Chapter 1
Shana loved Dane’s profile most.
“Valentine’s Day is ridiculous.” He squinted into the winter sun. It glinted off the snow-covered sand and cold gray ocean waves. Watching him as he stood wearing only a sweatshirt, not bothering with the hood, made Shana shudder from the cold—or so she told herself. She raised her cup of black coffee for a sip and for the warmth of the steam. Dane had told her the south coast of Martha’s Vineyard was colder than the north and she believed him right now in spite of her normal skepticism.
“Whose bright idea was it to have coffee outside today?” she muttered. She knew she shouldn’t give him the opening, but she’d only had one sip of her morning coffee and this was the seventeenth day in a row without a case or a client or a shadow of income or something to do. She wasn’t sure which bothered her more, the threat of dire financial straits or dying of boredom. The fact that she stared at him, at his perfect jawline, and found it fascinating was proof enough that something needed to give.
“It’s like Disneyland—all pretty and nice in appearance, but nothing to it in reality.” He still watched the horizon, sipped his coffee, the light stubble tracing his jaw to his chin glinting gold and rugged. The white squint lines around his eyes contrasted with his winter tan, lighter than the summer tan and a match for the course waves of his hair—which she’d noted had grown enough to end in soft curls around the back of his neck.
Stifling a sigh, she decided to take the bait. Sparring with her partner in so-called private investigating was the only stimulation she had these days—and that was a dangerous thing she knew—but she was human and it was preferable over depression or pills or—heaven forbid—giving in and taking the next plane off the island. If he could stand it then she could.
“So is that your everyday cynicism talking or your personal tragic experience?”
“It’s me waxing philosophic on Cupid and society’s tendency—especially the media—to dupe the weak into thinking it’s real.”
“Into thinking what’s real? Disney or Valentine’s Day?”
He turned his head and looked at her with his clear hazel eyes and billion-watt bad-boy grin tamed down to subtle mischief-making—his specialty. She couldn’t help the speed-up of her heart or the flip-flop in her gut. He had movie star charisma and, once again, she was human. She scowled at him.
“True love, girlie.” He let his magic work on her another beat and added, “No such thing.”
She knew his history so she let it go and gave him her customary eye roll.
“Let’s go inside.”
He gave her a “you’re-a-hopeless-wimp” eye roll back, but followed her inside to his kitchen.
She was far from a starry-eyed romantic—in fact back home in Australia they called her the Ice Queen and other less flattering but equally immune-to-Cupid type names—but Dane always made her feel like she just fell off the turnip truck with Cupid’s arrow straight through her heart.
“Does this mean you have a girlie romantic Valentine’s date all lined up?” He tossed his takeout coffee cup in the trash and dismissed the sharp strike through his gut as more likely caused by the tacos he had for dinner the night before than anything to do with the thought of Shana on a romantic date with some undeserving bastard. He would never let her know that he thought there wasn’t a bastard on the island who did deserve her. Not even Cap—the good state police captain Colin Lynch. His friend.
He smiled because he knew Cap wouldn’t go near her if she was the last eligible female and she jumped in his lap. Cap knew he and Shana had a thing. Even if it was a past thing, or a possible thing, or a dysfunctional thing. It was still a thing and Dane would be damned if he’d clear Shana for the Cap to go after. Not as far into the future as he could see.
None of this was Shana’s business. It was between him and Cap. The twisting stab of guilt or tacos was too slight to give credit.
“What if I did have a date?” she said.
“I bet you don’t.”
“I could have a Valentine’s date if I wanted one.”
He scoffed, and because he knew she was absolutely right he added, “Not a meaningful Valentine’s date. You couldn’t come up with an honest-to-god romantic Valentine’s date in two weeks’ time.” He looked at her smug gorgeous face and added, “Not from the Island.”
“Ha. Even restricting me to Martha’s Vineyard, you know I could.” She got a speculative look on her face and he knew she was up to no good in her head and scheming something. So he headed her off.
“I’ll take that bet.”
“Only if you outdo me.”
“What?” He pictured his version of outdoing her in the romance department—which would be more like undoing her—and her clothing—and was certain it had nothing to do with whatever she was scheming.
“I bet I can come up with a more meaningful Valentine’s date than you can.” She put her hands on her hips. On someone else it would have been schoolyardish, but there was no way to reconcile the curves and moves and flash and smell of Shana with anything but a full-grown all-powerful sexual being. No image of a freckle-faced pigtail-haired pipsqueak of a schoolgirl came to mind.
So he said, “I say I can beat you and who’s going to contradict me?”
He raised a brow and played his menacing-stare card because he knew it would especially annoy her. She squinted at him in her Shana-the-beautiful version of a frown. Even her frown didn’t mar the knock-your-brains-out gorgeousness of her face caressed by cascades of thick waving blond tendrils.
“There is one person who could judge.”
“Cap?”
She nodded and her mouth slid up in one corner to form her sly man-eater smile—almost as devastating as his menacing look.
He drank in her look, controlling his breathing, but not his pulse and not the tension in his gut or the rush of blood to his nether parts, but it was the best he could do. Besides, he held her eyes captive so she wouldn’t be looking down there to take notice. He hoped not anyway, but he never knew with Shana. She had a streak in her.
Not the time for him to be thinking of that streak.
“Well? You in for the bet with Cap as judge, Mr. Legendary Lady-killer?”
He said the only thing he could say, in keeping with his role as her legend.
“Bring it on, girlie.”
She laughed when he wished she would have been annoyed, but she long ago got over him calling her girlie.
“You don’t even know the stakes,” she said.
“How bad could it be unless you want my life or my firstborn—and considering my childless state which is likely permanent—I have little to worry about. And that’s only if I lose. You should be the one worried about the stakes.” He held back on the girlie—figured it would unnerve her more if he sounded adult about his threat.
He was right.
She hesitated at his seemingly serious response, and then kicked herself into gear. Show no weakness—especially not to Dane-the-legend-Blaise, the original tough-ass. She’d come to think of him as the beachcomber version of James Bond—minus the British accent. He was too cool except when he simmered like a boiling cauldron of sex appeal, and this never failed to irritate her. She felt the irritation now rushing through her veins and spurring her on to careless, unwise, daring levels.
But that was Dane’s genius. He challenged his opponents—everyone he came into contact with, including friend or foe—to chance foolish boldness. He made it look easy and harmless.
So she said, “I win, I meet your mother.”
Careful not to smile smugly, but to install a deadly poker shark look on her face, she folded her arms across her too ample breasts—hiding her perceived feminine vulnerability and a major distraction for Dane—and waited out his response. She knew he’d draw it out.
Instead, he instantly answered.
“You’re on, girlie. When I win…”
That was where he chose to draw this thing out. Her blood boiled red, rising up her neck toward her face until she took a deep breath and raised her chin. She always raised her chin, but now she was more deliberate about it. Let him think she still had a chip. So what if she did? But she didn’t. She was over him. Over impressing him like some debutante hoping he’d choose her over the legions. She could fill her dance card any time she wanted with whoever she wanted and Dane Blaise wasn’t on the list of wanted. Maybe he never had been.
Hell. Yes, he had been. She couldn’t lie to herself about that. But he was too old and worn out and soul weary to partner up with in any way except professionally. And as a friend, of course. She waited, mentally tapping her toe against the hopelessly scuffed wood floor of his kitchen.
“When I win, I get … you.”
