Something About You (12 page)

SIX MINUTES LATER,having raced through the city at vastly illegal speeds only a skilled driver and badge-carrying FBI agent could pull off without fear of death or being arrested, Jack pulled up at the One Magnificent Mile building. He left his Triumph parked out front and flashed his badge to the lobby security guard in order to avoid being towed. After a quick sprint up the escalator, he entered the marble foyer of Spiaggia restaurant.

The maître d’ came around the corner, looking harried. “Sorry—I hope you haven’t been waiting long. A busier crowd tonight than we had anticipated. Can I help you?” While he caught his breath, he took notice of Jack’s jeans and eyed them skeptically.

Jack still had his badge in his hand. “Jack Pallas, FBI. I’m looking for one of your guests, Cameron Lynde. Dark-haired woman, early thirties, about five-three.”

The maître d’ studied his badge. “Andy told me I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. And he specifically said I’m supposed to call him if anyone asks for it tonight.”

At least CPD got that right. “I’ll tell you what—you call him, and while you’re doing that, I’m going to have a look around.” Without further delay, Jack entered the main dining room and quickly surveyed his surroundings. The restaurant spanned two levels: the primary dining area, and a lower level where tables were flanked by impressive floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite the ornate chandeliers above, the lighting in the restaurant was low—presumably to enhance the views of the city and Lake Michigan—and it took him a few moments to scan through the guests on the first level. Not seeing Cameron, he headed to the balcony railing and looked for her at one of the tables below. He spotted her at the second table from the left, sitting next to the window. Alone.

For a moment, he had to pause and just . . . look. Because the view he had from the balcony was stunning.

And he wasn’t referring to the lake.

The soft candlelight on the table picked up the gold highlights in her long chestnut brown hair. She wore a sleeveless black dress that showed off every curve of what Jack supposed he would have to acknowledge was an incredible body.

She sat at the table, looking out the window next to her. He watched as she took a sip from the wineglass she held. She looked subdued. She checked her watch, then crossed one leg over the other, revealing a slit in the dress at her thigh.

Only one wine menu on the table, Jack noted. It didn’t take a special agent to figure out what had happened. Not that he cared or anything, but the infamous Max was kind of a dumbass to leave a girl like that sitting alone in a restaurant.

His cell phone vibrated in the pocket of his blazer. Jack pulled it out and saw it was Wilkins.

“I just talked to the cop at the restaurant. Name’s Andy Zuckerman. He’s telling me that Cameron is fine,” Wilkins said.

“I’ve got a visual,” Jack confirmed. “She seems okay. I’ll find out what the problem is with her phone and get back to you.”

He hung up and made his way over to her table.

Ten

CAMERON CHECKED HER watch, wondering what the statute of limitations was before a woman—clearly dressed for a date—sitting alone at a table in one of the most romantic restaurants in the city began to look wholly pathetic.

She would finish her glass of wine, she told herself. She’d treated herself to a 2006 Stags’ Leap petite syrah, unwilling to let the evening be a total waste.

Max had stood her up.

Technically, she supposed, he hadn’t actually stood her up, because he’d texted her—oh yes, a text message, as if he didn’t have a moment to spare for a phone call—to let her know that he was stuck in a meeting with a client and wouldn’t be able to make it. A lot of help that had been, seeing how she’d already arrived at the restaurant and been seated at the time he sent his message. She’d ordered a drink when the waiter came by her table, hoping to pull off some sort of chic, nonchalant, “Oh no, just one tonight—after a hard day of work, I often unwind alone in five-star restaurants with a richly aromatic Rhone varietal” type vibe. Given the slit in her dress and her knock-out high heels (if she did say so herself), she doubted anyone, including the waiter, was fooled.

When she hadn’t immediately answered Max’s text message, wanting to calm down first, he’d sent her another message asking when they could reschedule their date. Again. In response, she’d sent a message saying that she would check her calendar for the month of Probably Never, Buddy and get back to him. Then, thinking Max might have a thing or two to text in response to that, she’d turned down the ringer on her phone, not wanting to disturb the other restaurant guests with further incoming message beeps. Frankly, at that point, she didn’t want Max bothering her, either.

As Cameron finished her wine, she looked out the window, taking in the view of the lake and reflecting upon those things a single woman in her thirties tended to think about when sitting alone in a restaurant. Her best friend was getting married, and she had no one to take to the wedding. No one to share the moment with, other than Collin, but that was different. It wasn’t the biggest deal, she knew—particularly with the much more serious issues she’d faced lately—but she certainly wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss if Fate wanted to throw her a bone or two in the man department.

“What happened to Max?”

Surprised to hear the voice, Cameron looked over and saw Jack standing at her table.

Fate was so clearly mocking her.

Cameron frowned. “What are you doing here?” Perfect. Just the man she wanted to run into right then.

“You haven’t been answering your phone. Are you having problems with it?” Jack looked displeased. Big surprise there.

“It seems to be working fine.” Cameron reached into her purse and pulled it out to check. She realized what she’d done. “Oh . . . I turned the ringer down. I must not have heard the calls over the noise of the restaurant.” She peered up at him. “Were you trying to call me? Is something wrong?”

“Collin called. He couldn’t reach you, got nervous, and called me. Then we couldn’t reach you or get through to the restaurant, so here I am,” Jack said.

Cameron ran her hands through her hair, feeling very tired. It had been a long day—she’d gone one round with her opposing counsel in court, another round with Silas, and then had been ditched by her date. From the look on Jack’s face, he was gearing up for another sparring match and she wasn’t sure she had it in her right then.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking when I turned down my phone. I apologize that you had to run all the way over here for nothing. Glower at me all you want—you’ve earned it this time.”

Jack took a seat in the chair across from her.

“That being said,” Cameron continued, “I would like to point out that Officer Zuckerman has been over there at the bar, watching me all night, so it’s not as though I had any reason to believe I was in danger. And I’d also like to state, for the record, that there was never any discussion about me keeping my cell phone on at all times. If that was something you expected as part of this surveillance, you should have stated it clearly up front to avoid exactly this type of scenario.”

Okay, so maybe she had just a tiny bit left for one last round.

Jack rested his arms on the table. “That has to be the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve had a chance to think things through. Seeing how I was only about thirty percent at fault here, you get thirty percent of an apology.”

“I see.”

Cameron waited for him to say something further. “That’s it? I expected there to be a lot more. You know, with the growling and scowling.”

“I could add a few curse words to that, if you like.”

Cameron checked her grin just in time. “Not necessary, but thanks for the offer.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each one studying the other warily.

“So you never said what happened to your date,” Jack led in.

“He had a last-minute conflict with work. For the third time in three weeks.” Cameron had no idea why she’d added that last piece of information.

Jack’s dark eyes studied her. “I hope you had better luck picking out shoes that day.”

He never ceased to amaze her. “How do you know how I met Max?” Cameron asked.

“Kamin and Phelps are a wealth of information. They seem to be having a blast being assigned to your detail.”

“Shockingly, some people actually find me charming.”

“I once found you charming, too,” Jack said quietly.

It was as though the proverbial record had skipped to a stop, silencing the room.

For the last week, she and Jack had danced around this very issue, never actually discussing the past. But now that he had launched the first salvo, she could either retreat or face him head-on. And she wasn’t a retreating kind of girl.

“The feeling was once mutual.”

Jack mulled this over for a moment. “Now that we’re working together, maybe we should talk about what happened three years ago.”

Cameron took a sip of her wine, trying to look casual. She chose her words carefully. “I don’t think there’s anything that could be said that would do us any good.”

Jack surprised her with his response. “I was wrong to say those things to that reporter. I knew it right after I said it. That was . . . a rough time for me. I was going to apologize to you. Of course, I never got the chance.”

It was as she’d expected. He blamed her for his transfer, never realizing how close he’d come to being dismissed from the FBI. Part of her was tempted to tell him the truth and just get it all out there. But he was so angry with her about the Martino case—about everything—that she didn’t know how he’d react. Logically, there was no good reason why she should trust Jack. So she continued dodging the issue. “I appreciate your apology,” she said matter-of-factly, hoping that would end the conversation.

His face hardened. “That’s it?”

“There’s not much more I can say about what happened back then.” Without taking a risk that the information would get back to Silas.

“You can tell me why you did it. I know you were pissed off about the things I said, but did the sight of me really offend you so much that you needed to have me thrown out of the entire city?”

Cameron knew it was time to end this conversation. “This isn’t a good idea, us talking about this.”

Jack leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering in the soft light coming off the candles in the center of the table. “I saw you come out of Davis’s office that morning, Cameron.”

Anger got the better of her. She leaned in, meeting him halfway. “You saw what you wanted to see,” she snapped.

Cameron saw surprise register on Jack’s face and knew she had said too much. “Dammit, Jack. Just let it go.” She stood up from the table and walked away, not daring to utter another word.

Eleven

WHILE WAITING IN the lobby, Cameron slipped on her jacket and tied the belt around her waist. It was a warm night for October in Chicago, but given that it was nevertheless still October in Chicago, the concept of “warm” when wearing a sleeveless dress was relative.

“I can take it from here, officer. Thank you.”

At the sound of Jack’s voice, both Cameron and the police officer Slonsky had substituted for Kamin and Phelps turned. She watched as Jack strode down the escalator.

“Thank you, Agent Pallas, but there’s no need,” she replied coolly. “I’ll stick with Officer Zuckerman until Kamin and Phelps arrive.”

Jack ignored her and showed his badge to Zuckerman. “Jack Pallas. You spoke with my partner on the phone a few minutes ago, so you’re aware that the FBI has jurisdiction over the investigation Ms. Lynde is involved in. I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

Cameron watched as Officer Zuckerman nodded and wished her a good night. After he left, she glared at Jack. “Why did you do that?”

“Because we’re not finished with our conversation.”

“Believe me, we’re finished.”

He shook his head. “No.” He moved toward her, close enough that Cameron had to tilt her head back to look at him.

“What did you mean, when you said that I saw what I wanted to see that morning?” He studied her face, searching for answers. “What else should I have seen?”

Cameron held her ground. “If this is some kind of interrogation technique, it’s not working.”

“I’m awfully good at this when I need to be, you know.”

“How fortunate then that I don’t plan for us to do a lot of talking.”

“Maybe you’ll warm up to the idea on the way home.”

It took Cameron a second to catch that. “I’m not going home with you.”

Jack nodded. “I already called Kamin and Phelps and told them to meet us at your house.”

“Why?”

“I told you, we’re not finished with our conversation.” He smiled slightly. “What’s wrong? Don’t trust yourself around me?”

Cameron raised an eyebrow. Hardly. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Where’s your car?”

“Parked on the street in front of my apartment.” He pointed behind her. “We’re taking that.”

Cameron turned and saw a motorcycle parked in front of the building. She was no expert on motorcycles—far from it—so later when Collin interrupted her at this point as she recounted the details of the evening to ask her five thousand damn questions about what kind of motorcycle Jack drove, the best she could tell him was that, no, it wasn’t a Harley, and no, it wasn’t one of those crotch-rocket sport bikes either.

It was silver and black, and it was definitely a bad-boy bike, she decided as she looked it over. But bad-boy in a refined, understated sort of way. It suited Jack well.

But still. It was a motorcycle.

“I’m not getting on that,” she told him.

“Never been on a bike before?” he guessed.

“Ah, no. Not my thing.”

“How do you know they’re not your thing if you’ve never been on one?”

“For starters, they’re dangerous.”

“Not in the right hands.” Jack walked over to the motorcycle and climbed on.

Cameron had a retort ready, but it died on her lips. Holy shit, he looked ridiculously hot on the bike.

Jack nodded. “Come on—let’s go.”

She walked over. “How am I supposed to ride that thing in a dress?”

He didn’t so much as blink. “That slit at your thigh should do the trick.”

So.

He’d noticed the slit of her dress.

Cameron hiked up her dress and climbed on, showing a lot of leg in the process. Oops. She adjusted her jacket to cover up, wondering how much Jack had seen. From the look on his face when she glanced up, he’d seen plenty.

“Oh yeah—the dress works just fine,” he said with a warmer gleam in his eyes than she was used to seeing.

Cameron looped her purse around her wrist and settled it into her lap. She searched around the seat for her handles. “What do I hold on to?”

“Me.”

How convenient. “Maybe I should just stick with Phelps and Kamin,” she said nervously.

“Too late to back out now.” Jack reached around her and pulled a helmet off the back of the seat. “You never know, maybe you’ll surprise yourself and actually like it.” He handed her the helmet. “Put this on.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll get by.”

At least it would make him drive more carefully. Or so she hoped. She slid the helmet over her head as Jack fired up the engine with a loud roar. Without thinking, she grabbed his waist and slid closer to get a better grip.

Before they took off—since these could very possibly be her last words—she flipped up the helmet visor and leaned forward to speak over the bike’s engine. “Don’t do anything crazy. I’m the maid of honor in my friend Amy’s wedding, and she’ll kill me if I have to be wheeled down the aisle in a body cast. Plus I got these new four-inch heels just for the occasion and they will not go well with crutches.”

She flipped the visor down.

Jack spun around in his seat and flipped the visor back open. “Don’t worry—since it’s your first time, I’ll be extra gentle.” With a wink, he flipped the visor shut.

She flipped the visor back open. “Nice innuendo. Am I supposed to be charmed by—”

Jack reached around and cut her off by flipping the visor shut again. “Sorry, no more talking, it distracts the driver.”

From behind the helmet, Cameron clamped her mouth in frustration. If he killed them both on the stupid bike, it was really going to piss her off that she didn’t at least get the last word in.

But as they drove away from the building, her fear of motorcycles quickly surpassed her annoyance with Jack. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. They drove down Michigan Avenue for less than half a block before pulling to a stop at the light that would take them onto Lake Shore Drive. Through the helmet visor, she watched as the light for the cross street turned yellow, then red, and she closed her eyes as their signal turned green and they took off at a breathtaking speed.

When she opened her eyes, they were shooting through the Oak Street underpass, then suddenly they were up and out in the open air with nothing but the wide expanse of Lake Michigan on their right. The formidable waves of the lake crashed against the breakers and, unable to help herself, Cameron glanced over her shoulder at her favorite view of the city: the Hancock building and the other sky-scrapers rising majestically next to the lake along with the twinkling lights of the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. Every bitterly cold February when she asked herself why she lived in Chicago, this view was the answer.

She turned around and pulled closer to Jack as they raced along the drive past Lincoln Park Zoo and the harbor. The air was brisk, but she had her jacket and he blocked most of the wind. And as much as she hated to admit it, the ride was . . . exhilarating. Her adrenaline was flowing, and several minutes later when they slowed to exit off Lake Shore at Belmont Harbor, she flipped open the visor of the helmet.

“Take the long way,” she said breathlessly in Jack’s ear.

It was hard to tell over the motorcycle engine, but she was almost certain she heard him chuckle. When they slowed down, she relaxed and loosened her grip around his waist. Without thinking, her right hand just sort of happened to graze along his stomach, and she felt his abdominal muscles tighten in response, firm and hard as a rock.

And that was pretty much the moment she started thinking about sex.

In her defense, to start things out, he was the hottest man she’d ever laid eyes on—and now her hands, too—and it certainly didn’t help that she was straddling him between her legs. As they drove, nice and slow along the side streets, Cameron tried to pull her mind out of the gutter. But then they stopped at an intersection and she noticed how Jack’s hands worked the handlebar/clutch thingy as he revved the engine—almost like a caress—and she began imagining other things his hands could caress, strong hands that could lift her up, hold her down, flip her over, pin her against a wall . . . and she realized then that her mind was already so far down in the gutter she’d need an extension ladder to get it out so she might as well just give in to the whole darn fantasy.

They were just getting to the good part in her head—in her mind she had revised the scene from the other day when Jack and Wilkins came by to tell her about the surveillance, only this time it was only her and Jack (no clue how he actually got inside her house, useless details) and this time she had just stepped out of the shower (with perfect makeup and hair, of course) and he was waiting in her bedroom (an act that would be stalker-ish in real life but was necessary to advance the storyline) and he said some sly bit about was she going to be a cooperative witness and she said something equally sly back (she hadn’t come up with the exact line yet but at this point the dialogue became superfluous) and then she dropped her towel to the floor and walked over and without saying anything else they tumbled onto the bed and—

Pulled in front of her house.

The motorcycle came to a stop, and Cameron blinked as she came back to reality. She sat there, needing a moment to regroup, trying to focus on the fact that the man she was with was Jack Pallas, who had only meant trouble for her in their brief, but bad, history together.

Noticing that she hadn’t moved, he turned around and flipped open the visor of her helmet.

“You okay in there?”

Cameron snapped out of it. “Sure—I’m fine.” She pulled off the helmet, handed it over to him, and even managed a nonchalant look. Or so she thought.

Jack looked at her closely. “Are you blushing?”

Cameron shrugged. “I don’t think so. Maybe there’s a little color on my cheeks from the wind.”

“You were wearing a helmet.”

Right.

Time to go.

She climbed off the bike as quickly as she could in her dress and heels. Jack had parked the motorcycle next to the curb, and the added inches made it easier for her to get down. With an efficient nod, she said her good-bye. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.” She turned and headed toward her front gate.

“Hold on—I need to check out your house.”

She stopped, having forgotten about that. “Well, let’s hurry up, then,” she said over her shoulder. She got to the gate and reached for the handle when his hand came down over hers.

“Anxious to get rid of me, are you?” he asked.

Cameron turned around. “Yes.”

Jack paused, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected. He took a step toward her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Uh-oh . . . trouble.

She tried to play it off. “Like what?” She opened the gate and backed toward the front steps.

Jack continued to advance on her. “Like that.”

Cameron put her hand on the stone ledge and slowly climbed up the stairs. “You’re imagining things.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“I must’ve gotten worked up from my first motorcycle ride,” she lied. And possibly from thinking about riding something else, too.

Shameless.

Jack clenched his jaw. “Christ, Cameron.” As he backed her toward the door, his expression was part angry, part . . . wow—something else entirely. “What the hell am I supposed to do when you look at me like that?”

“Ignore it. Stay focused on the fact that you hate me.”

“I’m trying. I’m really trying here.”

He had her trapped against the door. Cameron wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart, it was beating so fast.

Jack put his hand on her hip. Such a simple touch, but Cameron’s breath caught nevertheless. With her back pressed against the door, the only movement of her body came from her chest, her breathing short and quick in anticipation.

Jack’s gaze fell on her parted lips. He slid his other hand to her nape and tilted her head, pinning her with dark eyes so hot she felt the burn in her stomach.

She knew she could push him away if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to.

His gaze softened. “Cameron,” he said huskily, and she felt as though she melted right there. Knowing what he was about to do, she closed her eyes and felt his lips brush lightly against hers right before he—

Stopped.

Blinking in confusion, Cameron watched as Jack pulled back.

“We’ve got company,” he said in a thick voice.

She looked over his shoulder and saw a familiar unmarked car parked on the street in front of her house. Phelps and Kamin.

“When did they get here?” she asked.

“Just now. I heard the car pull up.” Jack gestured to her door. “Do you have your keys?”

She nodded, trying to clear her head. “In my purse.” She pulled the keys out and unlocked the door.

Jack moved past her and stepped inside. “Stay in the doorway, where Kamin and Phelps can see you.” Then he went to search her house.

Cameron stood there and waited, trying to process what had happened between her and Jack. Her mind was quickly coming to terms with the fact that she’d almost just made a very big mistake, although her body seemed not as willing to accept this as fact.

Get a grip, she told herself as Jack came down the stairs from the second floor.