Love Under Fire. Frances Housden
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gonna go with the flow?”
Though Rowan’s tone was conversational, Jo got the message. “I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m organizing you. You did say I could be in charge.”
“Remind me next time to think before I speak. It’s the only way to stay out of trouble.” A white grin split his face between the dusting of gold designer stubble and slightly darker moustache, softening his words. “One thing I insist on. We take my car to Te Kohanga. It’ll be quicker.”
“Can I drive?”
“I don’t know, can you? You looked a bit shaky getting out of the station house car park this afternoon.”
“Oh, you…were you watching?”
“Came out to apologize for stealing your space.”
“My car gets that way when the engine’s cold. Once it warms it’s hell-on-wheels,” she said sticking up for the car she cursed six days out of seven.
“I’ve known people like that.”
In the lights from the bar, Rowan looked serious. Too serious. Tension that hadn’t crackled since she burst in on Rowan, half-naked in his cabin, and devoured him with her eyes, was suddenly alive and well and sparking between them.
Confused, Jo sought to diffuse the situation by putting on a tough act. “Yeah, yeah, McQuaid, don’t think you can get away with distracting me. It’s payback time, buddy. At the very least, you owe me a drive for not giving you a parking ticket.”
The tangle of emotions in her chest almost unraveled her. It didn’t matter which string she pulled, the knots just fell apart. Man, could she pick her moments. Her timing was always off. It was as if the minute puberty hit, they had handed her a certificate with an F in Relationships 101.
Rowan raised his thick brown eyebrows. The creases at the corners of his eyes looked pale in contrast to his face. “Okay, I’ll think about giving you a turn at the wheel. Now let’s go inside and get this over with.”
Jo turned the handle and Rowan stretched a long arm overhead, pushing the heavy door open. As she stepped into the noise and smoke, she turned, glancing at him. The strafe of lights flashing round the bar caught him square in the face. He looked like a stranger. What if they’d met for the first time today, this afternoon, as strangers? Would she still be having these feelings? Or was the fact that they weren’t strangers the reason she felt all screwed up inside?
Rowan stopped just inside the bar, lifting his voice to be heard over the heavy-metal music blasting from the sound system. Rowan yelled, “What?”
“I was just wondering why the moustache?”
“Maybe I’m hiding behind it.”
“Come off it. The Rowan McQuaid I know never hid from anything in his life.”
He tagged her with a look that had “that’s what you think” written all over it. “All right, you got me. I was scuba diving up in Fiji and my brother thought he was being funny and grabbed me from behind. I turned too quick and my momentum thrust me into some jagged coral that cut my lip.” A wry twist pulled at his moustache. “I don’t know what frightened him more, all the blood from the wound, or the chance of it attracting sharks. He had me out of there and onto the boat in no time flat.”
As if he couldn’t resist touching it, Rowan ran one finger across the toffee and gold bristles covering his top lip. Jo wished she had the courage to repeat the move.
“Anyhow, I couldn’t shave until the stitches came out and by then I’d gotten used to it.”
“It certainly changes your appearance. I guess that’s why I didn’t recognize you at first. So tell me, who is this brother? I never heard you mention him before.”
This time the look said, “See? You don’t know me as well as you thought.”
Rowan took his time about answering. The biker paraphernalia hanging round the walls finally caught his eye. He blinked, twice, then looked back at her and finally answered her question. “He’s just a regulation-size big brother who thinks he can boss me around.”
But Jo had already lost the scent, and set off down another trail. “So what do you think?” she asked. The black painted ceiling and walls were hung with a mass of number plates; helmets, handlebars, front spokes even. A selection of chrome wheels looped in chains glittered like tinsel alongside brilliantly polished Harley signs being given pride of place. And among the clutter, a tangle of red-white-and-blue tattered flags, a mix of Confederate, Stars and Stripes, and New Zealand’s Southern Cross, added color where the spotlights caught them.
“Bloody amazing. I never thought I’d see anything like this here in Nicks Landing.”
Her eyes narrowed curiously, then she shrugged as if the thought evaporated in the booming noise. “Well don’t let it turn your head. Remember we’re here on business.”
For the first time since he’d helped her off the boat, Rowan touched her. As his arm went round her shoulder, she felt the weight of his gaze slide over her body like a living, breathing thing. “Too bad you haven’t dressed for it.”
“Maybe I’m hiding, too.”
His arm stayed put as he walked her up to the U-shaped bar, and she couldn’t prevent slanting an obvious glance at his fingers cupping her shoulder. “Camouflage,” he said, giving her a squeeze. After the excuse she’d made for her own attire, she could hardly complain.
“I take it that’s Skelton?” he asked, lifting a brow in the direction of a man drawing a beer from the tap, dressed in a black T-shirt emblazoned with a long-dead singer’s face.
Jo’s gaze slid between the customers leaning on the dark-oak edifice Rocky had bought at a demolition sale and transported to Nicks Landing in sections. But before she could answer, Rowan’s eyes latched on to a woman serving at one of the tables. “And that would be Molly. The woman who’s been blighting the life of everyone at head office.”
Jo followed his gaze. As soon as she saw the red hair, she knew she’d found Ginny’s mom. “Sorry, that would be Ms. Wilks. I need to discuss her daughter with her. Molly does all the cooking. No doubt you’ll find her in the kitchen.”
Jo accepted one of the stools Rowan pulled out from the bar, hooking her toes under the brass rail that ran a foot off the floor to pull herself in closer. She kept her bag over her shoulder instead of dangling it from the back of her stool. With the 9mm Glock she carried, she couldn’t afford to be careless.
“What can I get you folks?” Rocky rubbed his hands together as if expecting a big sale. She wasn’t sorry to disappoint him. He was just short of being tall, but built wiry. He’d never have escaped the flames otherwise. One of the firemen had given her a lurid male description of how he’d found Rocky, trussed up like a chicken with duct tape wrapped round his sorry carcass. All plucked and dressed, ready for the oven.
“I’ll just have coffee.”
“Oh, c’mon, Johanna. Surely we can tempt you to have something stronger. A glass of wine.” Rocky smiled at her and the steel-gray sideboards he affected, bunched on his cheeks. There was more hair on his face than on top of his head, where he wore it long in a comb over.
She hated when he used her full name, taking advantage of his supposed friendship with her father to hint at a familiarity that didn’t exist. And she hated the noise which made it necessary to lean forward to hear him. Her hands fisted on the bar and she ground out, “Bring me a cup of coffee” or else.
“I’ll have coffee, too,” Rowan bit out in a way that brooked no opposition.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Johanna?” wheedled Rocky.
Thankfully, Rowan let her off the hook by thrusting his hand out. “Rowan McQuaid.”
“Rocky Skelton, owner. Glad to meet anyone who can drag