Book 4: The Telfords of Montana
Now what?
Not a question he’d had to ask rhetorically or literally for nearly eighteen years.
The door opened and a soft ‘hey,’ startled him out of his metaphysical reverie.
Telford spun around. A woman stood in the doorway. Tall. Slim. Platinum cap of thick, messy hair. All big eyes, cheekbones. Lips that pouted but didn’t have the stretched look of filler. And her clothes—he couldn’t begin to describe them. Too many muted colors and textures and materials from a lacey ivory –something that sexily clung to her androgynous body—were those her nipples or was his imagination going rogue?
Her pants were soft, clingy and raspberry and hung low on her hips, flaring out. She wore a long, knit sweater vest and scarves or shawls draped around her slim shoulders. Layers of necklaces of different lengths spilled around her neck into the deep V of her cleavage. The chunky lug-sole ankle boots were the only practical thing on her body—discounting the fact they added at least three inches to her height.
Cam had always entered any room with a ‘hey,’ and for a moment Telford had a mad thought that Cam had been reincarnated as a bohemian woman, although Cam had favored custom tailored designer suits even when he couldn’t comfortably afford them. And this woman was…he wasn’t sure how to describe her. Messy, and yet the whole picture somehow managed to look…sexy and inviting and confusing because his body was reacting inappropriately when his best friend, mentor and business partner had died less than a week ago.
He wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that a woman was in the office suite where Cam had loved to dream big, spin stories and strategize their next move. They used it to reconnect, not usually for meetings with potential partners. And now Telford didn’t think he had the heart to be in here ever again.
But where else could he feel close to Cam? The medical office wouldn’t release his body as the investigation was ongoing. But even then, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. They’d never talked about death. Only business and life.
“I’m looking for Cam Saunders.”
“So am I.”
He closed his eyes as a spasm of pain surged through him. How could Cam be gone? Just like that. Senselessly. So much left undone.
“Will he be back soon?”
He stared at her, unable to fathom the question, and her interested, breezy way she asked it. Such innocence to the senseless tragedy, that ripped him apart. For some reason his gaze snagged on the strip of bared, taut golden tummy between her lingerie top and circus clown pants. Her hair gleamed platinum in the sun, also reminding him a little of Cam, though his hair had been golden—like a halo though Cam had been a long way from angelic.
“You have business with Cam?”
He couldn’t think of him as past tense yet.
Her smile was quick, sexy, and when she shifted her weight, the embroidered, patterned knit shawl with the velvet tassels she wore slipped off her shoulders to her lower back. He had the impression that she could keep shedding fabrics. Become something else just like a snake outgrew its skin and moved on, renewed.
“Probably not,” She shrugged one shoulder. “But at least I can thank him for the flight and bubbles. I can’t check into the hotel until three so maybe we could lunch as promised. I thought he’d leave me a note at the hotel, but….”
“He what? Lunch? Damn.” A horrible thought speared through him. “No. You’re the wrong girl—woman,” he quickly corrected though she dressed like what he imagined a teenager would dress like. She had the thin, antelope grace he associated with young females on the cusp of becoming women, but her voice, her gaze, her way of inhabiting the room was bold, confident and assessing.
“Maybe I’m the right one,” she put a hand on her hip shifting her clothing—all muted colors he didn’t know the names of except ivory maybe, and the soft, sexy fabrics seemed part of her skin.
“Have you considered that?”
“No.”
Her peel of laughter broke something free inside of him.
“Your face,” she grinned, dimples, eyes shining, creases of amusement feathered from her spectacular elongated, exotic, almond eyes. The sun streaming through the window bathed in her light and heat he’d thought to never feel again.
She clapped her hands together lightly, brushed her palms once, twice. “It’s Friday. Just run with this for a moment, Mr. Suit who’s not Cam,” she said. “For the plot.”