“Must you leave now, Cameron?” Clarissa whispered back through clenched lips, the inclination of her silvery head the only physical indication that she might be speaking.
“Yes,” Cameron answered, tilting her head away. She was embarrassed to show her mother the pleading look on her face, a look Clarissa Endicott Stahl would only see as weak. But if she had to spend another second in this airless room with her filmy evening gown sticking to her damp skin while they listened to the club’s president drone on and on about the benefits of the arts and the importance of the Kirkland Awards, she was going to scream.
Granted, she had promised her mother that she would attend a certain number of social engagements each season, but this one was turning out to be intolerable. There had to be close to four hundred people in attendance, all members of Boston’s elite and all dressed to the nines.
How many hours could the speeches go on? And the awards hadn’t even been presented yet. Then there’d be dancing. Another slow trickle of perspiration slid from the nape of her neck and began to wend its torturous way down her back. It was agony. Her younger sister, Cecile, sat on Clarissa’s other side, utterly still, her face a marble mask. How Cecile managed not to move a muscle, Cameron had no idea. Everything inside her was screaming to get free.
“Well, go then,” her mother said softly with a flicker of her sparkling eyes and a wave of her elegant hand. “But make sure you’re back for the awards.”
Cameron gave a grateful sigh and quietly slid out of her uncomfortable wooden chair. Within moments, she’d slipped through the double doors of the ballroom. As soon as she left the room, her chest lightened, free from some invisible weight. Taking a deep breath, she began to walk down the long hallway. What would have happened if she’d lost her composure in front of all those people? She’d never have heard the end of it from her mother.
When had going to a stupid charity engagement been so difficult for her? It used to be so easy. Show up in a lovely gown, have a glass of champagne, make the rounds, and then head home, mission accomplished. But over the past few months—since she’d opened her second boutique—all she wanted to do was to ditch the charity circuit and focus on her work. If her mother knew, she’d be horrified. According to Clarissa, a prominent philanthropist, one did not work, one simply gave of one’s time. One boutique could be considered a hobby, but two? That was a business, and Clarissa made no bones about the fact that she’d be delighted—no, thrilled—if Cameron gave it up and followed in her footsteps to become a society wife.
But Cameron wasn’t her mother. Not yet, anyway. Not ever, if she had anything to say about it.
The club was dark, the event having gone on long past its expected ending point. All nonessential staff had left for the evening, leaving the mansion eerily quiet. Cameron’s perspiration began to dry in the cooler air, and now her skin was unpleasantly clammy. She could do this. All she needed was a few minutes alone. A few minutes to give her the strength to finish out the evening.
The doors lining the hallway were locked. Even the expressions on the portraits on the walls looked grim, as if they’d been cooped up for far too long.
She felt the exact same way.
At the end of the corridor, Cameron saw a dim glow of light from beneath a large wooden door. Hoping that light meant the room was available for use, she hastily made her way toward the door. It was unlocked. Nearly losing her balance in her strappy, high-heeled sandals, she managed to pry the heavy door open enough to give her room to slip inside.
Unseasonably, someone had built a fire, which was slowly dying in the huge, stone hearth. Close to the fire it was light, but darkness engulfed the edges of the room.
The fire’s embers glowed invitingly and Cameron couldn’t resist. She walked right up to the hearth and put an arm on the mantel, leaning on it for support. It was a strain, keeping up this act, trying so hard not to disappoint her family, while the whole time she was just disappointing herself. But no one was watching now. She slumped a little, letting her head drop down. She was tired, so very tired. Tired of not doing what she wanted, when she wanted. Tired of dancing to her mother’s tune. Most of the time, her mother didn’t seem to be happy, and Cameron certainly wasn’t making herself happy.
“What am I doing?” she said, her voice quickly swallowed up by the cavernous room.
Then, she heard a man’s voice say, “Gotta go,” and in a flash, she realized she wasn’t alone. Quickly adjusting her posture and standing up straight, she searched out the source of the sound. Her eyes lit on a darkened corner of the room and she saw him—big, broad-shouldered, lounging in a giant wingback chair. Though she couldn’t see his face, Cameron had the distinct impression that the man wanted his privacy even more than she did. Instinctively, she drew back.
And then he stood up.
For the briefest instant, her heart stopped before kick-starting back into gear.
She knew who he was—Val Grayson, the soft-spoken eldest brother in the Grayson clan.
Even from twenty feet away, he looked powerful. His hair was black—as dark as her own raven tresses, tinged with a bit of gray at his temples. Prominent cheekbones were set off by the glowing firelight, the shadows dipping into the hollows of his cheeks. His jawline was strong and his skin was lightly tanned. No hint of a smile lay on his well-formed lips.
From so far away she couldn’t gauge the color of his eyes, but she remembered they were some unusual shade of blue. Silently, she watched as he tucked his cell phone into an inside pocket of his suit jacket and moved toward her, eyes never leaving hers, his gaze searing.
Dangerous.
He looked dangerous. And haunted.
Tonight, Val’s strong, lanky frame was covered in a fine-fitting suit. She’d seen him a few times in Star Harbor, working on his boat on the piers not far from her boutique and hanging out with his brothers. Once on the beach, she’d even seen him shirtless. He’d been wiry, with the build of a twenty-year-old, though he had to be in his mid-thirties. Somehow, covered in fine, woven cloth, he looked even sexier than he had when she’d seen his bare chest, his refined clothes juxtaposed with his rugged looks a fascinating study in contrasts.
Why hadn’t she noticed him—really noticed him—before now? The answer hit her hard. Was she really so snobbish that the sight of a man in an Italian suit would turn her on? What was wrong with her?
“I didn’t realize this room was occupied,” she said. “And I’m sorry I interrupted your phone call. I’ll leave now.” She turned to the door.
“Don’t go,” Val said, his deep voice rumbling through her. “It looks like you needed to get out of there as much as I did.” She turned back toward him—toward the heat. The temperature in the room rose when he graced her with a slight smile. “You all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly all right. I should really get back to the awards ceremony now.” Now that he was near her, she realized just how big he was. There were lines etched on his face, light brackets at the corners of his lips and little crinkles at the edges of his eyes, which gave his handsome face an air of worldliness.
“Hmm.” He was eyeing her speculatively now. “I think you should take another couple of minutes here.”
She paused, looking at him, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I do. Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Would you like a drink? I think there’s some water on the sideboard.”
“No, thank you.”
“Just relax, then.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll be honest, the Kirkland Award ceremony isn’t quite what I expected.”
“In that it’s exactly like a lecture?” Cameron said before she could stop herself. Then she winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You only said what I thought. Were they giving out the awards yet when you left?”
Cameron shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. And I’m afraid it’ll be some time before they do.”
r />
There was silence for a while before he spoke again.
“You own that high-end shop in Star Harbor, right?”
“Yes. The Front Street Boutique,” she said.
“Are you an artist, too?” he asked. When he spoke, the lines around his mouth deepened. It was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. For just a moment, she had an overwhelming desire to run the tips of her fingers—then the tip of her tongue—around those little brackets.
Cameron blinked, realizing he’d asked her a question. “An artist?” She laughed gently. “Far from it, though I do appreciate art. You?”
“Hardly.”
“I guess the only reason you’re here this evening is because Theo’s receiving a Kirkland Award, then.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“Then why are you in here taking phone calls?”
“That,” he said, “is an excellent question.” She looked up into his eyes—greenish-blue, like the ocean in midsummer. His gaze had an intensity that took her breath away.
“One that you’d prefer not to answer, I take it?” She could barely get the words out, her throat was so tight.
“You’re sharp,” he said, his look appraising. “I always thought that about you.”
“Really?” Cameron said, unable to hide her surprise. “We’ve only met a handful of times. How could you have figured that out?”
“Oh, I can tell. Usually within five minutes of meeting a person,” he said, another one of those half-smiles on his face. He took a step closer. “But I didn’t know you had—” He stopped.
Cameron’s body went on high alert as she grew flushed, feeling heat stream from her cheeks down through her entire body. Whether it was from the fire or from his nearness, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she’d never felt anything like it before. And it was disconcerting. “Had what?”
There was another long pause. “Obligations.”
The man was insightful. Yes, she had obligations. Enough to make her sometimes feel like she was going crazy.
The stale, cold smell of the blackened hearth began to permeate the room. “The fire’s almost gone,” he said.
Cameron cleared her throat. “I should get back before I’m missed.”
“I’ll join you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can find my way back by myself.” People might talk if they were seen together—the very last thing she wanted.
“I insist,” he said.
Cameron didn’t see a graceful way out of the situation, so she merely inclined her head in acquiescence, an echo of her mother’s gesture.
“Shall we?” he asked, holding out his left arm.
With only the slightest hesitation, she reached out to wrap her hand into the crook of his elbow. As she touched him, a sizzling jolt of energy coursed through her. She nearly drew back in surprise, but he simply covered her hand with his right one. When she looked up at him, his lips curled and the crinkles at the edges of his eyes deepened, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on her.
Guiding her to the heavy door, Val opened it one-handed in an easy gesture. The same door that she’d struggled to open a few inches. She stole a glance at him as he escorted her down the long corridor. He was looking straight ahead, but he saw her out of the corner of his eye and turned toward her. And smiled, this time full-on.
It was a smile no woman could resist. Or would want to. There was a subtle promise in the depth of his gaze, in the slow, easy way he drew her in. Cameron’s body heat exponentially increased. He was mesmerizing. Dizzying.
Before she could blink, they were at the double doors that led into the ballroom. “Ready to go back in?” Val asked gently.
Cameron nodded, trying to reclaim some semblance of self. “Yes.”
He swung the door open, escorted her inside, and walked her to her seat, neatly depositing her next to her mother. As soon as he let her go, the electricity was gone, but the heat that had been steadily building in her didn’t fade. She watched him as he crossed the wide ballroom to find his own seat, spare and commanding in his movements.
To Cameron’s relief, the speeches had concluded, and the emcee had already begun to announce the recipients of the artists’ awards. Realizing the evening had gone on long past everyone’s expectations, he kept each award presentation short. Cameron half-listened while the awards were presented, trying to get her mind on something other than her black-haired escort. Forget about him. Focus on the fact that it’s almost midnight.
She needed to start taking care of herself, so this was the absolute last time she agreed to join her mother at a society function on a work night. Taking a quick glance at her watch, she calculated the amount of time she needed to stay after the award ceremony was concluded. She’d take at least fifteen minutes to mingle, and then another half hour to dance.
Lord, she wasn’t going to make it home before one-thirty in the morning! And she had an eight A.M. appointment with Hermione Alcott, one of her pickiest clients. Mentally, she mapped out the path she’d take in the morning from her brownstone to the coffee shop. She’d have a latte with a double shot of espresso. No, a triple.
Just then, the emcee’s voice cut into her thoughts. “… and last, but not least, for his exceptionally vivid descriptions of historical Massachusetts, this year’s Kirkland Award for Writing goes to Theodore Grayson.”
Cameron clapped as Theo rose to accept his award. He was as tall, dark, and handsome as his brother, but without the same intensity. Her good friend Avery stood and kissed Theo before he walked to the front of the room. If Cameron had given any thought at all to the event beforehand—which she hadn’t—she’d have realized that Theo and Avery were going to be here this evening. At the very least, they could have coordinated their seating.
Though she knew she should be polite and concentrate on Theo’s acceptance speech, she couldn’t help her gaze from drifting over to where Val sat. Even from so far away she could see he didn’t belong here. He looked like he’d be happier standing on the docks at sunset, his hair shining in the fading light, his lean body folded against his boat, that sexy half-smile on his face.
She forced her thoughts back to Theo’s speech. Obviously mindful of the time, he’d raced through his thank-yous and had segued into a discussion of his current work.
“This great honor comes at a fascinating time for me. As many of you know, though I lived in California for a decade, I never called it home. You might say I had Massachusetts on my brain, since every single book I’ve written was set here. Now, I’m following my heart.” He gave Avery a smoldering look. “I’m happy to say that I’ve moved back to Star Harbor permanently, and will continue to focus on local legends. The Siren Lorelei, the infamous pirate ship that sank off the coast of Star Harbor during a nor’easter in the fall of 1711, will be the subject of my next three novels,” Theo said. “Honors like the Kirkland Award make it possible for local artists not only to work, but to thrive, knowing that our contributions are valued in the community. Thank you again to my friends, family, Congressman Kirkland, and the Awards Committee who selected my work to be honored.”
There was thunderous applause, and Cameron found herself rising along with the rest of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of Val from across the room, clapping for his brother, pride etched all over his face.
And then, almost as if in a dream, the applause faded, the large curtain dividing the room opened, and the music in the main ballroom finally began. Soft strains of an old Ella Fitzgerald standard filled the air as the lights dimmed further. Within a moment, the object of her fantasy was at her side, looking very large and very real.
Eyes never leaving hers, Val held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Read on for an excerpt from Toni Aleo’s
Taking Shots
Chapter 1
Eleanor “Elli” Fisher didn’t understand why she was so forgetful. She was convinced that if her ass wasn’t attached to her, she would fo
rget it at home too. But really? How in the world did she forget all the bulbs for her light stands?!
Elli stood in the entrance of the Luther Arena, waiting for Harper Allen, her assistant, to bring the bulbs back from her studio on the western side of Nashville. This was one of the most important days of her career and she forgot the bulbs.
God, I am an idiot.
How did she manage this? She ran her hand through her unruly brown curly hair, sighing. As if forgetting the bulbs wasn’t enough, she was also having a really crappy hair day. This was her first year with the Nashville Assassins. She couldn’t blow it. Being chosen to be the photographer for a hockey team was huge, but when it was for the team that just won the Stanley Cup and had the prospect of winning again? Hello, it was HUGE.
When she saw Harper running into the arena with the bulbs in hand, she let out the breath she had been holding. Damn, that was fast.
“For Christ’s sake! It’s a mad house out there!” Harper complained in her thick southern accent. Her hair was in spikes this week. The spikes were also purple, which made it even more interesting. Hadn’t she discussed with Harper how they needed to keep a professional image? Yes, purple was a team color.
But still!
“I know, come on. Let’s go put the bulbs in.” She didn’t have time to have it out with Harper right now; she had to get to the ice. They all but ran towards the entrance to the ice. Once there, she was greeted by the Assassins’ PR rep.
“Ms. Fisher, how do you do? Are you ready?”
Melody Yates was intense. That was the only way Elli could describe her. She was from New Jersey, and had been converted into a Southerner. And that made no damn sense to Elli, but whatever, this was her boss. So she flashed a huge grin and turned on her southern charm.