child.
And right now Dylan’s discomfort was compounded by the fact he hadn’t been able to make it home to talk to Heidi before she went to bed—because of this case. Because of Louisa.
He needed to get home in time to catch his kid before she left for school in the morning.
Pressure weighing heavy on him, Dylan took a seat near Megan, watching her, wondering if his involvement with Louisa Fairchild’s clan would, again, cost him life as he knew it.
Megan stirred, and something weird tightened in his chest.
Her eyes flickered open sleepily, then flared wide as she sat up sharply, startled to find him looking at her.
“Any word yet?” he asked. Waiting for Louisa to come out of surgery had bred an uneasy, if temporary, truce between them.
“No,” she said, pulling the blanket higher. She looked cold. And about as exhausted as he felt.
With all Louisa’s minions, Dylan wondered why Megan was the only one here tonight. Was the old woman really so alone?
“You the only family Louisa has in town at the moment?” he said.
She pushed a thick wave of hair back from her face and moistened her lips as she weighed up his reasons for asking. Beautiful lips, thought Dylan.
“My brother Patrick was here while you were gone,” she said. “He went back to the estate to look for some of Louisa’s medical papers. The doctors think she might be on a medication that isn’t documented in her clinic files. They want to be sure.”
“So you and Patrick must be the grandchildren of Betty Fairchild?”
Interest flared in her green eyes. She sat straighter. “You know about Betty?”
“I was born here. I grew up in the valley. Old-timers talk.” She studied him, curiosity beginning to hum about her with a kinetic energy that stirred something dark and quick in Dylan. She clearly wanted to ask more about Betty, and he wondered why. Surely she knew about her own grandmother.
“How come we haven’t seen you out in these parts before?” he said.
“You going to accuse me of gold-digging again?”
“Just wondering what brings you here, and where home is for you, Megan.”
She studied him in silence. “Sydney,” she said finally. “Our side of the family was estranged from Louisa for some time. She wanted to get to know us better, so we came to visit at her invitation.”
He nodded. He wanted to believe in her.
Then he thought of Sally, and glanced away. Be damned if they weren’t similar in looks. The kind of looks that really did it for him.
A doctor passed, and they both tensed. More minutes ticked by. Dylan got up and went to the nurses’ station to ask how things were progressing, and they said he should take a seat, that the doc would be out as soon as he had word.
He paced the waiting area like a caged lion, Megan watching him.
Another half hour passed.
He checked his watch, stopped pacing. “You want a coffee? Or tea or something? There’s a machine round the corner.”
Relief visibly rippled through her, and she smiled. “Coffee would be heaven.”
He brought it back to her, and their fingers brushed as she took the cup. Energy crackled so sharp and sudden between them that her eyes flashed up to meet his. Dylan swallowed.
He took one seat down from her, bending to scratch Scout behind the ear with one hand, holding his coffee in the other, discomfited by what was clearly a powerful and very mutual physical attraction between them.
“How old is your daughter?” she said, cradling her cup in both hands, blowing steam.
Dylan slanted his eyes to her. “Fourteen,” he said.
“You’re a single dad, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
She lifted her shoulder. “The way you were talking to her on the phone.”
A wry smile tempted his lips. “You’d make a good detective, Stafford.”
“I’d know better than to arrest my aunt for murder if I was one.”
His smile faded. He continued to hold her eyes. “I’d be remiss not to have brought her in, Megan,” he said quietly. “I do have a job to do.”
“Right.” She looked at her coffee. “So what kind of party did your daughter want to go to?”
“You heard that much from the phone call?”
“I was standing right there.”
He sipped his coffee, realizing he’d underestimated this woman. “It was a B&S ball,” he