Chase called out from the stairwell, "Hey, Munro! There's someone downstairs to see you."

Riley stood and wove his way through the clutter of desks and cardboard boxes that bulged with old files and police briefs and caught up with his partner at the top of the stairs. "Who is it?"

"Don't know. One of the uniforms called out to me on the way up."

Riley slipped past him and jogged the rest of the way down. Striding into the foyer, he pulled up short. His gut clenched like he'd been kicked by a bull and suddenly nerves jammed his throat.

Kate Collins stood off to one side, staring out the small window beside the doorway. Her mouth was taut. Her arms were folded across her chest.

Even the glamor of her outfit-a pale blue turtleneck made of some kind of soft, fluffy wool and the same pair of charcoal-gray pants she'd worn when they'd first met-couldn't disguise the tension in her body.

He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Miss Collins. We meet again."

She hesitated, and he noticed an infinitesimal clouding of her eyes. His heart skipped a beat and then her hand, warm and fragile, was in his. He tried not to notice how good it felt.

"Detective Munro, thank you for seeing me."

The control was back. Her voice was firm, cool, polite. She gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes and abruptly released his hand.

"What can I do for you, Miss Collins?"

She looked around at the a.s.sortment of people who crowded the waiting room. A constable stood behind the reception desk, attending to enquiries. Her gaze returned to Riley's.

"Is there somewhere a little more private we can talk?"

"Of course, come upstairs."

He indicated for her to precede him. The heavy winter coat she'd worn when he'd last seen her was absent and as she began to climb the stairs ahead of him, his gaze came to rest on her nicely rounded b.u.t.t.

The faint scent of her perfume wafted down to him, rich and exotic, like a bowl of crushed frangipani flowers and cinnamon. He shook his head. What the h.e.l.l was he doing, thinking such ridiculous thoughts? It was bulls.h.i.t. She was a client, a member of the public who had come to him for help. He'd best remember that.

She hesitated at the top of the stairs.

"Go straight ahead, first room on the right. Same place where we talked on Friday afternoon. It should be vacant."

Riley bounded up the last remaining stairs and entered the interview room a few seconds behind her. She stood staring at the blank white walls, her arms once again crossed in front of her.

"Take a seat," he said. "Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? A can of c.o.ke?"

She gave a slight shake of her head and sat down gingerly on one of the gray, molded plastic chairs. She shifted as if to rest her elbows on the scarred wooden table, and then halted as her gaze absorbed its grimy surface.

Years of dirt, sweat, secrets and fear permeated the cheap wood. He didn't blame her for not wanting to make contact with it.

Taking a seat opposite, he tugged out the notebook and pen that habitually lived in the pocket of his shirt and scrawled the date and time on a fresh page and then braced himself for the impact of her eyes.

Throughout the long, night hours of his weekend, they'd burned themselves onto his retinas and he was leery of falling victim to their cobalt spell again. If he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he needed to keep his wits about him. She might be the most gorgeous woman he'd ever been this close to, but that didn't mean he'd let that attraction he felt interfere with his job.

He was a professional. He knew how to keep his distance-even if his c.o.c.k didn't want to. The thought soured his mood and put him on the offensive.

"You lied to me, Blondie. "I've spoken to Darryl. You never called him and your mother's alive and well and enjoying a well-earned holiday. I've closed the file." His voice was harsher than he'd intended and he felt like s.h.i.t when her eyes filled with desperation.

"No, no! You can't do that! I have to find her! I have to know where she is!"

With grim determination, he forged on. "I just told you where she is. I'm beginning to think your stepfather was right. Perhaps you do have a thing about stirring up trouble. I guess coming in here with your puppy-dog eyes and sad story was one way to do it, but it p.i.s.ses me off to have my time wasted. There are a lot more important things I could be doing with it."

"What? Like trying to dodge cow s.h.i.t? That was what you were doing before I turned up, wasn't it?"

Her sarcasm surprised him. His lips tugged upwards before he got a grip on himself. She didn't look the least bit contrite about her language. In fact, sparks now shot out of her eyes and twin spots of anger colored her cheeks.

He hadn't expected her to come out fighting. He'd just flayed her character like a cat o' nine tails and yet she was ready to stand up to him again. He tamped down the flash of admiration and continued. "Falsely reporting criminal activity is an offence, Miss Collins. I could have you arrested."

She held out her wrists, surprising him once again. Their eyes met and held for weightless seconds. His gut knotted from the impact. Blood flooded to his groin.

He pushed his chair back and it almost toppled over. "I'm going to get a drink," he managed to croak. Dragging his gaze away, he stumbled from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Riley leaned against the wall outside the interview room, his breath coming fast. Christ, what the h.e.l.l was wrong with him? She was just a woman. A woman seeking help. He was there to "protect and serve." That's what he'd sworn to do. Yet all he'd done was argue and insult her and all because of his inability to control his body's response whenever he got anywhere near her.

Disgust flooded through him. It wasn't her fault he found her attractive. She'd done nothing to encourage his attention-at least that kind of attention.

So, she'd lied to him about calling Darryl. He wasn't entirely comfortable with Watson's story, either. Watson's wife, his wheelchair-bound wife hadn't been heard from for at least a month and her husband hadn't sounded the least bit concerned. The cost of the calls be d.a.m.ned, Riley didn't know any husband who would think zero communication for as much as four months was a good thing.

Not a husband who cared.

He pushed away from the wall and strode toward the vending machine nearby. He selected c.o.ke twice and waited for them to tumble one at a time into the metal basket. From the look of Miss Collins, he suspected she drank Diet c.o.ke, but he knew better than to hand her one of those. He had learned something from his sisters.

With his body now firmly under control, he squared his shoulders and headed back to the interview room.

"So, let's go back to the start, shall we?" the detective said as he sauntered back into the room with two c.o.kes. Kate swallowed a sigh. She didn't know what game he was playing, but she was sick and tired of it. Every minute they wasted boded ill for her mother and Kate still didn't have a clue where the woman was. Was it possible her mother had gone on a holiday? She clung to the tiny flame of hope that flared to life inside her.

"You talked to Darryl," she said as calmly as she could manage.

His eyes probed hers. "Yes, I called him this morning."

So, he had believed some of her story. That was a start.

"What did he say about my mother?"

The detective returned to his chair and opened his can of c.o.ke. The crack of the aluminium tab as the soda met the air was loud in the silent room. She waited him out, while he chugged down half of its contents. The c.o.ke he'd pushed in her direction remained untouched between them on the table.

He set his drink back down. A strong, tanned hand reached up to wipe moisture from his mouth. Dark brown eyes, keen with intelligence, a.s.sessed her. She refused to squirm. She'd done nothing wrong. All she wanted was his help.

Snagging his notebook, he picked up his pen off the table. His gaze flicked to her. "I already told you. Darryl said she's gone on a holiday, just like I suggested to you on Friday. She's sailing around the world on a cruise ship."

Confusion filled her mind, followed quickly by denial. "A cruise? No way. He's lying. My mother hates the ocean. There's no way she'd go on a cruise. She can't even swim."

The detective shrugged. His voice remained mild and unperturbed. "Perhaps she changed her mind? After all, how well can you know her? It's been ten years since you lived with her." He leaned over and took another mouthful of c.o.ke. "Maybe she took swimming lessons?"

Fury gushed through her arteries, setting her face on fire. Before that absurd comment, she'd fooled herself into thinking he was taking her seriously. She'd even allowed herself to hope he would believe her and want to help. His ridiculous remark about swimming lessons proved how wrong she'd been. Was he even aware of how utterly ludicrous it sounded?

He was laughing at her. The disappearance of her mother was a joke to him. Disappointment crushed her, weighing down her limbs, making it almost impossible for her to stand and make her escape.

She bent to retrieve her handbag. Tears blurred her vision. She bit her lip and tasted blood as painful and acrid as her failure to convince him.

Despair hovered over her, but she refused to pay it heed. If this good-for-nothing detective with the way-too-s.e.xy eyes wouldn't help her, she'd find someone who would. She'd go through the whole squad. h.e.l.l, she'd go to the next town, if that's what it took to convince someone in law enforcement about the duplicity of one of their own.

All she wanted was a little help to find her mother.

Holding her body stiff, she averted her gaze and rose and made her way to the door. The smell of his fresh, woodsy cologne on the air was the final insult. It teased her nose, reminding her of fleeting moments of peace and freedom on long, lazy Sundays hiking in the forest with Cally.

CHAPTER 5.

Riley stared at the small pile of police statements on his desk and tried to find the enthusiasm to compile them into the lever arch folder that sat near his elbow.

Jack Sampson's prize-winning cow was still on the loose, but Riley had managed to interview some of the surrounding neighbors and a couple of old-timers who regularly propped up the far end of The Bullet's tired wooden bar. They'd offered their own opinion about the stolen beast and it wasn't one Sampson would be keen to hear.

After speaking with Sampson's cronies, Riley had done a criminal record check and had discovered Sampson had a previous brush with the law. Fifteen years earlier, Sampson had been convicted of insurance fraud. It was an interesting development. Riley wasn't foolish enough to believe leopards changed their spots.

"Oh, Detective Munro, I'm glad I caught you."

Riley looked up as Detective Sergeant Mike Hannaford lumbered toward him. Riley was sure the squad's recently appointed Local Area Commander meant for his smile to be friendly, but his smarminess only put Riley on edge. Hannaford had been in the job a week when Riley arrived and he'd heard nothing but grumblings about the man since.

After Riley's Sydney experience, nothing the upper echelon did could surprise him, but many in the squad were still adjusting to the idea of their former lackadaisical coworker being elevated to such a lofty position.

Riley tilted his chair on its back legs and folded his arms across his chest. "Is there something you need, sir?"

"No, no, no. I just thought I'd stop by and say h.e.l.lo." Hannaford spread his arms wide and then stepped closer, propping his hip against Riley's desk. "How're you going with Jack Sampson? Has that cow turned up yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

"Good, good." Hannaford patted at the graying strands of hair that stretched precariously across his head from his razor-sharp side part.

Silence fell between them. Another minute pa.s.sed. Riley scratched at his own dense crop with the end of his pen, knowing he should be trying to be more amendable toward his superior, but somehow unable to make the effort. "Was there anything else?"

A flush crept up Hannaford's thick neck. His fingers pulled at his tie. His gaze fixed onto something beyond Riley's shoulder.

"Yes, well, you haven't been working here very long and I wanted to stop by and let you know how it is. We're a tight group here; we look out for each other." His hand moved lower and he plucked at small pieces of lint that clung to his immaculate navy suit pants.

Riley froze. Images of his final meeting with Detective Inspector Shattler in Sydney flashed across his mind; the moments just before his career had gone to s.h.i.t.

Someone had told Hannaford about the circ.u.mstances surrounding his transfer...

The LAC smiled again. "We always have each other's backs, Detective Munro. In fact, Commander Watson-do you know him? Anyway, Commander Watson and I still golf together twice a week; every Wednesday and Friday."

Riley's heart rate picked up its pace. Midnight-black eyes bored into his. The threat was unmistakable.

Relief surged through him. It had nothing to do with Sydney. This was about Watson and his wife-the woman who might or might not have gone missing.

Riley was filled with curiosity. Why would Watson tell his golfing buddy about the phone call?

His musings were interrupted when Hannaford glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. The oily smile returned.

"Look at the time. Where has the day gone? I have to be down at the mayor's office in half an hour. Thanks for the little chat, Detective. I've enjoyed it. I'll talk to you later." Spinning on the heel of one highly polished RM Williams boot, Hannaford turned his back on Riley, heaved his bulk across the squad room and disappeared down the stairs.

Riley straightened in his seat and pulled his chair in closer to his desk. Adrenaline buzzed through him. He'd doubted Kate's story from the start. Not the part about her mother's disappearance-her reaction to his indifference was too genuine for him not to believe she really thought the woman was missing-but he'd definitely harbored doubts about the whole my-stepfather-has-murdered-her thing. He'd been prepared to put it down to an overactive imagination and leave it at that.

But Watson had felt the need to relay Riley's call-or at least the gist of it-to Hannaford. Riley's boss. Watervale's newest commander.

Why would Watson do that? It didn't make sense. If his wife was truly on a holiday, why would he feel the need to inform Riley's superior of the call? And why would Hannaford feel the need to warn Riley away? The LAC might not have said that in so many words, but Riley was an expert at reading between the lines. He was convinced it's what the man had meant.

Determination flooded through his veins. He'd always loved a challenge. Just as quickly, he tamped it down. Hadn't he almost lost his career by interfering where he wasn't wanted? What would it take to get it through his head that for some people within the force, the normal rules simply didn't apply?

His misplaced idealism and finely honed sense of justice had seen him banished to the boondocks and he barely hung onto the threads of his career. Though thinking about the fiasco in the city still turned his stomach, he'd learned his lesson. If you were high enough up the ladder, there were certain things people would turn a blind eye to-would even condone and encourage and be part of.

He didn't need Hannaford to remind him of the way the men in blue stuck together. He'd experienced it firsthand and wasn't keen to be on the wrong side of that impenetrable wall of loyalty again.

Kate's fear-filled eyes swam before him. He ran an impatient hand through his hair and gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore the p.r.i.c.k of guilt from his conscience.

Why him? Of all the officers she could have contacted, why did it have to be him? He'd arrived in Watervale with only one goal: To lie low and keep his head down. To do his time and get out. Two years, Detective Inspector Shattler had told him. Two years of banishment to a dead end town like Watervale.

He'd already done three months. In a year and a half, he could apply for another transfer. Three months after that, he could leave Watervale, head back to the city and get his career and life back on track. He was still hopeful he'd be forgiven for his unwelcome breach of the unspoken code of loyalty.

Of course, he'd never work at his old station again, and he didn't want to, but surely there were other commands that hadn't been tainted by police corruption? Despite the way he'd been treated, he refused to believe the entire New South Wales Police Force was defiled.

Eighteen months. It was nothing in the scheme of things. He was barely thirty. There was still plenty of time to carve out a worthwhile career.

But now, because of a few unsettling questions from his conscience and a woman with a fiery spirit and a heart-wrenching cloak of vulnerability, there was yet another threat to his derailed career.

If he ignored Hannaford's warning and looked harder at Watson, he might as well hand in his resignation there and then and join the unemployment queue. What little he'd managed to salvage of his career after the debacle in Sydney would disappear like a fistful of ashes in a windstorm. Calls would be made, stories would be told and suddenly, no commander in the State would want him on their team.

Could he live with himself if he turned his back on Kate and her desperate plea for help? Could he ignore the persistent ache in his gut that told him things weren't quite right?

The endless sleepless nights since he'd left Sydney were proof that his conscience refused to rest easy, despite his reluctant acceptance of how things were. The fact that he'd kept the real reason for his departure from the city a secret from his family, even his twin, made him squirm with discomfort. All four of his brothers were in law enforcement-two were decorated State police officers and two were Federal Agents. How could he hope for them to understand why he'd kept his mouth shut and had looked the other way?

Just thinking about the smug smile on Detective Inspector Shattler's face as he'd laid out the facts of life in a police command had Riley burning at the injustice of it, but at the time, he'd felt he had no choice but to accept the man's decree. Shattler was a big player. He was on first name basis with the Premier of New South Wales. There had been talk he'd make Commissioner. The thought of fronting up to Internal Affairs and telling them their anointed one was corrupt had filled Riley with dread. He'd never have seen the inside of a squad room again.

Perhaps he was overreacting? Hannaford could have been merely looking out for an old mate. Maybe Riley was jumping to conclusions, thinking Watson had mentioned the phone call to Hannaford because the former commander had something to hide? After all, until Hannaford's approach, Riley had barely even considered the anomalies in Watson's story.

So, the former commander was an inattentive husband. There was no crime in that.