Inhaltsangabe
The next right thing is the only choice
Cammie Copello gets results—even if it means stretching the rules. That's what makes her a great private investigator. It's also what caused the little breach between her and attorney Marc Hamilton. It's too bad, because they made a great team. And, honestly, her career hasn't been the same since.
So imagine her surprise when Marc shows up begging for her help with a personal case. When he turns on the charm…well, she can't refuse. But she can keep her attraction to Marc a secret—regardless of how tempting he is. Her intentions are put to the test, however, when he proves that the attraction is not one-sided!
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Colleen Collins’s novels have placed first in the Colorado Gold, Romancing the Rockies and Top of the Peak contests, and placed in the finals for the Holt Medallion, Award of Excellence, More than Magic and Romance Writers of America RITA contests. After graduating with honors from the University of California Santa Barbara, Colleen worked as a film production assistant, improv comic, technical writer/editor and private investigator. All these experiences play into her writing.
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Green-and-white spotlights swirled. Trumpets blared.
"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed a male voice over the speakers, "our superstar show is beginning on the Shamrock a-Go-Go Stage! On this lovely April twentieth in glittering, glamorous Las Vegas—" the announcer's voice dropped to a tone reserved for funerals "—we're bringing back a star who is gone to the world, but here at the Shamrock Palace, he lives forever." The recording of trumpets replayed. "With no further ado," he said, all peppy again, "the one and only King of Pop, Michael Jackson!"
Cammie looked up at as Jeffrey, one of her fellow dealers, stepped onto the Shamrock a-Go-Go Stage, a platform not much larger than her uncle Frankie's dining room table, and four or so feet higher than the circle of green-felt-covered gambling tables. Jeffrey hailed from a town in Oklahoma—"So small, you'd miss it if you sneezed." After landing in Vegas two years ago with stardust in his eyes, and several failed stints as a backup singer, he'd eventually found employment as a dealer-performer at the Shamrock Palace.
A grind joint at the end of the strip, the casino advertised such luxuries as green beer, daily penny-slot tournaments and celebrity-impersonator shows every hour, on the hour. Jeffrey might have a Southern twang, stand six-four in his socks and be about as African-American as Blake Shelton…but he could do a mean moonwalk and never flubbed a lip sync. Slather on lots of makeup, a curly black wig, tight pants and voila! A taller version of the King of Pop lived again.
While Jeffrey mimed and strutted his way through the song "Billie Jean," Cammie sipped her diet cola. Val, the Christina Aguilera celebrity-performer-dealer and Cammie's best pal at the job, sidled up to her. "Where y'at?"
Which Val had once explained was like saying "How you doin'?" in her hometown of N'awlins.
"Slow day at the Cave." Cammie nodded at her empty gambling table.
None of them ever called this part of the casino the Palace. Mostly because it was buried far back in the shadowy pits of the casino. To reach it, customers had to pass through several hundred slot machines, a belt of fast-food businesses employees called "Grease Gulch," and a Tiki Bar with a thatched roof and piped-in monkey sounds.
"Slow day, f'true," said Val. "I've made a whoppin' five bucks today in dealer tips."
Cammie glanced at Val's skimpy sailor outfit and sailor hat. "New song?"
"Lippin' 'Candyman' in an hour. Aguilera kicked some serious A in that video. I'm hoping to do the same, get some of these tightwads to open up their hearts 'n wallets and give me some tip love. Like Mama over there." Val gestured toward a fiftysomething woman in a low-cut leopard-print top stuffing bills into a silver bucket next to the stage. Jeffrey, as Michael, blew her a kiss with his white-gloved hand.
"Ya know," Val said, giving Cammie an appraising look, "with your long curly black hair and endless legs, you'd be an excellent Cher."
"Isn't she sixtysomething?"
"Girl, Cher could make eighty look hubba hubba. But I meant a younger, hotter Cher. You could lip 'If I Could Turn Back Time.'"
"Oh, yeah," Cammie murmured, "that'd be my song of choice."
Not.
Truth was, if Cammie could turn back time, she would probably do all her dumb mistakes again. She was a risk taker, had never believed in tiptoeing into a situation if rushing in headfirst meant finding the clue, nailing the case.
But the problem with being the type of person to go full throttle and take chances was that sometimes she stepped into questionable legal areas.
Like that GPS debacle last month.
Oh, she'd had excellent reasons for doing it, all of them licit or at least with compelling legal potential. First, her client, Rebel's wife, had been worried about the welfare of their kids because she feared—and it turned out to be true—Rebel's paramour had a sideline business dealing drugs. Second, Rebel's wife was listed on the registration for the pickup, so technically Cammie had bugged it with the owner's permission.
The judge didn't buy either reason.
Regarding the girlfriend's side business, the judge claimed people distributing illegal substances fell under the jurisdiction of the police, not an overzealous licensed private investigator. And as to planting the GPS device, the judge ruled it wasn't enough that Cammie's client had her name on the registration because it was clear to the judge that the philandering husband had full-time possession and use of the truck.
He charged Cammie with wiretapping, which carried up to four years in the tank.
Fortunately, an attorney—a pal of her uncle Frankie's—stepped in and pleaded down the felony wiretapping charge to a misdemeanor trespass with a fine. Despite living in Vegas for only seven years, Uncle Frankie was well connected. To know him was to love him. Lucky for her. Instead of going to jail, the state regulatory agency suspended her P.I. license with the stipulation that after she fulfilled seventy-five hours' community service, paid a thousand-dollar donation to an inner-city youth scholarship fund and paid the P.I. licensure board for its prosecution costs, she could apply to have her license reinstated. Yeah, real lucky.
Unfortunately, with an economy as robust as a taco shell, finding a new job was next to impossible. Hearing Cammie's dilemma, Frankie's fiancée, Delilah, who owned the gift shop at the Shamrock Palace and got along well with the owner, helped Cammie obtain a dealer's license and interview. Because the Elvis and Marilyn performer-dealers were threatening to walk if they didn't get more stage time, the owner was downright gleeful that Cammie had no desire to be a lip-sync diva.
Although, she still had to wear a costume at work—corset, fishnet stockings and high heels. At least, Cammie kept reminding herself, this corset gig was short-term. Five or six months, tops.
The double glass entrance doors to the casino blew open and warm desert winds rushed inside. A drink toppled off a table. Several women giddily shrieked, holding up their hands as though that could ward off the gusty breezes. Jeffrey raised his arms to his sides, letting the currents blow his unbuttoned white shirt off his chest, never missing a lip-syncing beat, the ends of his black wig lifting with the gale. A classic wind-machine Michael Jackson moment.
"Jeffrey's killin' it," said Val, holding on to her sailor cap.
Several beefy security guards managed to shove the doors closed. The Shamrock Palace returned to its mix of jangling slot machines, buzzing conversations and "Billie Jean."
"Wonder why he switched the glove," Cammie mused. Normally, Jeffrey wore a white glove with gold sequins. Today it was white with tiny golden stars.
Val squinted, then smiled in surprise. "Dang, Snooper, you have superhero vision. Which is no doubt why you're such a talented private eye. Speaking of which, that lawyer you used to sleuth for still callin'?"
"Seems to have stopped." Cammie's heart shrank a little. It hadn't been easy ignoring those calls. Of course, hadn't helped that she kept listening to his messages, which were friendly but devoid of any real content. "Hi, Cammie, how're you doing? Hey, give me a call."
"Hey, Cammie, Marc again. Would really appreciate you returning this call, thanks." She...
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The Next Right Thing
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Harlequin Enterprises ULC, 2013
ISBN 10: 0373718403
ISBN 13: 9780373718405
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Zustand: Good. Former library copy. Pages intact with minimal writing/highlighting. The binding may be loose and creased. Dust jackets/supplements are not included. Includes library markings. Stock photo provided. Product includes identifying sticker. Better World Books: Buy Books. Do Good. Artikel-Nr. 2291027-75
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