No White Knight Read online

  Talia and Margaux let out a tandem sigh. What Claire described—hands joined, souls melded, connection so deep not even light could get through—was what they’d all found with their men, a bond every girl dreamed of…

  Except me.

  Not a single damn sigh from this side of the couch. Instead, I went ahead and voiced my true inclination, clearing my throat with a dramatic gagging sound.

  Talia burst into laughter.

  Claire rolled her eyes.

  Margaux smiled through a knowing chuckle before murmuring, “Ohhh, little grasshopper, I was once like you too—but my day came. Fate scooped me up, balled my heart into a neat little wad, and then sent it to Michael Pearson with a pretty first class stamp. Your day is coming too. Mark my words.” She paused a few seconds, setting up for maximum dramatic effect. “Or should I say, Mac my words.”

  Claire, Talia, and I were in agreement about reactions this time. Groans erupted all around, until I glared over at the preening mama and her “gotcha” smile.

  “Mary Stone, you may have nicely recovered your cute little figure, but your pun game is still waaaaay off.”

  “And throwing the spotlight back on me won’t get you off so easily now, bitch.”

  “Language,” Claire and Talia snapped.

  She pfffted them and then volleyed at me, “Oh, and if I wasn’t holding this sweet angel, I’d make you pay for using that name. You know that, right?” Her finish was classic, fake-sweet Margaux—which I flung back with perfect precision, beaming all my pearly whites at her.

  “Let’s just say I picked my moment, darling.”

  “Bitch,” she grumbled.

  “Margaux!” Claire unleashed a full glare at her sister-in-law, though it wasn’t the full distraction I’d hoped for. “Not so fast, sugar.” She yanked me back down to the couch before my ass cleared two inches of an escape. “We’re not done with you yet.”

  I notched up a brow. “Excuse the hell out of me?”

  “That’s not everything I’ve got to say about Dr. Clown.”

  I openly gawked. “You mean there’s more?”

  Margaux snickered. “Dr. Clown?”

  “It’s her affectionate nickname for Maclain Stone,” Talia explained.

  I sneered. “Trust me, that’s not affection you’re vibing on, girl.”

  “And Edwin in the SGC mailroom doesn’t have a creepazoid thing for you, either,” the bride drawled.

  “Edwin?” Margaux gaped. “The one with the monkey hands and the serial killer eyes? He likes Tay?”

  “Oh, my God.” I huddled as close to the arm of the love seat as I could. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Oh, hell, no,” Margaux protested. “This is getting good.”

  “Don’t you all have husbands who need attention? And why haven’t they broken down the door, looking for you?” I whipped a pointed look over my shoulder toward said door. “Especially the marine.”

  “Former marine,” Talia clarified. “Thank you very much.”

  “Well, once a marine, always a marine, right? My guess is he has no trouble ordering you around, Miss Perizkova.”

  “Aannnnd score one for the mistress of deflection.”

  Leave it to Margaux to call me out on my shit again—and to Claire to flush all of it away just as efficiently. “Okay, back to business,” she instructed, making the three of us giggle as only girlfriends could, though her demeanor didn’t relax by an iota. With our gazes meeting over the new handclasp she insisted on initiating, she stated, “You need to be careful here, Taylor, okay?”

  For a moment, I was genuinely confused as to what she was talking about. For the next moment, I battled to pretend that didn’t bother me. “Careful…about what?” Okay, maybe I pretended for a little longer.

  “About that man, honey. Mac Stone. Dr. Clown. Dr. McHunk. Whatever. Kil told me, in no uncertain terms, that the guy might be brilliant at fixing brains but doesn’t know the first thing about hearts and souls. He has the total reputation around Chicago.”

  “Total reputation…how?” Yeah, still pretending.

  “He’s basically a dickhead. Treats women like they should be grateful he gives them a minute of his time and then gives them just about that before he’s out, off and done.” She wrapped her grip tighter. “You know the type I’m talking about, yes?”

  “They’re called douchebags, Bear. You can say it,” Margaux teased.

  “I don’t have to.” She assessed me carefully, tilting her gaze. “You do get it, Taylor? Right?”

  No. I wasn’t sure I did. I mean, yes, I’d heard her loud and clear and even believed every word of her testament about Mac’s lothario ways back in Chicago—but when he and I stepped into the same atmosphere together, that wasn’t the guy who greeted me. And smiled at me. And challenged me. And ignited me. And stared at me like I hung the damn moon. And touched me like I was a diamond resting on silk…

  And how many other idiot females have recited the same drivel to themselves about the man?

  The same lunacy Janet used to tell me about every horny asshole she’d ever brought home?

  “Yeah.” I said it to Claire from the middle of the ice bath she’d just dunked me in. “Thanks.” And gripped her tighter in return to tell her how much I meant it.

  “And on that note…” Margaux rose carefully, holding Iris tight so the baby wouldn’t wake. “I love all of you, but this mama is beat. I need to find Michael and get on the road. Andre is visiting his family for the entire month, and driving in this town sucks an entire bag of dicks.”

  “And now that.” Claire slapped her hand to her forehead. “Right in her precious ear!”

  “She’s sleeping, Bear. What the fuck is she going to ‘absorb’ in her sleep?”

  “Why don’t you just play NWA on the drive home, then?”

  “Nah. Thought I’d throw on some Bruno and have my man do me reverse cowgirl while I did all the steering—if you know what I mean.”

  Even Claire couldn’t resist joining us in the giggles from that one, and we laughed all the way out of the bathroom. Each of the girls quickly found their spouses, leaving me to realize I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. Absently, I started picking up empty cake plates. I’d never been good at being idle, and a cursory look around didn’t turn up any catering staff, so I got busy.

  I had a stack of at least ten plates when Mac approached. By approached, I mean that we saw each other across the room before he pushed away from the column that had nothing on him in the rock-hard, tall, and imposing category and charted himself on a direct, determined path across the large room to me. But once he was there, about three feet away, he paused and held position, almost as if racking his brain for the proper password to enter my clubhouse.

  “Hey.” As passwords went, it was weak. He made up for it with the intensity of his eyes. They were green but not overpoweringly so, like the watchful gaze of a great beast of prey. Their allure came from the strength behind them, not from surface glamor or dazzle. They were the kind of eyes inviting weeks, months, maybe years of study, only to lead an onlooker right back to where they started—with his honest exposure.

  And that was more than enough of that.

  “Hey,” I replied, keeping it as neutral as possible—not easy when his mere presence made the air feel more special, every moment that much more significant.

  No. No, damn it.

  “Need some help?”

  “I can manage. Thanks, though.”

  Eight words we’d spoken. Eight. I’d counted as if they all mattered. As if I wouldn’t remember every moment of them for hours—or the sweep of motion after that, when he reached for my shoulder as I turned to head back to the kitchen.

  “Take your paw off me, clown.” My voice sounded acidic, even to me. Since my other choice was a simpering sigh, the acid treatment it was.

  “Stop this.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like tha
t?” I spun back around, plates clanking in my hands. “Like what, exactly? Because it’s not like I know you or even like you.” I licked my lips if only to regain some composure but quickly recognized my mistake as soon as he homed that possessive stare right in on my mouth. “You—you don’t know me from Eve, okay, so don’t act as though there’s some easy rapport between us because you just had your hand up my skirt.”

  He stepped—stumbled?—back a bit, hands held up as if I’d just pulled a gun. “Christ, girl. Relax a little.” The edges of his mouth quirked, but that was as far as he got with the smile. I got the impression he wasn’t comfortable with the whole concept in general, which was probably why he began picking up dishes too, despite what I’d just said. “Are you always this…uuuhhhh…intense?”

  “Are you always this dense?” I tilted my head, openly baiting for an answer.

  “I’m many things, Miss Mathews, but dense isn’t one of them.” Again with the smiling-not-smiling thing. “My IQ makes most humans cower.”

  A laugh spilled out before I could help it. “That so?”

  “Oh, I can assure you.” He nodded. “It’s so.”

  “Wow.” Once again, he left me speechless.

  “That’s a strange response.”

  “To your IQ or your douchery?”

  “Douchery. Is that a word?” He had the balls to actually chuckle on top of that one.

  “It is now.” I paused, trying to not let my anger get the best of me but failing. “Tell you what, Dr. Stone. You finish up here while I go cower in the corner with the other humans.”

  In a rush that was nearly clumsy, I piled every one of my gathered plates into his arms, the china discs sliding this way and that, making a crumb-and-icing mess all over his white dress shirt. During my stomp back inside, I was tempted to look back but staved off the urge. I made my intent all about finding my purse and makeup bag before I could contemplate punching him in his smug face. Talia and the guys would understand why I’d bailed without saying goodbye.

  Right now, Maclain Stone needed to be the mountain range in my mental rearview—a spectacular memory I’d look back on with a sigh, wishing I’d had the right equipment to climb while I was visiting, despite knowing that adventure would’ve been the painful death of me.

  Instead, in the name of self-preservation, I’d driven on—knowing in my deepest soul that I’d thank myself for it.

  Eventually.

  Hopefully.

  Chapter Three

  Mac

  “We should get going, Fairy. Our sweet baby girl will be missing her mama.”

  “With the way you’ve been rocking her to sleep every night, Mr. Stone, I think she’ll be missing her daddy more.”

  I eavesdropped on my cousin and his wife from the other side of the hedge separating the outdoor bar and the main wedding reception area. While nursing an imported beer, I’d just found the best reception entertainment of the day—the taming of the wild Killian by his fearless woman and a round of sickening sweet nothings. The whole ritual would have made me want to lose my lunch, if I’d eaten any. Stalking Taylor had taken up too much of the day to bother with food.

  So how sickening does that make me?

  Even the warm beer didn’t hold much appeal anymore. I pushed it away, preparing to blow this taco stand for good and return to the hotel, when Claire asked Kil a question that plunked my ass solidly back on the bar stool.

  “Why do you really think Mac isn’t married?”

  I stole a quick look through the break in the bushes in time to witness her mooning stare at Kil, all big brown eyes and open adoration. Those two factors I could write off with a grunt—but the third aspect of her expression, genuine concern, turned the beer to acid in my stomach. My name wasn’t Oliver Twist, and I sure as fuck didn’t need any porridge from Killian Stone or his wife—a sentiment Kil himself conveyed, leaning his tall frame back in his chair, arrogant as all fuck.

  “You’ve met him, right?” He finished the growl by crossing an ankle over the other.

  Claire smacked him on the arm. Silently, I urged her to make the blow harder. Dickhead.

  “Come on,” she chided. “Seriously, baby. He’s a smart, good-looking guy. And he must make good money.”

  “Hey.” He sat forward again, giving her a dominant look of warning. “You trying to make me jealous now?”

  “You know my sun rises and sets with you, mister.” Her purr eased him a little. “But I was just thinking about Taylor.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they clearly have spark together, and—”

  “No.”

  “Killian.”

  “Claire.”

  “She needs happiness too.”

  “And he’s not the one to give it to her.” My cousin would make his word the final one, even if he claimed the sky was green. “Trust me, Fairy. He’s not the guy for her.”

  “Why?” she persisted, making me like her a little more despite how she’d been easy on the asshole with the shoulder punch. “Why are you so sure of that? You were there too. You felt the chemistry along with the rest of us. They’re hot together, baby. Crazy hot.”

  Kil rubbed his stubbled chin in thought. “Yeah, I was there,” he capitulated. “But sometimes, things require more than heat.”

  “That’s not what you said when we first met.”

  “You mean when my soul ordered me to never let you go?”

  She mooned again, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Why doubt others can have our happiness?”

  He tugged her hand up, kissing her knuckles in return. “Fairy, no man in the fucking galaxy can be as happy as you’ve made me.”

  I clenched my own jaw. It was that or really give in to a full vomit. Christ, he was whipped.

  And I was jealous as fuck.

  “I don’t know,” he finally went on, responding to his wife’s open skepticism. “It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Taylor’s so—fuck—tender? Fragile? You can’t say you don’t see it, babe. She doesn’t parade that crap for the rest of the world, and that’s her business, but the girl has seen shit. There’s cracks there, lots of them, and Mac is—well—Mac. He’d destroy her.” He scrubbed his jaw again. “It’d take a ball buster like my sister to handle a guy like Mac.”

  Claire snorted. “You’ve met Taylor, right? Taylor Mathews, the one we all like calling firecracker?”

  “Because you’re all respectful of her act too and let her keep the shields up.” His gaze narrowed, as if surprised he had to point out the obvious. “You do all know that’s all an act, right?”

  “I know I’ve spent a lot more time with her than you.”

  With perfect diplomacy, Kil chuckled. “Suit yourself. But take it from someone who used to live behind a lot of shields. I know them when I see them.”

  “So…Mac’s never been serious about anyone?”

  Killian erupted in a sharp laugh. I almost joined him. His woman was like a dog with a bone. I definitely liked her. “Only once…I think,” he replied. “Though again, I don’t know if it was serious or just lip service.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire leaned forward.

  “He was engaged for a brief time, during his med school days. I remember my mom making a comment when the announcement came in the mail.”

  “And what happened with that?”

  “Clearly, it got called off.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask as if I know or care. The guy isn’t my BFF, Claire.”

  “I think you do know but just don’t want to tell me.”

  He raised a single dark eyebrow before growling, “I don’t keep anything from you. You know that.”

  At once, her head dropped. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just want to figure him out. I think there’s more to him than he lets on.”

  Kil let his own head dip and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Please don’t make this your next pr
oject, Claire. I’m begging you. Constance Stone is not a person you want to tangle with. She would easily give Andrea Asher a run for her money. Easily.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened with his fiancée? Was his mother the issue?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” He paused for a minute or two before surging back to his feet, gently pulling her along. “Come on. Let’s go home. I need to forget this bullshit by burying myself between your gorgeous thighs.”

  “Now that’s a worthy project.”

  “I’ll have the car brought around.”

  Her long, savoring moan was the response to that—and I watched over my shoulder, like a damn pervert, as Kil lowered a kiss on her that gave serious new meaning to the term sucking face. Thank God it was over in seconds, when my cousin released her with a satisfied smirk on his lips and a wolfish fire in his eyes. As soon as he strolled off toward the front of the house, Claire headed toward the bride and grooms to say good night.

  My cell phone had enough battery left for hailing a ride back to the La Valencia, the hotel in La Jolla where I was staying. I had a job interview on Wednesday at a local hospital, a last-minute decision to humor an old college buddy, but thoughts of living in San Diego had definitely put down roots this weekend, aside from the obvious reasons.

  Chicago winters sucked. Even as a child, I’d hated them. While the other kids had bundled up and gone playing in the snow drifts, I’d stayed inside with my Lego and Nintendo GameCube, with the driving simulator games topping my list of favorites. I’d clock lap time after lap time, always figuring ways to push the onscreen vehicle to perform just a little better than the turn before. The laws of physics literally made my blood pump faster. It had become a passion of mine as an adult, and racing was something I could do anywhere the world but most especially in car-crazy Southern California.

  Except, it seemed, when it came to the vehicles assigned for my rides around town.

  I cringed when the ride app flashed a message about my driver, a kid who looked about twelve, and the domestic compact he’d be arriving to transport me in. Sure enough, the young ginger rolled the vehicle up with an eager grin on his face to match the “gumption” I was sure the car got marketed with.