The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (9 page)

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 probably 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 and 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?”

The pasta in Cammie’s tummy felt like a heavy rock. She nodded tightly.

“Did you also know that you can legally work for me, even as an unlicensed investigator in Nevada, because your work will be on behalf of my Denver law firm? As you’re aware, Colorado currently doesn’t require licensure for P.I.’s, so there’s no issue with my retaining your investigative services.”

“Cammie, dear, what a wonderful offer!” When Delilah clapped her hands together, the gold bracelets jingled softly.

“That’s not all,” Marc added. “I’d like to double your hourly rate, Cammie. First of all, you’re worth it. Second, I’d like you to be able to pay off those fines as soon as possible because I know how much you dislike working at the casino.” His voice lowered to a solemn tone. “And how much it means to you to be a licensed private investigator again.”

“He’s a champ,” Frankie murmured.

As Sinatra’s voice swelled with “Fly Me to the Moon,” Cammie wished she could fly away, too. See what spring was like on Jupiter, Mars, anywhere but here. She’d had enough wine that she almost had enough false bravado to say the truth and screw the consequences.
Marc, I can’t look for Gwen because she’s everything I’d always hoped to be. The woman you loved, and the mother of your...our...

Our?

Whoa!

Where did that come from? Unrequited crush was one thing, but Cammie wanting to be a mother with a child? No way. She had an analog clock in Phil, not a biological clock in herself. After all the years she’d spent being a parent to her own mother, the last thing she’d ever wanted, ever dreamed about, was having to take care of another human being. She’d spent long, painful years being responsible for her mother and cleaning up her messes. Sure, babies were cute. But they grew up and turned into hostile, smart-mouthed teenagers like the girls at Dignity House.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to explain her silence because Marc’s cell phone started chirping.

“Sorry,” he said, retrieving it. “I usually turn off the ringer, but...” He checked the caller ID. “It’s my daughter. I told her to call if she needed anything.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello, Emily?” He frowned. “What is it, honey?”

He stood abruptly and walked away from the table, his shoulders hunched.

When he was out of earshot, Delilah leaned forward. “Dear, that job offer sounds wonderful.”

“You’d get a chance to do the kind of work you love again,” added Frankie, “at double your usual.”

“Uncle Frankie, you know I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” asked Delilah, looking from Cammie to Frankie.

He put his hand on Delilah’s. “Speaking of good offers, I have one, too, which is another reason why I brought all of us here tonight. What d’ya think of our having the wedding reception here?”

“Here?” Delilah heaved a sigh. “Oh, Frankie, this place is perfect!”

“I mentioned it to the maître d’ when I called. He said he’d drop by the table to discuss it, and this would be a perfect time with Marc away on a phone call. Camilla, would you mind asking him to drop by our table? I’d like for Delilah and me to ask him a few questions.”