Post-traumatic stress, she had decided. Definitely. She’d ear-witnessed a murder, after all—one could practically be expected to behave in bizarre, erratic ways under such circumstances.
Amy walked into the kitchen. “There’s someone at the door, Cameron. A man.”
The cousins’ eyes lit up as they exchanged greedy looks: the naked man-flesh has arrived.
Amy pointed at Cameron accusingly. “You promised. If this is what I think it is, be forewarned: you will pay for it ten-fold when it’s your turn.”
Cameron smiled as she brushed past Amy to answer the door. “Relax. It’s probably the limo driver letting us know he’s here.” Amy followed her out of the kitchen, then made a sharp left and bolted up the stairs.
“Seriously, Ame—it’s not a stripper.” Cameron laughed.
“Just touching up my makeup,” Amy called down as she high-tailed it out of sight.
Cameron checked the peephole. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the limo driver. She opened the door.
“Agent Wilkins.” She stepped outside and partially closed the door behind her for privacy. “Is everything all right?”
Wilkins smiled. “Looks like you’ve got some party going on in there. Is it a special occasion?”
“My friend Amy’s bachelorette party.”
“A bachelorette party—you don’t say? Wow, I wished we’d known.”
“We?” Cameron asked.
“Jack’s skulking around somewhere. Said something about checking the security of the outside perimeter. That’s FBI code for ‘stalling.’ Anyway, we’re here to show you those photographs we talked about.” He shifted to the side, trying to peek around the door.
“I thought we were going to do that earlier this afternoon.”
“Darn flight delays. It’s okay—you’re busy, I can see that. We can come back some other time.” Wilkins flashed her what undoubtedly was one of the best good-cop grins she’d ever seen.
Cameron nodded approvingly. “Not bad. And this time you didn’t even have to bring me coffee. Can we get this done in twenty minutes?”
“Fifteen,” Wilkins promised.
She gestured for him to come in. “I’ll tell everyone you’re here to talk about one of my cases. I obviously haven’t told the other girls about all this.” Other than Amy, who, like Collin, knew she was being watched as a precautionary measure.
The door behind her flew open. Jolene and Melanie stood in the doorway.
“Haven’t told the other girls about what?” Jolene demanded to know. She spotted Wilkins and smiled. “I knew it! Cameron, you really had us going there. We knew you wouldn’t let us down.” With a careful eye, she sized Wilkins up from head to toe. “Hmm. You look a little skinny. You better at least do full-frontal.”
“Excuse me?”
“They think you’re a stripper,” Cameron explained.
Wilkins seemed flattered by this. “Oh—sorry, ma’am. I’m just an FBI agent.”
Melanie winked. “Sure you are.”
“Shouldn’t you have some kind of uniform?” Jolene asked. “It makes things seem more authentic.”
“But I’m a special agent. Only trainees wear uniforms.”
Jolene shared a look with Melanie. “That’s a new one.”
Cameron was just about to suggest that Wilkins show the cousins his badge, when Jack walked up the steps and stopped in her doorway.
“Sorry we’re late,” he said with a curt nod.
The cousins’ mouths dropped open as each of them caught their first glimpse of Jack. He wore jeans and a dark blazer with an open-necked shirt. Objectively, Cameron knew what they saw: the tall, dark, whatever-ness; the gorgeous face, blah, blah; the sexy, lean, body that was tailor-made for all kinds of sin—who cared? Certainly she wasn’t paying any attention to those things.
Jolene reached out and grabbed Cameron by her sleeve. She pulled her off to the side.
“Holy shit—how much did you have to pay for that one?” she whispered.
Cameron paused. “You know, the agency didn’t say. Someone should probably ask him what he charges for full-frontal.”
Jolene and Melanie looked at each other. “We’re on it.”
Cameron smiled to herself as the cousins made their way over to Jack.
Fourteen
“IT’S A NEGOTIABLE rate.”
Cameron turned around from the cabinet she’d been reaching into and saw Jack standing in the doorway.
It took her a second, then she smiled. “Sorry about that.”
She adjusted her sweater, a thin, deep V-neck black wrap that tied at her waist. When she’d been reaching for the glasses, the neck of the sweater had slipped off her shoulder, exposing the camisole she wore underneath.
Jack said nothing as she pulled the sweater back up. He gestured to the shelf she’d been reaching for. “Need some help?” He walked over and set down the file he’d been carrying on the counter below the cabinet.
“Um . . . sure. We need more glasses. And, apparently, I need to start wearing five-inch heels.” She pointed. “The ones on the left. I didn’t realize I’d have so many white wine drinkers.”
“How many do you want?”
“Two for now.”
Jack barely had to lift his arm as he plucked the glasses off the shelf and handed them to her.