Without responding, Monica jerked away and kept walking.
“Was it something I said?” he called after her.
Monica didn’t look back, but she knew his eyes followed her every movement. She could feel his gaze wander over her, and despite the heat, a shiver skidded up her spine. Shit. Cal Hughes was trouble. Handsome, hard-bodied trouble.
Once Monica reached the house, she flung open the side door and bolted inside. The cool air felt good against her clammy skin. Leaning against the wall, Monica removed the glasses and closed her eyes. She rubbed the back of her neck, where heat crept under the surface and worked its way upward, toward her cheeks. She needed to calm the hell down. He was just a guy. A guy you’ve never been able to forget. That night, under a sprinkling of stars, Cal Hughes had made her feel exotic, untamed. Desired. But that was five long years ago—might as well be a lifetime.
Monica struggled to find her center, to compose herself and assume the calm demeanor she’d worked so hard to acquire.
After a few deep breaths, she strode past the glass cases that held various objets d’art, but she didn’t pause to look at them today. Instead, she headed straight into the breakfast room, hoping she’d have a few minutes alone before facing anyone. But luck was not on her side this morning. Her brother-in-law, Trevor Blake, sat with phone in hand, tapping out a text message. With his dark, overly long hair combed back from his face, he wore a perpetual haughty expression that made him seem cold and remote. Except with Allie and their twins. Somehow, Monica’s sister smoothed out Trevor’s harsh edges, made him not softer, but more approachable. Allie and Trevor shared something unique, and Monica sometimes envied the connection they had.
She plopped down next to him. “Hey, Trev.”
He didn’t speak until he’d finished texting. “Hey, yourself. Are you quite all right? You’re a bit peaky.”
“I ran into your cousin outside. What’s he doing here?” Other than throwing Monica’s world completely out of whack.
“Still tinkering away, is he? Wonder how long that will last.” Like Cal, his accent was posh. Arrogantly so. But where Trevor’s voice was cool and clipped, Cal Hughes sounded husky, like he’d smoked too many cigarettes the night before, or had just woken up. Monica closed her eyes in an effort to banish the images that kept flashing through her mind. Cal lying in bed naked—white sheets tangled around his legs, a contrast against his sun-kissed skin. With strong arms crossed behind his head, his crooked smile would beckon her…
When she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder, Monica’s eyes popped open, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Allie stood behind her holding an enormous black binder. With messy blond hair falling over her shoulders, Al wore a pink T-shirt and ripped jeans, managing to look sexy and disheveled. “Good morning.”
Monica placed a hand on her chest and willed her heart to slow down. “God, Al, are you trying to kill me?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Without waiting for an answer, Allie glided to Trevor and gave him a kiss…one that lasted so long, Monica felt as if she were intruding on a hot round of foreplay.
She cleared her throat. “You two done over there?”
Allie raised her head, with a playful smile on her lips. Trevor’s gray eyes were darker now, and Monica had no doubt if they’d been alone, he would have nailed her sister right there on the table, next to the blueberry muffins.
Allie settled into a seat. “We have a lot of ground to cover today.”
Get it together, Campbell. Keep your mind off Calum, and force Allie to stay on point. “I have an hour before I need to head back to the office.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Allie said.
“That may be true, but I’m leaving in an hour.” Monica pulled the tablet from her bag and turned it on.
Before Allie could respond, Monica’s younger sister, Brynn, walked into the room. “Hey, Mon, Cal Hughes is here. Do you remember him from Dad’s wedding? Because he remembered you.” She parked herself in a chair.
“What do you mean?” Surely he hadn’t mentioned their garden grope to Brynn? She felt Allie’s appraisal but refused to look up.
“He asked how you were. Wondered if you still lived in Vegas. He just jetted in from Australia two days ago,” Brynn said.
“Fascinating.” And now he was looking for a fuck-buddy. Well he could look somewhere else. She refused to spend one more minute talking about Hot Ass Hughes. Monica switched her attention to Allie. “Why couldn’t you come to the office for our meeting? I’ve had to rearrange my entire afternoon.”
“Because Cal’s here,” Allie said. So much for changing the subject. “I didn’t want to be a bad hostess.”
“You’re not a hostess, because he’s not staying here,” Trevor said, glancing up from his phone. “He’s staying at a hotel. I’ve not changed my mind about that.”
Brynn plucked a muffin from the platter and peeled back the paper. “He’s not staying at a hotel, he’s staying at one of the villas.” Her dark hair and delicate bone structure weren’t the only things that set Brynn apart from her sisters. She was also incredibly shy with strangers. But apparently Cal didn’t qualify as one.
Monica gave up trying to change the course of the conversation and indulged her curiosity. Only movie stars, whales, and foreign zillionaires stayed in the exclusive casino villas. “What does Cal do for a living anyway, run a country?”
“He fixes cars,” Brynn said.
There had to be more to the story. Monica had dated her fair share of motorheads in the past, and none of them had been rolling in expendable income. Cars were a pricey hobby.
“According to English here”—Allie wagged her thumb in Trevor’s direction—“Cal’s the shit of the old-car world.”
“Not old cars, darling, vintage cars,” Trevor corrected. “Classics. And he is the shit—an artist, really, when it suits him. He doesn’t just fix them, he restores them to their former glory.”
“He’s working on the Mustang here because our garage is so tricked out,” Allie said.
“Yes, lucky us.” Rising from the table, Trevor threw down his napkin and gave Allie a final kiss. “See you later. And remember ladies, play nice.” He patted Brynn’s head on his way out of the room.
Shoving aside her empty plate, Allie opened the binder and clicked her pen. “All right, let’s get started. The gala’s less than eight weeks away, and there are details we need to go over, starting with the linens.”
Monica had an urge to bang her head against the table until she was semiconscious. “Al, you know I don’t care about this shit. My priority is fund-raising.”
Allie raised one pale brow. “Since we’re all a part of the foundation, we all need to decide these things.”
“Isn’t this what the event planner is for?” Monica didn’t care if they used white tablecloths or pink, had tea roses or calla lilies. She had one goal: to raise more money than last year. She needed to tap donors and contact sponsors. The rest was just a time suck.
“Do you want to bitch, or do you want to get through this as quickly as possible?” Allie asked. “Because if you want to bitch, it might throw off your precious timetable.” Her tone remained pleasant, but Allie was on the verge of a full-blown snit fit—that placid, disingenuous smile gave her away.
Brynn sighed. “Stop it, both of you. I didn’t take time off work to listen to another argument. Monica, we’re already here—let’s plow through this. Allie, we don’t need to approve each and every minor issue. We trust your judgment. Just give us the highlights.”
Allie’s gaze clashed with Monica’s. Finally, Monica nodded. “That sounds like a good compromise.”
“Agreed,” Allie said.
For the next thirty minutes, Monica tried to pay attention to Allie’s concerns about lighting and who should be allowed to sit at the front table, but she couldn’t concentrate. Against her will, her mind kept drifting back to that night with Cal.