Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Marlon stood at the back of the room while Nadia and Fred went from table to table, laughing and chatting with their guests. Dinner had gone smoothly, and it was almost time to cut the cake. Nadia was elegant and beautiful in her lace-covered dress embroidered all over with seed pearls. The tiara nestled in her dark hair gleamed in the lights of the ballroom. Fred looked at her like she was his world.
She was a beautiful bride, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Camilla in a pair of old sweatpants and a ratty tee. Checking his watch, Marlon ached to go home and make sure she was okay. His team had performed well throughout the day, and they hadn’t had to turn away any of the guests. After what had happened at Fred’s company retreat, it was a relief to have this event go smoothly. Still, he couldn’t wait to leave.
Scanning the room, Marlon found himself wondering what Camilla was up to. She’d looked exhausted earlier. Worry gnawed at him, and as the minutes ticked on, his guilt grew like a mushroom after the rain.
He’d been offended by the accusations she’d hurled at him, but she was right. He’d barreled into her life with the best intentions, but he hadn’t taken the time to talk to her about what she really needed from him. He’d created a fantasy in his head, where Camilla slotted perfectly into his life. But he hadn’t considered her dreams, her work.
The Sweetest Thing was a successful business, and Camilla had built it on her own. Of course she hadn’t wanted to leave. Of course she’d wanted to re-make the cake after it had been destroyed.
Just as he’d wanted his security team to perform well today and for the event to go off without a hitch, Camilla had wanted to deliver on her promises. Her desires were no different. He’d let his need to protect her overshadow that when he could have found another solution. He could have stayed. He could have called another employee to watch over the space.
Instead, he’d been offended, and he’d snapped.
Today, when Camilla stood in front of him and asked if she could sleep at his house tonight, his anger had disappeared between one moment and the next. How could he pretend he was a good person when he was ready to throw Camilla out with nowhere to go? When she’d said she would move out, part of him had been relieved. And that relief made him ashamed.
Now, as the event dragged on and Marlon was alone with his thoughts, he realized he cared about her far too much to let his own ego get in the way. He was a sorry excuse for a protector when he couldn’t consider the needs of the person he was supposed to protect.
The next time he saw her, Marlon would hug her tight and tell her what she meant to him. She was everything. She was his love. His woman. His world.
He checked his phone; she hadn’t texted. She was probably asleep.
“Mr. St. James,” a voice murmured to his left.
Marlon turned to see Percival, the Goodhew butler, standing next to the ballroom doorway beside him. “Everything okay?”
“It’s time to place the cake topper on the cake. Could I borrow two of your men to oversee the transfer?”
Marlon nodded. “Of course.” He pressed the button on the side of his radio. “Cormac. Luke. Percival needs you at the service entrance. Got a hot cake topper comin’ in.”
“Copy,” Cormac’s voice crackled over Marlon’s earpiece.
He nodded to Percival. “They’ll meet you at the back entrance as discussed and supervise the transfer from your people’s car to the kitchen.”
“Excellent.” Percival gave a deep nod, then disappeared.
Marlon turned back to the event and straightened his tie. His collar felt tight, and it was a bit warmer than was comfortable in the ballroom. He glanced at the door that Percival had used…
And hesitated.
The cake topper transfer had been discussed at length with the Goodhews. The thing was a family heirloom, worth a mint. Apparently, it was covered in gold and diamonds and would be placed on the cake moments before the cutting. It would be arriving in a Goodhew vehicle, and the locked case would be guarded as the transfer was made from the car to the kitchen, then all the way to the ballroom.
After the cake was cut and the photos were taken, the same operation would happen in reverse.
The only reason Marlon wasn’t overseeing the operation himself was because he was in charge of the ballroom. Normally, both he and Cormac wouldn’t both work these types of events—their business had grown, and they weren’t so hands-on anymore—but the value and importance of this contract was huge. Getting Goodhew goodwill could catapult a business.
Marlon jerked. That’s exactly what Camilla had told him, and he’d ignored it. Once again, he realized that he’d criticized her for acting exactly as he would have. He needed to apologize to her. Needed to find her and make sure she knew he understood that he’d messed up. He needed to fix this.
As soon as the cake cutting was done, he’d leave.
“On the move,” Cormac said over the earpiece. “Two minutes to the kitchen.”
His thoughts turned back to the precious cake topper. A memory twigged, and Marlon’s pulse picked up. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place his finger on what, exactly, but the back of his neck prickled. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.
Stepping out of the room, Marlon pulled out his phone. It only took a few taps to find the footage of the break-in at The Sweetest Thing. He skipped forward until he found the clip of the perpetrator opening the refrigerator.
Marlon’s blood ran cold.
He’d watched this footage a thousand times since the break-in had happened, but he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him. Marlon had known the man was looking for something, but he’d missed the way he paused when he saw the model topper Camilla had made. He’d missed the way the perp ripped open the fridge, grabbed the topper, and crushed it in his hands.
The man didn’t destroy the wedding cake because he was trying to trash the bakery; he destroyed it in a fit of rage when he saw it was made of modeling chocolate. He was upset the Goodhews’ heirloom cake topper wasn’t in the bakery. For a moment the perp scanned the space, but then he must have heard the sirens, because a second later he bolted out the back door.
He’d been after the cake topper. Marlon was sure of it. But…who was he?
“Opening the case now,” Cormac narrated. “We’re live. Eyes open, people.”
Marlon was sprinting before he gave his feet the order to move. He nearly bowled two caterers out of the way, then slammed the swinging kitchen doors open with both hands. Breaths heaved in and out of his lungs while he took in the space at a glance.
Caterers were busy scraping plates and cleaning stations. Dishwashers sprayed and organized trays in the back corner. Servers in black vests arranged slices of the big sheet cakes onto plates, ready to be carted out to the guests after the tiered cake was ceremonially cut and photographed.
And in front of a wheeled trolley holding Camilla’s creation, Percival held the gold-and-diamond cake topper in white-gloved hands, bringing it down slowly to the top of the cake.
Amelia was there, holding her phone up. She turned when Marlon burst through the door, making a small noise of surprise. “Hey! I’m getting a video for Camilla,” she explained, but Marlon was scanning every face in the room, looking for the man who had terrorized his woman. That asshole was here somewhere, waiting for his chance to get the cake topper.
Medium height, slight build, brown hair. Male. Estimated twenty to thirty years old. He scanned once, twice. Saw no one who jumped out at him.
Percival glanced up from his work, the cake topper not yet touching the top tier of the cake. He frowned at Marlon. “Is there a problem?”
Cormac split from the crowd clustered around the cake and approached. “What’s up, St. James?”
“The cake topper. That’s what the break-in was about.”
“Break-in?” Percival asked, frowning.
A harried-looking wedding planner came in behind Marlon. “It’s cake time, people. Fred and Nadia are waiting. We need it out there, stat.”
“Wait,” Marlon said, but Percival was dropping the cake topper on top of the cake and nodding to the two staff members on either side, who began to roll the trolley toward the doors.
It was a beautiful cake, iced in smooth, rich-looking frosting. Camilla had made swoops of hard caramel that arced and framed the cake topper beautifully. There were pieces of poached pear carved into tiny pear shapes at the base of the cake, with more hard caramel swoops decorating every tier. It was ornate and elegant and absolutely beautiful. The cake topper stood on top of her masterpiece, glittering. Camilla had designed the whole cake to look in harmony with the jewel atop it. She was a genius.
Amelia kept filming, but she threw another glance at Marlon.
Cormac frowned. “What’s going on?”
Marlon shook his head, watching one of the servers push the trolley out of the kitchen door. “Gut feeling.”
“Come on,” Cormac said, jerking his head. “You watch the rear. Luke, you got the left side. Let’s go.”
They fell into place, three big, burly men guarding a wedding cake like it was the President and they were Secret Service.
Amelia walked backward, filming the movement of the cake and narrating as she went. “It looks so good, Camilla. The light is glittering off the tiny tiara, and the caramel looks so fine and delicate it could be spun gold. You did such a good job. Nadia and Fred are going to lose their minds.”
As they walked back along the long corridor, Marlon took deep breaths and listened to Amelia’s voice. Everything would be okay. His heart was hammering, but that didn’t mean danger was imminent. He’d had a long day; maybe his gut was wrong. Maybe he was stressed about having hurt Camilla, and it was coming out in a weird way.
But—the security footage. He’d seen the guy grab the replica cake topper and crush it when he realized it wasn’t the real thing.
They made it to the reception room, and the security team dropped back so photos could be taken.
Fred and Nadia approached, admiring Camilla’s confection. Despite the apprehension churning in Marlon’s stomach, he felt a glow of pride.
He’d get on his knees and beg her for forgiveness. She hadn’t wanted to leave the bakery because this was the reason she baked. Who was he to insist she give that up? Who was he to push her around when she so clearly had a calling, a gift? Marlon wished she were here to see the tears in Nadia’s eyes.
Fred smiled at the cake, kissing Nadia’s temple. Then he took the proffered knife and began cutting into the middle tier of the cake to raucous applause. On the big screen at the front of the room, the cake, topper, and knife were broadcasted in high definition.
Despite his thoughts about Camilla and the revelations he’d experienced about his own fault in their fight last night, Marlon itched all over. Something was wrong. He could feel it under his skin, in his bones. The cake topper was the key to it all, but he couldn’t exactly get up there and snatch it so it would be safe.
He scanned the room. Scowled. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. All the guests had been accounted for, and the building was secure.
“I’d like to say a few words,” Fred said into the microphone, and the view on the screen changed to his and Nadia’s faces. “My grandmama was married on this day nearly sixty years ago. She couldn’t be here with us today, but I know that she would have adored Nadia…”
Marlon shifted his weight, staring at faces, jumping at shadows. The speeches went on and on and on, and finally, Fred and Nadia fed each other bites of cake. The photographer’s camera went click-click-click . Guests held their phones up to capture the moment for themselves. Nadia closed her eyes and leaned against Fred as they enjoyed another bite of cake, a look of bliss on both of their features.
Then they straightened and nodded at the wedding planner. It was time to remove the cake so the guests could be served the pre-prepared slices.
They could finally secure the cake topper, and he could rid himself of this dread. Soon, he’d be pulling up to his house and finding Camilla. He’d be apologizing, fixing the mistakes he’d made. This was nearly over.
With a breath of relief, Marlon followed the cake trolley back out the door and down the hallway. They met an army of wait staff carrying trays of cake. Five hundred guests required five hundred slices, and the long row of caterers were ready to serve them all within minutes.
But every time one of the servers passed by the cake trolley, they had to lift their tray to make enough room over the tiered cake and topper. Cormac had to move to the front of the trolley, so the side of the trolley was completely exposed.
Marlon hadn’t anticipated this.
And he also hadn’t anticipated one of the waiters dropping their tray, bumping into the person behind them, and causing them to drop their tray of cake too. A clatter of broken plates and shouts followed, and chaos broke out in the hallway.
It only took a second of distraction for the cake topper to disappear. One moment it was there, then there was a big tray blocking his view, and then the cake topper was gone. There were too many people in the hallway, too many trays of cake, too much noise, too much chaos.
Marlon tried to shout for calm, tried to tell everyone to stop where they were, but another tray of cake went flying, and plates crashed against the hallway wall. Smears of frosting dripped down the wallpaper as a server screamed and fell on the bed of broken plates.
Then Marlon saw one of the waiters move against the tide.
That thieving, bakery-robbing bastard was trying to get away. Marlon let out a roar. All attempts at subtlety gone, the man started sprinting down the hallway toward the service doors at the far end, cake topper glinting in his fist. Once he got out of the hotel, he’d be gone.
Marlon wasn’t going to let him get away with it. He wasn’t going to let this asshole ruin Camilla’s cake and get away with it.
Vaulting over the wheeled trolley that still held the smashed remnants of Camilla’s masterpiece, Marlon darted around a flailing Percival. “Out of the way,” he yelled, trying to gather speed. Adrenaline dumped into his veins as he began to sprint. “Stop!” His arms pumped as he dashed after the perp. “Get on the ground, now!”
The man glanced over his shoulder and redoubled his speed. Behind Marlon, the clamor increased. A side door in front of him opened as wedding guests came out of the ballroom’s second doorway to investigate the noise.
He pushed a tuxedo-clad man out of the way and caught Leo and Amelia’s wide-eyed stares on the way past, but there was no time to explain and no time to slow down. He hit a corner at top speed and bounced off the wall, gaining on the thief.
The door loomed ahead, a glowing red EXIT sign above it. The thief let out a gasp of relief, but it was short-lived.
Marlon lunged, wrapping the man in a bear hug and bringing him to the ground. Footsteps pounded behind him as the crowd caught up, but Marlon was busy wrestling the man to the ground. He pinned him on his stomach, then grabbed the man’s flailing wrists.
The cake topper gleamed in the man’s left hand. His fingers were white as he clenched it, unwilling to admit defeat.
“Let go of the cake topper or I’ll break your arm, dipshit,” Marlon growled, which was a threat he never imagined he’d utter.
Fingers uncurled, and the cake topper fell onto the ground. Percival hurried forward and scooped it up, inspecting it for damage, then let out a breath of relief. Cormac and Luke came jogging forward. Luke held the big black safety case in one hand. He dropped it on the ground and flipped it open, and a moment later, the topper was securely locked inside.
Relief flooded through Marlon’s body. At the same time, the thief slumped, all the fight going out of him.
Marlon turned the man onto his back to get a look at his face—and frowned. “You look familiar,” he said, looking at the man’s nose ring, studying his face. Now that he’d gotten a good look at his face, Marlon knew him. But from where? “Who are you?”
“That’s my neighbor’s grandson!” Amelia exclaimed, stomping forward with her jaw hanging open. “You—Mrs. Gordon—what?—?”
“Get off me,” the man snarled.
Marlon did no such thing. He kept the man pinned as he tried to remember where he’d seen this guy before. It wasn’t at Amelia’s apartment, because he hadn’t even been there when everything went down six months prior. So where…
“You’re the creep trying to date teen girls,” he said, eyes widening. “Camilla kicked you out of her bakery.”
The crowd gasped and murmured behind him. Amelia let out a squeak of outrage.
By then, hotel security had arrived. They put the man’s wrists in thick zip ties and hauled him up to his feet.
“Wait,” Marlon said, not caring that he had an audience. He narrowed his eyes at the would-be thief. “You broke into Camilla’s bakery last night.”
The man snarled. “Yeah, so?”
Fred came barging through the crowded hallway, eyes like thunder. He stared at the thief, then at Marlon. “Did this asshole try to steal Grandmama’s cake topper?”
Marlon stared down the creep in front of him and nodded. “Yep.”
Fred approached, his body trembling with rage. Nostrils flaring, he looked down at the thief. “Today is my wedding day,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice, “so I’m not going to beat you to a pulp.”
The thief gulped.
Fred loomed above him, eyes like thunder. “The police on the way, St. James?”
Marlon glanced at the two security guards, who nodded. “Yes. It’s under control, Mr. Goodhew. You and your guests should go back and enjoy the rest of your day.”
Fred held the thief’s gaze for a long moment, then swung around to face Marlon. A heavy hand landed on Marlon’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. “Good work, son,” he said, then turned to his butler.
Percival unlocked the case to show Fred the cake topper. After a thorough check, Fred placed it back into its protective case and locked it up. Percival clutched the case to his chest, nodding to Cormac and Luke. Fred herded the crowd back toward the reception hall, and in the distance, the music started up again. Marlon followed the security team to their office, where they waited for the police to arrive.
Just like that, the crowd was dispersed, the wedding was back in full swing, and disaster had been averted. Marlon let out a breath.
While they were waiting for the cops, Marlon sat on the edge of the desk and watched the thief. “What’s your name?”
“None of your business,” he spat.
Anger rose inside Marlon’s throat, hot and acrid. “You break Camilla’s windows too? The ovens?”
For a moment, confusion flitted over the man’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“At the bakery. Are you the one who broke her windows?”
“Are you stupid? Why would I break the windows? I was checking the bakery out that day because I heard the Goodhews were going to hire her for their wedding cake. The last thing I would do is vandalize the place while I’m trying to case it.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “What kind of amateur do you think I am?”
Marlon crossed his arms, humming. If he hadn’t broken the windows, who had? He nodded to the security guards and stepped out of the room, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Camilla’s number, but there was no response. He tried her once more then settled for a text outlining what had just happened.
She’d be glad to know they’d discovered who had broken in. Hopefully she’d be able to sleep easier tonight knowing her bakery wasn’t being targeted.
But while he stared at his screen for a few moments, the little blue ticks that told him the message was read never lit up. He sighed and put his phone away, glancing up in time to see a police cruiser stop outside the lobby doors.
Vick arched a brow when he saw Marlon waiting. “You always seem to be where the action is, St. James,” he said, then shook Marlon’s hand.
By the time they’d interviewed Marlon and everyone else involved, then taken the thief away, night had fallen. The wedding had wound down, though the guests had been abuzz with the excitement and gossip that followed the cake cutting.
Marlon found Cormac eating dinner in the kitchen, a plate cobbled together from the caterers’ leftovers. Cormac lifted his chin, then dipped his head toward the food.
Marlon grunted, suddenly realizing he was starving. He glanced at his phone for the thousandth time, but there was still no word from Camilla. By then, it had been hours. She must’ve been asleep; otherwise, she would’ve replied, even if she was still angry with him. Right?
Unless she was angrier than he’d anticipated? Unless there was no hope of her ever accepting his apology?
“So he’s the one who broke into the bakery last night?” Cormac asked, biting into a chicken leg.
Marlon nodded. “Yeah. He thought the topper was being kept there.”
“Not a very bright assumption.”
“Nope.”
“He break in the first time, too? The office?”
“Yeah. Trying to find a safe.” The police had got that out of him within a couple of minutes.
“Did he do the window?”
Marlon shook his head, frowning. “No.”
“Probably just some kids.” Cormac wiped his fingers on a napkin.
Marlon chewed his food, mulling over the problem. It probably was just some kids causing trouble, but he didn’t like it. He checked his phone again, thinking he felt it vibrate, but the screen was blank. Camilla still hadn’t read the message.
Then Marlon remembered the other reason he’d been so angry the night before: He was sure she’d been hiding something from him. Was that true? Why wasn’t she answering?
The sense of unease that had flooded him before the cake topper drama began to trickle in again. But Camilla was probably asleep, that was all. She’d spent all night fixing the cake. Yesterday, he’d read lies where there was only stress for her business. She hadn’t been hiding anything.
Still, Marlon’s pulse picked up. “I want to go check on Camilla. You good to close things out here?”
Cormac nodded, and Marlon clapped him on the back on the way out. His shoulders relaxed as he got behind the wheel. It felt good to be going home, to know that in less than half an hour, he’d have Camilla in his arms. He’d apologize to her, and everything would be okay. It had to be. They’d caught the thief, he’d realized his mistakes, and now all he had to do was beg for forgiveness and admit he was in love.
He pulled up to the house, and Camilla’s car was in the driveway covered in an unblemished layer of snow. He frowned. What had she been driving to get to the Goodhew wedding? There was no other car in the drive, and that was too much snow for just the past couple of hours.
The house’s windows were dark. Marlon’s dread kicked up another notch, but he tamped it down.
Camilla was asleep. She was snuggled inside, safe and sound.
Blowing a breath out against the cold, Marlon jogged up his front steps and slid his key in the lock. The latch stuck in the cold, so he had to jiggle it aggressively before it came free. Stepping inside, Marlon listened to the creaks of the house.
Camilla had a couple of pairs of shoes by the front door. He scanned them, wishing he remembered what she’d been wearing. Where was her jacket? Her purse? Didn’t she usually leave it on the console table when she came in?
“Camilla?” Marlon called out, his blood beginning to run cold. “Sweetheart?”
His voice echoed. He didn’t kick his boots off as he walked over to the living room to peer inside. She wasn’t on the couch, and she wasn’t in the TV room. He left wet bootprints on the stairs as he took them two at a time, throwing the master bedroom door open.
Her bed was made, the pillows were fluffed, and Camilla was nowhere to be seen.
Marlon’s heart began to thump. He checked his own bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. His breath came in short gasps as he threw the laundry room open, then the garage.
But he already knew.
Camilla wasn’t there.
“Camilla!” Marlon shouted up the steps, but no answer came. He didn’t even bother locking the door behind him as he tore through the fresh snow to his car. Fat flakes fell in clumps, and he set the window wipers going as soon as he got behind the wheel.
The bakery. She’d be at the bakery.
But she wasn’t.
He pounded on the front door, the back door, but no answer came. From the front windows, he could see a light on in the kitchen. He tried her phone again, texted, rushed to the back door and pounded his fist against it.
Hands shaking, Marlon called his brother.
“Yeah?”
“Is Camilla with Amelia?” he barked.
There was a shuffling sound. “Camilla? No. Amelia, do you know where Camilla is?”
“ No ,” came the muffled reply. “ I spoke to her before the wedding and she said she had an errand, and then she’d be heading back to Marlon’s to sleep for twenty hours. Direct quote. ”
Leo spoke again: “She’s not at home? Amelia says she should be.”
Panic raked its claws down Marlon’s spine.
Something was wrong.
He hung up on his brother and dialed Elton.
“Yeah,” the other man said as he answered the phone.
“I can’t find Camilla,” he said, and his voice broke on her name. He cleared his throat. “Was the alarm disarmed at any point today?”
The clacking of a keyboard sounded over the line. “Disarmed last night after the break-in, then armed at four p.m. Disarmed again twenty minutes later, and that’s it. It hasn’t been armed again.”
Marlon’s voice was a rasp, spoken through the gravel of his tight throat: “Cameras?”
“On it,” Elton said, tapping on his keyboard once more.
There was a long pause, and Marlon pressed the keypad near the door to step inside the bakery. They’d installed a touchpad lock, and Camilla hadn’t changed the code since he’d set it. The lights were on; Camilla’s jacket was hanging on a hook by the back door.
Silence hung heavy in the space, and Marlon already knew no one was there.
Elton confirmed it before Marlon had time to check the building to make sure. “Oh, shit,” he said. “You’d better have a look at this.”