by Donna Fasano
She tossed her hair back, ready with a sassy comeback about how she’d known it was him because he didn’t knock. She would have known his pushy buzz anywhere. But the look on his face made her press her lips together.
“I’ll tell you what you did. Opened the door, pretty as you please. No peeking out to see what might be waiting, not even so much as a ‘Who is it?’ from Miss I-can-take-care-of-myself.” Though his voice stayed calm, anger burned red in the hollows of his cheeks.
Julia wondered what had fueled the reaction in him. A response to her foolhardiness in perhaps jeopardizing his plan? Or something more personal? She wound her fingers into her robe’s lapels and clutched them over her throat. The rubber sole of her slipper scuffed over the hardwood floor when she spun around, placing her back to him, saying quietly, “I knew it was you at the door this morning.”
“How?” he challenged.
Was this where she admitted she only assumed it had been him—because she had been thinking of him? Julia shook her head, as if that would throw the notion clear of her mind and therefore keep it off her lips. She marched forward, her gaze sweeping the cozy – her landlord’s code word for teeny tiny—living room in her quaint –another code word, meaning grandmotherly -- cottage for something to distract her.
Cameron followed on her heels, heated persistence in his tone. “How? How did you know it was me outside your door this morning?”
“I—” She grabbed the hairbrush poking up from her purse on the coffee table and began to snag the bristles through her rumpled hair. “I just knew, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay.” He raised his voice in a way that said he was holding his ground not trying to grind her down.
She slashed the hairbrush through a nasty snarl and even though it hurt like heck, she didn’t make a sound. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he rattled her – in more ways than one. Fear and confusion welled up within her. Another yank of the brush brought a well of tears to her eyes.
Cameron used one hand to turn her toward him.
The brush suddenly felt as if it were made of lead. Her hand dropped to hang limply at her side. She blinked back the tears of pain and frustration that bathed her eyes.
“No. No tears. That is an absolute, unbreakable rule of mine.” He tossed his parka onto the couch and held his arms out to her.
Something dark and heavy against the gray of sweater caught her eye. Cameron was wearing a shoulder holster and gun! A cold weight sank into the pit of her stomach and she shrank back.
His gaze followed hers to the menacing weapon strapped to his body. “Julia--”
“You’re really afraid for me, aren’t you?” she whispered, the words crackling in the back of her throat.
With one look she demanded more of him than his typical evasive answer.
“No, I’m not afraid for you. But I won’t take any chances. The Michael Shaughnessy I knew and loved would bring no harm to you.” His green eyes grew dark, his jaw taut. “But that’s not the man I spoke to on the phone yesterday.”
She nodded. Or did her whole rigid body simply sway under the staggering weight of this new information?
“I’m not afraid, Julia, I’m just being cautious.” He slipped the hairbrush from her hand and used it to sweep the dark tangles back from her face.
“Cautious,” she echoed, looking up at him as he moved around her, brushing her hair then bunching it into one large hand. When he stood behind her she cocked her head, forcing him to stop and step back a little. “Does this mean you plan to spend your nights camping in your car outside my house?”
“No.” He handed her the brush over her shoulder.
A quiet whoosh of air escaped her lips. “That’s a relief.”
“I happened to notice one of your neighbors has a caravan in his drive.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Caravan? You mean the RV?” She thought of that beast of a vehicle the man next door had pulled into the drive last summer and never used once that she knew of. Sometimes after a particularly rotten day she had imagined climbing into that thing herself and taking off for parts unknown.
“That’s the one.” He strode across the room to the large front window and pulled the sheer curtain back slightly. He peered out but kept back. No one outside would have been able to see him as he craned his neck and looked in one direction then the other. “I was thinking of asking to use it as a sort of base of operations.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Julia blurted as much in frustration that Cameron might actually do what she had only dreamt of as in agitation that he would further encroach on her life like that.
“Why not?” He let the curtain fall shut again. “All of the really suave undercover agents have to ask for cooperation in stakeouts from time to time.”
She pounded across the floor to the window, reached out to yank the curtains open wide, then paused, the fabric wadded in both hands. “You really would. You’d really involve that kind-looking, older gentleman—”
“Mr. Wilson. Norman Wilson.”
“How did you know that?” She dropped the curtains and turned to face him, her stomach starting to knot.
“I know a great many things.” A quick wiggle of his eyebrows accentuated the twinkle in his green eyes. “All in the line of duty, of course.”
She wet her lips, almost afraid to ask. “What else do you know?”
“I know that my watching over you is only temporary” he assured her, his smile returning. “Just until my near brilliant plan roots out the greedy villain and the fair maiden is safe once more.”
“And what if this plan of yours fails to flush out your greedy villain?” She crossed her arms, feeling a bit more confident, a bit more like the good old in-charge Julia.
“Then, my sweet, we go to what we secret agent types like to call—” he leaned forward and gave her a knowing wink as he whispered, “—Plan B.”
~*~
“‘Plan B?’ He actually said ‘Plan B’?” Craig slammed shut the metal drawer of one of the ancient filing cabinets in the basement storeroom.
“A joke, Craig. It was a joke.” She stretched out her hand for the files he had pulled. At least, she thought it was a joke. “He just meant he has more than one contingency.”
“More than one contingency or more than one agenda?” Craig stopped to scoop up the last pile of dog-eared folders. “I don't get the man, Julia. What does he think he is going to do with all these applications? Half these people never even showed up to do what they said they would to begin with and the ones that did show up didn’t stick around.”
“Cameron swears he can ‘mine them for volunteer gold’. ” Julia pressed the folders against her chest and tried not to smile outright at the man’s claim as he lead the way from the dank storage room through the dimly lit hall. “It isn’t as if I haven’t gone through these files before. I’ve spoken with each and every one of these people time and time again, trying to persuade them to help out. Did that make one bit of difference?”
They wound their way to the steps, the musty odor of the lower floors practically weighing down the air around them.
Craig’s attitude was almost as sour. “And if asking for these weren’t enough, did you know he also asked for the shelter’s full financial report?”
“What can we do about that, Craig?” She wished she felt as relaxed as she sounded. “Our financial records are a matter of public record. He has as much right to review them as any citizen.”
“Yeah, but why?”
Why? Julia had asked herself that question many times since the man with the glimmer in his green eyes had walked through her door. The man could just as easily pretend to stay busy around the shelter to serve his purpose. Instead, he chose to dig in and tackle two of her toughest problems—money and manpower.
She just couldn’t figure the Irishman out. Aside from his willingness to pitch in at the shelter, his treatment of her gave her pause. The man, who proclaime
d without reservation that Shaughnessy would do his nephew no harm, nevertheless insisted she wear a tracking device. He had once said Shaughnessy would not come after her, yet he planned to stand guard over her personally. Could the man be lying? Or, at the very least, not be revealing all he knew?
She shuddered, then immediately blamed it on the damp chill of the darkened corridor.
~*~
Julia and Craig carted the requested files up two flights of stairs. When they reached the barren but sun brightened office that Cameron had commandeered for his headquarters, she knocked at the open door with the heel of her shoe.
“Where do ya want these, pal?” she asked, a bit too… too… Cameron couldn’t put his finger on it. Probably because ever since he laid eyes on the woman he couldn’t help imagining putting his hands all over her. He fought the smoldering urges that being near her threatened to ignite. Dangerous stuff, that. Sex and work was a volatile mix, the kind that when it blew up… and it would blow up… it always blew up… could leave a scar that would never heal. Add love into the brew and--
Love? Where had that come from? He met Julia’s eyes and his heart thudded hard and relentless like the footsteps of someone closing in on him.
“Here, let me take those.” Cameron leaped up from the wobbling desk and strode the few steps to Julia’s side. “Thanks for bringing them up.”
He took her files in his arms then pivoted so Craig could add his.
Craig dumped the files on top of Cameron’s load.
Cameron quickly bent his knees to take the added weight. Craig’s distrust rose like a wall between them. Hoping to knock a hole in that wall, Cameron thanked him with a smile. “I really appreciate your pitching in, Davis.”
“Anytime, O’Dea. Just let me know if I can do anything else for you,” Craig muttered as he turned to amble back down the hall to his own office. “Like fetch you some coffee, loan you my laptop, polish your shoe phone--"
Before Cameron could answer Craig’s office door slammed shut.
He couldn’t make friends with the man for the life of him and he couldn’t keep from thinking about being more than friends with the woman Craig wanted to protect. All his years in service he’d never had a situation like this. In fact he’d pretty much always been able to win over any man, and get over any woman as suited the demands of the job. Was he losing his touch?
He navigated the room with his precarious tower of paperwork. Back at his new desk, he paused to survey the pocked, sloping surface, then frowned. With a nudge, he tested the off-kilter desk leg. It teetered for an instant then hit the floor with a resounding whomp, followed by the squawking of a metal caster scraping tile, and finally a dead thump.
Julia rushed forward, no doubt thinking only she could remedy the situation.
He cocked his head to the right and read the names on the tabs of the top files. “What are the odds of convincing A. Abel through—” he narrowed one eye to judge the distance between the desk leg and the floor, “—I’d say, maybe, G. Altman, to put in more volunteer time?”
“I personally maintained that inactive list, Cameron. So I feel I can say without question, you have as much chance of luring them back into the shelter as you do of finding a leprechaun in Cincinnati.”
“Then the luck of the Irish is on us this day, lass.” He refused to be deterred by her bland reaction.
“One thing I have to say about you, O’Dea, you’re nothing if not optimistic.” She shook her head. “Especially if you think you can get any use at all out of those files.”
“Watch and learn.”
“I’m watching.” She slumped against the door frame.
He skimmed away the top four or five files from the stockpile. “Prepare to be dazzled.”
She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head, sending the hair clinging to her shoulders tumbling around her upper arms.
He gave her a quick salute with the selected files then let the vanilla-colored folders drop. They hit the floor with a loud slap. He kicked them under the upraised leg with the toe of his hiking boot, and the desk clomped down on the papers.
Cameron tested the stability with a quick knee jab.
No wobble.
He slid the stack in his arms onto the now level desktop and they stayed put.
“Very nice.” Julia nodded. “I applaud your Irish ingenuity.”
He bowed his head and waved his hand with a flourish to accept her grudging accolade. “And?”
“You’re a better man than I am, Cameron O’Dea.”
“Now, that goes without saying, doesn’t it, lass?” He tucked his chin down and waggled his eyebrows.
She pressed her lips together and frowned.
“Now, about the rest of the files—”
“Too bad you won’t get as much use out of the rest of the files as you did out of those.” She pointed to the floor.
“That’s not a very helpful frame of mind, Miss Reed.” He moved around the desk. “Haven’t you ever heard of the power of positive thinkin’?”
She raised one finger at him. “Don’t tell me about positive thinking, my friend. There are days that I live on that and prayer alone.”
He knew that. It was one of the things he found most intriguing about her. He nodded. “I understand, Miss Reed.”
“And call me Julia.” She dragged the toe of her shoe over the scuff-marked floor. “Please.”
“Julia,” he echoed so softly it sounded more like a long, low breath than a spoken word.
She looked up at him. “And what is it, Mr. O’Dea, that you hope to accomplish with these files and with our financial information?”
“Cameron.” He dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk. The casters squealed beneath his weight, piercing the quiet.
“Cameron,” she complied.
“Rest assured, Julia.” He said her name because he liked saying it, liked it enough to know he didn’t have any business saying it too often. That meant she should go and he should get to work. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going on this right away.”
“Get going on what, exactly? Does this have to do with setting a trap for Shaughnessy, or are you just interfering in my shelter to pass the time?”
“Time, sweet Julia, is not something I have in surplus.” Sweet Julia? He believed the American slang for that would be ‘corny’. Still, it had slipped easily off his tongue, and he hardly regretted the use of it—especially when he saw the pink tinge it put on her cheeks.
“Of course,” she said. ‘You do have some serious time constraints. I’m sorry.”
“No harm done.” He drew in a deep breath. The dank smell of the old building filled his lungs along with a new scent. He’d smelled it before in Julia’s home. Vanilla.
He exhaled and ran one hand back through his hair. His fingertips scored his tingling scalp as he forced his mind back to the job he’d promised to undertake. “I know you need to get back to your office, so let me just ask—”
“Yes?” she murmured.
“What’s on the agenda for Saint Patrick’s Day?”
“What?” Her blue eyes glanced around the room as if seeking the person he was speaking to. “I don’t understand. What about Saint Patrick’s Day?”
“Well, this is called St. Patrick’s Homeless Shelter, isn’t it?”
“You know it is.”
The snap in her tone made him realize she had run out of patience with him. “So, are you doing anything to tie that in? Are you making use of the holiday to garner publicity, to heighten awareness of your plight, to solicit donations?”
“I—I hadn’t—” She shook her head, her already inviting eyes wide. He could practically see her mentally kicking herself for the oversight. “Well, no, I never made the connection before.”
His lips eased into an effortless grin. “Then aren’t you lucky to have me here now?”
“I’m beginning to think that luck had nothing to do with it.” She heaved a sigh, turned on her
heel and headed out, calling behind her, “If you need me I’ll be working… and trying to figure out why I have done to deserve you.” She got all the way to the end of the hall before she added, “And if you’re wondering that’s not exactly a compliment.”
Cameron laughed. He hadn’t been wondering but the fact that she thought she had to tack that on made him know she was as conflicted about the two of them as he was. That should have sent up yet another warning flare. But instead it made him buckle down and work even harder to try to help the lovely lass with the tender heart and, he stole a last look at her retreating, the oh-so tempting backside.
When he left this place, and he would leave – and soon – he wanted, no he needed to know he had done everything in his power to help Julia Reed realize her dream. He knew just where, and when, to start.
Chapter 6
This Saint Patrick’s Day? As in a-few-days-from-now Saint Patrick’s Day?” Julia poked her pencil behind her ear and stuck her clipboard under one arm, staring at Cameron in disbelief.
Three hours ago she’d left him to tackle the work that would have taken the average volunteer three day to finish. He’d not only completed that task but had had enough time to brew up some wild new fund-raising strategy
The weatherman had predicted an unseasonably cold snap, and she had committed herself to making sure they had the supplies to handle it. Men had already begun to line up outside the shelter, hoping to be among the lucky ones to find warmth and protection from the night’s elements. She had no time, no patience, and a whopping headache. The last thing she needed right now was for Cameron to come barging into her storeroom to bother her with unrealistic proposals.
Barging in and seemingly taking up more than his fair share of space… and oxygen. She forced herself to breathe deeply and focus on the task, not the warmth emanating from the man standing so close she could see the beginning of lines around those amazing eyes and just a thread or two of silver in the golden curls at his temples. Everything about his face told of a life bearing more than his share of responsibility, maybe even grief, for his years. And yet the fire in those eyes and the always-just-about-to-break-into-a-grin twitch of his pale lips told her he was not ruled by obligations and loss. Cameron was his own man.
