Uncut Bundle

by Susan Stephens

  “Okay.” Matt reached for a notepad and pencil. “Give me her name and address, and I’ll—”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Just her name, then, and her town… What?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “The town?”

  “Any of it. Where she lives, where she’s from.” A muscle knotted in Cam’s jaw. “I don’t even know her name.”

  His brothers stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. He couldn’t blame them. How could he have spent those days and nights with Salome and never once asked her her name?

  “It isn’t Salome?” Alex said.

  Cam gave a bitter laugh. “I’m the one who came up with that.”

  Matt frowned. “You don’t know this babe’s name?”

  “Don’t call her that,” Cam said tightly.

  “What am I supposed to call her, then? Salome?”

  “No,” Cam said roughly. “I’m the only one who can call her…” He fell silent. “I’ve got to find her,” he said, and from the way he said it, his brothers knew he was right.

  Salome had vanished. It was as if she’d never existed, except in Cam’s dreams.

  He demanded to have a phone plugged in beside his bed.

  His doctors objected. He needed rest. Cam said he knew what he needed a lot better than they did and after the nurses found him all but crawling down the hall to a public telephone, his doctors threw up their hands and said yes, fine, he could have a bedside phone.

  Not that it helped.

  He phoned the American consul in Dubai. The consul was on vacation and his clerk said she’d love to be of help but did Mr. Knight have any idea how many Americans traipsed in and out of the embassy every week?

  “The thing is, sir…” Thousands of miles separated Cam and the clerk, but Cam could almost see the woman’s raised eyebrows. “If you knew the lady’s name…”

  “I don’t,” Cam snapped.

  “Are you sure she came to the embassy?”

  Cam had to admit that he wasn’t. Salome was without her passport but that didn’t necessarily mean she’d have gone to the embassy. Maybe she’d just called someone. Someone in her dance troupe. Someone who was still in the place where she’d been kidnapped.

  And he didn’t know the name of the troupe, didn’t know where she’d been when she was taken.

  Damn it to hell, he didn’t know anything!

  I love you, she’d said.

  Yeah, but if she loved him, she’d have come to him. Phoned. Damn it, she knew his name, knew he was from Dallas. She could have found him in a heartbeat. Why hadn’t she?

  Because you were right, a voice inside him said coldly. It was sex and danger gave her that high, not you.

  Cam clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling over his hospital bed.

  It that was true, fine. He’d known it all along. But he’d saved her life. Didn’t she even want to find out if he’d lived or died?

  She doesn’t owe you a thing, Knight, the voice said, even more coldly.

  She didn’t. She didn’t. She—

  The hell she didn’t. He had the right to see her one last time, hear her admit that what she’d thought she felt for him had evaporated as soon as she’d reached safety.

  Then he could forget all about her.

  The doctors said he’d be hospitalized another couple of weeks. He had to build his strength. Eat the baby-slop they served him, get up with an aide’s help and walk the hall for fifteen minutes, three times a day. Then, the doctors added, then, maybe he could go home, move in with Matt or Alex or his father for a while.

  “Right,” Cam said, and made his own plans.

  He phoned out for his meals. Steak. Pasta. Protein and carbs. He got up on his own every hour, walked for twenty minutes, then forty, then got out of bed and stayed out. A day later, he asked for his clothes, changed the polite request to a demand when a nurse tried to bully him with what she said was a rule about wearing hospital garments that left a man walking around with his ass hanging out.

  He was standing at the window wearing jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt when the pulmonologist who’d treated his collapsed lung and the thoracic surgeon who’d removed the bullet that had missed his heart by an eighth of an inch showed up.

  “Being up and dressed makes me feel human again,” he said, and waited for one of them to have the balls to ask if he’d confirmed that by looking in a mirror.

  Later that afternoon, Cam checked himself out and went to the Turtle Creek condo he called home.

  He was done wasting precious time. The longer it took him to start looking for Salome, the longer it would take to find her.

  He was entitled to answers, damn it. And he was going to get them.

  He flew to Dubai but he learned nothing. He flew home angrier than before, angry at the world, at Salome, at himself for giving a damn.

  He contacted a private investigator who handled work for the firm and told him all he knew. Salome was a dancer. What kind? He ran their conversations through his mind. She’d talked about Las Vegas. About tap dancing. The P.I. nodded and made notes. Oh, and she had three brothers who were cops. The P.I. nodded, as if that really was useful information, and made more notes.

  “A picture would help,” the P.I. said, and arranged for Cam to meet with a woman do did sketches for the police. Three hours later, they had a passable drawing of Salome.

  The P.I. ran off a few hundred copies and left for Vegas. Cam gave it a little thought and got on the next plane. Duplication of effort, the P.I. said, but so what? Cam trudged from hotel to hotel, club to club. Nothing. Nobody recognized the sketch; nobody knew Salome.

  Home again in Dallas one Friday night, his brothers dragged him to the bar they frequented. He knew they wanted to talk, so he let them do it.

  Matthew and Alexander hemmed and hawed and waltzed around the question of why Cam was so desperate to find a woman whose name he didn’t know, who hadn’t made any effort to find him, but Matt finally asked the question.

  “So,” he said carefully, “she’s important to you, huh? This—uh, this woman, I mean.”

  “I want to know what happened to her.” Cam’s eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No problem,” Matt said quickly.

  “Yeah.” Cam let out a breath. “Sorry. I’m just—”

  “Edgy,” Alex said. “Anybody would be, after all you’ve been through.” He cleared his throat. “What I don’t get,” he said carefully, “is how a man gets involved with a ba—with a woman and never gets around to learning her name.”

  Cam thought about telling him it was none of his business, but he knew his brothers meant well. They loved him. They were just trying to figure out what in hell was going on.

  So was he.

  “We were on the run,” he said. “It was a life-or-death situation. I gave her a nickname and it stuck.”

  “Salome,” Alex said, shooting a sideways glance at Matt.

  “Like the dancer who got the guy’s head on a platter,” Matt said.

  “Which she could do without any sweat because she’d seduced him.”

  “You want to say something, just say it.”

  “Take it easy, man. We love you, that’s all. We’re worried about you. You took a bullet, lost a lot of blood, almost died—”

  “And your point is?” Cam said, trying to lighten things and succeeding, at least for a few seconds, when all three of them laughed.

  “Only what you already know,” Alex said. “On the run, life or death… That tends to heighten things, you know?”

  Cam nodded, picked up his beer, then put it down again.

  “I told her that.”

  Alex nodded. “Good. I mean, it’s good you understood that, because—”

  “Of course I understood it. She was the one who didn’t.”

  His brother gave relieved sighs. “You don’t know how glad we are to hear you say that,” Matt said, “because, you know, for a whil
e there—”

  Cam slammed his fist on the table.

  “She lied, damn it! She said she loved me. Then, where the hell is she?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said cautiously, “but like you just said—”

  “Nobody lies to me and gets away with it.”

  His brothers exchanged a baffled look. Cam had just said that this woman he called Salome hadn’t really loved him. Then he’d said he wasn’t going to let her get away with not really loving him.

  Neither was foolish enough to point out that interesting inconsistency. Wise men that they were, they finished their drinks in silence.

  Avery phoned late on a cold, miserable Saturday.

  “How are you, son?”

  Cam still wasn’t used to the new tone in his father’s voice, but he liked it. The old saying was true. Better late than never.

  “I’m okay, Dad.” He liked that, too. Thinking of Avery as “Dad.”

  “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “No. Well, I’ve been busy.”

  “I have one of those benefit things to attend tonight. I was hoping you might go with me.”

  “Thanks, Dad, but—”

  “I thought we’d spend a little time together.” Avery gave a laugh that was clearly forced. “It’s an arts recital, Cameron. I can’t get out of it but I can’t imagine how I’m going to sit through it, either. With you there, you know, two cultural heathens side by side, I figure I might just make it.”

  It was so unlike anything his father had ever said to him that Cam felt his throat tighten.

  “Your mother,” Avery said with a little laugh. “Your mother used to love this stuff.”

  Cam held his breath. He couldn’t recall his father ever mentioning his mother before.

  “Did she?” he said carefully.

  “She’s the reason I began supporting these things. The Arts Council. The theater. The museum.” Avery cleared his throat. “I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking about your mother a lot these past weeks. How proud she’d be to see you and your brothers all grown up.”

  “Yes.” Cam swallowed hard. “We—I—think about her, too.”

  “I loved her something fierce, Cameron.” His father’s voice grew husky. “So much that there were times I was afraid to show it. I know that sounds crazy, but—”

  Unbidden, an image of Salome lying beneath him, her blue eyes dark with passion, flashed through Cam’s mind. He shook it away, as a dog might shake water from its coat, just as his father spoke again.

  “Well,” Avery said briskly, “how about tonight? If you’re not up for it, I’ll understand.”

  “I’m up for it, Dad.”

  “Great, son. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

  Cam shaved. Showered. Put on his tux. Told himself that an evening out was a great idea. He wouldn’t think about Salome. Not once—except to despise himself for thinking about her at all.

  She was gone. Out of his life, and he couldn’t have cared less.

  Their seats in the baroque Music Hall were fourth row, center. Both men opened their programs.

  “An Evening With The Arts,” his father read aloud, and gave a deep sigh. “It’s going to be endless, Cameron. A little of this, a little of that, none of it good. Speeches. Presentations. A soprano caterwauling, a boys’ chorus trying to sound angelic. A flamenco guitarist and, good Lord, a corps de ballet. Thank you for coming, son. I’m eternally grateful.”

  Cam nodded. Somehow, he and his old man endured the first half. Went for drinks during intermission, said “hello” to lots of people though his father did less glad-handing than in the past. When the lights blinked, they returned to their seats.

  Cam settled down next to his father. Smothered a yawn as an overweight lady trilled to an overweight guy in a bad toupee. Shifted his weight as another guy ruined what could have been a great bit on the guitar by trying to look dark and mysterious.

  Polite applause for the guitarist. Rustles. Coughs. The curtains opened again; music softly swelled.

  Cam folded his arms, watched from under his lashes as a group of ballerinas danced onstage.

  “Got to admit, they’re easy on the eyes,” his father whispered…

  And Cam damned near shot from his seat because the last ballerina tiptoeing out from the wings was Salome.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HE MUST have done something. Tensed up or maybe started to rise. Something, because his father clasped his arm and said, “Cameron?” in a low voice.

  Cam sank back in his seat, staring at the stage where a dozen ballerinas whirled in graceful circles.

  He had eyes for only one.

  Her hair was drawn back in a demure chignon. She wore a lacy white thing—what was it called? A tutu. Right. Her ankles were crisscrossed by the white satin ribbons of her ballet shoes.

  He felt his heart skip a beat.

  Looking at her was like looking at a dream.

  He could almost taste the sweetness of the tender skin beneath the chignon. See the perfection of her breasts hidden under the demure white lace. Hear the whisper of his name on her lips.

  Oh, yes, it was his dancer. The packaging had changed but it was Salome, moving across the stage, arms raised in a graceful arc just as they’d been the night she’d danced for him in the moonlight.

  The music was quick and bright. A waltz. One two three, one two three. His pulse kept time with it.

  Look at me, he wanted to say. Salome, look at me.

  But her eyes were demurely downcast, her head tilted at an angle that showed the creamy delicacy of her throat.

  She wouldn’t look up.

  He couldn’t look away.

  Vegas, she’d said. Tap, she’d said. She’d never mentioned ballet or, yes, maybe she had, but only in passing. He started to smile. From this night on, he’d love ballet. It had brought her to him. She was here, she was fine…

  Yes, she was here. In his city.

  Cameron stiffened.

  His city. And she hadn’t come to him. Hadn’t even called. She knew that he lived in Dallas. She knew his name, his profession and, goddammit, she hadn’t even tried to find out if he’d survived.

  “Cameron?”

  His father leaned over, concern on his face. Cam figured he probably looked like a man who was about to explode. He was sitting rigidly in his seat, hands knotted into fists in his lap.

  “Son, what’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

  He’d been right all along. It had been the excitement. The danger. She hadn’t loved him, hadn’t given a damn about him…

  And that was fine. He didn’t give a damn about her, either.

  But he was furious. Enraged. All these weeks, he’d worried about what might have become of her but she—she—

  “Son?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I just—I need some air, that’s all.” Avery began to rise but Cam pressed him back in his seat. “Stay for the end. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Cameron got to his feet. Worked his way to the aisle. Paused when he got there, looked at the stage but her head was turned away, eyes still fixed on the floor as she whirled toward the wings.

  To hell with her, he thought coldly, and headed for the lobby.

  He went for a late supper with Avery. Made small talk. Did whatever it took to convince the old man he was okay and no, he didn’t need to phone the doctor.

  When he figured enough time had passed, he pleaded a heavy workload the next morning and went home, where he paced his condo the first half of the night and spent the rest lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Get over it,” he said into the silence. “So she didn’t come. Didn’t call. So what?”

  Actually he was lucky. Better to know she’d forgotten him in the blink of an eye than to have found himself dealing with a lovesick ballerina.

  He went to his office in the morning, snarled at his secretary, at his brothers and finally grabbed his jacket, said he had an appointment and walked out. He got
into his Porsche, gunned the engine and drove out of the city, drove aimlessly for what seemed forever until he pulled under a stand of aspens, got out of the car and walked along a rutted trail that wound down to a lake.

  What kind of a woman was she? To give herself to a man, cry out in his arms, make him believe he was all she’d ever wanted in the entire world, even say she loved him, when it was all lies?