Wolfe Wedding. Joan Hohl
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would need a thorough cleaning.
Barbara had not been overstating the case. Even with her quick initial perusal of the place, Sandra had noted the layer of dust that coated every flat surface, lamp, appliance and knickknack. not to mention the tile and fixtures in the bathroom.
It was immediately obvious that neither Barbara nor her daughter was very neat or very much inclined toward cleaning up after themselves. Fortunately, that was not reflected in their professional work or their workplace.
But at the time of her employer’s offer, delighted with the idea of having the use of the isolated retreat, Sandra had shrugged and readily agreed to doing the necessary work involved.
Still, being willing to do the housekeeping chores and actually doing the work were two entirely different things, especially when one was not, either by nature or by training, particularly domesticated.
Sandra heaved another sigh as she began removing her clothes from the case. She did not do housework. With the jam-packed client schedule she carried—or had been carrying up until nowshe didn’t have time to do housework, even if she was so inclined. She paid a hefty amount to a professional service to do for her.
But the cleaning service was in Denver, and she was here, in this isolated cabin. So, Ms. Professional, she told herself, systematically stowing her things in dresser drawers and closets, you’d be well advised to get your act together and get it done.
Sandra was nearly undone herself when she pulled open the narrow drawer in the bedside nightstand. As small as it was, the gun inside the drawer looked lethal—which, of course, it was.
Naturally, she had known it was there. Barbara had told her it was there. Still.
Sandra hated guns. She knew how to handle them, how to use them properly, simply because the use of them had been included in a self-defense class she took while in college. Even so, she hated them.
Shuddering, she slipped the paperback novels she’d brought with her into the drawer, shoving the weapon, and the accompanying box of cartridges, to the back, out of sight. Then, firmly erasing the ugly thing from her thoughts, she turned to begin working on the bed.
Did she want Cameron to think she was a slob?
“Your man flew out of Denver in a private plane at 6:35 this morning.”
“Heading where?” Cameron asked tersely into the phone. He slanted a glance at his watch. It read 6:51; his operative was right on top of his assignment, as he had fully expected him to be.
“Chicago.”
Cameron breathed a sigh of relief; if Whitfield was off to Chicago, on business or whatever, he couldn’t very well be harassing Sandra.
“Thanks, Steve,” he said. “Who will take over surveillance there?”
“Jibs.”
“Okay. I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks, but I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be here.” Steve hesitated, then asked, “You going on assignment or vacation?”
“Vacation.”
Steve let out an exaggerated groan. “I should be so lucky. Enjoy.”
A slow smile played over Cameron’s lips as an image of Sandra filled his mind.
“Oh, I intend to,” he said, anticipation simmering within him. “Every minute.”
After cradling the receiver, he shot another look at his watch. It read 6:59. He had another call to make, back East, but it was still too early.
Turning away from the kitchen wall phone, Cameron poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, then headed for the bedroom. He also still had some packing to finish, the last-minute things he had left for this morning. Sipping the hot brew, he sauntered into his bedroom.
Pack first, call later.
The job of finishing up the packing required all of thirteen and a half minutes—Cameron was nothing if not both neat and efficient.
In addition to being a supremely competent and confident law-enforcement agent, recognized as one of the best operatives in the field, he was a proficient cook and did his own laundry.
Cameron was firmly convinced that his talents when it came to law enforcement were in his genes—although he was the first to credit his father for his early training along those lines.
But his domestic talents were definitely attributable to the concentrated efforts of his indomitable mother. From day one, son one, Maddy Wolfe had stoutly maintained that any idiot could learn to pick up after himself, and that included each one of her sons.
Having lived a bachelor existence from the day he left home for college, at age eighteen, Cameron had numerous times given fervent, if silent, thanks to his mother for her persistence.
He had spent more than a few day-off mornings on his knees, scrubbing the kitchen or bathroom floor of whatever apartment he happened to be living in at the time.
Though this was one of his days off, both his kitchen and bathroom floors were spotlessly clean, as was everything in his current apartment, thanks to the professional housekeeper he now paid to do the chore.
He shot yet another quick look at his watch; all of five minutes had elapsed since his last look. What to do? He had made his bed over an hour ago and, except for washing up the few dishes he had used for breakfast, there was really nothing left to do.
So, wash the dishes.
Draining the swallow of coffee remaining in the cup, Cameron left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, with the dishes done and put away, and finding himself wiping the countertop for the third time, he literally threw in the sponge, or in this case the abused dishcloth.
Impatience crawled through him. He fairly itched to go, from the apartment, out of the city, into the foothills, in a beeline to Sandra.
Although he had committed them to memory, he dug from his pocket the piece of paper on which he had jotted Sandra’s directions to the cabin. A piece of cake, he decided, tossing the scrap of paper on the sparkling clean table.
Now what? Cameron heaved a sigh and sliced a glaring glance from the clock to the phone.
The hell with it. Early or not, he was placing the call.
Maddy answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Good morning, beautiful,” Cameron said smoothly, heaving another silent sigh of relief at the wide-awake sound of his mother’s voice. “How are you on this bright spring morning?”
“It’s storming here, but I’m fine, just the same,” she returned dryly. “How are you?”
“As usual,” he answered—as usual. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Wake me?” Maddy laughed; it was a rich, deep sound that he had always loved. “I’ve been up for hours. But you did catch me in the middle of mixing pie crust.”
“Pie crust.” Cameron mentally licked his lips;
Maddy did make tasty pies. “For shoofly?” Shoofly pie was his all-time favorite.
She laughed again—a mother’s laugh. “No. Not today. I’m making lemon meringue.” She chuckled again, and this time the sound was different, loaded with amusement and self-satisfaction.
Cameron frowned. What was she up to? He knew full well that lemon meringue was his brother Eric’s all-time favorite. But why should that amuse his mother?
“Eric coming for dinner?”
“Not today. Tomorrow,” she said, and now her voice was rife with an alerting. something.
“Okay, Mom, I give up,” he said, his curiosity thoroughly aroused, as he knew she had deliberately set out to