No Magic Moment (Secrets of Stone Book 4) (34 page)

“Okay, listen—”

“No.” He arrowed a finger back to the boulder. “This time,
you’ll
listen.” He cocked his head, flinging our imaginary ball back to my end of the court. “Unless you’re not serious about loving Margaux…about wanting to protect her?”

I wheeled around. “Fuck you.”

“That’s not happening, either.” His outstretched hand didn’t falter. “Sit the hell down.”

I openly snarled.

Then reluctantly sat.

Killian lowered his hand with solemnity that made my teeth grind. Why the hell was
he
evoking an emo-goth video? The fucker wasn’t the one now contemplating barbed wire atop his property’s border fence, or waiting for a whacked-out band of organized crime thugs to break in and shoot up his home in the name of Declan Pearson’s unpaid gambling debts.

And why the hell are
you
so pissed about it, wuss?
You’re
the one who invited
him
up here. Did you expect he’d show without an agenda of his own for the meeting, dictated by Claire, if not Margaux herself
?

No. Not Margaux. Definitely
not
Margaux.

I won’t be back again, Michael. Not like this. Not
ever
again like this.

Or for that matter, in any other way.

She hadn’t said it but she hadn’t needed to. Her tearless sorrow, there in the mist, had conveyed the message clearly enough—and her ensuing eight days of radio silence had congealed the message into reality. There hadn’t been a call, email or text, not even to Mom’s phone. Yeah, I’d spied again. No, I didn’t regret it.

And yeah, here I sat, maybe a little baffled by it. A little bit more ticked off.

A thousand more kinds of scared.

Why? She was back in the city and she was safe. I knew that much, thanks to Doug’s regular reports. That was the goddamn end of that.

So why the hell did it feel like just the beginning—especially as Killian strode to stand in front of me, feet spread, hands deep in his pockets?

“For the record, both Claire and Margaux think I’m at the LA Auto Show today.”

Time for a double-take. “Why?”

“Because I’m about to force some major reality down your throat—along with a few other tasty morsels of ugliness. Because of that, I’m only going to say it all once—and you’ll never speak of it outside this cave again. Got that, bucko?”

I frowned. “Yeah.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak again. My face tightened. Why did I expect spooky music to pour from the walls, before Kil transformed into an eight-foot giant with a beard like a tumbleweed?
You’re a wizard, Michael…

Killian didn’t help the impression by tossing up his head then staring at the ceiling.

“Okay,
bucko
,” I finally bit out. “What the hell?”

“Sorry.” He grunted then sniffed, lowering a look of introspection. “I was reaching for a word to better describe your paranoia, but it’s hopeless. Pearson, you’re paranoid.”

“
That’s
the classified information I’m supposed to take to my grave?”

“That was an appetizer.”

I rolled my eyes. “Buttering me up to get the boot all the way in?”

“Please. I can do that part by myself.” He rocked back on his heels. “But you ever think that it takes one to know one?”

He was sure as hell determined to milk the double-takes out of me. “Huh?”

He paused again. Pivoted with enough precision to make good in a military parade, and began pacing with equal deliberation. I watched with interest. I’d seen a lot of versions of the Kil Stone pace but this one was different. It had an end game.

“So…welcome to Club Paranoia.”

“Thanks. I think.” I studied him again. “You been president of this outfit for long?”

He stopped. Linked hands behind his back. “Oh, I’m not president. Too obvious.”

“So you’re the CIA?”

A smile lifted one side of his chiseled jaw. “Sneakier. More like coordinating the SEALs.”

I could respect that. But was still confused. “Where are you going with this?”

“As you might remember, you’re not the only one with evil bats in the family belfry.”

“Whoa.” I let him see my rocketing brows. “Of course.” But not really. Of all the subjects I’d expected Kil to broach, Trey didn’t remotely make the list. The asshole’s name topped even religion and politics when it came to taboo subjects when hanging with the man. The oldest of the four Stone family heirs was the rotten fruit on their family tree, the sphincter who’d been responsible for exposing a family secret so destructive, Killian had pulled a Howard Hughes on the world for six months out of last year.

More recently—and even worse—Trey had attempted to blackmail Margaux for her own cut of the Stone fortune. When I’d discovered he was in league with Andrea Asher, the person responsible for fucking up Margaux’s head the most, I’d worked with Kil to report their deceit to the FBI. But as the saying went, good deeds didn’t go unpunished. Before the Feds could close in on Trey and Andrea, the pair fled the country, where as best I knew, they remained—and as much as I cared, could stay. Regrettably, Kil had a bigger stake than I in hauling them back to the states to face justice—as he confirmed the next second.

“You’re a smart guy, Pearson. Do the math. You think I’d be satisfied with the spooks having all the fun of locating my brother and his sweet ladylove?”

I snorted. “Just point when you want me to laugh at all that.”

“Better indulge now,” he advised.

I leaned forward. “Why?”

“Because my boys are damn good at what they do—which means I had no trouble redeploying them to a new assignment two weeks ago.”

Shock tumbled through my gut like a knot of barbed wire. “Declan Pearson.”

“Like I said…smart guy.”

Acid started eating at the wire inside. I didn’t waste time asking how he even knew about the mess with Dec. It didn’t matter, and was actually a relief. Perhaps he’d been able to give Margaux some comfort and advice about it over the last month. For
that
, I was thankful. Killian’s discretion was better than a priest’s.

But for
this
—

I had no idea how to feel.

No answers came. Only a slew of new questions.

I scrubbed a hand down my face. “Why the hell did you waste money on watching that douche? And how long has this been going on?” More critically, had Declan caught on to the tail by Kil’s ninja boys? Was that why he hadn’t shown at the farm?

Killian’s spine stiffened so much, he gained at least an inch in height. “I didn’t get to be one of the world’s most successful sonofabitches by ‘wasting’ my money, Michael—especially not on scum like your uncle. But know this,”—his eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened—“I’ll go bankrupt in a heartbeat if it means defending the people I love, and ensuring their happiness. Couldn’t do much about the latter when you shattered my sister’s heart, but I sure as hell could tackle the security issue with a waste of DNA like Declan.”

“Which is still an issue.” I refused to let him sway me from the decision I’d made about Margaux. “Declan’s still alive and well and ready to cause havoc
somewhere
, I’m sure of it. If he wasn’t, Mom and I would’ve been informed as next of kin.”

I didn’t expect the slight incline of his head, giving wordless respect for my conviction—but that surprise was kicked to my rearview after he spoke again. “Well, you haven’t been informed…yet.”

I pushed up, hands on thighs, the barbed wire in my gut slicing to my nerve endings. “What the hell?”

His mouth quirked. “Let’s just say the Principals aren’t the memento book sort.”

“Shit,” I muttered. “So you know about them, too?”

“Impossible not to, under the circumstances.”

My reaction to that was a weird mesh. Part of me abhorred the confirmation that Dec was still in bed with those bastards. It had been easier to hope he’d just gone to ground on his own, staying away from the farm so they wouldn’t track him there. The other half seized at the crazy clue Kil had just dropped…

“What…circumstances?”

His answering stare was like diamonds glittering on coal. “My guys picked up the asshole’s trail about ten days ago. Found him poolside at the Belmond Copacabana, in Rio.”

Screw the nerve endings. Shock went straight for the center of my chest. “What the hell?”

“He was there with a couple of the Principals’ big ponies, burning through blow and babes like the world was ending.” He lifted both hands. “Whoa there, tiger. Breathe. The story’s not done.”

“I sure as fuck hope not.” The growl calmed me enough to keep my ass planted.

“My guys were just as shocked,” Kil went on. “They assumed Declan had signed on totally with the dark side, and was being set up to run an operation in
Cicade Maravilhosa
for the organization.”

“And?”

“Well, a set-up
was
the idea.”

“Meaning what?”

“On their third night there, Declan met on a couple of reps from one of the biggest cartels in the city. The face-to-face took place on a yacht, with full suits, champagne toasts, and shit. My guys assumed it was a deal-sealer on an alliance with the cartel and the Principals—until the yacht returned a full two hours later, and only the fancy boys from the cartel disembarked.”

My eyes flared as my jaw dropped. “Huh?”

Kil kicked up a brow, his version of
that’s not all, kids.
“After the crew cleaned up and left, one of my guys snuck aboard the vessel for the full scoop—but there wasn’t one.”

“At all?” I pressed.

“Not even a stray drop of bubbly,” he countered, “let alone any weapons, signs of a struggle, or a thread of evidence that Declan had been aboard.” He hitched the brow again. “But while my first guy searched the yacht, his buddy found the marina’s trash bins. Surprise, surprise; there was a wiped diving knife stashed in one of the bags on top, along with two pairs of bloodied work gloves.” He paused, hands behind his back again. “Just a guess, but I think the sharks off the coast of Brazil were happy campers that night.”

For the first time, I was glad my ass was still parked on the rock. Even so, the strength drained from my legs as all the air rushed from my lungs—and a weight lifted from my conscience that was damn near a religious experience. As I looked back up, the cavern tilted in my vision. And I’d always thought “dizzy with relief” was just a stupid expression.

“Shit.”

I blurted it on a laugh. Was it really all over? Here, in the beauty of the cave Declan had fought such ugly battles for…was this the moment I’d actually get to finally spit on his memory and accept my final justice?

It was eerie.

And poetic.

And so fucking cool.

“I don’t know what to say.” I looked up, hoping Kil would see that glaring truth in me. Thanking him seemed like taking a bite from an elephant, meaningless and stupid. “I just thought—”

“You were in this alone, because you’ve never known things any other way?” One side of his mouth kicked up, confident he’d bulls-eyed that one. “At the risk of sounding redundant, takes one to know one, man.”

I leaned over, letting my head fall while trying to wrap logic around that. Since Killian had finally done right by Claire I had no problems with the guy, but seeing parallels between his life and mine was like staring at one of those eye trick paintings they sold on the boardwalk and never getting the bigger picture.

“So what now?”

He angled his head—eyes narrowed the same way as ten minutes ago, when wondering how to spin my castle comment. “You remember the part about me promising to pull your head from your ass?”

“Fuck.”

He growled loud. “Sit the hell back down.”

I took another defiant stomp from the boulder. “Why? To have you make a point that
still
isn’t valid?”

“Cut the fuckery, dickwad,” Kil snarled. “You think I didn’t see
this
mass of crap coming from you, either? That I didn’t know what a hardhead you’d be even after learning your uncle’s black heart has been ground into shark loaves?” He whipped up a hand, Sermon Jesus style. “I can already write this script for you. It goes something along the lines of, ‘Dammit, Kil. This doesn’t change a thing. That ship has sailed. Margaux Asher has cut me free and she’s all the better for it.”

I closed my jaw with an audible
whump
. “And what if she is?”

While lowering his hand, he turned it into a fist. “You know, I’d crack you across the face right now, Pearson—but I’m enjoying the sight of that chicken beak sprouting from your pretty nose.”

“Excuse the hell out of me?”

He leaned over with unblinking accusation. “Go ahead, man. Keep making this about
her
welfare,
her
best interests, the fear you have of fucking up
her
life—but you’re not fooling the original chicken-shit-for-brains on this.”

I reared back. “You have no goddamn idea what you’re talking ab—”

“Shut up. I’m not finished.” His glare turned darker. “Not by a longshot.”

As comprehension hit, my own stare flared. Was the weirdness on his face…shame?

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told this to—and so we’re clear,
this
shit
will
go to your grave with you.”

Damn
.

I sat up straighter, unsure whether to be honored, freaked, or both. “You haven’t even told Claire?”

“Not yet.” His shoulders developed a full hunch from tension. “I will, just not…now. This isn’t the kind of thing divulged over wine and dinner.”

Understanding struck again, this time square in my balls. “Holy fuck. You and Margaux
did
get horizontal, didn’t you?”

“What?” He whirled. “No!
Christ
.”

I pushed out a heavy breath. “Thank fuck.”

He turned. Resumed the pacing thing. This gait, I recognized. It belonged to the Killian Stone of the family’s prime scandal days, a guy resolved to meet every crisis head-on, march through the crucible, and emerge on the other side stronger for it.

What the hell was he about to tell me that met such criteria?

“Last year, when I vanished from the grid, I existed in some low places, mentally and physically.”