Maybe it was just my imagination, but I felt his steady heartbeat matching mine. I wasn’t a great dancer, so I was amazed to discover that my body fit so well with his. We moved in tandem, chest to chest, hips to hips, thigh to thigh. Our breaths melded together. That sweet but agonizing tension made me lower my head and press my forehead against his shoulder, closing my eyes and trying to control my breathing.
I wanted this man so much I ached. The unmistakable hardness between us was proof that he wanted me just as badly.
“You have a bad habit,” he whispered in my ear, pulling me closer to him when I jumped, startled.
“What habit?”
“You over-think things.”
I stared up at him, my mouth agape. How the hell could he have known what I was thinking?
“I just sensed that you had something on your mind. I’m beginning to know you well enough to assume you actually make a list with pros and cons before taking any action—even if that action ends in disaster.”
In spite of myself, I laughed, burying my face in his chest. “God, this perception of yours is irritating! Yes, you’re right. I do over-think everything, and no, I can’t stop. Actually, when my time’s up, I’ll probably try to reason with Death begging for an extension until he gives in, and I’m immortal.”
Carter chuckled, bending his face over my head. The heat of his breath against my ear made goose bumps bloom on my skin. How had this man awakened such deep emotions within me?
“I’d better take you home before you over-think that too, and reach the conclusion that I’m some kind of maniac and decide you would be better off taking a cab,” he joked.
After he settled the tab, we took the elevator down to the ground floor. It was almost midnight, and the air was pleasantly cool. It was a perfect night for a walk, but my heels weren’t walking friendly, so I didn’t suggest it. Instead, I sat quietly as Carter drove to my apartment, my mind reliving every second I’d been in Carter’s arms. When we reached it, he parked on the side of the street, letting the engine idle as he had before, and turned to face me.
“I’ve had a great time tonight, Camilla.”
“So did I,” I answered, praying it wasn’t going to end the way it had the last time he’d driven me home.
I saw desire in his eyes and because I wanted it so badly, I took a leap of faith and made the first move. Leaning forward, I gave him a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek. I didn’t know how he would respond to that, but to me the gesture was sexier than a full, tongue-tangling kiss.
I withdrew slowly, my gaze on his, and whispered, “Goodnight, Carter.”
Without another word, I climbed out of the car and walked toward my building. But of course, my perfectly executed exit was ruined. Didn’t the man do anything conventional?
Only a few steps away, I turned to find him watching me, an amused smile on his face. As I walked back to the car, he lowered the window. I planted my elbows and watch him across the passenger seat.
“Don’t you want my phone number?” I asked conversationally, trying not to sound annoyed that he hadn’t asked.
His grin widened, but he stayed quiet. I took a deep breath.
“Fine. Then give me yours.”
He rattled off the number while I tapped it into my cellphone, then hit dial.
“What are you doing?” Carter asked, as his own phone rang in his pocket.
“I’m calling you.”
“Why?”
“So, you’ll have my damned number,” I said smartly. This time I walked away without a backward glance.
Chapter Eleven
The next week passed uneventfully. Since the Jack Doleman case was stalled, Carter focused his attention on other stories and had been sent on an out-of-town assignment. With him away, I concentrated on my work at the salon. It seemed I was doing quite well since on Friday I got my first paycheck.
“Don’t spend it all in one place, hon,” Gabriel teased as I did a happy dance. It wasn’t anywhere near what I’d earned at the law firm, but it was more than I’d made the previous week. “Now mix some red R 17 and brown B 5 for Miss Caprice. She wants red highlights on a brown base.”
Miss Caprice was a fifty-something matron, whose Rubenesque figure currently strained one of the chairs. As eccentric as she was, it wasn’t her white bleached hair, Bohemian clothing or extravagant makeup that shocked me. It was the miniature potbellied pig, the size of a year old baby, she carried in a woven bag on her shoulder.
At first, I thought it was a puppy and bent to stroke the reddish brown head I could see poking out of the bag. When the creature gave a bad-tempered squeal and snapped at my hand, I jumped away, startled.
“Miss Caprice, Camilla is new to the salon and hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting Rodney,” Gabriel said, his tone clearly implying that I should be honored.
“I see,” the woman said with a heavy French accent. “He’s mon bébé, and the sweetest thing on three legs.”
My eyes bulged. While I hadn’t seen too many live pigs, I was pretty damn sure they had four legs.
“Poor Rodney had an unfortunate accident last year,” Gabriel explained. “A dog attacked him and ended up chewing up one of his back legs so badly, the veterinarian had to amputate it.”
I attempted to plaster a sorrowful expression on my face and turned a strangled giggle into a cough.
“Poor darling,” I said compassionately, glancing at the pink snout twitching from inside the bag from which occasional snorts and oinks could be heard.
“He’s fine now,” his mistress assured me. “But he isn’t very sociable, and he hates strangers.” She turned to the pig and cooed to him the way people do to babies. “But he’s a very good boy now, aren’t you, mon bébé?”
She lifted the bag slightly and rubbed her nose lovingly against the walking bacon’s snout. I watched in horrified fascination until Gabriel tapped me on the arm.
“Go on, Camilla. Bring me the dye so that we can get started.” He turned to the woman in the chair. “Miss Caprice, Why don’t I put Rodney over here, next to the counter, where he won’t be disturbed?” He gingerly removed the woven bag from his clients grasp and set it down on the floor.
I stifled my laughter until I reached the backroom. I chuckled softly while I prepared the dye. I was just picking up the two bowls with my gloved hands when I heard a male voice coming from where the door was ajar.
One of the clients who had been waiting for a haircut was on his phone. He’d probably walked over here for privacy.
I shrugged. That was his problem. I had to get this color out to Gabriel. About to open the door, the man’s words stopped me in my tracks.
“It’s not working,” he said, obviously annoyed. “I suggest we send her another letter with, shall we say, a little souvenir? You know what I’m sayin’? A finger, maybe two, might be the incentive she needs...”
The words and the deadly tone of his voice chilled me. Who the hell was he? A mobster? He sounded dangerous. I peeked at him through the crack.
The client was in his late thirties, dark-haired, dark-eyed and olive-skinned, with a trimmed beard and highly polished shoes that reminded me of the health inspector, Standford, from the pet store. This man wore black slacks and a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a tuft of hair and a thick gold chain.
I was considering what he might be up to when Gabriel’s annoyed face came into view. I nudged the door open and stepped out, a surprised look on my face as it I hadn’t expected anyone to be there.
“Excuse me,” Gabriel said, brushing past the man, an admiring, wistful look on his face. “Please have a seat. Phoebe will get to you in a moment. Camilla, what took you so long?” he asked, opening the door wider.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find the B 5,” I said, hurrying over to his chair area where Miss Caprice waited. Did the man realize that I might’ve overheard his conversation? His gaze was fixed on me, but I couldn’t tell whether it was in suspicion or in appreciation.
My speculation ended abruptly when the man, eyes on me and not on where he was going, tripped over Rodney’s bag and knocked it over. The pig squealed loudly, dashed out, running for all he was worth on his three legs, heading straight for his mistress. Unfortunately, I was between him and her.
Panicked by the strange and unexpected sight, I froze in place, hoping against hope that he would change direction. No such luck. Rodney threw himself against my shins. I lost my balance and dropped both bowls right on Miss Caprice’s head.
I couldn’t say who was squealing harder now—me, Gabriel, Miss Caprice, or Rodney. When I managed to pick myself off the floor, I saw the pig running toward the open glass door and the busy traffic beyond it.
As though in slow motion, I shouted at Phoebe to close the door, just as Miss Caprice and Gabriel screamed more or less the same thing. Phoebe’s hands were busy with scissors and combs, but she managed to push the door closed with the tip of her shoe.
Unable to slow his momentum, Rodney slammed hard against the glass, snout first. Stunned, he fell onto his butt, then toppled on to his side, his little beady eyes rolling back as he passed out. Miss Caprice followed suit. One look at Gabriel, and I thought he just might join her.
* * *
Saturday morning found me moaning in bed. Not because I’d had a sensational night of debauchery, but because it appeared I’d caught cold—and not just any cold. Every muscle, bone, and tendon hurt. My throat was raw as if I’d spent the night swallowing razor blades and hurt like hell. There was a band of orangutans dancing in my head, and sweat poured from my fevered brow. The damp sheets strangled me since I’d tossed and turned all night, reliving the chaos at the salon. I couldn’t breathe and desperately needed to blow my nose, but the bathroom seemed miles away.
“Dear God,” I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face, pressing my thumbs into my aching eye sockets. “You really hate me, don’t you? This is all I need.”
I rolled onto my side and proceeded to lift my body up, inch by inch, until I was sitting with my feet flat against the floor. I massaged the ache in my neck. Reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, I gulped it down, wincing at every swallow. My tonsils felt as though they were the size of apples.
I was about to try standing so that I could get to the bathroom when my phone rang. I groped for it on the nightstand and raised it to my ear without checking the display.
“Hello,” I croaked, not sure the word would be recognizable.
“Camilla. Did I wake you?” Carter asked, his voice filled with concern.
“No, I was just ... I’m awake,” I mumbled through cracked lips.
“What’s wrong? Your voice sounds odd. Have you been crying?”
“No, but I’m sick. I’ve got a really bad cold—maybe even the flu,” I groaned, torn between falling back on my pillow, or trying to make it to the bathroom.
“That’s rough, you poor thing ... Do you need anything?”
I shoved my feet into my slippers and mustered the courage to stand. “Well, I might need you to write my epitaph.”
“That bad?” He chuckled. “Okay, I’m coming over.”
“No!” I protested, suddenly alert. “You might catch it, too.”
I didn’t add that I looked and felt like shit and didn’t want him to see me like this.
“I have a strong immune system. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about it. I’m bringing you some medicine. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
He disconnected, leaving me to curse the sneaky germ that had ruined all of my plans for seduction this weekend. Instead of being the glamorous goddess I’d anticipated, I was a sack of germs and snot. Great.
With energy attributable to my desperation, I hurried to the bathroom and attempted to repair as much damage to my appearance as I could.
I took a scalding shower, thoroughly washing my hair. By the time I opened the bathroom window to let out the thick steam, I was feeling considerably better.
After hastily drying my hair, I grabbed my makeup kit and went into the kitchen and put on the kettle to make tea. While I waited for the water to boil, I applied a little makeup, feeling even more improved when I looked better. I’d just exchanged my robe for jeans and a red t-shirt when the doorbell rang.
Carter stood there holding a paper bag with a drug store label on it. He looked me up and down, frowning.
“You don’t look like a sick person,” he said when I stepped aside for him to enter.
“The magic of cosmetics. Come into the kitchen. I made tea.”
“Well, cosmetics may have concealed your problem, but I brought the magic stuff that cures it.” He put the bag on the table and emptied it. “I have cold medicine, Vitamin C, decongestant spray, and throat lozenges,” he said, arranging the medical arsenal in front of me. “Are you coughing?” he asked, not giving me time to answer, “because I have some of that, too.” He produced a bottle of cough syrup. “Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Do I?”
He put his cool hand on my forehead. I closed my eyes, leaning into his hand. Despite the makeup, I still felt terrible, but his presence seemed to help. The concern creasing his forehead touched me deeply.
“You do,” he said, brushing my hair away and watching me, his eyes filled with worry. “Do you want me to get you to the hospital?”
“No, of course not. It’s just a bad cold, I’ll live, even though I may not feel like it right now.”
My legs were weak, so I sat down on a chair and offered him the one across from me. I reached for the cold medicine, took two tablets as prescribed, swallowing them with my tea. The hot liquid soothed my throat.
“You need to drink plenty of liquids,” Carter said. “Have you eaten anything?”
I shook my head.
“I can never get it straight. Is it feed a fever, starve a cold or the other way around?”
“It’s feed a cold, starve a fever, but that’s actually bad advice. Not eating when you’re sick makes it harder for your body to fight and recover. You need to eat. I’ll fix you something.”
With that, he sat up and went to the fridge to browse its contents. I was still gaping at him when he asked, “How about a bacon and cheese omelet?”
Although my mouth was open, it took me several seconds to engage my brain and react.
“Oh, Carter, you don’t have to...”
“Don’t be silly. Besides, I’m a great cook,” he boasted, taking the ingredients out of the fridge. “Just sit down and let me take care of you.”
I was so emotional that tears flooded my eyes, and I swiped at them quickly while his back was turned. No one had taken care of me like this since I’d moved out on my own. Carter behaved as if he truly cared about me.
“Actually, I came here to give you some good news,” he said, searching for a frying pan. “Roger, my boss, is back from his vacation. He’s given me permission to take you with me on a trial interview. If you do well, you’ll be hired as a legal consultant. He’s willing to go one step further and give you a shot at working as a journalist, maybe with your own column dealing with the everyday legal issues people face—you know, stuff like why you shouldn’t ignore parking tickets or why responsible dog owners need to clean up after their pets. It’s all up to you. What do you say? Do you think you’ll feel up to coming with me to see Jack Doleman’s wife later today?”
I stared at his grin and pinched myself. Was this real or just some fever-inspired delusion?
“Really? Do you mean it?” I asked, praying I wasn’t hallucinating.
“Of course I mean it. I told you; he trusts my judgment, and I trust you. I feel you have the skills for this job. But we can leave it for a day or two if you don’t think you can manage today.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d already thanked him for trying to help me, but now that push had come to shove, I was stunned. Did I want to become a journalist? The idea appealed far more than I’d ever expected it would. But what abo
ut Gabriel and the salon? Neither he nor Miss Caprice had blamed me for Rodney’s accident—of course the fact that the pig had come to, none worse for the wear, had helped. But that job really wouldn’t take me anywhere. But a journalist ... Now that was not only an awesome opportunity, it was a career, a calling, the vocation I’d been missing all along.
I smiled at him, all my fatigue gone.
“Yes! I’m sure I’ll feel even better after I eat.”
He grinned broadly, his white teeth gleaming and he winked at me as he plated the food, artistically arranging tomatoes next to the two omelets, over which he’d added more shredded cheese.
“Voila! Breakfast is served,” he announced with a flourish and a more than passable French accent, placing a plate in front of me. “I hope you don’t mind. I invited myself to join you,” he added, sitting opposite me in front of his own plate.
“Of course not. This looks divine.” I sniffed it, but my nose was dead to the world. “Thank you so much. I owe you breakfast.”
“I’ll make sure you reciprocate,” he said, pointing his index finger at me.
The omelet was fluffy, filled with bits of bacon and melted cheese. Had I been able to taste anything, I’m sure it would’ve been the best omelet I’d ever eaten. I thanked Carter again, praised his culinary skills, and then listened as he outlined his plans for the day.
It was almost noon by the time we drove out to the suburbs to see Mrs. Doleman. The estate where she and her husband lived was surrounded by ten foot brick walls.
Carter pulled up to the massive iron gates. A man stepped out of a small gatehouse I hadn’t noticed.
“State your business,” the large man, dressed in a black military-styled uniform, ordered.
“Carter Evans and Camilla Jackson,” Carter answered. “We’re here to see Mrs. Doleman concerning her husband’s disappearance.”
The official tone in his voice worked. The security guard nodded, gave us the once over, and then stepped into his cubical to make a call. A few moments later, he returned.
Sacked! Page 11
