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“They won’t be happy when they find out.”
That was an understatement. “They’re going to kill me. But I’ll deal with them when I have to.”
Mama pulled a face, and for a long moment, she just knelt there, clippers dangling from idle hands, clearly waiting. “Marc, hmm?”
“I would never dream of bothering him right now, but there’s a lot riding on the outcome.”
Children’s lives.
Then there was Courtney’s career. Giselle’s reputation. Nanette’s legacy. Nanette above all provided a convenient scapegoat for the FBI. Her heartbroken family, still struggling with grief, faced a media storm that would trash a woman who couldn’t defend herself. Courtney didn’t know what had happened to Araceli, but she knew Nanette would not have been negligent.
Courtney would not stand by and watch people she cared for take the fall any more than she would take the fall herself. She would not stand by while the FBI took their sweet time covering their butts while there were children missing.
“That’s what I want your opinion about. I know how difficult Marc’s recovery has been. If you don’t think it’s a good idea to bring up work, I will not open my mouth.”
For a moment, they considered each other. Then Mama’s eyes fluttered shut, and she inhaled deeply. She remained that way so long that Courtney felt compelled to look away, as if she had distressed a woman who didn’t need any more of a burden than to worry about the son she had almost lost.
Courtney would be left to accept that she was back to square one, all alone with the responsibility for a child’s life, whether or not she was on administrative leave. Where Courtney was didn’t matter.
Where Araceli was did.
But none of this was Mama’s problem, and Courtney had no right to put this on her. While she trusted Mama to be honest with her opinion about Marc, Courtney also knew that saying no wasn’t so simple for a nurturing woman who cared about people as much as she did. Mama was already worried about Marc. Now she’d start worrying about Courtney, too.
As the seconds ticked by, undisturbed except by the bees buzzing from flower to flower and squirrels scampering overhead, Courtney convinced herself that this was the stupidest, most selfish idea she’d ever come up with. She was being totally unfair.
Mama slowly rose to her feet.
Courtney offered a hand. “I am so sorry. I know you’re worried about Marc, and the last thing I should do is give you something else to worry about. Please forget I said anything at all, and you have to promise me you won’t start worrying about me.”
Mama chuckled. Dropping sprigs of parsley into the basket, she lifted her gaze to Courtney’s, eyes alight with laughter.
“Why are you apologizing, honey?” she asked. “You’re an answer to a prayer.”
* * *
MARC WINCED AS he put his weight on his leg, the pain that screamed through him literally stealing his breath. Why had he bothered getting out of bed?
Stupid question. If he stayed in bed too long his leg would stiffen and he wouldn’t be able to walk all day.
Making his way down the stairs carefully, clumsily, he clung to the banister for support while trying not to drop his cane, his leg making each step dangerous. With his luck, he’d fall and land on his damned head, and Vince would finally convince their mother to turn the downstairs office into an invalid’s bedroom complete with hospital bed. Of course, if Marc had any real luck, the fall might kill him. He would have been okay with that, too.
By the time he made his way to the last step, he was forced to stop and give his leg a break. The house was quiet, which was a good thing because another hour and everyone and their brother would show up for dinner. He needed caffeine before he could decide whether to contend with a shower and civilized company, or be uncivilized and hide in his room.
Either one meant tackling the stairs again.
From the hallway, he saw his mother in front of the sink. She must have heard him because she turned. For a split second, her expression told him that watching him hurt. Even placing his body weight on one side didn’t do a thing to minimize the pain of the leg he nearly dragged along. Throw in the fact that he was still half-drugged, and he must look like hell.
She quickly masked her reaction with a smile. “Good morning, sunshine.” Grabbing a mug from the drain board, she headed toward the coffeepot. “We have company.”
“There’s a surprise,” he shot back, deadpan.
Moving into the kitchen, he found their guest standing over the table chopping vegetables on a cutting board.
She met his gaze with gray eyes so clear they were almost startling. Or maybe it was the onions she was chopping that made her eyes seem so bright. He could smell them from here.
“Hola, Mac’s sister.”
“Hi, Marc,” was all she said, her smile forced.
“You remember Courtney,” his mother prompted, narrowing her gaze so he knew she didn’t like his rudeness.
Courtney Gerard was more than one of his mother’s strays. Courtney had a family connection—not blood but close enough that he should have known her name.
He remembered a lot more than her name.
Courtney was Marc’s Bathsheba. The exact type of woman who managed to catch his eye whether he was interested in her or not. Everything about her was long, from her willowy body and shapely legs to the glossy hair that flowed in an inky wave down her back. He remembered her all right, and it annoyed the hell out of him every time he saw her.
Which was every time he came home.
His mother pressed a mug of coffee into his hands, and he thanked her, leaning against the archway. He wouldn’t give the ladies a show by sitting down. Not when he wasn’t staying. The stairs were looking a helluva lot better than this kitchen right now. Half draining the mug in one swallow, he savored the heat that seared his throat.
His mother arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. She also didn’t return the coffeepot.
He held the mug out. “You’re an angel, love.”
She topped him off, and he sipped again to make more room. He had to drink his fill now because he couldn’t make it up the stairs with the mug.
“Would you like something to eat? Anthony brought doughnuts from Nicola’s before church. There are still a few left.”
“Doughnuts can’t possibly touch whatever it is you’re cooking over there. I’ll wait until dinner.”
That pleased her. All the sharp edges smoothed from her expression. All the disapproval gone as fast as it had shown up. Like a good Italian mama, feeding people always made her day.
She retrieved a colander hanging from the rack on the wall and brought it to the table, where Courtney cleared onions off the cutting board. “We’ve been chatting about Courtney’s work,” his mother said. “I’d like you to weigh in.”
Marc could smell the setup from a mile away. He could sense it before Courtney even opened her mouth, a full mouth with dusky pink lips that made him think of kissing. And sex.
This woman needed to go home.
Or he needed to get back to Colorado.
“Wish I could, but I’ve really got to shower. I’m off to a late start if you want me for dinner.”
His mother frowned, and in two quick steps, she was at the counter again, grabbing the coffeepot.
“Finish this up, so I can brew a fresh pot.” She cut him off at the pass, wedging herself between him and the doorway.
“Won’t take long, Marc. I promise.” Courtney’s voice was as crystal clear as her gaze, direct and to the point, yet still somehow smoky. Like sex. A voice that would sound good in the dark. “I’d like to get your input if you don’t mind.”
He did mind. She was suddenly twitchy, almost urgent. Then she opened that pretty mouth and launched into a sob story about missing kids and a federal investigation.
Marc wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but if he had been guessing, this train wreck of a situation wouldn’t have even made the list.
Marc was sure he’d once heard what she did for a living, because he remembered thinking she had the luxury of making herself feel good by trying to save the world. Great in theory, but he knew too many people who empowered themselves at the expense of others. He didn’t respect the motivation.
Or maybe he just didn’t like Courtney.
He damn sure didn’t like her brother or the way he had used his money to steal Anthony’s longtime girlfriend, Harley.
Or maybe Marc didn’t like how he noticed Courtney. She looked like everything he wanted, but she wasn’t anything he was interested in. He was honest enough to admit that to himself.
Whatever the reason, he had his own no-win situation to deal with right now.
“No matter how I spin it, the outlook is grim,” he said, hoping to put a swift end to this interrogation. “If this kid hasn’t surfaced in eight years, the chances of finding her alive are not good.”
“But you do think it is possible to track her down, Marc, so at least we’d know what happened to her?”
God, he shouldn’t feel anything, but that look on her face... She was desperate, and he couldn’t offer much hope. “No one vanishes into thin air, but with kids, there is the unforeseeable luck factor. Freaks and traffickers prey on them. Or some random wacko may have taken a liking to her, and she wound up a nut job’s thrill. The FBI will find your Jane Doe, just a matter of time, but no one may ever know what happened to your other girl.”
To Courtney’s credit, she took reality standing. No drama. No tears. No pleas for him to sugarcoat the truth. Just that lovely face growing brittle around the edges as she struggled to cling to a last bit of hope, no matter how unrealistic.
“Wish I had a better opinion. Good luck.” He tried to make his escape.
But by the time he’d set down the cup and gotten halfway to the door, he heard Courtney say, “Even so, Marc, I have to look. Please tell me where to start.”
The plea in her voice stopped him. “You start by figuring out when your real girl was last seen. Until you figure that out, you can’t unravel where she might have gone.”
“Okay.” Her clear gaze clung to him, so eager, but the frown forming on her smooth brow convinced him that she didn’t have any idea how to proceed.
He wasn’t surprised. “I can tell you where to look, but I can’t magically give you the instinct to know what to look for. I can’t help you. You’ll have to take my word.”
This time, he was out the door before she could stop him with another question.
CHAPTER THREE
IF MARC HAD not been starving, he would have stayed in his room until the house had emptied after dinner. Too many drugs, too many stairs and the effort of taking a shower had kicked his ass all over again.
He wasn’t in the mood for people and wanted to sleep off the drug hangover. Unfortunately, between the smells of his mother’s cooking and the noise level that told him how good the food was, he had no choice. He made a mental note to keep protein bars in his room for the duration of this visit so he could avoid family gatherings altogether.
Against his better judgment, he made his way downstairs again. The thumping of his cane must have announced his arrival because Damon said, “Guess who’s gracing us with his presence.”
Caffeine and a shower hadn’t taken the edge off. If Marc had been thinking clearly, he would have used his phone and a twenty to bribe his niece Violet into bringing a plate upstairs.
“To what do we owe this honor?” Damon asked.
There were a few laughs from around the table, but Marc ignored his brother, which was easy to do since the kitchen looked like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. He noticed Courtney immediately, seated beside his mother, quiet in the midst of all the noise, so beautiful. Sad, too, he decided. That was probably his fault. He should probably feel bad.
He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself when he still had to get to the counter, and make it to the table with a plate and silverware while maneuvering through the obstacle course of people crowding the food. Then he’d have to get to his seat.
The table was full. His mother was all about first come, first served, and hers was the only reserved seat—the corner closest to the stove. This was her throne to hear her tell it, so she could easily replenish serving bowls. While Marc had been growing up, that seat had been at his father’s right.
“My best girl and right-hand man,” Marc could remember his father saying. “My better half.”
Today, she was Marc’s savior. After taking one look at him, she started directing traffic.
“Scoot the twins toward Anthony,” she said. “Marc, sit next to Violet. She’ll make room.”
“Come here, Uncle Marc.” Violet patted the space on the bench beside her, a strategic corner placement so Marc would be able to stretch his leg out of everyone’s way.
By the time he dropped heavily onto the bench, food started making its way toward him. Marc turned his attention to filling his plate as the conversation resumed about the wedding. Nic was finally going to marry his high school sweetheart and the mother of his teenage daughter, Violet. This wedding was a long time in coming, and the family was thrilled.
Marc didn’t want any reminders of the upcoming nuptials, though. When he had agreed to be Nic’s best man, he had assumed accompanying his big brother to the altar wouldn’t be a problem. Now the thought of being on display to a church filled with guests annoyed him. He’d already tried to beg off, citing an inability to accomplish his best man duties, but Nic had flatly refused to accept his resignation.
Marc made quick work of dinner, glad when the conversation turned from the wedding to the Saints’ performance during preseason. Everyone had an opinion, and he listened, distracting himself from his awareness of Courtney, who ate next to nothing although she made a good show of pushing food around her plate.
He was probably responsible for her lack of appetite, too. His troublemaking mother must have thought so, because when the talk about the Saints lagged, she solicited opinions about whether or not he should help Courtney with her problem.
Marc should have seen it coming. He would have bet money Courtney hadn’t. Her expression froze along with the fork she held over the plate.
“Wait a second.” Anthony swallowed hard around a bite. “Am I hearing this right? Are you telling me Boba Fett DiLeo can’t track down a missing kid? Who is this kid—the Golden Child?”
Courtney blinked a few times, still surprised her shitty situation had become the entrée of table conversation.
Violet pulled a face. “I know Boba Fett, but who’s the Golden Child?”
“Vintage Eddie Murphy, niece girl,” Damon said. “Before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.”
Nic scowled. Some things never changed, and he did not like reminders that he hadn’t been privy to the existence of his daughter until two years ago.
“I didn’t say can’t track down,” his mother explained matter-of-factly. “I said won’t.”
Marc should have known nothing with this family could ever be simple. Setting down his water glass, he settled back to watch the show. He would not prepare a defense. He refused to play this game.
“I don’t understand.” Anthony feigned confusion. “Why won’t you help out Courtney?”
Every gaze at the table was suddenly on Marc. As brother in the middle, Anthony was slick. He had learned long ago to maneuver between family factions. The top shelf contained the power brokers—his mother, Nic, Marc himself. More often than not, Anthony preferred to swing with them, but there were times he played devil’s advocate or peacemaker. He wielded humor and stupidity with equal skill, and usually managed to emerge from family disputes unscathed. Marc did not have the patience for his brother today. Any of them.
“I have helped. The lady asked for an opinion. I gave one.”
The lady still looked like a deer caught in headlights, but she recovered quickly, suddenly becoming very interested in the food she’d been pushing around on her plate.
“Courtney, you better hope your missing kid didn’t run away like this one—across continents.” Damon patted the top of Violet’s head, and she beamed at the mention of the antics that had led her to find the father she’d grown up without knowing.
Now she was the oldest grandchild and resident superstar, her status as shiny and new to the family made her special, and she was old enough not only to revel in her position but milk it for all it was worth.
“I’d have given Uncle Marc a run for his money,” she said saucily. “Can you say South America to Louisiana? There are lots of countries in between.”
Nic directed his scowl her way this time. “That’s because you don’t respect normal boundaries.”
