Another Side Of Midnight - Mia Zachary Mills & Boon Silhouette

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to it.”

      I made a note to do an asset search anyway and look for rental properties. “What about his work schedule?”

      “He usually takes the noon-to-eight. But one of the other managers has been sick recently, so Gray’s working some graveyard shifts. I’m not sure of his schedule this week, but I’ll find out for you.”

      “That would be great.” I scribbled more notes as she told me about his routine and habits. “Okay, tell me about any hobbies.”

      She shifted, recrossing her legs. “Gray’s been spending a lot more time on his golf game lately. He plays eighteen holes on his days off. We’ve got several memberships. Aliante Golf Club, of course, but also Spanish Trail and Red Rock.”

      Uh-huh. The Canyon Gate Country Club property, where the Cavanaughs lived, was home to a championship private course. I was back to thinking how much I hate domestic cases.

      Then Maria pulled a thick envelope out of her purse. “This should cover the first week of your time.”

      I ran a thumb over the bundle of fifty-dollar bills before shaking hands with my newest client.

      It’s like Gloria always used to say—as long as there are sins and cynics, I’ll have a job.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      No Easy Answers

      ONCE MARIA LEFT, I stripped off my blazer and turned my shirt back around. Then I walked out to the reception area and handed Jon the contract and a copy of Maria’s cash receipt. “Start a new file, please.”

      He sets up manila folders with hard copies as well as entering data into the case management program. If I can look something up for myself, it leaves him more time to write his romance novel. Jon glanced at the receipt.

      “She paid in advance?”

      “That’s just the retainer.” I grinned as I handed him the envelope. “Drop this at the bank before you go to lunch.”

      He rifled the thousand dollars the same way I had. Then he cocked his head to one side and wiggled his brows. “I’m taking ninety minutes for lunch. And I’m ordering the lobster salad from El Pescador.”

      As many times as we’ve played it, neither of us seems to tire of this routine. “You’re taking an hour for lunch, pal. And you’re paying for your own lobster.”

      “It’s only thirty minutes, Steele. You can unshackle me from my desk for that long.”

      “Nope. We’ve got bills to send out.”

      He gave me a sly look from under his dark lashes. “I’ll bring you back some Tandoori chicken from Shalimar.”

      Ooh. He was playing hardball. Growing up in a restaurant made me pickier than most when it comes to quality, well-prepared food, and Shalimar was named best ethnic food in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I relented on the ninety-minute lunch, just like he knew I would. Say what you will, but the man knows how to stay on my good side.

      Alone again, I called up a blank document on my laptop and started typing up my impressions for the Gray Cavanaugh file.

      Kept husband? Got his house, his car and his cash from the wife, got his job from the father-in-law. Maybe he married for love, maybe not. Probably cheating just to prove he’s a real man.

      Follow-up for work and golf schedules. Check background (basics should be enough), credit statements (past three months) and cell phone bill (frequent numbers and times of calls).

      A few minutes later, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. Yawning, I waited impatiently for the water to gurgle and blurp out of the ten-gallon jug and into my oversized plastic cup. I’m not trying to be trendy. Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in North America, which puts a lot of demand on the desert environment.

      All the golf courses around here don’t help.

      I do my part by only drinking the bottled stuff. It’s imported from some natural spring in Pennsylvania. I guess you’d say I’m a closet environmentalist, saving the world one cup at a time. Then again, I never remember to separate the trash on recycling day.

      As I walked back toward my office, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck. The air seemed oddly still. I was no longer alone. Remembering this morning’s dream and the subsequent phone call, my heart hiccupped in my chest. There was a phone in my office. My nine-millimeter was stashed in my desk drawer. The emergency exit was through the storeroom. Which would be quicker?

      My fight-or-flight instinct froze with indecision. Shit. All three choices were too slow and it was too late to hide my reaction. Nothing to do now but fight. Whipping around, I saw a hulking silhouette. His features were hidden by the glare through the front windows. I tensed as he came closer, bracing for whatever happened.

      His presence was somehow primal, unnerving. And familiar. It ought to be, as often as I’d studied his digital photo.

      I released the breath I’d been holding. Flinging out my left arm, I aimed the full cup of water at his face.

      “Hey! It’s—”

      I put everything I had into the punch that followed. When my right fist connected with his chin, I felt equal parts satisfaction and pain.

      “It’s me, damn it!”

      I bent over to grab my cup with a shaking hand as the adrenaline slowly filtered out of my system. “I knew who it was.”

      It’s not like I could have forgotten him. A guy doesn’t walk into your life, turn it upside down and then disappear without leaving an impression. I thought I’d gotten past it. If not forgotten, at least moved on. I was wrong.

      Okay, maybe it hadn’t been the first time I’d gone to bed with a guy and woken up by myself. But it had been the first time I’d cared.

      After the nuclear meltdown that had been Bobby Mattingly, I hadn’t dated much. Two years passed before I accepted a dinner invitation. Another year before I had sex again. I’d slept with a couple of guys since but hadn’t let it get serious. Then I’d met Cameron and lightning struck.

      So I figured I could be forgiven for expecting more than his morning-after note. S, You’re amazing. I’m sorry for this. Something’s come up and I have to leave immediately. I’ll call when I can. C. He hadn’t bothered to come up with an original kiss-off line. Obviously, I hadn’t been that amazing.

      After wiping a hand over his face, Cameron raked back his wet hair. “I guess you’re surprised to see me, eh, love?”

      I flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’d be more than happy to hit you again.”

      Not exactly true. He had a cast-iron jaw and my hand already hurt like hell. It had been worth it. I hadn’t heard a word from him in two months, two weeks and four days. But who the hell was counting, right? Why be “surprised” about that?

      What really ticked me off was my other reaction, which was purely physical. His damp black T-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and chest. Faded blue jeans skimmed over what I knew to be long, muscular legs. And I’m a sucker for long, muscular legs. He moved toward me and I had to fight my natural reaction—internal combustion in the face of an alpha male.

      Cameron Stone is a lion of a man—six foot three or four, golden and gorgeous. In a word? Dangerous.

      “Are you having a go at me because you lost the last fight?” He reached toward the tender skin beneath my eye.

      I ducked his hand and crossed my arms, tapping a finger against the cup. “No, I’m picking a fight with you because your note wasn’t exactly the Valentine I’d hoped for. While I appreciated breakfast, Stone, I would have appreciated an explanation more.”

      “Stella, love—”

      “Don’t call me that.”

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