Beachcomber Valentine Read online

  Beachcomber Valentine

  A Beachcomber Investigations Novella

  By Stephanie Queen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Queen

  Praise for Stephanie Queen Books

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  “Boston comes vividly alive in the first of Queen’s Scotland Yard Exchange Program series. Grace is an engaging heroine with charm, humor and sass. Resplendent in rich detail, laugh-out-loud moments, a fast-paced plot and spellbinding characters, The Throwbacks is a stellar not-to-be-missed standout!”

  —Romantic Times Book Review

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  —Romantic Times Book Review

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Stephanie Queen Books

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Dear Reader

  More Stephanie Queen Books

  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.”

  Chapter 2

  The momentary stoppage in her heart she attributed to the shock. It was the way he said it. He had an animal-like possessive seriousness in his voice, like he would eat her or drink her blood or… she didn’t allow herself to think the rest. Self-preservation jolted her and she clamped down on her shuddering heart and wild pulse and straightened her already ramrod spine to an impossible rigidness that her yoga instructor would marvel at.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she was annoyed with herself as much as she was with him. “Be more specific,” she added in an effort to redeem her cool.

  “Don’t worry, Shana.” The raw coarseness in his voice scraped her nerves, exactly as he intended. He stood at the sink, leaning back, an arm’s length away. She couldn’t back up any further in the small confines of the kitchen—not that she would. She leaned against the peninsula opposite him and tightened the fold of her arms across her chest. She thought he meant to leave her without an explanation, to imagine what he meant, knowing exactly what she would imagine in spite of his supposed reassurance. But then he relented, his mouth softening into a sensual smile as she watched it—she was staring at his lips, if she were honest.

  “I want you unguarded. Without the chip on your shoulder. For a day. You answer my questions. Give up your secrets. Your innermost thoughts, dreams, and most of all, your demons. You tell me what keeps you up at night.”

  “You mean besides you?” She was only half joking.

  His smile turned into a grin that transformed his world-weary face into a heartbreakingly sad version of boyish charm. She felt her jaw clench to prevent herself from responding. Then his words sank in. The shudder that vibrated through her spiked a bubble of anxious anticipation that rose in her throat and mixed with the visceral deep-seated fear that resided somewhere she couldn’t reach with her self-control.

  “Then we have a deal,” he said. The sad boyishness was already fading, replaced by an edgy interest.

  Dane had only two modes she knew of by now. Cool pseudo-boredom that seemed more real than put on as a defense like she did. The deep-down iciness was inhuman. She figured this was the essence of his legendary persona. His other mode was edgy excitement. This was his scarier persona by far. When he threw his cool aside and took an interest, his excitement held an ax-blade-like intensity. He held that edge to the throat of the object of his interest in such a way that it felt like cold steel touching skin. At least that was how she felt it. And then when he went over the edge and his intensity felt like the blade piercing her skin, all that abundance of cool transformed into piercing heat—the kind of heat like the rays of the sun—the kind she could barely stand—white hot and exquisitely painful.

  At least that was how she experienced Dane. And that was why she was afraid of him enough to keep her distance, to keep her secrets. But that was also why she was still on the island with him. On Martha’s Vineyard in the winter—part of the die-hard skeleton crew of year-round inhabitants.

  He wasn’t sure what to think. That’s why he needed a peek inside her head. Shana was as confusing a woman as he’d ever met. He’d no idea why she stayed here with him, partnering with him.

  All the usual explanations about their partnership being fun, the money, the independence of being a private investigator and the charm of the island—all disappeared with the winter iciness and with the disappearance of the sparkle of tourists and summertime people. What was left? He was afraid to contemplate that. If the answer was nothing, then he was afraid she’d leave. If the answer was him, then he was afraid. Deathly afraid of what that meant.

  “I look forward to your revelations.” He lied.

  It didn’t surprise him that she nodded without speaking and then bolted out the door muttering something about the post office. He hoped she didn’t plan to escape any further than that for now.

  Why he wanted her to stay on the Vineyard, he didn’t know. He didn’t need a partner. He wanted her. It made no sense. They didn’t mix well. In her company he always felt raw and ruffled like a cat when someone petted its fur the wrong way, against the mat. He could feel the disturbance in him even after the back door slammed and she was gone.

  Damn.

  Shana didn’t really need to go to the post office. She’d checked their box yesterday afternoon and she doubted today’s mail had arrived since the ferry wouldn’t be in from Woods Hole for hours. But what the heck? Maybe they would get something from an on-island client. Welcoming the wash of cold air around her, she escaped from the Dane Blaise-imposed stupor where she had, as usual, behaved stupidly.

  The post office parking lot had shrunk in size with a mound of snow taking up a quarter of the space. She pulled her Jeep into a slot near the door as another man vacated the spot and jumped from the vehicle, pulling her Australian mohair sweater-coat closely around her. Dressed in a turtleneck underneath, leggings and tall sheepskin-lined boots, she felt the chill swirl around her as she trotted to the door. Winters in Sydney didn’t get this cold and she had never experienced it before. The way Dane had talked she thought she’d be in for a treat
. But his talk was the treat. The only treat, damn the man.

  “Hello, Billingsly,” she said, immediately cheered by the warm interior of the old-fashioned place and the postmaster’s enthusiastic smile.

  “Hello, Shana. You look beautiful today—like every day. Glowing in spite of the cold.”

  “That’s so sweet of you to say, Billingsly.” He was sweet. And obviously smitten. She liked him, but she was careful not to be too friendly.

  “Call me Billy—everyone calls me Billy.”

  “And that’s why I don’t—so you’ll always remember me as that crazy woman who insisted on calling you Billingsly.”

  That caused the close-to-middle-aged man to flush with embarrassed pleasure. He turned quickly and went behind the wall of mailboxes.

  “I didn’t even tell you why I’m here.” Shana called after him.

  “I know, but you got something. Came in this morning. A mysterious envelope,” he said as he scurried back to the counter. “No return address. That’s a no-no.” Shaking his head, he handed her a plain manila envelope. It was addressed to Beachcomber Investigations. No name. She’d been hoping for a care package from home.

  Billy stood waiting with excited anticipation layered over his infatuated look.

  She smiled at him and flipped the envelope, shaking it and puzzling over it.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Billy prompted.

  “I will. But it’s business. Could be confidential,” she apologized. “I’ll have a look back at the office.”

  “Oh… of course. You keep warm, Miss—Shana.” He smiled in spite of his obvious disappointment.

  “Set your watch. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She gave him a wave.

  Sauntering to the door, she puzzled over the package another beat and then paused when it occurred to her to ask the postmaster, “You didn’t by any chance see who dropped this off, did you? It looks like it was mailed right here.”