No Magic Moment (Secrets of Stone Book 4) (18 page)

As she hurriedly ended the call then plopped the phone down, I approached her with a couple of carful 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 really are the best girlfriend ever.”

She didn’t let me pull back. With hands around my biceps, she stated, “Just 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. “Dammit, listen to me.” She raised her head, face calm in spite of her bite. 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, goddammit. 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 just 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 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, synched 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 creamed over when he was batting three-fifty with those shoulders. “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 slingshotted to Margaux as swiftly as mine, though I doubted the bastard’s intestines were more knotted about making her cry.

Dammit.

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.”

Margaux

F
or 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 sand box, 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.