The Hero Next Door. Irene Hannon
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detective was here only for the summer. Besides, she’d learned an important lesson from her mother’s experience—and from the histories she’d read about the independent Nantucket women of the past who’d run the town while the men were away on long whaling trips: take control of your own destiny. Never give anyone jurisdiction over your life—materially or emotionally.
She’d forgotten that lesson with Mark. But his betrayal had been a wake-up call. She’d been fooled once, and the shame was on him. The next time around, the shame would be hers.
Letting the delicate lace curtain fall back into place, Heather turned away from the window. Considering she hadn’t seen him once in the past eight days, avoiding J.C. shouldn’t be a problem, she assured herself.
And as the old saying went, out of sight, out of mind.
She hoped.
Propped against a large piece of driftwood on Ladies Beach, J.C. adjusted his baseball cap, settled his sunglasses into a more comfortable position on his nose and flipped the tab on his soda can.
This was why he’d come to Nantucket.
Not a soul was visible in either direction down the long expanse of golden sand. Edith’s recommendation for a getaway spot had been perfect. At the end of a dirt road not traveled by most tourists, this secluded stretch was, as she’d promised, a quiet refuge among the busy South Shore beaches.
Tucked in at the base of a sheltered dune, his bike propped beside him, J.C. had a panoramic view of the glistening sea. It was the perfect place to spend the afternoon of his first full day off since starting work, and he intended to make the most of it.
A boat appeared in the distance, and he watched its steady progress as it followed a course parallel to the beach. Although it was rocked by swells, it rode them out without faltering or deviating from its route, secure in its ability to hold fast to its destination despite choppy seas.
That was how he wanted to be. Steadfast, confident, un-shakable even in rough water. Until the shooting, he’d thought he was that way. He’d seen plenty of bad stuff in his thirteen years on the force. Some of it had kept him awake at night. Some of it had given him nightmares. But he’d always managed to move on. Until last month.
Because this time, the responsibility for two innocent deaths rested on his shoulders.
Not everyone agreed with that conclusion, he conceded. The internal review panel had absolved him of fault. Dennis and Ben hadn’t blamed him. Nor had the families of the two men who’d lost their lives. Burke didn’t, either. Everyone knew undercover work was dangerous. You accepted the risks, or you didn’t volunteer.
But risks were different than mistakes. And it had to have been a mistake that had aroused his contacts’ suspicions. There was no other way to explain the setup he, Jack and Scott had walked into in that cold, empty warehouse.
For the thousandth time, J.C. reviewed the facts.
Surveillance had been in place, cover officers had been in position and he’d been wired and armed. Documented identities had been provided for Jack and Scott under the assumption that the drug kingpins would do background checks on their new customers, and the men had been prepared to play their parts.
The only thing unusual about the situation had been the size of the deal, which involved the first deep-pockets customers he’d solicited for the ring. It had been big enough to persuade the leader himself to handle the transaction. Meaning it had shaped up to be exactly the kind of deal J.C. had been assigned to arrange. Catching the main man in an incriminating position would be the payoff for his nine miserable months undercover.
Bottom line, the department had expected to take down one of the most powerful narcotics rings in the city.
Then everything had fallen apart.
And two of his buddies had died.
Moisture gathered in his eyes, obscuring his vision of the sea, and he lifted an arm to wipe it away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Those bullets had been meant for him, too.
Once more, the two questions that continued to haunt him echoed in his mind.
Why had he been allowed to live, while other good men had died?
What had gone wrong?
As he lost sight of the boat, J.C. picked up his Bible. He wouldn’t find an answer to the second question in the Good Book. But perhaps it would shed some light on the first one.
Heather opened the trunk of her car, grabbed a beach chair and her suspense novel, and headed toward the sand. Although an occasional visitor did discover her secret hide-away, Ladies Beach wasn’t on most of the tourist maps—and she hoped it never would be. It was her favorite place to come on Monday afternoons in the summer. And today, with no other cars in sight, she should have the place to herself.
But as she kicked her flip-flops onto the warm sand and bent to pick them up, she spotted a lone figure in the distance. A man sitting against a piece of driftwood, reading a book.
A wave of disappointment washed over her. So much for solitude.
But it was a big beach, she consoled herself. She’d head the other way and find her own place in the sun.
She started to turn away from the interloper, but a movement caught her attention. When she cast a glance over her shoulder, he waved.
Squinting, Heather tried to identify him. But with a baseball cap covering his hair and reflective sunglasses masking his eyes, she didn’t have a clue who he was.
Then he solved the mystery by removing both.
It was J.C.
And there was only one way to explain his presence, she concluded, clamping her lips together.
Edith.
The Lighthouse Lane matchmaker was at it again.
Heather held on to her temper—with an effort. But Ms. Busybody was going to get an earful later!
Taking her time, she strolled toward J.C., trying to decide on a plan of action. But when he rose—a lithe movement that revealed long, muscular legs beneath black swimming trunks and impressive biceps bulging below the sleeves of a chest-hugging T-shirt—it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.
The man was a hunk, pure and simple.
Funny. Usually, Heather wasn’t impressed by muscles and testosterone. Why J.C. was an exception, she had no idea. But alerts were sounding in her brain, reminding her to protect her heart.
Stopping a few feet away, Heather slipped on her sunglasses, which allowed her to give him a discreet perusal. She noticed the logo on his T-shirt—for a team called the Titan Tigers—but it was the broad chest underneath that fascinated her more.
Until he reached down to set his can of soda on the sand and his sleeve pulled up to reveal the tail end of a scar that appeared to be fairly new.
Straightening, he gave her that roguish, adrenaline-producing half smile as he put his own sunglasses back on. “I thought it was you. But the outfit threw me for a minute.” He gave her a swift scan. “Quite a switch from pearls and silk.”
Heather shifted in the sand, regretting her choice of faded denim shorts that revealed a tad too much leg and a T-shirt that had shrunk too much from frequent washing.
She tugged at the hem and switched subjects. “Interesting logo.” She gestured toward his shirt.
He looked down, as if he’d forgotten what he’d put on that morning. “Oh, yeah, it is. The Titans are a primary-school softball team I coach at my church. Small but mighty, according to their motto, though their win record might dispute that. But they have a lot of fun, and that’s what counts.”
His grin turned her insides to mush. As did his philosophy. A lot of kids’ coaches lost sight of the fact that there were more