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  Margaux clucked her tongue and tossed back her head. In her little lavender robe, hair tumbling down her back, she was one pair of stilettos shy of being a Maxim centerfold. I had to hand it to the guys in blue, who didn’t waver their stares. They either had the fortitude of oxen or were secretly robots. I didn’t care which. “Boys, you know I can’t do that for you without a warrant.”

  The lead cop pulled out a piece of paper that looked all too official. “Well, good thing we brought one.”

  My gut surrendered to full-fledged dread. And disgust. And rage. Margaux reached for me. Again, her hands were icy—and trembling. Instinctively, I clamped them tighter. I hated this bullshit—but most of all, I despised how it affected her.

  “I don’t…understand.” She barely kept it above a choke.

  “I do.” My statement was the polar opposite, entirely too certain of itself—just like my desire to spit on the fucking warrant. “Let me guess. Mr. Pearson’s ‘come to his senses’ about the events of last night, right? Turns out I was the one who fucked him up after all and now he’s pressing charges?”

  Margaux’s fingers slipped from mine. The emptiness she left behind was as bleak as her mutter. “What?”

  I nodded respectfully to the cops. “Can you give me a minute?” I requested. As soon as they assented, I pivoted back to Margaux, pulling her toward the kitchen with both hands on her shoulders. “Princess—”

  “Don’t.” She pushed at my grip but didn’t step totally free. “Not now. Don’t you dare, Michael.”

  “Fine. But know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is a mess now and—”

  Her teary huff cut me short. “A mess. Gee, you think?”

  “There’s a lot I haven’t told you. That I need to tell you.”

  “Thanks for that update. I’d alert the press, but now I’m wondering how to keep their noses out of this fun tidbit.”

  “Damn it.” I pushed my fingers in a little harder. “I didn’t do it. Look at me. Tell me you still believe me.”

  She raised her head. “Does it matter if I do?”

  “It matters to me.”

  She swallowed hard. Raised on tiptoe to press her lips to mine. “I still believe you.”

  I didn’t let her go far. As I kissed her again, I let every drop of gratitude in my heart pour into our connection—hoping that she could feel what her faith meant, what it would mean in the ordeal to come.

  One of the cops cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mr. Pearson. We need to hustle this.”

  Margaux had a comeback for that. I watched it spark in her eyes and fight for release from her lips. She clenched it back, letting her frustration brim over in her eyes. It was a thick sheen right now, on the brink of tears—as if my soul knew the fucking difference.

  I fought flinging a few shit biscuits of my own. No way in hell could I let any more anger taint this moment. It was too important to cram my brain with all the beauty, instead. The proud set of her head. The morning sun rimming her hair. The blush in her lips from my kiss. I sucked it all into my mind, savoring the splendor before turning to face a lot of ugliness. Corporate lawyer or not, I held no illusions about the day ahead of me.

  About the ordeal of facing charges for a crime I’d never committed.

  Even worse, the confrontation of the reality behind it.

  Declan had conveniently changed his recollection of things because he’d woken up and smelled the damn coffee—or in this case, his desperation. Twisting the situation to his advantage had been an effortless hop from there. It was what the prick did best, after all.

  As many times as that reality drummed my head, it was shitty as hell to think of voicing it aloud when given my obligatory phone call from the police station. I didn’t punch in Margaux’s number. Knowing my little spitfire, she’d already ordered a small army of lawyers into action and would drink my milkshake for using the call on her instead of Mom. She’d likely taken some initiative of her own already, alerting Mom that I’d be calling—and from exactly where.

  Pegged that one right.

  Mom picked up after half a ring.

  “Michael? Michael?”

  “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Mom…breathe.”

  “Shut up. Are you okay? Margaux said they arrested you.”

  “Yeah.” I took a breath deep enough for us both. “They did. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t fuck Dec up on the beach. Hell. Now I wished I had.”

  “Me too, baby. Me too.” I heard her deep gulp. She was terrified and I felt like shit about it. “And the scum sucker’s pressed charges anyway.”

  “You sound as stunned about that as I am.” I chuckled, more for her benefit than mine. Her answering snort wrapped my soul like a hug.

  “Shylock wants his pound of flesh.”

  “My freedom in exchange for his way on the farm’s water rights.”

  “Don’t you dare do it, young man. I know that’s easier for me to say than you. I’m not the one behind bars—”

  “Bullshit.” The word was rough, my tone tender.

  Still she rebutted, “Bullshit?”

  “That wasn’t easy for you and we both know it. You were a basket case when I got thrown into the hoosegow by Mary Beth Turner at the Sadie Hawkins dance.”

  No laughs this time—hers or mine. Silence descended, the heaviness unique to melancholy. Mom’s tension was a tangible presence on the line, the threat of her tears pushing me to search for more words. Like my goodbye to Margaux, I didn’t want to muddy the moment with sadness.

  “The right thing to do isn’t always the easiest, Mom.”

  “Damn it.” Her snuffle clenched my heart. So much for banishing sadness. “You learned that one from me, didn’t you?”

  “Hmmm. Probably.”

  She laughed. Well, tried to. All too fast, it turned into a hiccup. Summoning fortitude by letting Margaux’s face fill my mind, I pushed past the heartache. Leaned forward, closing my hand as if grasping for Mom’s—ignoring the steel cuff around my wrist.

  “Mom. Listen to me. Dec is going for the extreme zone about the water rights—more than we originally thought. He’s in some deep shit with some nasty people and this won’t be the only play he runs.”

  Her breath audibly hitched. “Why does this not shock me in the least?”

  “Because you’re my smart, amazing madre.”

  “Oh, baby boy.” Her voice quaked. “I love you!”

  “I can’t say more than that right now.” I was saved from answering emotion by the guard at the door, circling his finger to signal I needed to wrap it up. “Just trust me on this. You need to be safe. Even safer than you have been. I wouldn’t put it past him to be paying you a visit, whether it’s by proxy or in person. Maybe you should have Carlo come stay in the house for a week or so.”

  There was a discernible pause before her careful reply. “Sure. Carlo. Up here. That might be…a good idea.”

  “Mom?” I actually felt myself grinning. “Is Carlo already staying in the house with you?”

  She hmmphed. “That’s none of your business, young man.”

  I laughed. “You may be right about that. Though I definitely approve. He’s a good man.”

  “Stop fixating on him and worry about yourself.”

  “Who says I’m fixating?” The idea of Carlo making Mom happy was nice. Thoughts of the exact logistics of how…oh, hell no.

  “Margaux’s working on things as we speak, son. Don’t worry. You’ll be out of that shithole in no time.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I know.”

  I really did. If goddesses actually existed, they’d haul Margaux up Mount Olympus this second, inducting her as the patroness of determination. I’d be out of here as soon as she could move heaven and earth to do it.

  That wasn’t what worried me.

  What Declan would try from here…

  That worried me.

  Chapter Eight

  Margaux
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br />   “Okay, sign where I’ve highlighted the word ‘signature,’ date and time next to it, then initial here, here, here and here. Two more on this page then a signature, date and time at the bottom. We’ll bring your detainee out of holding and you’ll be free to go.”

  The woman was professional and pleasant, but never bridged into warm or friendly. I didn’t blame her. She’d probably supervised this procedure eighteen times today alone.

  I looked up after signing in all the places she’d indicated, wanting to say thank you, but she was already gone. Another thankless task awaited her behind the thick glass.

  I pushed the papers through the cutout in the window then replaced the pen in the holder attached to the laminated wood counter. Finding a seat wouldn’t be so easy. The rows of blue plastic chairs were mostly occupied, even at this hour.

  I found a spot in the corner and leaned against the wall. Discreetly fished out some hand sanitizer, put a dollop in my palm then dropped it back in my bag. Within a few seconds, nothing remained of the gel but the strong, familiar scent.

  If only Michael and I could wash away the weekend as easily.

  Not happening anytime soon. Concentrate on something new.

  Looking around the room, I tried imagining the story behind each face. In the first row, a young blond girl sat with an infant carrier between her legs, rocking the baby in time with a soft lullaby. She was significantly younger than me. I wondered if she was picking up the father of the baby, or even one of her own parents. Directly behind her, another woman looked tired and anxious, a feeling I knew too well by now. Funny, that commonality, though she and I were worlds apart. She wore a uniform from a local restaurant and twirled a pen through her fingers. I couldn’t begin to imagine whom she was posting bail for. Husband or boyfriend? Brother or sister? Son or daughter?

  I wondered what people thought when they looked at me. I was dressed simply enough in a white T-shirt, patterned maxi skirt and flat suede boots but even so, for me, it was all designer names. I hadn’t dressed for show, it was just what I wore. The logos weren’t emblazoned on the front, except for the small insignia on the front of my handbag. When I wasn’t in the office or at an event, I wore little to no jewelry, so at least I didn’t stick out because of that. I couldn’t claim the same message about my grooming. My skin, hair and nails were kept to my normal meticulous standards, so they likely gave me away as the one who didn’t exactly know her way around a police station.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my bag, trying to deal with my nervous energy. What the fuck was taking so long? Ms. Surface Pleasantry said she’d have my detainee brought right out. Didn’t that mean now? Maybe jail-speak was different from regular world-speak.

  I scrolled through emails, making sure I wasn’t missing anything too vital at the office. I forwarded a few messages to Claire, apologizing about dumping things in her lap, giving a cursory update then promising to explain later in the afternoon—when, hopefully, I’d have answers myself. Since Michael had come in late then crashed on the sofa, we hadn’t spoken. Not civilly, at least. In general, he was damn lucky I’d come to post bail for his sorry, sexy ass.

  That was when my heart stepped in with its little reminder about my decision from Saturday night. The little promise I’d made to myself and him before he’d gotten all hot and bothered—and not in the good ways—in front of Doug. I’d vowed to be supportive. Swore that we’d get through our shit together.

  Groan.

  I truly did want to help him, even with this cluster fuck. I wanted to hear his side of things and stand by him as it all was cleared up. But before I could do that, he had to give me some real answers. There was no other way around it.

  Just as I firmed my resolve, his messy blond curls appeared through the window in a door across the room.

  My chest tightened. I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. Somehow, I managed to peel myself off the wall.

  The deputy on our side opened the heavy entrance. Another policeman ushered Michael through by his elbow. Michael raised his head and instantly locked his weary hazel gaze on my face. I yearned to run to him. He looked haggard and defeated and I wondered if he’d slept at all. God knew I hadn’t.

  “Pearson?” the first guard bellowed, loud enough for everyone in the waiting area to hear without the PA system.

  I stepped over as quickly as I could, anxious that he might shout again and wake the baby.

  “I’m here.” I used a regular voice, to show the jerk it could really be done. The deputy, creepier up close than he was from twenty feet back, had the nerve to give me the head-to-toe as if we were in a nightclub. I felt Michael stiffen, despite being at least five feet away.

  “I’ll need to see your bail paperwork, miss.”

  I handed over the yellow copies of the forms I’d just signed. The officer quickly scanned them then returned them to me.

  “There you go, Miss Asher. Thank you.” He caught my eyes with a smarmy smile. “I’m truly sorry you had to come down here today.”

  Without saying a word, I reached for Michael’s hand. Thankfully, he took it. We turned our backs on the leering deputy and walked out into the fresh, crisp air of an autumn day in San Diego. I really wished I could’ve enjoyed it all more—the clear gold sunshine, the slight sting in the morning wind—but I only wanted to get the hell into the car. Andre and the BMW waited just a few spaces down, thank God.

  Michael and I slid into the back seat in silence. But that game was about to be up. I refused to be kept in the dark any longer.

  “We need to talk.”

  Michael scraped a hand through his hair. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  “Cut the shit. Seriously.”

  “All right. If I knew exactly what shit that would be, maybe I—”

  “Cut. It. Do you think I’m in the mood to be fucked with, Michael?”

  “Right. And I am?”

  “Good. So we’re on the same page.”

  “Thanks. That told me a lot.”

  “Well it should have.”

  I all but dismissed his answering glower. At this point, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about how tired he was. How could he have spent the night behind bars because of assumptions, confusions and incorrect perceptions, but still refuse to address the mud we were calling communication? How could he toss aside all the shit he wasn’t confiding in me, the missing pieces behind all the drama with Declan to begin with?

  Step right up, folks. It’s the Michael Pearson show—the greatest illusion of okay you’ll ever behold. Just ignore the hunk behind the curtain. He’s real cute but a complete idiot.

  Even now, he wasn’t in the mood to listen or share in return. As we pulled into traffic, he made with the stoic shit like the walled-off pro that he was, staring out of the window and tapping a finger on the armrest.

  From the front, Andre cautiously inserted a hum. “Miss Margaux, sorry to interrupt—”

  “Ha!” It was harsh and I didn’t care. “Interrupting? Andre, there’s not a thing back here to interrupt—is there, babe?”

  My sneer met Michael’s glare. Andre coughed, underlining the unnerving moment. “Well, uh…where to?” the Jamaican asked.

  “Home,” Michael barked.

  I leaned forward—away from him. “Take us to Seaport Village, please.”

  “Right away.” Not a note of sarcasm tinged it. Unlike the other grown man in the car, Andre knew better than to fuck with me once the frosty manners came out.

  “Damn it. I don’t want to be around people right now, Margaux.”

  I twisted around bracing stiff arms atop the cushion. “Too damn bad. I need some answers from you, hot stuff, and you’re not going to escape from me this time in your big, bad truck. We’re going public, where neither of us can run and hide. We’ll walk along the waterfront, breathe some nice clean air and you’ll tell me everything this time. Everything, Michael.”

  He shuttered his gaze. I wasn’t sure if it denoted agreement or diss
ent, as if I cared. I’d just signed his ass out of county lock-up, so it was mine for a while.

  I settled into the contour of the seat and stared out of my own side of the car as Andre maneuvered through downtown then onto Harbor Drive, toward the popular tourist destination with its eclectic mix of architectural styles. The Village wasn’t the intimate spot for a heart-to-heart, but sometimes being exposed was exactly what a couple needed—or so my gut told me. I was winging it a little right now.

  “Here we are.” Andre pulled into a coveted parking spot near the first row of shops. How the man always got so ridiculously fortunate with shit like that, I’d never know. He’d barely turned off the motor before Michael got out from his side, swinging the door behind him. Good thing I decided not to follow him. My legs would’ve been bloody stumps on the ground, remainders of a horrible accident.

  At least I had my own excuse for a good, angry slam. “Michael,” I called after him. “Michael!”

  He slowed but didn’t stop.

  “Wow. This is new, ass-of-the-century ground for you, Pearson. I hope it lets up soon, before you cross into unforgivable territory. Just throwing that out there. I know it’s been a shit-tastic twenty-four hours and all, but letting it negate your general feelings for me—oh, wait, can I be bold and still call them feelings?—because right now, you’re treating me worse than your goddamn family dog. After one night in jail, have you forgotten manners and respect of any kind?”

  There. Getting it off my chest made it possible to breathe a little. And yes, he had the good sense to stop in his pouty tracks then turn and look at me, at least seeming apologetic.

  He doubled back to where I stood, hands now braced on my hips, aptly representing my solid case of super pissed.

  He stepped a little closer. When I didn’t deck him, he leaned in—and for the first time since we’d arrived at the Del on Saturday, wrapped his arms around me. He dipped his head, kissing me on the lips, again very careful about it, as if testing that he was still welcome to do so.