Chapter 4

“I need an ibuprofen,” Cameron muttered as she dragged herself home. It was barely nine, but her feet hurt, pressed into her stylish, pointed-toe shoes. Fashion shouldn’t have to mean pain. Why couldn’t they invent gorgeous shoes that felt as good as they looked? It was easy to concentrate on something other than her feet. Everything else hurt, too—her head, her eyes, even her hands.

After a doozy of a meeting with Hermione Alcott, during which she’d displayed no fewer than seventeen bolts of fabric to the older woman who was contemplating a new chaise lounge for her Palm Beach home, Cameron and her staff had begun their summer inventory at the Newbury Street boutique. It was shaping up to be a grueling event. Hours of cross-referencing items, coupled with the fact that this year was the first they’d done everything electronically, had taken its toll on her mind and her body. In the long run, it would be worth it to have everything digitized, but in the meantime, it was utterly exhausting work. Things would go more smoothly tomorrow, but right now, all she wanted to do was to curl up and sleep.

Three more blocks until she reached home. She rubbed her right temple with her fingers, which did nothing to ease the throbbing in her skull. Some good music on her stereo, a long soak in her large bathtub, and some scented candles would do wonders. She hoped.

Next Monday she planned to be in Star Harbor to oversee inventory on the second boutique. It would be similarly demanding, but even the thought of being on Cape Cod lifted her spirits. She couldn’t wait to see the little town this season, though she knew it would be a long few days of work. Plus, there was nothing like being right on the water. Her place in Boston was wonderful, but she had grown to love her little cottage by the sea in Star Harbor, especially falling asleep to the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore.

A lone car drove by, its tires sounding hollow against the paved road.

Safety-conscious despite the fact that her neighborhood was one of the nicest places in the city to live, she withdrew her house key from her pocket and held it firmly in her hand. The metal key felt solid and secure. For a brief instant, Val Grayson’s long, strong body flashed in her mind. The picture was unsettling.

A few minutes later, she reached her brownstone on Marlborough Street. Energized by the fact that she was almost home, she briskly climbed the thirteen stairs that led to the front stoop, opened the door, and stepped inside.

As soon as she locked the door, her cell phone buzzed in her handbag.

Quickly, she answered. “Cameron speaking.”

“Cameron, hello. It’s Junior.” She winced, realizing he probably had expected her to call him. “I haven’t talked with you for a few days. How are you doing?” He spoke in his usual calm, smooth, and educated style.

“Just fine, Junior,” she responded, kicking off her shoes. “I’ve been a bit busy at work and with events. I saw your dad last night at the awards ceremony, and I meant to call you. Did the press conference go well today?”

“Of course. I had no doubt that it would.”

“Nor did I,” she responded quickly.

“No. I suppose you didn’t.” Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? He cleared his throat. “Believe me, I wasn’t happy to miss the ceremony last night, but my team thought it best if I prepped for the press conference instead. From what I understand, Dad did a great job. He got to dance with you, didn’t he?”

She couldn’t help but smile. To the world, Edward Kirkland, Sr. was a famous congressman who’d done some fine work in the immigration sphere, but to her, he was just Uncle Ted. “That he did. Isn’t there any way you could take a break? You sound like you’ve been working as hard as I have.”

He chuckled. “I’ve missed you, Cameron. Why don’t you join me for dinner next weekend and we can catch up? We could go to Garibaldi’s. I know how much you love that place.”

She did love Garibaldi’s, but the problem was that the press loved Junior. She’d been out with him before—multiple times, at her mother’s insistence. At first, things were just fine, if she could forget about the lack of chemistry between them. Junior was exactly like every other society guy—polite and poised—but at least she was comfortable with him and he was interesting. She liked the fact that even though he could have coasted on his family name, he seemed to have a genuine passion for his work. He always knew how to make her laugh, and she knew he didn’t care a whit about the size of her trust fund. It made sense. His own family was as powerful and well connected as hers, and Junior was an intelligent man.

Unfortunately, once his bid for district attorney was announced, things had become more difficult. The last time they’d gone out, the date was fine, but the next day, her photograph appeared in an online gossip rag with the caption: Front-runner for DA and socialite seen getting cozy over dinner. She’d never been keen to have the kind of life her mother clearly envisioned for her—attending notable charity events, hanging on the arm of her powerful husband, appropriately dressed for every occasion, and of course, bearing him the requisite number of children to continue the empire. And she knew with the utmost clarity that if she followed things through with Junior, her life would never be lived on her own terms. It would always be on his—on perfecting his image and preparing for his future campaigns.

“I’d like to see you again, Cameron,” Junior said, his voice breaking into her thoughts, and she realized she hadn’t spoken for a few long moments. She jumped into gear quickly.

“Oh, Junior, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ll be in Star Harbor for a couple of weeks doing inventory on my boutique.” It was the truth, and while she genuinely wanted to see him, she was relieved to have an excuse to miss a public outing.

“Of course, I understand,” he said smoothly. “We’ll make a date for when you return. Why don’t you email me and we can set something up.”

“That sounds nice, Junior. I’ll do that.”

“Good night, Cameron.”

“Good night.”

She hung up the phone, then placed it and her bag on the hall table. Junior had a straightforward approach to everything—whether it was putting criminals away or improving his golf handicap—and he always seemed to be 100 percent focused on the task. Cameron knew that he saw other women, but he’d made it clear that when he was ready to settle down, she would be his choice. She could do worse. Junior was nice. Nice … and safe. Two words she would never use to describe the other man who seemed to have snuck his way into her consciousness—Val Grayson. There was nothing nice about the way Val had looked at her last evening, nor was there anything safe about the way he’d held her in his arms.

Junior’s touch had never affected her like that. Never seared her from the inside out merely with the whisper of his skin on hers. And now, having experienced what it really felt like, she knew he never would. It was rough-around-the-edges Val who’d made her feel it, not straight-arrow Junior. Far from being shocked by this realization, she was saddened. Clearly, she’d been too careful, closed off to experiences and emotions because of what was expected of her. Because of what her family might think. She’d lived at home during college and the only parties she went to were approved society functions. The upshot was that she’d spent her adult life not truly understanding desire.

And now that she knew what she’d been missing all these years, she wasn’t sure she could ever go back to what she had.

Nor was she sure she wanted to.