The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance)

by Collins, Colleen

  In the ensuing silence, she and Frankie locked stares. Looking at those big brown eyes, brimming with apology, twice their size behind those horn-rim glasses, she couldn’t keep up the attitude. He was besotted with Delilah and ridiculously, hopelessly in love. He was a man “under the influence” and shouldn’t be censured for his lack of social graces.

  This time, anyway.

  “Okay, let’s all go to dinner.” She gave him a warning glare. “Just don’t play matchmaker anymore. This is a friendly dinner, not a double date.”

  He raised his hand as though taking an oath. “Never!”

  “I thought you promised to never say never, like Justin Bieber.”

  “Who?”

  “Keep your voice down. And so you know, Marc read that article on the internet and knows all about my license being suspended. But that doesn’t mean we need to dredge it up, discuss the particulars.”

  “Deal.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  “Delilah’s here.” Frankie grinned. “Let’s go make introductions.”

  Moments later, Delilah waltzed into the room, her gold bracelets clinking, the scent of Chanel No. 5—“the best perfume a woman of a certain age should wear”—wafting behind her. She wore an animal-print top cut so low that her popping cleavage looked like a baby bottom. Below her beige stretchy pants, red-tipped toenails peeked out of a pair of gold strappy sandals.

  “Darling,” Delilah cooed. She planted a kiss on Frankie’s lips, then turned and looked expectantly at Marc.

  Who stood as Frankie made introductions.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, placing her hand in his. Marc bowed slightly and kissed the back of her hand.

  “Such a gentleman.” She cast an approving look at Frankie.

  Delilah lifted a bright pink bag embellished with the words Maid of Honor in cursive silver and handed it to Cammie.

  “My dear, I know your uncle, my husband-to-be, asked you to be my maid of honor last night. I hope you understand his asking you before I did. You two are so close, after all.”

  Cammie nodded, wondering what the hell was in that bag.

  “Now that we’re all together, I’d like to ask you in person. Will you, dear, be my maid of honor?” Delilah blinked back emotion.

  Cammie put on her best game face. “Of course, Delilah, I’d be honored.”

  Delilah hugged her, smothering her in a fog of Chanel. “Oh, my dear, thank you! I’m so happy. My darling husband-to-be is happy.” She pulled back and looked at Marc.

  “And...I’m happy, too!” he added.

  Delilah laughed, her nose twitching like a bunny’s. Turning serious, she gestured to the gift. “To honor this occasion, a special gift to my maid of honor.”

  Cammie flashed on the various tacky “Maid of Honor” tops she’d seen every week, if not daily, at the casino. Ever since that movie Bridesmaids, it seemed every bride-to-be wanted to host her bridal party in Sin City. She’d actually seen tops that read Maid of Honor aka the Bride’s Bitch, and As the maid of honor, your main responsibility is to help me pee without getting my massive dress in the toilet.

  Of course, Delilah had too much class for that.

  Cammie glanced at the older woman’s backpack-size gold purse, decorated with large silver buckles, rhinestones and what appeared to be a cheetah’s face peeking through some jungle foliage.

  “I would have brought a gift for the bride-to-be,” she said, “but I didn’t even know we were celebrating tonight.”

  “Pshaw,” Delilah said, making a dismissive gesture. “This is a spur-of-the-moment event, just the way our wedding date was picked spur of the moment, wasn’t it, my little boo-bear?”

  “Yes, my little kitty doll,” said Frankie.

  “Open it, dear,” Delilah said, waggling her red nails at the bag. “I can’t wait to see how you look in it.”

  Look in it? Maid of Honor aka the Bride’s...

  Cammie extracted a bundle of soft apple-green material. The front of the top was covered with a bunch of sparkly beads, but no sayings. Life was good.

  “It’s lovely,” she murmured.

  “Frankie said it’s your favorite color,” Delilah said.

  “It is.” She looked more closely at the gold, silver and yellow beading on the green mesh overlay. “Is that...Humphrey Bogart?”

  “When Frankie explained your car was named for that private eye Bogie played in the movies,” Delilah said proudly, “I made a pattern of his face from an old movie poster to create this bead design.”

  “The Big Sleep?” Cammie asked.

  “Yes! You recognized it.”

  “Delilah can make anything,” Frankie said to Marc. “That Martha Stewart could take lessons from her!”

  “Stop it, Frankie, you’re embarrassing me.” Delilah beamed at Cammie. “I’d be honored if you wore it to dinner tonight.”

  Cammie blinked, mentally backpedaling. She’d gone from agreeing to going out to dinner to dressing in a beaded number that, based on the light from the coffee-table lamp, seeping through the fabric, was also see-through in parts.

  “I, uh—”

  “Of course she will!” Frankie patted Cammie on the back a little too hard.

  “It’ll look fabulous on you,” Delilah said, picking up her backpack-purse. “Oh, I’m having another wonderful idea! Let’s be girls and play dress-up. I happen to have my makeup bag with me!”

  Breathe, Cammie counseled herself as she headed toward her bedroom, the tap-tap-tap of Delilah’s heels behind her. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to look fine.

  * * *

  SHE LOOKED LIKE HELL.

  As the four of them walked into Piero’s for dinner an hour later, Cammie jumped when she caught her reflection in a mirror. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to wear makeup, it’s that she liked to wear a little. Delilah believed the more, the better. Plus the older woman had insisted on giving Cammie an “upswept hairstyle”—hair piled high, curls cascading down the sides of her face, little flower clips pinned here and there. Cammie was waiting for someone to offer to buy the hanging flower basket on her head.

  Below the neck had its pros and cons.

  She actually liked how Bogie’s—aka Philip Marlowe’s—face sparkled under the lights. And lime-green was her favorite color. It was the view of her not really there cleavage through the sheer chiffon-mesh stuff that made her feel, well, lacking. The corset contraption she wore at work at least made her boobs look as though something could roll off them. But as she didn’t own any push-up bras, and refused to accept Delilah’s offer to “work some magic” with duct tape, the peek-through top didn’t offer much to peek at. At least she’d gotten her way with the rest of her attire. Her favorite black skinny-leg jeans with black patent-leather flats.

  As the maître d’ escorted them to their table, Uncle Frankie explained to Marc that the restaurant was once a favorite dining spot for Tony “The Ant” Spilotro, a mobster who later met his “unfortunate demise,” which Cammie took to mean a shallow unmarked grave somewhere beyond the Extraterrestrial Highway. Half the room turned to look at Frankie as he broadcast the tale. Which was probably why the maître d’ led them to an isolated corner in the far room.

  Fortunately, the lighting was set low at Piero’s. Unfortunately, it created the kind of moody ambiance that encouraged whispered conversations and amorous looks. Which Delilah and Frankie would be doing, of course. Cammie supposed she and Marc might ask each other to pass the salt in low, meaningful tones.

  Of course, if that office luncheon at Snooze was any indication, she’d remember this dinner forever, and he wouldn’t even remember she’d been here. Which didn’t bode well for her ego, considering she was wearing a frightful hairdo and a see-through top. Hell, she could prob
ably strip naked, grab a candle from one of these tables and sing Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire,” and Marc still wouldn’t remember she’d been here.

  Maybe it was time to practice that mental imagery technique Val talked about. Except thinking of Phil wasn’t going to cut it. She mentally gave herself some instructions. When you start thinking of how electrifyingly blue Marc’s eyes are, imagine... She wasn’t sure what that would be, but there had to be something. The blue skies over Sky Pond, a favorite hiking spot in the Rockies. The soft blue in the Nuggets logo. One of those should work.

  Their table was lovely. White linen, shiny silverware, flickering candles. An old Dean Martin hit, “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You,” played over the speakers, a song her mother liked to play when she was feeling particularly maudlin. Her mother would retell stories about Cammie’s father—how they met at a dance, their first date at the movies, how he had black, curly hair like Dean Martin. That’s where you got your black curls, baby. The same stories over and over as the song played again and again.

  Frankie pulled out a chair for Delilah, who cooed and blew a kiss at him as she sat down.

  Cammie reached for her chair.

  “Let me do that,” said Marc, pulling it out for her.

  “Such a gentleman,” murmured Delilah.

  A waiter appeared, handed out menus with a flourish. Minutes later they ordered. Frankie ordered the house specialty, osso buco, for him and Delilah. Cammie ordered fettuccine a modo mio, and Marc, linguine portofino. Frankie ordered a bottle of their best Chianti, and a martini for Delilah.

  “Marc, tell us all about your law practice,” said Delilah.

  While they sipped their drinks and ate their salads, Marc told them about working his way through law school as a hospital orderly, where he did everything from prepping patients for surgery to scrubbing floors. Although his father already had a thriving law practice and was paying Marc’s steep law school tuition, his dad was also paying alimony to three ex-wives, and child support for Marc’s two half siblings. Marc had thought it only fair that he pay for his day-to-day living expenses while in school.

  “I’ve since thought,” Marc said, “that more lawyers should have worked such jobs because they encourage compassion for others less fortunate.”

  “Noble,” murmured Delilah.

  “I know what you mean,” Frankie agreed. “Back when I was still driving taxis, I met people from all walks of life. Taught me compassion for some, except when I got stuck driving some ignoramus yahoo. Pass the salt, kitty love?”

  “And after law school,” Delilah said, handing the shaker to Frankie, “how difficult was the bar exam?”

  “Happy to say I passed on the first try.”

  “Took John Kennedy, Junior—God bless his soul—three times, I heard,” Frankie said.

  “In his favor, the New York bar exam is one of three most difficult exams to pass. The other two being California and Florida, although Massachusetts is no slouch.”

  “After passing the exam, you went to work for your father?” Delilah asked.

  “I could have, I suppose, but at the time we weren’t very close.” He took a sip of his wine. “Instead, I cut my legal teeth at the state public defenders’ office.”

  “You probably met a lot of poor, desperate people,” Frankie commented.

  “Poor, desperate, addicted,” Marc said. “Outcasts. People who’d fallen through the world’s cracks.”

  “Few are willing to help those less fortunate. World needs more people like you.” Delilah nibbled an olive off a swizzle stick. “Caring and smart and so very handsome.”

  Cammie quietly munched on her salad. She was playing nice, but having to listen to the Let’s Put Marc on a Pedestal show was wearing a little thin. She felt like saying, Enough already, I know the man possesses charm and brains and looks in abundance! That’s not the problem. He doesn’t think I rank all that high in those categories.

  No, she took that back. He gave her credit for brains. And she liked to think she occasionally exercised charm. But until she got this bird’s nest off her head, forget the looks department. Although...he had made that comment earlier today about her being a pretty P.I. with long legs.

  She studied his face as he spoke. Even in this subdued lighting, she caught flecks of hidden light in those blue eyes. And had she ever before noticed how thick and long his eyelashes were? He still wore the hemp shirt and pants, which told her he’d come straight to her uncle’s after the invitation. The stronger scent of apple cider also told her he’d taken the time to splash on more cologne.

  For a pretty P.I. with long legs?

  Reel it in, Cam. She poked a fork into her half-eaten salad. That kind of wishful thinking made you miserable back in Denver, remember? He’s here in Vegas because he wants you to work for him, nothing more. That’s what you were, what you always will be—a business associate.

  “Tell us about one of your big cases,” prodded Delilah. “Did you ever have one like those on Law and Order?”

  “Want to share one of the cases we worked on?” Marc asked Cammie.

  “Nope.” She reached for another slice of garlic bread.

  Marc stared at her for a moment, then turned his attention to Delilah. “One time I defended a dog owner who’d been charged with possessing a dangerous animal because it had bitten a cable-TV repairman who’d crawled, unannounced, over the owner’s fence. The D.A. sought to have the owner fined and the dog destroyed.”

  “Oh, that poor animal!” Delilah exclaimed, clutching Frankie’s hand. “What kind of dog was it?”

  “Golden retriever,” Marc answered.

  “Oh, how sad!” She took a fortifying sip of her martini.

  “Those are good dogs,” added Frankie. “Lived next door to one years ago. Dog barked up a storm, but didn’t have a mean bone in its body. Name was Santo.” He brushed a knuckle lightly across Delilah’s chin. “That means saint, baby.”

  After they briefly kissed, Delilah looked at Marc. “Please tell us you saved that dog’s life.”

  “After refusing to accept the D.A.’s deal, the case went to trial. In my closing argument to the jury, I showed pictures of the dog as a puppy, and told how the dog had once pulled an infant child from the shallow waters of a backyard pool. Even the judge was brought to tears. Jury deliberated all of five minutes. Verdict—not guilty.” He paused. “To this day, I still get a Christmas card from that owner with a picture of the dog and the child on Santa’s lap.”

  “You’re a santo, too.” Delilah dabbed at the corner of her eye.

  Cammie downed the rest of her glass of wine, wondering what else Saint Marc would share.

  “That dog taught me a lot about life, Delilah,” Marc said.

  Obviously, she wasn’t going to have to wait long.

  “Loyalty, integrity, commitment,” he continued. “After that case, I decided to give back to animals in need. I now provide pro bono services to Max Fund, a no-kill shelter in Denver.”

  This was getting deep, fast. Cammie reached for the bottle of wine.

  “No,” Marc said gently, “let me get that for you.”

  As Delilah and Frankie canoodled some more, Marc filled Cammie’s glass. “Shame you left when you did,” he said quietly, “because I could have used a top-notch investigator such as yourself on a case with Max Fund.”

  “That’s me, top-notch investigator.” She took a sip.

  “Speaking of animal stories,” Frankie said, a fresh lipstick smudge on his chin, “how’s that cat you’re helping?”

  “Cat?” Delilah daubed at the smudge with her napkin. “But dear, you’re allergic to kitty cats.”

  “Nah, it’s been hanging around the back of the casino, right, Camilla?”

  Cammie brushed a wayward curl out of her face. “Val a
nd I have been bringing her scraps, and today I brought some cans of food. But it’s time to find out if she has owners in the area. Figured I’d take her to the vet clinic tomorrow, see if she had one of those chips in her head.”

  A determined look crossed Delilah’s face. “Dear, if you can’t find an owner for the cat, I’ll take it in. My little Maltipoo and kitty will be fine. I can keep her in the back room.” She stroked Frankie’s hand. “We’re never near that room, sweetheart, so your allergies won’t act up.”

  While the lovebirds whispered some more conspiratorial sweet nothings, Marc leaned closer to Cammie.

  “Is something wrong?” he whispered.

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay, yes.”

  After a beat, he asked, “Is it what I said in the car earlier today?”

  She imagined a Nuggets jersey in her mind. A softer, muted blue unlike the explosive blue of Marc’s eyes, which were actually filled with confusion and regret at the moment. No, probably just confusion. The regret was more wishful thinking.

  “Let me take you to the vet appointment tomorrow,” he whispered. “After all, you can’t hold a cat and drive at the same time.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can do while driving. Remember the Housewright case? I took exceptional video footage while driving eighty-five miles an hour.”

  “Of course I remember. Your documentation broke the case—”

  “That’s me, all right. Private eye extraordinaire. I break cases, but never hearts.”

  “What’s that supposed—”

  “Wonderful! Dinner’s here,” cooed Delilah, pulling away from kissy-face with Frankie.

  A few minutes into eating the main dish, Marc said, “I have an announcement.”

  In the moment of silence as everyone stopped eating, Frank Sinatra crooned over the speakers.

  Marc turned slightly to Cammie. “I know you’re currently...unable to work as a private investigator in Nevada until your license is reinstated.”

  “But we’re not discussing particulars,” Frankie said.

  Marc nodded politely. “However, Cammie, the case I mentioned to you? The one where I’d like you to conduct a locate, which might include some field work?”