Too Close for Comfort

About the Author USA Today bestselling author Heidi Rice lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons (which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche) and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotions, sensual excitement, funny feisty women, sexy tortured men and glamourous locations where laundry doesn't exist. Once she turns off her computer, she often does chores (usually involving laundry!) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 'Hey, Mitch, was there anything on kid in Demarest's file? About five-two or -three, hundred and ten pounds?'Zane Montoya squinted into the shadows of the motel parking lot, trying to make out any other usable details. But whoever the kid was, he was being real careful not to stray into the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, making the fine hairs on Zane's neck prickle. He'd been staking out Brad Demarest's motel room for five hours—taking over right after Mitch had called in with the flu—and Montoya Investigations had been on the guy's tail for six months now. Getting the tip that this by-the-hour motel on the outskirts of Morro Bay was Demarest's latest bolt hole had been their first break in weeks. And his gut was telling him the kid was casing the joint. And he didn't like it, because if Demarest showed up the last thing Zane needed was some little troublemaker alerting the guy to their presence—or, worse, spooking him before they could do a citizen's arrest.'Is this kid a girl or a boy?' Mitch's voice croaked.'Don't you think I would have…?' Zane's frustrated whisper cut off as the kid stepped back and the yellow glow of the streetlamp illuminated a sprinkle of freckles, vivid red-and-gold curls springing out from under a low-riding ball cap and the curve of a full breast beneath the skintight black tank she wore over camo trousers and boots. 'It's a girl.'A girl who had to be up to no good. Why else would she be dressed up like GI Jane?'Make that a young woman—eighteen to twenty-five— Caucasian with red shoulder-length hair.'The girl melted into the shadows as he tried to picture the intriguing features he'd glimpsed on a mugshot.'She doesn't look familiar,' he murmured, more to himself than Mitch.He'd reread Demarest's file while gorging himself on the endless supply of junk food Mitch had stashed in the glove compartment, but he couldn't remember any of Demarest's known associates fitting her description.Mitch gave a weighty sigh. 'If she's hanging round his motel room, she's probably another mark.''I don't think so—she's too young,' Zane replied.