Another Side Of Midnight. Mia Zachary
MARIA LEFT, I stripped off my blazer and turned my shirt back around. Then I walked out to the reception area and handed Jon the contract and a copy of Maria’s cash receipt. “Start a new file, please.”
He sets up manila folders with hard copies as well as entering data into the case management program. If I can look something up for myself, it leaves him more time to write his romance novel. Jon glanced at the receipt.
“She paid in advance?”
“That’s just the retainer.” I grinned as I handed him the envelope. “Drop this at the bank before you go to lunch.”
He rifled the thousand dollars the same way I had. Then he cocked his head to one side and wiggled his brows. “I’m taking ninety minutes for lunch. And I’m ordering the lobster salad from El Pescador.”
As many times as we’ve played it, neither of us seems to tire of this routine. “You’re taking an hour for lunch, pal. And you’re paying for your own lobster.”
“It’s only thirty minutes, Steele. You can unshackle me from my desk for that long.”
“Nope. We’ve got bills to send out.”
He gave me a sly look from under his dark lashes. “I’ll bring you back some Tandoori chicken from Shalimar.”
Ooh. He was playing hardball. Growing up in a restaurant made me pickier than most when it comes to quality, well-prepared food, and Shalimar was named best ethnic food in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I relented on the ninety-minute lunch, just like he knew I would. Say what you will, but the man knows how to stay on my good side.
Alone again, I called up a blank document on my laptop and started typing up my impressions for the Gray Cavanaugh file.
Kept husband? Got his house, his car and his cash from the wife, got his job from the father-in-law. Maybe he married for love, maybe not. Probably cheating just to prove he’s a real man.
Follow-up for work and golf schedules. Check background (basics should be enough), credit statements (past three months) and cell phone bill (frequent numbers and times of calls).
A few minutes later, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. Yawning, I waited impatiently for the water to gurgle and blurp out of the ten-gallon jug and into my oversized plastic cup. I’m not trying to be trendy. Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in North America, which puts a lot of demand on the desert environment.
All the golf courses around here don’t help.
I do my part by only drinking the bottled stuff. It’s imported from some natural spring in Pennsylvania. I guess you’d say I’m a closet environmentalist, saving the world one cup at a time. Then again, I never remember to separate the trash on recycling day.
As I walked back toward my office, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck. The air seemed oddly still. I was no longer alone. Remembering this morning’s dream and the subsequent phone call, my heart hiccupped in my chest. There was a phone in my office. My nine-millimeter was stashed in my desk drawer. The emergency exit was through the storeroom. Which would be quicker?
My fight-or-flight instinct froze with indecision. Shit. All three choices were too slow and it was too late to hide my reaction. Nothing to do now but fight. Whipping around, I saw a hulking silhouette. His features were hidden by the glare through the front windows. I tensed as he came closer, bracing for whatever happened.
His presence was somehow primal, unnerving. And familiar. It ought to be, as often as I’d studied his digital photo.
I released the breath I’d been holding. Flinging out my left arm, I aimed the full cup of water at his face.
“Hey! It’s—”
I put everything I had into the punch that followed. When my right fist connected with his chin, I felt equal parts satisfaction and pain.
“It’s me, damn it!”
I bent over to grab my cup with a shaking hand as the adrenaline slowly filtered out of my system. “I knew who it was.”
It’s not like I could have forgotten him. A guy doesn’t walk into your life, turn it upside down and then disappear without leaving an impression. I thought I’d gotten past it. If not forgotten, at least moved on. I was wrong.
Okay, maybe it hadn’t been the first time I’d gone to bed with a guy and woken up by myself. But it had been the first time I’d cared.
After the nuclear meltdown that had been Bobby Mattingly, I hadn’t dated much. Two years passed before I accepted a dinner invitation. Another year before I had sex again. I’d slept with a couple of guys since but hadn’t let it get serious. Then I’d met Cameron and lightning struck.
So I figured I could be forgiven for expecting more than his morning-after note. S, You’re amazing. I’m sorry for this. Something’s come up and I have to leave immediately. I’ll call when I can. C. He hadn’t bothered to come up with an original kiss-off line. Obviously, I hadn’t been that amazing.
After wiping a hand over his face, Cameron raked back his wet hair. “I guess you’re surprised to see me, eh, love?”
I flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’d be more than happy to hit you again.”
Not exactly true. He had a cast-iron jaw and my hand already hurt like hell. It had been worth it. I hadn’t heard a word from him in two months, two weeks and four days. But who the hell was counting, right? Why be “surprised” about that?
What really ticked me off was my other reaction, which was purely physical. His damp black T-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and chest. Faded blue jeans skimmed over what I knew to be long, muscular legs. And I’m a sucker for long, muscular legs. He moved toward me and I had to fight my natural reaction—internal combustion in the face of an alpha male.
Cameron Stone is a lion of a man—six foot three or four, golden and gorgeous. In a word? Dangerous.
“Are you having a go at me because you lost the last fight?” He reached toward the tender skin beneath my eye.
I ducked his hand and crossed my arms, tapping a finger against the cup. “No, I’m picking a fight with you because your note wasn’t exactly the Valentine I’d hoped for. While I appreciated breakfast, Stone, I would have appreciated an explanation more.”
“Stella, love—”
“Don’t call me that.” He’d used the L word twice now. Even out of context, it was awkward, unsettling, and so very wrong.
Unable to avoid it any longer, I looked directly at his face. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, his features now had edges hard enough to suit his name. He’d let his hair grow and his Celtic skin was deeply tanned. His light blue eyes still had the power to both captivate me and put me on my guard.
He looked really good, damn it.
I tried to forget how often he’d made me smile that night, the way my heart had raced when our fingers touched, or how eager I’d been for him as midnight became morning.
His eyes warmed considerably as he’d looked at me and asked, “Where have you been?”
“Right here, waiting,” I’d answered.
The intense sunlight hurt my eyes. That’s why they were tearing up. I swallowed hard, struggling for control. The level of my anger would reveal the depth of my feelings, and damned if I was going to allow that. I had questions, lots of them, but I also had some pride. So I kept things as simple as possible.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“As I said in the note—”
“Something came up. That was the best you could do?” I let my tone slide down into the sarcastic range.
His mouth flattened. “Aye, something came up. It was rather urgent and I had to take the first