The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (2 page)

He took the check from her and went over to the pair. He gave the intriguing Camilla Stewart the check.

"Which book were you reading?" he asked the little boy. The boy handed it to him. It was a repair manual for a '93 pickup truck. He handed it back to the little boy. "You can keep it," he said.

"I like trucks," the kid said with a grin.

"So do I," Ryan responded.

~*~

He let them go ahead of him out the door. Camilla wondered what the cop had said to the shopkeeper to convince her to buy the ring. She clutched the precious check in one hand like a lifeline. It wasn't nearly what the ring was worth, but it would tide them over until the house was sold.

She should be grateful that the cop had arrived to settle things, but she didn't feel the least bit grateful. A cop, of all the people to get mixed up with. She felt like a felon just looking at this officious man in the uniform. "Thank you, officer," she said briskly, hoping he'd go away. "Goodbye."

They stopped in the parking lot, between the dark green sheriff department SUV and her rusty red convertible. He watched her, not getting the message. She wondered what he wanted now.

"It's going to get cold once the fog rolls in," he said. "You might want to put up the top."

"The convertible doesn't have a top," Oliver piped up. "Camilla says it's good to have the wind in our hair."

She wanted to hush Oliver, but didn't want the cop to realize how nervous she was getting. Stay cool, as her dad always said. Don't let 'em know what you're thinking.

She took Oliver by the hand. "We need to get going," she said.

Oliver pulled back. He grinned and pointed at the rank insignia on the cop's uniform. "Are you a deputy?"

The officer pointed to his shoulder. Camilla couldn't help noticing how broad those shoulders were under the khaki uniform. "Those are captain's bars, son."

Oliver saluted him. "Aye, aye, Captain." He laughed, and the captain smiled back at him. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, she noticed.

Oliver opened the driver's side door, scrambled between the front seats, and settled into the back.

"The seats don't move, either," the boy said. Camilla needed Oliver to stop talking to the man, but it was rare for Oliver to be so outgoing, so she just ignored it and turned to the man.

"Thank you for your help, Captain." She realized she was thanking him for the third time in two minutes, and wondered if she was giving herself away.

He nodded briskly. "No problem, Ma'am." He added, as if it were an idle question: "May I see your license and car registration?"

She must have been too eager to get rid of him and it had tipped him off. She should have acted more nonchalant. She tried not to let her dismay show. He was being polite, but there was no getting out of this. She got the car registration and proof of insurance from the glove compartment, thinking frantically of her options.

A couple walked by on the wooden boardwalk in front of the shops. They stared at the woman being questioned by the police, and whispered to each other. She was used to that reaction, and ignored it.

She stepped away from her car, out of Oliver's earshot, and handed the officer the registration. Calm down, she told herself. You aren't in any trouble. Stop assuming this is going to be a problem.

She knew what the next question would be.

"I.D.?"

She gave him the driver's license from her purse.

He seemed to notice her reluctance. "Just want to make sure you're not a wanted jewel thief," he said lightly.

Terrific. She crossed her arms, trying to stop their shaking while he went and sat in his car with the door open. She was watching him push buttons on a little computer in the center of the dashboard when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window of the junk shop. She realized to her horror she looked exactly like her mother always looked around police—arms folded across her chest, jaw set in a stubborn line, resentful glare toward the cop. She carefully uncrossed her arms and unclenched her jaw.

She turned away from the window and gazed down the main street toward the bayfront in the distance.

The cop sat in his truck for a long time, punching buttons, waiting for information to come up on the screen. All the while the sun sank lower in the sky and, as he had predicted, the fog drifted in from the bay to surround them in the damp taste of the sea. The sight of the bay faded from view, obscured by the mask of gray. Soon the last warmth drained out of the day. Still she stood in the gray mist, waiting for this to be over, all the while very deliberately not standing like her mother.

She knew the computer had finally spit out the results when the man's expression went from neutral and professional to grim. She straightened up, prepared for an argument.

He got back out of the truck. "Does your bail bondsman know you're 90 miles from home?"

Home. She didn't have a home. "Yes. I told him exactly where I'd be," she said, lifting her chin defensively. Why did she feel so angry? He was just doing his job. "My file should show—does it show?" She took a breath and tried again. "The charges are going to be dropped next Monday," she said, trying to get the belligerent tone out of her voice. "Then I can get the bail money back. I—I just got caught short. That's why I had to sell the ring."

His eyes narrowed. "Why can't your fiancé help you out?"

She threw her shoulders back and glared up at the tall man. "My fiancé's the one who stole the money I'm accused of taking." She could see the doubt in his eyes. "So I don't give a rat's—" She glanced back toward Oliver. "I don't need his help, even if I could even find him. I didn't do anything wrong. The charges will be dropped next Monday." She repeated it, praying it would be true.

A cop, she kept thinking. She'd been in town for twenty minutes and already she'd run into her worst nightmare. Well, he couldn't do anything to her. Actually, he probably could haul her in. It all depended on how things looked on paper. She wished she knew what the police report on her said. Her public defender hadn't exactly been helpful, and she was assuming the lawyer had followed up on the paperwork. Probably shouldn't have assumed that. She tapped her foot on the pavement nervously.

His eyes swept over her again, shrewd and judging her, and she became suddenly aware of herself. Her skin tingled, her heart pulsing loudly in her chest. She felt like he was able to count her heartbeats, and she was naked before him—not physically bare, but even worse, emotionally. As if he were someone who could look into her very soul.

That was ridiculous. She was jumping to conclusions. He was a cop, and she was "a perp." She had been horrified the first time she heard herself called that. By now, it should feel less outrageous than it did.

He watched her face. She could see him reading her. She had no poker face. She knew that. Everything she was thinking was obvious, whether she spoke or not.

Her stupid blush betrayed her again and she had to look away. She had tried self-hypnosis once, just to see if she could learn to control her blushing. That and her Irish temper. Of course nothing worked. She was cursed to be an open book. No secrets. No defenses.

She couldn't change her face, but she could get stronger. She would get stronger. She had to. She was going to find a way to beat this, and get her life back. She looked back at him, defiant, trying to stare him down. Of course she lost.

He stood watching, one hand resting on his gun—probably unconsciously. She really hoped it was an unconscious thing, because she was definitely not interested in causing him the slightest bit of trouble.

"Sir, can we go now?" she asked tentatively, but he just held up a hand to her. She tried not to take offense at that.

He took out his cell phone and she watched him while he dialed a number. Firm jaw, just a trace of dark stubble showing at the jawline. He looked tired, she suddenly realized. He had circles under his dark blue eyes. His eyes would be a beautiful rich blue—if they belonged to a guy who wasn't holding her fate in his hands.

He looked beyond tired. Haunted. She'd seen that look in her own mirror lately. No sleep, worries tormenting every waking moment until it showed all over her face.

This man wasn't her enemy. He was a human being with problems of his own that were wearing him down. He was just a guy doing his job, and that thought made the anger drain from her body. She wondered if he was as tired as she was, and hoped for his sake he was going off duty soon. Surely there couldn't be much crime in a little town like this.

She turned away, and caught Oliver's worried look from the car. She smiled at him reassuringly. The poor kid. If she got hauled in to jail, where would he spend the night?

"Is this Al?" The man said. "This is Captain Ryan Knight at the Sheriff's Substation at Pajaro Bay."

She whipped around to face him. Al of Alfonzo's Bail Bonds. He was checking on her story? That seemed a little much. Stay away from small town cops, her father always reminded her. They have too much time on their hands.

"Yeah, the surfing was good over here today. Listen, I'm calling about—yeah. So you know? No, no problem."

She felt the blush start somewhere on her chest and rise to her neck, her chin, her cheeks, all the way to her forehead. All the while those cold blue eyes watched her, expressionless.

"Uh huh." He listened to Al on the phone, and then looked her up and down, assessing her, seeing her in a new light. She felt the blush fade again as she realized his view of her had changed. He no longer thought a criminal mastermind had invaded his town. She was no master thief, not even a normally intelligent woman who could handle her own life. He now believed she was a stupid, gullible twit of a girl who hadn't the wits to figure out she was being used by a con man until it was too late. She hated to see that truth reflected in his eyes, and turned away until he finished the call.

"So where's this cottage?" he said quietly.

She turned back to face him, holding her head high. She gave him the address, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"The Honeymoon Cottage?"

She shook her head. "No. It's 43 Cliff Drive."

"I know where it is," he said. "Come on. We had better get you lost waifs off the street before dark."

~*~

Lost waifs. Ouch.

But unfortunately, the take-charge Captain Ryan Knight was right.

Somehow, everything went more smoothly after he showed up. The captain escorted them down the street to the bank and waited while she cashed the check, then escorted them to the gas station while she filled a gas can, then escorted them through the little general store where she bought coffee, milk, and boxed macaroni-and-cheese. She held Oliver's hand the whole time, and his warm little palm against hers kept her focused on what was important—getting him fed and somewhere safe to sleep for the night.

The cop said nothing the whole time. Just stood behind her, about as big and communicative as an oak tree, shadowing her every move, while she fumbled her way through all she needed to do. Why wouldn't he leave her alone? He'd obviously decided she wasn't going to cause trouble. Now he seemed convinced she was stupid and helpless. She didn't dare complain. She'd already tried brushing him off, and it had made him more curious about her. She had to act as law-abiding and boring as possible and just hope he'd soon lose interest and go away.

They walked back to the car, still silently.

The only time he spoke was when she was twisting off the gas cap on the convertible and tipping in the new fuel. The gas fumes stung her throat and she coughed. "Does the gas gauge work on the car?" he asked, without a trace of sarcasm.

She swallowed the sharp answer she wanted to make. She wasn't a complete idiot, after all. "It's probably broken," she said. She didn't bother to explain that the gauge had said full 50 miles ago. She had excuses for everything, but nothing made sense anymore. Her world had stopped making sense two-and-a-half weeks ago.

Before long she was driving the car up a winding hill toward Cliff Drive, following in the wake of the very take-charge Captain Knight's car.

Ryan Knight. She rubbed her thumb over the raised lettering on the business card he'd given her. To protect and to serve, it said, with a symbol of a badge on it. Right. Like she bought that slogan. Captain Ryan, he'd told Oliver to call him. All confidence and big muscles and attitude, was Captain Ryan.

She clutched the business card while she shifted gears and found her thumb kept coming back to rest on the gold embossed badge. She should be happy that he had solved all her immediate problems, but it didn't make her feel good at all. "Lost waifs" he had called them, and the truth of it stung. It was just more evidence that he—that anyone other than she—could handle this better than she was handling it.

She followed that perfectly polished green SUV until the road evened out and she found they were skirting the edge of the oceanside cliff. The expanse of the Pacific was somewhere below them, now seen only as a darker gray through the light gray wisps of fog. Then Cliff Drive turned slightly inland so there were houses on both the ocean side and the inland side of the road.

Small glimpses of sea were all she saw between hedges and high fences all along the cliff side of the road. The houses here guarded their privacy well. An expensive neighborhood, she guessed from the gated driveways and bits of towering rooflines occasionally visible. Expensive was good.

On the inland side of the road, the houses were multi-story, towering high behind their privacy walls and manicured trees, obviously designed to take in what must be an impressive view.

On the ocean side most of the houses were invisible behind the shrubbery. She wondered which side her little house was on.

The real estate agent who contacted her with the key had warned her the place was small and not new. But even a little, old house here was apparently worth a lot of money. And she needed every one of those dollars to get herself out of the hole she was in.