Not.
The kiss broke. Her head dropped to his chest. His hand dropped heavily to her hair.
Their breaths were harsh in the darkness.
And so was the truth.
Two unknown people hadn’t shared this intimacy. She hadn’t come because of his raunchy words or his carnal kiss.
The key had just been…him. Eamon Rooney.
Cami wasn’t steadier, stronger, more whole after this interlude. Where she was standing was not neutral ground.
Instead, she continued to feel too much. For him.
Chapter 8
Early the next morning, Eamon’s feet pounded on the running belt of a treadmill in the resort’s small fitness room. He had the place to himself and he welcomed the solitude. Away from Cami and her scent, her face, the memories of the night before, maybe he could convince himself it was time to let her go.
For good.
She’d be safe back at her house.
Back to her life that didn’t include him.
Though Wick’s deal lay on the table for a few more days, Eamon’s concern that the threat from the Savage Sons—“You gotta girl? Somebody you care about?”—had likely been overblown.
And maybe merely a way for him to unconsciously bring her close again.
Shit.
A body leaped onto the neighboring treadmill, and the contraption started to hum. He glanced over and caught the eye of the man beside him. They exchanged nods.
The guy was a little older than Eamon, and he wore a wedding ring and a T-shirt advertising the Wildwood Elementary 3K and 5K run. As the other man placed his cell phone in the niche built into the console, the screen awoke to display a couple of pint-sized charmers. A boy in jean shorts and a striped T-shirt holding the hand of a little girl with a big pink bow in her fuzzy blond hair.
The presumed father noticed the direction of Eamon’s gaze and grinned. “Trevor and Pip…Pippa. They’re six and three.”
“Cute,” Eamon said.
“Loves of my life,” the man said in a cheerful voice as he began to run. “I can say that, of course, because their mom and I had a decent sleep last night. First one in forever. Grandparents are in town and gave us a midweek getaway.”
“Ah.”
“What about you?”
Decent night’s sleep? No, because the pull-out bed had a previous life as an instrument of torture, and he’d tossed and turned on the uncomfortable thing, reliving the explosive sex on the terrace with Cami. After climaxing, when they’d finally roused themselves from their passion stupor, she’d collected her clothes and gone inside. Since he didn’t know what the hell to say—gratitude, yeah, he might have expressed that, but he hadn’t yet managed to regather the pieces of his mind that had been blown all over the place—he’d given her space. By the time he’d followed her into the suite, she’d shut herself behind the bedroom door.
So for him, it had been a quick shower in the second bathroom and then the important work of watching the ceiling until dawn.
“Kids?” His workout buddy said now.
“Huh?” Eamon looked over.
“I meant, do you have any?”
Eamon shook his head. “No.”
“Not yet,” the other man asserted.
“I don’t—”
“I thought that, too.” He blotted his face with his sports towel. “I was gonna be single until I needed to marry some lively widow when I was a heading-toward-senility eighty or eighty-five. She’d make me pot roasts and sugar cookies until it was time to take my last eternal nap.”
At the mention of food, Eamon’s stomach rumbled. He’d texted Cami to meet him at the breakfast buffet.
Then the guy shot him a grin. “Of course my wife pointed out there wasn’t much in it for the lively widow under those circumstances. That was before she was my wife…I think on our second date. I was trying to be an upstanding, decent man, the kind who let her know the score before she got any big ideas about me.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I thought so. But you see, instead I got big ideas about her. Couldn’t imagine myself enjoying what life had to bring without her by my side. Go figure.” He shrugged, but didn’t look the least bit unhappy about the change of plans. “Kinda funny now. She does make sugar cookies, but I learned how to make my own damn pot roast. Then Trev and Pip came along, and now we’re this tight unit.”
A family who belonged together.
Cami would want that.
“Best adventure ever,” the other man said, blotting his face again. “Highly recommend.”
Eamon opened his mouth, prepared to share a little of his own. I don’t have a woman in my life, let alone any thoughts of taking a wife. Which means no kids, either. Solo adventure for me.
Then movement to his left distracted him. Cami stepped into the room, wearing a pair of jeans embroidered and embellished, a gauzy sleeveless top that drew his eye to the delicate vine tattoo crawling up one slender arm—and what the hell was up with that new bird?—and a pair of platform sandals with straps that wound around her ankles several times.
She looked like a daisy-fresh 1970s flower child who’d mistakenly wandered into the next century.
She also looked uncertain.
“Hey,” he said, sending her a smile. He lifted his arm and ducked his head to wipe his sweat on his sleeve.
“Hey.” She sketched a wave. “Thought I’d see how ready you were for breakfast. I’m starving.”
“Me, too.” He nudged the treadmill’s controls, bringing down the pace. “You go on ahead to the dining room. I’ll cool down, take a quick shower, and join you shortly.”
“Okay.” She bobbed her head, sending that silky hair of hers—he’d wrapped his fingers in it last night, wanting to keep her next to him forever—swirling around her shoulders. “See you there.”
Eamon’s heart jolted a little as she disappeared. Should he let her go off by herself? But of course he should, he told himself as he turned off the treadmill. There was no danger to her here—or anywhere.
And he was glad about that, of course. He would be glad to let her go.
“Don’t look so miserable, pal,” the man beside him said.
“What?” Eamon raised his brows.
“She doesn’t look the type to make sugar cookies, but I sure bet she’s sweet as hell.”
A few minutes later, Eamon sat at their table in the dining room, brooding over his cup of coffee. I sure bet she’s sweet as hell. Of course she was, sweet and spicy and everything in between, which meant she deserved a man who could give her all she wanted—all a woman who’d lived a lonely childhood needed.
Across the room, she was making her selection from the buffet. He stared at her back, taking in the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. For God’s sake, she’d named the hunting trophies in her childhood home like stuffed animals! The memory made his chest ache, and it still hurt when she returned to her place with two plates in hand.
“I saw you come in and picked out a few things you might like.”
“Thanks.” Warmth overran the ache, and he found himself jumping up to pull out her chair for her.
“Such a gentleman,” she teased, the corners of her mouth tipping up as they both sat down.
Yeah, such a gentleman he’d had her on her knees last night all because he’d been thinking “stranger sex” could act as antidote to the chemistry that had coursed between them from the very first. Instead, last night’s events had only added another layer of complication to their break-up.
Her brows rose. “Why the frown? I could swear you like bacon and eggs.”
What an ass, Rooney. On a sigh, he leaned over and put his palm behind her head to draw her close. His mouth pressed her forehead in a brotherly kiss. “Bacon and eggs are great. You’re great.”
She caught his fingers as he pulled away. “It’s okay.”
He nodded, and brought her hand to his mouth so he could brush his lips against her knuckles. “We’ll
talk about that. Making things okay.” Making this break-up final. Making it stick.
But the exchange seemed to have diminished his appetite because after a few bites he was full. At the buzz of his phone, he pulled it out of his pocket.
“I have to take this,” he told Cami. “Excuse me.”
He could have ignored his father’s call, but some fresh air sounded good about now. He let himself onto the lawn outside the dining room. “What’s up, Irish?”
“Does a father have to have a reason to check in with his son?”
Eamon blew out a breath and reminded himself that the older man didn’t know about the Sons’ threat or about Cami—anything about Cami—including that he’d brought her up the coast. “Sure, Dad, sorry.”
“You been eating your spinach?”
It was an old joke. “Yeah.”
“Flossing your teeth?”
“Every day, twice on Sundays.”
The older man chuckled. “Good to hear.”
“What are the Unrulies up to?”
“Did I tell you about my microbrewery idea?”
Eamon started to laugh. “Do you read my mind? I was just thinking about that the other night. It’s a great possibility.”
“I agree,” Irish said, clearly pleased with himself. “This is going to be all legit, no moonshine operation. Might have to get you to draw up some business papers.”
“Not my specialty, but I’m sure Spence and I can fix you up or find someone who can.”
“I’ll make an appointment at your offices.”
“Ahh. Official,” Eamon teased.
“I can be that, too,” Irish said, then hesitated. The sound of his throat clearing came over the phone. “How’s your mother?”
Treacherous waters, Eamon thought. “She’s well.” His father would want more than that. “In good health. And she has a new project. She’s putting a lot of time into a local community garden.”
“Flowers or vegetables or…?”
He blinked. “Uh…I have no idea.”
“It will be strawberries and maybe some sweet peppers. Cucumbers, too. Samantha always dreamed about making her own pickles.”
Eamon didn’t know how to respond. The two had been apart for nearly twenty years. That his father still remembered this kind of detail—even while he had the sexy Suze as his old lady—flummoxed his son. He couldn’t decide if it was tragic or just plain sad.
“I’ll give her your regards.”
“You do that,” Irish said, his voice soft. Then it returned to its normal gruff tone. “One other thing you should know.”
The fire ants started to tiptoe up Eamon’s spine. “Yeah? What thing is that?”
“Wick got into a little trouble in jail.”
Eamon groaned. That could mean anything from being caught with contraband to mouthing off to a guard.
“Broke his jaw.”
“Shit.” Tension tightened around Eamon’s chest, and the fire ants went disco-wild. “Is he okay?” Surely that was a warning. Don’t squeal.
“Lawyer says so. Says Wick communicated that he slipped in the shower.”
“And caught himself on his chin?” Eamon asked in disbelief. His mind whirled as he tried to understand all the implications. “He should tell—”
“Might be the best way for Wick to handle it, son.”
“But—”
“The boy’s got big decisions to make, and this situation could work in his favor. In any case, the Feds gave him extra days on the deal. Another week.”
Eamon’s head dropped back, and he rubbed his neck as he contemplated the cloudless sky. He couldn’t even begin to sort out the situation into neat pros and cons.
“I gotta let you go, Eamon,” Irish said. “You take care now.”
“Yeah, Dad,” he agreed. “That’s the one damn thing I’m going to do. Take care.”
But which way was the best way to care for Cami?
Later that morning, the situation still rolled around in his head like an unbalanced barrel as he pointed his car southward. Cami clicked into his mood right away and closed her eyes and napped during the ride back to Malibu—or at least she pretended to nap.
The pretense was good enough that when he pulled into the garage she blinked at him drowsily even as she exited the car and followed him to the door into the house. He reached out to insert his key, then noticed the door itself wasn’t latched.
What the fuck?
Ice flooded his veins, and the fire ants scrambled over his skin.
“Get in the car,” he said to Cami under his breath. “Get in the car and lock all the doors.”
He didn’t have a gun on him this time. The one he sometimes carried in the car had been locked in his safe in the house for the trip. But he had a rage that would suit him just fine as a weapon.
Placing his hand on the flat of the door, he pushed it open.
Cami sat frozen in the car, her gaze locked on the door Eamon had disappeared through. What was going on? What was she supposed to do next?
Then he was there, holding the door opened and gesturing to her, his expression hard, his curling fingers impatient.
She hopped out. “What’s happened?”
He took her by the elbow as she mounted the steps and pulled her inside.
“I want you to check and see if anything of yours is missing,” he said, his voice low in her ear as he towed her across the hallway. “I found a visitor in the guest bedroom.”
A woman stood by the end of the bed, her hands tightly clasped together at her waist. Fortyish, Cami supposed, and the stranger had a familiar silhouette—zero body fat, arm muscles beyond toned to tough, all girlishness given way to gristle.
Cami had her morning walks, but she took spin and Pilates in the studios that were SoCal staples too, and she’d seen this type. The lady’s blonde hair was professionally streaked, her bright pink nails newly manicured, and her eyelashes extended, even though she was casually dressed in pastel yoga pants and a matching top that draped low at her throat to reveal the beginning swells of stupendously-sized breasts.
“I’m Cami Colson,” she said, glancing at Eamon whose frown hadn’t abated. “A, um, friend of Eamon’s.”
“Veronica Healy,” the lady responded, darting her own look at their host. “Um…”
“Veronica’s husband Grant was that client I mentioned to you,” he said. “The reason I have this house.”
“And you’ve done wonders with it,” Veronica gushed.
“All new inside,” Eamon said evenly, “since you removed everything including the kitchen sink.”
But left the odd foodstuffs in the garage, Cami thought. Maybe that predilection belonged to “Grant,” the man Eamon and his partner had defended for some kind of white-collar crime.
“I know I was supposed to leave the contents of the house,” Veronica said, her white knuckles betraying her nervousness. “But the Century City condo’s furnishings were looking shabby…”
“It’s all right, Veronica,” Eamon said on a sigh. “What’s not all right is breaking in to what’s now my home.”
“But I didn’t break in!”
“No?” Eamon crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me how you’re here.”
“I still have a set of keys.” She gestured to the bed, where a ring of them sat on the duvet. “And the passcode was the same.”
“Shit,” he said, sounding disgusted, and Cami figured that was aimed at himself. “Okay, but how did you get past the guardhouse?”
“Well…” She smiled, briefly revealing a dazzling mouthful of veneers. “I know where the public access to the beach is and when the tides make it available. This used to be our weekend place, after all.”
Eamon didn’t look any more pleased by that revelation. “You said you were looking for some jewelry you left behind.”
Veronica nodded. “Yes. Well, might have left behind. I just can’t seem to find some pieces, so I thought they might have…I don’t know…�
��
“Fallen behind the vanity in the guest bathroom?”
She shrugged. “Or maybe in a crack in the closet? I just had to check.”
“Without calling.”
“You’re such a busy man.” Her face took on a coy expression that she’d probably perfected at five. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It bothered the hell out of me to find someone in my house while I was out, Veronica.”
She batted her eyelash extensions. “I apologize. Truly.”
“Okay.” He rolled his shoulders as if trying to shrug off tension. “We better search together and see if they can be found.” His gaze shifted to Cami and he sent her a meaningful look. I want you to check and see if anything of yours is missing. “Cami will look around in here, and you and I will take the rest of the house.”
With a nod, Veronica grabbed her key ring from the bed and preceded Eamon from the room.
It took Cami no time at all to see that the small number of things she’d left before their trip up the coast were undisturbed. Perhaps rearranged—her weekly leave-in hair conditioner on a different shelf in the bathroom, her guitar shifted from one easy chair in the sitting area to another—but not missing or damaged.
Since it seemed from the conversation that all the furniture was new, she didn’t bother looking behind chair cushions or running her hand between the mattress and box springs. Instead, she wandered out to the living area of the house where Eamon watched Veronica make what seemed a rather perfunctory inspection of the environs.
“And how is everything going with you, Eamon?’ the older woman asked, as if she was sipping a cocktail at a party and not running her hand along windowsills.
“The usual,” he said. “Have you visited Grant recently?”
“The facility is quite nice, all things considered.”
He nodded. “Minimum security prisons can be.”
“There’s a well-stocked library, and he’s joined a bocce ball team. He tells me he’s swimming nearly every day.” She noticed Cami now and flashed her a quick smile. “My husband’s housed in a federal prison camp in Oregon. There’s a charming inn nearby where many visitors choose to stay.”
Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) Page 13
