I stroke my thumb over her ankle and nod. “Good.” But I won’t hesitate to carry her if needed.
Climbing to my feet, I turn my attention to the dress.
We check the gown, the ring, even the garter. Seams, lining, clasps. No trackers.
Relief doesn’t come.
If Frost was willing to kidnap hertwice, he’s not just going to drop this. I’d bet my Stetson he had some method of tracing her. Otherwise, how would his thugs have found her on that empty road? Whatever he used, it’s something we haven’t thought of.
I hope to hell it was on her phone.
Behind me, the coffee pot beeps, and I turn to pour her a cup. She adds a measure of milk, then eyes the sugar. She licks her lips, hesitates, then reaches for it and adds a hearty spoonful.
“Have as much as you want,” I murmur. Why the hell is adding sugar even a decision?
“It’s... liberating. Making my own choices,” she says. “Not constantly being reminded that sugar will make me fat, and no man wants a fat wife.”
I set my cup down, barely controlling my anger at the people who raised her. “First off, it’s your life. You make the decisions. No one else. Second, that’s bullshit. Most men like women with curves.”
“Even you?”
I step closer until only inches separate us. I want her to see the truth. “Especially me. Having someone soft where I’m hard? That’s part of what draws me to a woman. So, drink your coffee with all the sugar you want, princess. It’s only gonna make you sweeter.”
The air thickens between us.
She shifts closer.
I’m lost in the icy depths of her eyes, feeling my pulse climb as the heat builds between us. So much innocence mixed with intelligence and a surprising amount of world weariness for a woman so young.
Camille licks her lips.
I lock on the motion, needing to taste her.
Just once.
I lower my head, half a breath away from temptation, and glance up to make sure she wants this.
She’s holding her breath. Not backing away.
I close the scant distance, right as the doorbell rings.
“Bronco? It’s Mae,” she calls through the door.
I press my forehead to Camille’s and swear under my breath. Then drag myself away from her, adjusting myself, and throw open the front door. I didn’t have to check the camera. I know Mae’s voice anywhere.
She steps inside, smiling brightly, and holds up several large shopping bags. “Brought what you asked for.”
Mae Calhoun is plump where her brother is sharp and sharp where he’s soft. They make a damn good team.
She’s also got shitty timing.
I smile anyway and reach for the bags. “Mae, this is Camille. Camille, meet Mae. Gray’s sister.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Camille steps forward and extends her hand, polite smile fixed firmly in place. Fake, exactly like the one in her photo.
It strikes me then, the little things I’d noted up until now. She hasn’t smiled. Not once. Granted, she’s in a tense, frightening situation. But even the one time I thought she might smile for me, she didn’t.
I file that away as yet another unexpected layer to her.
