Chapter 20

“Thank you again for having me over to dinner,” Val told the Stahls as they were being seated in the grandest private dining room he’d ever seen. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and candelabras lined the walls, which were painted a pale yellow hue with white molding around the ceiling. The fourteen-foot-long polished wood dining-room table practically dripped with pricey glass and silverware. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Our pleasure,” Clarissa said, forcing a smile to her lips and looking like she meant exactly the opposite, even though she herself had issued the personal invitation to dine at her home only a week earlier. “After all, we wanted to learn all about the man with whom our little girl was spending so much time. Get a chance to know you a bit better. Plus, West is home tonight,” she said, indicating her son, who was directly to her right. West was in his early thirties, with hair almost as dark as Cameron’s. He was a good-looking guy, but Val could tell he was soft. Apparently, he had some kind of job at his father’s company, but Cameron had told him that West didn’t do much except spend money and drink. It showed. By contrast, Cici, who sat next to him, seemed livelier tonight, if a bit muted. Though she was as quiet as she always was, he’d caught a sparkle in her eye he hadn’t seen before. Encouraging.

In silence, a servant placed a bowl of soup in front of him. It smelled pretty good—creamy, with some herbs on top. He waited until his hostess had taken her first spoonful and given a nod to the server before picking up his own utensil. He heard Cameron let out a short little breath, a clear signal he’d done right. He was dying to give her some reassurance that he wouldn’t embarrass her. I’m not worried about you embarrassing me, Cameron had said on the way over to the Stahls’ place. I’m more concerned about my parents doing that.

“So, Val,” Clarissa said, when they’d all been eating for a few moments. “Tell us about what it is that you do.” She paused. “For work.”

Val swallowed his mouthful of soup. Despite its appetizing aroma, the soup was bland. Lucky he wasn’t that picky an eater. “I’m with the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

“Yes,” said Clarissa. “I gathered, from what you and Hermione were discussing. Are you quite senior in the organization?”

“I have my own team, yes, but I report to the director of the Boston office.”

“What do you actually do?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that the DEA’s mission is to enforce the controlled substance laws and regulations in the United States, but its work doesn’t always involve illegal drugs. It also monitors the manufacture, distribution, and dispensation of legally produced controlled substances. My team does everything from seize assets derived from or used in drug trafficking to investigate and prepare cases against criminals involved in the drug trade.”

Frederick looked up from his soup. “And you’re based out of Boston?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Mostly on the Eastern Seaboard, although sometimes my work is farther away. Some of the most interesting cases I’ve been privileged to be involved with have taken me abroad to liaise with the UN or Interpol.”

“Where’s the most dangerous place you’ve been?” asked West. “Colombia? Turkey? South Boston?”

“Anyplace can be dangerous if you don’t take the proper precautions,” he said, not rising to West’s obvious bait. Clearly, Cameron’s brother couldn’t tell the difference between a Southie and an Eastern Massachusetts accent. “I ensure my team always does, though, for every operation we undertake. Of course there’s always some amount of risk involved.”

“Gotta take ’em down if they don’t comply, isn’t that right?” West interjected.

“Not quite,” he said, staring directly at West and speaking slowly and deliberately. “We only use force when appropriate and necessary.” West’s gaze flickered over his chest. Maybe West thought he was packing. Who’s baiting whom now?

“Are you talking about guns?” Clarissa said, shock infusing her voice.

“Yes,” Val said calmly. “It’s part of my job.” Clarissa’s eyes widened and West’s telltale smirk was gone. Val thought about telling them he carried his weapon only when he was working—his Glock .23 most days, and his semiautomatic SIG Pro on special occasions—but Cameron’s warm hand on his leg made him keep his mouth shut.

Cameron cleared her throat. “How are you doing, Cici?”

The pretty girl put her soupspoon down, looking as relieved as Cameron by the change of subject. “All right. I started a new painting class. I’ve moved on from watercolors.”

“That’s great, Cici. Are you doing oils now?”

“Yes.” Cici looked almost happy. “My teacher is really inspiring. He’s the one who did that amazing mural outside the Children’s Museum. The colors are so intense! And the people in my class are incredibly talented.”

“You among them, I’m sure,” Cameron said.

Cici looked down. “Hardly. But just being there is good enough for now. I’m learning a lot just auditing the class.”

“So, Cici,” Cameron started, “I was wondering if you’d want to come stay with me for a while.”

Cici’s gaze flicked over to her mother. “Well, I’m not—that is, I don’t—”

“Oh, yes, Cecile,” Clarissa interjected. “That might be a wonderful idea.”

Cameron looked surprised that her mother had agreed so readily. Val wasn’t fooled. He could almost see Clarissa’s brain whirring. If Cici were at Cameron’s, in Clarissa’s mind, that would mean that Cameron wasn’t with him.

“I’d like that,” Cici offered. “Do you mean Boston, or Star Harbor?”

“Your choice,” Cameron said, “but I was thinking of Boston.”

Frederick harrumphed. “What’s wrong with staying here, Cecile?”

Cici opened her mouth but Cameron immediately jumped in. “There’s nothing wrong with staying here, Dad. It’s just that I thought Cici might like a change of scenery. My town house is actually a lot closer to the art school, and if Cici’s serious about pursuing her master’s degree, she might benefit from being able to take more classes.”

Clarissa frowned. “We haven’t discussed Cici’s further education.”

Cameron had told him that after Cici left her marketing job, she had confided in her that she was considering going for a master’s in art. The ultimate goal was for Cici to combine her academic background with an artistic one, which would hopefully open up more jobs in the long term. The only thing was, Clarissa wasn’t seeing it that way.

“Cici’s the first artist in the family,” West informed Val, speaking the word “artist” as if it were something dirty.

“And what is it that you do?” Val asked West politely.

“This and that,” he said insouciantly.

“West works with me,” Frederick said, looking up from his soup. “Not nearly enough, as far as I can tell.”

“Oh, come now, Frederick,” Clarissa said. “Let’s not talk about your work at the table.”

“Ahem,” Frederick said, and went back to his soup. Val took Cameron’s hand under the table and squeezed. He was rewarded when she squeezed back and gave him a tentative smile.

One course down, three more to go.

“I’m sorry about my parents at dinner,” Cameron said as they walked down the driveway to where Val had parked his truck.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Val responded. “They were just being themselves.” How Cameron could have grown up in such a stilted, sterile environment and have turned out to be as warm and real as she had, he’d never understand.

Cameron just shook her head. “You’re being way too nice about the way they treated you. And West’s comment about South Boston was so rude. I thought I was going to die.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said with a shrug. “What’s worse is the way your parents treat Cici like some breakable doll.”

“I know. The sooner she moves out, the better. I hope she comes, this time.”

“This time?”

“Yes. I’ve asked her numerous times to come live with me, but she’s always said no. She rarely even travels without my parents. In fact, six months ago, Junior’s sister, Taylor, asked Cici if she wanted to join the Kirklands for an extended vacation. Cici actually turned her down. Mom was furious. She kept telling Cici it would be the perfect way to have our families get even closer, but Cici was having none of it.”

“Did Cici talk to you about it?”

Cameron nodded. “Yes. I think that’s what irked my mom the most—the fact that Cici had confided in me, not her. And that Cici had made a decision without her input.”

“What did you say to convince your sister?” Val probed.

“It wasn’t so much that I convinced her. More like the situation itself did.” She paused. “I’m not being super clear … let me try to explain. You know my history with Junior?”

“Yes.” All too well.

“Well, after Cici got the invitation, she came to me and asked if I was serious about Junior.”

“And you said—”

“No. I’d been thinking it wouldn’t work for some time, but hadn’t made any decisions about it, let alone articulated my feelings to anyone. I laid it all out for Cici—my fears, my concerns, and my hopes for the future. She listened, and a day later, she’d rejected Taylor’s offer.”

“Huh. How’d Taylor take it?”

“Cici never said.” She looked up at him. “Why are you so interested in the Kirklands, anyway? At dinner, you grilled my father for twenty minutes about the congressman. Of course, he didn’t realize he was being grilled, because you’re pretty artful about your interrogation, but I knew you were doing it. And every time I’ve brought up Junior or the Kirklands over the past couple of weeks, you—” All of a sudden, Cameron stopped walking. “Ohmigod,” she breathed. “You’re investigating him, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” Val asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Because I know you don’t care at all about status, so why would you care so much about the congressman? About his comings and goings? About his vacation plans, and his golf game? And about my relationship with him and his family? Val! How could you?”

Crap! “I don’t care about status, but I do care about politics. Which way the political wind blows in the area is very important to me.”

Cameron crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe you.”

Val just shrugged, pretending this wasn’t the huge deal he’d known it would be from the start. Anything he could tell her about the investigation would be confidential—even the fact of the investigation itself. If he told her, he’d have to read her in. And if he read her in, then she could be in danger. That was the last place he wanted her to be.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth.”

“That is the truth.” A lie.

“I told you that my family is really close with the Kirklands. My dad does business with the congressman. My mom has lunch with Grace every other Thursday at the Women’s Club. And Taylor and Junior are my friends.”

“Junior,” Val said, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping into his tone.

“So we’re back to that?” Cameron raised her eyes to the darkened sky. “God, Val, I already told you I broke it off with him.”

“I doubt that’ll be the end of it for him,” he muttered.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Cameron said slowly, her expression going strange.

“What are you saying?” Val’s voice was a low warning.

“Maybe I should get back together with him. Then you could use me to monitor the congressman. Isn’t that what you wanted all along? Is this what it’s all about? You using me to get closer to Junior Kirkland?”

“No! I don’t want you anywhere near that guy.” The truth. Finally.

She gave him a searching glance, which he returned with a fiery stare. “Look,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t know how we got here. All I know is that it’s been a long night, I’m tired, and I want to go home. Alone.”

“I’m driving you.”

“I’d rather take a cab.”

“No.” He stalked to his truck, opened the door, and gestured with his head.

“Fine.” She got into the vehicle and slammed the door shut herself. She refused to look at him as he climbed in, started the engine, and threw it into gear, instead sitting back in the seat and staring out the window into the darkness. They drove to her town house in silence, and she didn’t wait for him to come around to open the door for her. He got out anyway to walk her safely in.

“I wish you’d told me before that you were investigating the congressman.”

Technically, he hadn’t told her. She’d called him out and he hadn’t confirmed or denied it. Damn it, she was sharp!

Cameron shook her head. “You just don’t get it, do you?” she said, climbing the steps to her front door, him trailing behind her.

“I get that I don’t want to fight with you, Cam. When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

Then she shut the door in his face. Stunned, he stood there for a few moments before turning slowly and walking back down the stairs to his waiting truck. It was a long ride back to his apartment.