Wolfe Wedding (3 page)

“I’ll be here.” Steve hesitated, then asked, “You going on assignment or vacation?”

“Vacation.”

Steve let out an exaggerated groan. “I should be so lucky. Enjoy.”

A slow smile played over Cameron’s lips as an image of Sandra filled his mind.

“Oh, I intend to,” he said, anticipation simmering within him. “Every minute.”

After cradling the receiver, he shot another look at his watch. It read 6:59. He had another call to make, back East, but it was still too early.

Turning away from the kitchen wall phone, Cameron poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, then headed for the bedroom. He also still had some packing to finish, the last-minute things he had left for this morning. Sipping the hot brew, he sauntered into his bedroom.

Pack first, call later.

The job of finishing up the packing required all of thirteen and a half minutes—Cameron was nothing if not both neat and efficient.

In addition to being a supremely competent and confident law-enforcement agent, recognized as one of the best operatives in the field, he was a proficient cook
and
did his own laundry.

Cameron was firmly convinced that his talents when it came to law enforcement were in his genes—although he was the first to credit his father for his early training along those lines.

But his domestic talents were definitely attributable to the concentrated efforts of his indomitable mother. From day one, son one, Maddy Wolfe had stoutly maintained that any idiot could learn to pick up after himself, and that included each one of her sons.

Having lived a bachelor existence from the day he left home for college, at age eighteen, Cameron had numerous times given fervent, if silent, thanks to his mother for her persistence.

He had spent more than a few day-off mornings on his knees, scrubbing the kitchen or bathroom floor of whatever apartment he happened to be living in at the time.

Though this was one of his days off, both his kitchen and bathroom floors were spotlessly clean, as was everything in his current apartment, thanks to the professional housekeeper he now paid to do the chore.

He shot yet another quick look at his watch; all of five minutes had elapsed since his last look. What to do? He had made his bed over an hour ago and, except for washing up the few dishes he had used for breakfast, there was really nothing left to do.

So, wash the dishes.

Draining the swallow of coffee remaining in the cup, Cameron left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, with the dishes done and put away, and finding himself wiping the countertop for the third time, he literally threw in the sponge, or in this case the abused dishcloth.

Impatience crawled through him. He fairly itched to go, from the apartment, out of the city, into the foothills, in a beeline to Sandra.

Although he had committed them to memory, he dug from his pocket the piece of paper on which he had jotted Sandra’s directions to the cabin. A piece of cake, he decided, tossing the scrap of paper on the sparkling clean table.

Now what? Cameron heaved a sigh and sliced a glaring glance from the clock to the phone.

The hell with it. Early or not, he was placing the call.

Maddy answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Good morning, beautiful,” Cameron said smoothly, heaving another silent sigh of relief at the wide-awake sound of his mother’s voice. “How are you on this bright spring morning?”

“It’s storming here, but I’m fine, just the same,” she returned dryly. “How are you?”

“As usual,” he answered—as usual. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Wake me?” Maddy laughed; it was a rich, deep sound that he had always loved. “I’ve been up for hours. But you did catch me in the middle of mixing pie crust.”

“Pie crust.” Cameron mentally licked his lips;

Maddy did make tasty pies. “For shoofly?” Shoofly pie was his all-time favorite.

She laughed again—a mother’s laugh. “No. Not today. I’m making lemon meringue.” She chuckled again, and this time the sound was different, loaded with amusement and self-satisfaction.

Cameron frowned. What was she up to? He knew full well that lemon meringue was his brother Eric’s all-time favorite. But why should that amuse his mother?

“Eric coming for dinner?”

“Not today. Tomorrow,” she said, and now her voice was rife with an alerting. something.

“Okay, Mom, I give up,” he said, his curiosity thoroughly aroused, as he knew she had deliberately set out to do. “What’s the story with Eric?”

“He’s coming for dinner tomorrow.”

Maddy did so enjoy teasing her overgrown sons—teasing and testing.

Despite his impatience to get under way, Cameron had to laugh, enjoying his mother’s enjoyment.

“And?” he prompted when she failed to continue.

“He’s bringing Tina with him.”

Tina. He should have known. Cameron administered a mental self-reprimand for missing the clue Maddy had given him.

Lemon meringue. Not only was the dessert Eric’s favorite, but also, from what Maddy had told Cameron, the object of a friendly rivalry between his mother and the young woman his brother had met last fall.

At Maddy’s invitation, Eric had brought the woman home to meet her at Thanksgiving. Tina
had brought along a lemon meringue pie as her contribution to the feast.

After the holiday, when Maddy relayed the information to Cameron, she had graciously conceded that Tina’s pie was first-rate. almost as good as her own.

Cameron hadn’t been fooled for a moment. He knew at once that Maddy didn’t give a rip about the pies, one way or the other. But what she did care about was the possibility of a serious relationship growing between Eric and Tina, who, she claimed, was a lovely young woman.

Cameron was also fully aware that his mother lived in hope of first seeing her sons settled into marriages as strong as her own had been, and second spoiling the hell out of her grandchildren—of whom she had expressed a desire for at least eight.

And now Eric was bringing the woman home to mother for a second visit.

Hmm, he mused, recalling that, to his knowledge, Eric had never brought a woman home twice.

First Jake. Now Eric?

“Does this portend something?” he asked after a lengthy silence, realizing that his mother had calmly been waiting for him to assimilate the facts.

“I sincerely hope so,” she answered. “Keep in touch, and I’ll keep you informed.”

“Yeah, well, as to that,” he said, interested in being brought up to speed on his brother’s love life, but a lot more interested in pursuing his own, “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to you. I’m going out of town for a spell.”

“I see.” Not a hint of concern tainted her voice; after thirty years of living with a police officer, she had long since learned to conceal her fears. “Well, then, I’ll talk to you when I talk to you.” She paused, then added softly, “Take care, son.”

“I will.” A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he hung up the phone. In his admittedly biased opinion, Maddy epitomized the best of the female sex.

Female.

Sex.

Sandra.

Swinging away from the phone, Cameron strode from the kitchen. He collected his bags, glanced at, then deliberately shifted his gaze away from his beeper, which was lying atop the bedside table. He wouldn’t need that where he was going. Gear in hand, he gave a final sweeping look around the room, then left the apartment.

“Dammit.” Cameron wasn’t even aware of swearing aloud; he was too busy making the turn to head back. He had driven only a few miles from his apartment when he knew he just couldn’t do it. He
just could not leave town for two weeks without his “connection” to the office, and the weapon that had grown to feel almost a part of him.

Muttering to himself that the two items had taken on the semblance of adult pacifiers, he strode into the apartment and directly to the bedside table.

After snatching up the beeper and the shoulderholstered agency-issue revolver, he shoved the beeper into his pocket and, gripping the weapon, pivoted and retraced his steps to the door.

Something, an uneasy sensation, halted him midway to. the door. What was it? he asked himself, raking the living room with a narrowed look. What was wrong? Nothing had been disturbed in the bedroom. Pacing to the kitchen, he ran a slow, encompassing look around. The entire place was exactly as he’d left it a half hour ago.

Still.

Sandra.

Telling himself he really did need a vacation, Cameron shrugged off the odd sensation, patted his pocket and once again exited the apartment. After stashing the gun in the rear of the vehicle, he drove away.

Now
he was on vacation.

Maybe he’d stop somewhere along the way to the cabin and pick up a bottle or two of good wine, and a couple of six-packs of beer, he mused, anticipation
crawling along his nerve endings, arousing all kinds of wicked thoughts and exciting reactions.

It wasn’t until he was well out of the city, the wine and beer stashed in the back of his almost new Jeep Cherokee, that Cameron gave some thought to his brothers—and one in particular.

While talking to his mother, he had mused about his brothers. First Jake, the baby of the Wolfe pack, and now Eric, the third of the brood. But, on reflection, he recollected a phone conversation that he had had several weeks ago with Royce.

At the time, something—more what Royce hadn’t said than what he had, a trace of distraction in his manner—had bothered Cameron.

Now, on reflection, he wondered whether Royce could possibly be involved with a woman, and whether his emotions were seriously engaged. Of course, he could have been reading his brother’s voice incorrectly. But Cameron seriously doubted it; he knew his brothers.

And now, here he was, impatiently maintaining the legal speed limit, as anxious and excited as a teenager in the first throes of passion about spending a couple weeks alone in the mountains with Sandra.

Hmm.

Did this portend something?

Cameron’s question to his mother came back to haunt and taunt him.

It’s physical, my attraction to Sandra is purely physical, he assured himself, while trying to ignore the tingle that did a tango from his nape to the base of his spine.

Wasn’t it?

“W
hoosh.” Sandra exhaled a deep breath and swiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead.

Damn, housecleaning was hard work, she thought, but at last she was finished. The interior of the cabin virtually sparkled as a result of her concentrated efforts of yesterday afternoon and all of today.

Going into the now-gleaming kitchen, she crossed to the fridge for a diet cola. She was sweaty. She was thirsty. She was hungry. And, boy, was she tired.

Was Cameron Wolfe worth her feverish flurry of activity? Sandra asked herself, dropping limply onto a lemon-scented, polished chair.

Damned right he was!

Laughing to and at herself, she downed the last of the cola and heaved her wilting body from the chair.

Tomorrow.

Cameron should—would—be arriving in less than twenty-four hours.

An anticipatory chill invaded her body.

It was rather shocking. Sandra scowled at herself, at her involuntary physical and emotional response to the mere thought of Cameron’s forthcoming arrival.

Honestly, she chided herself. If her thoughts, feelings, could have been monitored, a stranger, or friend, could have been forgiven for looking askance at her. She was a full-grown woman, mature, intelligent—well, usually. And here she stood, shivering, in the center of the kitchen, figuratively and literally itching to get her hands, among other body parts, on Cameron Wolfe.

Pitiful.

Sandra grinned.

So it was pitiful. So what?

She wanted the Lone Wolfe in the worst way. and the best way…every way there was.

Hell, for all she knew, maybe she was actually in love with the man.

Now there was a sobering speculation. Sobering and scary. Who knew what love was? Or even if love, romantic love, really existed outside the fantasies individuals dreamed up for themselves?

Sandra had never run across that impossible-todescribe, elusive emotion.

The affliction called love certainly couldn’t be clinically diagnosed. Nor could it be smeared on a slide and studied under a microscope. Come to that, as far as Sandra knew, the feverish fancy had never been nailed down by an absolute definition.

That being the case, how was one woman supposed to know if and when the emotion struck, replacing common sense with uncommon appetites?

Appetites.

Her stomach rumbled.

There were appetites, and then there were appetites.

Sandra laughed aloud. Here she stood, quite like a twittery teenager, mooning over a man, when what she should be doing was rustling up some food.

Of course, Sandra was well aware that feeding herself, getting a shower, shampooing her sweatstiffened hair, then having a good night’s sleep, were all ploys to distract herself from contemplation.

She didn’t want to think about love, in any way, shape or form.

Sex, yes.

But love?

That really was too scary.

Sandra did sleep well, surprisingly well, considering her mental upheaval during the hours prior to her crawling between the sheets.

The questions of the evening, most especially the questions about motivation, were banished by the exciting, erotic dreams that visited her in slumber.

She awoke refreshed, eager to embrace the bright spring morning, and the man who hopefully would be joining her in the retreat by lunchtime.

After a leisurely breakfast of juice, toast and coffee, Sandra switched on the radio, and proceeded to while away the hours by alternately pacing from room to room and staring out the wide front window and along the road leading to the cabin.

He was late.

It was past noon.

Had he changed his mind?

Sandra bit her lip and peered down the driveway.

It was exactly 12:46 when she spied his Jeep; Sandra knew, because she shot a quick look at her
wristwatch as she made a dash for the door to greet him.

She stepped onto the deck as Cameron stepped from the Jeep. The sun felt warm on her face. The sight of him made her feel warmer all over.

The Lone Wolfe.

Lord! He looked delicious.

Good enough to eat.

Sandra promised herself a taste.

He was dressed for the outdoors—tight jeans, denim jacket and desert boots. He waved and strode toward her, looking long and lean and dangerous.

Sandra shivered in the sunshine.

“Hi.”

Cameron’s voice, low, intimate, was more dangerous than the look of him. Her pulse leaped. Her heartbeat went thumpety-thump. Her breath fluttered from between her parted lips on a whisper.

“Hi.”

He took the steps in two long bounds.

Nervous as a crab dodging a rake, she skittered sideways to the door. “Come in.”

He was right behind her.

The strains of an old love ballad blared from the radio. She started toward it to turn down the volume. One step, and then: “Oh!” She yelped as a strong arm curled around her waist, turning her around, bringing her hard against his harder body.

“Dance with me, I want my arms about you.” He sang along with the instrumental rendition of the song in a low, seductive voice.

Sandra gave herself up to the moment, and the dance, and the thrill of moving in time with him.

They danced together very well, as if they had been doing it for years. Bemused, beguiled, Sandra found herself thrilling to the prospect of their being so attuned to one another in the more intimate dance of love.

“I’m hungry,” the Lone Wolfe growled into her ear.

She shivered. “I. I’ll make you lunch.”

“I don’t think so.” His soft laughter was pure incitement. “I’ll have you for lunch.”

“M-m-m-me?” Sandra drew her head back to stare at him; the raw passion blazing from his eyes ignited a liquid fire in the core of her, and burned her inhibitions to smoldering flinders.

“You. Me.” He trailed a hand down to the hollow at the base of her spine, aligning her body to the fullness of his. “Let’s feast on each other.” His warm breath caressed her lips as he slowly lowered his head.

Barely breathing, Sandra parted her lips an instant before his mouth touched hers. His lips were firm, still cool from the outdoors and sweet with the taste of spring.

She moaned and raised her arms to capture his head in her hands.

His tongue dipped, then dipped lower still to her throat.

Her fingers dug into the thick strands of his hair, tugging him closer, closer.

His free hand teased the outer curve and the underside of her breast.

She arched her back, inviting exploration.

His lips hardened, plundering her soft mouth as his hand curled around the soft mound.

She shuddered at the sensations caused by his teasing fingers, and scraped her nails against his scalp, from crown to nape.

“Yes.”

She felt his response, whispered into her mouth, leaping against her body.

“Yes,” she replied in kind, murmuring into his mouth, arching into his arousal.

In a haze of desire, time lost relevance. Their clothing was swept away, unnoticed, unmissed.

“The bed?” Cameron’s lips moved around the tightness of one nipple.

“This way.” Grasping his hand, she stepped back, and turned toward the hallway.

Scooping up his jeans from the floor, Cameron followed her to the bedroom.

Neither noticed nor cared that the front door was left standing wide open.

She released his hand by the side of the bed, then stepped back to look at him.

Unembarrassed in his nakedness, the Lone Wolfe stood tall and proud, magnificent in his masculine glory.

He was beautiful. Sandra’s throat and lips suddenly felt hot and dry. She skimmed her tongue over her lips to moisten them.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice was rough-edged, exciting in its intensity.

“So are you.” Her voice was barely audible.

He smiled.

She raised a hand to stroke his chest; her fingers tingled to touch the tight whorls of dark burnished-gold hair. Emboldened by the tremor her touch sent through him, she slowly skimmed her fingers down the narrowing trail of hair, to flatten her palm against the tightening muscles of his concave belly.

Cameron sucked in his breath. “Don’t stop there,” he said in a raw whisper. “Please, don’t stop there. Find me. Hold me.”

Watching the fire of desire leap higher in his eyes, Sandra glided her hand lower, through the silky curls surrounding his manhood. He moaned and shuddered when her fingers encased him.

“Good. That feels so unbelievably good.” Cautioning, “Don’t let go,” he moved closer to her
and, cradling her breasts in his hands, bent his head to suckle each rigid nipple in turn.

Responding to the sensations rioting inside her, the heat building in the core of her femininity, Sandra arched into his hungry mouth and caressed his silky-smooth, throbbing flesh.

Her mind, her body, every atom and molecule of her, was ready for him when he coiled an arm around her waist and lowered her to the edge of the bed. Before she realized what he was doing, he’d dropped to his knees between her parted, quivering thighs.

“Cameron?” She protested when he grasped her shoulders and gently moved her back, onto the mattress. “What are you doing?” she said raggedly when he pressed his lips to her belly, stabbed his tongue into her navel.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured against her skin, moistening it as he slid his tongue lower. “Every sweet, intoxicating inch of you.”

“Cameron.” Though her voice betrayed the uncertainty she was feeling, her hands speared into his hair, anchoring his head to her body.

“You’ll love it,” he promised, swirling his tongue around the tight curls covering her mound. “I’m going to send you soaring.”

Sandra could hear her own harsh breaths, and knew they were caused by anticipation, not trepidaton.
She had never allowed this intimacy, never granted the right to any other man.

But this was Cameron. The Lone Wolfe. A man of the law, and a law unto himself.

His tongue tasted the moist heat of her.

Sandra surrendered herself to the law.

Moments later, Cameron delivered on his promise. Ripples of unimagined and unimaginable pleasure cascading through her, Sandra went soaring into the no-time, no-space realm of ecstasy.

The flight was spectacular, but it soon became apparent to Sandra that the journey into sensuality was far from over.

Cameron had an agenda of his own to pursue.

Vaguely, at the fringes of her consciousness, Sandra heard the faint rustle of clothing, the quick, distinctive sound of foil being ripped. Then he was looming over her, moving her limp, depleted body lengthwise onto the bed, settling his taut-muscled form between her thighs.

“That was beautiful to watch,” he murmured, stroking the tremor from her legs. “You’re beautiful to watch.” He slid his hands beneath her and raised her hips, aligning her body with the probing tip of his manhood. “Now, I want to watch you do it again, with me.”

Sandra knew it was possible; at least she had heard it was possible, although she had never experienced the sensation of a repeat release. In truth,
she had only ever experienced a single release, on a rare occasion. But, grateful for the exquisite pleasure he had given to her, she was willing to try, to be the vessel of his ultimate release and pleasure.

He entered her slowly, delicately, allowing her still-pulsating body to adjust to the fullness of his, making her feel treasured, not at all a mere vessel, a convenient depository for his passion.

To Sandra’s surprise, her own desire flared anew when he began to move, carefully pacing his rhythm to her response, tightly reining his own needs, while fanning the flames of the smoldering spark of passion.

The look of him enhanced the tension spiraling inside her. In the throes of rigidly controlled passion, Cameron was a sight to behold.

His hair was ruffled from his earlier attention to her pleasure, one gold-streaked swath sweeping his forehead. His eyes were narrowed, intent on the emotional reactions revealed in her expression. His face was strained, and his bared teeth were clenched in determination. The strain was reflected in the tendons and veins throbbing in his arched throat, the muscles bunched in his chest.

He was working, hard, denying himself the soaring experience in an effort to stir her to the point of flying with him.

Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and darkened his hair. His sun-bronzed skin shimmered,
slick and moist from perspiration. His flat belly slid, wet and silky, against hers.

Everything about him, the look of him, the intensity he revealed, heightened the tension, the excitement revitalizing her, driving her to match his ardor.

She could barely breathe, and yet she felt exhilarated. The muscles in her body, which had felt slack and weak moments ago, now felt strong, energized.

Tightening her legs around his thighs, Sandra grasped his hips and arched high, into the measured rhythm of his thrusting body.

Without missing a beat of his driving motion, Cameron suddenly lowered his head to her breast, to capture one turgid nipple between his teeth.

The sensations his nipping teeth created inside her tore a gasping moan from her throat. Her heartbeat thrummed against her eardrums. Her pulses stampeded. Her body clenched around him.

A low, growl-like sound rumbled deep in his throat. “If you do that again, I can’t be held accountable,” he warned, in a harsh, tension-strained whisper.

A sense of sheer feminine power filled Sandra. Testing him, his control, she sank her nails into the spare flesh stretched over his hipbones, and this time deliberately clenched around him.

“Sandra, have mercy,” he pleaded, teeth snapping together, veins now prominent in his forehead.

Once again she clenched, inwardly drawing on him. In response, Cameron thrust to the hilt, while simultaneously thrusting a hand between their bodies to stroke the aroused center of her femininity.

“Wolfe!” Crying his name in a strangled exclamation, Sandra went off like a rocket, blasting into space, convulsing wildly around him.

Within a heartbeat, she heard her own name cried in a harsh exaltation of joy, and felt the throbbing heat of his powerful release.