Masked Page 49

  I froze.

  Fifteen minutes ago, I would have been halfway across the room, on my way to hauling her close, kissing her senseless, and wondering how long I’d have to wait for the chance to slide my hands up her sweater. Clearly, she expected the same thing, explaining why she cocked her head at me, a curious smile quirking her lips.

  Take a deep breath and think this through. You’ve been in crappier binds than this before.

  Even if I couldn’t think of a single one right now.

  “Thanks for the great view,” Claire quipped, setting down her purse and approaching me. “But why are you changing your clothes without my help, Mr. Stone?”

  When she got close enough, I yanked both her hands into mine. “It’s been…eventful around here tonight.”

  I tugged her knuckles up to my lips, hoping the action compelled her gaze to mine—and the adoration I had waiting for her there. But her perusal stopped at my chest level. “What happened to your shirt? And what’s that red stuff on your neck…and your jaw? Shit, Kil. Did Adara develop a tigress-cougar thing for you and decide to pay a visit?”

  I tightened my grip on her, forcing words past the goddamn cotton in my mouth. “Funny that you mentioned misbehaving wildlife.”

  “Huh?”

  “I—” Was brain dead. Numb with fear. And couldn’t simply spill that Margaux was here, without an explanation. This was where the nautical course hit a damn cyclone. I’d never had to worry about explanations before. Never had to worry because I’d never really cared. And never had to care because I’d purposely selected women who wouldn’t care in return. It was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner.

  This situation was not clean.

  And turned into a shit bath of a mess when Margaux emerged from the bathroom, clad in nothing but her panties.

  “Oh my God, Kil. We made such a mess that it got all over my pants too. Can you believe—” She stopped, folded her arms, and bit her lip like Bashful the Dwarf given a bitch makeover. “Oh…errr…hiiii, Claire. Great news about the bimbos and the rock band, yeah?”

  “Bimbos.” Claire rasped it from barely moving lips. “That’s clearly a subject I’ll defer to you from now on, Margaux.”

  “Claire.” I growled it as she yanked her hands from mine. “This isn’t—”

  “What it looks like?” She stepped back, shoulders hunching as she wrapped both arms around herself. “How stupid do you think I am, Killian?” A breath shook her whole body as she burst with a bitter laugh. “The answer to that one’s on the wall, right? Or, more accurately, finishing up the mess you made on her in your bathroom.”

  “Damn it.” The curse seethed from me as I wheeled toward Margaux and seized her elbow. Not a peep of protest came out as I dragged her over. “Tell her,” I finally spat, jerking her to a stop. “Tell her exactly what happened, Margaux, and don’t you dare try any lies!”

  The woman slid a sideways smirk at me, as if we shared a daring secret. “Fine. We had a little celebratory wine. Some got spilled. I had to change.”

  The confession did nothing to change Claire’s stance. She still huddled on herself, eyes down, quivering. “Did the spill happen before or after you let her run lipstick down your neck and rip apart your shirt?”

  Her shivering gutted me. I released Margaux and reached for her, needing to be her warmth again. Her shelter. Her trust. “Claire—”

  “Don’t.” She skittered back. “Don’t, Killian. Please.”

  The room literally tilted. Nausea rocked a nine-point Richter quake in my gut. My heart thudded so hard in my throat breathing became an optional choice on the survival menu. The only essential on that list was the woman who tugged her coat on and kept backing toward the door.

  Fuck!

  I released Margaux, now limiting my contact with her to nothing but my eyes, which burned with my rage. At the same time, I recognized the blinders that were yanked from them. I saw everything with sickening clarity. This had been Margaux’s end game all along. She’d sneaked in tonight with the intent of nudity happening on one or both of our parts—and if Claire hadn’t shown up to make the takedown easy, the little bitch would’ve found a way to capture the moments in photos or videos for later.

  The schemer had gotten her way. Claire had warned me about how she operated, and I’d all but laughed off the threat. Now she’d taken down the tower she came to siege. And, goddamnit, the tower was me.

  A thousand words rose to my throat, but I couldn’t make sense of what to say first. Facts were always broken down for me, presented so I made the best decision possible. I always had an action plan. Now, confronted with one of the most important things I’d ever say, I was fucking rudderless. What could I say to save myself? What the hell could I do? There was no plan. And absolutely everything at stake.

  My hesitation came at a price. Claire moved instead—toward the door. “Don’t let me interrupt. Since you’re both clearly so comfortable…” She stopped in the foyer but didn’t turn. “Well, have fun.”

  The door shut behind her with a hideous sad click that echoed throughout the condo.

  Or maybe I had the sound mixed up with the cavern in my heart…the pit my spirit tumbled into during the minutes I couldn’t move. Or think. Or feel. Fuck, especially that.

  With slow agony, I became aware of my body again, starting with the fists that coiled and uncoiled at my sides. “It’s…a misunderstanding,” I stammered. “She’ll have to see that. I’ll make her see. I’ll just find her and force her to listen. To understand—”

  That the reason she held her heart back from you was because of a bastard who shattered her exactly like this? Only that time, she found the guy with her friend instead of a sad, manipulative shrew who’s promised to ruin her life if she so much as sneezes the wrong way.

  “Killian?”

  Speak of the devil. Literally.

  A haze of rage descended over my senses. I punched through it at a furious pace, sweeping Margaux’s purse from where she’d dumped it on the counter after the spill and hurling it into the foyer. “Get out, Margaux. Now.”

  “But—”

  “What part of now wasn’t clear enough for you?”

  Her huff was like razor blades on the air. “She’s not worth this angst, okay? I know you don’t believe me now, but you’re going to be glad about this in a few days. Claire’s a little…silly when it comes to handling relationships. You need a woman who knows more about your world and about—”

  I severed her speech by whirling on her with a roar so feral, I wasn’t sure it had come from me. But when the pain of it clung to the air afterward, I took full ownership. My voice, when I found it again, was a contrast of slithering fury. “You know nothing about my world, Margaux. Now get the fuck out.”

  Her eyes widened, indicating the bath of fear she clearly, finally took. I would have grinned in satisfaction, but feelings weren’t luxuries I could afford right now. Claire had already endured so much stress because of the drug dealer she’d once fallen for, and I refused to add a murderer to her plate.

  I kept fighting the emotions as Margaux retrieved her clothes from the bathroom. Clenched my jaw against the wave, huge and freezing and terrible, that pushed against my soul like a tsunami behind a glass wall. I maintained the barrier while I watched the witch leave without another word.

  I made it through another minute after that. Another. This would get easier—I was sure of it. Besides, it was only temporary. I gritted the words to myself as I rammed open the slider to the balcony, trying to get air into lungs that still wouldn’t cooperate, that listened too closely to the dread thundering in every goddamn beat of my heart. A din that shook harder and harder at the glass wall…

  I closed my eyes and gripped the railing as the tidal wave broke through. It consumed me. Drowned me. Destroyed everything inside that finally, truly had been me.

  * * *

  Nearly a month later, my mind and soul still floated like rotten jetsam in that goddamn storm. Making it
worse was the scene in which I found myself, a springtime bower that looked like Martha Stewart had dropped acid and gone to town on Keystone’s main pool deck. Giant urns overflowed with flowers in every shade of purple. Floating islands on the pool with the same blooms began to glow from the battery-operated twinkle lights hidden in the leaves. More mood lighting illuminated the miles of fluffy fabric adorning the gazebo where a jazz quintet played into the twilight, and the arbor, sheltering a buffet feast centered around an ice sculpture that read 65 Years Young—Happy Birthday, Willa. Laughter, music, and happiness sprinkled the air. As I walked to the edge of the lawn where tables for the party guests were scattered, people waved and smiled. I returned the greetings, barely remembering them the next second.

  I’d never felt so disconnected from my life.

  So dead inside.

  Mother waved from where she held court like a humble, happy birthday queen. Her chestnut hair curled gracefully around her regal face, and her skin was as radiant as a woman twenty years younger. On her wrist was the bracelet I’d given her an hour ago, amethysts on a silver band with a message engraved inside. You are my sunshine. There’d been no need to personalize it. The song belonging to the words would always be our unique memory. She had separate tunes for Trey and Lance too, which gave the words of my song extra meaning from the day she’d first sung them to me. I always wondered if she knew that song was often the brightest part of my days—or if she realized that with a child’s special telepathy, I felt the meaning she gave every syllable and the affection she strove to impart, as if to show how a falsified family could have love as well as a real one.

  I’d accepted that love. Believed in it. Perhaps because she did with desperate fervency, clearly hoping I’d be the glue to seal the Stone family back together. For years, I’d fought to be that cement, craved to give that back to the woman who’d given me so much. And yes, I wanted it for me too. But over the years, chunks of that hope had tumbled away. All that remained were a few optimistic slivers, hoarded in my soul for occasions like this, when I sensed they might have the greatest chance of sticking to my brothers too.

  Wasn’t happening. Not today.

  My soul was officially sitting this one out. On the disabled list until further notice. As a result, I became a brooding bastard of a party guest. A newly grateful Trey now doted on Mother, along with Lance, whose appearances here were so rare nowadays they were treated with the fuss of a papal visit.

  It was all just fine by me.

  I swirled my glass of Scotch and strolled farther away, taking refuge on a little ridge between the pool and tennis court. Beyond the court, Mother had started on a garden dedicated to purple blooms. From here, I could see Jacob’s ladders, violas, pansies…and I could smell the fresh lavender.

  Just how her hair smelled when I buried my nose in it. Nearly as perfect as the bouquet of her skin when I sucked her neck…and then the sweet tang of her arousal as I trailed my mouth lower…

  I gulped more Scotch.

  The liquid was sour in my throat. I put the half-finished drink down on a wall and jammed my hands into my pockets, redirecting my thoughts to their favorite pastime.

  I had to figure out how to reach her.

  She’d tripled the difficulty of the task by catching a flight to California three hours after leaving the condo on that fucked-up night. I’d started with texts and emails, but even the business-related notes were forwarded to one of her colleagues. The personal missives went unanswered. I called, of course—every day, five or six times a day—but my voicemails were ignored. I knew better than to send flowers, a charade she’d not only see through but be insulted by, so attempts were made at more meaningful gifts. A crystal fairy from Ireland. A pair of wineglasses from Italy. Even a donation to the Shambala Reserve in her name.

  All the presents were returned unopened. For the donation, I received a computer-generated thank-you the website allowed her to create with one mouse click.

  Even when I’d insisted on a video conference call with the Asher and Associates team to go through their wrap-up action plan, she’d begged out, pleading food poisoning from bad sushi at lunch.

  Her silence was total, palpable.

  And torture.

  I’d run out of options. Translation—been cut off at the knees. Over a silly, stupid, goddamn misunderstanding.

  Or was it?

  Reflecting on that night, I realized why Claire had been so eager to go to the penthouse. She’d been hit by the same trepidation as me, that the end of Trey’s mess also meant the end of her time in Chicago. She’d also seen the giant question mark of our relationship and had likely been hoping I’d had an answer for her. I’d had the reply ready but hadn’t trusted it enough. I hadn’t believed enough in the gift of us. My vacillation had been the ideal setup for Margaux, who’d sunk her fangs in faster than a viper, creating the scene Claire had walked in on. The situation played into so many of her nightmares, only one reaction made sense for her. She hadn’t just yanked up her drawbridge. With the emotional C-4 laid, she’d slammed the trigger and demolished the fucker.

  So here I stood, still tugging shrapnel out of my heart. And bleeding like a goddamn pig about it.

  A presence on the path behind me drew my gaze around. Lance stood there, the picture of suntanned and suave in his cobalt-blue suit and black Arizona cowboy boots. A subtle smirk played at his lips, tugging at his close-trimmed beard by default. His dark-brown hair was equally tamed tonight, gelled into submission down his nape. As the party flowed on, parts of the mess started to rebel, tumbling across his forehead.

  “Mother sent me to make sure you’re not about to slash your wrists,” he stated.

  I chuffed. “Fuck you.”

  “Her words, not mine.”

  I slanted a questioning glance. “She really sent you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit.” The woman had read me like a book since the day I’d lobbed a “grenade”—a leaf-covered rock—at Trey, only to hit the kitchen window and then try to lie my way out of the crime.

  “That’s a damn good way of saying it.” He stepped a little closer. “But I think the only two people here who haven’t noticed you moping are Trey and Father. T’s celebrating his freedom from Keystone prison tomorrow, and Josiah still thinks you walk on water.”

  I sent over a glare this time. “Well, I don’t.”

  “I know. What a shame.” He looked out toward Mother’s garden too. “Father will probably discover that someday too, which means all our lives will be fucked to hell again. Damn, Kil, can’t you just find a nice girl, knock out a few kids, and keep everything at happy-happy status in Stone Land?”

  I was tempted to hit Lance with a darker glower. Had the guy been sent on a deliberate information-fishing trip, or was he really just cracking a sarcastic line? And in the end, did it matter? “Sure, brother. Let me get right on that. The family stud horse is here to serve and please. What’s one more person to push this lie on, even if she is my goddamn wife?”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Lance swirled his hand with an imaginary lasso. “I was just fucking around.”

  “Right,” I muttered. “Okay.”

  “But you weren’t.” He broadened his stance a little. “Were you?”

  Hearing someone, anyone, recognize my pain…was worse than I expected. Much worse. I battled and failed to hold myself back from grimacing. “It doesn’t matter,” I snarled. “It’s over.” Before it had a chance to begin.

  “Damn,” Lance blurted. “I had no idea.”

  “Nobody did,” I countered. “And I’d like it to stay that way.”

  Not surprisingly, the guy grinned a little. Where Trey had spent his childhood burning butterflies’ wings off with a magnifying glass, Lance had spent the days drawing the insects in gory detail, starting at the pupa stage. In his own way, he was the optimist dreamer of the family. “Okay, so who is she?” he asked. “Does she live here? In the city, maybe?”

  “No. She’s from
—” I growled and turned away. “I told you it doesn’t matter.”

  “Wait. The firm you hired to straighten out Trey’s PR… They were from San Diego, right?” He snapped his fingers. “A California girl, eh? Nice work, Kill Shot!”

  I spun and bore down on him. “She’s not a piece of ‘nice work,’ goddamnit.” I backed off when confronted by the raw shock on his face. “Her name is Claire.” The Scotch finally sank in, permitting some misery to crawl free from my stoic shell. “And she’s beautiful. And funny. And smart…so damn smart. And stubborn…exasperating…infuriating. She sees through all my bullshit, and when she calls me on it, I want her twice as much as before…”

  I let the rest of it die beneath a harsh choke. There was still a small novel’s worth of things to say, but even confessing this much made my whole body roil with impatient anger. Lance let me twist in the wind like that for a long moment before erupting with a meaningful chuckle.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “The Enigma has found his match.”

  Inside my pockets, my hands curled into fists. “The Enigma has nothing, brother. Remember the part where I told you it was over?”

  I gave him the general details of the disastrous night in the condo. When I concluded, I braced for a typical Lance follow-up. The caustic laugh and biting commentary never materialized. Instead, I was stunned to see sympathy in the eyes that matched his trendy suit and a smile of comfort on his lips.

  “Well, you’re right.” He rocked back on his slick boots. “That is a story full of big-time suck factor.”

  I nodded, resigned. “Thanks for listening, at least.”

  “Oh, I’m not done with your feedback.”

  Here it comes.

  “Okay, what?”

  His profile grew reflective. I was confused. If snarky commentary was forthcoming from a mien like that, Lance had spent some of that time in the Sedona sun perfecting the hell out of his technique. “The deal is, you’ve been through the suck factor before.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Damn, brother. What Trey and I have put you through since your fifth birthday would’ve obliterated a lesser man.”