Wolfe Wedding

“Okay,” he went on, “when are you planning to leave for the mountains?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Sandra answered, readily enough, while fixing him with a probing stare. “Why?”

Here goes.

Cameron grabbed a quick breath.

“Want some company?”

His soft query was met by stillness. The room was still. The air was still. Sandra was the most still of all. for about ten seconds. Then she blinked, and frowned, and blurted out a choked laugh.

“You?” She stared at him in patent disbelief. “The legendary Lone Wolfe?”

“Me,” he admitted. “And can the Lone Wolfe bull.”

“Are you serious?” Her velvety voice had grown a little ragged around the edges.

“Quite serious,” he assured her, tamping down the urge to elaborate.

“But.” She shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind, and gave another abortive laugh. “Why?”

Cameron arched a brow in chiding. “A little R and R. Fun and games. Unadulterated pleasure.”

“In other words,” she murmured, the ragged edges in her velvety voice smoothed out, “Sex, sex, and more sex?”

“A sensual sabbatical.” Even he could hear the enticement in his soft voice. “If you will.”

Two

She would!

Sandra stood beside her bed, a bemused smile curving her lips, a filmy flame red nightgown dangling from her nerveless fingertips.

Had she actually agreed to Cameron’s outrageous proposal to have him stay with her in Barbara’s cabin? she asked herself for perhaps the hundredth time since leaving his office a few hours ago.

In a shot!

Some folks might have accused Sandra of being aloof, but no astute person had ever accused her of being stupid—and she wasn’t about to start now.

Her smile evolved into a soft, excited laugh.

It was spring. And how did the old saying go? In the spring, a young man’s fancy, and all that. Well, didn’t the same apply to young women, as well?

An anticipatory thrill moved through her. The filmy gown undulated through her fingers, bringing awareness of the sexy garment. Laughter again tickled the back of her throat. Contemplating the possible—hopeful?—ranifications of wearing the revealing scrap of nothing for him, she folded the nightie and tucked it into the suitcase lying open on her bed.

Imagine, she mused, the legendary Lone Wolfe expressing a desire to spend time in seclusion for an unspecified time. with her!

Wild.

How long had she been secretly lusting for the oh-so-cool-and-self-contained Cameron Wolfe?

Sandra laughed once more, low and sultry. She knew full well how long it had been. She had wanted Cameron from the very first day she met him, six long years ago. And wanting him had ruined her chances of forming a deep romantic relationship with any other man.

From the very beginning, it had had to be Cameron, or no one. And the passage of time had not diminished her desire for him. On the contrary, getting to know him, learning about some of the facets of his character—his honesty, his high personal moral code, his dedication to duty—had only deepened the attraction she felt for him.

She wanted him, and it was as simple as that. Foolish, maybe, but that was the way it was.

And now. and now.

Anticipation expanded into an effervescent sensation inside her, rushing through her bloodstream, intoxicating her mind and senses. Reacting to the stimulant, she turned and two-stepped across the room to her dresser, pulling open the drawer containing her mostly ultrafeminine lingerie.

Humming an old and very suggestive love ballad, she moved around the room, from the dresser to the closet to the bed, with side trips into the bathroom, filling the suitcase and a large nylon carryon with the things she wanted to take to the cabin.

Originally thinking to do nothing more strenuous than take short, brisk hikes in the foothills surrounding the cabin, Sandra had planned on packing only what she thought of as loafing-around clothes—jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters, parka, boots and such. But at one point, while she was removing an old cotton shirt, soft from many washings, from the closet, her glance had touched, then settled on, a new, more alluring outfit.

Sandra had never worn the two-piece ensemble. It bore a Paris label—a thirty-second-birthday gift she had received over a month ago from her parents, who were spending a year in France, both working and having a grand time, while her father set up international offices there for his business firm.

The reason Sandra had never worn the outfit was that there had never been an occasion suitable for her to do so. The set was too darn alluring for just any old gathering of friends.

Fashioned of sand-washed silk in shimmering swirls of fuchsia, orange and mint green, the outfit consisted of a voluminous-sleeved poet-style shirt and a belted, full-flowing skirt.

Viewed on a padded clothes hanger, the ensemble appeared innocent enough. But, upon trying it on for fit, Sandra had been mildly shocked by the appearance she presented in it.

The first button on the shirt was placed at midchest, a plunging vee revealing the cleavage of her high, fully rounded breasts. And, although there was an abundance of material to the skirt, when she moved, it swirled around her long legs, the clinging silk caressing every curve from her waist to her ankles.

At the time, Sandra had stared at her mirrored image in wide-eyed amazement, deciding on the spot that the outfit was too blatantly sexy for just any casual get-together. It was definitely for something special.

An impish glow sparkled in her dark eyes now as a thought flashed through her mind.

The Lone Wolfe was someone special. And being with him would most definitely be special.

Sandra carefully folded the two pieces and tucked themr into the case.

How much farther could it possibly be?

Sandra frowned as she maneuvered her one-yearold front-wheel-drive compact around yet another sharp bend in the narrow, rutted, mud-and-slushcovered dirt road. Although spring had arrived at the lower elevations, shallow mounds of snow still lay in patches on the ground and beneath the trees in the foothills of the mountain range northwest of Denver.

A quick glance at the dashboard clock told her that thirty-odd minutes had elapsed since she had made the turn off the major highway indicated in the directions Barbara had written down for her.

By Sandra’s reckoning, she should soon be seeing the signpost indicating the private road leading to the cabin. Even though she knew what to expect, she laughed aloud upon sighting the sign with the words Escape Hatch printed in bold letters on it.

The private driveway leading to the cabin was in worse condition than the dirt road, the slush concealing potholes that caught her unawares and caused the vehicle to lurch from side to side.

Sandra heaved a deep sigh of relief when the cabin came into view around a gentle curve in the road.

Seemingly built into the side of the hill, the log cabin looked as if it belonged there, nestled in amid the tall pines. A broad porch fronted the cabin. A wide window overlooked the porch and the valley beyond.

Anxious to see the inside of the place, Sandra stepped from the vehicle and tramped through the diminishing snow cover to the three broad steps leading up to the porch. The sunshine was warm on her shoulders, and turned the snow to mush beneath her hiking boots.

Around the base of the cabin, yellow and white jonquils raised their bright faces to the spring sunlight, while at the base of the stalks, shoots of delicate green grasses poked through the melting snow.

Smiling at the harbingers of spring, Sandra mounted the stairs to the porch and strode to the front door, key at the ready. Unlocking the door, she turned the knob, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and came to an abrupt halt, a soft “Oh…” whispering through her parted lips.

The cabin was everything she had dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorative touches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.

Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.

In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.

Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?

Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.

Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven was tucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.

Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.

But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.

Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.

When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase and carryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.

Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.

Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the mountains to the rear.

All in all, not bad, Sandra decided, hefting the large suitcase onto the bed, then plopping onto the mattress and bouncing to test the resiliency of the springs.

It would do quite adequately, she thought, shivering in response to the thrill of anticipation that scurried up her back as an image of Cameron Wolfe filled her mind, along with the realization of what the bed would be used for, besides sleeping.

The temptation was overwhelming to forget every other concern and to settle back, wallowing in the comfort of the mattress. and exciting speculation.

But, being disciplined and responsible, Sandra resisted the temptation. With an unconscious sigh of longing, she heaved herself from the bed.

It was now midafternoon on Thursday, and there was work to be done before Cameron’s scheduled arrival. He had told her to expect him sometime around noon, give or take an hour or so, on Saturday.

Sandra flicked the clasps on the large suitcase and flipped it open. She had to get her tush in gear. She had to unpack, put away her clothes, make up the bed with her own sheets. And then start scrubbing.

Barbara had given Sandra fair warning that, as she hadn’t been to the cabin since the beginning of December, the place 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 do. “What’s the story with Eric?”

“He’s coming for dinner tomorrow.”

Maddy did so enjoy teasing her overgrown sons—teasing and testing.

Despite his impatience to get under way, Cameron had to laugh, enjoying his mother’s enjoyment.

“And?” he prompted when she failed to continue.

“He’s bringing Tina with him.”

Tina. He should have known. Cameron administered a mental self-reprimand for missing the clue Maddy had given him.

Lemon meringue. Not only was the dessert Eric’s favorite, but also, from what Maddy had told Cameron, the object of a friendly rivalry between his mother and the young woman his brother had met last fall.

At Maddy’s invitation, Eric had brought the woman home to meet her at Thanksgiving. Tina had brought along a lemon meringue pie as her contribution to the feast.

After the holiday, when Maddy relayed the information to Cameron, she had graciously conceded that Tina’s pie was first-rate. almost as good as her own.

Cameron hadn’t been fooled for a moment. He knew at once that Maddy didn’t give a rip about the pies, one way or the other. But what she did care about was the possibility of a serious relationship growing between Eric and Tina, who, she claimed, was a lovely young woman.

Cameron was also fully aware that his mother lived in hope of first seeing her sons settled into marriages as strong as her own had been, and second spoiling the hell out of her grandchildren—of whom she had expressed a desire for at least eight.

And now Eric was bringing the woman home to mother for a second visit.

Hmm, he mused, recalling that, to his knowledge, Eric had never brought a woman home twice.

First Jake. Now Eric?

“Does this portend something?” he asked after a lengthy silence, realizing that his mother had calmly been waiting for him to assimilate the facts.

“I sincerely hope so,” she answered. “Keep in touch, and I’ll keep you informed.”

“Yeah, well, as to that,” he said, interested in being brought up to speed on his brother’s love life, but a lot more interested in pursuing his own, “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to you. I’m going out of town for a spell.”

“I see.” Not a hint of concern tainted her voice; after thirty years of living with a police officer, she had long since learned to conceal her fears. “Well, then, I’ll talk to you when I talk to you.” She paused, then added softly, “Take care, son.”

“I will.” A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he hung up the phone. In his admittedly biased opinion, Maddy epitomized the best of the female sex.

Female.

Sex.

Sandra.

Swinging away from the phone, Cameron strode from the kitchen. He collected his bags, glanced at, then deliberately shifted his gaze away from his beeper, which was lying atop the bedside table. He wouldn’t need that where he was going. Gear in hand, he gave a final sweeping look around the room, then left the apartment.

“Dammit.” Cameron wasn’t even aware of swearing aloud; he was too busy making the turn to head back. He had driven only a few miles from his apartment when he knew he just couldn’t do it. He just could not leave town for two weeks without his “connection” to the office, and the weapon that had grown to feel almost a part of him.

Muttering to himself that the two items had taken on the semblance of adult pacifiers, he strode into the apartment and directly to the bedside table.

After snatching up the beeper and the shoulderholstered agency-issue revolver, he shoved the beeper into his pocket and, gripping the weapon, pivoted and retraced his steps to the door.

Something, an uneasy sensation, halted him midway to. the door. What was it? he asked himself, raking the living room with a narrowed look. What was wrong? Nothing had been disturbed in the bedroom. Pacing to the kitchen, he ran a slow, encompassing look around. The entire place was exactly as he’d left it a half hour ago.