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After Tilly had sashayed her mad negotiating self out of the little police station, she took a moment to flake against the outside wall and catch her breath.

Phew!

That hadn’t quite gone the way she’d earlier played the scene out in her head. The Tilly in her imagination had swept into Noah’s lair with cool professionalism, made her case with precise, calculated logic, garnered his agreement after a short negotiating discussion in which she’d dazzled him with her creative reasoning, then swept back out of his office secure in her awesome persuasion skills.

Ehhhh…wrong.

She’d been anything but professional and he’d been anything but agreeable. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away a few beads of nervous sweat. Her face felt hot enough to fry eggs for a whole family, and butterflies and bats swooped around her stomach. The winged brigade was fueled by the little zaps of awareness shooting through her as she re-pictured her first glimpse of buff, bad-ass Noah looking all official and sinfully doable behind his desk. The bats—not as pleasantly ticklish as the butterflies—beat their leathery wings in time with her racing pulse.

Something she’d said had bumped into one of the man’s sore spots.

She’d seen it in his eyes as the walls came down, and she didn’t think it was the idea of them spending time together. He was interested in her on a personal level—an I want to get to know you better and by better I mean naked level—but she suspected the walls hid parts of himself that he wouldn’t be willing to share.

And damn her natural curiosity, but now she wanted even more to find out what made Noah Daniels tick.

After her heart rate had finally returned to normal, Tilly mounted her trusty two-wheeled steed and pedaled into town. It was once again a beautiful autumn day. She coasted along the main road, smiling inanely at the squabbling seagulls fighting over a crust of bread on the sand. Out in the harbor, only a few boats bobbed on the gentle waves, most of the charter and tour boats gone for the day, she guessed. They’d be loaded with people feverishly hoping to catch a glimpse of Stewart Island’s wildlife, which according to tourist brochures included sea lions, rare birds, and of course, the great white sharks. One of the biggest attractions was the kiwi, Stewart Island being the only place the iconic bird wasn’t endangered. Seeing one was most definitely on her bucket list. 

But in the meantime, lunch. 

Tilly hopped off Scotty outside Due South and wheeled it into one of the available bike stands. She found a quiet, comfy spot in the corner of the pub and ordered a bowl of seasoned wedges with extra sour cream from the stupidly handsome bartender. Only a few other people sat drinking and noshing on pub food—which smelled a-mah-zing—none of whom Tilly knew.

While she waited for a plate of carbs that didn’t count because she’d been cleaning then cycling that morning, she slipped Mary’s journal from her bag. Before she could open it, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. The number displayed on the screen was unfamiliar, but she knew immediately who it was from.

Bad idea? She skewered the phone screen with a slitted glare and stuffed it back into her bag. She’d see about that.

Tilly flipped open Mary’s journal to a bookmark and skimmed through a dry description of the political climate of 1965 until she spotted Jim’s name on the page again. She felt her mouth curving up as Mary drew her into her story of the ongoing flirtation developing as Mary walked past the construction site each day to buy her lunch. Either her great-aunt had inherited a creative writing gene or she’d an uncanny memory, as on a couple of occasions Tilly had to bite her lip to prevent a burst of giggles erupting. Who knew Mary had such a sharp wit? Poor Jim wouldn’t have known what had hit him.

“Good book?” asked a voice from right beside her elbow.

Tilly started, slapping the book shut in one smooth motion. Her gaze shot sideways—and up—to a tall woman with a piercing stare. Piper, she remembered. The ex-cop. Perfect.

“It’s my great-aunt’s journal,” she said, then gestured to an empty seat at her table. “Want to join me? I’ve got wedges coming.”

Piper’s face crumpled into a whatever expression, but it was a friendly enough whatever, and she slid into a chair. “Don’t mind if I do.” After a beat, Piper said, “I’m sorry about your aunt. She was a sweetheart and a real character.”

“Thanks.” Tilly laid a hand on the journal. “I didn’t know her as well as I should’ve. But it’s nice to let her tell me her story in her words.”

“We all have a story.”

“What’s Noah’s?” The question popped out of her like a cork from a bottle.

Piper’s stare turned sharp. 

“I mean professionally,” Tilly added before the other woman could speak. “I’m a scriptwriter working on a cop character for a show. I’m interested in what you think of Noah on a professional one-police-officer-to-another professional level.”

“Uh-huh.” Piper leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Because that’s your interest in Noah—professional. You said professional twice in one breath, you know.”

“Did I?”

“Uh-huh,” Piper said again. The friendliness of her expression had shuttered to a bland mask.

Heat exploded onto Tilly’s face and her stomach lurched down to her shoes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I asked him to take me on a drive-along this morning so I could find out more about him, but he wasn’t very forthcoming.” 

“He’s not a forthcoming kind of man.”

“No kidding. He’s a vault.” Tilly crinkled her nose. “And he didn’t give much away when we had dinner the other night—other than his father and brothers are in the police force, too.”

“He’s a good cop.”

A pretty redhead with a wide smile and a big bowl of delicious-smelling wedges appeared at their table. “Who is? Are we talking about Noah?”

The woman had an American accent, and while Tilly was speed-flipping through her internal notebook of accents to guess what part of the US the woman originally came from, the redhead slid into another of the empty seats.

“Please join us, oh sister-in-law to be.” Piper rolled her eyes. “And yeah, we were talking about Noah.”

“He’s a cutie,” the redhead said. “If I weren’t marrying that big lug back there”—she flicked a glance back at the bar—“I’d lick him up like melting hokey pokey ice cream.”

Piper tipped her head in introduction. “This is Carly, my husband’s oversharing little sister.”

Carly shot out a hand to her with another huge smile. “Pleased to meetcha, Tilly.”

Tilly shook her hand. “Does everyone on this island know my name before we’ve been introduced?”

“Everyone knew your name, your family history, and probably your preferred brand of toothpaste five minutes after you walked off the ferry,” Carly said.

Piper laughed. “True dat.”

Tilly picked up a potato wedge and swiped it through the small bowl of sour cream. “Have you ever worked with Noah?”

Piper’s eyebrows rose. “Officially? Yeah, once. When I first arrived back in Oban there was an incident with one of the locals, Gavin Reynolds, going missing in the harbor.”

Reynolds? Noah had said something about a Pete Reynolds. “A relative of Pete Reynolds?”

“His youngest son.” Piper seemed impressed that Tilly was clued up on the local who’s who. “Noah coordinated the search and worked brilliantly with the dive squad who arrived to hunt for him in the harbor and surrounding bays.”

“Did they find Gavin?”

Fine lines appeared around Piper’s mouth as her lips thinned. “I found him. That was the last dive I did for the police, the last death by drowning I wanted to be involved with. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

Carly reached across the table, bypassing the plate of wedges, and gripped Piper’s hand. “You gave him back to his family. That means a lot.”

Tilly dropped the uneaten wedge back into the bowl, her appetite momentarily gone. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be doing that sort of job. You’re very brave.”

Piper’s flatlined gaze met hers. “I only returned the dead, I didn’t prevent the tragedies from happening in the first place like Noah used to. That’s bravery.”

Noah used to prevent tragedies? Drowning tragedies?

Tilly leaned toward Piper with her best politely interested but not nosy expression on her face. “Oh? Was Noah a police diver, too?”

Piper’s forehead wrinkled. “What? No. He—” Her mouth snapped shut and she pointed a finger at Tilly. “Aha. You’re a slippery one, aren’t you?”

Carly did a tennis spectator imitation between them. “Noah moved here to get away from big city crime, didn’t he, Pipe? He likes the peace and quiet, the laid-back lifestyle. That’s all.”

“Yep. Write up a few parking violations, keep the peace when things get a bit rowdy in here, cups of tea with the octogenarian brigade, and the odd domestic callout. Peace and quiet.”

Carly had obviously swallowed Noah’s propaganda without questioning. Tilly? Not so much. Especially after Piper’s teeny-tiny slip. Heart slamming sickly against her rib cage, she picked up the sour-cream-smothered wedge and nibbled it. 

Piper helped herself to a wedge and sour cream. She paused, the wedge halfway to her mouth—which was curved in a cheeky smile. “But now you’re practically next door to Noah, maybe things won’t be so peacefully quiet for him.”

Carly did the zip-zapping gaze between them again and also helped herself to a wedge. “Oooh.” She pointed the wedge at Tilly. “Like that, is it? Good job. The man needs a bit of a nudge so far as romance goes.”

Tilly nearly choked on her mouthful of potato. She swallowed hard and purposefully. “Somethin’ somethin’ with Noah is not on my agenda. I’m only here for a few weeks.”

Carly and Piper exchanged amused glances. 

“That’s all it takes, honey buns.” Carly stood and brushed her hands down her server’s apron. “I’ll go fetch you two a drink while Piper tells you her and West’s origin story.”

As she walked away, Tilly heard her snicker and say, “Few weeks. Hah!”

Tilly Montgomery was persistent, he’d give her that. Subtle, though, she wasn’t.

He guessed a part of him had known she’d ignore his text, so for the next two days he’d been tailed at a distance by a brunette on a bicycle. Unsubtle as hell. Wherever he’d gone, she’d pedaled her ass off behind him keeping up. When he’d been flagged down by a tourist outside Due South claiming his new iPhone had been stolen, Tilly had positioned herself close by, supposedly to take photos of the historic hotel.

Not even his best you’re on thin ice glare seemed to faze her. She’d just smiled at him and raised her phone again. She’d also trailed after him and the tourist as they retraced the man’s steps through Due South’s restaurant—and waited huffily outside the men’s bathroom, where Noah discovered the phone on top of a stall’s toilet paper dispenser.

“Nicely done, constable,” she’d said as Noah waved goodbye to the red-faced tourist and climbed back into his ute.

He’d sent her a sour glance and buzzed the window up. Which didn’t prevent the sound of her laughter reaching his ears.

When he’d driven home for the evening, he finally lost her. He imagined her huffing and puffing up the hill in hot pursuit, and he was tempted to wait by his vehicle just to smirk. But did he really want to pursue Tilly? To hotly pursue her? He raked a hand through his hair, swore, and went inside to shower off the day. He made it a cold shower, too.

It cleared his brain, and after a solo dinner of last night’s leftovers, he stretched out on his couch with a book to while away the hours until he could hit the sack without feeling like a total loser for being in bed before ten. It took longer than usual for the words to drag him away from himself, but eventually he was sucked into another world—until the shrill tone of his phone hauled him back to reality.

He picked it up, squinting at the screen. He’d already added Tilly’s number to his address book earlier that day—yeah, it was a move he didn’t want to think too closely about—and it was her name showing. She was ringing him at 10:37 p.m.? A late-night booty call, maybe?

He grinned at the phone and answered it on speaker. “Hey, Til. ’Sup?”

“There’s someone creeping around outside,” the voice on the phone whispered. “I can hear them in the bushes.”

Tilly’s voice sounded muffled, as if she used her hand to cover the phone’s speaker. Noah stretched out his legs and propped them on his coffee table. “Where are you calling from?”

“Aunt Mary’s closet.”

“You’re hiding in a closet?”

“Well, the bathroom has windows,” she said impatiently. “The perp could see where I am.”

The perp? Noah pressed his lips together to smother a grin. “Sensible. We have had a crime spree of Peeping Toms lately. Still don’t know who he is, but he seems to favor brunettes wearing fancy lingerie.”

“Not helping, Noah.” Tilly sounded even more breathless.

“What sort of lingerie are you wearing?”

There was a beat of silence. Loaded silence. “I’m not wearing any lingerie and this is serious. Someone is outside my house—aren’t you going to come and check it out?”

Not wearing lingerie? His imagination provided the rest. He kicked his feet off the coffee table and stood. “I’m on my way. You can come out of the closet now.”

She must’ve heard the laughter in his voice as she muttered, “Bite me,” and disconnected.

Noah strode up the road to Southern Seas. It looked as if every single light inside was on, as well as the outdoor lights that would normally guide guests down the side of the property to the three guest rooms beneath the main house. He switched on his flashlight and headed toward the guest rooms. Each of the three rooms was locked up tight with no signs of tampering. Not that he was expecting to see any.

He stood, breathing in the crisp night air, and shone the beam around the perimeter of the backyard. Like many Oban properties, the backyard wasn’t fenced, it just petered out to where the thick native forest that covered Stewart Island took over. The flashlight didn’t reveal any intruders, or sign of intruders—he’d invented the Peeping Tom story on the fly—so he turned it off and just listened. Listening to rural New Zealand night sounds was something city-dwellers had forgotten how to do.

With Stewart Island being a haven for native birds and the efforts of the Department of Conservation doing its best to keep the island predator free, the forest came alive at night. He slowed his breathing and cocked his head, waiting. A rustle of leaves to his far left. A few moments later came a guttural cry. 

With a soft snort, Noah followed the path around the house to the kitchen door and knocked on it. The door wrenched open to a wild-eyed, tousle-haired Tilly. He noted she’d been telling the truth—no lingerie. Instead she wore a sleep shirt with a graphic of Princess Leia saying Don’t Call Me Princess, striped pajama pants, and fuzzy blue socks. Somehow on Tilly the outfit worked.

She worked it, he amended silently as she slapped a hand on her hip. She made it sexier than all get-out.

“Well?” she asked. “Did you see anyone? Make an arrest?”

“Not exactly. Turn off all the lights and come out here for a few minutes.”

Her eyebrows drew into a V wrinkle. “Why?”

“Do you always respond to a direct order with a question?”

“Yes, always. I’m a writer. We rebel against authority, and our one word mantra is why.” 

But she backed away from the door and walked into the hallway. While he waited for her to turn out her house lights that could probably be seen from space they were so bright, he leaned back against the porch railing and just…was.

For months after he’d moved to Oban he hadn’t known how to just be. To sit out on his back deck at night and stargaze, or to stretch out with a book and his own company. Part of him had remained alert and watchful, anticipating the disruption of a call ordering him back to the central station. You never knew what it would be on any given day. Armed robbery, domestic violence, some idiot walking around with a shotgun. Or a woman and her kid held hostage by a crazy stoner armed to the teeth.

The familiar punch of anxiety hit his gut and he forced it aside, concentrating instead on waiting for Tilly to return. She did a moment later, turning off the kitchen light and double-checking the door so she wouldn’t get locked out. He grinned to himself as she joined him, her sock-covered feet whispering on the dark decking. Bracing his palms against the railing, he scanned the yard below.

“Are you trying to lure him out into the open?” she whispered, giving his arm a soft nudge.

“Yeah.” He dipped his head, catching a trace of vanilla-mandarin and her sweet female pheromones his brain now registered as pure Tilly. A scent uniquely crafted to lure him into doing something stupid. “Just be patient while your eyes adjust to the dark.”

He sensed rather than saw her lush mouth curve into a frown. “There’s no Peeping Tom, is there?”

“No. Now shhh.”

She gave a huffy little sigh and fell silent.

Minutes ticked past as they stood side by side in the dark. He was beginning to think Tilly’s visitor had wandered off when a shrill cry warbled through the air. Tilly’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist but she didn’t speak.

“Wait for it,” he said.

And sure enough, after another few moments the bushes started rustling. The hand on his wrist tightened even more as out of the darkest shadows of undergrowth emerged a stocky hunched silhouette with a long beak.

“A kiwi,” Tilly breathed. “Oh, look at her!” She released his wrist and moved closer to his side, clutching at his biceps with both hands, almost vibrating with excitement.

They watched as the bird waddled across the lawn, stopping once or twice to investigate something on the ground with its beak. Noah turned his face so his mouth was close to Tilly’s ear.

“That’s actually a male. You just heard him calling out, searching for his mate. I heard the female earlier, so she might still be around here, too.”

They continued to watch until from somewhere in the darkness another cry rang out—this one more guttural and breathy. 

“The female?” Tilly asked.

“Uh-huh.” 

The male stilled for a moment, lifting his head so his famous birdy profile was in full view. Then he disappeared into the undergrowth.

“That was incredible.” Tilly let go of his arm, her fingers briefly skimming over his biceps before dropping away. 

Noah wanted them back again. He wanted her touching him.

He turned to face her and found her staring up at him. There wasn’t enough light to decipher if the planes and curves of her face were set in an expression of gratitude or something more. As if by his sheer will, she set her hand lightly on the crook of his elbow.

“Thank you.” She rose on tiptoe and leaned in, her lips lightly brushing his cheek.

He should’ve left it at that—a friendly gesture, one level up from a quick thank-you hug—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to find out for himself if her lips were as soft as they looked, if she tasted like pure sunshine or midnight sin. He slid a hand along her jaw and into the silky strands of hair curling around her nape. She gasped at his touch and the slight pinch of her fingernails dug into his arm, but she didn’t pull away. He dipped his head, ran his lips along the length of her smooth throat. Breathed her in. She trembled under the softest kiss he left beside her ear.

“Cold, Til?” he murmured.

“A little bit.”

He liked—really liked—that she sounded as breathy as the female kiwi they’d just heard. Although her voice impacted his sex drive more than the bird’s had. Dropping a hand to her pajama-clad hip, he reeled her in closer until Princess Leia met his chest and striped pajama bottoms met denim. He curled his arm around her, stroking his palm up and down her back.

“Better?” Though holding her was not at all indicative of a friend-zone embrace to share body warmth. 

“Mmm-hmm.” She tilted her head back so his hand that was cupping her neck slid down to her jaw. “I’d be even better if you shut up and kissed me.”

Lust fizzed through him, borne on waves of laughter and the pure pleasure of sparring with this woman. “Is that a direct order?”

“It is.” Her hand snaked up from his elbow to curl against his chest, gripping a small fistful of his T-shirt.

Her lips parted on a gasp and Noah didn’t need a written invitation to take what she offered. Or, as it happened, he didn’t have a problem with authority or following orders. He captured her mouth on her next inhale and let the chips fall where they may.

Warm, soft, sin and sunshine, the feel of her lips beneath his stole his breath. Her tongue flicked along his lower lip, dragging out what remaining air he had left in his lungs. He returned the gesture, testing, tasting, until with a whimper her tongue tangled with his. The kiss deepened, turning warm and exploratory into deep and wet and hot as hell. He pressed her closer, her breasts flattening against his chest.

More—he needed more. 

With a curvy ass cheek in each of Noah’s hands, Tilly got with the program, twining her arms around his neck as he boosted her up. Legs locked around his waist, she clamped their bodies together. Goddamn, she fit him like a missing puzzle piece.

He spun around, setting her butt on the wooden railing, because damned if his legs hadn’t suddenly become girlishly shaky from wanting her so badly. He skimmed a hand down her back—the other keeping her hard against him, safety first—and dipped under the hem of her shirt to stroke her soft skin.

Tilly jerked in his arms and broke off the kiss with a sound like a rusty screen door being opened. Her spine arched to get away from his hand, her lower extremities pushing into his groin hard enough to have his dick singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But reality slapped him upside the head. He hadn’t meant to kiss her like that. Liar. He had meant to kiss her like that; he hadn’t meant to let things get so out of control. To let himself get so out of control.

His hand dropped away from her waist and curled into a fist behind her.

She bumped her forehead against his breastbone and let out a shaky laugh. “Your fingers are like icicles.” 

“Sorry.” He took a step backward, easing her down from the railing to stand in front of him. Her fists still clutched a handful of his shirt, and even in the dim light of the stars he could see the shimmer of heat still in her eyes. Small white teeth dragged sensuously on her lower lip as she continued to stare up at him, waiting for him to kiss her again or suggest they pick up where they left off inside where it was warmer.

A few years ago and he would’ve done exactly that. But something about Tilly held him back. It wasn’t because he didn’t want her. The fact that he couldn’t have fitted his hands into his jeans’ front pockets was evidence enough that he did. And it wasn’t that he was concerned she’d turn into a Kling-on the morning after. He didn’t get a needy vibe from her.

The reason was all him. Because this spur-of-the-moment kiss with Tilly had figuratively knocked him on his behind. And he needed to sort that stuff out in his head before it went any further.

Her fingers uncurled from his shirt, mouth twisting into a self-deprecatory twist. “I should probably get back inside before I catch my death.”

The lifting note of invitation in her voice weakened his resolve and he fought to keep his hands off her. An internal battle he won by using brute force. “Yeah, you probably should.” 

“Well. Good night, then.” She dropped her gaze and ducked around him, slipping into the kitchen. She didn’t turn the light on, and she quietly shut the door on his muttered “G’night.”

The door lock clicked into place. He screwed up his face as he jogged down the steps and headed home. Sensible woman. He didn’t trust himself not to change his mind either.