“I suppose you’re right. Frankie said the appointment’s at two, and it’s not very far from here, which leaves me a few minutes to—” he reached in the open passenger window and retrieved a small pink cardboard box off the seat “—give you this gift.”
“What is it?”
“Open it and see for yourself.”
She peeked inside. “Doughnuts!”
“From Ronald’s Doughnuts. Em found it—place is run by Buddhists, and 80 percent of their doughnuts are vegan. She insisted we buy you a few of those, but the honey glazed are the real deal. Hope these make you forget the ones you miss at Snooze.” He returned her appreciative smile. “Some things I remember.”
“Can’t believe you did this.”
“I’m trying to be sweet. How am I doing?”
“Quite well.” She lifted out a doughnut. “I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”
“Go for it.”
She flicked her tongue on the icing and emitted a small groan. “Tastes like honey.”
“That’s one of the honey glazed.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to get their apple fritters, but I wasn’t sure...”
Of what he had no idea. Hell, watching her take a slow, nibbling bite, he wasn’t even sure of his own name. With her eyes closed, she pursed and puckered her lips, then chewed slowly, methodically, while a low-throttled sound of pleasure emanated from somewhere deep within her.
Blowing out a puff of pent-up air, he shoved his hands into his pockets and watched her run the tip of her pink tongue around her lips before taking another smacking bite. She didn’t look at him, didn’t comment on how tasty it was, she just ate, caught up in a glazed world where nothing existed but her and that doughnut.
It was almost indecent to watch.
His gaze dropped to her T-shirt and the rosy tips that pressed through the thin material.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Best to not look at her at all. With affected nonchalance, he glanced around, forced himself to think about the Broncos and whether they would ever win the Super Bowl again. Was Elway out of his mind to ditch Tebow for Manning?
Was Marc out of his mind to not have realized before now that Cammie was an exciting, attractive woman? And to think last night when she’d asked him if he’d ever had feelings for her, he’d answered no.
“Yes,” she murmured.
Taken aback, he looked at her. She was licking her fingers. Her sugary, honey-glazed fingers.
“Yes?” he repeated.
“Yes, I accept your job offer, but I was ready to say that before being bribed with doughnuts.”
“Then give me back that box,” he teased, reaching for it.
“No!” With a laugh, she fell against the side of the car, clutching the box to her chest.
“I said give it to me,” he growled, stepping closer.
Grinning, she thrust the box over her head. “And I said no!”
He caught a whiff of her almond lotion. “You know I could take them from you.”
Winds feathered her hair. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You and what army?”
He stretched out his arms and, in a flash of movement, circled both wrists with one hand while snatching the box with the other, then set the box on top of the car.
Standing there, the two of them sharing ragged breaths, he pressed even closer, shackling her taut body with the mass of his own. Her long legs intertwined with his. Her soft breasts yielded against his chest.
“Cammie,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back and drawing her to him.
Her arms dropped around his neck. Her hot face brushed his cheek. Red-hot urges blasted through him at the feel of her body pressed against his, the scents of honey and almonds, the puffs of her warm breaths on his ear.
If he hadn’t been attracted before, he hadn’t been paying attention.
Hanging on to his last shred of lucidity, he pulled back his head and looked at the sky. Was vaguely aware of the splintered sunlight through the swaying fronds, the hum of traffic, the unintelligible chatter of people walking through the lot.
He was acting like a fool, an adolescent instead of a man. Clumsy and greedy. He was Mr. Cool, who always strategized the game plan, stayed in control. Pinning Cammie against his car in broad daylight was sheer juvenile madness.
He looked at her.
She appeared dazed, a little bewildered. The sunlight pierced her wide-open green eyes, sparking hidden flecks of gold.
Stepping back, his words rumbled up from his chest. “I’m sorry.”
Her arms dropped limply to her sides. She nodded once, slowly.
“We need to get to the vet appointment,” he muttered, smoothing his palms along the sides of his jeans.
She stood there, looking confused. Her lips parted.
“What?” he prodded.
“Those are some doughnuts,” she murmured.
* * *
ON THE DRIVE TO THE VET’S, Marc and Cammie didn’t talk about what had happened in the parking lot. Instead they sat quietly, listening to a local jazz station on the radio, punctuated with mewls and cries from Trazy. Cammie was feigning cool on the outside, but inside she was one with that cat. The near meltdown in the parking lot had her internally mewling for more.
But as she listened to Billie Holiday croon “All or Nothing At All,” she was also glad nothing more had happened. She’d already been through a similarly hot interlude with Marc two years ago. Hot stuff happened, and then he acted as though it never had. Except this time he could never claim he didn’t remember.
It crossed her mind that maybe he behaved this way with random women and thought nothing of it. But it was too cliché, too convenient, to slap a label of Neanderthal on a guy like Marc.
Whatever had happened, obviously he didn’t want to talk about it, and truth be told, neither did she. Especially as she’d accepted the job, it was wise to get down to business and not mix pleasure into it. Wading into gray zones—legal or romantic—could only cause problems.
At the vet’s, they learned Trazy didn’t have a chip, so the cat was officially ownerless. On the drive to the Shamrock Palace, Cammie called Delilah, who was delighted to take Trazy into her home. Cammie said she’d drop off the cat at the gift shop.
After that, she told Marc how she’d invited Emily to visit Dignity House that night. “That’s okay with you, right?”
“I think so, but tell me a little more about the place.”
“It’s a nonprofit residential facility, mostly privately funded, but there are some state grants to offset the costs, similar to foster care. There are always at least two adults to supervise twelve to fourteen girls.”
“You mentioned that it was mostly court-ordered kids,” he said. “Any dangerous offenders?”
“Dignity House isn’t juvenile detention. These girls are troubled. Or they’re troublemakers. But they aren’t hard-core. This facility is a chance for them to get their act together.”
He seemed pleased, agreed to drop her off around six. “It’ll be good for Emily to be around other teenagers who aren’t pampered and spoiled.”
His words struck her as a harsh assessment of Emily’s friends. Did he also view Emily as being that way? Cammie had gotten to know a different girl, one whose feelings—especially the hurt over her fractured family—ran deep.
She debated whether or not to share some of the things Emily had said—her angst about her mother, the impending fourth marriage, her worries over Marc—but decided it wasn’t her place to be in the middle. When the opportunity presented itself, she’d encourage Emily to open up to her dad.
When Marc parked in the Shamrock Palace lot, he turned off the ignition and turned to Cammie.
“I’m only in Vegas for a few days,” he said
, all businesslike. “We need to move fast on this case. I’d like to meet as soon as possible to go over leads to Gwen’s whereabouts.”
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Promised Delilah I’d meet her to try on bridal gear.”
“Afterward?”
“That works. I’ll give you a call when we’re wrapping up.”
As she exited the passenger side, Marc got out of the car, too. He walked around to meet her.
“I’ll bring the carrier inside.” He retrieved the pink box and handed it to her. “Don’t forget these.”
How could she?
They walked through the casino, surrounded by jangling slot machines and people whooping and groaning, depending on whether they were winning or losing, at the gaming tables. As they entered Winning Gifts, Delilah’s gift shop, they found Emily sitting behind the counter, wrestling with a pair of knitting needles and a wad of yarn. Next to her, Delilah sat with her own needles and yarn, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Tighten slightly, dear,” Delilah instructed. “That’s right. Now— Oh, hello!”
Marc set the carrier on the end of the counter. “Here’s your new family member.”
“Wonderful!” Delilah stood and peered inside the crate door. “Welcome to the family, Miss Trazy. I’ll be escorting you to your new home shortly.”
Emily held up a needle with a row of uneven stitches. “My first knitting project! Aunt Del gave me this organic yarn, which is veggie-dyed. Isn’t that cool? It’s called Pakucho, and it’s from Peru.”
Aunt Del? Even Cammie didn’t call her that, although technically Delilah would be her aunt in a matter of weeks. Obviously the older woman and Emily had bonded quickly.
“That’s great, Em,” Marc said quietly.
Cammie couldn’t interpret the look on Marc’s face, which seemed downcast yet tender.
Emily looked at the pink box Cammie was holding. “How’d you like the doughnuts?”
“Good,” Cammie snapped.
“Fine,” Marc said at the same time.
Emily, oblivious to their curt responses, continued chattering. “I found Ronald’s Doughnuts on the internet when I looked up vegan doughnuts. Did you know they’ve been voted best doughnuts in Las Vegas several times and that people travel from other states, even other countries, just to buy their stuff? I got a Boston cream vegan when we picked up your gift, and it was delish!” Emily opened the box. “Oh, the vegan ones are still here. Cammie, want to try one?”
“No.” Her gaze swept past Marc, Delilah and Emily, and back to the box. “I mean, maybe later,” she mumbled, “when I’m alone.”
After giving Cammie a questioning look, Delilah turned to Marc. “I invited Emily to join Cammie and me tomorrow morning while she and I try on dresses for the wedding. Is that all right with you?”
“Certainly.”
“Only problem is, as much as I’d love to pick up your lovely daughter at your hotel, I live at the other end of town. Would it be too much trouble for you to drop her off?”
“No problem.”
“Wonderful!” Delilah smiled so broadly, Cammie swore she could count every tooth.
Marc looked at Cammie. “I could find a coffee shop nearby, wait there until you’re through.”
Delilah perked up. “Oh! You two are getting together tomorrow?”
“Just for a meeting,” Cammie said abruptly.
“Meeting,” Marc echoed, nodding his head.
“Wonderful! You know, Bergstrom’s Bridals is in a renovated Victorian home. Very quaint, with an elegant sitting area where everyone sips champagne and eats French pastries. Much better to wait there than at some stuffy old coffee shop.”
Cammie picked up on where this was going. “He wants to drink coffee, not champagne—”
“Oh, there’s coffee, too, dear. Plus, there’ll be plenty of time for you two to meet, both while I’m conferring with Mr. Bergstrom and in between your dress fittings.”
You’re not my mother.
The words bubbled up so quickly inside Cammie, it took her a moment to mentally catch up. Of course Delilah wasn’t her mother. In fact, Cammie couldn’t think of once that she’d ever compared Delilah to her mom.
But this wasn’t about her mother—it was about not sharing this event, the kind mothers and daughters should share together. Until this moment, Cammie hadn’t realized that some secret part of her wished her mother had lived to participate in such life passages. Wished that tomorrow morning she’d be meeting her mom at that bridal salon, the two of them giggling over silly princess dresses, when instead she’d be meeting Delilah and acting serious. Or trying to.
It wasn’t fair or rational to resent Delilah for that, but Cammie did.
On the other hand, it was absolutely fair to resent the older woman for creating yet another trumped-up reason for her and Marc to meet in a romantic place. Cammie could try to put a halt to this, but that would be about as useful as yelling stop at a locomotive barreling downhill with no brakes. Easier to simply accept that there would be ridiculous matchmaking activities over the next few days and to ignore them.
“I need to go,” Cammie said, picking up the box of doughnuts. “I’m submitting my resignation today at the Shamrock.”
“Oh?” Delilah looked very interested.
“Yes, I’ve accepted Marc’s job offer.”
Before Delilah could emit another “Wonderful!” Cammie quickly continued, “Emily, your dad will be dropping you off at Dignity House around six.”
The girl clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”
* * *
THAT NIGHT AT DIGNITY HOUSE, Takira kept trying to lead the girls in another Dinki Mini dance, claiming she needed to practice it for the school talent show. Cammie countered that unless the public school system was now staging burlesque shows, Takira wasn’t performing the Dinki Mini there or here, and if the girls didn’t start opening their books, study hour would end at eight instead of six.
After some grumbling and looks, the girls settled into their studying. Except for Amber aka Daearen, whose nose had been in her social studies book the entire time. Cammie had asked her a few questions to get the girl to open up, but Amber only offered monosyllabic answers, if that.
At six o’clock, one of the resident counselors, a prematurely gray thirtysomething with earnest eyes, joined them and herded the girls to the kitchen. Volunteers like Cammie often worked study hour by themselves; otherwise there were always two adults on the premises. Posted in every room was also the phone number for an on-call nurse.
While waiting for Marc and Emily’s arrival, Cammie sat on the porch in a white plastic chair, watching the winds torment a couple of trees across the street. Dignity House sat on a couple of acres with no other houses in the immediate vicinity. The isolation was a good thing. Most neighborhoods aren’t thrilled to have a facility like this next door.
From the porch, Cammie looked to the west, across a wide, flat, dull-colored landscape of scrub and juniper, to the jagged outline of rocky foothills. In the distance, she could see the snow-covered peak of Mount Potosi. She hadn’t done a lot of exploring outside Las Vegas, but Frankie had told her that the town of Pahrump was in this direction. She’d like to go there. Mainly because saying “Pahrump” made her grin. And the town was the site of the famous Chicken Ranch, a legendary brothel. Pahrump might have some interesting stories to tell.
The strong gusts of warm air made her skin itchy. Or maybe it was being a P.I. again.
Each investigation was like taking a road trip. You knew the destination, but nobody handed you a map for how to get there. Sometimes you bounced over a clue before realizing its importance, other times you ran smack into a dead end. Good news or bad, you kept moving forward—or what you hoped was
forward—to find the answer.
When she’d worked at Hamilton & Hamilton, she knew Gwen well enough to say “Good morning,” “Have a good night” and “Are the checks ready?” Otherwise, they didn’t talk. Cammie dredged her memories for any recollections of photos or mementos on Gwen’s desk. She’d often seen a lipstick-stained coffee cup with a logo of a chicken on a skateboard, which had always struck Cammie as odd because Gwen didn’t have much of a sense of humor. There were no pictures of family, not even of Marc. A large mirror. Of course.
Otherwise the desk had always been neat. Immaculate, even. Like somebody who hadn’t planned on staying long?
The Prius parked at the curb. Marc and Emily exited, the breezes fussing with Marc’s hair. Emily, smart girl, wore hers in a long braid.
He wore the same blue T-shirt and jeans that he’d worn that afternoon. She swore she could still smell his apple-cider scent, feel the hard contours of his body pressed against hers, see that look of need in his eyes.
Damn those doughnuts anyway.
“Hi.” Marc stepped onto the porch, dragging his hand through his mussed hair. “Winds are picking up.”
“Locals say it’s only windy in the fall and spring, and after that, the rest of the year.” She mentally congratulated herself on sounding upbeat and pretty darn near close to normal.
“That’s why the Indians named this place Las Vegas,” he said. “It means ‘hold on to your hats.’”
“I didn’t know that,” she said.
“Made it up.” He winked.
“Huh.” She’d never seen him wink before. Seemed they were both trying to be their best light-and-bright selves.
“Good to see you, Emily.” Cammie peeked in the fabric bag the girl carried. “Wow, look at all that food!”
“We picked up some extra things at the organic market,” she said proudly.
“Cool. Everybody’s in the kitchen. Follow me.”
The kitchen was at the rear of the house. It was a large room, the result of combining the original much smaller kitchen and a glassed-in patio. In its former life, the tri-level house had been a men’s room-and-board residence, and the proprietress and her family had cooked meals back here. As Dignity House, the girls and staff together cooked all meals, a task meant to foster the mission statement posted on various walls—community, responsibility and leadership.
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 13