Jo’s words hit a nerve. Luckily, he knew it was just her quirky sense of humor, she didn’t mean anything by it. She’d no way of knowing it applied personally. And no need to for the few days he’d be in town.
“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“Guess my city origins are showing. No offence to the Stanhopes but it makes me laugh to hear the locals hold them in such awe when Auckland is swimming in millionaires. I heard they’re pretty lavish spenders though, so the boat must be out of this world. Maybe I could come down and let you show me around?”
Not if I can help it! The Fancy was fairly large as boats went in these waters, but the thought of being in its confined quarters with Jo made him break out in a cold sweat. As far as he was concerned, this office was as up close and personal as he dared get with her.
As if it had never come up, he deftly changed the subject, hoping he’d heard the last of the idea. Gauging the envelope’s contents with his hands, he remarked, “Not much here for two and a half months’ work.” His plan worked.
“Got it in one. I always knew you were more than just a pretty face, McQuaid. Surely if they were satanists, we’d have found a lot more than this? Eyewitnesses at least. But no, we’re supposed to assume said satanists have the power of invisibility. Get real. And Bull doesn’t want to know. Far be it from me to cast aspersions….”
She halted midflight as if waiting for a comment about glass houses and stones. He didn’t oblige. “You know Rocky used to be Bull’s sergeant, huh? Skelton could still have set the fire himself,” she continued.
“Why? Why would he torch the place?”
She looked surprised, as if suddenly finding him wanting. “Money, of course.”
“How do you explain the cuts on his back?” He riffled the tops of the pages with a thumbnail. “Satan’s initials it said here.”
“Self-inflicted.” Her tone said, “I ain’t taking any crap.” “You have to agree, they’re indecipherable. On the other hand, diving through the glass door could go a long way to explaining them.”
“You really don’t like the guy, do you?”
His question merited a minimal lift of her shoulders and a pout. “That’s neither here nor there. In all my time in Nicks Landing, I’ve never heard one whisper about satanists or black-magic cults. And Rocky can’t come up with a good reason why, if one existed, they’d want to roast him. Come on! The man’s lying. He pulled the story out of thin air, and now he’s stuck with it.”
As if there had been a wind shift, she changed tack.
Experience had taught him to be wary of that glint in her eyes. It meant she wanted something. “Getting back to the subject of money, does Skelton’s insurance policy have a clause setting aside his right to privacy once he makes a claim?”
The glint brightened when he confirmed her supposition. “Most of them do these days.”
“That’s it then. I think we’ve got him. You can look into his finances, banking and etceteras, where I can’t. The bar at the Hard Luck Inn couldn’t possibly cover all his expenses. Losing his shirt would be a helluva incentive for torching his house.”
“Then why didn’t he simply sell the house?”
“Molly, his wife. It was her pride and joy. I’ll take you to Rocky’s tonight and let you get the feel of the Hard Luck Inn. That should give you enough time to go over what you’ve got there.” She nodded toward the envelope. “Personally, I don’t think Rocky had any notion how prophetic the name of his bar would be. He named it that because he was made redundant.”
Now that his afternoon and evening had been arranged to Jo’s satisfaction, all he wanted was out of there. It simplified matters to go along with her plans. “What time?”
She picked up his business card and glanced over it. “I’ll call your cell phone when I’m done, and arrange a time.”
From under her desk she produced a sturdy leather bag, too large to be called a purse, quickly slipping his card into a front pocket. Her next move set his heart racing. Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she slid her fingers through the long black silkiness of her hair before loosing it to fall in a flurry of waves and curls onto her shoulders.
The movement lifted her pink shirt’s miniscule tail above her waistband, allowing a glimpse of smooth satin skin. Her pants slipped lower on her hips, and the shadowy hollow that was her navel, broke up the curve of her honey-colored belly. How would it feel to cradle his head on its softness and simply lie there breathing her in?
Bad move.
Rowan lifted his stunned gaze and swallowed hard.
Their eyes caught as she tucked her shirt in, patted the side of her leather bag and started to walk round the desk. “Ready?”
If he were any more ready he’d be lethal. He’d been half-hard for the past hour, and now he had an ache pressing against his zipper that had to be noticeable. Who’d have thought he’d ever be grateful for the protection of a yellow envelope.
Waving his free hand in the direction of the door, he said, “After you.” Following the convention of ladies first, with heartfelt thanks.
Jeez, she couldn’t believe she’d actually done that. Jo stood at the top of the stairs feeling ashamed of testing the waters the way she had, lifting her arms above her head, knowing it would emphasize her breasts.
She’d watched him swallow the knot in his throat, an involuntary action that only confirmed he was human.
Knowingly, she’d set out on this provocative path, hating to think the buzz zapping her nerves every time he glanced her way was one-sided. That all these hot, bothered and bewildered feelings affected Rowan not one iota. Honestly. Some people read auras, whereas she could sense Rowan’s presence even without hearing his tread on the stairs behind her.
Where had it sprung from, this awareness? When?
Was it really new, or simply something she’d chosen to ignore? With each glance she’d cast his way, hoping he wouldn’t catch her, the hum in her temples increased and the blood in her head bubbled and fizzed as if she had the bends. She couldn’t remember getting this worked up over any man, not even Max Strachan, the last man she’d imagined she loved.
Imagined being the operative word. God, he would have the last laugh now. Max, the one man who’d been honest with her, even if only to tell her she’d no shot of him ever returning her affections.
And Rowan? She’d always thought of him as slightly uptight, at least in her company. First and foremost a by-the-rules guy. Never a step out of place until the last night they had worked together.
On the only occasions they’d met since, he’d acted pretty cagey, accepting her apology for darn near getting him killed with his usual stony face. As if nothing touched him, not even death.
So who had changed, her or him?
Jo stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned, waiting till Rowan drew level. “I have business with Sergeant Jackson. I’ll call you this evening.”
“No problem. I’ll walk with you. I want to tell the sergeant I’m leaving and thank him for his help. I expect to be in and out of the station house quite a bit. Might as well stay on the guy’s good side.”
Jo rolled her eyes and shrugged, a small piece of body language she’d inherited from her Dalmatian grandmother along with her cheekbones and black curls. “Suit yourself.”
What was he really after? It was unlike Rowan to be ingratiating. And how could he bear to watch Harry doing the work he’d had to give up? If she’d lost her job, the way Rowan had, she’d never enter another police station.
Spinning on her heel, she marched along the corridor, her steps