The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (3 page)

“Oh.” She blinked her blue eyes, probably the only feature they had in common. Her strawberry-blond hair and pixie face were definitely her mother’s. “But considering possession is nine-tenths of the law...”

He couldn’t hold back a smile. “For a person who thinks lawyers epitomize decadent capitalism, you sure sound like one in the making.”

They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment. In the background, a flute solo played airily over the speakers. The tropical-print wallpaper and hanging plants made this place seem more like a rain forest than an ice cream parlor, which he supposed was part of the intention.

But what did he know? He still bought food from the supermarket he’d shopped at for years, enjoyed an occasional cigar, still read books made from trees. He thought he was doing the proper green thing by recycling glass and paper, but Emily had started a compost pile in the backyard within hours of her arrival.

“I probably sound like a lawyer because I’ve been raised by two of ʼem,” Emily muttered. “Although Granddad was a pretty cool lawyer.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “We used to eat licorice while he taught me to play chess. Well, he
tried
to teach me—it wasn’t really my thing. But we had some great talks while we played.” She blinked a few times. “I miss him.”

“I miss him, too, honey.”

She straightened, cleared her throat. “Mommy says after she gets married, she won’t have to work anymore.”

“She’s thinking of marrying
again?
Isn’t three times enough?”

Emily pursed her lips, obviously not wanting to get involved in discussions about her mother. Hell, he didn’t want to discuss his ex, either, hadn’t wanted to since their divorce nine years ago. But getting remarried and divorced two more times? He didn’t like that Emily had been dragged through all that. After Bethann, his first and only wife, went through her last messy divorce, he’d filed a motion to be Emily’s custodial parent, but the ensuing court hearing had turned into a freak show rampant with ugly accusations and character attacks. Emily, who had just turned thirteen, started losing weight, had difficulty sleeping and her grades dropped. Seeing how his and Bethann’s battling was negatively affecting their daughter, he’d halted the proceedings, swearing he’d never put Emily through that again.

Which meant he’d bite his tongue about Bethann taking on husband number four. Poor sucker. He was about to lose most of his net worth in a very short time.

“Let’s change the subject.” He took a sip of his certified-fair-trade coffee.

“Okay.” She gave him a funny look. “Every since I’ve gotten here, you’ve seemed...zonked.”

“Zonked?”

“You know, tired.”

“Got stuff on my mind.” He forced a smile. “Not to worry.”

“I could always go home—”

He hated that she called where she lived with her mother
home,
yet hadn’t once used that word for his house.

“We’ve already discussed this,” he said, fighting the urge to add
at least a dozen times.
“I know you miss your friends, miss your habits and hangouts, but this is my week, my
only
week, to be with you. To be...your father.”

Another foreign word.
Father.
To think the courts of law actually thought they were courts of justice.

“Let’s pick another subject to change to,” said Emily. “Such as how often you’re checking your cell. If it’s, like, a new lady friend...well, it’d be smart, you know, to take a break after Gwen.”

This wasn’t his choice for a changed-to subject, but he didn’t want to shut down every topic. At least he and Emily were communicating.

“Lady friend? No, I’m calling a business acquaintance who moved away from Denver a year or so ago. She’s the best person for a certain, uh, investigative task.”

“But she’s not returning your calls, right?” She slowly stirred her straw—made of organic paper, no doubt—in her milkshake.

“Right.”

“What’s her name?”

He paused. “Cammie.”

Those blue eyes widened. “Wasn’t she the detective who sat in that weird little office next to the supply room at your firm?”

“She was my lead private investigator, yes. And her desk was in the alcove next to the supply room. She was gone a lot conducting investigations in the field and pulling court files, so she didn’t need a full-blown office per se.”

“You sound defensive.”

“Probably because you sound like a prosecutor.”

She made a huffing noise. “There you go again. No way in this lifetime or the next I’ll ever be a lawyer. Back to your voice-messaging skills. Tell Cammie what you want. All you ever say is, ‘This is Marc again. Please call me at...’ and you leave your number.”

He wondered if she was this dictatorial with her mother, but knew better than to ask. “Can’t.”

Emily, fishing a strawberry out of the glass, flashed him a why-not? look.

“Because...I once put her on probation for investigating the person I’m asking her to investigate again.”

Emily frowned. “Is this about your former fiancée Gwen?”

“Yes.”

“I was never clear what came down between you two.”

He’d never been clear, either. Anything Gwen wanted, she got. She’d asked to be his bookkeeper so she could earn her own money. At the time it had surprised him that she wanted to work an eight-to-five job. But later, after learning she’d siphoned thirty grand from his law firm, he wasn’t so surprised. She’d used him, stolen from his clients.

He wrote her a letter, officially terminating the engagement and her employment, and emailed it to her...but it bounced back. Email address unknown. She’d disconnected her cell-phone service, as well. The way she disappeared, leaving no trace, led him to believe she’d planned this all along.

The same day he’d sent her the email the Colorado Attorney Disciplinary Agency initiated an investigation into Marc’s clients’ missing funds, focusing on him as the culprit of the fraud. As soon as he’d discovered the missing funds, he’d made restitution from his own pocket. But the damage had already been done. The missing money wasn’t as important as the principle involved. A client’s funds are inviolate. Although Marc had no knowledge of Gwen’s theft, he was responsible. Because his father—the other Hamilton in Hamilton & Hamilton—was in prison for stealing clients’ funds years ago,
The Denver Post
ran the story titled Like Father, Like Son.

Great advertising.

Marc had hired several local P.I.’s to find Gwen, but they kept hitting dead ends. She’d once made a reference to Southern California, and after combing the investigators’ reports, he learned she possibly had relatives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Because the latter was where he’d heard that Cammie had moved to live with her uncle, he wanted to hire her to conduct surveillances, knock on doors, do whatever it took to find Gwen. Also, Southern California wasn’t far from Vegas, so Cammie could easily travel there, too. She was a pro, the best P.I. he’d ever worked with, and now his best, if not only, chance to help him find Gwen and make her accountable for her theft.

“I mean, I’m not clear about the details,” Emily continued, “but I know the major stuff. Mom told me you could lose your law license over something Gwen did.”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts and suppress his anger. He’d specifically asked Bethann to not discuss this situation with their daughter.

“Not lose it,” he finally said, keeping his voice even, “just have it suspended.”

“And Cammie could help you keep your license.”

He nodded. “But let’s skip the specifics, all right?”

Emily shrugged. “Okay to ask how long she worked for you?”

“A few years.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“That’s more than a few.” She looked at him for a moment. “You and Cammie...were you ever, you know...”

“What? Involved romantically?”

She nodded.

Pairing him with Cammie made about as much sense as pairing Hamlet with Stephanie Plum. Although Plum was a bounty hunter, if he recalled, and a bit silly.
Silly
was the last word to ever describe Cammie.

“No,” he said, “we were strictly business associates.”

His cell phone vibrated, clattering lightly against the Formica table top. He glanced at the caller ID.

“Maybe Cammie’s finally calling back.” Emily craned her neck to read the screen.

“Don’t recognize it,” he muttered.

“Maybe she’s calling from another number.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He snapped up the phone. “Marc Hamilton,” he answered.

“Hi, Marc? It’s Kathy Blegen. We met last year at the Historical Denver fund-raiser. Gwen and I were volunteers.”

He’d met a squadron of people at that fund-raiser. “Wish I could remember everyone I met that night.”

“Everybody calls me Half Pint. That’s my nickname.”

“Sure, I remember.” Short, bobbed red hair, irritating laugh.

“I’ve been meaning to call you. Heard about what happened...you know, Gwen and
all that the loot
...thousands, right?”

He didn’t respond.

“Shocked me and the other volunteers, I’ll tell you. But on the other hand...well, she had a way with people.”

“Did you want to discuss something?” He didn’t have time for calls like this. People who had nothing better to do than dig for dirt and gossip.

“Yes. It’s important. To you, although maybe you don’t really care anymore about other news Gwen is hiding...”

“Hold on a minute,” he said, getting up from the table. He pulled out a twenty, set it in front of Emily. “Pay the bill when you’re done,” he said quietly. “I’ll be outside.”

“Okay.”

He stepped outside Free Cream. He caught the scent of lavender as he walked down the sidewalk, his phone to his ear.

“What else was Gwen hiding?” He tried to sound casual, although his body felt tense, wary. After everything else he’d learned, what more could there be?

“Well, um, you know Gwen and I had a few lunches after that fund-raiser...girl talk, drinks...”

He halted, turned his face up to the sun, but the fat golden ball in the sky was a fake. In late April, Colorado held on to its cold spells, even dumped the occasional snowstorm, as though winter refused to leave without having the last word.

“...a week or so before she disappeared...she told me...she was pregnant.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. If he’d felt chilly before, he felt downright frigid now. “Gwen was pregnant?”

“That’s what she said.”

An empty ache coursed through him. She’d disappeared in December, so she had to be... “Five, six months along?”

“Um, don’t know. Seemed like she’d just found out.”

“Was she...happy about it?” Damn it. Did he really want to know this much?

“I guess...she seemed more...surprised, you know?”

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Who would hide her whereabouts?”

“I didn’t know her that well. I was, um, surprised she even shared that with me, you know?”

Emily stepped outside the ice cream shop, looked around for him.

“I have to go,” he said and ended the call. Couldn’t say more, had to wrap his head about this new piece of news.

He waved, got Emily’s attention. As she walked toward him, the sunlight caught streaks of gold in her long, straight hair. Maybe she was a fledging socialist intent on changing the world, but in her jeans, peasant blouse and sandals, she looked like any other teenager. She was a good kid.

He sucked in a deep breath, blew it out.

Gwen’s carrying my child.

The urgency to locate her ratcheted up several notches. This was about more than making her accountable for her theft, for saving his reputation, for enabling him to defend his father in the upcoming parole hearing...

This was also about claiming his unborn child.

Emily stopped in front of him, tilted her head as though to see him better. “You’ve got that zonked look again.”

“You’ve been bored staying with me.”

She bobbed her head. “Yeah.”

“I’ve taken this week off to be with you, and I hate to see you bored, so...”

The thought had been percolating, and now it formed fully in his mind. He knew exactly what he and Emily were going to do. He had no choice, really. Either he kept asking and reaching out, or he made it happen in person.

“Emily,” he said, “we’re taking a trip.”

CHAPTER TWO

O
VERHEAD
,
GREEN
-
AND
-
WHITE
spotlights whirled. The recording of trumpets blared, crackling with static.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced a male voice over the speakers, “it’s time for our hourly superstar show on the Shamrock a-Go-Go Stage! On this lovely April twenty-first in bedazzling, beautiful Las Vegas, I introduce—” the trumpet recording blasted again “—the one and only Christina Aguilera!”

The boogie-woogie melody of “Candyman” boomed as Val, dressed in her scanty sailor outfit, stepped onto the cramped stage. She smiled sassily at the audience and tipped her cap. Somebody wolf whistled.

It was a bustling day at the Cave. There was some kind of college volleyball competition in town, which meant a gazillion young adults were flooding Vegas, loving the 24/7 party life. This time of year also attracted a fair number of senior citizens. As one of them had confided to Cammie, May in Vegas could be miserable because of the heat, but April was lovely “despite those damn winds.”

Several young men wearing Beer Pong T-shirts stood in the crowd at the foot of the stage. The guys clapped and whooped as Val pranced and lip-synced. Cammie marveled at her friend’s talent to mime and dance and rake in the bucks. Those Beer Pong dudes were flicking bills into the tip bucket so quickly, they were candidates for carpal tunnel.

Cammie lightly tugged the stiff-laced edge of the corset where it chafed her hip. Hated these outfits.

“Wazzup, baby, hit me,” said a glassy-eyed guy, nearly falling off the stool as he sat. He wore a black T-shirt, ripped at the arm holes. A fiery skull tattoo decorated one flabby bicep, a black panther with laser-green eyes the other. A multitude of eyebrow and ear piercings accessorized the I’m-so-bad look.

“This is a poker table,” she said tightly, “not blackjack. Can I see your ID?”

“Wha—” He smiled sloppily, nearly toppling off the stool again to retrieve his wallet. “I’m legal, baby!”

His buddy, bearing even more tattoos and piercings, staggered up to the table, checked out Cammie’s outfit. “Yo, let’s poker!” he crowed, as though that was the funniest joke ever told.

Which apparently it was to them. The two of them laughed, slapped high fives.

Shamrock Palace was like a magnet to these types. Something about green beer, bad food and cheap slots attracted guys whose personalities had been shaped by too much reality TV and not enough real-world socialization.

For selfish reasons, she didn’t want to call over R.J. Being the newbie dealer, she didn’t want to look weak, incapable of handling a situation. She needed this job.

That didn’t mean, however, she wasn’t above issuing a threat.

“I’m happy to deal cards to you two fellas,” she said tightly, “but if one of you makes a crack like that again, I’m calling security and you’ll be escorted outside so fast, your nose rings will rattle and your—”

A “Candyman” horn crescendo prevented anyone nearby hearing the rest of her colorful warning.

The first guy blinked at her, then slid his ID to Cammie. As she checked it, he made a great show of lighting a cigarette. Twenty-two. She asked to see the second dude’s ID. Twenty-one. She dealt the cards, reminding herself that coping with casino jerks and drunks was a temporary speed bump on the road to regaining her P.I. license.

“Hello, Cammie.”

She froze, at first unsure she’d actually heard her name.

But that voice...
his
voice.

Low-throttled with a sophisticated edge. The voice that used to fill her days, sometimes still filled her nights in dreams. The sound reverberated through her, thundering, pummeling her pathetically beating heart.

Somehow she forced herself to turn and look at him.

Marc.

Tall, as ever. At six-three, he usually towered over others in a room. The same stylishly cut chestnut hair, worn slightly longer than she remembered. A tangerine-colored polo shirt that would have set off his tan if he had one. He loved skiing during winter, golfing and jogging the rest of the year. Not like him to be indoors a lot, except for office tasks and court appearances, and...

Why the hell should she care?

But as soon as her anger tried to take a stand, something in his expression made it retreat. She looked into his strikingly blue eyes, saw the trouble within them.

From the shadow on his usually clean-shaven chin, and the wrinkles in his polo shirt, he’d arrived in a rush. Straight from the airport, she guessed. She hadn’t returned his calls, but if he’d wanted to talk to her that badly, he could have explained why in a voice message or sent an email.

What was so important that he’d travel all the way here?

“Cammie,” he repeated, his voice softer.

The way he looked at her gave her heart a squeeze.

“Babe, gimme two more cards!” The first pierced dude, sucking on his cig, shoved two cards in her direction.

“And make that one for Heltah-Skeltah, babe,” said his pal.

“She’s not a
babe,
” growled Marc, pinning them with a look.

This was not like Marc, who she’d seen mediate dozens of angry, confrontational clients and more than a few opposing counsel, as well. That’s how he’d earned the name Mr. Cool in the courtrooms.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I have this under control—”

“Back off, Polo Boy,” said the guy, smoke escaping around his words. “Me and him was here before you.
And
she carded us.”

As if that had anything to do with something. “Look, fellas,” she said in her let’s-all-be-friendly voice, “we don’t need to—”

“What’d you call me,
Panther
Boy?” Narrowing his eyes, Marc leaned closer to the dude.

Who flexed his bicep. The panther wriggled.

“Oh, yeah, we’re getting downright scary now,” Cammie muttered, glancing over her shoulder to ensure R.J. wasn’t alerted to the testosterone smackdown at her table.

Polo Boy’s and Panther Boy’s faces were so close, they could probably count each other’s nose hairs.

“Want to take it outside?” Marc growled, looking dangerously bad for Mr. Cool. Bad and tired. She noticed the shadows under his eyes, the edge of exhaustion in his voice.

Panther Boy growled back, “I ain’t never wanted to do nothin’ so bad in my life.”

“Yeah,” Heltah-Skeltah added, shuffling the order of his cards.

Oh, good grief. As if any of them were all that interested, rested or—to look at the potbelly on Panther Boy—in good-enough shape to carry out these he-man threats.

“Dudes, chill,” Cammie said calmly. “If you want to play cards, you can stay. But if you’re more interested in playing Who’s the Biggest Badass, you’ll have to leave.” She gave a knowing look to Panther Boy and his sidekick. “Don’t make me threaten to call security again because this time it’ll be more than a threat.”

She slid them their cards.

“I’m not here to
play,
Cammie,” said Marc, his voice oozing sincerity. “I want... I
need
to talk to you.”

“Can’t chat while playing.” Cammie rolled her shoulders. “You in or out?”

He raised a cynical eyebrow. “In,” he muttered. Marc bought twenty of the blue five-dollar chips with a one-hundred-dollar bill and placed his ante on the green felt.

She counted out five cards, slid them facedown to Marc.

He frowned at his cards, darting a look at her before setting them all facedown on the green felt. “I’ll take five. An entire hand.”

As she reached out to take his cards, he laid his hand on top of hers. His large, warm hand. She stared at it, dumbfounded, caught up in a stupid flashback to that night so long ago....

“Because that’s what I need, Cammie, for you to give me a helping hand.” He gave hers a squeeze. “If you’d answered my calls, I could’ve talked to you about it, but you refused, so here I am—”

“There a problem’ere?” R.J., a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, hovered next to Cammie. He stared at Marc’s hand on Cammie’s.

She withdrew hers. “We’re all fine.”

R.J. shifted a scowling gaze at the three men, who offered their answers.

“Him and me, we’re cool.”

“Yeah.”

“There are no issues at this table.”

For what seemed an excruciatingly small eternity, R.J. eye-locked each man as though he could probe their every depraved thought. Man, she thought she was good when it came to staring down people during interviews—R.J. raised it to an art form.

He looked at Cammie. “Take fifteen. Dee Dee’ll cover f’ya.”

Relieved for the chance to escape, she murmured her thanks and speed walked toward the exit a few feet away. Or tried to speed walk. Navigating in these nosebleed heels, it was more of a determined totter. For work, she’d wear sneakers to the table then slip on her heels there. Rule was, she had to keep the heels on for her shift, so she only had to deal with walking in these stupid things on breaks. How women functioned in high heels was beyond her.

Before hitting the door, she snagged a few cheese strips from Eddie, who ran the pizza stall. Outside, she sighed heavily and collapsed against a wall, munching on a strip.

“That was fugly,” she murmured.

Above, fronds of palm trees rustled and swayed. Sunlight sparkled off cars in the parking lot. Staring up at the sky, clear and blue, she took in a deep breath...which she immediately regretted. The Green Palace liked to pump scents from its fast-food vendors—a mash of pizza and burgers—into the air as though a place with an Irish name that served greasy American food was some kind of customer magnet.

If you make them smell it, they will come.

“Mrowww...”

Something soft curled around her leg. She looked down into Trazy’s uplifted furry face. Its green-gold eyes darted between hers and the cheese strips she held.

She offered a piece. Trazy scarfed it up, her fluffy tail curling in the air.

“I’m having a bad day,” Cammie confided, breaking off another piece. “That guy I’ve been telling you about showed up at work. Total surprise. Of all the times I dreamed of seeing him again, I’d always imagined I’d be at the top of my game, making the bucks, and, of course, I’d look drop-dead amazing....”

Meow.

Trazy snagged the cheese Cammie offered and ate it. “Instead he surprises me at the Cave, where I’m dealing others’ games, dressed as though any moment I might start belting ‘Let’s Do the Time Warp Again.’”

A shadow fell over Trazy.

“You look better than that, Cammie.”

She squeezed shut her eyes. Oh, man, this whole effing situation was too pitiful. Why couldn’t the world open up and swallow her whole right now?

“How much did you hear?” she asked, not looking up.

“Of your conversation with the cat?”

She straightened, tossed the paper napkin into a nearby trash can. “Yes, with the cat.” She met Marc’s gaze, wondered what was burdening him so, even while wishing she didn’t give a damn. “She and I are like this.” She crossed her fingers for emphasis. “Right, Traze?”

Meow.

A hint of a smile played on Marc’s lips. “I only heard the part about the
Rocky Horror Picture Show.
That’s some name, Traze.”

Considering she hadn’t seen his shadow before then, she was willing to buy that’s all he heard. She slumped against the wall and crossed her arms. “My friend Val wanted to call her Crazy, I wanted to name her Tracy, we compromised on Trazy.” She gave him an assessing look. “How’d you know I worked here?”

“Called your uncle.” Seeing the look on her face, he made a hold-on gesture. “Hey, it was easy to look up his number. Told him I was flying out to Vegas, wanted to see you when I was here—”

“I can’t believe you flew
all the way out here
because I didn’t answer your calls.”
Whatever it is, it’s eating you up.

He paused. “It’s important.”

“I guessed that.”

“Make that critical. For me. For the law practice. For my employees. For—”

“World peace?” She meant to say it lightly, but it came out harsh and she left it that way. Because what he’d done had been harsh. And wrong.

“Cammie, you left Denver so quickly...we never had a chance to come to terms—”

“You only offered me
your
terms.”

“Please...don’t be... I need you.”

How many times had she wanted to hear him say those words? But not like this. She had no idea what
for me
was about, or even why he was concerned about his law practice. When she left, it’d been thriving. Several years running he’d been voted one of Denver’s top one hundred attorneys by
5280
magazine. Thriving business, several über-talented paralegals, lots of referrals...what went south?

Oh, great, here she was caught up in his problems.

I don’t want to care about you.

Warm breezes gusted past. Trazy scurried to the side of a metal trash can and hunkered down, tufts of her fur rising.

“I want you to be my investigator again.”

“My uncle didn’t explain?”

“Explain what?”

“About my...investigations business?”

An empty soda can clattered across the parking lot. That can was kinda like her P.I. career—empty, rattling along, going nowhere.

He looked confused. “No. He told me you worked here, and I assumed I’d find you working security, or maybe loss prevention, although those were never your specializations.”

“I’d rather poke a stick in my eye.” Although she took the occasional cheating-spouse or missing-person case, her specialization was assisting attorneys by doing legal investigations.

That almost-there smile again. “Yeah, I couldn’t imagine you playing store cop, either. Anyway, I got here and saw Phil parked in the lot, so figured you were on shift. Went inside and asked around...then I found you....” He gestured to her outfit, his eyes darting down, then back up more slowly, lingering on her breasts.

Was the sun playing tricks on her, or was that a flush coloring his cheekbones as he checked her out? Although it wasn’t any tricks of sunlight that shot sparks of white-hot sensation through her as she did her own checking out. He’d always been a muscled but trim kinda guy, but add that black stubble, mussed hair and sullen look, and he could be Mr. April in the Bad Boy Lawyers calendar.