Wolfe Wedding

by Joan Hohl

  It was Cameron’s turn to frown; he produced more of a beetle-browed scowl.

  She rushed on. “I mean it stands to reason that if you can’t get down the road, then that man, that criminal, can’t get up the road, either.” She fought to keep the note of triumph from her voice; she didn’t quite succeed. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Sure,” he readily agreed. Then he delivered the pinprick that burst her balloon. “That is, of course, unless he is already up here.”

  Sandra grimaced; she hadn’t thought of that.

  Six

  The day dragged even more than the previous night, and was fraught with tension.

  Cameron was moody and mostly silent, deflecting her few innocuous remarks with growled monosyllables, which in turn sparked a fire of anger and discontent inside Sandra.

  At regular, almost predictable intervals, he prowled to the window to glare out at the road, as if willing the ice to melt from the heat of his angry stare.

  Not only did the ice not melt, but by late afternoon the temperature had plummeted, ensuring that the frigid conditions would last through the coming night and into the morning.

  And throughout the day, whenever a branch creaked from the weight of the ice, or a window rattled from the gusty wind, he went stock-still and alert, eyes narrowed, muscles taut, as if readying for action.

  In those moments, he was more than unnerving; he was flat-out frightening.

  While preparing dinner, Sandra surprised herself by suddenly wishing for a warming trend and thaw that would set her free from her confinement inside the cabin, even if it meant being hustled back to Denver.

  Being caged with a restless, disgruntled Wolfe was not her idea of a relaxing vacation.

  “What are you cooking?”

  Though Sandra started, she managed to hold back a yelp of surprise at the unexpected and almost human sound of his voice so close behind her. Composing herself, she slowly turned to look at him.

  “Snails and puppy-dog tails?” he went on, in a peacemaking, cajoling tone.

  “I’m fresh out of those,” she rejoined dryly. “You’ll have to settle for meat loaf.”

  “I love meat loaf.” He gave her a tentative smile; she didn’t return it.

  “Most men do.” She turned back to peeling potatoes. “So do I,” she said, leaving him under no illusions that she had chosen the meal to pacify him.

  “You’re really ticked, aren’t you?”

  “Me? Ticked?” She swung around again, this time brandishing the paring knife. “Why ever would you think that I’d be ticked?”

  Eyeing her warily, Cameron took a satisfying step back. “Careful with that thing,” he murmured in warning.

  “This thing?” She held the knife aloft, relishing the moment as she examined it, before giving him a droll glance. “Afraid I’ll peel you along with the potatoes?”

  “Feel inclined to take a strip off my hide, do you?” Amusement laced his serious voice.

  “I feel inclined to tell you to go—”

  His beeper sounded, overriding her need to vent her anger and resentment. Frustrated, hating the damn beeper, and pretty close to hating him at the moment, she watched him stride into the living room to where he had left the dratted thing on an end table.

  Swinging around, she rinsed the potato, quartered it, placed the pieces in the roast pan with the other chunks of potatoes, carrots, onions and celery arranged around the meat loaf, then shoved the pan into the oven.

  When she turned again, Cameron was standing propped against the kitchen wall, his back to her, talking softly into the phone.

  More trouble? she wondered, heaving a sigh. Not wishing to appear at all interested, she took off for the bedroom, to shower and change before dinner.

  She lingered beneath the shower spray, half believing Cameron might join her there.

  He didn’t. Nor did he enter the room while she was dressing. Optimistically hoping his call had been good news—like the information that the escaped criminal had been apprehended, thereby allowing them to resolve their differences, if that was possible, and get on with their vacation, should they still be on speaking terms—Sandra left the bedroom with her fingers crossed.

  After one look at Cameron’s face as she entered the kitchen, Sandra uncrossed her fingers. So much for wishful thinking, she chided herself.

  “Well?” she asked impatiently, when he was not immediately forthcoming.

  “You can’t go back to Denver.”

  Perplexed at hearing him state the obvious, Sandra stared at him a moment before replying, “I know, everything’s covered with ice out there.”

  “Even if there were no ice, you couldn’t go back.”

  “Why not?” she asked, in a reasonable tone that she hoped concealed the impatience gathering speed inside her.

  “Whitfield’s back in Denver.” His taciturn response was, for Sandra, as good as no response at all.

  “Back from where?” Her brow crinkled in a frown of utter confusion.

  “Chicago.”

  That terse tidbit of information meant nothing to her; she hadn’t even known Whitfield had left Denver, nor would she have cared if she had known.

  “Uh-huh.” Her hard-fought-for reasonable tone lost ground to advancing irritation. “I don’t think we’re connecting here. What, exactly, whether or not he’s in Chicago, does Raymond Whitfield have to do with my returning to Denver?”

  Cameron raked a hand through his hair, betraying his own fraying patience. “I think Whitfield was laying down a smoke screen by flying to Chicago.”

  Sandra literally threw up her hands. “Well, that explains everything.” Controlling herself with effort, she took a quick breath, and tried again. “Cameron, I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.” “Whitfield,” he barked. “I put a surveillance team on him. He flew to Chicago last Saturday morning, but now he’s back in Denver.”

  “So what?” she asked, more confused than before. “And why in heaven’s name put a surveillance team on him in the first place?”

  “Because of the threats he’d made to you, that’s why,” he said, a tone usually reserved for slow learners. A tone, moreover, that she rather resented.

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Sandra was barely hanging on to her temper. “I told you I thought Whitfield was only making noises.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His blue eyes glittered beneath raised golden brown brows. “Well, you thought wrong.” He indicated the phone with a sharp head movement. “That call was to the operative I’ve got tailing Whitfield. He told me he followed Whitfield from the airport, straight to your apartment.”

  Though she managed not to show it, Sandra was a little shaken by the news. “Still, that doesn’t mean he had anything sinister in mind,” she said, unsure whether she was trying to convince him, or herself.

  “It wouldn’t, if he had gone about it in a normal way.” Cameron shook his head. “But he didn’t. He sat in his car until it was dark, then he poked around, not only at the front of the complex, but the back, as well. Then he returned to his car. He was still there, just sitting and watching the place, when the agent beeped me.”

  Really shaken, Sandra nevertheless put up a brave front. “That doesn’t prove he means me harm,” she said, hoping she was right, but fearing she wasn’t.

  “No, it doesn’t, but—” he smiled in a feral way that raised the short hairs at her nape “—I’m not taking any chances, with either Whitfield or Slim.”

  “Slim?” She frowned, having momentarily forgotten the escapee his fellow agents were certain was tracking Cameron. “The criminal?”

  “The same.” Cameron paced to the window to peer into the darkness. Grunting, he flipped the switch that activated the trouble lights positioned at either corner of the house. “As soon as this damn ice melts, I’m getting you out of here.”

  Sandra had gone to the stove and pulled open the oven door to check their dinner. His flatly voiced statement made her pause as heat poured
over her from the open oven. “Getting me out of here?” she repeated in sheer disbelief. “But you just a moment ago told me I can’t go back to Denver.”

  He shook his head. “I meant that you can’t go back to your apartment.”

  “I don’t want to shock you,” she said with sweet reason, “but my apartment is in Denver.”

  “Very funny.” He grimaced. “But you know what I mean. I won’t allow you to stay there alone. Is there a friend you could stay with for a while? Maybe Barbara?”

  “No.” Sandra gave a quick, sharp shake of her head, deciding she had had enough. Allow her, indeed! Who did he think he was, her keeper? “Listen carefully, Cameron,” she said distinctly. “I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here until I’m damn good and ready to leave. Now, have you got that?”

  “Dammit, woman!”

  “Stuff it, Wolfe,” she retorted, turning to peer into the oven. “And I told you not to call me ‘woman.’“

  He was quiet while she spooned broth over the meat and vegetables. Ominously quiet, she thought, surprised that she didn’t detect the scent of brimstone emanating from him. But the only scent assailing her nostrils was the mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat and vegetables wafting from the oven. When she slid the pan back on the rack, then shut the door, he heaved a sigh that held the unmistakable sound of defeat—if only in this round of their ongoing argument.

  “How long until dinner is ready?” he asked, changing the subject. He inhaled, drawing in the tantalizing smell. “Do I have time to clean up?”

  “Yes,” she replied, striving for a neutral tone, grateful for the cessation of hostilities, however brief. “I figure it’ll be another fifteen, twenty minutes.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’ll keep in a warm oven. Go have your shower.”

  “Right.” Cameron took two steps, then paused to slant a faint but conciliatory smile at her. “How about breaking out the last bottle of cabernet? I think we both could do with a glass with dinner.”

  “All right,” she agreed without hesitation, tentatively returning his smile.

  He didn’t move for a second, just stood there, staring at her. Then he nodded and strode from the room, leaving her to ponder on what he might be thinking.

  Speculation ran swift and rife through her head. All sorts of unpalatable ideas came to mind.

  It was now dark, heralding the approach of nighttime—bedtime. Was Cameron perhaps calculating his chances of later sharing the bed with her? Was he, by softening his voice and attitude, not to mention his request for wine, hoping to soften her, undermine her determination to remain steadfast to her principles?

  Sandra loved Cameron. Although at this point in their relationship she was not prepared to admit that to him, she accepted it within her own mind and being. But loving did not blind her to the facts. She had been blessed by the sheer circumstance of birth with active intelligence, and expertly educated to dispassionately examine the facts of any matter or situation.

  And so, by her very nature, she could not ignore or dismiss what she perceived as the facts in relation to her present circumstances.

  The very fact that Sandra was now questioning Cameron’s motives was telling, in and of itself. And what it was telling her was that she harbored grave doubts about placing her trust in him, and her heart with him.

  This was a fact that did not bode well for any sort of meaningful relationship between them.

  Accepting this fact was difficult for Sandra, perhaps the most difficult thing she had ever had to do. But there was no getting around it—although on a purely emotional level she longed to circumvent it.

  No. Shaking her head, as if to free it of the doubts assailing her mind, she moved to busy herself setting the table for dinner.

  Her dodging maneuvers were an abject failure; the doubts and questions persisted, stabbing into her mind, and thus her heart, with unrelenting reason.

  Sandra had been interested in Cameron in a personal way since the moment she met him. More than interested, if the truth was faced—and in her case, it always was.

  There had been between them an instant spark, a sensual recognition, a chemical reaction—whatever. She certainly had felt it; she had believed then, and believed even more strongly now, that he felt it, too.

  It had been there from the first, a male-female thing, shimmering and crackling between them. That she had previously not indulged herself by exploring the intangible something had not altered or negated it. But, though she had not explored it, she had been receptive to every word spoken or murmured about the object of her interest. And the words she had heard over time about Cameron had not been encouraging.

  Early on, Sandra had garnered the information that Cameron had been more than merely involved with a woman. That involvement, moreover, had progressed to speculation about an imminent announcement of their engagement. Then, abruptly, the speculation had ceased, replaced by an undercurrent of suggestion that the affair was over and, more to her interest, that Cameron had been left devastated by the perfidy of the woman, who had apparently dumped him for another, richer man.

  Cameron had obviously been hurt in the process, and in turn, now she was feeling the pain.

  Sandra sighed as she uncorked the wine to let it breathe.

  Unbidden, she recalled hearing a scathing comment by a woman, somewhere, to the effect that the handsome and exciting special agent did not in fact like women, but merely tolerated them when the demands of sexual appetites had to be appeased.

  At the time, Sandra had dismissed the remark out of hand as the nasty barb of a frustrated woman.

  Now she wondered. And the very fact that she did so said much about her state of mind.

  She had now spent over a week in Cameron’s company. Day in, day out, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, and at no time had she discerned so much as a hint indicating disdain for the opposite sex.

  Quite the contrary. He had proved to be excellent and entertaining company, fun to be with, laugh with, make love with. especially to make love with.

  But, of course, that was precisely what he had promised, wasn’t it? Sandra reminded herself. Great sex. A sensual sabbatical.

  And he had delivered, above and beyond the call, beyond her wildest imaginings.

  Until the call to duty had intruded, dousing the fire of sensuality with the blanket of cold reality. And now it was over. She was in the way.

  But there was still tonight to get through. And Cameron appeared prepared—no, eager—to suspend reality for one more night of sensual heat.

  Sandra stared at the ruby red wine in the bottle, sniffed the intoxicating scent.

  Did she want to play along, close her mind to the hopelessness of the situation, lose herself in the allure of his mouth, his touch, his possession?

  Yes. Sandra wanted this night with him, more than she had ever before wanted anything.

  Would she allow herself the license of mindlessness for the sake of one more night with him?

  She hesitated. then closed her eyes against the pain of facing the bottom-line answer.

  No.

  She could not betray herself, any more than she could ever betray him.

  She loved him. But a one-sided love was never, could never, be enough.

  Sex was one thing. Love was another. And Sandra knew that for her, to hang on to one while denying the other would be self-destructive.

  Her decision reached, she gathered her strength, steeled herself for the evening ahead.

  But dreams, old and new alike, die very hard, and her mettle was tested with the first step Cameron took into the kitchen.

  The look of him, showered, shaved, his damp hair appearing dark, like antique gold, stole her breath, and nearly shattered her resolve.

  He was dressed in faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips and waist and delineated the musculature of his long legs. A stark white loose-knit sweater defined the width and breadth of his chest.

  Swallowing a sigh of regret, while repressin
g a surge of desire for myriad things, physical and emotional, Sandra schooled her lips into a coolly remote smile.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she said, in a hard-fought tone devoid of inflection.

  He frowned, but said only, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You can pour the wine,” she said, turning to open the oven door. “I’ll bring the food.”

  Blaming the heat radiating from the oven for the sting in her eyes, Sandra mentally shored up her defenses, and grabbing pot holders, bent to the chore.

  He had lost her.

  Cameron had known it from the moment he walked into the kitchen endless hours ago.

  It was late. He was tired. And he felt literally sick to his stomach. The feeling owed nothing to the delicious meal Sandra had prepared, or to the several glasses of wine he had consumed with the meal.

  She hadn’t even finished the first glass he had poured for her.

  She bad closed him out.

  During the twenty or so minutes required for him to shower, shave and dress, Sandra had erected a barrier between them, an invisible yet impenetrable wall of resistance he had been unable to breach.

  And Cameron had tried with every fiber of his being to tear down that barrier.

  During dinner, and afterward, right up until she bade him a cool good-night, he had tried everything he could think of: conversation, humor, charm—what little he possessed—everything short of begging, to draw the warm woman from her cold shell of assumed indifference.

  And Cameron believed Sandra’s indifference was assumed; he had to believe it, because he couldn’t bear to contemplate anything else.

  Why?

  What had he done wrong?

  What terrible sin had he committed?

  Why had she raised a shield against him?

  Those tormenting questions were the direct cause of the roiling sensation sickening Cameron.

  Twice. He had been rejected twice, and both times just as he was falling in love.

  No.

  Cameron shook his head. No. The first time hadn’t felt anywhere near this painful. That had been nothing, nothing, compared to the sick sense of loss he was now suffering through.