Wilkins grinned. “I know. That’s what makes it so perfect.”


CAMERON STOOD IN front of her refrigerator, trying to find a place to put all the leftover trays of cheeses, fruits, and truffles. Amy’s cousin, Jolene, sidled up from behind the door.

“So when is the stripper coming?”

Cameron shook her head. “I told you—no stripper.” She kept her voice low. If Amy even heard the word “stripper” that evening, there’d be hell to pay. As maid of honor, she had been given a detailed list of acceptable activities and events for the bachelorette party, and naked man-flesh unequivocally had not been on it.

Not surprisingly, Amy’s other cousin, Melanie, popped her head around the refrigerator door next. Like book-ends, they came as a pair—if you saw one, the other was sure to be bringing up the rear close by.

“We thought you were just saying that so Amy didn’t suspect anything,” Melanie said.

Cameron had noticed that the cousins had an odd, passive-aggressive way of using the collective “we” when expressing displeasure with something.

“Yes, we assumed that was all a big charade so that everyone would be surprised,” Jolene added.

“If it was an issue of money, we would’ve been happy to pay for it,” Melanie threw in.

Cameron had to bite her tongue. Oh, for the naked man-flesh, they were willing to chip in their time and money. Two things they certainly hadn’t been forthcoming with thus far. But in the spirit of bridesmaid camaraderie, she plastered on a smile.

“It’s not an issue of money. I promised Amy no strippers. Sorry.” In exchange, she had extracted a similar no-nudity clause from Amy in the event that she ever got engaged. Something that did not look particularly likely as of late, considering that she had (a) no boyfriend, and (b) no prospects. She was definitely going through some sort of rough patch, first with Max, and then with that bizarre almost-kiss with Jack on her doorstep.

Post-traumatic stress, she had decided. Definitely. She’d ear-witnessed a murder, after all—one could practically be expected to behave in bizarre, erratic ways under such circumstances.

Amy walked into the kitchen. “There’s someone at the door, Cameron. A man.”

The cousins’ eyes lit up as they exchanged greedy looks: the naked man-flesh has arrived.

Amy pointed at Cameron accusingly. “You promised. If this is what I think it is, be forewarned: you will pay for it ten-fold when it’s your turn.”

Cameron smiled as she brushed past Amy to answer the door. “Relax. It’s probably the limo driver letting us know he’s here.” Amy followed her out of the kitchen, then made a sharp left and bolted up the stairs.

“Seriously, Ame—it’s not a stripper.” Cameron laughed.

“Just touching up my makeup,” Amy called down as she high-tailed it out of sight.

Cameron checked the peephole. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the limo driver. She opened the door.

“Agent Wilkins.” She stepped outside and partially closed the door behind her for privacy. “Is everything all right?”

Wilkins smiled. “Looks like you’ve got some party going on in there. Is it a special occasion?”

“My friend Amy’s bachelorette party.”

“A bachelorette party—you don’t say? Wow, I wished we’d known.”

“We?” Cameron asked.

“Jack’s skulking around somewhere. Said something about checking the security of the outside perimeter. That’s FBI code for ‘stalling.’ Anyway, we’re here to show you those photographs we talked about.” He shifted to the side, trying to peek around the door.

“I thought we were going to do that earlier this afternoon.”

“Darn flight delays. It’s okay—you’re busy, I can see that. We can come back some other time.” Wilkins flashed her what undoubtedly was one of the best good-cop grins she’d ever seen.

Cameron nodded approvingly. “Not bad. And this time you didn’t even have to bring me coffee. Can we get this done in twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” Wilkins promised.

She gestured for him to come in. “I’ll tell everyone you’re here to talk about one of my cases. I obviously haven’t told the other girls about all this.” Other than Amy, who, like Collin, knew she was being watched as a precautionary measure.

The door behind her flew open. Jolene and Melanie stood in the doorway.

“Haven’t told the other girls about what?” Jolene demanded to know. She spotted Wilkins and smiled. “I knew it! Cameron, you really had us going there. We knew you wouldn’t let us down.” With a careful eye, she sized Wilkins up from head to toe. “Hmm. You look a little skinny. You better at least do full-frontal.”

“Excuse me?”

“They think you’re a stripper,” Cameron explained.

Wilkins seemed flattered by this. “Oh—sorry, ma’am. I’m just an FBI agent.”

Melanie winked. “Sure you are.”

“Shouldn’t you have some kind of uniform?” Jolene asked. “It makes things seem more authentic.”

“But I’m a special agent. Only trainees wear uniforms.”

Jolene shared a look with Melanie. “That’s a new one.”

Cameron was just about to suggest that Wilkins show the cousins his badge, when Jack walked up the steps and stopped in her doorway.

“Sorry we’re late,” he said with a curt nod.

The cousins’ mouths dropped open as each of them caught their first glimpse of Jack. He wore jeans and a dark blazer with an open-necked shirt. Objectively, Cameron knew what they saw: the tall, dark, whatever-ness; the gorgeous face, blah, blah; the sexy, lean, body that was tailor-made for all kinds of sin—who cared? Certainly she wasn’t paying any attention to those things.

Jolene reached out and grabbed Cameron by her sleeve. She pulled her off to the side.

“Holy shit—how much did you have to pay for that one?” she whispered.

Cameron paused. “You know, the agency didn’t say. Someone should probably ask him what he charges for full-frontal.”

Jolene and Melanie looked at each other. “We’re on it.”

Cameron smiled to herself as the cousins made their way over to Jack.

Fourteen

“IT’S A NEGOTIABLE rate.”

Cameron turned around from the cabinet she’d been reaching into and saw Jack standing in the doorway.

It took her a second, then she smiled. “Sorry about that.”

She adjusted her sweater, a thin, deep V-neck black wrap that tied at her waist. When she’d been reaching for the glasses, the neck of the sweater had slipped off her shoulder, exposing the camisole she wore underneath.

Jack said nothing as she pulled the sweater back up. He gestured to the shelf she’d been reaching for. “Need some help?” He walked over and set down the file he’d been carrying on the counter below the cabinet.

“Um . . . sure. We need more glasses. And, apparently, I need to start wearing five-inch heels.” She pointed. “The ones on the left. I didn’t realize I’d have so many white wine drinkers.”

“How many do you want?”

“Two for now.”

Jack barely had to lift his arm as he plucked the glasses off the shelf and handed them to her.

Cameron took the glasses, surprised that the two of them momentarily had managed to have a normal conversation. Hoping he wasn’t going to say anything about the other night, she turned away and set the glasses onto the center island.

“So, do you and Wilkins often crash bachelorette parties?” she asked as she poured two glasses of wine. If she acted normal, maybe he would, too, and then they could just forget about that odd little encounter on her front stoop.

Jack rested against the counter. “For the record, it was Wilkins’s idea to come inside.”

“Where is Wilkins, anyway?” Cameron asked.

“In the living room, being accosted by eighteen women who think he’s a stripper. I thought it was best to duck in here.”

“So much for never leaving a man behind.”

“If he starts screaming, I’ll lay down a cover fire and go pull him out.” Jack held up the file. “Ready to do this? I don’t want to keep you from your party.”

Cameron nodded and took a seat at the counter. Jack began spreading out photographs on the granite in front of her. He set down the first two photos, then paused, giving her a thorough once-over.

“What?” she asked.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?” he asked suspiciously.

“Not enough to be your concern.”

How nice, the scowling was back. Cameron had almost begun to miss it.

“How much?” Jack repeated.

“Just one glass of wine,” she said. “I wasn’t planning on doing a photo lineup in my kitchen tonight.”

“What about the shot?” he asked.

“What shot?”

“You know, for the underwear game.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, as if he’d said too much.

Cameron raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about the underwear game, Agent Pallas?” she asked, mock-interrogation style.

Jack scoffed. “More than I want to. Now—the photographs.”

He placed three more in front of her before pausing again. “What happens to the underwear after the game?”

“The bride keeps them for her honeymoon.”

“Oh.” He continued on with the photographs, about fifteen total. “Now take your time, and look at each one carefully. Maybe it’s somebody you saw in an elevator. Or someone you passed in the lobby or in the hallway. If we could put any of these guys at the hotel on the night of the murder, that would be a huge break in the case.”

“I take it all of these people deny being at the Peninsula on the night in question?”

“At the time of the murder, yes.” Jack pointed to two of the photographs. “These two men are members of Hodges’s staff: Alex Driscoll, his chief of staff, and Grant Lombard, his bodyguard. They both say they went to the hotel early the following morning. According to their statements, Hodges called them after I finished interrogating him.”