Wolfe Wedding Page 10

  “Cameron, I’m developing a headache waiting for you to begin talking,” she said impatiently.

  Nudged into speaking, he blurted out artlessly, “I want to apologize. I’m sorry for accusing you of being childish and militant.”

  She smiled.

  He winced at the derisive curve to her lips, lips that he longed to crush with his own—immediately after he scrubbed his teeth.

  “Sandra, say something.”

  “What would you like me to say?” She raised her brows. “That I forgive you for saying what you so obviously believe?”

  “I don’t believe it.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I was angry, and—”

  She silenced him with a quick wave of her hand. “You were angry, and voicing the truth—according to Special Agent Cameron Wolfe.”

  “No! I-”

  She again interrupted him. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s clear we have no basis to continue this, er, relationship—” she grimaced “—for want of a better phrase.”

  “No basis?” Cameron laughed; he couldn’t help it, despite the expanding feeling of dread inside him. “Sandra, we have spent over a week laughing, talking, loving and relating very well to each other.”

  “Yes,” she readily agreed.

  He began a hefty sigh of relief; she proceeded to steal his breath and quash his revived hope.

  “But that was a time out of time,” she continued, a faint, sad smile shadowing her lips. “It was an illusion, unrelated to reality, a game of ‘Let’s pretend.’“ Then she sighed, and it held the sound not of relief, but of impending doom—his. “But life has a way of intruding, Cameron, shattering pretense and illusion with the ruthless blow of reality.”

  “Dammit, Sandra, that’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed, springing up to go to her. “You and Iespecially you and I, considering the work we dodeal in reality as a way of life.” He performed his signature habit of spearing his long fingers into his sun-kissed hair. “Intrude? Hell, reality’s there, a constant, in both our lives. And you know it.”

  “Yes, but-”

  Now he would not allow her to finish. “But nothing. So we grabbed some time, time to relax, laugh, play, some time for ourselves, and for each other. Where’s the illusion in that, the pretense?”

  “It wasn’t real, Cameron.” She raised a hand to massage her temple. “It was fun and games. And you and I—especially you and I—know better than most that life is not fun and games. Reality is everyday, and the everyday Cameron and Sandra are two entirely different types, too different to coexist together every day.”

  “That’s nuts!” He was forced to back up as she stood to face him squarely.

  “No,” she said sadly. “That’s life.”

  The scared sensation in his stomach spread, permeating his being. “Sandra.” he began, afraid to ask, yet needing to know. “Are you saying that you don’t want to continue exploring our relationship after we leave here?”

  “What would be the point?” She shrugged, causing the silk to shimmer over her breasts, and the nerves to quiver throughout his body. “There is no genuine relationship to explore.”

  “No relationship?” He stared at her in disbelief and amazement, and was forced to fight an urgent impulse to grab her shoulders and shake her, or kiss her, or do something even more exciting—even if also reprehensible, under the circumstances. “You can’t be serious.”

  “All right! There was a relationship.of sorts.” Her composure, her even tone, revealed strain for the first time, encouraging Cameron for a moment. “But it was the stuff of kids playing house.” She held up a hand when he would have objected. “There was no genuine communication, no mu tual understanding.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cameron heaved a tired sigh. “Square one. We’re back to my rash and thoughtless charge of childishness and militant feminism.”

  “No!” she began, but then she echoed his weary sigh. “Yes, we’re back to that—that, and the complete lack of understanding revealed by it.”

  “I told you I was angry.”

  “I know.”

  “And I was talking off the top of my head,” he went on, asking himself whether he should confess to the fear for her safety that had fired his anger.

  “And I firmly believe you were voicing your mind and your convictions.”

  “Sandra, no—”

  “And that’s fine,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’re entitled to them. The problem is, they’re invalid, at least from my perspective. Which is a solid indication that we merely spent a week out of time, indulging our senses in our sensual sabbatical, while not learning a damn thing about each other.”

  Now Cameron was developing a headache. Very likely, he concluded, from beating his head against the brick wall of Sandra’s obstinacy.

  “You’re wrong,” he insisted, refusing to give up, out of a sickening fear of losing her completely. “I have never felt more connected to a woman. And I mean mentally, as well as physically.” He succumbed to the need to reach out, touch the tip of his fingers to her smooth cheek. “I thought, believed, you felt the same.”

  “I did,” she whispered. “But.” She shook her head, dislodging his hand, his fingertips. “I…I don’t know.” She again massaged her temple. “I need time to think. Time alone.” She stepped back. “I need breathing space, and distance. I need to go home.”

  “You can’t,” he reminded her. “At least not until we see what Whitfield is up to.” He knew he had erred, and badly, even before he was finished.

  She stiffened, and stepped away from him. “I’m a big girl now, and I can take care of myself. If I deem it necessary, I’ll have a restraining order issued against Whitfield. But, for now, my headache’s worse. I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and lie down.”

  “Sandra, wait,” he pleaded when she turned and headed for the bedroom.

  “If I fall asleep, I may well be in for the night,” she said, as if he hadn’t uttered a word.

  “Sandra!”

  “There is one more thing,” she said, finally pausing in the archway to glance back at him.

  “Yes?” he asked, with unabashed eagerness.

  “I was listening to the radio this morning before you woke up. The weather service predicted that the temperature will continue to rise through this afternoon and tonight. By tomorrow morning, this ice will be gone.” She hesitated briefly before adding, “And so will I.”

  Nine

  Sandra was nearly finished packing her things by the time a beautiful spring dawn had bathed the landscape in tones of pearlized pink.

  Unsurprisingly, after two nights of practically no sleep at all, she had fallen into a deep slumber mere minutes after swallowing two aspirin, then crawling into the too-empty bed. And she had slept straight through the rest of the afternoon and most of the night.

  She had awoken rested and refreshed shortly before four a.m., her headache, if not her heartache, gone.

  Finally, showered, dressed, and everything packed except for her makeup, Sandra stacked the stuff next to the bedroom door, then reluctantly left the room to face the by-then-bright sunlit day—and the sleeping Wolfe in the living room.

  The living room was empty; the Wolfe was on the prowl in the kitchen. And the sight of him brought her up short in the doorway.

  Barefoot, clad in faded jeans and a sweatshirt, both rumpled from being slept in—it was immediately obvious that he had slept, because he still looked groggy—his golden mane tousled, he looked totally disreputable and, to her admittedly biased eyes, absolutely delicious.

  Although Sandra would have sworn her movements were noiseless, Cameron must have heard her—sensed her? smelled her?—for without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he muttered an invitation of sorts.

  “Come have some coffee.”

  The weary sound of his voice undermined her determination and composure. There was a thread of near-defeat woven through his quiet tone that pierced her heart like a sp
ear.

  Defeat? Sandra asked herself, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. Cameron?

  Get real.

  Reacting to the mental gibe, she squared her shoulders and crossed the room to accept the steaming cup he turned to offer her.

  “Thanks.” Though her voice was steady, her fingers were not; she hid the tremor by wrapping them around the warm cup.

  “You’re welcome,” he murmured, turning back to attend to the pans on the stove. “I was just about ready to scramble some eggs. Do you want some?”

  “Yes, please.” Despairing at the crack in her voice, she raised the cup to her lips to sip the hot brew, in the hope of relieving the parched feel in her throat.

  “Potatoes, too?” He didn’t glance around, but busied himself with prodding the potatoes with a spatula.

  “Yes.” It was all so banal, Sandra had to will herself to keep from shouting her answer at him, merely to see if he’d respond in kind.

  “Okay. You can make the toast.”

  Make the toast? she thought, rather wildly. She felt as if she were toast.

  Nevertheless, she set her cup on the countertop and moved to comply.

  Breakfast was less than scintillating. It appeared that, after a week of chattering nonstop to one another, they had both run dry of conversation.

  Well…perhaps not completely dry.

  “You’re really set on leaving today,” Cameron said, shoving his plate aside. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Sandra sighed, now wishing the conversational stream had remained dry. “I’m packed and ready to go.”

  “Uh-huh.” His sigh echoed hers. “And nothing I can say will change your mind?”

  “No.” She shook her head, and blamed the abrupt motion for the sting in her eyes. “I told you yesterday, I need some thinking time, alone.” She tried to smile; it didn’t work; she gave it up. “Without distractions.”

  “Then you admit that I distract you?” Cameron’s voice held a note of hope.

  “Yes, of course, you know you do,” she said, then hastened to quash the expectancy that flared in his blue eyes, “But, distraction aside, I still need time.” She actually felt his expression of deflation, yet she proceeded in her determination. “And I’m taking it.”

  The fire dimmed in his beautiful eyes, leaving them lackluster. His expression set into a mask of control “Do you have any idea how much time you’ll need?” His voice was devoid of emotion or inflection.

  “No.”

  “I see.” He sighed, and a tiny nonsmile curved his lips. “Were you planning to let me know when—or if—you’ve reached a decision?”

  “Yes, of course, I—”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” he said, interrupting impatiently. “And there’s no damned ‘of course’ about it.” He expelled a short laugh that had more the sound of a snort. “I really thought, believed, that I knew you, understood you, but—”

  Sandra interrupted him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We don’t really know each other.”

  “But we could,” he said in a flat voice. “If we wanted to make the effort.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I do.”

  Struck by his implication that she was the one unwilling to make the effort, Sandra was swept by conflicting waves of anger and despair.

  It was unfair, she cried in silent protest. He was being unfair, considering that it was he who had misread her.

  “And, by your very silence, I must conclude that you don’t want to make the effort.”

  “And, naturally, your conclusions are always correct,” she retorted, smarting anew at his previous assumptions and accusations as to her motives.

  “Not hardly,” he retorted cynically. “At least, not where women are concerned.”

  Now anger was gaining the upper hand. How dare he cast her in the mold of the woman who had dumped him? Sandra railed. And dumped him for monetary reasons, at that!

  “You know practically nothing about women,” she said, scraping her own chair backward and rising to challenge him, stare for stare. She even managed a credible curl to her upper lip. “Other than their performance in bed.”

  “That was below the belt, Sandra,” he told her. “Literally, as well as figuratively.”

  Shamed by her hasty and ill-considered barb, Sandra felt honor-bound to concede. “I know, and anger is no excuse for dirty pool. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, so am I.” He moved his shoulders in a tired-looking shrug, and began gathering the dishes and flatware. “I guess we’d better clean up. If you’re going, I might as well leave, too.” He turned away, then glanced back at her. “Would you allow me to use the bedroom and bath to shower and get my stuff together?”

  “Yes, certainly.” She circled the table to relieve him of the dishes in his hands. “You can use them now. I’ll clean up in here, and in the living room.”

  “Thanks.” With a fleeting half smile, he relinquished the dishes, then strode from the room.

  Sandra stood still, staring after him long after he had disappeared from view.

  Had she made the right decision? she asked herself, gnawing on her lower lip. Was she doing what was best for both of them by sticking to that decision?

  She loved him so very much. And she was now hurting so very badly. Perhaps.

  Sandra brought her thoughts to a dead stop. Everything had happened too soon. Their relationship had become too intimate, too hot, too intense, much too quickly. She needed time, they both needed time, to ponder, to reevaluate their respective feelings before continuing on together.

  A breathing spell was needed at this juncture, she advised herself. Perhaps, after a week or two of some serious soul-searching, and rational, detached thinking. Who knew?

  Sandra sighed as she went about the business of putting Barbara’s getaway house in order.

  One thing was certain. She hoped, prayed, that eventually she and Cameron could reach a mutually satisfying solution. Because she wasn’t sure she could stand spending the rest of her life without him being a part of it. Whereas once she had enjoyed being alone, now, since being with him, a part of him, sharing both love and laughter with him, to be forever without him was unthinkable.

  Hell, she missed him already.

  The living room had been put to rights and Sandra was finishing up in the kitchen when Cameron exited the bedroom, loaded down with his own and her luggage.

  “If you’ll get me your keys, I’ll stash this stuff in the cars.”

  “Okay.” Leaving the kitchen, she skirted around him and started for the bedroom to collect her handbag. “But don’t try to lug all of it yourself,” she called back to him. “I’ll do my share.”

  With them working together in silence, the chore was swiftly accomplished. Everything was stashed in their respective vehicles, except for their jackets. Cameron tossed his onto one corner of the sofa. Sandra draped hers, along with her handbag, at the other end, fully aware of the symbolism of the distance separating the two garments.

  “Is there any coffee left?” he asked, not looking at her as he walked around her, into the kitchen and directly to the coffeemaker on the countertop. “I’d like a cup before we leave.”

  “Yes, I saved it for you,” she answered, devouring the look of him with her eyes as she trailed along after him, while trying to appear unaffected by the impact on her senses of the sight of him. “It’s still hot.”

  “Good. Thanks.” He glanced over his shoulder and offered her a real smile.

  She gratefully accepted and returned his offering. “You’re welcome.”

  She watched him hungrily while he poured out a cup of the dark liquid, quivering inside in response to the sheer masculine appeal of him. Attired in fresh jeans, a loose-knit white sweater and rugged boots, with his burnished hair gleaming from the shower and his face smooth from the razor, he was a sight to set any woman’s heart aflutter.

  Was she certifiably out of her mind in demanding that they part for a while,
in denying herself the thrill and pleasure of his exciting company?

  Possibly, but.

  Sandra’s thoughts fractured as, at that moment, Cameron leaned forward, then went completely still, peering intently out the window above the sink overlooking the deck and the foothills beyond.

  “Cameron, what—”

  “Son of a—” His muttered curse cut across her voice as he suddenly set the cup on the countertop and strode to the back door.

  Blinking in surprise and puzzlement, she watched him twist the lock, swing the door open and then stride out onto the deck.

  Intrigued by his curious and abrupt action, she set her own cup on the table and followed him.

  He was hunkered down in the center of the deck, staring intently at the floor.

  “Cameron, what is it?” she asked, coming up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

  “That,” he answered tersely, pointing at a muddy footprint on the floor. “And those,” he added, indicating several other prints leading to and away from the window. “Seems we had a visitor during the night, or very early this morning.”

  A chill ran up Sandra’s spine, and she shivered in reaction. “A visitor? Who?” she asked in a nearwhisper, even though she feared she knew.

  Cameron sliced a droll look at her. “That’s the print of a cowboy boot.” He got up to examine the other footprints. “And I’d say it was a safe bet it and the others were made by our friend Slim.”

  “But.” Sandra had to pause to wet her suddenly parched lips. “I thought the authorities were certain he had fled to the area around Taos, New Mexico,” she said, glancing uneasily around her.

  “A wily son of a bitch, is our Slim.” His lips twisted in disgust. “Apparently he gave them the slip again.” Pivoting, he crossed the deck to her, grasped her arm and hustled her to the door. “Let’s get back inside,” he ordered, literally shoving her through the doorway. “We’re exposed here.”

  Her thoughts exactly, Sandra thought, clasping her arms around her body to contain a shudder.

  Cameron headed straight for the wall phone, punched in a number, then stood, stiff and alert, staring out the window through narrowed, glittering eyes.