“Darling, stop.”
“I’m not making any demands. And I’m not sure how it will work, but I want to be with you. I love you.” Her words ran together in a jumble. “Because if you—”
“Monica, stop talking, please. I have something important to say too.”
Monica’s mouth snapped shut. For all of two seconds. “I finally tell you I’m ready to accept your terms, and you tell me to be quiet?”
He pressed a finger over her lips. “Monica Taylor Campbell, I’m not going anywhere without you. Ever. You are it for me. Home is where you are. I promise you this—wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be. And you know I always keep my promises.”
Monica tapped his finger out of the way and, grabbing his face with both hands, brought it down to hers. “Say it again,” she murmured against his lips.
“I love you.” He walked her back several yards, until she bumped into the garden wall. This was where they’d had their first kiss five years ago. Full circle, red dress and all. There were no lights here, and the music and chatter seemed distant.
He lowered his head, and when his lips touched hers, Cal’s hands roamed over her, latching onto her ass. He rained tiny kisses across her lips, her dimpled chin, her cheeks. “We never did get our garden shag,” he whispered against her ear.
“Forget it.”
“I’m still registered at the villa.” He continued nibbling her neck, her shoulder. He couldn’t stop touching her. “How about we head there after the party?”
“Deal,” she said. “And by the way, you’re not going to be able to move by the time I get done with you, Calum Hughes.”
“Do not tease me,” he said against the swell of her breast.
“I’m not sure which to do first—fuck you, suck you, or ride you like a mechanical bull.”
He raised his head. “Oh yes, giddy up. We can stop on the way, and I’ll buy you a cowgirl hat.”
When she laughed, it sounded divine. This was his Monica—wild and untamed, sexy and secure. He kissed her again, and when Monica spread her hands over his chest, it felt so right. Yes. This was where he belonged.
Before he could get too carried away, Monica pushed him and ended the kiss. “I should get back to the party. And Brynn will want to see you. If we can find her. You know how she hates crowds.”
Cal cupped her face with both hands. “First, I have something to show you, but I don’t know if you can get a proper look at it out here.”
“I’ve seen it before. It’s impressive.”
Letting go of her, he laughed and reached into his jacket, pulling out a thin stack of pamphlets. Then he grabbed his phone and turned it on, using it as a flashlight so she could see them.
“What are these?” She glanced up at him. “Imaging machines?”
“More compact than a regular machine, and they use less power. I bought three of them.”
“Why?”
“Well, if you hadn’t come to your senses, I was going to bribe you.”
“With medical equipment?”
“Exactly. Two women’s clinics in Africa and one in India need these desperately. I thought you might like to deliver them in person.”
Monica gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. She stared up at him with wide eyes. “You bought imaging machines.”
“Yes, I did. I thought they’d make a smashing wedding gift. You are going to make an honest man of me, aren’t you?”
“You’re the most honest man I know. You’re it for me too.”
“I know how important your family is to you. We can stay here in Vegas, if you’d like, and buy a house nearby.”
“I want to travel, Cal. I want you to show me the world. Can we start with Paris? No wait, London. I want to see your garage.”
“Anywhere, it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m with you.”
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His to Keep
Iain Chapman listened as his lawyer explained about the new economic regulations, zoning details, and ecological classifications that had just been enacted. But as Stan droned on, Iain became more agitated. “For fuck’s sake, Stan, cut to the chase and tell me how all this is going impact the land we want to develop. Preferably in English.” Iain couldn’t take one more acronym. NEDA, CDBG, SBA, USGS. It was giving him a bloody headache, it was. In his right hand, he rubbed a pair of red dice back and forth. It was a habit Iain had acquired over the years, one he couldn’t seem to shake.
Stan Daniels sighed deeply. He seemed to do that a lot around Iain—who had probably paid for the three-thousand-dollar suit the prat was wearing. So he could save his sighs for other clients, because Iain wasn’t having it.
“Cut the drama, mate. Just give me the highlights already.”
“Let the man talk, Iain. It’s why we’re paying him, innit?” From the window overlooking the busy street, Marcus Atwell turned to face them, all the while stroking his chin—a sure sign he was worried. But that was nothing new. It was when Marc started playing with his floppy hair that Iain knew real trouble was brewing.
“What this means,” Stan said, “is you’ll pay more in taxes, shell out more for inspections, and have to jump through more governmental regulation hoops. Get used to it.”
“How much more are we talking about here?” Iain asked.
“A couple million, give or take.”
Iain pushed back his chair and stood, pocketing the dice as he walked across the room. “That sounds like pocket change to you, does it?” Stan came from money and had gone to a fancy Ivy League school. Probably grew up using hundred-dollar bills to wipe his privileged ass.
“Do we really have to do this today?” Stan asked. “It’s pocket change to you too, Iain. You have a multimillion-dollar project you want to implement. This is a drop in the bucket.”
“He’s right, Iain,” Marc said. “We’re not the poor lads from Manchester anymore. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
At the credenza in the corner, Iain poured coffee from an antique silver pot. Drinking from the delicate china cups always made him feel faintly ridiculous, but it added to the traditional British decor. No sense in having four-thousand-dollar Chippendale chairs only to drink from a cheap ceramic mug. Presentation was important. And two million really wasn’t much in the bigger scheme of things, but he didn’t take any of it for granted. Not a bloody penny.
“Send us copies detailing the changes, and cc my project manager, yeah?” Iain sipped his coffee—strong, black, bitter. He glanced over at Stan. “Was there something else? I’m getting billed for every moment you stand there looking like a twat.”
The bald man smiled. “I don’t charge for looking like a twat. That one’s on the house.” He bent to pick up his briefcase. “Always a pleasure, Iain.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nice seeing you, too.” Stan nodded at both men and left the room.
Once he was gone, Marc paced the floor. “She’s coming this morning?”
“Yeah. Should be here in a few.”
“We don’t need to do this,” Marc said. “There are other investors. We could develop the properties slowly, take our time.”
“And we may have to,” Iain said with a shrug, “if this doesn’t pan out.”
“It probably won’t. Brynn Campbell might hate you on sight—and I wouldn’t blame her, because you’re a bit of a blighter, truth be told. And if she finds out you set her up, she could turn Trevor Blake against us.”
“It’ll work, trust me. Hiring Brynn’s firm is a stroke of genius. We need a fresh partner for this project. One with deep pockets. Who better than Trevor Blake? And if we’re really lucky, Brynn’s other brother-in-law, Cal Hughes, might throw in with us. Those two have loads to spare, good business sense, and Trevor’s name carries weight in this town. I went over every other angle I could think of, and Brynn Campbell is the weak link.”