Looking for You (17 page)

Taking a shuddering breath, she wiped
her palms on her skirt.

"Here you go."

Nearly jumping out of her skin, she
whirled around.

Gwendolyn held the gourd Camille had
made in her hand, studying it critically. "This is really nice work."

"It is?" she asked
doubtfully.

"I wouldn't say that if I didn't
mean it." The woman took it to the counter and wrapped it up. "What
are you going to do with it?"

"Um. I'm giving it to a
friend." She tried not to feel guilty about the thinly veiled truth but
failed.

"Good. Art should be
appreciated, especially when it's given out of love."

"Oh, I don't love him," she
said quickly, only those words felt like a lie as well.

"Hmm."

Camille frowned. "What does that
mean?"

Gwendolyn shrugged. "Whatever you
want it to mean. Here you go."

She took the bag from the woman,
feeling as though it was a time bomb. "Thank you," she murmured as
she walked out of the store.

The second she was down the street,
she pulled out her phone and called Dylan.

He answered on the first ring.
"I was just thinking about you."

The way he said it, low and whispery,
like he'd just woken up and was still lying in bed, made her squirm. She tried
not to go there, instead clearing her voice and saying, "I need a
favor."

"Ask me."

"I need some fingerprints run.
Do you think one of your CIA contacts can do it for me?"

There was a pause on the line. Then
he said, "Are you okay?"

"It's for a story."

"That doesn't answer my
question."

She looked at the bag. "I need
to do this."

"I'm at home, Camille. Come
here."

Hanging up, she decided to splurge on
a cab. She gave the driver Dylan's address in the Mission.

He opened the door for her before she
got all the way to his doorstep. He stood there wearing nothing but pajama
bottoms. She hadn't realized men did that except in movies. He certainly looked
like he'd stepped off the big screen—he was as hot as any actor out
there.

Dylan watched her as she trudged up
the last of the steps.

She couldn't tell what he was
thinking, but that wasn't unusual—she often couldn't read his thoughts.

He, on the other hand, read her like
an open book with humungous font. "What are you up to, Camille?" he
asked as she stepped past him.

"I just need the prints on
this"—she held out the bag—"run and compared to an international
database."

"What for?"

"For a story."

He looked at her disbelievingly.

"Please." She tried to look
like a puppy dog.

It worked. He took the bag from her.
"What about your writing? I thought you were going to focus on a
story."

"This
is
about my writing."

"No, this is about your
mother."

"What?" She recoiled,
feeling like she'd been struck from out of the blue.

He set the bag down without taking
his eyes from her. "Do you remember when we met?"

"Of course I do."

"You were just graduated from
college," he said, "and when you glommed on to me I thought you were
looking for a father figure."

She flushed. "I didn't think of
you like that. Ever."

"No, because it isn't Daddy's
approval you want. It's Mommy's."

Automatically she began to deny that,
but how could she? She closed her mouth and crossed her arms.

"But you know what, Camille?
Mommy is never going to give you what you want, because she can't see who you
are."

"And you can?"

"
Yes
." He stepped up to her, so close she could feel the warmth
of his body. "You're not a journalist. You're a storyteller. Journalism is
too dry for you. You're lush and layered. Underneath all that black, you're
colorful and creative. You're the antithesis to Elizabeth Bernard, and you're
going to be unhappy if you don't accept that."

She shook her head. "At one
time, I'd have agreed with you, but my journalistic instincts have finally
kicked in."

He groaned and threw his hands in the
air.

"No." She lowered his arms.
"Listen. I'm onto something here, and I need your help, Dylan.
Please?"

He said nothing.

"
Please
, Dylan?"

Dylan studied her, his thoughts
veiled. Finally, he said, "Is this really what you want?"

"Yes," she said with more
confidence than she felt.

"And what about us?"

"Us?" She shook her head,
confused. "What about us?"

"That's what I thought." He
turned away. "Fine. I'm done."

Panic caught in her throat.
"What?"

"I'm done, Camille." He
faced her, arms crossed. "I'll call you as soon as I hear from my contact,
and then that's it."

She wanted to say that was all she
needed, but she knew she wasn't talking about her favor—he was talking
about them.

Swallowing the sense that she was
losing something precious, she started to ask him what she could do to change
that—to strike a bargain. Only based on his expression, he wasn't in the
mood to negotiate. Afraid she'd
say something that'd make him change his mind, she shut her mouth and nodded.

Her inside self was kicking her,
telling her that if she walked out right then, she'll have screwed up the most
important thing in her life.

Your career is the most important
thing, she heard her mother's cold voice say.

She just wasn't sure right then.
Confused, she thanked him again and left, trying not to give power to the
doubts that churned inside her.

Rick had looked so haggard when he'd
arrived at her apartment that Gwen took his hand and led him directly to Candace's
pool. She felt gratified when he sighed, long and heartfelt, as he slipped into
the water.

She did a few vigorous laps with him
before she slowed down to an indolent pace. She watched him continue, lap after
lap, going all out, admiring his muscular grace.

He came to a sudden stop, shaking his
head and looking for her.

She smiled at him from the edge where
she floated. When he joined her, she hugged him like a koala. "Did you
work out whatever was bothering you?" she asked.

"Yes. Thanks." He pushed
her hair back. "I don't think I said hello to you properly."

"You didn't."

"I should take care of
that."

"You should."

The kiss began soft and gentle,
heating slowly until she was more out of breath than the laps had left her.

Rick pressed his forehead to hers and
sighed. "I needed that. Both the laps and you."

She rubbed his shoulders. "Tough
day at work, honey?"

His lips quirked. "You could say
that. I was hired to find a man who'd ducked out on his family. I found him
today."

"Where is he?"

"Peru."

Gwen winced. "That's not good
for the mother or the child, is it?"

"Not at all." His jaw
tightened. "The bastard cleaned out the bank accounts before he
left."

Gautier de la Roche had had many
faults, but at least he'd never have turned his back on her, even when he knew
she wasn't his biological child. "Are you going to fly down there and
castrate him?"

"I wish." Taking a deep
breath, he lifted his face to the moon. "I just feel bad for the
mother."

"And the child."

Rick floated onto his back, holding
her on top of him. "I don't know. Isn't it better not having a father than
having one who's a jerk?"

She considered that seriously.
"Good point."

"You sound like you're speaking
from experience."

It was instinct to change the subject
to something frivolous and light, but she'd promised him openness and honesty.
She had to try. She wanted to try.

She trusted him, she realized with a
start.

Shaking her head, she said carefully,
"My father can't be blamed for the way he treated me."

Under her, Rick stiffened. "How
did he treat you?"

"With disregard. He had Roger,
my brother, the firstborn and heir. Roger's also his rightful child. I'm not.
My mother had me through an affair and took every opportunity to rub it in his
face." She wrinkled her nose. "That makes my mother sound awful, but
really she was just unhappy and acting out. She and my father were never very
close. He had affairs, so she had them, too, in retaliation."

"Do you know who your real
father is?"

"No. I can't say I don't wonder
about it, but it becomes less important the older I become."

Rick looked like he was processing
the information. Finally he said, "You didn't deserve any of that."

She shrugged. "It made me who I am."

"Is that why you left?"

She shook her head but didn't
clarify. That wasn't something she wanted to get into right then.

"My parents are loving," he
said, holding her loosely. "They drive each other crazy sometimes, but
they're a unit. A team. That's never been in question."

"I can't imagine that. It must
be nice to have someone you can depend on," she said wistfully. Her
parents had been petty and selfish.

"That's what I want." He
gazed at her like she was the only thing that existed in the world. "When
I pick the person I'm going to be with forever, I want it to be someone I can
trust, who'll be as caring of me as I am of her."

She swallowed. "You expect to
stay with someone forever?"

"Yes," he said
unequivocally. "I want a relationship like my parents'. They have their
ups and downs but in the end they always have each other's back."

She tried to picture it. It was hard
but not impossible. With Rick, it wasn't impossible at all. "But where
would we live?" she wondered out loud.

"My place," he said without
hesitation.

She narrowed her eyes. "Is it all
brown with leather and shag? With floor-to-ceiling mirrors in your bedroom?"

"I didn't realize you'd been
over." He grinned. "I'd let you redecorate."

"You would?"

"As long as you don't touch the
mirrors."

She splashed him. "We'd have to
negotiate before I even considered leaving a toothbrush there."

"Like?"

"Like don't expect me to cook.
It's not going to happen."

He shrugged. "I'll do the
cooking then."

She slipped under water, she was so
surprised. "You cook?"

"Mom made sure I learned. She
said she was thinking ahead to the woman I'd live with one day."

"Clever woman."

"You don't even know. I wouldn't
do my own laundry, so when I was thirteen she 'accidentally' washed my white
clothes with red socks."

Gwen laughed.

"Sure, it's funny to you, but my
pink underwear was a joke in the locker-room for weeks."

"You'd still look hot in pink
underwear."

He perked up. "You think I look
hot?"

"No, I just take pity on you by
letting you get naked in my bedroom."

He dove for her, pulling her under.
She came up laughing, entwined in him, glowing in the moonlight and the warmth
of their dream.

The story ran on a Tuesday.

Camille sat on the stoop predawn,
biting her nails as she waited for the newspaper to be delivered. She saw the
newspaper truck half a block away, and she ran out to meet him.

The delivery guy looked at her like
she was insane. If
his
professional
life hung in balance over this article, he wouldn't have judged so harshly.

She ran inside, the paper clutched in
her hand. When she'd turned in the article yesterday, along with the proof
Dylan's source at the CIA had provided, Mac had flipped. After he stopped
foaming at the mouth over the scoop of the decade, he'd quickly edited it and
told her she was getting the front page. He told her it was sure to be
syndicated, too.

Every reporter's dream.

If only she were happier about it.

Sitting at the kitchen table, she
unwrapped the paper from the plastic and smoothed out the Daily in front of
her. The front page read:

LOST GRAPE PRINCESS FOUND!

In smaller print, underneath, it
said:

Story by Camille Bernard

She traced the letters with her
finger. It looked amazing.

It felt... not as good.

"Is that it?" her mother
asked strolling into the kitchen, her kimono fluttering around her. She
snatched the paper from the table and held it up to read.

Camille held her breath. She put her
hands under her seat so she wouldn't bite her nails in front of her mother.

It seemed like an eternity before her
mother slapped the paper down on the table. She stood there like a Valkyrie,
hands on her hips with a fierce expression on her face.

"That"—Elizabeth
pointed to the discarded newspaper—"is worthy of a daughter of
mine."

Hearing the validation didn't make
her feel as vindicated as she thought it would. Especially since Gwen had been
so nice to her, when she'd obviously hadn't wanted anyone to find out who she
was. Especially since she'd lost Dylan over it. "Thank you," she
murmured.

Her mother leaned over the table.
"You've finally come into your own. This calls for a celebration."

She should have felt like
celebrating, but seeing the candid picture she'd taken of an unsuspecting
Gwendolyn Pierce didn't make her feel as satisfied as she thought she'd be.
"I don't know—"

"I do." Elizabeth clapped
her hands and reached for the phone. "We're having a party."

"I don't really—"

"We're having a party, and
that's the end of it." She frowned. "You're very glum for someone who
scooped the biggest story of the year. You should be booking appearances on CNN
and CNBC. Fame is fleeting, Camille. You need to make the most of it."