The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance)

by Collins, Colleen

  Of course not. If he had, he would have been stepping into his own gray area about her. A place he stood now. Not a boss, not a lover, but somewhere in between. He didn’t like it. Made him feel out of control—the last thing he should be feeling with so much at stake right now.

  Fortunately, he’d be leaving in a few days and didn’t need to figure all this out. Until then, he would try to put his feelings on ice and stay focused on why he was here—to find Gwen.

  “Walk around, see how it feels,” Mr. Bergstrom instructed Cammie. “I’ll be in the back selecting another dress for Delilah.”

  Alone with Marc, Cammie said, “Can you believe Delilah wants me to wear this? I look like Little Red Riding Hood gone bad.”

  He picked up the sheet of paper, pretended to scan it. “Very bad,” he murmured.

  “Look at this slit!” Cammie turned to the side and stuck out her leg, her foot in a sneaker. “Do you know it goes all the way up to here?” She pointed at her hip as though he might not see exactly where the slit ended.

  He glanced up then back down to the paper. “Disgraceful.”

  “And red!” Cammie gestured at her tightly wrapped self as though Marc might have missed the flaming color. “She’ll be in ivory or peach and I’ll be in red? What happened to the sugarplum-fairy dress or whatever it’s called that she wanted me to wear? Red is for harlots and roosters.”

  “Well, you hardly look like a roost—”

  Cammie cut him off with a loud gasp, her hands held high in a stop-the-presses gesture.

  “Rooster! That’s it!” Waggling her fingers in front of her, she stepped off the stage and toward him. “Need my smartphone.”

  With every move, the material shimmied and the plunging neckline teased. When she sat next to him, a long, toned leg escaped the slit.

  He reminded himself, again, he needed to put his feelings on ice. Big buckets of it.

  Her fingers flew over the keypad of her phone. “That rooster was riding a surfboard.”

  “What rooster?”

  “The one on the coffee cup that was always on Gwen’s desk. Remember?” She glanced at the paper in his hands. “How can you read that?”

  “What?”

  “The report. It’s upside down.” As he turned it around, she went back to typing. “Anyway, you said she and her girlfriends like to bodysurf. I recalled the rooster on some type of board, and I’ll bet my favorite autographed Nuggets baseball cap that it’s a surfboard.”

  “It was fairly new. Didn’t have any chips or cracks.”

  “Which tells us she got it recently—” She stilled. “Well, lookie lookie.”

  He glanced at the screen, saw a picture of a rooster on a surfboard. “It’s a brand.”

  “For a restaurant in San Clemente, California. The Surfing Rooster. Established 2011, which corroborates the cup looking fairly new. She either lived in or visited San Clemente right before she moved to Denver.”

  “Could be a gift.”

  “Could be, which still says to me that the location is significant.” Beaming, she held up her hand. “Give me five, baby! I nailed the city.”

  He slapped his palm against hers.

  “I have an idea how to find out her real name. Remember how Gwen liked to refer to herself as Swagtastic?”

  “I’ve tried to forget.”

  “I’m going to pretext The Surfing Rooster—”

  “I know private investigators rely on pretexting, or fabrications, Cammie, but I’m not wild about it.”

  She leveled him a look. “Marc, please, this is legit. If I were to pretext for financial information, or pretend to be a lawyer or cop, that’d be illegal. All I’m doing is fishing for a name, and if it makes you uncomfortable, go stand across the room.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” he murmured.

  “This will take me a minute. Need to punch in a spoof number so it appears I’m calling from that area code.” Cammie punched in a series of numbers, then waited.

  “Oh, hello!” she said, in a kinda-dumb, California beach-babe voice. “Is this The Surfing Rooster? Far out. I’ve done, like, the silliest thing. Told Swagtastic I’d meet her there, but I’m, like, running late and her cell’s broken. She there? S-w-a-g-t-a-s-t-i-c. Uh-huh. Nuh-huh. Okay. Peace out, man.”

  She ended the call.

  “Peace out, man?”

  Cammie slanted him a look. “That was me going undercover with my voice. Figured it’d work well for a Southern Cal chick.”

  “Word.”

  She broke into a grin. “You got it, dude.” Turning serious, she continued, “He had no idea who Swagtastic is, but he’s only been working there a few weeks. Said there were a couple of customers in the place, but they were guys.” Cammie typed on the keypad. “Let’s do a reverse on Swagtastic on the internet, see what pops up.” She scrolled through several screens. “Seems dozens, if not hundreds, of people like referring to themselves as Swagtastic. It’d take me forever to follow up on all these references.” She looked at Marc. “The convertible she drove—what kind was it?”

  “Mustang GT.”

  “Year?”

  “Two thousand six.”

  “I doubt she’d still be driving it. Better to sell the car and buy a new one than risk being tracked.” She tippy-tapped on the keypad. “Let’s run a reverse on that make of car, see if an ad pops up.” After a few moments, she gave him a look. “Bingo. There’s a Craigslist ad for the exact same car three months ago. Seller was based...drum roll, please...in San Clemente.”

  He grinned back. “You’re good.”

  “Word. Good ol’ Craigslist provided a cell-phone number in this ad. I’ll submit it to a telecom database, see what name it’s registered to.” Within seconds, Cammie said, “Ta-da. Laura McDonald, San Clemente, California.”

  “Laura McDonald,” he repeated. “Sounds so...normal.”

  “Yeah, I had fantasies of her name being Natasha or Cruella. Now let’s run her real name in the county assessor database for San Clemente.” After another short wait, Cammie put down her smartphone and flashed a Cheshire-cat smile. “Laura McDonald has owned a home in San Clemente since 2009. According to tax assessor data, she didn’t live there throughout 2011—which we know is the year she lived in Denver—but is now receiving mail in San Clemente again.”

  He shuddered as a chill passed through him. The truth felt as good as it felt bad. They’d found her, and now he had the key to proving his innocence and salvaging his father’s freedom. But it disgusted him to realize that he’d loved a woman who was a shadow, and that this stranger carried his child.

  “San Clemente is a four- to five-hour drive from here,” Cammie continued. “If we leave soon, we can be there and back by midnight.”

  “That’s if she’s home.”

  “It’s Tuesday. Most people take off on weekends.”

  “I only have one thing to add to that.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s driving first?”

  * * *

  IT TOOK MARC FIVE MINUTES to write the subpoena, another five to print the papers on Mr. Bergstrom’s printer. After making arrangements for Emily to stay with Delilah, Cammie and Marc were on Interstate 15, heading west to California by 11:00 a.m.

  By two that afternoon, they’d driven past Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino, which advertised the world’s only buffalo-shaped swimming pool, and Peggy Sue’s 50’s Diner in Yermo, California, which advertised the Buddy Holly Bacon Cheeseburger and the Mickey Mouse Club Sandwich. Along the way, Cammie ran several criminal checks on Laura McDonald, and learned the Spanx-wearing Cameron Diaz lookalike had an impressive rap sheet—theft, third-degree assault, several DUIs, time in the county jail and violation of a restraining order.

  “Theft is no surprise,” Cammie
said. “Wonder what she did to pick up that third-degree-assault charge. Did she ever drink and try to pick a fight?”

  “The opposite. She had me convinced that she was sweet as honey and delicate as a violet. Obviously, she was on good behavior when she was with me. After all, my law firm was a theft in progress. But that assault charge accounts for the stint in county jail.”

  After a pause, Cammie said quietly, “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you’ve been through.”

  He tapped the wheel with his forefinger, a look of intense speculation on his face. “I can chalk up my life’s mistakes to lessons I needed to learn, but...” He slowly shook his head. “There’s an innocent baby mixed up in all this. I’m going to fight for custody of that child—and I’m going to win.”

  For a while after that, they drove in silence with Cammie biting her tongue to keep from telling Marc that the baby might not be his. His completely mistaken impression of Gwen as an adorable blonde innocent was enough for him to deal with at the moment. He didn’t need to be clobbered with the additional news that she’d cheated on him.

  Of course, it hadn’t worked out so well the last time she withheld information from him—hiding the fact that her license had been suspended—but that issue had been a fact, something between she and Marc. The news about Gwen’s philandering, and the baby, was wrought with painful questions and betrayal—at the moment, she wanted to spare Marc that emotional minefield.

  But she wasn’t so naive to think she could avoid the issue for much longer.

  Around 3:40, they drove through Riverside, California, and its famous Mission Inn, which boasted such visitors as Humphrey Bogart, John F. Kennedy and Harry Houdini. Around five o’clock, they rolled into San Clemente, with its breezy ocean air, wisps of fog and Spanish Colonial architecture.

  On the drive, she’d looked up directions to The Surfing Rooster, and gave instructions to Marc. Rather than show up at the place and possibly run into Laura McDonald, they parked across the street at the drive-through restaurant Mr. Taco’s, where they noshed on chips and salsa while watching the comings and goings at The Surfing Rooster, a food stand with a giant surfing rooster on its roof. Seating consisted of several outdoor picnic tables.

  “According to MapQuest,” Cammie said, “Laura McDonald’s home is up in the hills above Interstate 5. Shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes to get there.”

  Nodding, Marc rubbed his neck.

  “Keep the motor running so we can take off as soon as I get back to the car.”

  “I’m going to the door with you.”

  “You’re the plaintiff. You can’t serve the lawsuit.”

  “I know that, Cammie. I just don’t want you going to her door alone.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Look, I’m going to pull my hair back in a bun and wear my sunglasses. She won’t recognize me. And we rarely spoke at the law firm, so I seriously doubt she’ll remember my voice, especially as I’ll be saying these four words—Laura McDonald, you’re served. But if you’re standing there, she’ll put two and two together and know she’s being hit with a lawsuit. That’d be the moment she’d go for another third-degree-assault charge.”

  He examined her face with amused tolerance. “Point taken.”

  “But I also know you wanted an opportunity to negotiate a possible settlement with her. So here’s our plan. If she seems relatively calm, I’ll cue you to join me at the door.”

  “What’s the cue?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “We’ll call each other on our cell phones before I get out of the car. My phone will be in here—” She pointed to the pocket on her T-shirt. “This material is thin enough that you’ll be able to hear anything I say. Cue will be the word...rooster.”

  “I hear the word rooster, I head to the door.”

  “Right.”

  A shadow darkened his features. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Marc parked across the street from a fifties-style, flat-roof house perched on the hillside with a view of the Pacific Ocean. An arched wooden gate led to a courtyard, the only entrance to the home. To the right of the gate was a driveway leading to a two-car garage.

  “Someone’s been home recently,” Cammie said, securing her long hair into a knot with a rubber band.

  “How can you tell?”

  “In the driveway, see the tire tracks in the dirt?”

  He squinted. “Barely.”

  “With the garage door closed, it indicates someone probably recently backed out a car. Not necessarily Laura, though.”

  He nodded, his blue eyes turning frosty. “Boyfriend. Or husband.”

  She hadn’t wanted to bring up that possibility.

  “I know we agreed you’d walk to the front door by yourself,” he said, “but I don’t like that I can’t see you in that courtyard.”

  She punched in his cell number. “Remember I’ll have my phone in my pocket, turned on, so you can hear everything that’s said.”

  His phone rang. He punched the talk button. “We need a cue word for trouble.”

  “Okay, how about...Tolstoy?”

  He smiled. “Emily can never know.”

  After dropping her cell in her pocket, she put on her sunglasses and stuck the folded papers into a pants pocket. “I’m heading up there now.”

  “I’ll be listening. And, Cammie...”

  She had her hand on the door handle. “Yes?”

  “No wading into gray areas.”

  “Marc?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  After exiting the car, she walked briskly toward the gate. Over the years, she’d learned it was smart to work fast when conducting process services, and to keep the papers out of view until the last moment so as to not alert the person what was coming.

  The wooden gate creaked as she opened it. She tried to leave it slightly ajar so she could quickly exit, but the heavy gate shut with a solid thud. She walked past a pond with fat golden koi fish surrounded by manicured bonsai trees. Cyprus trees scented the air with a sage-woodsy scent. Laura McDonald lived in a nice place. Cammie had to wonder why Laura would invest the time and effort to romance Marc and pull off such a risky scam for a mere thirty thousand dollars.

  She punched the doorbell once, twice.

  No answer.

  She knocked loudly.

  No answer.

  Cammie stood, listening carefully. Didn’t hear voices, no sounds of TV or music. Not even a dog barking.

  She stepped off the porch and onto a rock-strewn path that curled around expansive plate-glass windows. Stepping off the path and over a small hedge, she cupped her hands around her eyes and looked inside the house. Teak furniture, oriental rugs, a painting of a beach scene over a fireplace. The woman who called herself Swagtastic had expensive taste. On a coffee table were two coffee cups—one with lipstick marks—and several dirty plates.

  Laura McDonald lived with someone.

  Cammie retraced her steps to the car and climbed inside.

  “Nobody home,” Marc said.

  “That’s right.” She retrieved her phone and turned it off.

  “See any signs of people being recently there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  She didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t want to hurt him by describing the two coffee cups. Sure, Marc had already mentioned there might be a boyfriend or husband in the picture, but intellectually understanding something didn’t mean a person was emotionally ready for it.

  And, after all, he’d been engaged to Laura-Gwen. He’d loved her. He might still love her.

  “There were...some dirty dishes,” she said casually, “so someone
is around.”

  She hadn’t lied. In fact, it was technically the truth. But leaving out significant details—that there were two cups, two sets of plates—felt bad because, in an attempt to spare his heart, she’d waded into its gray area. At least she hadn’t promised not to go there.

  * * *

  OVER THE NEXT HOUR AND A HALF, they returned twice more to the house. Both times, nobody was home.

  “It’s almost seven,” Cammie said. “I’m thinking that she’s out for the evening.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Rather than driving back and forth, which can be a problem if neighbors start noticing, I activated a motion detector program on my smartphone and left it on a corner of the window ledge.”

  He blinked. “You sound like that sleuth and her electronic gadgets in that old TV show The Avengers.”

  “You’re a fan of that show, too?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Peel.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Steed. Let’s take off. I’m starved.”

  He frowned. “Shouldn’t you have left the phone near the front door?”

  “There might be an entrance to the home from inside the garage. I figure she’ll pick up those dirty dishes after she gets in, which are close enough to the window to trigger the motion sensor. The phone will take fifteen seconds of video and send it as an attachment to your email.”

  “But won’t she notice your smartphone when the camera light goes on?”

  “Turned it off. Figured there’d be enough light inside to see her.” As they drove off, she asked, “Did Gwen like to stay out late?”

  “Always. She’d complain if we got home before ten.”

  “We shouldn’t serve her papers that late. People tend to get squirrely when their doorbell rings after nine or ten at night.”

  He puffed out a breath. “This is becoming a long day. If—and that’s a big if—we serve her by ten, we wouldn’t get back to Vegas until 3:00 a.m. I vote for our finding a few rooms at a motel.”

  “Good idea. If the motion detector alerts us that she’s home at midnight, we’ll show up on her doorstep around seven tomorrow morning.”