She gave him an impish smile. “So improvise.”
“Very funny.” Grabbing his keys from the table by the
phone, he slipped on his shoes and headed for the door. “I’m walking. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“See you.”
On his way down the driveway, he let himself imagine a variety of unlikely scenarios in which Ellen actually did throw herself at him. That drill-sergeant mouth softening, her hands gripping his shoulders as she rose to the balls of her bare feet and kissed him.
Never gonna happen.
And that was for the best. He didn’t need to kiss Ellen, he needed to convince her. Whatever it took, he had to find a way to make the woman let him do the job he’d been hired to do so he could exceed Breckenridge’s expectations and save his own ass.
Breckenridge was the key to turning things around. His contact there had told him the nationwide company didn’t have enough agents in the Midwest, and they hired out a lot of work. If Caleb performed well on this job, more contracts would be coming his way.
He had a mission. His family was counting on him.
Caleb wouldn’t lay a finger on Ellen Callahan.
Chapter Five
As he cut across one dark corner of the campus, Caleb pondered the mystery of Camelot College. He’d never thought to question it growing up, but surely there was a story to explain how this collection of imposing granite buildings had come to be nestled among the cornfields. The architecture gave the place an unexpected flavor of New England, as if someone had hoped to bring Yale to the Midwest.
The college drew people in, but it was Camelot that got a hold on them. It had certainly gotten a hold on his family. Dad had sunk his savings into the Camelot Arms Apartments when Caleb was only four years old.
Enthusing about the virtues of becoming his own boss and the income stream they’d siphon from an endless supply of student renters, Dad had driven the Clarks two hundred miles from Detroit to Camelot and separated Mom from her relatives, inflicting a wound she’d never properly recovered from. Mom still talked about moving back to Michigan one day. Everyone but her knew it was never going to happen.
For Caleb, Camelot was home, and he was a homebody. In basic training, he’d run his mouth about how great Ohio was so often, he’d earned himself the nickname “Buckeye.”
Caleb passed the tennis courts, crossed the invisible line that divided the campus from the town, and emerged onto Ellen’s street. Only two paparazzi vehicles lay in wait tonight when he checked in at the security SUV. Eric and Cassie told him they’d logged a few others doing drive-bys, but it had been a quiet afternoon.
He found Ellen lounging on a weathered Adirondack chair on her recessed front porch, a glass of red wine in her hand. The open bottle sat beside her foot, along with an unused second glass. His eyes flicked to the empty chair next to hers.
Rather than approach, Caleb veered off to the left, seizing his chance to do a quick assessment of the house while she didn’t look inclined to run him off with a shotgun.
The inventory didn’t cheer him up any. Both the exterior door off the kitchen and the French doors in back had cheap, worthless locks and no deadbolts. Most of the rear wall was plate glass, which effectively turned Ellen’s living room into a fishbowl. The overhanging roof threw deep shadows over all the entrances, but only the front porch had a security light, and if the black, sooty spot on the flat surface of the bulb was any indication, it had burned out.
Ellen’s place was a home invasion waiting to happen. She didn’t have even the standard homeowner protections—blinds on her windows, deadbolts, and floodlights to make break-ins less likely. She needed those, and more. He wouldn’t recommend an alarm system to just anybody, but he’d sure as hell insist on one for anybody with a relative as famous as Jamie Callahan. That, and a tall, solid fence with a gate and a keypad.
Time to find out just how persuasive he could be.
“Hey there, Ellen Callahan.” He planted one foot on the bottom porch step.
“Hey yourself, Camelot Security. Doing a little trespassing?”
“Yep. Is that wineglass for me?”
“No.”
“Who’s it for, then?”
She shrugged. “Always a good idea to have a spare.”
Caleb smiled at her wit, and a moment later, so did she—a soft killer of a smile that came so easily, he thought the wine must have helped it along.
“Hank go to bed early?”
“Henry. Yes. Twenty-five whole minutes. He was all worn out from the zoo today, poor guy.”