Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) (12 page)

Reid rose slowly to his feet. “I'm telling you,” he said, “that you were an idiot for letting her go. I'm also telling you, since you brought the subject up, that you should be the one leaving her alone. I don't care for men who hound women.”

“I'd like to see you stop me,” Keith said, thrusting his chin out like a teenager in a school ground fistfight.

“Keep it up, and you will.”

Something in Reid's voice, or perhaps it was something in his eyes, made the other man blink rapidly. He took a quick step backward. A scowl drew his brows together. “Cammie tell you to warn me off?”

Reid smiled with a faint twist to his mouth. “It was my own idea.”

“Yeah, I thought so. I think you don't look too happy, either, like maybe you don't like this mess she's stirring up. Like maybe I don't have to worry too much, after all.”

“Cammie may not like the idea of the mill being sold, but nothing she does can change the way I feel.”

An odd expression crossed Keith's face. “You think not, huh? You think you'll sell and everything'll be fine. Just like that. Well, old pal, funny things happen.”

Reid studied the man with every sense alert. “Is there a problem in the mill? Do you expect the workers or the unions to oppose the sale?”

“You're the boss now. You figure it out.” Keith gave a sharp crack of laughter. Stumbling a little as he turned, he left the office.

Reid stood still for long moments. His thoughts moved in swift precision, though he didn't like the conclusions he reached. Smoothing a hand over his hair and clasping the back of his neck, he finally turned back to his desk. Picking up his pen again, he looked down at the computer printout. The neat tabulations ran together without making any sense.

The pen bent in his hand, creaking as his grasp tightened. Flinging it down, he strode from the office. Maybe being out in the mill yard would be better. It was unlikely to be worse.

At seven o'clock that night, Reid was standing under what had become his favorite pine behind Cammie's house, leaning against the trunk while he watched cars fill up the drive. She was having her organizational meeting for the group opposed to selling the mill. He knew some of the men and women arriving, but many he didn't. It made no difference, his information service was firmly in place. Persephone had given Lizbeth a fairly complete rundown on the guests.

The owner of the weekly newspaper, who acted as his own reporter, would be there, also the lady owner and manager of the radio station. Whatever their views on the subject, the meeting was news, besides which, they were friends of Cammie's. The speaker for the evening would be the lanky and bearded type who headed the low-key environmental group in the area. Also present would be Frederick Mawley. Mawley was the lawyer in town who specialized in nuisance suits, spite divorces, and bankruptcy cases. His practice was lucrative, though he was cordially despised by the business community.

Surprisingly enough, the sheriff was supposed to be on hand. Most elected officials would have run a mile before becoming embroiled in the controversy. Sheriff Bud Deerfield, however, was not only Cammie's cousin, but was apparently concerned about the increase in crime that might be caused by the influx of new people into the community with the expansion. More than that, he wasn't new to liberal causes. He was rabid about gun control as a means of crime prevention, an unpopular stance for a part of the country where most households had at least one gun and usually more. People overlooked it because they knew his youngest daughter had been killed while playing with a shotgun, and his wife had become an alcoholic because of the tragedy.

The rest of the guests were mainly society matrons, young and old, women who were active with the DAR, the garden club, and a half-dozen other organizations. They were the group who handled most of the charity work in the community, funding the “pink lady” volunteers at the hospital, keeping the parish museum in operation, collecting for the Heart Fund, the March of Dimes, and all the other good works. They might, if a person cared for such things, be called the blue blood of the community. Most didn't consider themselves in that light, and the few who did probably didn't qualify. The majority could be depended on to resist change on general principles, unless it happened to have a direct effect on the lives of their children or grandchildren.

The night was clear and damp, neither warm nor cool. Reid could smell the elusive fragrance of wild azaleas in the woods, and also of the pale orchid George Tabor azaleas just coming into bloom under the tall pines in the side garden. He thought he caught, too, a wafting of sweet olive from the tall shrub growing near the side door leading out of the house on the same side as the gazebo.

It occurred to him, after a time, that he could watch and be comfortable at the same time under the cover of the semi-enclosed gazebo. The wrought-iron table and chairs inside would suit him just fine.

From the octagonal structure with its railings shrouded with budding clematis vines, he could smell the coffee that would be served with the refreshments. The kitchen window was open to the night air, and also one or two of the living room windows.

He lounged at ease on a cool, white wrought-iron chair, wondering about what kind of pie or cake Persephone might have made and listening to the rise and fall of voices from inside. He felt left out. And he was bitterly envious of all those who were welcome, free to come and go at will, in Cammie's house.

He had also been envious of Keith Hutton earlier. Her husband.

The easy way Hutton had claimed her still set his teeth on edge. The idea that the man had once actually had the right to do it, yet had thrown it away, amazed him. If he had been in Keith's place, if he had ever been granted the privilege of seeing her as she bathed, holding her as she slept, burying himself in her softness whenever he chose, he thought he might kill to keep from losing it.

Reid scanned the windows of the house, and also the side door. He would check all points of entry when everyone had gone, when Cammie had turned out the lights. It was a fairly useless exercise; the old locks were no great barrier. It would take him all of fifteen seconds to get inside anytime and anyplace he chose. Still, it would make him feel better to know everything was as secure as possible.

He had considered waiting until Cammie was asleep, then taking up a post inside the house. She would never know he was there, he could see to that without any problem. From the standpoint of defense, the position would be much more effective.

Unless, of course, he might be considered one of the dangers Cammie should be protected from. Then it became a chancy tactic.

He was used to those.

He should never have gone to New Orleans. He had faced that fact and accepted it in the last two days and nights. He himself had set the parameters for what had passed between them, and Cammie had accepted and used them. Afterward, he had tried to change the rules. It had been the wrong move.

Why had he done it?

Lust? Yes. God, yes.

The need to test the undeniable physical attraction between himself and a woman who understood the drill required in order to be safe with him? That, too.

But it was also something more. The answer he had found, after considerable soul-searching, was ego. He knew how she saw him — rough-cut, without finesse — and he'd wanted to show her a different man.

He had only demonstrated that he wasn't different at all.

And he'd discovered that she didn't trust him. No matter what kind of man he was.

There was absolutely no reason for him to be dumbfounded by it. Not when he didn't trust himself.

The meeting seemed to go on forever. Reid utilized the time by taking one or two of the five-minute naps that allowed him to keep going when he was spending most of his time on guard duty. He roused as the first guest to leave let the back screen door slam behind her. Soon a general exodus was under way and the driveway began to clear.

The last to go was Mawley, the lawyer. He stood at the door for what seemed like ages, spouting some guff that required him to reach out and touch Cammie's arm now and then. Reid, who had left the gazebo and circled around to the back side of the house, stood watching from the shadows of the garage. The man was tall, with silver-black hair and a thin aristocratic face. He wore black-rimmed glasses and the easy air of a man who lives well and thinks he deserves to live better.

He looked as if he should be called Frederick instead of Fred. Reid had never been introduced to him, but he disliked him on sight.

As the conversation on the porch continued, Reid wondered if Mawley was handling Cammie's divorce. That would account for part of the long-winded discussion. It didn't account for the way the other man leaned over her or the too familiar note in his voice.

Cammie, perhaps in an effort to move the lawyer along, walked ahead of Mawley from the porch and down the steps toward his car. The lawyer still had things to say, however, and he went on about them at great length.

Cammie's voice took on the dismissive note of someone trying to break away from a conversation without being actively rude. She said something about Mawley calling her when the new will was ready, then began to edge back toward the house. The lawyer reached to catch her arm, holding her in place.

Reid's patience snapped. He pushed away from where he leaned on the corner of the garage. Whistling a little under his breath, he strolled from the shadows and across the backyard, toward the drive.

Cammie saw him over the lawyer's shoulder. Her lips parted for an instant before they snapped shut. Her face took on an ominous stillness.

“Nice night,” Reid said as he came within hearing distance.

The lawyer spun around. His expression, in the glow of the security light, was startled and none too pleased.

Cammie's voice sounded stiff as she spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“Walking,” Reid said, keeping his voice nice and easy.

“You're trespassing.”

He made no reply, but stopped at her side and stood looking expectantly at her guest.

Manners took precedence over annoyance, as he had suspected they would. She made the necessary introduction.

“Yes, of course,” Mawley said, extending his hand. “I thought I should know you. It's a pleasure to finally meet.”

Reid accepted the gesture, but concealed the sardonic humor that went with it. It would not be wise for a lawyer with ambition to be impolite to the owner of the largest industry in the parish.

The man turned back to Cammie. “I'll call you later in the week, shall I? And we can go into this further. In the meantime, do keep me posted on what you're doing.”

She agreed with firmness and without so much as a glance in Reid's direction. The lawyer got into his gray Porsche and drove away.

“You were spying on my meeting,” Cammie said, turning to him with her hands on her hips before Mawley was halfway down the drive.

Her abrupt movement and the faint night wind brought to Reid the scent of gardenias mingled with warm, clean female. The desire that welled up in him was like a blow to the solar plexus. His eyes watered with it, his every nerve and muscle clenched in spasms, and he felt the beat of his heart like a jackhammer against his ribs. He wondered, in consternation, if she could feel and smell the sudden animal-like heat of him.

“Me?” he said as innocently and naturally as he could manage. “Why would I do that?”

“You're afraid I'll throw a monkey wrench into your precious machinery, and you would like to stop me.”

He watched her for a long moment before he answered in quiet tones. “If I decide to sell the mill, Cammie, I will. What you're doing has no bearing on my decision. I don't bow to pressure.”

“We'll see about that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But you were still spying.”

He allowed his gaze to rest on her face, then wander down to the smooth curves of her breasts pushed up by her crossed arms. The inclination to tell the truth and shame the devil uncoiled and stretched, flexing its muscles inside him. Distracted by the view, he could see no reason to refrain.

He spoke on a low laugh. “I'm only surprised you just now discovered it.”

“You admit it!” She lowered her arms, her eyes widening to dark pools in the dim glow given off by the security light.

“I've spied on you for years,” he said, his voice taking on a husky undertone. “I used to watch you for hours while you played in the woods back there, wading in the creek, picking violets and catching crawfish, or swinging on the same grapevines that I had cut and left dangling. Once I lay within six feet of you for a whole afternoon while you sat on a pallet reading your book. The only thing that separated us was a patch of pine saplings, sedge grass, and brier vines, but you never knew I was there.”

The intrigued confusion and stain of color that flitted across her face did much to restore his equilibrium. The question stiff, almost reluctant, she said, “Why?”

He should have been ready for that. He wasn't. Nor, he thought, was she ready for the whole truth. He lifted a shoulder. “Why do boys that age do anything? To see if I could. To see if you would notice. You were invading my woods, my haunts; you had to be studied.”

“Your woods?”