Книга - Abby, Get Your Groom!

Abby, Get Your Groom!
Victoria Pade


Always a stylist, never a bride?It’s a major coup for hairstylist Abby Crane when fabulously wealthy Dylan Camden hires her for his sister’s nuptials. Raised tough and independent in foster care, Abby is dazzled and intimidated by his glamorous world. Yet Abby knows she could never really belong…After an engagement gone disastrously wrong, connecting with Abby was just supposed to be a favour for his grandmother. Yet the more time Dylan spends with Abby, the more he realises all he wants to do is meet her at the altar!









Dylan didn’t question her, though. He merely headed for the shop door.


“Four-thirty tomorrow,” he repeated. “Text me your address and I’ll bring a car with no dents and more than two seats.”

That confused her, too. But she felt so dazed by then that she thought it might have been perfectly clear to someone else.

She only nodded and watched him open the door.

As he went through it he cast her one last glance over his shoulder. He had the kind of smile on his face that said he liked what he saw when he caught that final sight of her. Then he pulled the door closed after himself and he was gone.

And that was when Abby deflated. Swallowed hard. And wondered if she’d stepped into some other world or something.

Because somehow she didn’t feel as though she was still in her own.

* * *

The Camdens of Colorado: They’ve made a fortune in business. Can they make it in the game of love?


Abby, Get

Your Groom!

Victoria Pade






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


VICTORIA PADE is a USA TODAY bestselling author. A native of Colorado, she’s lived there her entire life. She studied art before discovering her real passion was for writing and even after more than eighty books, she still loves it. When she isn’t writing she’s baking and worrying about how to work off the calories. She has better luck with the baking than with the calories. Readers can contact her on her Facebook page.


Contents

Cover (#ufe82c454-f44c-5d01-b3b9-d58554632325)

Introduction (#u9f8d0d9e-ac2a-52a6-af1b-3d73befdc479)

Title Page (#u093b37b0-9f02-5e29-9607-d9314da9af4f)

About the Author (#u1380f962-7818-54be-945c-baea72aae44d)

Chapter One (#uf809a097-172b-5550-8ec1-7d358bb4c7c7)

Chapter Two (#ua50a59fb-b83e-5d14-965c-d3e14c4e78d9)

Chapter Three (#u9be30dec-d5e3-55b9-bd42-43ca7bcdc48e)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_b278627d-fb2e-5e99-8116-f5bcd10433f2)

“I can’t get married looking like this!”

Dylan Camden heard his sister’s lament as he went into the kitchen of his grandmother’s home. He was coming from an apology lunch he hoped would gain him a few more good-grace points with his family. He had fences to mend and he was trying to act on every opportunity to do that.

But the minute he set eyes on his sister he couldn’t help laughing before he caught himself and agreed with her. “You’re right, that is not good hair.”

It looked like a rats’ nest with bows.

Lindie and Georgianna Camden—the grandmother they all called GiGi—turned at the sound of his voice.

“And this is the third try!” Lindie said. “Three different stylists from three different Camden Superstores salons. No wonder revenues in most of them are down if this is their quality of work!”

“I think I might have a solution that will kill two birds with one stone,” GiGi said. “You know about the visit from the prison chaplain—”

It had come as a surprise to everyone three days ago when a chaplain from the state penitentiary had shown up at GiGi’s house in the heart of Denver’s Cherry Creek. He’d come a long way with a request.

In the final week of longtime inmate Gus Glassman’s life, Glassman had asked that the chaplain track down a lockbox of his belongings to be given to the daughter he’d abandoned twenty-eight years ago when he was incarcerated.

The incident that had caused the man to be imprisoned was something GiGi had read about in the recently discovered journals of her late father-in-law, the founder of the Camden fortune, H.J. Camden.

During their lives, H.J., his son Hank—who was GiGi’s late husband—and GiGi and Hank’s sons, Mitchum and Howard, had all been suspected of heavy-handed, unscrupulous business practices. Rumors and accusations had flown about ruthlessness, deceit, and callous, cold-blooded and unprincipled practices.

Nothing had ever been proven. And because GiGi and her ten grandchildren had never met with anything but loving care and kindness from the men, it hadn’t been difficult to deny what had seemed like only false accusations.

Then H.J.’s journals were discovered, proving that all the accusations were true.

As a result, the current Camdens were trying to quietly seek out those who were wronged in the past—or their descendants—and atone in some way that wasn’t disloyal to the men they’d all loved, and also didn’t open the gates to unfounded lawsuits.

Gus Glassman had been sent to the Colorado State Penitentiary for manslaughter when he—working as an enforcer for the Camdens—had gone too far while giving a beating to a factory supervisor who was trying to form a union. The beating was given on H.J.’s orders. GiGi had explored the possibility of making amends to the family of the man who had died, but he’d left no descendants so she’d moved on to other incidents.

But the prison chaplain had relayed information that there was another person caught in the fallout of Glassman’s deadly errand. An innocent whose existence was unknown until Gus Glassman revealed it to the prison chaplain.

Gus Glassman had left behind a then-two-year-old daughter.

When GiGi heard that, she’d assured the chaplain that she would find the lockbox and Gus Glassman’s daughter and take care of everything.

“I didn’t want this to wait any longer so I’ve been looking into it since the minute I said goodbye to the chaplain,” GiGi went on, “and you aren’t going to believe it, Lindie—she’s a stylist for that salon, Beauty By Design. The one that Vonni said a lot of her brides are using instead of Camdens.”

“The one that advertises their special-occasion team?”

The seventy-five-year-old matriarch nodded. “The hairdresser who manages the shop and does the special occasion events is Abby Crane—”

“Gus Glassman’s daughter,” Dylan contributed. His cousin Cade had just told him over lunch—after Dylan’s profuse apologies to Cade and Cade’s wife, Nati. “But you can’t be thinking that Lindie could find a way to make amends to her in the middle of this sprint to her wedding!”

“What I was thinking,” GiGi said to him with that putting-him-in-his-place tone that he recognized well, “is that if we could get this group to do the wedding, the girls might all get their hair done the way they want and in the process we’d be establishing contact with Abby Crane.”

Mellowing her tone, GiGi included Lindie again as she went on. “According to the chaplain, Gus Glassman made sure his daughter wouldn’t know who her father was, or anything about where she came from. All he left her with was a blanket and a note saying her name was Abby. But I have learned that she grew up in foster care, moved around from home to home—”

“No telling how happy or unhappy that might have left her,” Dylan interjected. “She could be a pretty tough cookie. So let me do it. That’s why I came by—Cade told me about what you’d found out. And I should be who does this project.”

“You want your hair, makeup and nails done for the wedding?” Lindie goaded him.

“I could start with a haircut to get my foot in the door so I can tell her who she is,” he suggested.

“But we also need someone to do wedding hair,” GiGi reasoned. “That’s two birds with one stone.”

“And I’m in charge of security for the wedding—and security for everything leading up to it—and trying to keep the circus that’s developed around this to a minimum,” Dylan reminded her. The task was a natural fit for him, given his usual position as head of all Camden business security.

Lindie had met her fiancé, Sawyer Huffman, only a little over a month ago when GiGi had sent her on her own make-amends mission.

But Sawyer Huffman had made a career out of mounting very public opposition to every Camden Superstore being opened in the country. So when word had leaked that these two adversaries were coming together—coupled with the fact that any Camden major life event drew the media—it had caused a flurry of attention that was complicating the already problematical planning of a big wedding in a month’s time. A month’s time when they’d begun. Now the wedding was just over a week away.

“In order to have people outside of Camden Superstores doing anything with this wedding I need to find out if this woman can be discreet,” Dylan reasoned. “I need to check out the salon to see if you girls can go in and get what you need done without photographers taking everyone’s pictures through the windows—”

“And you do need a haircut before the wedding,” GiGi commented.

“So give me this make-amends mission and I can start with a haircut. That’ll get me in the door. Then I can approach Abby Crane about doing the wedding and to tell her that I know who she is. After twenty-eight years this shouldn’t wait any longer. It has to be one of the worst things we’ve learned about what was done in the past,” Dylan finished.

Both Lindie and GiGi sobered noticeably. It was clear to see they agreed.

“So let me take care of it,” Dylan reiterated.

For a moment neither Lindie nor GiGi said anything.

Dylan wasn’t sure whether that was due to the weight of what had happened twenty-eight years ago, or because no one in the family particularly trusted him these days.

Then, with some levity to her skepticism, Lindie said, “You’re going to be the one to set up a hair-and-makeup trial for me and my bridesmaids?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And you know that if we don’t like what Abby does, we won’t hire her, either, and that’s going to make the other part a lot harder.”

“I’m up for any challenge,” he claimed.

“The first one will probably be scheduling your own haircut in a busy salon on short notice,” Lindie said. “Let alone getting them to fit in a test run and an entire wedding party in just over a week.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he assured them.

Lindie looked to GiGi, who put Dylan under the kind of scrutiny she’d used on them when they were kids trying to bargain themselves out of punishment.

When Dylan didn’t waver she seemed to give in without much enthusiasm and said, “Well, give it all a try and let’s see how you do.”

“And make it fast!” Lindie added, before she said she had to run and left Dylan alone with his grandmother.

Who returned to staring at him.

“Lunch went all right?” GiGi asked after they heard the front door close behind his sister.

“I think so. Nati wasn’t really warm and fuzzy toward me, but she said she accepted my apology.”

“And Cade?”

“We’re okay. Nati had to be somewhere so she left right after lunch. Once she had, Cade said he was cutting me a little more slack than she was because we’re family and he thought I’d had the wool pulled over my eyes. But that I should have known better...”

A sentiment that seemed prevalent among his entire family. “I agreed and by the time I paid the check things were more like always between us. He even said he’d work on softening up Nati a little more.” Dylan paused, then said, “What about Jonah?”

Jonah was Nati’s grandfather, and the high school sweetheart GiGi had reconnected with and married several months ago.

“He told you that his granddaughter would never have been unkind to Lara,” GiGi said with enough of an edge to her voice to make Dylan aware that she was still slightly miffed at him.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But—I can only say it for the hundredth time—Lara was convincing, and I...blindly took her side...” Because he’d been in love with her.

“Jonah will be all right,” GiGi admitted then. “He’s forgiving—or how would he and I be together now?”

Because one of those long-ago Camden misdeeds had been done to him and his family.

“I can only say how sorry I am,” Dylan repeated what he’d said more times than he could count.

“And we all see that you’re trying to make things right again—that’s important,” GiGi said, the caring tone of a grandmother creeping into her voice to let him know that while she might not have appreciated what had happened to their family at the hands of his former fiancée, she still loved him. “It’s just going to take time. We’ve never had that kind of thing go on among our own. We’re used to battling what comes at us from the outside, but from the inside?”

“I know,” Dylan repeated, willing now to accept the truth he’d denied. And to do whatever it took to get things back to where they were pre-Lara. To get himself back to where he was before he’d become the black sheep. And to make his own amends to his family.

GiGi patted his cheek gently, comfortingly. “You made a mistake, Dylan, but it’ll all come out in the wash.”

He nodded, hoping that was true. That he’d only rocked the boat.

That he hadn’t knocked an irreparable hole in the side of it.

And that maybe doing one of these atonement-projects on behalf of them all would help.

* * *

Great hair. Great-looking guy... Abby Crane thought as she saw the man being led to her station on that Friday afternoon, the first week of October.

She was in the break room, wolfing down a late lunch between appointments. But she could see into the salon through the latticed partition that separated the two spaces.

After situating the superhunk, her best friend, China Watson—who was filling in for their receptionist today—joined Abby.

“That is not Betty Grove,” Abby said.

Betty Grove, her scheduled appointment, was ninety and there certainly wouldn’t be any mistaking her for the lean, muscular, broad-shouldered, six-foot-three man with the full head of lush, espresso-brown hair.

He wore it short on the sides, longer and in controlled disarray on top. And that was only the beginning of his appeal.

The guy had a squarish, angular, very masculine face with a sharp jawline and a just-prominent-enough chin. He had a slightly long but well-shaped nose, and lips that weren’t too full or too thin lurking amid some very sexy stubble that told her he probably had to shave twice a day if he wanted to keep that altogether hella-handsome face perfectly smooth.

But unless he was going to do damage to some lucky girl’s face when he kissed her, Abby thought, he shouldn’t bother with a second shave because the stubble gave him an air of simmering sensuality and an irresistible bad-boy appeal.

“He’s something, isn’t he?” China said, as if she knew exactly what Abby was thinking. “He called for an appointment with you about forty-five minutes ago and he wanted in so bad he was offering to pay double if I’d work him in any way I could—”

“So you bumped Betty? Hasn’t she had enough disappointments this week with her granddaughter calling off the wedding she paid for?”

“No, I didn’t bump Betty. I put Mr. Beautiful on hold because I was going to come and see if you wanted to stay late. But just then Betty called to say she couldn’t make it today—I guess Janette is a basket case from calling off the wedding and Betty doesn’t want to leave her. Anyway, I got back on the phone with this guy, told him if he could make it here in twenty minutes he could have the appointment and there he is.”

“He really did want in today. But I’m not seeing any reason for it to be an emergency,” Abby observed, still studying him from the distance.

“His name is Dylan Camden—one of those Camdens, do you think?”

Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he is, why would Mr. Richie Rich be here? Or asking for me?”

“Word of mouth, Ab! You’re good, and it’s even getting around in elevated circles. So go show him your stuff!” China finished, her tone loaded with innuendo as she nudged Abby with her shoulder.

“You show him your stuff,” Abby countered jokingly.

“He does not need makeup. But if I was the one he was so bent on seeing today, I’d show him plenty—look at him!”

Abby just shook her head at her friend.

“Are you going right out or should I keep him company?” China asked then.

“I’m going out. Just let me wash lunch off my hands.”

“I’ll ask him if he wants coffee or something...” China suggested, heading back the way she’d come as Abby got up from the table, threw away the paper plate she’d used and went into the employee’s bathroom.

As she washed her hands she glanced in the mirror above the sink to make sure she looked okay.

But not because of the hot guy waiting for her.

Appearance was her line of work so she always wanted to look her best. It just seemed like a smart business practice.

Her own hair was dark, dark brown, too. And thick and curly. The long hair fell in spiraling curls that she parted slightly off-center and let fall to just below her shoulders. It made for a pretty full mass that she worked to keep from ever looking fried or frazzled or brittle.

Wearing it that long and full was something she hadn’t been allowed to do growing up. When she was a little girl, the foster homes she’d been in had said it was too much trouble and shorn her like a sheep. But even when she’d gotten old enough to comb it herself the length and mass had still been an issue—one home had said it clogged the drain, another that it used up too much shampoo and conditioner. One set of foster parents had seen it as some kind of sign of wildness and degeneracy. But all of them had come to the same conclusion—keep it short.

She’d hated that. So now that she was an adult and on her own, she wore it exactly how she wanted it—long.

The good thing about it was that it was so thick it didn’t go limp, even on Fridays like today, when she was booked solid. A few scrunches after her hands were dry and it had new life.

She just thought it accentuated her features better than when it was short. It provided a frame to her not-very-large face with its high cheekbones and fair skin.

To China’s sorrow as a makeup consultant, Abby didn’t wear much of it. Every day she applied only a little blush and a light dusting of brown eye shadow to go along with some mascara so that her almost-black eyes could compete with all the hair.

She thought her nose was a bit pointy, but at least it was straight, and she had just-full-enough lips that really only needed a little gloss.

She freshened that gloss now, before brushing cracker crumbs off of the black smock that protected her clothes and hid the body that was curvy but compact.

Then she popped a mint into her mouth and went back out to the salon, taking note that the oh-so-handsome guy in her chair wasn’t looking at himself in the mirror he was facing. Instead, he was glancing around at the shop.

It told her something about the person and the level of vanity she was dealing with. Her impression of this guy was that he took those good looks in stride. She liked that.

“Hi, I’m Abby,” she introduced herself when she reached her station.

“I know. Abby Crane—you’re who I needed to see today,” the hunk responded. “I’m Dylan Camden.”

Abby went to stand in front of the chair to get a full forward view of him.

Wow, those eyes...she thought as she got close enough to see their color—vibrant, deep ultramarine blue. She’d never seen eyes a shade of blue that intense.

“Camden...like the stores? Or is that just a coincidence?” she asked, making conversation to break the ice.

“Not a coincidence,” he answered.

So he was a Superstore Camden...

Why had a bigwig like that suddenly been so eager to get in to see her in her small, north Denver salon?

“How did you hear about us?” she asked out of curiosity.

“You. It’s you I heard about,” he amended. “First from my sister-in-law Vonni. She runs the wedding departments in our stores and she knows your work for special occasions. She’s been finding that a lot of her brides and wedding parties are hiring you instead of using the salons in the Superstores.”

“We like to go the extra mile for big events,” Abby said, rather than bad-mouthing his salons.

“And you head that team.”

“I do,” she confirmed.

“Well, I’m here to talk to you about that, along with my own hair cut. My sister is getting married in about a week and she’s in a bind when it comes to the whole hair thing—”

“And you’re thinking we could do it? In ‘about a week?’”

“I know it’s ridiculously short notice and that you’re in high demand, so what I’m asking is a big deal. But I’m willing to do all I can to make it work.”

He knew that she was in high demand? There was something about the way he said it that made it sound like he thought he was some kind of authority on her.

But how could that be?

“Did you talk to China about all this when you called?” she fished.

“No, just about the haircut.”

“But you know about my scheduling?”

“I know a few things about you. Things you can’t know about yourself—”

“Such as?” Abby challenged him, suspicious.

“Such as, I know that when you were two years old you were left sleeping in the emergency department’s waiting room of Denver General Hospital with nothing but a blanket and a note pinned to you that said your name was Abby.”

How—why—would he know that? It wasn’t as if she readily or easily opened up to anyone—clients, friends, dates, anyone. And she’d never met this man before. Plus he was a Camden. Why would someone from a family like that know those kinds of details about her?

“You get off on reading twenty-eight year old newspaper articles?” she asked.

“No, we...uh...had a different source. One closer than a newspaper article.” His eyes met hers steadily. “But that’s better talked about privately so I thought maybe we could set up a time to meet later, too—”

“Okay, what is this?” Abby demanded firmly, switching to the tough-girl tone she’d sometimes needed to use in rough foster homes.

He held up his hands, palms out. “Exactly what I’ve told you—I’m here for a haircut and to talk to you about my sister’s wedding.”

“And about something that you want me to meet you for later?”

“Because it’s better talked about in private,” he repeated, his voice quieter than hers had been.

China appeared from nowhere just then and Abby knew her friend had been lurking close enough to hear at least a portion of what had been said. China had probably only been hanging around to ogle the guy, but now any indication of admiration was gone. In its place was I’ve-got-your-back mode. China had also been a foster child and it was a pattern the two of them had developed when they’d become friends.

But even though Abby wasn’t sure what was going on here, she didn’t think it was anything she couldn’t handle so she told China, “It’s okay.”

The tall, very blonde China looked from Abby to the man in her chair through narrowed hazel eyes that were always dramatically lined and shadowed.

To the client, China said, “If there’s something fishy with you—”

“There isn’t,” he claimed, digging his wallet out of his back pocket. “Look, I am who I say I am.” He handed Abby his driver’s license and a business card. “And I’m honestly here with only the best intentions.”

Abby looked over the license and card, then let China see them, too. When they were both finished with them he retrieved his license but left the card with Abby.

“Keep that. It has all my numbers on it—business and personal. I was going to leave it with you anyway so you could reach me after this.”

Abby looked at China, who looked back at Abby, both of them confused but still suspicious.

Then China stepped out of Abby’s station and seemed to disappear, though Abby had no doubt her friend would stay nearby.

“So, what’s going on?” she demanded then.

“Right now, a haircut and talk about my sister’s wedding,” he said as if he were narrowing it down for the moment.

Abby was half tempted to refuse both and send him packing.

But she knew that if Sheila—the owner of two shops who left the managing of this one to Abby—heard that Abby’d had the opportunity to do the wedding of anyone as prominent as a Camden and refused, there would be hell to pay. It would likely cost her her job. So she had to at least hear him out.

“A haircut and talk about your sister’s wedding,” she reiterated.

“For now, here. And then maybe we can set up something for later so I can tell you the rest. Somewhere neutral, where you feel completely safe and can just listen to what I have to say.”

Abby glared at him, again adopting her tough-girl attitude.

But once more she thought of how much she’d be risking if she didn’t accept the business he was offering, so she signaled her shampoo boy to come and lead Dylan Camden to the sinks. She stayed where she was, watching from there and wondering what was up with this guy.

When he’d first confirmed his connection to the Camden Superstores, she’d wondered if he was there to offer her a job. She’d heard that the Camden salons were really slipping these days and it wouldn’t be the first time someone had come in to steal her away from Sheila under the guise of having her do their hair.

But then he’d brought up the hospital. And he did seem to know things...

It was stupid. Totally stupid, and it hadn’t happened in years and years and she hated herself for lapsing into some old childhood dream. But a stranger coming out of nowhere, knowing something about her past, saying he had more to tell her, provoked the old fantasy just the same.

The fantasy of someone appearing in her life unexpectedly to tell her she’d been misplaced by loving parents who had finally found her and wanted to whisk her away to somewhere she belonged. To a family she belonged to.

It was far-fetched. She knew it. And Dylan Camden was only a few years older than her own thirty so he certainly wasn’t one of her long-lost parents.

But what if...

What if he was coming to tell her he was her brother? They both did have dark hair.

No, she decided. Dark hair was too common for her to draw conclusions just from that. And she certainly didn’t have the signature blue eyes the Camdens were known for—the Camden Blue Eyes, the papers called them. They were even more striking in person than she’d expected.

But the Camdens were a big-deal family with a huge number of associates and connections. There were countless ways the Camdens could have known her parents. Could she be the daughter of a socialite friend who had had her when she was very young and ultimately given her away to avoid humiliation and embarrassment?

Pie in the sky, she told herself.

Pipe dreams.

Dumb.

But what if Dylan Camden really did know something—anything—about her background?

It wouldn’t take much to know something she didn’t. And just in case...

It was insanely far-fetched.

But even so, the longer she thought about it, the more she knew that she was going to agree to meet with him.

In order to find out if he really did have even a morsel of information about who she was.


Chapter Two (#ulink_977ba133-c4ea-50de-a5e4-0211a17b8dc4)

Dylan paid the bill for his haircut at Beauty By Design’s reception desk then leaned around the partition behind it to call back to Abby Crane. “The park on Thirty-Second and Bryant, tonight at six-thirty, at the picnic tables—I’ll find you,” he said, repeating the time and location of the meeting she’d agreed to.

From her station she nodded that so-full head of shiny hair. He’d noted that it was the color of the Belgian bittersweet chocolate that he’d gorged on for the past three months.

“You’d better be on the up-and-up,” muttered the receptionist.

“I am, don’t worry,” he assured her before leaving the salon.

It was only a little after four and Dylan knew he should go back to his office for a while. But as he got into his black Jaguar the thought of that just didn’t sit well.

He wasn’t far away—he was on the very outskirts of the city, and it wouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to be sitting behind his desk again.

But since returning from three months of working on the security in the European stores—which he’d done to escape Lara and let the situation here cool off—everything seemed to require so much extra effort. It was taking its toll on him.

Sure, it was effort he was willing to put in. Effort he knew that he owed his entire family. And he definitely wanted to make things right again because he couldn’t even put into words how much he hated the way things were between himself and the family now.

But it wasn’t easy keeping up that eager-to-please attitude nonstop, day in and day out. It wasn’t easy doing things like today’s mea-culpa lunch with Cade and Nati—one of many he’d done during the three weeks since he’d been back. And sometimes he just needed to crawl to the back of his cave like a bear and take a few minutes before he could do more of it.

Like right now.

So rather than heading for the offices of Camden Incorporated where he would be around any number of siblings and cousins who were never particularly happy with him these days, he drove to his lower downtown penthouse loft instead.

There, he parked in his spot in the underground garage, rode the private elevator to the top floor and sighed in relief as he passed through the elevator’s doors when they opened directly into his loft.

His cave wasn’t very cave-like, admittedly.

The living room, dining room and kitchen were all one expansive open space decorated in glass, leather and chrome with mere hints of serene sky blue accents. The lines were smooth and there was no clutter. It was quiet, clean, and everything was in its place.

Lara had hated it.

And maybe that, and the fact that her own condo was decorated in what he’d considered “clutter chic,” should have been an indicator that she thrived on chaos.

But like all the rest of the clues, he’d missed that one, too.

As nice as it was to be home, and as tempting as it was to just chill out until he needed to leave again to meet Abby, he realized that he still had to let his sister and grandmother know what was going on. It was part of being on his best behavior, after all.

He took his phone out of his pocket and walked to the wall of windows that allowed him a view of most of Denver. Lindie was first on the list, to tell her that he’d arranged for her and her bridesmaids to have the hair and makeup trial by the special occasions team of Beauty By Design.

Abby had said that she ordinarily took Wednesdays off, but after some persuasion—and a conference with China who was apparently the head of the makeup-artist portion of it all, and the manicurist in charge of the nail division—they’d all agreed to do the trial next Wednesday.

And, yes, due to a cancellation of a wedding on the same Saturday that Lindie’s was scheduled, Abby Crane and the Beauty By Design group would be available for the race to the altar that Lindie had opted for, if Lindie and her bridesmaids were happy with the results of the test run.

Dylan concluded by relaying Abby’s email address so his sister could send pictures and information about what she had in mind.

Then Dylan called his grandmother to tell her the same things, as well as that he was meeting with Abby tonight to open the door on her past.

Both Lindie and GiGi appreciated what he’d accomplished but there was still an edge of reserve, a chilliness, from both of them—the same thing he met from the rest of the family at the office every day. So he was glad when the calls were complete and he could do what he’d come home to do—relax and let down his guard.

But the way things were still weighed on him.

Everybody had been pretty ticked off by the time he’d ended things with Lara, when he’d left for Europe. And even now, after admitting he’d been wrong and apologizing until he was blue in the face, feelings were still hurt, tempers were still tweaked and things were still stilted.

He just had to keep chipping away at it and eventually maybe the whole thing would get to be history.

The way he and Lara were.

“Crazy-ass woman,” he grumbled, reminding himself of his appointment on Monday to take the Jag into the shop to have the dents she’d made in it repaired.

If his siblings and cousins hadn’t been so mad at him when he’d left for Europe one of them probably would have had it done while he was gone. But as it was, his car had been left sitting in the parking garage for three months, the way he’d left it, and now he had to get it taken care of.

Luckily he’d had the windshield replaced before he’d left so he could drive it now. But there was plenty of bodywork that needed to be done on the expensive sports car.

Just one more thing that was all messed up...

Now, in retrospect, he could see how it had gotten that way. Subtly. Insidiously. Quietly. He could see where he hadn’t listened to what his family was saying and should have. He could see what he’d been blinded to by his feelings for Lara. He could see where he’d crossed the line himself on her behalf. And he sure as hell wished that he’d never given in to that urge in him to be her damn white knight.

But regrets and merely seeing things in retrospect weren’t enough. There was a price to pay for what had happened.

He knew that. And he was willing to pay that price. But, unfortunately, payment was coming late. In the end, he’d had to escape to Europe for a while just to get out of Lara’s sights himself—and that time lapse with his family had widened the gulf and made things all the more awkward to put back together again now.

He just had to keep at it, regardless of how rough it might be or how much he wished he could turn back the clock and stop it all from ever happening.

On the up side, he told himself, it had only taken Lara three months to get engaged to some other poor sucker. When he’d heard about the engagement he’d figured the coast was clear to come home, finally address things with his family and hopefully get them all back on track. It would have been worse if he’d been gone longer.

He hadn’t seen or heard from Lara since he’d come home. Thank God! He had no desire to ever set eyes on her again as long as he lived.

And exhausting as it was to put back together everything she’d broken, at least he’d had a couple of wins today. Hopefully he’d gotten a few steps closer to being forgiven by arranging for one of the most highly reputed stylists around to work on his sister’s wedding with very short notice—a coup if Lindie liked Abby Crane’s work.

Plus he’d set the wheels into motion to relay to Abby all his grandmother had told him so she could know where she’d come from. And he was on the path to find a way to compensate her somehow for what she’d suffered because of the actions of his family.

Assuming that Abby Crane had suffered.

But he did assume that, especially coming from his own current situation.

He’d felt lousy the past several months being on the outs with his family and a continent away from them. He’d been at loose ends the whole time. Adrift. He’d felt so damn cut off and alone in the world. It had been a rotten way to feel and he still didn’t like the sense that he was being kept at arm’s length, that he wasn’t embraced by them all the way he was used to.

So what must it have been like for Abby Crane to grow up in foster care, moved from home to home, with no family of her own ever?

He couldn’t imagine that it had been good for her.

And yet, she wasn’t what he’d expected of someone who had been shuffled through the system.

He’d expected her to be hard-edged. He wouldn’t have been surprised by spiked hair or tight leather or all-black clothes. By tattoos and piercings. By an I-dare-you-to-cross-me attitude.

But that wasn’t Abby Crane.

Instead she was a fresh-faced beauty who looked as if she could have grown up in the country, on a farm.

A spectacular beauty, certainly without any obvious too-hard edges.

No, she was all soft curly hair—wild, thick hair that he’d kind of wanted to get his hands into. She was all smooth peaches-and-cream skin that didn’t show signs of ever having had so much as a blemish.

She was all fine, delicate bones in a nose that not even the most expensive plastic surgeon could have done as well. She had a slightly pointed, defined chin and high cheekbones dusted naturally pink and pretty.

And there definitely wasn’t anything hard about her soft-looking lips or those big brown doe eyes that somehow sparkled even from that deep, dark color.

Why he hadn’t expected someone quite that attractive to come out of the life she’d had he didn’t know, but he hadn’t. And he could honestly say that even if she had been on a rocky road in the past, it wasn’t reflected in the way she looked now.

About the only possible indication of a difficult youth had been in the way she carried herself.

She was relatively small—not more than five feet four inches—and trim under that black smock. He’d seen that when she finished his haircut and took it off, revealing a body with tight curves in all the right places. But she stood straight and tall, shoulders back, head high, as if intent on making herself seem bigger than she was and strong enough to take on the world.

And there was nothing effusive about her—that probably came from the way she’d grown up. She was friendly enough but not overly so. Self-contained. And while she seemed warm toward that China person, he certainly hadn’t felt an over-abundance of warmth directed at him.

She was slightly outspoken, too, he recalled, remembering her unabashed demand to know what he was up to. And she was no good at hiding the suspicion she’d felt. But that attempt to sound intimidating had just been adorable. Thinking about it made him smile the way he would have at the time if he hadn’t suppressed it.

So if foster care had left scars they weren’t readily visible. But it was something to watch out for anyway, he told himself. Like Lara’s true nature hiding just under the surface, Abby could have plenty of baggage that wasn’t easy to see but that could end up being hell to deal with.

Purely on a business level, of course. It wasn’t as if he was considering anything else. Anything personal. There wasn’t going to be anything personal between him and any woman for a long time. Not when he had so much damage control still to do with his family.

And even if he was ready for another relationship, even if all his fences with his family were mended, he’d be cautious of someone who came from Abby’s kind of background. Stable, steady, grounded—that’s what he’d be looking for when he started looking for someone again.

Someone who had been raised moving around from home to home? He didn’t see how that could breed stable or steady or grounded.

Maybe that wild hair of Abby Crane’s was the kind of clue that the clutter of Lara’s condo should have been.

And this time around he was reading it, noting it, and taking it very seriously.

Not that there was anything to what he was about to do with Abby Crane that was at all relationship-driven to make that matter.

There wasn’t.

His only job was to reveal to her who she was, where she’d come from, and then see how he could—in some way—make things up to her.

At the same time he was making things up to his family.

And, with any luck, maybe he could take care of everything at once and then really breathe a sigh of relief.

But no matter how long either chore took, it was all going to be far behind him before he even considered getting involved with another woman.

Fresh-faced spectacular beauty or not.

* * *

The park on Bryant Street was only a block from Abby’s apartment. She wanted to walk there but it was after six o’clock when she got home so she had to hurry in order to change clothes first.

Not that she really needed to change clothes—there was nothing wrong with what she’d been wearing all day. And she convinced herself that it wasn’t for the sake of Dylan Camden. She just felt like putting on something fresh.

So she replaced her work jeans with a better pair that were low-slung and fitted her rear end just the way she liked. On top she opted for a slimmer-cut black T-shirt that hugged her not overly well-endowed chest. She wore that over a white-and-black polka dot tank top that rose about two inches higher than the T-shirt’s square-cut neckline.

She drew a large hair pick through her curls and re-scrunched them, and refreshed her eye makeup, blush and lip gloss. Although she probably shouldn’t have used the time, she searched out and put on a pair of hoop earrings before rushing back to her closet for shoes.

Despite telling herself that she should wear sturdy shoes in case this guy was some kind of creep she might need to kick before making a run for it, she still went with a pair of ballet flats that wouldn’t be able to do any damage.

But they were comfortable and she’d been on her feet all day. Plus they had cute little white-and-black polka dot bows that coordinated with her tank top.

It was six-twenty-five by then, so she grabbed her keys, put them in the pocket of her jeans and headed for the park.

Dylan was already there—Abby spotted him when she reached the corner across the street from the park. He was sitting at one of the picnic tables. And looking as good as he had at the shop that afternoon.

She’d been hoping that maybe he wouldn’t. That the flattering lighting of the salon had just really worked for him. But that wasn’t the case. The guy was sooo hot!

But that wasn’t going to get to her. He was still a stranger and her guard was up on that account alone. But there were two other things that factored in, too—she’d just ended the only long-term relationship she’d ever been in, and what had come out of it had shaken her. That wasn’t anything she wanted to try again anytime soon.

And if she hadn’t been good enough for Mark The Systems Analyst, she certainly wouldn’t be able to live up to the standards of a Camden. Someone like that would surely believe he was legions out of her league.

So, Adonis or not, Dylan Camden wasn’t going to get to her.

He saw her coming just then and perked up as if he was happier to see her than she thought he should be. Or maybe he’d just thought she wouldn’t show and was glad she had. But she was still leery.

“Hi,” she said as she drew near the table.

“Hey there,” he responded.

He was sitting on the table itself, his big loafered feet on the bench below, long jeans-encased legs V’d out wide, leaning on forearms atop thick thighs—nicely developed forearms exposed below the rolled-up-to-his-elbows sleeves of a crisp, clean, pinstriped shirt.

He’d changed clothes, too. And he’d shaved so his face was clear of stubble, as if he wanted to be ready for kissing.

Dumb thought. Surely he hadn’t shaved so he’d be ready for kissing her.

“Shall we walk or sit here?” he asked when she joined him.

“Let’s just sit,” she said, preferring to stay near to the busy street and her apartment.

“Oh, right, you work on your feet all day—taking a walk is probably not high on the list of things you want to do,” he reasoned.

Sure, let him think that.

He stood then, and Abby was struck once more by how tall he was and what a great body he had—lean and toned, muscular, and wow, those shoulders and the way they tapered down to that narrow waist were impressive!

He motioned for her to sit on the now-free bench but she rounded the table and sat on the other side instead.

Something about that distance she put between them made him smile as he slung a long leg over the seat he’d just offered her and took it himself. And when he smiled small lines fanned out from the corners of his astonishingly blue eyes and drew the most appealing little parentheses around that supple mouth.

She tried not to notice, let alone appreciate the sight, but it was almost impossible not to appreciate someone who looked as good as he did.

“How’s the hair?” she asked, letting herself look at him even more closely for a moment to assess the work she’d done on him earlier.

“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he said without equivocation. “I washed it in the shower, ran a towel over it when I got out and barely had to touch it from there.”

She fought the mental picture of him in the shower—and out of it. Naked. Big and strong and tight. Hard muscles glistening wet. Reaching those impressive arms up to rake a towel over that dark, thick hair and making those massive shoulders stretch while the sinews of his back flexed all the way down to those great glutes she’d caught a peek of when he’d left her station today...

Whew! That was not something she should be thinking about, either! And she wasn’t quite sure where all those details had come from.

She chased the image out of her mind, forced herself to sound cool, detached and objective—which was not how she was feeling—and said, “It isn’t too short...your hair?” she added, reminding herself that that was all she was supposed to be considering.

“Yeah, shorter than I wanted it but you were right to do it. It looks better than it ever has.”

She didn’t know about ever but she did know he looked fantastic there in the late-day, early-autumn sunshine. She restrained herself to say nothing more than an aloof, “Good, I’m glad you like it.”

“My sister is thrilled that you can fit her and her bridesmaids in for the test run Wednesday,” he said then. “And that if that goes well, that you’re free to do the wedding the Saturday after that. Her hopes are high and I told her I didn’t think you’d disappoint.”

“We’ll do our best,” Abby assured, effectively ending the catching-up part of things.

Which, she thought, left them with the reason he’d wanted this meeting. So she waited for him to get to it.

He must have realized it was time for that because he reached into one of his front pockets and produced a key that he held out to her.

She didn’t take it. Instead she narrowed her eyes at him and said, “If that’s the key to your place and this is all some kind of come-on—”

“It isn’t,” he said quickly, setting the key on the picnic table closer to her than to him.

But rather than explaining what the key was for, he said, “Is there anything you know about where you came from? Your family or history or anything?”

“I know the same things you said this afternoon—I was left sleeping on a chair in the hospital waiting room with a blanket and a note saying my name was Abby. Someone along the line added Crane as my last name because there were pictures of cranes on the blanket that I guess I wouldn’t let go of.”

“I’d wondered where that came from.”

“I know that local newspapers did articles and news stations did broadcast stories asking anyone who might be able to identify me to come forward,” she went on, “and no one did. I know that there wasn’t any information other than my first name so I’ve never had a real birth date. The pediatrician who checked me out at the hospital decided I was barely two so they picked a day the month before I was found and that’s what I use when I have to give my date of birth. And that’s it. That’s all I know.”

“I hadn’t even thought about a birth date,” Dylan muttered more to himself than to her.

“Apparently neither did whoever left me.”

“And you don’t remember anything?” he asked.

“I was, as far as anyone could tell, barelytwo years old. Do you remember anything from when you were two?” Abby countered.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“When I think about it, sometimes I get a vague sort-of sense of being somewhere with too many bright lights and being scared. But it’s really just like a kind of faint dream. I’ve always figured that might be from waking up in the hospital with no one around that I recognized, but I’m not even sure if it’s really a memory or if it’s just how I imagine it was.”

Dylan’s handsome face had sobered considerably as she’d talked and his well-shaped eyebrows were drawn together in a troubled expression before he said, “It was your father who left you at the hospital.”

“And you know this how? Because he was connected in some way to your father?”

“Yes, my family did play a part in you being abandoned...”

He sounded loath to admit that.

Then he said, “Your father is—was—a man named Gus Glassman. Ring any bells?”

“None,” she answered honestly. Why had he corrected himself to say her father was Gus Glassman instead of is? Had he changed his name, or was he...no, she shouldn’t get ahead of herself. She needed to pay attention to what Dylan was saying.

“Well, that key came from him.” Dylan nodded at it. “Gus gave it to a prison chaplain just before he died—”

“Gus Glassman—my father—is dead?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry,” Dylan said with more sympathy, pausing a moment as if out of respect. Or maybe to let it sink in—which was what Abby was trying to let it do.

But it wasn’t easy. These were just words to her. There were no instant emotions the way she’d thought there would be.

“According to the chaplain,” Dylan went on, “he was the first person Gus ever told about abandoning you. He asked the chaplain to find you, to find the lockbox that this key opens and to give the contents to you.”

“So where’s the chaplain?” Abby asked.

“He came looking for Camdens because there’s a connection. And talking to the Camdens means going to GiGi, first and foremost... GiGi is what we call my grandmother. She’s the head of the family.”

“A prison chaplain just showed up on the doorstep of the foremost Camden with this story and a key to a lockbox? Why? What does your family have to do with it?”

“We actually just found that out ourselves. Recently, we learned that twenty-eight years back your father worked for Camden Superstores. He was on the payroll as store security, but he did more than that...” Dylan said quietly, as if it was something else he didn’t want to admit.

“What more did he do?” Abby asked, feeling removed from what he was telling her, still just trying to absorb it.

“It looks as if, when there was something brewing somewhere that could turn into a headache for some part of the business, my great-grandfather—H.J. Camden—had a few chosen men he sent in to...well, to do whatever it took to contain things before they got out of hand.”

Dylan didn’t seem proud of that because he was again talking quietly. “I guess you could say they were his...enforcers.” That word came out more under his breath than out loud. “We have a lot of production factories. A supervisor in one of those factories was trying to unionize.”

“And you didn’t want it,” Abby guessed.

“I was five, going on six—what I wanted was probably cookies and candy and to play outside. But no, H.J.—along with my grandfather and my dad and my uncle, who all ran the Superstores together—didn’t want unions in the factories.” Dylan’s eyebrows arched toward his hairline in reluctance to say what he was going to say. “They wanted the labor leaders discouraged—”

“And Gus Glassman—my father—was the discourager?”

“Yeah. But that discouragement got pretty heated. It turned into an all-out fight between Gus and the supervisor, and in the course of that fight the supervisor fell back, hit his head and died.”

“So my father was a thug? He was your family’s bully or henchman or something, and he killed someone?” The fantasy of learning about her family had never included that and Abby was beginning to feel slightly knocked for a loop by the reality.

“I don’t know that your father was a thug or a bully or a henchman,” he said as if those terms were too harsh. “But he was involved in a bad situation, following orders that he probably shouldn’t have been given. We—my grandmother, my siblings, my cousins and I—read about it in my great-grandfather’s journal. We checked to see if the supervisor had left family or someone we should compensate—he hadn’t. But when it came to Gus Glassman—”

“He was nothing but the guy who did your family’s dirty work?”

It wasn’t as if Abby felt any kind of affection for the man Dylan Camden kept calling her father, but she had too much experience being in positions where she’d been looked at as a nothing herself and he’d touched a nerve.

“No. What I was going to say was that when it came to Gus, we could contact him directly. So that was what we did—GiGi wrote to him, asking if there was anything we could do for him and if he’d left anyone behind who he might like us to reach out to.”

“And he didn’t say me,” Abby said quietly.

“He didn’t answer the letter at all. So GiGi found his attorney, who said that Gus had been a widower with no kids so we shouldn’t worry about it. I guess not even the attorney knew about you.”

Because she’d been a nothing even to her own father?

That thought didn’t boost her spirits.

More and more feelings were coming at her but they were all jumbled and indecipherable as Dylan continued. “Like I said, telling the chaplain was the first time he’d so much as spoken of you since the supervisor’s death. He told the chaplain that that was because he wanted to spare you having to grow up with the disgrace of a dad who had taken another person’s life, who was convicted of manslaughter and sent to prison. He didn’t want that following you around. The chaplain said your father was ashamed of what he’d done, that he’d never forgiven himself and that he didn’t want to pass that shame on to you. He thought that you’d be better off just left somewhere—somewhere safe, because he knew you’d be taken care of in a hospital—without a last name or any information that could link you back to him.”

So he had cared about her? He had thought about her welfare in whatever skewed fashion?

More feelings came, bringing with them more confusion.

It must have shown on her face because out of nowhere Dylan said, “I know it’s kind of hard to reconcile things that don’t seem to go together. I loved my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my dad and my uncle. They were unfailingly good to me. But I can’t say I’m proud of all the things they did outside of the family. It’s something we’re all having to come to grips with. For us, we never forget that those same men who didn’t always behave honorably were still people we loved, who loved us, so we have to separate things. And it seems like—in spite of what your dad went to jail for doing—he really did care about you. Maybe that’s something to hang on to.”

“Maybe...” she parroted, struggling with it all. Struggling, too, with the fact that this was so completely different than any of the romanticized thoughts she’d always entertained about where and who she’d come from, about why she’d been left.

But here she was, with Dylan Camden at the moment and she wasn’t sure where this was supposed to go.

So she asked. “I guess, then, you’ll tell me where to find the lockbox and that’s it?”

“Well, if you’ll let me, I’d like to help you piece together what we can of your background,” Dylan said. “Figure out more about where you came from and the kind of man Gus Glassman was—because I have hope that he might have been a loving dad to you, despite what he did. Maybe we can figure out who your mom was, what happened to her and any family she might have had. It just seems like you should know as much as you can from here.”

Should she? Abby wondered.

She wasn’t sure.

In some ways she wanted to deny that this could actually be her background and step away from it as if it wasn’t really hers.

It had been difficult enough growing up a foster kid. She’d been vigilant about being a good girl in order to live down preconceived notions about what that might mean.

And now to learn that she really was what some people had assumed—if not bad herself, then at least the child of a criminal? The daughter of someone who had killed someone else? Someone who had died in prison?

A part of her did not want to embrace it.

But it didn’t seem as though that was possible.

“How would we do those things you said?” she asked, buying herself more time to think while her head was swimming.

Dylan nodded toward the key on the table again. “Gus told the chaplain that the lockbox that that key opens is hidden in the store—meaning one of our Superstores. We’re trying to figure out which one he might have worked out of and locate the box. Hopefully that will give us more to go on. Plus, I run the security department for the Camden Superstores, and part of my job is to do background checks on people we hire. I have full access to our employee files, even the ones from before my time. If Gus was married to your mother I can find record of it and get your mother’s maiden name—that would give us a starting point to looking into that side of your family.”

“What about the chaplain? Where did he go in all of this?” Abby asked.

“He’s from the prison in Canon City so he went back there. When GiGi heard what he had to say, she swore to him that we would take care of this.”

“By hiring me to fix your sister’s hair for her wedding?” Abby asked because she was trying to fit the pieces together.

“No. This and the wedding are not connected. Your reputation for your work preceded you. Or, at least, the work of the special occasions team from Beauty By Design preceded you. Then it just happened that the same name GiGi finally put to Gus Glassman’s daughter was one of the names included on that team.”

“So it’s only a coincidence?”

“It honestly is. My haircut today was my chance to meet you, but even if you had turned down the wedding, you and I would still be here right now and I’d still be asking you to let me help you find out about your family. The fact that you agreed to do what you’re doing for Lindie—on such short notice—is a whole separate thing.” Under his breath, he muttered, “One that I’m hoping will get me some much-needed brownie points.”

She didn’t know what that meant so she didn’t comment.

Then he said, “So, what do you think? I’m sorry I haven’t brought you a happier story, but will you let me help you, anyway?”

Abby merely sat there looking at him, trying hard to absorb all he’d told her, trying to deal with it, considering what he was asking.

Did she want to know more if it was as sordid as what she’d just learned? Because this was not the fairy tale she’d always envisioned. And what if what went with it was worse?

But there was that key on the table between them and the knowledge she already had. And after a lifetime of not knowing anything, she knew she couldn’t just ignore the chance to find out whatever more she could, good or bad.

“I’ll be right by your side every step of the way,” Dylan said then, as if he was reading her mind.

And Abby found that assurance that she wouldn’t be alone in the process of uncovering her history somehow comforting.

Which was all the more confusing because she prided herself on standing on her own two feet to face whatever she had to face. The most support she’d ever had had been from China and this wasn’t China. This was a stranger she’d just met today.

But here was this guy offering to help her and stick by her, and it made the whole delving-into-her-history thing more palatable.

It had been a really strange day...

“Okay, I guess,” she heard herself say without any conviction whatsoever.

“Great!” he decreed. “I already have people looking for the lockbox, so that—and my digging through old marriage records—is where we’ll start.”

Abby nodded, feeling slightly shell-shocked.

“And in the meantime, Lindie’s wedding is pulling a lot of attention from newshounds and I also have to keep a handle on that. Is there any chance that you and I can take an after-hours look through your salon so I can get a feel for how I can make sure the test run can be kept private?”

He’d moved on. It took Abby a moment to realize that and switch gears, too.

But she did.

“We don’t do the special occasions work at the salon,” she informed him. “The owner—Sheila—has two salons and there’s a third location midway between the two where we only do the special occasions work. It makes it so our brides and their wedding parties—or whoever else we’re working with for a special event—can spread out and get a little pampered without regular clients around.”

“Then can you give me a tour of that place so I can check it out? The sooner the better.”

He was really expecting a lot of her in her befuddled state. But she tried to think about work and scheduling and finally came up with an answer. “I guess I could meet you there tomorrow night—I know it’s Saturday night but I’m booked from early tomorrow morning until closing at the shop so that would be the soonest... I know it’s probably a date night for you with your girlfriend or wife or whatever, but—”

“There’s no girlfriend or wife or date night or whatever. Would meeting with me be messing with any of that for you?”

“Me?” she said as if that was unthinkable. “No. There’s none of that for me right now, either.”

“Then we can do it tomorrow night?”

“I’ll text you the address and directions. I can probably be there by seven.”

“Seven it is, then,” he agreed. “Now, how about that burger place over there? Can I buy you dinner?” He pointed his sculpted chin in the direction of a small redbrick building that housed two restaurants just in front of the old Victorian house where Abby rented a studio apartment.

Clearly he had no idea how overwhelmed she was if he thought there was any way she could be good company right now. She declined the invitation with the polite excuse that she’d promised to eat with China tonight.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” Dylan said without seeming to take any offense from the rejection.

They both stood and as he did, he picked up the key from the picnic table. “I think you should hang on to this.”

This time Abby took it from him, her fingers brushing his as she did and making her oddly aware of some kind of heat passing between them.

“Are you okay?” he asked then, as if he’d just noticed that she was a little dazed.

“I’m fine. There’s just been a lot that came at me all of a sudden...”

“Why don’t you at least let me drive you home.”

Abby took a deep breath of the evening air to clear her mind and shook her head. “I’m only a block away. The walk will do me good.”

“Are you sure?” he asked skeptically.

“I am,” she said, wondering if she should thank him or something.

But she didn’t feel altogether grateful for what she’d learned tonight, so instead she just said goodbye and headed back the way she’d come.

It was only as she walked home that she recalled feeling somehow strengthened by the thought of picking through her past with him by her side.

Why would that have happened? she asked herself when it struck her as weird all over again.

It certainly couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he was fabulous looking—even though she suddenly found herself happy to think that she’d be seeing him again tomorrow night.

Maybe it was just because he was a big, strong guy who gave the impression that he could handle himself and anything thrown at him.

Except that whatever got thrown would be thrown at her...and so far, he’d been the one doing all the throwing.

But still, that must be it, she decided.

Because after all, what else could it be?

Certainly not that she was attracted to him.

They were worlds apart and she knew better than to try crossing over from her world to anyone else’s.


Chapter Three (#ulink_77ad53b3-cd5b-51d9-a30e-f2bda1414656)

“So... Dylan Camden didn’t come to tell you you’re the secret, illegitimate daughter of a high-society socialite.”

Like Abby, China fantasized a lot of scenarios for her friend that had extravagant happy endings.

It was early Saturday morning. After years of sharing an apartment to make ends meet when they’d aged out of foster care, Abby and China now had their own studio apartments across the hall from each other in a north Denver Victorian house that had been converted into an apartment building.

China had been on a date on Friday night and had come home too late for Abby to tell her about the meeting with Dylan. But the minute China woke up this morning she’d padded across the hall in her pajamas and bare feet to hear what Abby had learned.

Abby had told her the whole thing over coffee and cereal at her small pedestaled kitchen table.

“What do you think is in the lockbox?” China asked then. “A million dollars in gold coins? Another key and the number of a safety deposit box full of diamonds? A will that makes you—”

“Queen of a small country?” Abby finished with a laugh. “Somehow I don’t think being the abandoned daughter of someone who rich people used to strong-arm their employees leads to stuff like that.” And she didn’t want to entertain any more hopes for anything. Not after suffering the kind of crash she’d had last night when it finally sank in that the real story of her past was so much seedier than she’d ever imagined.

She turned her open laptop so China could see the screen. “I looked up old newspaper articles on Gus Glassman last night. Here’s his picture.”

“Oh, well, no wonder you’re gorgeous—you came from good genes,” China said the minute she saw the photograph. “But you didn’t get your dark eyes or dark curly hair from him—his eyes are lighter and the hair is straight and sandy brown. You have his nose and mouth, though. Anything about him look familiar?”

Abby shook her head. “Other than that little bit of resemblance, no. There were no flashes of looking up at him from my crib.”

“He has nice eyes. I wouldn’t be afraid to date him if I met him somewhere. He doesn’t look like someone who could kill someone else,” China said.

Abby knew her friend was searching for the positive side. But the facts didn’t seem to bear that out.

“The articles back up what Dylan told me,” she said. “Except that Dylan made it sound more like an accident and the articles don’t. Gus had threatened the supervisor before—often enough that the supervisor had gone to the police about him because he was worried about his safety.”

“If the cops didn’t do anything they must not have thought your father was too scary.”

“The police told the supervisor there was nothing they could do but file a report. But there was one article that said the police were on the side of the Camdens so they wouldn’t do anything because the Camdens were involved—like the police were in their pocket or something.”

“They are rich and powerful...” China said over her coffee cup.

“The supervisor’s factory was taking a vote that day about whether or not to unionize. If that factory had voted to do it, it seemed like the workers in the other factories would, too. Gus—”

“He’s your father, you know? You could call him that.”

“It just doesn’t seem like it,” Abby admitted. Despite all the years she’d thought about someone coming to claim her, now she wasn’t sure she wanted to claim him.

But she didn’t tell China that. When China was seven years old she’d found her mother dead from a drug overdose on the kitchen floor. With no idea who her father was and no other family, China had gone into the system. But she remembered her mother and the time they’d had together. She loved her mother in spite of the addiction that had killed her and put China in situations that China still had nightmares about. Through it all, China still claimed her.

Given that, it made Abby feel a little ashamed to admit that she wasn’t eager to do the same with Gus Glassman, that she didn’t feel much otherthan shame for what she’d come from.

Rather than calling him her father or Gus Glassman, she said, “He was at the factory to intimidate the supervisor so the vote wouldn’t be held. Employees testified that they were all afraid when they saw him. When he walked in, a lot of them decided not to vote at all. But the supervisor stood up to him and...” Abby shrugged. “They fought. The supervisor was killed. The newspaper articles also said that Gus had a police record stretching back to when he was a teenager. It was for minor things but still—”

“Okay, so he wasn’t a saint. But if he was a good dad to you for those two years, that’s something.”

Abby knew that was how her friend would look at it because that was how China viewed her own years with her mother, forgiving her mother everything because her mother had loved her. But China’s mother had done most of her harm to herself. She hadn’t killed someone else.

“At least I guess I can be glad that Mark isn’t around for this,” Abby said then.

“I’m glad he isn’t, too. He’d just make you feel worse about it!”

That was true enough.

“It’s kind of hard to feel good about it, though,” Abby confessed then. “Look farther down in the article—there’s a picture of the supervisor.”

China did.

“He looks like he was a nice guy, doesn’t he? The article said he was a devoted member of his church. That he worked with the church’s youth group and was a volunteer with Big Brothers—that means he was someone who tried to help kids like us. He was about the age we are now when he died. He had his whole life ahead of him and my father took it from him.”

“Okay, your father did something bad. But maybe he wasn’t a bad person. You know I trashed that mean girl’s bike when I was ten, but that didn’t make me bad through and through, did it?”

“The mean girl was sooo mean to you,” Abby commiserated, having heard the story about the year of constant abuse her friend had taken at the hands of the other kid. “But this isn’t the same,” she insisted. “And I don’t know, China. I know I should just be happy to find out something about myself. But—”

“You hoped it would be something to be proud of. But what were the odds, Ab? How many kids in foster care over the years did you run into with the kind of stories we’ve made up about you?”

“None,” Abby admitted.

“It’s like everything else about us—we have to take what we can get and make the best of it.”

“Because if we reach for more, like I did with Mark, we live to regret it,” Abby added.

“That guy was a jerk who didn’t appreciate what he had. Maybe the Camden hottie is smarter than that.”

Abby was grateful for her friend’s loyalty but it didn’t change the facts. “Right,” she said facetiously. “Like there would ever be anything between the Camden hottie and me. You and I also know what it means to be in the systemand the way people see us because of that—even before they hear something like this.”

Add to that the status and prestige of a Camden? She hadn’t even been good enough for an upper-middle-class systems analyst like Mark. She’d really be barking up the wrong tree with Dylan! And it was something she knew she had to keep in mind now.

Now, when—despite having so much to think about with her suddenly disclosed past—she’d still found herself also thinking about Dylan Camden. And recalling every detail about that face and body. And mentally replaying everything he’d said and the sound of his voice as he’d said it. And picturing his every expression, his every gesture, his every nuance. She even kept closing her eyes and remembering how his cologne smelled like a forest filtered through clean mountain air, and the way his hair had felt when she’d cut it, for crying out loud!

“If you don’t want to give him a chance does that mean I can?” China challenged her, yanking Abby out of the reverie she’d drifted into.

“No,” Abby said quickly and firmly, making her friend laugh.

“I didn’t think so,” China said, as if she’d known it all along. “And our hottie wants to help you find out everything you can about your family?”

Abby tried not to recoil at the our part of that and say he was her hottie. Which he wasn’t. But for some reason she was inclined to make that possessive correction and had to fight not to.

“I think Dylan and his family are on some kind of guilt trip over this,” she said instead.

“Well, that says something good about them, doesn’t it? They—or at least their relatives—were the ones who put the wheels into motion that left you without anyone to take care of you. Somebody should feel guilty about that.”

“To answer your question—yeah, Dylan wants to help find out whatever can be uncovered.” And to be by her side when they learned about her family—Abby kept coming back to that and to how much she liked it.

Well, how much she appreciated it. It wasn’t that she could let herself like that he’d be with her.

Because she was out of her depth with him, she repeated to herself like a mantra.

And it was bad enough that she kept having that sense of him as some kind of reinforcement, she certainly couldn’t let herself come to depend on it in some way. She knew better than to depend on anyone. Well, anyone except China.

“I’m still gonna keep my fingers crossed that he digs up good stuff,” her friend said. “Maybe not gold coins or diamonds or a crown, but all good stuff from here, and that you’ve learned the worst there is to learn.”

“I’m gonna hope for that, too,” Abby said.

“But since today isn’t the day somebody waved a magic wand and made us rich, I guess we’d better get dressed and go to work, huh?” China said then, glancing at Abby’s wall clock.

They both stood and took their coffee cups and cereal bowls to the sink.

“Want to get a pizza tonight?” China asked in the process.

“I promised to meet Dylan at the special events shop after work to show it to him—he needs to check it out for security because he says this wedding has stirred up media interest or something. I don’t know how long that will take.”

“I’d say I’ll wait for you but maybe he’ll take you somewhere after...”

“It’s just business. The family wedding and this looking-into-my-background thing—that’s all there is to it and all there’s going to be to it,” Abby insisted.

China smiled. “Still, I don’t want you committed to pizza with me, just in case.”

Abby rolled her eyes as she put their cups and bowls in the dishwasher and her friend left.

But she was aware that she hadn’t jumped in to insist that China wait for her tonight, to tell her friend she would make sure she was home in time for them to have dinner together.

Because even though it would actually give her an excuse she could use with Dylan to hurry him through the tour, deep down she didn’t really want to shorten her time with him by even a minute.

* * *

“Okay, you’re right—I can’t see through those curtains even with the lights on in here,” Dylan said after stepping out the front door of Beauty By Design’s special occasions location and then rejoining Abby inside.

“And we only open the curtains if the wedding or party or whatever is going to be held outside. If it is, we need to make sure the makeup works in sunlight. But if we need the makeup to work in interior lighting, we need sunlight not to be a factor. Since your sister’s wedding won’t be outside—”

“You’ll keep the curtains closed and photographers won’t be able to take snapshots from the sidewalk if word happens to get out that this is where we are.”

“Right.”

“And there’s parking and a door we can use in back rather than coming in through the front. Once the whole group is here I can lock both the front and the back doors because there won’t be any other clients coming in and out,” he repeated what she’d told him as she’d given him the tour. “I think that’s everything, and this should be okay,” he said then, taking one more glance around the opulent-looking open space designed to accommodate private groups having their hair, nails and makeup done.

Unlike either of the other two Beauty By Design shops that could accommodate fifty customers at a time, here there were only two pedicure chairs and manicure tables, and three stations where hair and makeup were done.

Also unlike the regular salons, there was a raised platform surrounded on three sides by full-length mirrors in case anyone wanted to try on their dress or gown for the full effect.

Plus there was a section in one corner with a huge, comfy white sofa and two matching chairs situated around a coffee table where patrons could relax between services and enjoy the finest chocolates along with cocktails, wine or champagne—or other beverages if the group was underage for a birthday, prom, sweet sixteen, bat mitzvah or quinceañera.

The object was to pamper clients in a party-like atmosphere that would be as much fun as the event itself while still making them look and feel beautiful.

“But I’m supposed to ask,” he said, “if you end up doing the wedding—can it be done by you and your team coming to us rather than the wedding party coming here?”

“It costs extra.”

He grinned, and she tried not to like the look of it as much as she did. But that attempt failed because a smile just added so many new elements to how good-looking he was and she couldn’t help noting that.

“The cost doesn’t matter if you’ll just do it,” he assured.

“We do that, yes,” Abby responded. “In fact, I like when we get to.”

“Really?” he asked as he leisurely climbed the steps up to one of the pedicure chairs—and in the process gave her a glimpse of some pretty spectacular male buns in a pair of jeans that knew just how to show off his rear end. Abby caught herself looking where she shouldn’t have been just as he turned to sit and she shot her gaze upward.

Since he seemed to be settling in and she was in no rush, she went to sit in the other pedicure chair, angling toward him as he did the same so they were facing each other.

“Really,” she confirmed. “If we do everything here, that’s the end of it for me. The client goes off to have their special day, but I don’t get to see any of it. If we do the work at the event we get to see more and be more involved in occasions that I’d never get to be a part of otherwise.”

“You don’t think you’ll ever get married?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Even if I do it can’t possibly be on the scale that your sister’s wedding will be. And the other stuff—proms and the coming-of-age celebrations, the Debutante Ball—those are things I never got to have, no.”

“You never went to a prom?”

She shook her head then motioned with it to their surroundings. “I also never knew anyone who could pay for something like this. But now I get to participate in these big, fancy things indirectly. If we go to the venue I usually have the chance to peek in to see the flowers or the decorations or the cake. If we’re hired to stick around for hair changes and makeup retouches, I get to hear the music, sometimes some of the food gets sent to us—we aren’t guests but we get to experience some of it on the sidelines, and...” she shrugged “...that’s fun for me. These are some of the happiest, most joyful and hopeful times in people’s lives and I get to be a part of it. I get to help make it special, to make them look and feel beautiful for it, sometimes I get to see it—how nice is that?”

“I think it’s nice that that’s how you look at it,” he said, studying her as if he was getting insight into her. “Is that why you became a stylist?”

Abby laughed. “You’re so funny to think there were a lot of choices in what I could become.”

“You’re smart, talented—”

“And you think that made a lot of difference?” she asked, even as she took his words as a compliment and reveled in the possibility that that might be what he thought of her. “When I was thirteen,” she went on, “I needed to pick whether I planned to get a job right out of high school or if I wanted to try to go to college or trade school.”

“At thirteen?”

“It isn’t easy for kids in the system to follow the same course as kids with families who can afford to just let things play out. The world is not our oyster. So school counselors and case workers and just about every adult I ever came into contact with, warned me that I needed to plan for myself—”

“Starting at thirteen?”

“That was how old I was when I went to middle school. Before that, everybody learns the same things. But when I had to start picking some of my own classes, I needed to start thinking realistically about whether I wanted to go to college or trade school or just get a job. For me, trade school seemed like the middle of the road—something I was reasonably sure I could get into and afford with subsidized tuition, and something that wouldn’t take as long as college before I could come out with some kind of skill to support myself.”

“So you didn’t choose to be a stylist at thirteen, you just chose trade school.”

“Right. Which meant I wasn’t put in the same classes as kids aiming for college.”

“What if you had changed your mind?”

“I could have. But when I sort of toyed with the idea of college a few years later it was discouraged. My grades were good enough to get in somewhere, but my counselor said if I did, how was I going to pay for it? And how was I going to make enough money to live, too? Scholarships, grants, living stipends—things like that aren’t a guarantee. I was warned not to plan on them. And no one ever let me forget that at the stroke of eighteen I was on my own.”

“Without any help? Eighteen is still just a kid...”

“Not when you’re in the system it isn’t. Mature, immature, ready or not, you’re an adult. There are some short-term transitional services and there’s a little funding to get started, but basically, yes, you’re on your own, without help. Unless you go on welfare and food stamps and go that route, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to if I could be close to supporting myself when I graduated high school.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/victoria-pade/abby-get-your-groom/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.