The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (4 page)

“Found me working as a dealer,” she finally finished for him, her voice barely a whisper.

“Well, I was surprised,” he said, dragging his gaze back to hers. “I mean, are you...one of the, uh, performers?”

She laughed. “You really think— Oh,
no
. Not Cher, not that, not ever. I’d rather poke a stick in
both
eyes.”

“Cher?”

“You said you needed me,” she said quickly, “for an investigative assignment. It’s just that right now I’m—”

“Moonlighting,” he said, nodding knowingly.

One thing about trial lawyers, they always spoke as though they knew the answer. Even when bluffing in court, which was much of the time, they acted as though their words were the absolute, undeniable, undisputed truth.

She’d roll with it. Then she wouldn’t have to explain the mess she’d gotten into with her Nevada license.

“You’re right,” she said forced-brightly. “I’m moonlighting. But as to your investigation needs, there’s a lot of good P.I.’s in Denver. Figured you’d have used some of them this past year.”

“I have,” he said quickly, “but the person I need to find is in this area.”

Wasn’t this the boss who’d once said she was the best investigator he’d ever worked with? That he was so offhanded about using other P.I.’s since she’d left felt, oh, bad. And that he was only here, talking to her, because he didn’t know any other P.I.’s in this area felt, oh, worse.

She rolled her shoulders as much as the sadistically tight straps on the corset allowed. “A good P.I. can conduct research from anywhere,” she said matter-of-factly. “If they need to do some footwork in a remote area, they contact other qualified P.I.’s located there. If they don’t know anyone, they can ask around for references.”

“I know that, but...you’re the best.”

Okay, she felt better.

But how ironic that the very skills he’d once chided her for, threatened termination over, were the very same ones he apparently traveled all this way to ask for again. The guy had no idea what that threat had cost her. How she’d left behind her life, her friends, everything she’d ever known, even her mother’s grave to relocate to a strange town. Her uncle had insisted she stay with him, save money while she earned her Nevada license and built her P.I. business. Things had been going well until the GPS disaster crashed everything.

Now here she was, stuck in the Cave, dealing with losers who wanted to be winners, yet again paying her dues, biding her time, waiting to regain the very thing she’d once had, and lost.

The bottled pain, hurt and losses rolled hot and angry from deep inside and out her mouth before her better, wiser self could intervene.

“Screw you, Marc. You’ve never cared about the people who’re on your side. It’s all about you. What
you
want, what
you
need, how
your
world is hurting. You’re clueless, damn it,
clueless.
”

She turned and walked away.

CHAPTER THREE

S
TUNNED
, M
ARC
WATCHED
C
AMMIE
totter away at a glacial pace on those sky-high heels.

What the hell had that outburst been about?

He thought back, trying to nail whatever he’d said that had triggered that meltdown. Yes, they had some unresolved history, but hadn’t he admitted as much? And that clueless crack—clueless about what? If he correctly recalled, he’d actually said she was the best investigator he’d ever had right before she snapped.

Women.

If he understood them better, he wouldn’t have an ex-wife who despised him, a daughter who confounded him and an ex-fiancée who’d stolen from him.

He took a step toward her. “Cammie, please stop. Let’s talk.”

“I need to get back to work.”

At her snail pace, it was a cinch to keep up.

“You’re angry.”

“What makes you think that, Einstein?”

“Tell you the truth, I have no idea, but it doesn’t take a genius to interpret that fit of yours to be a whole lot of repressed Cammie unleashed. You know, if you’d let your feelings out
gradually,
like when events actually occurred, you wouldn’t have to erupt like Mount Vesuvius—”

She half turned, teetering before catching herself. “Not only a lawyer, but also a shrink?”

“C’mon, I’m not—”

“And for the record,” she said, angling up her chin, “I understand the reference to Mount Vesuvius. Did a report on it in eighth grade.” She continued toward the casino.

“I didn’t say you didn’t know... I didn’t mean... I—”

“I, I, I,” she said. “Thinking of only yourself again.”

He stopped, bit off a terse response and counted to three. Heated emotions wouldn’t get him anywhere. The past twenty-four hours had been intense, rushed and, to be totally honest with himself, frightening. He’d never believed in spontaneously handling issues, especially if the end result was highly questionable. But he certainly hadn’t taken his own counsel. No, he’d packed up his daughter, even though he knew Emily would hate Vegas, and hopped on a plane to see a woman who had made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want to talk to him.

He’d never felt this out of control. Even when his father had been indicted, found guilty and put into prison, Marc had felt strong enough to move forward and rebuild the law firm. But this situation left him feeling rattled, off center.

Nevertheless, he was here. He had to try to get through to Cammie, appeal to her sense of justice. It was his only option.

“Cammie,” he said, enunciating slowly, calmly, “I
do
think of others. All those years we worked together, I
knew
you were on my side. Hell, you weren’t only the best investigator, I made sure to compensate you well. In fact, you were one of the top-paid investigators in Denver, remember?”

He paused, dragging a hand through his hair. Underneath Cammie’s tough act, he knew she had a wicked sense of humor, even about herself.

“So let me guess,” he said. “You’re performing ‘Let’s Do the Time Warp Again’? Does...” He thought back to the flick, which he’d probably seen a hundred times the summer he turned fourteen. “Is Dr. Frank-N-Furter making an appearance? Do the gamblers all do the dance? Even that scary-looking pit boss?”

She’d stopped, her shoulders shaking. Either she was laughing or crying, but unless his dumb jokes totally sucked, he’d go with laughter.

“Considering the strange-oids this casino attracts,” she finally said, “I probably
should
lip that song.” She expelled an audible sigh. “I’m sorry. That tantrum...you’re right. I’m a poster girl for
repressed.
That Mount Vesuvius crack was a bit over the top, though.”

“Sorry. Want to...talk about it?”

“Old history, Marc,” she said softly. “Let’s drop it.” She continued her plodding expedition. He’d had clients who’d been charged while driving with double-digit blood alcohol do a better job putting one foot in front of the other. Obviously she managed to keep her balance while dealing cards, but the way she moved now reminded him of a documentary he and Emily had watched on the flight of baby penguins. He only hoped Cammie didn’t take a dive and start sliding on her tummy.

Thinking about it, Cammie and baby penguins weren’t so dissimilar. Living in harsh environments—he’d known Cammie to work some tough neighborhoods while investigating cases. Dealing with predators—nobody put one over on Cammie, not even those jerks at the gambling table.

They differed, though, in that baby penguins were protected for a long time by their parents. From the few things Cammie had mentioned about her upbringing, there had never been a father, and her mother had been more a child than a parent.

“Whoa-a-a!”

She stumbled over a streak of gray fur that bolted across the sidewalk and disappeared under a hedge. As Cammie leaned forward to catch her balance, the corset crept up, exposing a glimpse of two round, firm half-moons.

He tried not to stare at that flash of behind, but he was, after all, a man with a pulse. He couldn’t think of a time he hadn’t seen Cammie in jeans, a variety of T-shirts and sneakers, although he had a vague recollection of a holiday party a year or so ago where she wore a dress. A pink, maybe purple, number. She’d looked pretty, soft...

She began to topple, emitting a shrill choice epithet as her arms windmilled frantically.

He closed the space between them in two bounding steps, surging forward as she keeled over.

With one arm, he caught her around her waist, hauled her to him with a yank. She slammed against his body, her breath escaping in a loud wheeze.

They stood in an awkward embrace, their breaths mingling. Or what breaths she could get. She was still gasping from their body collision, sucking air in fast, hot pants. Hell, so was he. Although suddenly, he wasn’t feeling quite as tired.

As their gazes met, he wondered if he’d ever realized she had green eyes.

Which widened as she started to fall backward again.

He lurched forward with her, tightening his grip. They held the position, she damn near parallel to the ground, he looming over her, his face pressed into her neck.

“My...foot...slipped,” she whispered shakily.

“I got you,” he mumbled, his lips brushing moist, soft skin.

She smelled of soap and something unbearably sweet and familiar, like flowers and almonds. He recalled her wearing that scent at work, its fragrance lingering wherever she went. Hadn’t realized until this moment how much he’d missed it.

With some effort, he straightened, hoisted her to a standing position. “You all right?”

She nodded. “You?”

“Fine. Not sure I have the energy to do that again, though.”

She smiled, more genuine this time. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Red spots appeared on Cammie’s cheeks. “Your hands...”

He looked down, saw he was gripping her hips. The corset was cut so high, his fingers splayed across fishnet and bare skin. Warm, butter-soft skin.

He dropped his hold, his palms tingling. “Sorry.”

Her lips puckered into a funny smile. “S’okay.”

Clearing his throat, he glanced at her heels. Or meant to glance at her heels. It took a few seconds to get there with those ridiculously long and well-toned legs in the way.

“Can’t you wear more functional shoes? You used to have at least a dozen pairs of Keds.”

“Some were Reebok. Casino wants us to look...sexy.” She rolled her eyes.

“Well, you do. Look...”

Desert air rushed past. Cammie grimaced slightly, blinking against the currents. “I need to get back inside.”

“One more minute? Please? After all, I just saved your life.”

“Just like a trial lawyer to try and seal the deal, even when it’s down to the wire. Okay, Mr. Cool, who’s the skip?”

He paused. “Gwen.”

He’d known their discussion, if it got this far, would inevitably come to this bad crossroads in their past.

“I investigated her once before, Marc,” she said coolly. “Remember?”

“I remember. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

She did a dramatic double take. “Not believing me is one thing. Threatening to
fire
me another.”

“I didn’t fire you. I put you on probation.”

“You threatened termination. That’s darn close to firing someone.”

“I’m sorry, Cammie!”
Stay cool, don’t blow it.
“Looking back, I get it. I shouldn’t have put you on probation. You’re right, I was
clueless.
But that’s the beauty of hindsight—it gives one twenty-twenty vision. Back then, I couldn’t see the whole picture, was furious you’d willfully stepped into a legally gray area yet again. But if you can find it in your heart to fast-forward, tell me what I can do
now,
what I can say to make this better.”

Cammie shook her head. “I can’t work for you, Marc. I’m...taking another investigative position here—prestigious law firm...starts soon.”

As she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm, forced her to look at him. “Hear me out, damn it. Gwen...stole from the firm. Thirty thousand dollars. The Attorney Disciplinary Agency is investigating
me
for the theft. This could take me down, Cammie. Me, the firm, my dad... I need to get her served, to get her to a hearing in Denver, to show them she stole, and that I did not get careless with my clients’ money.”

As suddenly as it had started, the wind died down.

He knew her too well. She was fighting to keep her face impassive, stoic, but that wasn’t how she felt inside. She and his dad had connected during those interviews at the prison. His dad once mentioned that Cammie had opened up, talked about things he promised he’d keep confidential. In turn, his father had let his guard down, let her see that he wasn’t the formidable, coldhearted bastard the press had painted him as for years. That he was an old man at the end of his days who wanted to make amends.

Even if she hated Marc’s guts, she had a soft spot for his father.

“Are the vultures onto this?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “
The Denver Post
ran a headline—Like Father, Like Son. News stations are sniffing around. I need to find Gwen, make her accountable, safeguard my license, because if I lose it, my father might never...”

It was like a cold fist closing on his heart. This was tougher than he’d thought.

“If my license is suspended, I won’t be able to represent him at his parole release hearing,” he continued. “Cammie, I
need
to be there for him.”

She dropped her head into her hands, stayed that way for a moment. When she finally raised her head, she looked around, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ve met some P.I.’s in Vegas who are experienced at finding people. I still have your cell number...I’ll text you a few contact numbers, okay?”

She turned, started heading back to the casino.

“Cammie, please...”

She didn’t stop.

This time, he didn’t try to make her.

Back in the rental car, he took out his cell and dialed the hotel room. When Emily answered, he said he’d be back in a few minutes.

“That’s all?”

“How’s the ice cream?” As luck would have it, there was an organic ice cream parlor—named Herb’s, which he guessed was somebody’s name or the ingredients—near their hotel.

“Awesome. So I take it she said no.”

“That she did.” He blew out an exasperated breath.

“‘The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.’”

“Tolstoy?”

“Yep.”

“So if I have patience and give this time, Cammie will see the light and work for me?”

“Exactly.”

“I love you, Em, but unfortunately, I’m running out of both.”

In the background he heard people yelling, guns shooting. For all of her lofty proletariat chatter, Emily was still a kid who dug music and ice cream and true-crime TV shows that contained more drama and villainy than he’d seen after years in courtrooms.

“So, like, we flew all the way to Las Vegas for nothing?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled. Enough of this toil and trouble. He’d put it aside, spend some time with his daughter, deal with the Cammie issue later. “Hey, let’s grab lunch, do some shopping.”

“Oh, what a capitalist idea. Let’s spend money.”

“Em, cut me some slack. Marx is dead, we’re alive. Las Vegas is a restaurant mecca. If we can find an organic ice cream parlor here, I know we can find some awesome eco-vegetarian-gluten-free-green restaurants, too.”

After ending the call, he stared out the windshield at the Shamrock Palace. Damn it all anyway. Flying hundreds of miles with a sullen teen who viewed their destination as the epitome of bourgeois depravity was bad enough without also being rejected by a corset-clad, wobbly heeled, unforgiving private eye.

He glanced over at a billboard with pictures of showgirls, men in tuxes throwing dice, a curvaceous bikini-clad redhead lounging by a pool. Underneath were the words
What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas.

“Got that motto wrong,” he muttered. “Should be
It ain’t gonna happen in Vegas, buddy, so why’d you travel all the way here?
”