No Magic Moment (Secrets of Stone Book 4) (10 page)

“No shit,” drawled his buddy. “Man, I can’t decide on which cut he got in better—the right or the left.”

“Neither.” It was one thing to water the weeds of their insolence. It was another to let them grow lies. “I didn’t do this.” Swerving back to the guards, I pointed down the beach. “There were four of them, all looking like European fashion boys. Black T-shirts, designer pants; tallest is six-two or three, and the head honcho is a few inches shorter. A gallon of hair product between them. If one of you takes off now, you can probably—”

“Catch them and their little dog Toto, too?” Pete rejoined.

“Goddammit.” I dragged a hand through my hair. Would arguing with them even get me anywhere?

Like fate was going to let me entertain more than two seconds of an inner conflict tonight.

Especially if the enraged blonde at the edge of the sand had anything to say about it.

“What. The. Fuck?”

Like a rehearsed chorus line, every photographer swung their lenses at the gorgeous, glowering love of my life. The air exploded with light, the flashes illuminating the rage on Margaux’s face. Dammit if the fury didn’t multiply her beauty by a thousand, flushing her cheeks and flaring her lips. I would’ve been fantasizing about other ways to make her look that way, if not for the dread invading my gut—pounded in by the accusation in her eyes.

As if the nonstop
schick
s were just bug drones, she stepped out of her heels, onto the shore, and straight to me. Only a few of the leeches were ballsy enough to follow her, gambling on the risk of carrying their cameras across the sand in exchange for a juicy scoop.

“So.” She slid hands to her hips while casting her hundredth glance at Declan. Clearly, she didn’t know whether to offer him sympathy, comfort, or disdain. The fact that she even debated the issue jacked my gall. “You…want to explain this?”

“Other than the fact that I didn’t do it?”

Her gaze narrowed. “What? You were strolling on the beach to cool off and Declan just walked into your fist?”

“Beach—check. Cooling off—check. The rest of it? No.” When her expression didn’t falter, my jaw locked to the point of pain. I stepped away, struggling to process what the fuck that did to my gut now. And my heart. “You really don’t believe me, do you?”

Margaux’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what to believe, Michael.”

“Me, goddammit.” I retreated again, as she moved forward. Her nearness, always my shelter, was like a stab. “You believe
me
.”

“Michael—”

I didn’t know how to interpret her tone, either. Softer but sure as hell not empathetic.
A dilemma you wouldn’t find yourself in if she knew the full truth about Declan by now.

Wasn’t like I could spit it all out now—or in the foreseeable future. Not when a security goon approached, apparently Pete’s captain, to relay that they’d need to file a full report, and would need me to follow him to their offices…and would need me to “stick around” in case it was necessary to notify the San Diego PD, as well.

The bed I’d made—its mattress full of my secrets.

The shit pile I’d have to lie in now.

Margaux

H
ello, bad. Meet
your new best friend, worse. Get cozy; we’re going to be here a while
.

I listened to the banquet servers chatting in the hallway just beyond the hotel’s stuffy security office. Dinner had been served and cleared away. The gala’s attendees were dancing and laughing their way into the night, making memories they would bring up the next time they saw each other around town.

Not us.

I was starving and sick to my stomach at the same time. Michael looked five times as miserable, slumped in the chair across the room, his bowtie now a limp black worm. They wouldn’t let me sit beside him. Maybe they thought he’d try to make me lie for him or something. Like
that
was going to happen, considering I could barely form a coherent sentence at this point. I doubted he could, either. Neither of us could focus on much beyond the looming question of the night.

Would dear old Uncle Declan be pressing charges against Michael with the San Diego PD, or not?

Since they’d determined Declan’s injuries serious enough for an ambulance transfer to the hospital, things weren’t looking so good for my boyfriend—though Michael still swore up and down, to everyone who’d interviewed him, that he hadn’t laid a hand on the man.

There was the damn rub for me.

Did I believe him or didn’t I?

In principle, I should’ve stood by my man, right? Should’ve had his back, no matter what. If he
did
do it, I should go down swinging right beside him. “Take no prisoners”, “go down with the ship”, and—

And all those other sayings for desperate people.

I’d made it this far in my life by leading with my head, not my heart—no matter how strongly the latter wanted to be involved. That made it hard—
very
hard—to ignore the glaring evidence against Michael. Nonetheless, this whole scene was ridiculous. These night school-trained security guards were acting like Quantico-honed agents, throwing around so many acronyms and legal jargon I was pretty sure they no longer understood each other.

I observed that Michael hadn’t told them he was a lawyer. It was likely on purpose, stemming from hope that they’d slip up and violate his basic rights, clearing the way to have the case thrown out if and when the time came for court proceedings. Well, I wouldn’t be the one to spill those beans. I could at least back him up on that.

I finally rose. It was hell to sit there and keep still, watching Michael’s tension grow by the minute. I wasn’t helping and I sure as hell could guess why.

I longed to simply take his hand for a moment, but wondered if the Keystone Cops would bash it in if I did. Instead, I murmured, “I’m not leaving, okay? I’m just going to go look for something to eat, maybe a cup of coffee. There must be some dessert left in the ballroom.”

Lame, lame, lame—but it filled the air with something other than the guards’ stupid posturings. I turned, trying to smooth my dress out, but it was hopeless. I’d been sitting haphazardly for so long, the satin part was creased and the chiffon layers were a mess.
Whatever
. My appearance fit my mood, so I embraced it.

“Hey.
Hey
…Michael?”

He didn’t even lift his head. “What?”

Be sweet. Be supportive. Be the keel in his ship.
“Do you want me to bring you anything? Coffee?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

Translation:
got it, you dick.

I was trying. Really trying. This compassionate shit wasn’t naturally in my wheelhouse, a “weakness” that’d been all but beaten out of me by Andrea. Moreover, this just wasn’t the place to air our dirty laundry—like I could do anything about
that
, either. Clearly, he still stung from what had gone down at the beach, probably feeling like I’d not shown the proper “support” when first arriving on the scene and eyeing Declan with all those bruises and blood. But what would
he
have done in
my
shoes…if he’d seen what I had?

Yes, he was hurting. But he was also being unfair. Eventually, when all of this blew over, he’d see that.

With that thought as comfort, however thin, I left the room.

Wasn’t tough to discern where the gala was located from here. I simply followed the typical DJ’d music back to the ballroom. To my good fortune, dessert was still being served. To my
very
good fortune, there were at least eight chocolate choices.

I was also able to grab a cup of coffee from the buffet. It tasted like complete shit, but it was hot and it was caffeine. I had a bad feeling this night was far from over. My bad feelings were rarely wrong.

What a mess
.

I pulled a chair into the shadows, all appetite for the sweets suddenly gone. Instead, I wrapped my hands around the small white cup of bad java, hoping it would chase away some of the damp chill from outside.

I tilted my head back against the wall and exhaled, trying to simply relax. A few minutes passed. Maybe it was an hour. I wanted to disconnect so badly, I didn’t care—

Until realizing that someone hovered nearby, attempting to get my attention.

Shoot me. Please, shoot me
.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

A man’s voice reached over the thump of the music. I peered up at him but couldn’t make out his face from where I sat.

“I’d really prefer to be alone.”

“Margaux…it’s me. Doug.”

Well…shit.

“Doug…Simcox?” He stepped closer. Same slightly goofy, all-American grin. Same PC blond crew cut and shoulders that had nudged him close to home run records during his career. Slicker suit this time, though.
Much
slicker schmooze-and-cruise game.

I sighed and wished the coffee would turn to vodka. “I remember your last name, Doug.”

“How are you?” Another step. A disarming dip of his head. “You look really great.”

“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better. Sure, God. Why not? It’s been one hell of a night already; let’s just go for broke.”

He lowered into a chair next to me like a fireman approaching a wet cat in a tree. “Uhhh…yeah. I guess you’ve had a rough one, huh? I kind of heard your boyfriend was in a fight…?”

“He didn’t do it.” Why I was defending Michael now, I wasn’t quite sure—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and let Doug tear him down.

“Oh.” He blinked, seeming puzzled. “I didn’t know you were there, too.”

“I wasn’t. But he says he didn’t do it, and—”

“You really believe him?”

“Of course I believe him.” I stamped my best bitch stare to the end of it. He should remember it well.

“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Old habits really did die hard. I’d gone bitch face and now, right on cue, he went pouty boy. I pulled in a long breath. My Mercury was definitely in retrograde or some shit-tastic thing like that, because tonight was turning into a perfect storm of crap I
really
didn’t need.

“Listen, Doug. I’m just having a shitty night. This is awkward as fuck. I’m sure we can both agree on that. Unless you actually need something, can we just—I don’t know—” I stood and parked my coffee on a table. “I should just go.”

He shot to his feet too. “No, no; it’s okay.
I
moved in on
your
space, and—” He hitched a gee-whiz shrug, one of his signature moves. “I’ll let you be. I just thought—well, you looked like you could use some company.”

I felt his sincerity. Wasn’t about to feel guilty about stomping on it, but I summoned enough civility to reply, “Thanks. But company is the last thing I want right now.”

“Okay, well. At least accept this.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. I had no damn intention of keeping it but if he’d leave that much quicker, I’d take a stack of the damn things. Anything to send him on his way. “Sounds like you may need some help figuring out what really happened tonight. Just so happens I’m in the business now. That’s right. I’m a real-live private eye, baby.”

Now
the bastard was joking—but not very well, despite flipping on his strongest mega-watt smile. There was a time when that grin would’ve melted my panties off. Now I was just annoyed.

“Uh…thanks. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me, though. You can understand why, I’m sure.”

He had the grace to drop the smile. “Listen, Margaux. I get it. We have a lot of water under our bridge and some of it is pretty muddy. But I’m the best game in town when it comes to this shit, if you’ll allow the horn tooting for one minute.”

“Or two? Or three?” I chuckled. “Gee Doug, don’t hold back on my account.” My sarcasm underlined the subtext. He’d always thought he was God’s gift—to everyone and everything.

“Fair shot.” He held up both hands. “But a lot has changed since we dated. People change, grow up. I made a lot of mistakes when we were together. I didn’t treat you the way I should’ve. There are a lot of things I regret—and I can’t do a damn thing about them now.” He grew quiet, looking at his feet. “But seriously, if things get too huge to handle and you need some fast, thorough investigative work, give me a call. I really can help.”

I gave him a wry side eye. “Gotcha, Miss Marple.”

He didn’t flinch. “You know that big case all over the news last month, about the toddler who was abducted and taken across the border?”

My eyes narrowed. Only those living under rocks wouldn’t have heard about the Christopher Landen story, at least in San Diego. It was the lead local news story every morning, afternoon and night. It was the subject of arguments on social media and the beneficiary of many local fundraisers.

Last week, the child had been returned—through some miracle, totally unharmed—to his home in a city suburb. His parents had sobbed, thanking the “angels” who’d brought him home. Celebration parades were held in his honor. There was even talk of renaming one of the local sports parks after him.

“Wait.
That
was…”

“Me.” Doug beamed. “And my team.”

“Wow.” It was a little unbelievable. The self-absorbed asshole who I’d dated for eight months wouldn’t have done anything altruistic, let alone put effort into finding a missing child.

“It was pretty grueling and took a coordinated effort, especially since his abductor went across the border. We worked day and night until we were able to bring that kid home. It was the single best day of my life so far.” After a moment of staring at me because I couldn’t stop staring at
him
, he muttered, “What?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “But maybe everything. I’ll admit, I’m a little impressed. I didn’t think you had something like that in you.”

“Like I said, Mags, people change.”

Just like that, our little
détente
was officially over. “Don’t call me that, Doug. Not ever again. Do you understand?”

“I—it was just—I thought we were—”

“We weren’t.” I wrestled back the urge to throat punch him. “We
can’t.
You, me, us, that whole time of my life is dead and buried. Got it?”