The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance)

by Collins, Colleen

  “Yes, Uncle Frankie. It’s my privilege to be your maid of honor.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT DAY was a relatively uneventful day at the Cave except for “Marilyn’s” wardrobe malfunction in the middle of her lip-syncing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” When she pulled up after a give-it-all-you-got shimmy, the top half of her dress truly gave it up.

  Later, Val swore there was no malfunction. “I saw Felicia insertin’ Velcro strips in her top before the performance. That girl was ready to open the cupboard and show the goods before she even stepped on that stage. She’ll do anything to get these tourists to open up their wallets.”

  “Maybe,” Cammie agreed. “ʼCause she certainly got the best tips of the day.”

  “Snooper,” Val said, fisting her hand on her hip, “if I were to accidentally wardrobe misfunction, I’d have the best tips of the year.”

  “Please don’t go there.”

  “Not to worry. I like to keep my pride and my clothes intact. Hey, hear from lawyer boy again?”

  Before work, Cammie had given Val the lowdown about Marc’s surprise visit.

  “No.”

  “He wants to hire you as a P.I. Here’s your chance to get back in that biz.”

  “Like I told you, he has no sway with my Nevada license.”

  “F’true? The way I see it, lawyers are like dogs. You take a poodle halfway around the world and it might not understand what people are sayin’ or where it’s supposed to lie down and sniff, eat and all that dog stuff, but you hook it up with another poodle and those curly-haired mutts get down. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “If you want to view poodles as lawyers, keep in mind that each state has its own dog-attorney rules.”

  “There you go again.”

  “What?”

  “Got that wall up.”

  “We’re talking about legalities.”

  “You’re glum again, too.”

  “Because I said there’s different dog-lawyer rules?”

  “No, because you’re not talking about your real feelings. You’re talking the brain side of things.”

  “The factual side?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Cammie tried to give her best you’re-so-wrong look, which crumbled under Val’s I-am-so-right-again one.

  “Maybe,” Val said, “those walls give you an excuse to not go where you want to go.”

  “Marc’s not going to help me get relicensed.”

  “There’s that brain side again. You’re talkin’ about your license. I’m talking about a place inside that you’re trying to ignore.”

  “This is getting too deep for me.”

  “Hmm.” Val gave her friend an assessing look. “Like my nanny used to say, joy is the sign we’re fulfillin’ our dreams.”

  “And I’m not joyful because I’m not fulfilling my dreams. And that joy is deep inside. But brain side, the wall, keeps getting in the way.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Nobody can ever say you aren’t quick, Snooper. Let me give you a tip.”

  “A tip...to help me get to the joy?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s a technique my nanny used to practice. Sometimes I practice it, too, when something’s difficult, sad or it just plain hurts to think about it. Replace the bad thought with a beautiful image. It’s called distractin’ your thoughts. Like, you realize you’re fixating on your P.I. license being gone. Poof! You replace that thought with an image that makes you happy. Like that car of yours.”

  “Think of Phil?”

  “Why not? He might be oversize and a bit cranky, but he never lets you down.”

  One thing about Val, she spoke her mind. Which was one reason that Cammie liked her, although she wasn’t so sure about this whole distracting-oneself-with-happy-thoughts trick. That was a bit too la-la-out-there for her taste.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t wild about being called glum. Cammie had always prided herself on being coolheaded and together, not sulky and petulant, which sounded a lot like glum.

  Maybe it was time to tap on that wall Val kept harping about.

  “I like Phil, but I’d rather think about the Nuggets.”

  Val grinned, held up her hand for a high five. “Whatever cranks your joy, girlfriend.”

  At five o’clock, Cammie’s shift ended at the Cave. In the employees’ locker room, she changed into her casual clothes for her scheduled stint at Dignity House. Tonight she was the girls’ study monitor from six to seven, which meant she babysat them as they did their homework—no cell phones, no iPods, no TV and, unless it had something to do with their homework, no internet. And if any of them had a creative excuse for not doing homework—and Cammie had heard plenty of those—she brought some of her detective novels for them to read, including a well-worn copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Good-bye, which touched on political, social, racial, sexual, even environmental issues. Phil Marlowe was, after all, a gumshoe before his time.

  On her way out the back door of the casino, she found Trazy lying on the cement walkway, fat and furry, lolling in the sun without a care.

  Cammie leaned over to pet the cat. “Enjoying the warmer weather?”

  Lazy Trazy managed a raspy meow.

  “I see that Val replenished your water on her last break. Looks as though you’re set up for the night.” This morning, Cammie had brought some cans of cat food and two bowls—one for food, one for water.

  The cat flopped over, sluggishly half pawed the air as though, if it really had a mind to, it could run or pounce or do something equally amazing.

  “It’s time I take you to the vet,” Cammie whispered, stroking the cat under her chin. “See if you have one of those embedded chips that identifies your owners. If you don’t, I’ll hang up some flyers, see if somebody claims you. Time to get you off the streets.”

  Trazy reached out a paw and touched Cammie’s hand.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  That familiar male voice.

  She stood, met Marc’s eyes. Her heart picked up its beat, drumming like a wanton tom-tom.

  He’d obviously spent some time in the sun. The burnished glow of his skin made his blue eyes more vivid, startling. His short-sleeve shirt, its yellow color reminding her of aspen leaves, had obviously been recently purchased as it still had crease marks.

  “Marc, I—” Hell, she didn’t know what to say. Even if she did, she wasn’t sure she could speak around the pounding pulse in her throat.

  “Let me talk first, please.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She did a double take. Not that the man didn’t know how to smooth over rough edges in a discussion—he was, after all, Mr. Cool in the courtroom—but she hadn’t expected him to apologize before he’d even said hello.

  “I shouldn’t have come to your work yesterday,” he said. “That wasn’t considerate.”

  “I was embarrassed that you—” she cleared her throat “—saw me in that outfit.”

  “Don’t,” he whispered, touching her arm. “You looked very attractive.”

  Was it her imagination or had the temperature shot up several degrees?

  “And I shouldn’t have bugged you with my problems like that.” Marc nodded as though agreeing with himself. “First I surprised you, then I heaped my issues on you.”

  He was still touching her arm. That and the intense, unsettling look in his gaze made her feel more than a little unhinged. This was the moment to get back to center, tell him she was working on getting a few names of local P.I.’s, pull away from his touch, get on with her life.

  Instead she stood and stared into his eyes.

  And he stared back.

  And, damn, if the moment didn’t morph into something d
eliciously perfect. His fingers on her skin, the warmth of the sun, mysterious scents in the breezes, those extraordinary blue eyes melting into hers...

  If this wasn’t joy, baby, she didn’t know what was.

  Marc wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Huh?” She blinked a few times, ripped from the dream.

  He looked around, dropped his hand. “Smells like burgers and...tacos.”

  She pulled herself erect, released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “The Shamrock Palace likes to push those scents outside from some of its fast-food vendors. They think it lures people inside. I’ve only been here a little over a month, but I’ve never seen someone walk in wide-eyed, their arms outstretched, under the spell of the smells.” I’m running my mouth about burger-and-taco scents. I need to get out of here, pretend to have a life.

  “They actually force those smells outside?”

  “Yep. Push ʼem out into air.” She made a pushing motion with her hands as though that helped explain the physics of it all. “Well, I need to be go—”

  “Snooze!” He pointed at the logo on her T-shirt. “Now, there’s a great Denver restaurant. Didn’t know you liked it.”

  “Best pineapple pancakes and glazed doughnuts in the world. Haven’t found anything like them in Vegas. We also had a few office lunches at Snooze...remember Megan’s birthday party?”

  He thought for a minute. “No.”

  “She turned forty, and we brought black balloons with dumb sayings on them, like Aged Like Fine Wine—Fruity and Complex, and I’m Forty, What’s Your Excuse?”

  “Memorable sayings, certainly.”

  “But you don’t remember them.”

  He looked perplexed. “My life is a blur of business meetings, client luncheons and court appearances. But I do vaguely recall a lunch at Snooze where there were black balloons.”

  Wonder if you vaguely recall we sat next to each other. “Yeah, Megan and I used to go there a lot. She gave me this T when I left.”

  An awkward silence. Trazy wove around her legs, meowing.

  “That cat likes you,” he commented.

  “She needs a home. Hanging outside a casino isn’t good.”

  “Maybe you should give her a home.”

  “Oh, no. My caretaking days are over. Anyway, my uncle’s allergic to cats.” She plastered on a fake smile, started edging toward the parking lot. “Hey, about yesterday. I’m sorry, too. Got my boy shorts in a knot, said some things—”

  “Didn’t know I was clueless.”

  “Uh-huh.” Damn it. He’s following me. “Things like that. Look, I gotta go—”

  “How about dinner?”

  She stopped. So did he.

  A fat blackbird landed on the branch of a palm tree and emitted a rapid-fire ki-ki-ki.

  “No.” She headed to her car.

  “Couldn’t you pretend to at least think it over? My daughter, Emily’s, with me, but she has big plans tonight and I’m free. Was hoping you were, too.”

  “Sorry,” Cammie called out, “I have things to go, places to do.” Damn it. “I mean...never mind.”

  “Where?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Jeez, Cammie, you don’t have to— Look, how about a quick drink instead?”

  Ki-ki-ki.

  What was going on with the birds? Last night, the billy owls asked questions. Now this blackbird was following her. “Can’t. It’s a business appointment.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  She stopped, pivoted to face him. “Nice,” she said, elongating the single syllable so its that-was-a-very-unpleasant-thing-to-say-buddy meaning rang clear.

  He swiped his forehead. “I meant, you’re dressed casually, that’s all.”

  “Because it’s a casual business appointment.”

  “What time is this appointment?”

  “Soon.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “Does soon mean you have a few minutes now?” He looked over her shoulder. “There’s Phil. Maybe we can sit inside where it’s more comfortable, chat for a few minutes.”

  “Phil’s dirty. Cleaning lady didn’t come this week.”

  “Cammie.” He took a step forward, placed his hands on her arms. “I know you’re still hurt. And angry. But if you’d give me five minutes of your time, just five minutes, I’d be forever indebted to you.”

  Her gaze dropped to the firm line of his mouth, then lifted to the forceful look in his eyes. When had he ever needed her like this?

  Oh, there had been the cases they’d worked on together. He’d needed her investigative expertise for those, certainly. Sometimes deadlines were intense, caseloads mushroomed and the work became challenging, if not overwhelming, and they’d snap at each other, his needing this or that ASAP.

  But in all that time, he’d never told her he needed her.

  Ki-ki-ki.

  She glanced at the blackbird. This had to be an omen. Was it a warning or was it encouraging her?

  She’d go with the latter. “Sure,” she croaked. “Five minutes.”

  A few moments later, they sat in the front seat of Phil, their windows open. It was comfortably warm, almost balmy.

  “Neat,” he said, looking around.

  “Obviously you mean neat as in cool, because this is hardly spotless. Still get your car detailed every few weeks?”

  He was picking up something from the floor. “Yes.”

  “If I took Phil in to be detailed, they’d find stuff dating back to the Bush administration. The last Bush, not the one before.”

  “I know the reference. Wrote a report on the first one in eighth grade.”

  They laughed. Reminded her of the old days in the office when they’d give each other a bad time over silly stuff.

  He held up a fake plastic rock. “What’s this?”

  “A stone with a motion-sensor camera inside.”

  He turned it this way and that. “Is it taking a picture of me now?”

  “No, I need to get batteries for it.”

  “Did you use it when you worked for me?” Setting it down, he quickly added, “No, don’t tell me.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  He looked around at black tinted windows, a wadded-up bag of Cheetos and several empty diet-cola cans in the backseat, a photo of a guy in a fedora, smoking a cigarette, stuck to the dashboard.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Phil’s namesake.”

  “Philip Marlowe.”

  “The same.”

  “Is Phil treating you well?”

  “Always there at my beck and call. Smokes a little, but not too much. Drinks a lot, though.”

  “Doing a lot of driving?”

  “Commuting to Dignity House eats up a lot of gas.”

  “What’s Dignity House?”

  Shit. “A brunch place.”

  He looked confused. “Odd name for a brunch place. Now Snooze...” He looked at her shirt. “That’s a great name for brunch.”

  He focused on her chest for a moment with drowsy concentration.

  She couldn’t allow herself to be lulled into letting her guard down. Slipping up with the name of Dignity House reminded her of the other things she was hiding from him. Marc wasn’t an idiot. He’d figure out what was going on with her Nevada P.I. license sooner or later. And when he did, it was going to hurt.

  But she couldn’t look away. She lowered her head and stared at him through her lashes. He’d shaved today, which made the sensual curve of his full bottom lip all the more apparent. Maybe it was being in a smaller space, but she could smell his scent. Soap from his morning shower. Sunscreen. And if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of...

 
“Apple cider?” she said almost before she’d realized it.

  “What?”

  “I swear I’m smelling apple cider.”

  “Oh.” He touched his neck. “Must be the herbal cologne Emily insisted I buy today.”

  “Herbal colognes. Wonder if they have tomato sauce. My uncle would love that. Speaking of Emily, how old is she now?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Last I saw her, she was eleven, maybe twelve. Wore braces and loved hamburgers.”

  “Braces, gone. So’s the meat, as she’s become a vegetarian. She’s talking about adopting a vegan diet, but I’ve asked her to reconsider because I’m worried she might not get adequate nutrients.” He gave his head a shake. “But who am I to tell her what’s good and bad?”

  “You’re her father. That’s what dads do.”

  He smiled, or that’s what it seemed he was trying to do. “Forgot to mention she’s a fledging socialist proletariat who loves to quote Tolstoy, but today she was willing to put aside the revolution to do some serious shopping.”

  “Did that have something to do with her serious Las Vegas plans tonight?”

  “Only the part where we bought organic popcorn and soda. She and her friends are watching a chick flick tonight. Emily from our hotel room, her pals from their homes back east. A virtual party, if you will. They’ll be texting or tweeting or something throughout the movie.”

  She eyed a crease in his shirt. “Besides apple-cider cologne, looks as though you bought a new shirt today.”

  He fingered the material. “Made of hemp.”

  “I had a hemp purse once,” she said. “When it got wet in the rain, it smelled like pot.”

  He gave her a look. “Seriously, I had no idea the fabric would be so soft.”

  “Sounds like another Emily suggestion.”

  He nodded. “It’s grown without pesticides or synthetic fertilizers.”

  “Admirable. My idea of recycling is to wear the same shirt twice.”

  “I thought I was being sufficiently eco by recycling glass and paper, but I’ve been told that I need a compost heap, too.”