capital firm expressed their sympathy about the situation in Houston, but most didn’t bother. It didn’t affect them, so why waste the energy?
Cam was midway through typing a response to a Singaporean client when his ringing phone broke his concentration. He glanced at the display, didn’t recognize the number and considered ignoring the call. Then he remembered that he’d asked the search coordinator to inform him if they located Rick. This could be an update, so he needed to take the call. He hit the speaker button with an impatient finger. “McNeal.”
“Camden McNeal?”
“That’s me.”
“Excellent. You have been listed as the emergency contact number of a Vivianne Donner. I regret to inform you that Ms. Donner was admitted into the ER this morning after a car accident. When can we expect you?”
Cam pushed a hand through his hair, confused. “I think you have the wrong person. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“I have your cell number, sir. You are Camden McNeal, owner of McNeal, Inc., and you live in River Oaks?”
“Yeah, that’s correct—”
“You might not know her, but she sure knows you. So, my question remains, how soon can we expect you?”
* * *
Cam paced into the lobby of the hospital, his long stride eating up the distance between the doors and the nurses station. He dodged a nurse pushing a pregnant woman in a wheelchair and noticed that the dad-to-be was on the verge of panic. Rather him than me, Cam thought. He was the product of two of the most dysfunctional people in the world and what he knew about parenting would fit on a pinhead.
His father had taught him how to steal, to hustle, to slip and slide through life, but mostly his parents had taught him that he could only ever rely on, and take care of, himself. He didn’t think he had it in him to put someone else’s needs and wants above his own. It wasn’t something he’d been shown how to do.
And the one time he’d tried, the only time he’d laid his heart at someone’s feet, ring in his hand, Emma had stomped all over it with her three-inch stilettos, her expression a mixture of genuine disbelief and pity.
Darling, you’re great in bed, but you’re not exactly someone to take into a ballroom. Or into a boardroom, or home to Daddy. You’re someone to screw, to keep in the shadows. Marry you? You’re ambitious, Cam, I’ll give you that, but I’m out of your league.
It had been ten years ago, but, despite her recently making it clear that she’d made a mistake by walking out on him, her little speech was imprinted on his brain, possibly because it closely resembled his father’s words of non-encouragement. “You’re a McNeal, you’ll never amount to much. None of us ever have and you won’t be the first.”
His bank statement and long lists of assets refuted that statement. But Cam was a realist: he might be good at business, but he’d make a lousy father and husband. Hell, judging by how fast that nameless girl in Tarrin left his bed three years ago, he wasn’t even that great at one-night stands. Sex, he was good at that, but not so much at the touchy feely stuff woman liked.
Cam slapped his hands on the counter and met the weary eyes of the nurse behind it. “I got a call about a woman who put my name down as an emergency contact. I’m Camden McNeal.”
“Patient name?”
Cam tried to recall his earlier conversation. “Dunbar? Dun...something?”
“Donner? Vivianne Donner?”
Cam shrugged. The name didn’t mean any more to him now than it had earlier. The nurse tapped her keyboard and nodded. “Room 302. She has severe concussion and she needs a ride home, and someone to take care of her when she gets there. Down the hall, turn right and she’ll be on your left.”
Cam looked at the long hallway and sighed. Well, it looked like he was about to meet Ms. Donner and maybe he’d find out why he was listed as her emergency contact. Come to think of it, who was listed as his emergency contact? Had he ever listed anyone? Not that he could recall.
Reaching the closed door to room 302, Cam knocked gently. And when he received no reply, he eased open the door. He glanced toward the bed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
His first impressions were of a long, slim body topped by a cloud of curls the color of lightly toasted caramel. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, as it had been a busy, physically draining twenty-four hours. He needed to talk to the woman, get her to take his name off her papers and get some food. Maybe then his headache would finally start to dissipate.
Cam flipped on the overhead light and it took a minute, maybe more, to realize that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, that his imagination wasn’t running riot. He rested his hands on the bed next to her thigh and ordered his racing heart to slow down, his lungs to pull in air. He closed his eyes, re-centered himself and then forced them open again.
Yep, she was still there.
Cam stared down at that stunning face, his heart pounding against his chest in a fight-or-flight reaction. It had been three years, give or take, since he’d seen her last, and damn, she looked, well, amazing. Sure, she had three stitches holding a cut together on a finely arched eyebrow, a bruise on her cheek and a scrape across her jaw, and a deep cut on her bottom lip, but her injuries didn’t take away from her drop-him-to-his-knees beauty. She’d lost weight and looked like a puff of wind would blow her away.
Turning, Cam saw the chair next to the bed. He hooked his foot around its legs and dragged it toward him. He dropped down into it and placed his forearms on his thighs, resisting the urge to shake her awake. What the hell game was she playing? She had to be playing one, because, let’s be honest, everyone did.
He wasn’t sure if she’d played him then, but he was certain she was playing him now. Cam stared at her as memories of that dive bar rolled over him. It had been a crap hole, little more than a shack serving watered-down drinks to the ranch hands and the refinery crews working in the area.
He’d been aware of her—Vivianne, he now had a name to go with the stunning face—the moment she stepped into the dive bar, as had every other man in the place. She’d looked so damn young and so very vulnerable with the shot glass in her hand, her eyes on the fiery liquid. He expected her to push it away, to turn tail and run, but she’d squared her shoulders and tossed the liquor back, blinking furiously as she swallowed. She’d banged her glass down, ordered another and slowly, oh so slowly, turned those brown-black eyes in his direction.
“One down, two more experiments to go.”
He’d lifted his beer bottle in her direction, noting her long legs in tight, faded denim and the way her white T-shirt hugged the curves of her breasts and skimmed a board-flat stomach.
She was older than he initially thought, somewhere in her midtwenties, yet while they might be close in age, he’d figured he’d lived a thousand more lifetimes—all of them harder and rougher than hers.
He should’ve ignored her, finished his beer and left, but he’d turned to face her and cocked his head. “You a scientist, sweetheart?”
She’d ignored him at first, taken the second shot and tossed
