“You and Emily were big hits.”
“Before we drove off, Takira leaned in and bumped fists with Emily.”
“Good sign,” Cammie acknowledged.
“It’s funny—she didn’t talk about missing her friends today. Which is a good thing because it was tough feeling like the bad guy for taking her away from them.” He pulled out a sheet of paper. “Ready to be my investigator again?”
“It’s like coming home.”
He studied her face for a moment before looking at the paper in his hand and passing it to her.
“This report run by a Denver investigator a few months ago shows Gwen had relatives here in Las Vegas.”
Cammie scanned the document. “One’s dead.” She pointed to a symbol next to the name.
“I wondered what that meant.”
“I’ve run reports using this database before,” she explained, reading the report. “Appears the second relative left Las Vegas seven years ago, and there’s no current address for him.”
“I’d noticed that.”
“Awfully convenient.”
“How?”
“Those are the only two relatives listed in this report. With both of them unavailable...well, that’s convenient for Gwen because it makes it difficult to find family members who might know where she is.”
Marc took a sip of his coffee, which he’d requested black. Delilah hadn’t seen the need to add any comfort to his cup.
“Did she ever mention having relatives in Las Vegas?” Cammie asked.
“Never. It was a surprise to me that it came up in a report.”
She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. “You mentioned she had ties to Southern California, but this report doesn’t list any such addresses. In fact, her address history abruptly ended five years ago.”
“I thought she’d lived in Southern California because she’d once told me that she and her girlfriends loved to bodysurf. I asked which beach, but I got interrupted by a business call and the subject never came up again.”
“She could’ve bodysurfed in Florida.”
“You ever been there?”
Cammie shook her head no.
“Waves are puny. Too many sharks. Which is why I thought she meant Southern Cal.” He glanced at the report. “Why do you think her address history ended five years ago?”
“Information on a person can dry up when they stop applying for credit or start dealing in cash only or somebody else starts paying for everything...lots of reasons.” Cammie frowned. “Didn’t you find it odd that she never talked about the town she grew up in, or that you never met her parents?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, because she said her dad was in the military and they moved around a lot. Seemed a painful topic, so I didn’t probe. Anyway, figured we had lots of time to get to know each other better. As to her parents, Gwen would say they were traveling overseas, or that they were back east visiting an ailing relative. There was always a reason. She showed me photos of them once.”
“Was she in any of them?”
“No.”
Cammie thought back to how quickly Gwen came on board at Hamilton & Hamilton. If only Cammie had conducted a cursory computer check, like this P.I., she would have seen warning signs. But Cammie hadn’t been content with subtle. She’d immediately gone for the jugular with her illegal phone record retrieval.
If Marc had listened to her first suspicions instead of booting her out the door, he could have saved himself a lot of trouble. Coolly, she said, “I’m going to guess you hired her without conducting any sort of background check.”
“Correct.”
“Started dating and within weeks, you offered her a job as your bookkeeper.”
“We got serious, fast.”
“Or you did.” Cammie tried to keep the bite out of her voice, but it wasn’t easy. “I think your fiancée was using either a stolen ID or an ID for someone who is deceased.”
As though on cue, a dramatic organ riff played over the speakers. Marc cracked a droll smile. “Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D minor.’ I feel as though I’m starring in a bad remake of Phantom of the Opera.”
“Where the mysterious Gwen is the phantom.”
“So to speak.”
“For Gwen, the mask would be an improvement.” It was fun to be lighthearted for a moment, but Cammie saw the worry return to Marc’s eyes. “What is it?”
He rubbed his neck. “I’ve heard from a friend that the Attorney Disciplinary Agency is taking steps to suspend my license.”
His apprehension was almost tangible. She could feel it like a force field around him. “Does your dad know?”
“No. I haven’t felt comfortable discussing it over the phone. Supposedly all our calls are protected by attorney-client privilege, but I’ve known the feds and the state to tap in anyway. Plus he’s had health issues.”
“Anything serious?” She remembered how Harlan’s hands shook slightly. Sometimes he’d abruptly stop talking and, with a surprised look on his face, ask to be reminded what he’d been talking about.
“Some kidney troubles. High blood pressure. Although these are not uncommon health problems for the elderly, I’m still concerned because—let’s be honest—prisoners don’t get the best medical care even if they are Harlan Hamilton. He needs to be paroled so he can get proper, ongoing healthcare.”
“And be with his family.”
“Which is me. And Em when she visits.”
She’d thought Marc was sitting alone in that big house with nothing but memories for company. It was more than that. He wanted to bring home his father and take care of him.
“You’re the best lawyer to represent Harlan at his parole hearing. Nobody else has the balls or the intelligence.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a resounding recommendation.”
“The only way to stop the Disciplinary Agency from taking away your license is to find Gwen, which means we have to act fast. When are you returning to Denver?”
“Thursday, 8:00 p.m.”
She blew out a low whistle. “Gives us three days. Of course, there’s a lot I can do on my own after you leave, but while you’re here I need you to prepare the subpoena duces tecum, which includes of course the date and time for her deposition. You’ve already scheduled that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Could you have that paperwork ready this afternoon?”
He nodded.
“Good. I’ll keep the papers with me so the instant I find her, I can serve her.”
He straightened. “Ideally, I’d like to be there, too. It’s my shot to try to reach a settlement, to tell her I won’t sue her civilly if she admits to the theft and returns the money. Or as much as she has left.”
In general, she preferred working alone to having a partner, especially not a partner with intoxicating blue eyes, who had the power to crush her willpower with a single doughnut. Still, she had to admit, this conversation had been thoroughly businesslike. No heartthrobs. No inappropriate thoughts. Maybe he wouldn’t be a huge distraction, after all.
“Not much time. You’re leaving Thursday.”
“As you said, we have to act fast.”
“Darlings?” Delilah called out.
They looked over at the stage, where the older woman posed in a long, satiny dress the color of peaches. Emily hovered behind her, adjusting the short lace train.
“What do you two think?” Delilah asked.
“There’s no cleavage,” Cammie blurted. She barely recognized Delilah with her breasts covered up.
The older woman sighed dramatically. “I know, it’s the first thing I noticed, too. How do you like the dress, Marc?”
“You’re a vision,” he said. “A bride above all brides.”<
br />
Mr. Bergstrom strolled onto the stage with a wide-brimmed peach-colored hat. “This is an exact replica of what the Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden wore to the royal wedding. It will look divine with your dress.”
As he and Delilah fussed with the hat, Cammie whispered to Marc, “‘A bride above all brides’?”
“Can’t claim the best track record with marriages,” he said quietly, “but I’m enough of a sensitive male to know a woman deserves the best memories surrounding her wedding day. After all, life is all about memories, isn’t it?”
“Cammie, darling,” Delilah interrupted, “there’s a Princess Fantasy apricot dress just begging for you to try it on. Ready, dear?”
Cammie inhaled a deep breath. “Yes?”
Marc hummed a few bars of the old song “Memories.”
Cammie stood, holding up two fingers in the rock-on gesture. “Your maid of honor is ready to rock that dress!”
* * *
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Marc was typing into his smartphone when Emily plopped onto the couch next to him.
He looked at her. “That’s some dress.”
Emily ran her fingers over the tulle skirt. “Isn’t this color yummy? Mr. Bergstrom says the dress can be worn to a prom or a wedding. Aunt Dell says the color is champagne. Did you notice the beads on the bodice?”
He supposed if she’d call him Dad, it wouldn’t matter if she made familial references to anybody else. Hell, she could call Alice Cooper Uncle Al for all he cared. But to be excluded was like a punch to his heart.
He cleared his throat. “They look like sequins.”
“No, they’re beads. She says their use in clothing goes back thousands of years and that some civilizations used beads as health amulets. Isn’t that cool?” She ran her fingers over the netting. “I need to ask for something.”
“You want me to buy you this dress?”
She took in a fortifying breath, then released it in a stream of words. “There’s an Eco-Glitter rally day after tomorrow here in Las Vegas and I really, really want to go.”
“Whoa, slow down.” He set aside his smartphone. “Eco-Glitter rally. Is that what you and Amber were discussing?”
“Her name’s Daearen.” She shot him a skeptical look. “Were you listening in on our conversation? I thought eavesdropping was illegal.”
“Em, one of you said Eco-Glitter rather loudly in a crowded room. No expectation of privacy under those circumstances, honey.” As she started to talk, he raised his hand. “Let’s save the Fourth Amendment for later. Right now, tell me about this Eco-Glitter rally and why you want to go.”
“It’s an ethical jewelry protest. Many people don’t know that mining the earth for precious jewels and metals creates environmental problems, dangerous work conditions, and if there’s no fair-trade agreement, businesses often take advantage of workers by paying them ridiculously low wages. Like, poverty wages. This is more than just a rally. This is my social responsibility.”
He blinked. “And to think I thought diamonds were a girl’s best friend.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know.” He placed his hand on hers. “Tell me more.”
She explained how there would be displays of recycled and earth-friendly jewelry, plus an awesome rock band would be performing.
“You asked me to walk the talk,” she said, “and by attending this rally, I’ll be putting my beliefs into action. Plus I want to represent those who can’t be there, like Daearen.”
“Did I ever tell you that I once gathered signatures for Frank Zappa for President?”
“Who’s Frank Zappa?”
“Let’s just say I applaud what you’re doing, and yes, you can go to the Eco-Glitter rally with a chaperone.”
“But I’m fifteen! Chaperones are, like, for people dating in Sicily.”
He bit his tongue not to smile. “We’re in Las Vegas, honey. If this rally were in Omaha, fine, go alone. Las Vegas? Two chaperones.”
“But you just said one.” She slumped into the couch, looking like a dejected princess.
“Okay, one. Me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Going to my first rally with my parent? I’ll look so lame.”
“I’m sure there’ll be so many people there, nobody will notice your father, Em—”
“Wow!” She bolted upright, distracted.
He followed her line of vision.
For a moment he forgot to breathe.
Cammie, swathed in a cloud of apricot, was a vision of beauty. Her long black curls had been pinned up, which emphasized the curve of her slim neck. Pink dotted her cheeks, which at first he thought was makeup until he realized she was likely embarrassed. Around her bare shoulders lay a mantle of spun gold, or that’s what it looked like. Had to be some kind of gold-threaded shawl. And lower, pushed above the tight satin bodice, the creamy mounds of her breasts.
“Huh.” He meant to say something more intelligent, but his mouth and brain were having trouble connecting.
Delilah stepped onto the stage behind Cammie. “Doesn’t she look divine?”
His head bobbed.
“Awesome!” Cammie said as she made the rock-on gesture with both hands.
“We have one more dress we’d like your perspective on,” Delilah said, taking Cammie’s hand and ushering her off the stage.
“I want to help!” Emily said, jumping up. She looked at Marc. “So you agree? I can go to the rally?”
He had to mentally shake himself back to reality. “Yes,” he said, finding his voice. “With me.”
“Thank you!” She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, then ran back to wherever people went behind the mirrors.
So what if she didn’t call him Dad. She treated him like one, right?
As Vivaldi’s Four Seasons began playing, he again picked up the report, refocusing his thoughts to the next steps of this case. He could easily prepare the subpoena this afternoon, but could they find Gwen by Thursday? He nearly laughed at that thought. He’d worked with enough investigators to know how difficult it was, even if one was top-notch like Cammie, to find a person who didn’t want to be found. Sure, people, even those on the run, often returned to where they once lived, but even surmising that Gwen once lived in Southern California, where in those several thousand acres of land and dozens of cities might she be? Hell, they didn’t even know her real name.
“What do you think of this one?” Delilah asked.
He looked up at the stage.
His mouth went dry. He vaguely wondered when jungle drums had been added to Vivaldi’s chamber music piece, then realized it was his thundering, pounding pulse.
“Marc?” Delilah prodded.
If he’d thought he’d had trouble connecting his mouth and brain before, it was damn near impossible now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOOKING AT CAMMIE on the stage, Marc recalled a favorite piece of candy he’d liked as a kid. It was called the Firecracker—a hard crimson confection that tasted like a burning, sweet fire, and he couldn’t get enough of it.
Right now, he couldn’t get enough of Cammie poured into a red dress that hugged, squeezed and clung to every inch of her body. Looking at her was like walking into fire.
The overhead lights showcased her, making the parts of her body not wrapped in red to look luminous, as though she glowed from within. With the wide cut of plunging neckline, no way she wore a bra. In fact, considering its insanely tight fit, no way she wore anything underneath that dress.
She’s naked under the red.
As if he needed that news alert sizzling along his already singed synapses that were sputtering and popping with libido-fueled power surges.
A voice from somewhere off in the milky ether of the bridal salon penetrated his con
sciousness.
“Marc?” Delilah asked. “How do you like it?”
“That’s a...bridesmaid’s dress?” he rasped.
“Maid of honor,” Delilah corrected.
No maid ever wore a dress like that and kept her honor. Not for long, anyway.
“In Las Vegas,” Delilah added, “anything goes, you know.”
With great effort, Marc shifted his vision to Delilah, still dressed in the peach number, standing next to Mr. Bergstrom, who held one hand airily at his side as he scrutinized Cammie.
“Red is stunning on you,” he said, walking in a half circle around her. “Definitely your color.”
From somewhere beyond the mirrors, Emily called out, “Help, I’m caught up in tulle!”
“Could you assist that lovely young girl in taking off the prom dress?” Mr. Bergstrom asked Delilah. “I’ll stay here and check any necessary fittings.”
After Delilah left, Mr. Bergstrom made some adjustments to the dress. A tug here, a pluck there. Cammie looked bored. Or perturbed. Marc tried to act as though thousands of years had passed since ridge-browed Neanderthals trundled about foraging, hunting and mating. Especially mating.
He reminded himself that the last thing he needed to be doing was entertaining hot thoughts about another coworker...and yet he’d be kidding himself to think she was only that. A coworker wouldn’t care about his family the way Cammie did—in fact, she probably had more of an inside track on what made his dad tick than Marc did. She’d known he was desperate to hire her, enough so that he flew all the way to Vegas to talk to her, but unlike other employees he’d known, she didn’t take advantage of his need to hire her by demanding more money or perks. No, Cammie had kept turning down the job until her conscience told her otherwise.
And she wasn’t just a coworker because what he felt for her went beyond an employee-boss relationship. He had feelings for her. Feelings that rattled, confused, sometimes even infuriated him.
He’d had these feelings before. Back in Denver, working late at night with Cammie on an impending trial, he’d sometimes felt unnerved, thrown off by something she did or said. Back then he’d chalked it up to litigation jitters, but now he realized it was sometimes more than that—he simply hadn’t wanted to acknowledge those desires.
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 15
