The blighter assumed a smug grin. “And you think that’s good enough for her? That you can give her the life she deserves?”

Cal snorted. “No. I never said I was going to give her any kind of life.” Monica was a strong, smart woman. She didn’t need Cal or anyone else to provide for her.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Ryan lost consciousness again. Bloody marvel, those pills.

Monica wouldn’t rest easy if Ryan stayed here on his own. Cal didn’t want her to worry, so he called the hotel and got hold of Mr. Lawson. The capable butler promised to hire a full-time nurse. Cal should have thought of it last night. Could have saved himself a load of grief.

Satisfied with his scheme, he spent the next two hours trying to doze until Evan pounded on the door. Sporting a pair of bright blue trousers and matching suede loafers, he sauntered into the living room and removed his sunglasses. He glanced down at Ryan with a mixture of distaste and humor. “He could wake the dead with that snoring. How did Monica stand it?”

Cal tried very hard not to think about Ryan touching Monica. The very idea of them together made him want to break something. “I have a nurse coming soon. Round-the-clock care. Can you stay until then?” He was already dialing for a taxi before he made it to the front door.

“Wait,” Evan said and followed him outside. “I want to talk to you.”

Cal gave the dispatcher the address. Once he hit the End button, he eyed Evan. “What is it?”

“Thanks for taking care of him last night. I’m afraid if she hangs around for too long, Monica will feel so guilty, she’ll go back to him.”

Cal rolled his shoulders to alleviate the stiffness in his muscles. “He’s entirely wrong for her.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Evan pursed his lips as he scrutinized Cal. “She needs a little excitement in her life, but not too much.”

At least Cal and the best mate were of the same mind.

“Here’s the thing,” Evan said. “Do not, under any circumstances, leave the country with her. Understand me?”

Cal laughed until he realized the man was actually serious. “Where do you think I’d take her, Peru?”

“I’m not kidding. And if you break her heart, I will find you and break your dick.” His phone vibrated. “Glad we had this little chat.” He walked back into the house and closed the door.

In the last few days, Cal’d had his manhood threatened too many times. What the hell had happened in Monica’s past that made everyone so protective of her? Hurt by some man, obviously. But he wasn’t going to hurt her. He and Monica agreed they’d have some fun.

If it’s just a bit of slap, why are you getting so worked up over her ex?

Bloody fucking hell. He was painfully envious of Reginald Wanker. How humiliating. It churned inside his chest like corrosive battery acid.

Cal restlessly paced the street until the taxi arrived. The cab reeked of stale smoke and raw onions.

During the twenty-minute ride, Cal listened to the cabbie’s life story and tales of domestic woe, which got his mind off Monica and Ryan. Almost. The fact of the matter was that Monica and Ryan weren’t together anymore. She’d spent the evening with Cal. He needed to remember that.

The taxi pulled up to the villa’s private entrance. Cal handed over a few bills, hopped out, and waved at the security guard, showing his pass.

He strolled the rest of the way to the villa, enjoying the hot sun beating down on him. He intended on taking a long shower. Then he’d call Monica, retrieve his car, and plan their date. Which may take all day, because plotting things out went against his nature. He’d been raised on spontaneity.

Pixie might be perfectly content in Monte Carlo one day, but have an urge to stay in Vancouver the next. Capricious, his mother. She quickly got tired of a place the same way she grew bored with people. She dropped friends and lovers alike, as she would discarded tissues.

Still, men followed Pixie around the world, their tongues dragging the ground. His mother liked having a fan club. One on the string and one in the wing, as she used to say.

Cal had learned much from her entourage of admirers. He had been introduced to Shakespeare by a West End actor, taught to read music from a bass player in Paris, had grown to love Dylan Thomas and Keats and Tennyson from his mother’s writer friends. When Pix sat for a famous German photographer, Cal had learned a smattering about art. His knowledge was lax and spotty, much to his erudite father’s disgust. It may not have been complete, but Cal’s education had been interesting, to say the least.

However, there was one lesson that had been ingrained in him early—don’t get attached. Not to anyone or anything. Cal had learned to travel light. He had only a few sets of clothes, his car magazines, and his one concession—his tools. He loved his tools, cared for them diligently, maintained and kept them in pristine condition. Babcock used to ship them separately. Once, when he was fifteen, they’d gotten lost on a flight from Brussels to Thailand. Cal had been inconsolable until they finally showed up, two weeks later.

Yet in spite of his history, Cal was becoming attached to Monica Campbell, even though he knew their liaison wouldn’t last long. It couldn’t, not with his restless nature. Cal had had a few brief, casual relationships over the years with women he’d been fond of, but there was something different about Monica, about her spirit and humor. Still, they’d agreed—no strings. Cal would stay long enough for Monica to break out of her good-girl shell, and then he’d figure out what to do next.

Cal lived a transient life, and he’d always liked it that way. But after seeing Monica and Evan last night, he realized he didn’t have anyone like that in his life, not since Babs. She’d been the one person he could rely on. The sense of loss hit him all over again.

Cal stopped at the villa’s doorway and rubbed his cheek. Where the hell was all this melancholy coming from? Time to shake it off already. Cal was just fine on his own—a lone wolf, doing what he wanted, when he wanted. Freedom. That’s what he had. Other people wished they could fly to Bermuda tomorrow and sit in the sun for three months. Cal could actually do it.

Slipping the key card in the door, he walked into the foyer, taking a second to let his eyes adjust to the indoor light. Then he walked toward his room, past the lounge, and drew to a halt. Batting his eyes a few times, he took in the dirty dishes, wet towels, and fashion magazines littering the floor and the coffee table. He heard a faint, high-pitched voice from a distance and resumed walking toward the master bedroom. As he stepped inside, he heard a one-way conversation coming from behind the lavatory door. With two fingers, Cal plucked a lime-green bra dangling from the corner of the telly. Fairly certain it wasn’t his—not unless he’d become a sleepwalking cross-dresser—he knew only one person who could cause this kind of utter destruction.

Chapter 12

“Jules,” he called.

An aggressively pink suitcase lay open on the bed, its contents strewn over the room like confetti at Carnival. Surely she hadn’t been here longer than a few hours. How could she do this in such a short amount of time? Astounding, really.

The bathroom door burst open and Jules—Juliette Margaret Hughes—emerged. As soon as she saw him, she threw her arms wide open and ran at him. “Hello, big brother, you fucking nutter. Surprised to see me?” Testing his reflexes, she jumped into his arms.

Cal managed to catch her, but staggered backward. He kissed her cheek, then lowered her to the floor. Surprised wasn’t the word he’d use. Shocked more like, and as it began to wear off, Cal realized he saw much more of her than he wanted to. Jules’s black bra clearly showed through her transparent pink blouse—which clashed dreadfully with her tangerine skin. She applied her makeup with a generous hand. A little too generous. Her gold sequined skirt was so short, Cal longed to pull the duvet from the bed and swaddle her in it. Even by Vegas standards, her clothing choices were questionable.