“If you want to see her, Jack, it’s okay to just admit it.”

“Sure, I want to see her—so that she can look at these photographs.”

Wilkins patted him on the shoulder. “You keep sticking with that story, buddy.”

SOMETIMES, BEING A stubborn SOB really came back to bite him in the ass.

This was one of those times.

Jack stood outside Cameron’s house, eyeing the scene. From what he could see through the windows, there had to be at least fifteen or twenty women inside.

“I thought you said she had a few girlfriends over,” he said to Kamin. The two of them, along with Phelps and Wilkins, stood in a row against the undercover car, watching from the street as another woman in her late twenties/ early thirties, wearing jeans and high heels, and carrying a pink gift bag, walked up the front steps of Cameron’s house and rang the doorbell. A slender, stylishly dressed blonde woman answered the door. There was a flurry of loud squealing and hugging, then the door shut and all was quiet again.

Kamin shrugged. “At the time, it was just a few girlfriends.”

“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning on the phone that she was having a bachelorette party tonight?”

“Didn’t realize you were planning on racing over here, Agent Pallas.”

Jack shut up, realizing he’d set himself up for that one.

“What do you think the pink bags are for?” Wilkins asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Phelps stood next to him, similarly wide-eyed and awe-struck. “It’s a game. Each girl buys a pair of underwear, something she would normally wear herself. The bride has to guess who brought which pair. If the bride guesses wrong, she has to do a shot. If she guesses right, the other girl drinks.”

“Cameron was afraid Amy would think the game was tacky, but the cousins insisted, see?” Kamin said.

Jack glanced over. “You guys sure are getting into all this.”

Phelps grinned. “When a girl like Cameron talks about underwear, you listen.”

“How about you, Jack? Could you do it?” Wilkins asked.

“Do what?”

“Twenty pairs of underwear. Think you could figure out which pair belongs to Cameron?”

Jack had been interrogated at knife-point, gun-point, pretty much at all-points a man could think of, but hell if a question had ever made him squirm as much as that one.

Because now he was thinking about her underwear.

“I don’t see why I’d have any particular insight into that,” he answered gruffly. “Think you could figure it out?”

“No, but I didn’t try to kiss her three nights ago,” Wilkins said.

Jack glared at Kamin and Phelps. “You two tell all sorts of tales, don’t you?” He nodded to Wilkins. “We should get going.”

Wilkins shook his head. “No way. We came to show Cameron those photographs, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

Jack pointed to the house. “You can’t seriously be thinking about going in there.”

Wilkins’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Oh, I’m going in all right. And you are, too, partner.”

“You thought going into a purse was sacrosanct? Infiltrating a bachelorette party is way beyond that.”

Wilkins rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I know. And I’ll never have an excuse like this again.”

“You’re an FBI agent, Sam,” Jack reminded him.

“I’m also a single man, Jack. And inside that house are twenty gorgeous women who are drinking and showing off their panties. It’s a no-brainer.” He pushed off the car and headed toward the house.

“Easy for you to say, good cop. I’m the one who’s going to catch hell for this,” Jack grumbled as he followed.

Wilkins grinned. “I know. That’s what makes it so perfect.”

CAMERON STOOD IN front of her refrigerator, trying to find a place to put all the leftover trays 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.