He heard Clem’s sigh and looked down to see her long eyelashes against her cheeks, her tiny hand on his chest. She suddenly felt a little heavier, her breathing a little deeper. She was, he realized, asleep. His mouth tipped up in a wry smile: at least someone in this house trusted him.
Vivi, who obviously had a finely tuned mom radar, lifted her head. Her expression softened as love, pure and incandescent, turned her dark eyes liquid. He’d never seen so much love in one expression, and his cold, hard heart rolled around his rib cage. His daughter was deeply loved, and Cam’s throat clogged with gratitude. He was pissed at Vivi’s secretiveness, confused by her reluctance to contact him, discombobulated by her sudden and dramatic reappearance in her life and kicked off-kilter by his raging attraction to her.
But beside all that, he was fundamentally and completely grateful that she loved his daughter.
Not all mothers did.
Cam looked away from her, hoping she hadn’t noticed his emotional reaction. He didn’t know how to deal with these complicated feelings and he certainly couldn’t discuss them.
“She normally goes down for a nap around about now,” Vivi said. “I’ll go put her down and then I’ll walk you to your car.”
Did she really think she’d get rid of him that easily? Vivi reached for Clem but Cam shook his head. “I’ve got her.”
Vivi looked like she was wanted to argue, but instead she just shrugged and walked away. Cam followed her through the living room. Her house was nothing like his exquisitely decorated mansion in River Oaks; it could probably fit into one wing of his stupidly big residence. But every inch was warm and welcoming and personal. This was Vivi and Clem’s space; they lived here. Unlike him, who just seemed to inhabit his house.
If the choice was between luxury and warmth, space and coziness, Vivi’s house would win hands down. It was a home, while his place was just a richly decorated space.
Vivi opened the door to the small bedroom and gestured him inside. There were stuffed animals in Clem’s bed, and the curtains were printed with tiny farm animals. A chest of drawers stood in the corner of the room and a battered bookcase held a wide variety of children’s books.
Cam’s attention was pulled from the room when Vivi bent over to toss the stuffed animals to the bottom of Clem’s bed. God, she had a perfect ass. His eyes drifted down and Cam could easily imagine those long legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts in his hands, her sexy mouth on his. God, he wanted her. As much—no, far more than he had three years ago.
Vivi straightened and turned, and their eyes collided. Moments passed as electricity arced between them, and neither of them moved, each knowing that the other was remembering, wanting, craving. Memories of that night occasionally surfaced, along with mild regret, and he accepted that making love with Vivi was one of the best sexual experiences of his life. But Cam knew that if he made love to her now, tonight, nothing would ever be the same.
It was almost enough to make him walk away. If it weren’t for Clem, he would.
Vivi wrenched her eyes away and gestured to the bed. “You can just lay her down. She won’t wake up. She sleeps like the dead.”
Cam stepped up to the bed and Vivi moved away, as if scared to touch him. He didn’t blame her; they had the ability to go up in flames. He held Clem gently, releasing his breath when she was on the bed, her cheek on her pillow. Vivi, still taking care not to make contact, tugged her tiny shoes off her feet and then her socks, revealing perfect, perfect toes. Everything about Clem was perfect...
And Clem’s mommy wasn’t too bad, either.
Vivi placed the shoes and socks on top of the chest of drawers, crossed her arms and rocked on her heels. “So, again, thanks for your help. But if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.”
He wasn’t ready for go, not yet. He could stay here. This could be his place.
Cam closed his eyes and shook the fantasy away. Just because you have a daughter doesn’t mean you have a family. It doesn’t work like that. Not now, not ever. You’re projecting, fantasizing, McNeal. That isn’t something you do, something you’re allowed to do.
You deal in facts, cold and hard.