"I can help you watch her," Seth offered. "I get home from school at three-thirty."
"Since when?" Cam wanted to know, and Seth shrugged.
"When I don't have ISS."
"Aubrey loves playing with you. I've got another hour here today," she said because she was a woman constantly forced to budget time. "So I'll make up that casserole and put it in the freezer. All you have to do is heat it up when you want it. I'll leave you a list of cleaning supplies you're low on, or I can pick them up for you if you like."
"Pick them up for us?" Cam could have knelt at her feet. "Want a raise?" She laughed and started back inside. "Seth, you see that that pup stays out of the fish guts. He'll smell for a week otherwise."
"Okay, sure. I'll be finished in a few minutes and I'll be in." He stood up, then stepped off the porch so Grace wouldn't hear him through the door. Manfully, he sized up Cam. "You're not going to start poking at her, are you?"
"Poking at her?" He was blank for a moment, then shook his head. "For God's sake." Hefting the ice chest, he started around the side of the house to the fish-cleaning table. "I've known Grace half my life, and I don't poke at every woman I see."
"Okay, then."
It was the boy's tone that made Cam run his tongue around his teeth as he set the cooler down. Possessive, proprietary, and satisfied. "So… you got your eye on her yourself, huh?" Seth colored a little, opened the drawer for the fish sealer. "I just look out for her, that's all."
"She sure is pretty," Cam said lightly and had the pleasure of seeing Seth's eyes flash with jealousy. "But as it happens I'm poking at another woman right now, and it gets sticky if you try that with more than one at a time. And this particular female is going to take a lot of convincing."
Chapter Eight
he decided to getstarted on poking at Anna. Since she was on his mind, Cam left Seth to deal with the last couple of fish on his own and wandered inside. He made appreciative noises at whatever Grace was putting together over at the stove, then wandered upstairs.
He'd have a little more privacy on the phone in his room. And Anna's business card was in his pocket. At the door to his room, he stopped and could have wept with gratitude. Since his bed was freshly made, the plain green spread professionally smoothed, the pillows plumped, he knew some of the sheets hanging out on the line were his.
Tonight he would sleep on fresh, clean sheets he hadn't even had to launder. It made the prospect of sleeping alone a little more tolerable.
The surface of his old oak dresser wasn't just dust-free. It gleamed. The bookshelves that still held most of his trophies and some of his favorite novels had been tidied, and the overstuffed chair he'd taken to using as a catchall was now empty. He hadn't a clue where she'd put his things, but he imagined he'd find them in their logical place.
He supposed he'd gotten spoiled living in hotels over the last few years, but it did his heart good to walk into his bedroom and not see a half a dozen testy little chores waiting for attention. Things where looking up, so he plopped down on the bed, stretched out, and reached for the phone.
"Anna Spinelli." Her voice was low, professionally neutral. He closed his eyes to better fantasize how she looked. He liked the idea of imagining her behind some bureaucratic desk wearing that tight little blue number she'd had on the night before.
"Miz Spinelli. How do you feel about crabs?"
"Ah…"
"Let me rephrase that." He scooted down until he was nearly flat and realized he could be asleep in five minutes without really trying. "How do you feel about eating steamed crabs?''
"I feel favorable."
"Good. How about tomorrow night?"
"Cameron—"
"Here," he specified. "At the house. The house that's never empty. Tomorrow's the first day of crab season. Ethan'll bring home a bushel. We'll cook them up. You can see how the Quinns—what would you call it?—relate, interact. See how Seth's getting along—acclimating to this particular home environment."
"That's very good."
"Hey, I've dealt with social workers before. Of course, never one who wore blue high heels, but…"
"I was off the clock," she reminded him. "However, I think dinner might be a workable idea. What time?"
"Six-thirty or thereabouts." He heard the flap of papers and found himself slightly annoyed that she was checking her calendar.
"All right, I can do that. Six-thirty."
She sounded entirely too much like a social worker making an appointment to suit him. "You alone in there?"
"In my office? Yes, at the moment. Why?"
"Just wondering. I've been wondering about you on and off all day. Why don't you let me come into town and get you tomorrow, then I could drive you home. We could stop and—I'd say climb into the backseat, but the 'Vette doesn't have one. Still, I think we could manage."
"I'm sure we could. Which is why I'll drive myself down."
"I'm going to have to get my hands on you again."
"I don't doubt that's going to happen. Eventually. In the meantime—"
"I want you."
"I know."
Because her voice had thickened and didn't sound quite so prim, he smiled. "Why don't I tell you just what I'd like to do to you? I can go step by step. You can even take notes in your little book for future reference."
"I… think we'd better postpone that. Though I may be interested in discussing it at another time. I'm afraid I have an appointment in a few minutes. I'll see you and your family tomorrow evening."
"Give me ten minutes alone with you, Anna." He whispered it. "Ten minutes to touch you."
"I—we can try for that time frame tomorrow. I have to go. Good-bye."
"'Bye." Pleased that he'd rattled her, he slid the phone back on the hook and let himself drift off into a well-deserved nap.
he was awakened justover an hour later by the slamming of the front door and Phillip's raised and furious voice.
"Home, sweet home," Cam muttered and rolled out of bed. He stumbled to the door and down the hall to the steps. He was a lousy napper, and whenever he indulged he woke up groggy, irritable, and in desperate need of coffee.
"Since when?" Cam wanted to know, and Seth shrugged.
"When I don't have ISS."
"Aubrey loves playing with you. I've got another hour here today," she said because she was a woman constantly forced to budget time. "So I'll make up that casserole and put it in the freezer. All you have to do is heat it up when you want it. I'll leave you a list of cleaning supplies you're low on, or I can pick them up for you if you like."
"Pick them up for us?" Cam could have knelt at her feet. "Want a raise?" She laughed and started back inside. "Seth, you see that that pup stays out of the fish guts. He'll smell for a week otherwise."
"Okay, sure. I'll be finished in a few minutes and I'll be in." He stood up, then stepped off the porch so Grace wouldn't hear him through the door. Manfully, he sized up Cam. "You're not going to start poking at her, are you?"
"Poking at her?" He was blank for a moment, then shook his head. "For God's sake." Hefting the ice chest, he started around the side of the house to the fish-cleaning table. "I've known Grace half my life, and I don't poke at every woman I see."
"Okay, then."
It was the boy's tone that made Cam run his tongue around his teeth as he set the cooler down. Possessive, proprietary, and satisfied. "So… you got your eye on her yourself, huh?" Seth colored a little, opened the drawer for the fish sealer. "I just look out for her, that's all."
"She sure is pretty," Cam said lightly and had the pleasure of seeing Seth's eyes flash with jealousy. "But as it happens I'm poking at another woman right now, and it gets sticky if you try that with more than one at a time. And this particular female is going to take a lot of convincing."
Chapter Eight
he decided to getstarted on poking at Anna. Since she was on his mind, Cam left Seth to deal with the last couple of fish on his own and wandered inside. He made appreciative noises at whatever Grace was putting together over at the stove, then wandered upstairs.
He'd have a little more privacy on the phone in his room. And Anna's business card was in his pocket. At the door to his room, he stopped and could have wept with gratitude. Since his bed was freshly made, the plain green spread professionally smoothed, the pillows plumped, he knew some of the sheets hanging out on the line were his.
Tonight he would sleep on fresh, clean sheets he hadn't even had to launder. It made the prospect of sleeping alone a little more tolerable.
The surface of his old oak dresser wasn't just dust-free. It gleamed. The bookshelves that still held most of his trophies and some of his favorite novels had been tidied, and the overstuffed chair he'd taken to using as a catchall was now empty. He hadn't a clue where she'd put his things, but he imagined he'd find them in their logical place.
He supposed he'd gotten spoiled living in hotels over the last few years, but it did his heart good to walk into his bedroom and not see a half a dozen testy little chores waiting for attention. Things where looking up, so he plopped down on the bed, stretched out, and reached for the phone.
"Anna Spinelli." Her voice was low, professionally neutral. He closed his eyes to better fantasize how she looked. He liked the idea of imagining her behind some bureaucratic desk wearing that tight little blue number she'd had on the night before.
"Miz Spinelli. How do you feel about crabs?"
"Ah…"
"Let me rephrase that." He scooted down until he was nearly flat and realized he could be asleep in five minutes without really trying. "How do you feel about eating steamed crabs?''
"I feel favorable."
"Good. How about tomorrow night?"
"Cameron—"
"Here," he specified. "At the house. The house that's never empty. Tomorrow's the first day of crab season. Ethan'll bring home a bushel. We'll cook them up. You can see how the Quinns—what would you call it?—relate, interact. See how Seth's getting along—acclimating to this particular home environment."
"That's very good."
"Hey, I've dealt with social workers before. Of course, never one who wore blue high heels, but…"
"I was off the clock," she reminded him. "However, I think dinner might be a workable idea. What time?"
"Six-thirty or thereabouts." He heard the flap of papers and found himself slightly annoyed that she was checking her calendar.
"All right, I can do that. Six-thirty."
She sounded entirely too much like a social worker making an appointment to suit him. "You alone in there?"
"In my office? Yes, at the moment. Why?"
"Just wondering. I've been wondering about you on and off all day. Why don't you let me come into town and get you tomorrow, then I could drive you home. We could stop and—I'd say climb into the backseat, but the 'Vette doesn't have one. Still, I think we could manage."
"I'm sure we could. Which is why I'll drive myself down."
"I'm going to have to get my hands on you again."
"I don't doubt that's going to happen. Eventually. In the meantime—"
"I want you."
"I know."
Because her voice had thickened and didn't sound quite so prim, he smiled. "Why don't I tell you just what I'd like to do to you? I can go step by step. You can even take notes in your little book for future reference."
"I… think we'd better postpone that. Though I may be interested in discussing it at another time. I'm afraid I have an appointment in a few minutes. I'll see you and your family tomorrow evening."
"Give me ten minutes alone with you, Anna." He whispered it. "Ten minutes to touch you."
"I—we can try for that time frame tomorrow. I have to go. Good-bye."
"'Bye." Pleased that he'd rattled her, he slid the phone back on the hook and let himself drift off into a well-deserved nap.
he was awakened justover an hour later by the slamming of the front door and Phillip's raised and furious voice.
"Home, sweet home," Cam muttered and rolled out of bed. He stumbled to the door and down the hall to the steps. He was a lousy napper, and whenever he indulged he woke up groggy, irritable, and in desperate need of coffee.
