The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (8 page)

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.”

They said the same word at the same time.

“Emily.”

“Emily.” His eyes crinkled with a smile. “She’s an enigma wrapped in an organic mystery, but she’s a great kid. You should see her, Cammie. She’s growing up to be a beautiful young woman.”

This time when their eyes met, she felt her breath go away. Turning away, she pretended to check the time on the analog clock she’d stuck on her dashboard—handy for surveillances because it didn’t emit light like digital clocks—and did her best to look impassive, all business, unaffected.

“We’ve used up half of those five minutes,” she said. “What did you want to tell me?”

He looked surprised. “Yes. You have an appointment, so let me lay it out.” He spread his hands wide, as though setting the playing field. “As I told you yesterday, Gwen stole thousands of dollars from the firm, and the Attorney Disciplinary Agency is initiating an investigation into my practice, or more specifically investigating
me,
for the theft.”

What happiness she’d seen in his face dissolved. He looked pensive, worried.

“As I also told you, this could backfire horribly. The board could suspend my license. If they do, I can’t represent my father at his parole hearing in June.”

“When might they suspend your license?”

“If I’m lucky, it won’t happen before the parole hearing.”

“And if you’re unlucky?”

“Any day.”

She blew out a soft whistle. “That sucks.”

“But if I can find Gwen, subpoena her to a deposition with the Attorney Disciplinary Agency present, where I can confront her with her theft and show them how she hid that theft, then the agency may not suspend my license.”

“Because they’ll see the extent to which Gwen hid her crime.”

“Correct. This could persuade the agency to drop any action against my license altogether before this case goes to trial, and it may even persuade the police to go after her for theft. At the very least, having her deposed should delay actions against me so that I can represent Dad at his parole hearing, at which I’ll need you to testify. You’re my best witness to testify about his rehabilitation.”

“Of course. You mentioned before it’s in June—what’s the exact date?”

“The sixth. You’re also a critical part of that deposition, Cammie, because of your background with forensic accounting, proving civil cases like this, and your testimony about your investigative efforts to find her.”

“That’s
if
I take the case.”

“Which I hope you do.”

Cammie folded her hands together and stared at them for a moment. “She could lie in that deposition.”

“She could, but that’d be a dumb thing to do. And she knows it. Besides helping me track her, I figured down the road you’d conduct other investigations...research her assets, track her spending habits these last few months, find any places she might have hidden money...that sort of thing.”

She picked at a speck on her jeans to keep from meeting his gaze. Everything he’d said sounded reasonable. But she couldn’t get involved without admitting what she’d done. “Marc, as I told you before, I’ve accepted a job from that law firm. I’m sorry, but I can’t be working for you now or later.” And here she’d accused Gwen of possibly lying. Cammie was doing the very same thing, right to Marc’s face. Didn’t feel right to deceive him and fabricate a silly excuse. Better to tell him the truth.

“There’s something else,” he said. “It’s important.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Gwen... I just found out... I didn’t know...” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I’m not sure if I should believe it or not—haven’t told anyone else—”

“What else did she do?”

“Do? No. It’s that...she’s pregnant.”

For a surreal moment, the world shut down. The breezes stilled. Scents of apple cider disappeared. Through the dirt-specked windshield, Cammie watched a couple holding hands as they walked through the parking lot. The girl’s face was turned to the sun, mouth open, lips curled up at the corners. Laughing, Cammie guessed, but she didn’t hear the sound.

Gwen was carrying Marc’s child.

At least,
he
believed she was pregnant with his baby. If he’d allowed Cammie to tell him what she’d learned with her “gray area” records of Gwen’s cell phone, he would have known that Gwen had another lover. There was a chance the baby wasn’t his.

“That’s some newsflash,” Cammie murmured.

“You’re telling me.”

“How far along?”

He gave his head a shake. “Maybe five months? Not sure.”

“You could have mentioned this earlier.”

“You sound...perturbed.”

“Maybe I am.”

He made an incredulous sound. “Because I didn’t tell you before now? Oh, let me figure out when that golden opportunity would have presented itself. Maybe when you acted so happy that I showed up at your work? Or how about when you said you couldn’t help me but you’d forward me the names of other P.I.’s, which I never received?”

She glared at him. “You’re not my boss anymore. I don’t owe you squat.”

Working his jaw, he stared out his window. “Says the woman hiding her own impressive newsflash.”

“What?”

It was comfortably warm outside, but the look he gave made her shiver.

“I’ve been trying to be nice, Cammie. Trying to understand why you keep avoiding me, but it’s really tough when I feel as though I’m doing all the work bridging the gap between us. You agree to talk to me, I open up, and you’re pissed off again. Because I’m telling you something you didn’t know. A
newsflash,
as you called it.”

She eyed him levelly. “Maybe I don’t like surprises.”

“Well, you obviously don’t like someone groveling at your feet, either.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I read an interesting newsflash, too.”

“Thought you didn’t like that word—”

“Knock it off, Cammie.”

She pursed her lips. Now was probably the time to think something distracting, put her thoughts into some far-off happy place, but it took every ounce of her energy to sit still and not say something she’d regret.

Like how his newsflash stirred all those old feelings she’d tried so hard to bury.

Damn. She never wanted to fall in love again.

* * *

A
FTER
A
FEW
MOMENTS
of silence, Marc asked, “Want to hear about my newsflash?”

She nodded, her eyes so big and glossy, it made him wonder if she was...sad?

Cammie, sad? No way. She’d been caught, that’s all. He was done playing games with her. No more lies or half-truths. He knew what she’d done.

“This newsflash was about a restaurant and school that were evacuated a month or so ago because of an alleged bomb. Turns out the bomb was actually a GPS device illegally planted by a private investigator. Is that why you moved to Sin City, Cammie? To more freely wade into those gray areas?”

“You don’t know the whole story—”

“After all, Vegas is one of the most dangerous cities in the U.S. Much easier to wade into those felonious waters if you’re working in a crime-ridden city, right?”

“Now you’re assuming—”

“I mean, who’s going to notice one pretty P.I. with long legs who slaps a GPS on an unknowing citizen’s vehicle? Lucky the judge didn’t hand over your electronic transmission violation to the feds—federal wiretapping convictions are minimum four years
mandatory
prison sentence—”

“Stop!” She cupped her ears. When he didn’t say anything more, she lowered her hands. “I know I screwed up, okay?” she said quietly. Her green eyes darkened, the color of the sea under cloudy skies.

“I’m sorry every single day for what happened. I’m paying for what I did, Marc. It will take me months wearing a humiliating outfit to a job I hate, where drunks make passes at me as though I’m a piece of meat, but I’ll pay my dues.”

He felt like a dog. Even in ugly court battles when opposing counsel played low and dirty, Marc had always prided himself on being a gentleman. Maybe an incisive, calculating gentleman, but he had a reputation for playing the game with class.

But in this car with Cammie, he’d lobbed a low blow.

He waited for her to say more, but she just looked at him with those storm-green eyes. Finally she broke their stare to glance at the clock on the dashboard.

“I need to leave. Despite certain snarky things we’ve said to each other, I’m still going to contact some P.I.’s here in town, see if any of them have the time to help out on a time-critical case. If it’s okay with you, I’ll leave them your cell-phone number.”

“Sure.”

She started to speak again, but stopped, her lips quivering. Seeing the emotional toll he’d exacted made him feel even worse. He never expected this independent, self-sufficient woman to break down. Tears from Cammie? He couldn’t believe it.

“Cammie, look, I’m—”

“Please go.”

Her face was flushed, her eyes glistening. He knew it was smart to leave, not try to smooth things over with apologies and further explanations.

He exited the car.

As she accelerated into traffic, Phil burped a trace of white cloud. Like a stream of smoke from a dangling cigarette. Tough-guy Phil, having the last say. Marc could almost imagine the words.

Don’t like your manners, Marc. Talked to her like she was some kind of trained seal. Ever hear the saying “You catch more flies with honey”?

That was either a very smart car or Marc was finally coming to his senses.

It was time to talk to somebody who understood Cammie better than anyone else.

And to bring on the sweet.

CHAPTER SIX

A
LITTLE
AFTER
SEVEN
that night, Cammie drove Phil to her uncle’s. It had been a tough day at work, a tougher late-afternoon weird-talk with Marc, and a regular night playing study monitor at Dignity House, which was, by nature, always tough. The latter was weighing on her mind as she drove.

Fundamentally, she empathized with the girls at the center. At their young ages, most had already seen and done things that few people experienced in a lifetime. Some of the girls had parents who were drug addicts or dealers, others had been abandoned by their families, several already had rap sheets. The nonprofit Dignity House residential treatment center provided a healing living space where teenage girls could develop personal life skills and learn to make appropriate choices. For the older ones, this might be their last chance to take steps toward more positive, productive lives. According to statistics, only 35 percent actually hit that goal.

On the way to learning better choices, some of the girls continued to practice the same old bad ones. Like fabricating whoppers to get out of responsibilities. Takira, the resident drama queen, had barely cracked her algebra book before falling facedown on it with anguished groans. Seemed her cramps were “killing” her and she needed to “go to my room and lie down, Miss Copello, please.” Health concerns were legit, but when Cammie later caught Takira teaching another girl the Dinki Mini, a dance slightly less inhibited than Madonna in her “Girl Gone Wild” video, she marched the two of them back into the study room.

In the minutes Cammie had been tracking down Takira, the study room had become part hair-styling clinic, part who-has-the-baddest-ʼtude. Cammie won that last one when she threatened everyone with a three-hour, mandatory study time—and yes, she’d sit there for every single minute of it, thank you—if they didn’t get their acts in gear. As they settled down, she picked up a tube of styling gel and a big sticky glop squirted on her T.

The only one who’d continued studying throughout the fracas was Amber, a gloomy fifteen-year-old who insisted everyone call her Daearen, the ancient Celtic word for
earth.
She believed the world would end in 2016, the inevitable result of the thinning ozone layer, diminishing natural resources and overpopulation. The other girls made jokes behind Amber’s back, and basically steered clear of her dark-cloud prophesies. Amber was one of the girls who was house-bound, tutored at Dignity House instead of attending public school.

Although keeping her 24/7 seemed severe, Cammie had been told that Amber was disruptive in the public school setting with her depression and her oppositional behavior. Seeing how isolated Amber-Daearen was, Cammie always tried to spend a few minutes with the girl each visit, although try as she might with jokes and funny stories, Cammie couldn’t roust Amber from her funk.

The girls eventually settled down and completed their study hour, but the battle to get to that point, plus the emotional upheavals of the past few days, had left Cammie bushed. By the time she parked in front of her uncle’s house, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed, watch some TV and get some
z
’s.

As she opened the front door, she heard her uncle laughing.

“Winters! That’s another thing I don’t miss about Denver!” Her uncle stopped short when he saw Cammie. “Well, look what the Mojave blew in.”

Her uncle sat on the couch, facing a visitor who sat in a high-back chair, blocking Cammie’s view. Swiveling in his seat, he looked at her.

Marc.

Her heart pounded so hard and fast, for a crazy moment she wondered if it would explode. Easing in a slow, calming breath, she gripped her trembling fingers around the handle of her purse.

Black lashes narrowed over his blue eyes as his gaze darted to her T-shirt.

“Styling gel,” she explained.

When his eyes met hers again, they were twinkling. Smart man, he didn’t say anything. Obviously they’d both said plenty to each other recently. And she’d had a couple of hours since their last meet-up to think about her prickly reaction to learning Gwen was pregnant. It was none of her business, of course, which was why she now felt embarrassed at her “newsflash” swipe. Obviously he and Gwen had been engaged, so of course they were doing the horizontal mamba, and, therefore, it wasn’t exactly
unlikely
a baby might be the end result.

The hard part was realizing, and accepting, that the baby...the unborn child...was a concrete reminder of everything Cammie and Marc weren’t. A reminder that, within weeks of the passionate kiss she and Marc had once shared, he found something better in another woman’s arms.

Out of a day filled with tough events, that epiphany had been the toughest.

“I invited him over,” her uncle said quickly, his voice so loud it was a miracle the glass bowl on the coffee table didn’t shatter.

She nodded, not really wanting to know who called whom or how this impromptu get-together happened, although she smelled a setup by her uncle. At least her heart was stuttering back to its regular beat and her fingers were trembling less. The best way to handle this strange interlude was simply to walk right past it. Go to her room, get into her jammies, read a little Chandler, go to sleep.

“It’s been a long day,” she said. “I’m going to hit the sack.”

“But, Camilla,” her uncle said, his voice booming, “it’s not even eight o’clock!”

“Oh, good,” she said quietly, “I’m sure the rest of the neighborhood was wondering what time it was, too.”

“Cammie,” Marc said, standing, “I shouldn’t have surprised you like this—”

“Camilla, sweetheart,” Frankie said, “he called and, like I said, I
invited
him over for a beer. When I learned his little girl had plans tonight, I thought it’d be nice if we all got together for dinner.”

After a beat, she asked, “We?”

“You, Marc, me and Delilah.”

“We’re cooking spaghetti and making miniature corn-cob salad?”

“No. We’re going to make a night of it, celebrate Del’s and my impending wedding. Made reservations at Piero’s. Delilah’s on her way. Hey, come with me a minute...need to ask you something.”

Cammie dutifully followed her uncle into the dining room, where Marc couldn’t see them. Miraculously, Frankie lowered his voice to an almost-whisper range.

“Hey.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I know this was a surprise.”

“You got that right.”

He patted his heart. “But your old uncle meant well. Delilah, y’know, wanted to ask you in person to be her maid of honor. I did the pre-invitation, but she wanted to ask you in person. Has a gift for you, too, but act surprised. Tell you the truth, I’d already made the reservations for three, then Marc called, and I figured, hey, let’s make it a foursome. Didn’t want to bother you at Dignity House, figured I’d explain after you got home.”

“You could’ve left a message on my cell.”

“Coulda, yeah. Didn’t think of it.”

“Uncle...”

“Yeah, okay, I thought of it, but was afraid you’d hear the message and not come home.”

“Because I would’ve felt set up. Which I feel anyway.”

“With a man you care about.”

“Who doesn’t return my feelings.”

“Maybe he needs the chance to develop those feelings!”

“Shh.” She glanced toward the living room, then to her uncle. “Forcing him to eat Italian food with me won’t develop them.” She pointed at her eye, an Italian gesture her uncle used to indicate someone had been a slick operator.

“Madonna,” he pleaded, pressing his palms together as he stared at the ceiling, “help me to help this child.”

Man, he could pull out all the stops. Her uncle had missed his calling as a soap-opera actor.

“You two all right?” Marc called out.

She and her uncle yelled back at the same time.

“No.”

“Yes.”

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.

* * *

S
HE
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.