Chapter 16 #2
Sunshine. Just the thought of her name made him smile. Thinking of her was like taking a deep breath after a terrible battle, or finding a meadow full of wildflowers where he’d expected rocks and thorns.
“Cameron? Cameron, old man, you’re paying for this. Did you call for a chat or something important?”
Cameron dragged his thoughts away from a woman he could not have and forced himself to think about why he had his mobile in his hand. “I called to find out how your digging was coming,” he said. “You were checking on that trust that seems to be buying up so much of my company of late?”
“Yes, I remember,” Geoffrey said dryly. “And it’s going rather well actually. The layers are rather deep so we haven’t found the original creators, but I can tell you who has his name on the papers for the front company.”
“Nathan Ainsworth?”
Geoffrey laughed. “That came as an enormous surprise, apparently. We’ll need a bit more time to work on the other tiers, but we’ll have those for you as quickly as possible. I’m wondering, though, if you couldn’t just make me a list of whom you’ve irritated lately to cut out some of my legwork.”
Cameron pursed his lips. “I don’t know if I could stomach that sort of list today.”
“Then have a bit more patience, Cameron, and we’ll find you what you need. You’re still buying up shares of Ainsworth Associates, aren’t you?”
“Through various entities,” Cameron agreed. “Rather cheaply, as it happens. Nathan’s doing a brilliant job of seeing his father’s company devalued.”
“No doubt.” Geoffrey paused. “I wonder, given whom you’re doing business with here, if you might be interested in a few less savoury details. If you are, I think I might have a man you should meet. He’s almost as nosy as you are. Do you know Alexander Smith?”
Cameron made a noise of distaste before he could stop himself. “I faced him over a conference table in Manhattan several years ago and the experience was not pleasant. I didn’t realize he was plying his vile trade over here.”
“Has been for years,” Geoffrey said, “though he’s less of a lawyer now and more of a private investigator. Given that you’re able to pay his exorbitant fee, he could likely be convinced to take on your troubles. Are you interested in a bit of a go with him, then?”
Cameron chewed on his words for a moment or two. “Is he discreet?”
“Painfully.”
“All right,” Cameron agreed. “Ask him to see what he can find out about the trust. Perhaps he could also take a look at Rodney’s will and see if there’s something there that we’ve missed.
” He cleared his throat. “Be ginger about sorting all this, though, Geoffrey. I don’t want to tip any hands.
” He paused. “And realize how much trust I’m placing in you. ”
“Robert, my friend, I’m never under any illusions about that.”
Cameron smiled. “Give my love to Ginny. She’s too good for you, you know.”
“I’m charging you extra for that comment,” Geoffrey said with a snort. “Have a lovely party tonight.”
“How did you know?”
“Penelope put it in the paper, of course. For being such a private man, you certainly have quite a bit of your personal life splashed all over the society pages, don’t you?”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
“My pleasure,” Geoffrey said pleasantly. “I’ll let you know when I’ve reached our new friend. And Cameron? Don’t drink the wine.”
Cameron hung up on him with a curse. There were too many people who knew too bloody much about his life.
At least the past eight years of it.
He threw himself down into a chair with a deep sigh.
He wouldn’t have trusted anyone with tales of what had gone on before then.
It was difficult enough for him to trust anyone with details of his present life.
He still had to suppress the urge to go around behind the backs of the lads he kept closest to him to make certain they weren’t betraying him.
Old habits died hard.
The phone on the desk rang before he could think about that more than was good for him. He sighed, then reached for it.
“Aye?”
“Hello,” Penelope said shortly. “It is hello, my lord Robert.”
He suppressed a sigh. “Hello, Penelope.”
“You haven’t left your office yet? We’re not eating until nine, but I want you here early to greet our guests.”
“Of course,” he said, wondering if he might have time to order takeaway before he left the city. He had no intention of eating anything at Penelope’s table that night.
“Tell George to hurry.”
The phone went dead in his hand. He spared Rodney Ainsworth an unkind thought, then set to the rest of his afternoon.
He finally gathered up his papers, shoved them into a briefcase, and left his office.
It was tempting to just go back to his hotel and hope the evening took care of itself without his presence, but he knew he couldn’t.
He had to keep up appearances with both Penelope and her brother.
It wasn’t wise to allow enemies free rein out of sight.
He’d learned that well enough in the past.
He walked out of the building to find George waiting for him downstairs.
George was his driver in London, a discreet, wry man who thought nothing of Cameron’s hours, the fact that he stayed in a hotel because he couldn’t bring himself to purchase a flat, or his disgust for proper society.
George also put up with Penelope making him ferry her everywhere on those rare occasions when Cameron was in Scotland.
“My lord,” George said with a small bow, opening the back door.
Cameron got in, leaned his head back against the headrest, and trusted that George would get him where he needed to go with a minimum of fuss.
He would have given much to have been in his Range Rover, bumping over the road to Patrick MacLeod’s house.
Now, that was the sort of dinner party he would have looked forward to.
He might have even forgiven Madelyn MacLeod her ruthless, persistent, and damned prying questions.
She had become a MacLeod in truth, protecting her sister with a ferocity that even a MacLeod by birth would have had to appreciate.
He hadn’t answered anything about his activities over the past several years, and not just because he never discussed his past with anyone.
It had never set well with him to be the recipient of Alistair Cameron’s charity—not that Alistair’s charity had lasted overlong.
Once Cameron had been able to get out of bed, Alistair had put him to work.
Schooling, business, hobnobbing with society in London—the expectations had been brutal and unrelenting, but Cameron had agreed without hesitation to everything because he’d known the only way to survive in the future was to master the intricacies of it.
He’d asked Alistair several times why he’d bothered with it all—the education, the contacts, the change of his will that had sent Alistair’s distant cousins into a frenzy. Alistair had answered only once.
Once laird of the clan Cameron, my boy, always laird of the clan Cameron.
That had been answer enough. Cameron had never asked again and instead been grateful for an old man who’d accepted the vagaries of his first twenty-seven years with a shrug.
And he himself had happily accepted all Alistair’s worldly possessions and his business upon his death.
He’d been busy and very successful. Why, then, had his life seemed so damned empty?
He tried to fill it in a variety of ways.
Discreet women. Travels to far-flung locales.
Hunting down that which couldn’t be bought and haggling over its price.
He’d never gambled, never gotten drunk, never slept about casually.
Somehow, though, nothing had satisfied. When his life had begun eight years ago in that hospital in Inverness, something inside him had died.
And then he’d seen Sunshine Phillips.
And his world had ground to a halt.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it at first. He’d tried to convince himself that when she’d thrown herself into his arms, he’d been surprised because he’d thought her mad. The true surprise had been that when he’d had her in his arms, something in his heart had sighed with relief.
“George, how long before we’re there, do you suppose?” he asked reluctantly.
“Perhaps half an hour, my lord, no more.”
Cameron cursed silently. Not nearly long enough to put off the torture.
He was dreading the thought of spending the evening in uncomfortable shoes, avoiding food that would have been too rich for his belly even if he’d been assured of its purity, and enduring the stares of disbelieving servants who would come to refill his wineglass only to find there was no need.
He would be forced to make polite conversation with spoiled, minor nobles who didn’t have an original thought in their poor heads, listen with rapt attention to everything Penelope said, and avoid killing her brother.
He almost had George turn around.
What he wanted was to be in Scotland with his feet up in front of his Aga, enjoying a proper bit of stew.
He wanted to be in the village, stretching himself to keep John at bay and make it look easy.
He wanted to be in Patrick MacLeod’s great hall, watching Sunshine Phillips by the light of the fire.
Damn it, anyway.
“George,” he announced suddenly, “I’m leaving at midnight. Be ready to go.”
George looked in the rearview mirror. “Another party?”
“A date with my club.” Perhaps he could drink himself into a stupor and stop thinking about things he shouldn’t.
“Do you have a club, my lord?”
Cameron glared at him.
“Nothing good happens after midnight, my lord.”
By the saints, he knew that. But he was facing a miserable evening, he was trapped in a hell not of his own making, and where he wanted to be was exactly where he shouldn’t go.