Wolfe Wedding (2 page)

To the relief and delight of the entire Wolfe family, Jake had recently joined the police force in their hometown of Sprucewood, some fifteen miles from Philadelphia. In addition to settling into law enforcement, Jake had further surprised the family a short time ago by being the first one of the brothers to fall in love—really in love, seriously in love.

Baby brother Jake was getting married.

While Cameron was delighted that his brother had apparently found his niche in life and, according to their mother, whose judgment none of them ever doubted, the perfect woman to share his niche, there was a growing niggling sense of dissatisfaction inside that was beginning to concern Cameron.

Over the years, he had had some strange, even some weird, cases to contend with in his work for the Bureau. The last one in particular, which also had been wrapped up two days ago, had been both strange and weird. Disquieting, as well, since it had seemed to indicate, at least to him, the fragile
mental state of the world in general, and some individuals in particular.

For weeks, while Sandra fought her case in court, Cameron had been on the trail of a real wacko, a wild and daring young man who believed himself the reincarnation of some legendary Western outlaw.

Instead of a horse, the man—who called himself Swift-Draw Slim—had jockeyed a four-wheel-drive Bronco. Slim got his kicks from holding up smalltown banks throughout the Midwest and the Southwest. Which was bad enough, and reason enough to involve the FBI.

Cameron had been drawn into the case when Slim abducted a fourteen-year-old girl and took her across state lines, from New Mexico into Colorado.

Although Slim had led all the local, state and federal authorities on a merry chase, by the time he finally caught him, literally with his pants down, Cameron hadn’t been laughing. In fact, he’d been mad as hell, disgusted, and about ready to throw in the towel—or throw up.

Gazing into the somber brown eyes of Sandra Bradley, Cameron suddenly decided that he needed a break, too. A sabbatical.
If you will.

And he had accumulated vacation time due him—six weeks’ time, to be exact.

He had been planning to use some of the time, two weeks or so, to fly East for his brother Jake’s wedding. Jake had done him the singular honor of asking him to be his best man. The wedding was scheduled for the beginning of June, just four and a half weeks away.

But if he requested and was granted his time beginning the end of this week, which was the last full week in April, that would give him four weeks to play around with before Jake took the marriage plunge, and two weeks after the celebration to recover from the festivities.

Hmm.

His brooding gaze fixed on the delectable woman seated opposite him, Cameron mentally frowned and contemplated the advisability and possibility of playing around with Sandra Bradley.

The prospect had definite appeal, and an immediate drawback. Cameron was at once hard, hot and ready. Appearing cool, calm and in command required all the considerable control he possessed.

“I can’t help wondering what you are thinking about.” Amused suspicion colored Sandra’s voice. “You have a decidedly devilish look about you.”

Go for it.

“I was just thinking,” he said, acting on the prompt that flashed through his head. “What are your plans? Anything definite in mind?”

“Yes.” Sandra smiled; he swallowed a groan. “I’m going to run away, hide out for a while.”

“Any particular destination?”

She nodded, setting her hair—and his insides-to rippling. “I’ve been given the use of a small cabin in the mountains for as long as it takes.”

Cameron frowned. “For as long as it takes to do what, exactly?”

Sandra laughed. “In the words of my boss, For as long as it takes to get my head back on straight. She’s convinced I simply need some breathing space.”

“And it’s more than that?” Cameron asked, with sudden and shrewd insight.

She hesitated, then released a deep sigh. “I honestly don’t know, Cameron. I was prepared to chuck it all. I had even typed up my letter of resignation.” Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “Barbara refused to accept it. In fact, she tore it in two the instant she finished reading it. That’s when she handed me the keys and directions to her retreat in the mountains.”

Hmm. A mountain retreat. Springtime in the Rockies. Wildflowers blooming. Birds singing. Butterflies fluttering. The alluring Sandra, and perhaps, Cameron mused, a male companionnamely him. Nature taking its course. Interesting. Exciting.

But would she?

Find out.

“Ah, when are you leaving?” he asked, in as casual a tone as he could muster.

She gave him an arch look. “The firm or the city?”

“Well.” Cameron shrugged. “Both.”

“I’ve already left the firm.” Her lips twitched in amusement. “On granted leave. I wanted to clean out my desk, just in case I decided to stick to my original plan not to return. Janice nearly went into a decline.” She chuckled. “And Barbara wouldn’t even talk about it.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, prudently keeping his opinion of the mother-daughter team to himself. After all, he cautioned himself, being brutally honest at this particular moment could hardly advance his cause.

From all indications, Sandra liked and respected both the mother and daughter of the team.

And, though he would willingly concede that they were excellent lawyers, Cameron privately considered both women, Barbara, the senior member, and her daughter, Janice, to be feminists in the extreme. Although he agreed with the concept of equality of the sexes, he did find the extremist element of the movement a bit tiring.

“Okay,” he went on, “when are you planning to leave for the mountains?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Sandra answered, readily enough, while fixing him with a probing stare. “Why?”

Here goes.

Cameron grabbed a quick breath.

“Want some company?”

His soft query was met by stillness. The room was still. The air was still. Sandra was the most still of all. for about ten seconds. Then she blinked, and frowned, and blurted out a choked laugh.

“You?” She stared at him in patent disbelief. “The legendary Lone Wolfe?”

“Me,” he admitted. “And can the Lone Wolfe bull.”

“Are you serious?” Her velvety voice had grown a little ragged around the edges.

“Quite serious,” he assured her, tamping down the urge to elaborate.

“But.” She shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind, and gave another abortive laugh. “Why?”

Cameron arched a brow in chiding. “A little R and R. Fun and games. Unadulterated pleasure.”

“In other words,” she murmured, the ragged edges in her velvety voice smoothed out, “Sex, sex, and more sex?”

“A sensual sabbatical.” Even he could hear the enticement in his soft voice. “If you will.”

S
he would!

Sandra stood beside her bed, a bemused smile curving her lips, a filmy flame red nightgown dangling from her nerveless fingertips.

Had she actually agreed to Cameron’s outrageous proposal to have him stay with her in Barbara’s cabin? she asked herself for perhaps the hundredth time since leaving his office a few hours ago.

In a shot!

Some folks might have accused Sandra of being aloof, but no astute person had ever accused her of being stupid—and she wasn’t about to start now.

Her smile evolved into a soft, excited laugh.

It was spring. And how did the old saying go? In the spring, a young man’s fancy, and all that. Well, didn’t the same apply to young women, as well?

An anticipatory thrill moved through her. The filmy gown undulated through her fingers, bringing awareness of the sexy garment. Laughter again tickled the back of her throat. Contemplating the possible—hopeful?—ranifications of wearing the revealing scrap of nothing for him, she folded the nightie and tucked it into the suitcase lying open on her bed.

Imagine, she mused, the legendary Lone Wolfe expressing a desire to spend time in seclusion for an unspecified time. with her!

Wild.

How long had she been secretly lusting for the oh-so-cool-and-self-contained Cameron Wolfe?

Sandra laughed once more, low and sultry. She knew full well how long it had been. She had wanted Cameron from the very first day she met him, six long years ago. And wanting him had ruined her chances of forming a deep romantic relationship with any other man.

From the very beginning, it had had to be Cameron, or no one. And the passage of time had not diminished her desire for him. On the contrary, getting to know him, learning about some of the facets of his character—his honesty, his high personal
moral code, his dedication to duty—had only deepened the attraction she felt for him.

She wanted him, and it was as simple as that. Foolish, maybe, but that was the way it was.

And now. and now.

Anticipation expanded into an effervescent sensation inside her, rushing through her bloodstream, intoxicating her mind and senses. Reacting to the stimulant, she turned and two-stepped across the room to her dresser, pulling open the drawer containing her mostly ultrafeminine lingerie.

Humming an old and very suggestive love ballad, she moved around the room, from the dresser to the closet to the bed, with side trips into the bathroom, filling the suitcase and a large nylon carryon with the things she wanted to take to the cabin.

Originally thinking to do nothing more strenuous than take short, brisk hikes in the foothills surrounding the cabin, Sandra had planned on packing only what she thought of as loafing-around clothes—jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters, parka, boots and such. But at one point, while she was removing an old cotton shirt, soft from many washings, from the closet, her glance had touched, then settled on, a new, more alluring outfit.

Sandra had never worn the two-piece ensemble. It bore a Paris label—a thirty-second-birthday gift she had received over a month ago from her parents,
who were spending a year in France, both working and having a grand time, while her father set up international offices there for his business firm.

The reason Sandra had never worn the outfit was that there had never been an occasion suitable for her to do so. The set was too darn alluring for just any old gathering of friends.

Fashioned of sand-washed silk in shimmering swirls of fuchsia, orange and mint green, the outfit consisted of a voluminous-sleeved poet-style shirt and a belted, full-flowing skirt.

Viewed on a padded clothes hanger, the ensemble appeared innocent enough. But, upon trying it on for fit, Sandra had been mildly shocked by the appearance she presented in it.

The first button on the shirt was placed at midchest, a plunging vee revealing the cleavage of her high, fully rounded breasts. And, although there was an abundance of material to the skirt, when she moved, it swirled around her long legs, the clinging silk caressing every curve from her waist to her ankles.

At the time, Sandra had stared at her mirrored image in wide-eyed amazement, deciding on the spot that the outfit was too blatantly sexy for just any casual get-together. It was definitely for something special.

An impish glow sparkled in her dark eyes now as a thought flashed through her mind.

The Lone Wolfe was someone special. And being with him would most definitely be special.

Sandra carefully folded the two pieces and tucked themr into the case.

How much farther could it possibly be?

Sandra frowned as she maneuvered her one-yearold front-wheel-drive compact around yet another sharp bend in the narrow, rutted, mud-and-slushcovered dirt road. Although spring had arrived at the lower elevations, shallow mounds of snow still lay in patches on the ground and beneath the trees in the foothills of the mountain range northwest of Denver.

A quick glance at the dashboard clock told her that thirty-odd minutes had elapsed since she had made the turn off the major highway indicated in the directions Barbara had written down for her.

By Sandra’s reckoning, she should soon be seeing the signpost indicating the private road leading to the cabin. Even though she knew what to expect, she laughed aloud upon sighting the sign with the words
Escape Hatch
printed in bold letters on it.

The private driveway leading to the cabin was in worse condition than the dirt road, the slush concealing
potholes that caught her unawares and caused the vehicle to lurch from side to side.

Sandra heaved a deep sigh of relief when the cabin came into view around a gentle curve in the road.

Seemingly built into the side of the hill, the log cabin looked as if it belonged there, nestled in amid the tall pines. A broad porch fronted the cabin. A wide window overlooked the porch and the valley beyond.

Anxious to see the inside of the place, Sandra stepped from the vehicle and tramped through the diminishing snow cover to the three broad steps leading up to the porch. The sunshine was warm on her shoulders, and turned the snow to mush beneath her hiking boots.

Around the base of the cabin, yellow and white jonquils raised their bright faces to the spring sunlight, while at the base of the stalks, shoots of delicate green grasses poked through the melting snow.

Smiling at the harbingers of spring, Sandra mounted the stairs to the porch and strode to the front door, key at the ready. Unlocking the door, she turned the knob, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and came to an abrupt halt, a soft “Oh…” whispering through her parted lips.

The cabin was everything she had dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorative
touches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.

Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.

In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.

Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?

Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.

Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven was
tucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.

Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.

But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.

Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.

When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase and
carryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.

Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.

Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the mountains to the rear.

All in all, not bad, Sandra decided, hefting the large suitcase onto the bed, then plopping onto the mattress and bouncing to test the resiliency of the springs.

It would do quite adequately, she thought, shivering in response to the thrill of anticipation that scurried up her back as an image of Cameron Wolfe filled her mind, along with the realization of what the bed would be used for, besides sleeping.

The temptation was overwhelming to forget every other concern and to settle back, wallowing in the comfort of the mattress. and exciting speculation.

But, being disciplined and responsible, Sandra resisted the temptation. With an unconscious sigh of longing, she heaved herself from the bed.

It was now midafternoon on Thursday, and there was work to be done before Cameron’s scheduled arrival. He had told her to expect him sometime around noon, give or take an hour or so, on Saturday.

Sandra flicked the clasps on the large suitcase and flipped it open. She had to get her tush in gear. She had to unpack, put away her clothes, make up the bed with her own sheets. And then start scrubbing.

Barbara had given Sandra fair warning that, as she hadn’t been to the cabin since the beginning of December, the place would need a thorough cleaning.

Barbara had not been overstating the case. Even with her quick initial perusal of the place, Sandra had noted the layer of dust that coated every flat surface, lamp, appliance and knickknack. not to mention the tile and fixtures in the bathroom.

It was immediately obvious that neither Barbara nor her daughter was very neat or very much inclined toward cleaning up after themselves. Fortunately, that was not reflected in their professional work or their workplace.

But at the time of her employer’s offer, delighted with the idea of having the use of the isolated retreat, Sandra had shrugged and readily agreed to doing the necessary work involved.

Still, being willing to do the housekeeping chores and actually doing the work were two entirely different things, especially when one was not, either by nature or by training, particularly domesticated.

Sandra heaved another sigh as she began removing her clothes from the case. She did not
do
housework. With the jam-packed client schedule she carried—or had been carrying up until nowshe didn’t have time to do housework, even if she was so inclined. She paid a hefty amount to a professional service to
do
for her.

But the cleaning service was in Denver, and she was here, in this isolated cabin. So, Ms. Professional, she told herself, systematically stowing her things in dresser drawers and closets, you’d be well advised to get your act together and get it done.

Sandra was nearly undone herself when she pulled open the narrow drawer in the bedside nightstand. As small as it was, the gun inside the drawer looked lethal—which, of course, it was.

Naturally, she had known it was there. Barbara had told her it was there. Still.

Sandra hated guns. She knew how to handle them, how to use them properly, simply because the use of them had been included in a self-defense class she took while in college. Even so, she hated them.

Shuddering, she slipped the paperback novels she’d brought with her into the drawer, shoving the
weapon, and the accompanying box of cartridges, to the back, out of sight. Then, firmly erasing the ugly thing from her thoughts, she turned to begin working on the bed.

Did she want Cameron to think she was a slob?

“Your man flew out of Denver in a private plane at 6:35 this morning.”

“Heading where?” Cameron asked tersely into the phone. He slanted a glance at his watch. It read 6:51; his operative was right on top of his assignment, as he had fully expected him to be.

“Chicago.”

Cameron breathed a sigh of relief; if Whitfield was off to Chicago, on business or whatever, he couldn’t very well be harassing Sandra.

“Thanks, Steve,” he said. “Who will take over surveillance there?”

“Jibs.”

“Okay. I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks, but I’ll be in touch.”