No Magic Moment Page 14

  As she hurriedly ended the call then plopped the phone down, I approached her with a couple of careful steps. “Five o’clock for what, sugar?”

  She turned and leaned against the desk. The position lent itself to more of my fantasies but every inch of her demeanor confirmed her head didn’t share that airspace. “Dinner,” she replied, almost defiant about it. “We have reservations at the Brockton Villa.”

  I grinned in spite of her spooked cat vibe. “I love that place.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll be there just in time for sunset, too.”

  “Yep.”

  I tugged on her elbows and kissed her nose. “You truly are the best girlfriend ever.”

  She didn’t let me pull back. With her hand around my biceps, she stated, “Remember you said it and meant it.”

  Spooky mach-fived into strange. “Why?”

  “Because Doug’s meeting us there.” She kicked her head backward. “That was him on the phone.”

  “Doug?” Screw strange. I moved things right into incensed. “Why the hell was he calling you?”

  “Michael—”

  “And why the hell did you pick up?” Comprehension slammed my brain—then deflated my dick. “Princess, I’m not into sharing. Especially not you. If Mr. Baseball, Hot Dogs and Apple Pie thinks he can call you for some kinky reunion thing and—”

  She shoved me away. “Damn it, listen to me.” She raised her head, face calm in spite of her anger. Took a deep breath. Really deep. “I called him.”

  Her confession struck like a punch. I blinked as my jaw clenched, fighting the monster gnashing across my gut. “Why?”

  “Because we need him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not just doing the whole ex-baseball guy speaking circuit thing anymore. He’s trying to do some good in the world. He opened his own private investigation firm, and—”

  “So now he’s a private dick as well as a public one?”

  Her hands hit my chest so hard I stumbled back again. “The only dick here is you, god damn it. I’m trying to get you some help!”

  “And the guy who landed you in a lockdown unit is the one you call for that?”

  A bright sheen formed over her eyes. “I’d call hell itself for you, Pearson. Gladly pay them a visit in person, if it meant keeping you out of jail.”

  I grimaced. Scrubbed a hand over my face. “I know. I know. I just—”

  “What?” She demanded into my weighted silence.

  “I don’t understand. You’ve hired half the lawyers in the city.”

  “Who are all bound by laws,” she countered. “And it doesn’t sound like Declan’s friends care too much about shit like that.”

  “So we find a PI. It’s sound wisdom. But Doug—”

  “Is going to care more than the others.” She practically punctuated the words with her wince, it came so fast. Still too late. “I don’t mean care care,” she revised. “I mean that he sincerely wants to help. Maybe he’s even got residual guilt from…things…and feels this will even out his debt.”

  On a logical plane, it made sense. Across the tundra of my instinct, it sent another storm of apprehension. “And maybe he sees a great opportunity to be your shining star again.”

  She snorted. “Because that went so well the first time?”

  “Because that’s going so well with the guy you’ve got?”

  “Shut up.”

  “It could be the truth, princess. We both know it.” I spun for the door. Stopped myself from leaving by reaching for the door frame, gripping it tighter than I wanted to admit. “I’m not giving in to Declan on the rights to the spring, especially now.”

  “Nor would I let you,” she declared.

  “Even if I go to prison for it?”

  “You’re not going to prison.” While her comeback was drenched in all the determined fire of the Margaux I loved, there was no way to miss its charred edges of desperation. “Now go get dressed for dinner, dammit.”

  I did it without any more argument, seizing the chance to make her happy.

  God only knew how few of those I had left.

  * * * *

  There was no such thing as a bad California sunset—but the sky got especially amazing over the Pacific in the fall, supported by the view we had while drinks and appetizers arrived at the table. As a few coastal clouds threaded the sky’s fabric of brilliant purple, orange and gold, Margaux helped herself to some lobster rolls while Doug and I dove straight for our alcohol. He’d gone for a porter ale from Hawaii. I opted for the Stone Arrogant Bastard, a local microbrew. Might as well broadcast my mood loud and clear from the start.

  The drinks didn’t make the silence any more unnerving.

  It extended for at least another minute, thick as the descending night, making the waves on the cliffs sound like blows to a punching bag.

  To his credit, Dougie had the grace to look as uneasy as me. Though he was all business with his small keyboard and screen along with a paper notepad and pen, he jiggled a knee like a six-year-old in church. My nerves didn’t manifest any better. My back teeth would be nubs in an hour. My right foot tapped the balcony rail, synced to the beat of the groovy jazz playing over the speakers in the eaves.

  “If you guys don’t eat some of this lobster roll, I’m going to scarf it all,” Margaux grumbled at us, “and I won’t be happy about the price my ass pays for it.”

  I chuckled and didn’t have to fake it. My sassy, gorgeous girl, looking elegant but casual in a cream sweater and jeans, was trying so hard to smooth the air. I pulled her hand up and kissed her palm, openly appreciating the effort. “Lay some on me, baby—says the guy with a vested interest in your happiness and your ass.”

  As I’d hoped, she giggled.

  As I’d expected—and was none too happy about that—Doug’s face tightened.

  Maybe his interest in her ass wasn’t as platonic as she assumed.

  “So, let’s clarify Saturday night’s timeline first.” He tapped a few notes into his pad then looked up. He’d arrived in jeans, too, but finished things off with a white button-front and a navy sports coat. The look earned him plenty of flirty feminine gawks but the bastard only turned on the charm once he had Margaux’s attention. Since she’d decided the lobster roll needed her full focus again, he turned the Dick Tracy stare on me. “After you went off on your uncle the first time—”

  “You mean the only time?”

  Margaux smacked my knee. “Be nice.”

  Simcox ran his napkin across his lips. I narrowed the corners of my eyes. Nice cover for the smirk, slick.

  He asserted, “Well, according to Declan Pearson’s statement—the account filed with the court—it was the first of two times.”

  “They also took Michael’s statement.” Margaux arched a brow. “Did you read that part, too?”

  “Of course.” Dougie’s tone gentled for her. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. As Margaux stiffened, I reached for her hand again. Squeezed in blatant possessiveness.

  She yanked free.

  Dougie wiped his mouth again.

  Ass basket.

  “Let’s talk about the organization that Menger referenced,” he pressed on.

  For once, we were on the same page. “Yeah,” I agreed. “The Principals. What the hell?”

  Doug leaned back in his chair. “About them…”

  Margaux clanked her fork to the plate. “You know about them?”

  “A little.” He swung a look toward the faint glow over the sea. “But none of it is pretty, honey.”

  Margaux’s stare whipped toward me. Shock took over her eyes when watching me take a lazy drag on my beer. “I’m good,” I assured. “It’s all good. Only the idiot fish chomp on the obvious bait.” I flicked my glance back across the table. “Dougie knows that, too, doesn’t he?”

  Simcox shrugged. The move was well-rehearsed, probably something women had creamed over when he was batting three-fifty with those should
ers. “No harm meant. Just…old habits, buddy.”

  “Old habits.” I tilted another swig. “Just remember that part. Old, as in ancient history. Got it?”

  “Stop.” Margaux went for my knee again—with fingernails like daggers this time. “And cut the fucking caveman. And you”—she stabbed Doug’s forearm with his fork—“cut the fucking Lancelot.”

  “The—huh?” he moped. “Lancelot?”

  “I’m not made of hairspray and fairy dust anymore.” She slammed the cutlery back down. “I can take not pretty now. Give this shit to me straight.”

  Doug swiveled his stare to me. I gave him my own version of a shrug. One shoulder, both brows. “You heard the woman. She can take it.”

  He canted his grin at Margaux. “You still floor me, Ms. Asher.”

  “As she does me every day.”

  His lips thinned. “So you’ve said.”

  “No harm meant.” I deliberately glanced around the balcony, living up to the label on my beer. It felt fucking great. “Habits, as you said.”

  Doug sniffed, deep and noisy and pissed. I couldn’t help a grunting laugh. That couldn’t have been pleasant, considering the aroma from the cove’s hundred sea lions, now riding firmly on the night’s breeze. “You know, Pearson, I’m trying to keep this civil.”

  I cocked up one side of my mouth. Screw hiding it with a napkin. I actually still possessed a dick. “Sure, Lancelot. Sure.”

  “Is keeping your ass out of jail any kind of a priority for you?”

  “Is it for you?”

  He hurled the napkin to the table. “What the hell are you implying?”

  “You tell me, Simcox. What am I implying?”

  “Fuck.”

  The word ripped the air with its raw fury—and its brutal tears. Doug’s sights bounced to Margaux as swiftly as mine, though I doubted the bastard’s intestines were more knotted about making her cry.

  Damn it.

  I couldn’t reach her fast enough. Literally, not fast enough. By the time my hand neared hers, she’d bolted from her chair, grabbed her purse and detonated her glare at both of us.

  “I give up.” She jabbed a finger at me. “You can go to jail, okay?” Swung it at Doug. “And you can go to hell.”

  As she headed for the stairway leading down to the street, she pulled our waitress and the hostess to a stop. She pushed money into their hands.

  “If anyone comes in here looking like a fan or photographer, even with a pretend kid’s phone, stop them from getting to that table. Speaking of juveniles, you can get those two a pair of kids’ menus. They can’t be trusted with anything above chicken fingers and applesauce.”

  Doug and I sulked through three minutes of silence before lifting our beers in tandem. We eyed each other over our bottles as we chugged the rest of the contents.

  I barely felt the impact of the alcohol over the roar of my senses—made by an animal I’d gotten too fucking familiar with lately. The swine of self-disgust.

  Doug stifled a belch before muttering, “Well. Another round, or should we order up the chicken nuggets?”

  I hated that I understood the subtext in his question. If either or both of us went after Margaux now, it’d only be asking for her boot in our balls and her snarl in our faces. She wouldn’t go far, but it was wise to let her have every inch of that space, for as long as she demanded.

  “Next round’s on me,” I said by way of response.

  “Bullshit,” Simcox countermanded.

  “I’m not a goddamn charity case, Dougie.” I waved at the waitress, indicating we wanted two fresh bottles.

  Simcox closed his smart pad, set aside his notes and leaned back in his chair so far, the front legs lifted. “Tell you what. Stop calling me Dougie and you can pay for anything you want tonight.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Well, shit.”

  “We have a deal?”

  “Guess we do.”

  We reached across the table and shook hands.

  Doug took his turn at the laugh. “Damn. We should snap this then text it to Margaux.”

  I shook my head. “Yanking the wildcat’s tail, man.”

  Doug chortled softly. “Some things never change.”

  Chapter Ten

  Margaux

  For the love of fucking Chanel.

  What the hell was that?

  I didn’t have any more an answer now, standing on the street below the restaurant, than I had two minutes ago. For a second, I wondered if I was truly dealing with grown men. Those two were no better than four-year-olds in a sandbox, fighting over who got to play with the backhoe first. If we hadn’t been in the middle of a damn nice restaurant, I would’ve knocked their rock-hard skulls before dumping their ice waters into their laps.

  Even without that, half the restaurant had gawked.

  Again.

  And even though I’d paid off the help, we were likely to be splashed all over the tabloid covers.

  Again.

  I worked in the damn public relations business and I couldn’t keep my own face out of the rags, especially at the moment. The thought churned a laugh up in my throat, one of those hysterical kinds that made people glance sideways, betraying their worry about being shanked if they looked too long.

  The giggle never made it all the way out.

  Instead, tears welled in my eyes. My throat surrendered to a stranglehold.

  Again.

  Goddamn feelings.

  Goddamn boyfriend.

  I couldn’t even screw up the girl balls to blame Michael. Not completely. Before I got involved with him, I’d been the one in charge of this shit. I’d stowed these things neatly away, tucked where I’d never have to deal with them again—ever. I plowed through the days and filled the nights with empty dates, parties, shopping sprees. Whenever emotions got stirred, I really did laugh. I’d throw down my big giant mixing paddle and walk on with my bad self to the next sandbox, never looking back at the scorched earth I’d left behind.

  Not now.

  No. Now I dealt with tears and sniveling. And the worst part of it all? They were all my own.

  I shook my head in disgust, turned from where I knew Andre had parked and headed in the opposite direction. I needed some air and a few minutes to pull myself together—away from my driver. Apparently, the Jamaican had become a part-time shrink. Not only did he know the fastest route to every venue in San Diego, he also knew the fastest course through my bullshit. And right now, I couldn’t face his all-knowing dark brown stare and approving little nod, letting me know it was fine to fall apart if I needed to, because he’d be right there to catch me. I loved him like the dear friend he’d become but right now, I just needed some head time.

  Head time?

  What the fuck?

  Suddenly, I wanted to cry even more. Throttle someone harder. When had I become the fragile girl everyone watched so carefully, awaiting the little tells that she was about to go down in flames? Did that mean I was also the subject of their concerned, condescending conversations, whispered in corners when I wasn’t around? Poor Margaux. She’s losing it but if we stay close, we can see her through. We’ll save her this time, before it gets too ugly…

  No way. I’d done this ride before, courtesy of Doug Simcox. Bought the ticket then washed the T-shirt so much it was falling apart. I was done. Really, really done.

  Rage boiled, steamrolling my self-pity. I smiled, recognizing its arrival. Balled fists, gritted teeth, twitching eyes. Rage was my old friend. I welcomed the bitch more than sadness or—gasp, God help me—helplessness.

  By now, I’d stomped all the way to Prospect Street. I strolled past a few favorite shops, peering into their window displays. Nothing spoke calm to me like shopping. I could always do a little damage to my plastic then reevaluate how I felt after. Best idea of the night.

  I waited for the little tickle in my belly that came when I verged on buying something totally unnecessary. When it didn’t crash in, I frowned. Shit. I was in deeper than eve
n I realized. No sense buying something simply for the sake of it if it meant no contact high from my black card.

  Maybe…I needed to go to the gym? Laugh-out-loud time now. Had I really just channeled that Michael Pearson thought? I would never understand the gym rat mindset no matter how hard I tried, even for his sake. I hated exercising and always would—except for sex, which was so off the table right now. Pissed and horny were like socks and sandals. Mixing them was against nature’s plan.

  That led me back to where I’d started.

  Fabulous.

  Square one totally sucked.

  My phone rang in my bag. With a sigh, I fished it out, curious who was bothering my perfect sulk.

  Speak of the devil. A text. From Michael.

  Where are you?

  I stabbed angry thumbs at the pad.

  Leave me alone. Go have some more fun with Doug. You two can’t be done with your pissing tournament yet.

  Is that why you left?

  Gold star for the hot guy.

  Come back. Please.

  I thought begging was my bit.

  Will doing it again bring you back?

  Have Andre take you home. I’ll find my own way.

  I’ll wait.

  I wanted to cry again. Then laugh. The impulses were tangled even more by the giddy ache in my stomach. The man truly made me crazy, especially when he turned back into his sweet, considerate self. I couldn’t stay mad at him for long. My heart softened, inspiring a resigned sigh in my throat—

  Until I thought of returning to the restaurant.

  Where those two jackasses had embarrassed the crap out of me and nearly propelled us all back onto the tabloids’ front pages.

  I glared at my phone, so engrossed in composing my next smart-mouthed reply that I slammed right into another pedestrian. “Crap,” I muttered. “I’m really sorry. I—”

  I choked during my double-take.