of cheeses, fruits, and truffles. Amy’s cousin, Jolene, sidled up from behind the door.
“So when is the stripper coming?”
Cameron shook her head. “I told you—no stripper.” She kept her voice low. If Amy even heard the word “stripper” that evening, there’d be hell to pay. As maid of honor, she had been given a detailed list of acceptable activities and events for the bachelorette party, and naked man-flesh unequivocally had not been on it.
Not surprisingly, Amy’s other cousin, Melanie, popped her head around the refrigerator door next. Like book-ends, they came as a pair—if you saw one, the other was sure to be bringing up the rear close by.
“We thought you were just saying that so Amy didn’t suspect anything,” Melanie said.
Cameron had noticed that the cousins had an odd, passive-aggressive way of using the collective “we” when expressing displeasure with something.
“Yes, we assumed that was all a big charade so that everyone would be surprised,” Jolene added.
“If it was an issue of money, we would’ve been happy to pay for it,” Melanie threw in.
Cameron had to bite her tongue. Oh, for the naked man-flesh, they were willing to chip in their time and money. Two things they certainly hadn’t been forthcoming with thus far. But in the spirit of bridesmaid camaraderie, she plastered on a smile.
“It’s not an issue of money. I promised Amy no strippers. Sorry.” In exchange, she had extracted a similar no-nudity clause from Amy in the event that she ever got engaged. Something that did not look particularly likely as of late, considering that she had (a) no boyfriend, and (b) no prospects. She was definitely going through some sort of rough patch, first with Max, and then with that bizarre almost-kiss with Jack on her doorstep.
Post-traumatic stress, she had decided. Definitely. She’d ear-witnessed a murder, after all—one could practically be expected to behave in bizarre, erratic ways under such circumstances.
Amy walked into the kitchen. “There’s someone at the door, Cameron. A man.”
The cousins’ eyes lit up as they exchanged greedy looks: the naked man-flesh has arrived.
Amy pointed at Cameron accusingly. “You promised. If this is what I think it is, be forewarned: you will pay for it ten-fold when it’s your turn.”
Cameron smiled as she brushed past Amy to answer the door. “Relax. It’s probably the limo driver letting us know he’s here.” Amy followed her out of the kitchen, then made a sharp left and bolted up the stairs.
“Seriously, Ame—it’s not a stripper.” Cameron laughed.
“Just touching up my makeup,” Amy called down as she high-tailed it out of sight.
Cameron checked the peephole. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the limo driver. She opened the door.
“Agent Wilkins.” She stepped outside and partially closed the door behind her for privacy. “Is everything all right?”
Wilkins smiled. “Looks like you’ve got some party going on in there. Is it a special occasion?”
“My friend Amy’s bachelorette party.”
“A bachelorette party—you don’t say? Wow, I wished we’d known.”
“We?” Cameron asked.
“Jack’s skulking around somewhere. Said something about checking the security of the outside perimeter. That’s FBI code for ‘stalling.’ Anyway, we’re here to show you those photographs we talked about.” He shifted to the side, trying to peek around the door.
“I thought we were going to do that earlier this afternoon.”
“Darn flight delays. It’s okay—you’re busy, I can see that. We can come back some other time.” Wilkins flashed her what undoubtedly was one of the best good-cop grins she’d ever seen.
Cameron nodded approvingly. “Not bad. And this time you didn’t even have to bring me coffee. Can we get this done in twenty minutes?”
“Fifteen,” Wilkins promised.
She gestured for him to come in. “I’ll tell everyone you’re here to talk about one of my cases. I obviously haven’t told the other girls about all this.” Other than Amy, who, like Collin, knew she was being watched as a precautionary measure.
The door behind her flew open. Jolene and Melanie stood in the doorway.
“Haven’t told the other girls about what?” Jolene demanded to know. She spotted Wilkins and smiled. “I knew it! Cameron, you really had us going there. We knew you wouldn’t let us down.” With a careful eye, she sized Wilkins up from head to toe. “Hmm. You look a little skinny. You better at least do full-frontal.”
“Excuse me?”
“They think you’re a stripper,” Cameron explained.
Wilkins seemed flattered by this. “Oh—sorry, ma’am. I’m just an FBI agent.”
Melanie winked. “Sure you are.”
“Shouldn’t you have some kind of uniform?” Jolene asked. “It makes things seem more authentic.”
“But I’m a special agent. Only trainees wear uniforms.”