In Too Deep (46 page)

Oh. Right.
Clothes.

Ben snatched yesterday’s
jeans off the floor and yanked them on. Another flurry of knocks.
Hell’s bells, what was their problem? Everyone knew everyone on New
Zealand’s southernmost island, so why didn’t they just—

Bzzzzt.

His shoulders hunched
close to his ears. First job after downing a gallon of coffee?
Remove the doorbell’s batteries.

“
The door’s unlocked. Just
come in, for Pete’s sake,” he muttered, tugging a tee shirt over
his head as he stepped out of his bedroom.

At the far end of the
hall, a distinctively female figure stood outlined in his front
door’s patterned glass, making no move to enter his house. The
figure was too short for either of his sisters, and his mother
would wear a red mini-skirt when a practical joker manhandled it
onto her unconscious body. Kezia, she of the Mona-Lisa smile and
wooden ruler, had a more conservative dress sense. And yeah, he’d
noticed.

A potential client,
maybe?

He zipped his jeans,
checked the wall mirror and winced. Having nearly lost his diving
business, he couldn’t afford to scare off customers. Fixing a
welcoming smile on his face, he hustled down the
hallway.

Ben opened the door to a
blonde who had a big fake smile and bigger, faker boobs. Boobs
trapped in a half-unbuttoned white blouse that threatened mutiny
under the weight of so much cleavage. She looked to be in her late
twenties, with an upturned nose, blue eyes, and a curtain of long,
straight, straw-colored hair.

He didn’t know
her.

“
Hello, Ben.”

Or did he? Her slight
nasal tone bristled along his nerve endings and tickled a vague
memory. His smile flat lined.

The woman’s smile slipped
at his silent regard and then grew wider. “Don’t you remember me,
cutie? I’m Marci, Marci Roberts—well, Carter now.” She giggled, a
shrill, twitter-y sound, snipped off when her teeth clamped down on
her lower lip.

The name Marci Roberts
didn’t jingle any warning bells, but the piercing giggle and
“cutie” did. They jingled him back to his twenty-year-old self—back
when he’d nail any willing woman.

For two nights they’d
screwed like minks before she left for her home in—actually, he had
no idea where she lived. He folded his arms. Why in God’s name was
she on his doorstep?

The woman pulled a
ridiculously pouty duck face. “I was here on holiday with my
girlfriends nine years ago—”

“
I remember.”

“
Oh.” That giggle
again.

Ben attempted a
not-at-all-impatient smile. “Why are you here, Marci?”

Her blue eyes grew flinty
and she sucked in a breath, which made her scary-ass boobs wobble.
“Still not much of a conversationalist, I see.”

He shrugged. Why deny the
truth?

She huffed, causing
another boob wobble. “I’ll get to the point then. Jade?” She
flicked her fingers at her side in a “come here”
gesture.

Frost drifted down his
spine. Jade? Her point was a semi-precious gemstone? What
the—?

Ben stepped over the
threshold. A little girl in a green dress and a pink backpack sat
huddled on an over-turned suitcase in the corner of his front
porch. Her sandy hair—tinged with auburn—was pulled into two
pigtails and her hazel eyes, the same color as his sister, Piper,
locked onto his.

His heartbeat hit
warp-speed as Marci impatiently extended a hand to the girl. “Jade.
Come say hi to your daddy.”

###

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website

Acknowledgements

Even though writing a
novel is an experience in long-term solitude, it isn’t a solo
effort. Many people helped me achieve my goals. My number one
supporter and the first person I want to thank is my husband, the
man who brought me my first computer all those many years ago
because he knew I wanted to be a writer. Love you, babe. The next
thanks goes to my two lovely critique partners, Julie-Ann and
Amber—I appreciate you ladies so much. I’d be lost without you
both. Then thanks are due to the fabulous Ink Ladies and the many
wonderful writer friends I’ve found on Twitter and Facebook. Also a
big shout-out to the RWNZ, RWAus, and RWA. Thanks to a member of
the New Zealand Police National Dive Squad (who has asked to remain
anonymous due to privacy issues) for his help and patience. Any and
all mistakes are mine. Also thanks to my dear Po-Po friend for her
insights into being a female police officer, and for teaching me
about the nefarious Chicken Hold.

ONE LAST THING

When you turn the page,
you’ll have the opportunity to rate this book and share your
thoughts on Facebook and Twitter. If you believe the book is worth
sharing, please would you take a few seconds to let your friends
know about it?

Thank you!

Tracey