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“Where are we going?” Tilly picked her away along the gravel-strewn sidewalk, a half dozen steps behind Officer Stud’s broad back.

“My place,” he said, interrupting her musing. “Two doors down.”

Oh myyyy. Make that New Neighbor Stud. Listen to her, blurting out all sorts of flirtatious statements like, “Frisk me,” and checking out the man’s butt.

But if one had to be confronted by the law in only a towel, this guy was in a waaaay different class than some of the local constables she’d seen on the beat near her apartment. She pursed her lips. Maybe she’d watched too many TV dramas. Did cops even call it a beat? Did they even refer to themselves as ‘cops’? Cliché much?

She quickened her steps, wincing when a gravel chip dug into the soft flesh of her heel. “Slow down. You’ll make me lose my towel.”

Stopping on a dime, he spun around. Tilly lurched backward in an effort not to face-plant into his official-looking vest. Stab-proof, and probably ditzy-woman proof. She righted herself before her nose smacked into the radio thingy clipped to one side of the vest’s neckline, and got a firmer grip on the towel.

“Um. Couldn’t you have picked the lock back there?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Seriously?”

“It wouldn’t be breaking and entering since I would’ve given you permission.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Jeez, he did the strong silent type like nobody’s business.

“You do know how to, though, right? Know thy enemy and all that.”

He closed one eye at a time in a God give me patience gesture. “I must’ve missed the lock-picking seminar at police college.”

“Pity. So do you have a spare key at your place?”

“Nope.”

“A crowbar?”

He merely lifted his eyebrow again.

Man of few words. Luckily, she had more than enough for both of them. She sent him her very best a stranger is a friend you don’t know yet smile, which earned her another eyebrow twitch preceding an eye roll, before he turned and continued down the road.

“But will you help get me back into Aunt Mary’s house?” she asked as he stopped outside a carport with a four-wheel-drive police ute parked in it.

“Yep.”

And then he said nothing. Gah!

“Do you have a handy-dandy teleporter, Officer Friendly?”

He dug into his pants pocket and withdrew a set of keys. “It’s Constable Daniels, but Noah works fine, too.”

Noah, huh?

Tilly rolled his name around her tongue and found it kinda sweet and suitable. “I’d pegged you for a Blake or a Chase, maybe a Jack—but then, Jack Daniels, not really a name for a cop. Am I right?”

“Right.” Noah shot her a hooded glance and hit the remote, the vehicle beeping as it unlocked. “Hop in.”

“Like this?” Okay, that came out a little screechy, but still. Was he taking her down to the police station in only a towel and panties? “I could, ah, catch a chill.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“It’s the beginning of autumn.” To emphasize how unsummerlike her body felt this far south, she held out a goose-bump-covered arm for his inspection.

He sighed. “Wait here.”

He strode down his garden path and disappeared behind the single-story house. It was a plain sort of house, functional and a little worn. The clapboards were almost, but not quite, at the point of needing a new coat of paint. His lawns were neatly maintained, but there wasn’t a single decorative plant anywhere around the small garden.

She craned her neck to one side, spotting windows with utilitarian gray drapes and through them plain white walls on which a huge TV was mounted. That was a single guy who indulged in a lot of screen time sized TV, if ever she saw one. There’d be a few empty beer cans on his coffee table, maybe next to one of those fancy remotes that controlled everything electronic on one indecipherable gadget. And a dying potted plant that someone had given him but he kept forgetting to water.

Continuing to amuse her muse—as she like to call it—she mentally inventoried the rest of his living room and moved onto his bedroom. White painted walls would be her guess, or maybe a beige or light gray if whoever chose the decor for the living room had continued their theme of bland despair. A simple wooden chest of drawers against the wall that matched the nightstand beside the bed. A plain-colored comforter—probably dark green or navy—with a no more than absolutely necessary for comfort amount of pillows. Single bed? She smirked. Maybe when he was twelve. Men like Noah needed a little more, er, room to maneuver between the sheets.

Her imagination then went off on a tangent, and it wasn’t headed down the familiar Cop Drama Road or Sci-fi Avenue. Ooooh no. Tilly’s muse—obviously a dirty little minx at heart—took the onramp onto Hookup Highway and suddenly Tilly wasn’t complaining about the nip in the air as her internal engine cranked into overdrive.

Noah appeared around the corner of his house, his long legs eating up the short distance to the carport in measured strides. Tilly got her first real opportunity to study him. He was at least six foot tall and insanely ripped, if the way his biceps bulged below his short-sleeved shirt were any indication. A handsome man, no denying that, but in a rugged sort of way that a city girl like her probably wouldn’t look twice at in out on the town circumstances. His hair was the color of a good espresso, and though too far away from him to see, she’d bet her next paycheck that she’d caught a hint of his dimples peeking out beneath a few days’ growth of whiskers.

And Lord help her, if she hadn’t been looking in his direction, she’d never have heard him approach. He moved like a tiger she’d seen once at an Australian theme park, the big cat’s keepers walking it through the grounds between them on a sturdy chain. Watching the powerful animal prowl—there wasn’t really any other word for it—Tilly had wondered who was really walking whom.

She only realized she’d been staring—possibly drooling—when Noah held up a zippered fleece. “Don’t worry, it’s clean. Straight off the line.”

For a moment she couldn’t connect the dots between clean and line. Was that like an assembly line? Front of the line? Line of fire?

Then—Tilly, you’re such a goof. “Oh, you mean a washing line. I only use a dryer at home. Tiny apartment, you see, and nobody wants my underwear hanging out to dry on the balcony.”

She gave a little laugh that sounded squeakily high. Like the one she sometimes let slip when her peers were reading her latest script and she was about to pee with nerves, and, oh God, she actually did have to pee. But she’d rather fill up to her eyebrows than ask to borrow Noah Daniels’s bathroom. At the very least, whatever dark and dank prison cell he was about to toss her into would have a toilet.

Maybe even one with a seat.

“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” She shuddered, then took the fleece off him and slipped it on over the towel. Because Officer Friendly was like, huge, the hem of it well and truly covered her butt and the sleeves drooped past her fingertips. But it was warm, smelled like lemons and sunshine, and it gave her a brief semblance of dignity. Although, catching a glimpse of herself in the ute’s shiny paint job, she looked like a kid playing dress up in her daddy’s clothes.

Noah slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

Left with no alternative other than standing around in her towel and borrowed fleece, Tilly climbed into the cab next to him. She slammed the door shut, gaze fixed on the windshield, hands busy keeping the towel’s lower edges together. If she didn’t breathe too deeply the towel wouldn’t slip off her boobs.

Noah cleared his throat, one tanned hand resting on the shift change but not moving it out of park. “Seat belt.”

Was he for real? On this teeny-tiny island with no traffic lights and very few stop signs, according to the Google gods? Tilly’s gaze cut to Noah’s inflexible granite jaw and firm-lipped frown. Yup, the big guy appeared to take the road code very seriously.

“Okeydokey.” Tilly twisted in her seat to grab the seat belt, and the lower edge of her towel split open, showing a helluva lot of goose-pimpled thigh and pink-lace edged panty—should anyone be looking. Since the man beside her inhaled like he’d been plunged into the icy waters of Foveaux Strait, she suspected he had been looking.

Surely that was worth a written warning instead of a night in the slammer?

When Tilly finally clipped the safety belt in place, Noah reversed out into the street; a testament to his defensive driver training that he didn’t peel rubber doing so. Focus on the road ahead, not the glimpse of creamy thigh and hot pink panties. Tilly was a traffic accident waiting to happen. 

A quick glimpse in the rearview mirror—kind of a inane move now since he’d completely forgotten to check for oncoming traffic before backing out—then he slotted the truck into drive, pointing its nose downhill toward town. He shot a glance sideways to where Tilly shifted around on the passenger seat, trying to hold the edges of her towel together over her legs. Fine lines appeared on her forehead as she returned his sideways glance. 

“When do I get to make my one phone call?” she asked as he braked for the intersection.

“At the station.” 

“You’re really taking me to the station?”

“No.” He signaled to turn, then waited while a group of kids on bicycles pedaled along the sidewalk toward the road. 

Flicking a hand at them to indicate they could cross in front of him, he counted four local kids—Zoe and Jade Harland, his mate Ben’s girls; Madison Douglas; and George Philips, Helena and Sara’s son—but only three cycle helmets. George hunkered down over his bike, unsuccessfully trying to hide the fact that his helmet was hooked over the handlebar and not on his head. 

Noah buzzed down the window and leaned an elbow on the sill. He established eye contact with George and dipped his chin. The boy stuck both flip-flop-covered feet on the ground and hauled on his cycle helmet, a steady wash of pink crawling up his neck. He gave a sheepish wave in the direction of the truck then pedaled with his friends across the road. Noah shut his window and pulled smoothly out of his street onto the main road.

“That was some impressive policing,” Tilly said. “You didn’t even have to ticket him for not wearing his helmet.”

“Nearest emergency room is a twenty-minute flight to Invercargill hospital on the mainland. Prevention’s better.”

“Is that why you’re driving like my grandma? Preventing a three-car pileup in rush hour traffic?” She gestured out the passenger window at the deserted road and the scenic vista of Halfmoon Bay moving slowly past.

“Maybe we should make a stop at the station.”

“Those kids’ll be in high school by the time we get there,” she muttered. “How about we use the siren?”

The sudden enthusiasm in her voice almost made him laugh out loud. Almost. “You want to draw attention to yourself while sitting in a cop car wearing only a towel?”

And his fleece, which he’d have to launder all over again because he couldn’t wear it now that it’d smell like whatever stuff she’d used in the shower. Something citrusy and sweet, like ripe mandarins and vanilla filled the ute, strong enough to mask the remains of Peter Reynolds’s beer fumes. He sure as hell wasn’t complaining, but a man with less self-control might be tempted to test if she was as juicy sweet as she smelled.

With his teeth.

“Um, no. Point conceded to the po-po, then.” She folded her arms under her breasts and continued to stare out the windshield.

Noah signaled again and turned off the main road, subtly increasing his apparent grandma-ish speed as he guided the vehicle up the side street. The sooner he got Matilda Montgomery sorted, the sooner he could…what? Go back to his empty house and stare at the four walls of his living room? Catch a game on the TV or fill in another Sudoku square?

He’d managed to reach a silent count of four before she threw the next question at him.

“So where are we going?”

“Betsy Taylor’s.” He pulled over to the curb by Betsy’s house. Her living room curtains twitched. Not much got past Mrs. T in her street.

“Isn’t she one of Aunt Mary’s friends?” 

“Yep.” He killed the engine and unclipped his seat belt. “She’s got a spare key.” He shot a glance over at her since she hadn’t moved. “You coming?”

“I’m not dressed appropriately. I’ll wait in here.”

Wait there. As if. “Have you met Betsy before?”

“Once. My dad brought me across on the ferry for Aunt Mary’s sixtieth birthday. I remember a woman with lots of purple and a walking cane.” She frowned again. “I also have a disturbing image in my head of a great white shark.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve definitely met Betsy. But trust me. If you don’t come in, you’ll only make it worse.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.” Tilly unclipped the safety belt and cracked open the door.

She trailed after Noah through the gate leading to the house, and the front door flew open before they even reached the deck. Betsy, in full regalia of the purpleness Tilly said she remembered, stood waiting for them.

“Don’t dillydally, Noah. The poor girl will catch pneumonia. Come along.” She waved them forward with one of her two walking canes.

As if there was nothing odd about Noah showing up with a towel-wearing female in tow. He smothered a grin. On Stewart Island stranger things had happened.

“This is Matilda Montgomery,” he said. “She says she’s Mary Duncan’s niece.” He did believe her—something about her was inherently honest—but he couldn’t prevent himself from having a little dig at her expense. Just to watch her bristle.

“It’s Tilly, actually. And I’m Mary’s great-niece.” She directed this comment at Betsy and not him. “I think I met you years ago at my aunt’s birthday party.”

“You’re wearing a mite less than last time we met,” Betsy said. “And having a bit more luck with attracting the boys’ attention now you’ve gotten rid of the braces and added a few cup sizes to your frame.” 

Noah almost swallowed his tongue. In his peripheral vision, he spotted Tilly’s widening eyes. Really, nothing that came out of this old woman’s mouth should shock him anymore.

“You’ll scare the girl to death before she catches pneumonia,” he said.

Betsy flashed Tilly a sharp smile. “Nonsense. If she’s anything like her aunt she can give as good as she gets.”

Tilly shoved the two long sleeves of his fleece up to her elbows, looking for all the world as if she were about to come out swinging. Her eyes sparkled and the corner of her mouth twitched up into a grin. “I don’t scare easy and, yes, growing into a D-cup certainly helped me gain a few dates, and some boys a black eye.”

Betsy chuckled, thumping her cane on the floor and narrowly missing one of Noah’s black boots. “Well, come in out of the cold for a minute and tell me why you’re wandering around the streets of Oban in Officer Sexy-Britches’ clothing.”

“Betsy, behave yourself.” He eased past her into her hallway, spotting the plastic orca key chain hanging on a wall hook. Get the keys, make a minute’s small talk to be polite, get Tilly back to her aunt’s house.

“Pffft. You’re no fun when you’re in uniform.” Betsy pouted and used her cane to push the door shut after Tilly had slipped inside. “Are you any more fun when you’re out of it?”

Noah was reaching for the orca key chain when she spoke so he couldn’t see Tilly’s reaction. He heard it, though: a surprised belly laugh.

“Now I understand why you and my aunt were such good friends,” Tilly said once she’d finished laughing.

“And why your mother was worried she’d be a bad influence on you,” Betsy said archly.

Noah unhooked the key chain and shoved it in his pocket. He slanted the old woman a glance, noting that Betsy softened her comment with a touch on Tilly’s arm.

“That’s not your fault, love. Mary was right proud of you, she was.”

“Thank you.” Tilly patted Betsy’s hand, then gently squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“You’d only just lost your dad and Mary took that loss hard, too. Never mind, you’re here now.” Betsy’s mouth puckered briefly then smoothed. “Guess you’re staying at Southern Seas?”

Noah’s gaze zipped between the two women, his brain spinning through this new information and sorting it into place. It was Tilly’s dad who’d died? Right. Mary sometimes made reference to remaining family off island, but he wasn’t privy to exact details. In his time working in Oban, he’d come to know smatterings of information about the four hundred or so full-time residents, but often it was information that assisted him doing his job.

Like Peter Reynolds had a drinking problem he wouldn’t admit to and needed an eye kept on him so he wouldn’t try to drive drunk. Or have a quiet word with Shelley Maxwell about torching her husband’s favorite pair of jeans in their front yard. It wasn’t an arrestable offence but he’d sure as hell write her out a ticket for breaking the fire ban.

“I am. For a little while.”

Betsy’s eyes narrowed into wrinkled folds. “Mary left you the place, didn’t she? Least that’s what she told me last time we discussed one of us kicking the bucket.”

Tilly nodded, but the same cute wrinkles appeared on her forehead. “Her will specified that I’m required to live in Southern Seas for one calendar month. Once that month has elapsed, I’m free to sell.”

“And will you sell?” Noah found himself asking.

Big hazel eyes blinked up at him and Tilly’s jaw went lax. She gave a brittle laugh. “Of course. I’m a city girl through and through.” She shot a guilt-filled glance at Betsy. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I know the B&B meant a lot to Aunt Mary, and I’ll make sure it goes to someone who’ll love it as much as she did.”

Betsy sent him a shrewd glance before returning her gaze back to the younger woman. “Your aunt was once a city girl, too.” She didn’t seem at all upset at the prospect of her friend’s pride and joy being sold off by a family member who, as far as Noah knew, hadn’t spent all that much time with her elderly aunt.

“She was? I didn’t realize.”

“Oh yes,” Betsy continued. “Though her city-girl habits didn’t extend to wandering around Oban half naked.”

Tilly laughed again, rolling her pretty hazel eyes so hard they nearly rolled out of her head. “In my defense, this city girl had never stepped out of a shower to encounter a kākā raiding party in her kitchen before. I locked myself out after I chased them off. Noah refused to pick the lock to help me back inside.”

“What a spoilsport,” Betsy said. “Nothing wrong with a bit of B&E if there are extenuating circumstances.”

“One day you’ll push me too far, Mrs. T,” he said amicably. “And I’ll be forced to give you more than a warning.”

“Oooh, Officer Sexy-Britches, yes, please. Bring the fur-lined cuffs.”

Tilly gave him an is she for real? look and Noah smothered another grin, digging a hand into his front pocket to jiggle the orca key chain. He hadn’t smiled—or nearly smiled—this much in a week. The brunette edging away from Mrs. T toward the front door was an entertaining, if fleeting, distraction. “I’ll drive you home. Let Betsy get on the phone and spread the news about your arrival through the Oban grapevine.”

Betsy gave them both an unapologetic smirk. “Kākā, is that right, Tilly dear?”

“Kākā,” Tilly firmly agreed and whipped the door open. “Feathered criminal masterminds. I’ll come back another day for a chat once I get settled in.”

“You do that.”

Noah could feel Mrs. T’s razor-sharp speculative stare follow them out the door and down the path. Damned if this entertaining and fleeting distraction hadn’t put a giant target on his back. One that Oban’s matchmaker from hell wouldn’t be able to resist.