“Mr. Sanders?”
“Sergeant. Hi.” He put the sandwich aside to stand, but she waved him off, pointing at the exam table and barking for him to sit.
“Take it easy. I want to talk to you about today, if you’re up for it.” She motioned her head at Alex. “Did you want some privacy? Or?”
“No, no. He can stay. And sure, talk away. I think I’m a little more with the program now than I was.”
“Good.”
Another officer came into the room and introduced himself as Lieutenant McDonald. He was about six feet tall and six feet wide, with a head as bald and as white as a cue ball. His short-sleeved button-down shirt and too-short tie showed he meant business. So, too, did his arms-across-the-chest, leaning-against-the-door posture.
“We’ve been talking with Caleb Richardson,” Sergeant Lopez said.
“Who?”
“The man who shot you.”
It was not surprising that Caleb Richardson was eighteen years old—Darren knew when he saw him that he couldn’t have been more than twenty. What was surprising was that according to Lieutenant McDonald, Caleb immediately erupted into tears upon being brought into custody, and with no lawyer in attendance, confessed to everything, including someone on the Internet giving him two thousand dollars with the promise of three more to put a bullet in Darren. Caleb needed the money, he said, and with information he’d gotten from his Internet source, he woke before dawn and waited for Darren at his work site.
Caleb intended to shoot him then, without light or witnesses, but he’d lost his nerve when a pair of Darren’s laborers showed up. By the time Caleb convinced himself he had to see it through or risk being killed himself because that’s what his contact threatened, Darren had walked over to The Diamond for brunch with Alex.
Thus a midday shooting with witnesses.
It was stupid. All of it was so very stupid and so very poorly planned, but Caleb was young and scared and in over his head. Darren would have felt sorry for him if it hadn’t been for that whole “trying to murder him” thing, plus he was too busy being terrified by the bigger, uglier picture that was Kelly Adams Roberts. He didn’t really want to believe it was her, but, according to the officers, statistically in situations like these, blame was almost always on an estranged partner.
Fantastic.
“I’m sorry,” Sergeant Lopez said. She went on to explain that thanks to Alex’s helpful tip about Darren’s restraining order, they’d already visited Kelly’s apartment and found it vacant. They were in the process of contacting her friends and family and interviewing her neighbors, and all evidence thus far pointed to her taking off days ago in her beat-up old Jeep Cherokee. They’d hoped to find evidence on her computer, but her laptop, like Kelly, was nowhere to be found.
More damning evidence that she had something to run from.
Darren stared at the square tiles of the hospital floor, his skin itching. He could have handled a random robbery. He could have dealt with a case of mistaken identity, though that was far-fetched with his looks and physique. He could have handled a lot of things . . .
But not that thing. Not someone he loved growing so toxic, so dysfunctional, that she wanted him dead.
Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s a former client who’s pissy about their crown molding. Maybe . . .
It’s Kelly. It has to be Kelly.
“Do you have friends or family you’d like to stay with? We can provide you with twenty-four-hour detail surveillance in any eventuality,” the sergeant said.
He thought of his mother in Houston in her quaint, fifty-five-plus community, taking care of his grandfather. He didn’t want to bring his troubles home to roost, not if Kelly or anyone else was watching him and waiting to do him harm. It was one thing to be a target of violence himself. It was another to jeopardize people he cared about by bringing the danger close.
“I don’t think so. I don’t . . . if I’m being watched . . . am I being watched?”
Lopez looked over at the cop by the door. They shared one of those long looks that suggested they knew each other so well they no longer needed words to share brain real estate. “Unlikely, but it’s not impossible.”
“You could go to Boston and visit your sister awhile,” Alex offered. “Your foreman could run the company while you’re gone. Easily. He’s been in construction twenty more years than you’ve been alive.”
“I could. Bob’s great.”
But Lindy is kind of a bitch and that’d get old after three days. I love my sister, but . . .
He shifted on the exam table, uncomfortable, unsure, and frankly, scared. Alex noticed. He eyed him a long moment, pursed his lips, and pushed his bland salad away. He stood from his seat and made for the door, waiting while Lieutenant McDonald stepped to the side to let him out. “I might have another idea.”
“Hmm?”
“Excuse me a minute?”
“Come visit my floaty boat.” Maddy Roussoux sounded tired over the phone, her voice husky, and Darren wondered if Alex had woken her to talk about his predicament. He hoped not, given that she had her own difficulties, and he sucked in a breath.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Fine. Just a slip. You worry about you. So, would you like to come?” She let out a low chuckle. “That wasn’t even dirty for once.”
It took him a moment to understand what she meant, and he felt his ears going hot even as the smile spread across his face. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Dove. I have three floors of cabins. I live in one room on one floor. I’ve filled other rooms with a tiger and a gallery just to do something with the extra space. Do the math.”
A gallery?
Oh. Her dicks. Her binders full of dicks.
On one hand, it was tempting. He’d never been on a private ship before, and Maddy was easy to get along with. On the other, he barely knew her and he was notorious for making awful decisions when it came to women.
Except this time Alex vouches for her. And Alex isn’t what I’d call a people person.
Maddy continued. “I’m leaving Galveston tomorrow to cruise back to New Orleans. I want to do all the catching up I missed last trip; I spent ninety percent of my time eating take-out seafood on my boat instead of visiting the old haunts. I think I did it wrong.”
“Or very right. That sounds delicious.” Darren glanced over at Alex, who was intently studying a Sports Illustrated. Since Alex hated competitive sports, the exception being tennis of all things, it was a ruse to appear like he wasn’t listening to Darren’s conversation, even though he totally was. At least the private security Maddy’d requested—and paid for—were waiting outside, allowing him some privacy.
Maddy yawned and groaned, her blankets rustling on the other end of the line. “Yes and no. I have friends there from my Sol days I’d like to see.”
“I went to Mardi Gras ten years ago and I hated it,” he confessed.
“That’s because Mardi Gras is a dumpster fire unless you know the city and have a secure place to stay. So.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Darren’s eyes strayed Alex’s way again. Alex was no longer pretending to read the magazine, instead peering at him over the top of the pages. He waved the magazine at him. “Kelly can’t follow you out to sea,” Alex said. “You’re safe with Maddy. Safer than anywhere else, probably.”
“And when I get to New Orleans?” Darren said, so Maddy could hear, too.
“I have security detail, dove. I left them on the ship when I came to Dallas and that was stupid of me. We’ll be extra safe, I promise.”
“I’m not worried about me. Well, I am, but I don’t want anything else to happen to you because of me.” Alex had told him her history. She’d had so many awful things happen to her already, the last thing she needed was to be saddled with his troubl
e, too.
“Did you shoot yourself?” she demanded, voice sharp.
“What? No!”
“Did you take the hit out on yourself?”
“No, ma’am.”
I see where she’s going with this.
“It’s just—”
“ ‘It’s just’ nothing. None of this is because of you. Someone else pulled that trigger, and someone before that arranged for them to pull that trigger. Violence is the responsibility of the abuser, not the abused, and today, you were the abused.”
Damn. She sounds fierce right now.
“I think I just got told, Alex,” Darren said.
Alex cleared his throat, tiny lines appearing next to his eyes because he was smiling behind his magazine.
He knew she’d convince me. He played me.
The prick.
“Maddy’s very good at being bossy,” was all Alex said.
“Apparently. All right, Miss Maddy. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Of course I’m right. And stop apologizing. You haven’t done anything. Now I ask again, Darren of the bad jokes, tall and gorgeous and a little bit stupid, would you like to come with me to my boat tomorrow?”
There’s not much of a choice anymore, is there?
He smiled and said, “Yeah. All right. I think I would.”
FIVE
DR. KINSBERG, PSYCHOLOGIST to the stars and Maddy’s number-seven speed dial, called it syncope caused by acute stress. It was a fancy way of saying Maddy got scared, her blood pressure plummeted, and she fainted. She’d had it happen before, but it’d been a long time. The blood spray, light as it was, had triggered long-dormant panic reflexes.
Fantastic that they were back, though. Not at all worthy of a kick to the dick. The question was, whose dick? Certainly not Alex’s, who’d checked her for injuries on the sidewalk and, finding none, carried her back to the hotel and cared for her until Patrice Almeida, Maddy’s personal assistant, returned from her walking tour of Dallas. Patrice wasn’t bad as far as personal assistants went—she was quiet and attentive—and hearing that Maddy had fallen, she’d taken a taxi back to The Diamond immediately to clean the blood off Maddy in the shower and put in a call to Dr. Kinsberg.
No dick kicks for Darren, either. The poor bastard had already taken a bullet and deserved a little R and R, which he’d hopefully get aboard the Capulet, named for Maddy’s tiger. Alex had filled Maddy in on the gruesome details of the attack while they waited for the Klonopin to do its thing. Alex hadn’t given her the nitty-gritty on Kelly Adams Roberts, the bad breakup, and the hired teenager, but she wouldn’t have been able to retain it anyway. The drugs made her groggy. She’d slept hard, and sometime later, Alex called and woke her to ask about taking Darren out to sea.
Of course she was willing to have him aboard. She didn’t have designs on fucking him per se, but if she slipped and fell onto his dick? Well? Oopsie!
She stretched out in her penthouse bed beneath a blanket made of clouds, fighting the Klonopin haze while she watched Patrice packing her things. Patrice was a single, fortysomething Portuguese woman who dyed her hair shocking blond and wore impeccable winged eyeliner every day, all day. She liked pastel pedal pushers and oversized T-shirts with flowers on them. Maddy had told her to dress comfortably upon hiring her, and Patrice had taken it to heart. Really to heart. Maddy certainly didn’t care, though she often joked she’d buy Patrice a minivan and a few soccer-aged children just to round out the look.
Patrice had laughed, even though Maddy was being a bitch.
That’s why Patrice made the big bucks.
“Did anyone call while I was out, dove?” Maddy asked. Patrice wedged a stack of Maddy’s lingerie into a suitcase and, without much ceremony, threw a dildo from the dresser drawer on top of them. She’d long ago stopped caring about Maddy’s proclivities. Dildos in the drawer were always clean, whereas ones beside the bed, by the tub, or next to the sink were best avoided.
Secretions weren’t part of her job description.
“No, but you’ll want to call Sol. Alex called him while you were asleep. And you have a text message from Tempy asking about overdue paperwork.” Patrice crossed the room to the closet to pull out Maddy’s dresses, zipping a stack of fresh velvets and sequins into a garment bag before picking up the discarded soldiers from the floor and shoving them into a separate suitcase for all things needing dry cleaning.
“Decisions, decisions. Sol or Tempy. Tempy or Sol.” Maddy picked up her phone and tapped her acrylic nail against the screen. “Tempy will scold me, so Sol it is. Thanks, dove.” Number two on her speed dial, second only to the hospital housing Maddy’s mother, Sol’s line rang four times before that sweet New Orleans drawl filled her ear.
“It’s rude to try and die on me, Maddy,” he said in greeting.
“You’re just sad I didn’t succeed. Hello, darling. How are you?”
“Good. Better than good. Excellent, really. I just gave Rain her bath, then I gave her another bath, and now she’s passed out in bed. She’s tired, the poor thing.”
Maddy tittered. “Wearing out your toy?”
“In all the best ways, yes. How are you feeling, old girl? Alex said you took a spill.”
“Old girl is feeling old.” Maddy rolled onto her hip and peered out the window at the Dallas skyline. The sun was oozing its way toward the horizon, which meant dinnertime. The Klonopin almost always ruined her appetite, so she had a night of Patrice trying to cram grilled cheese sandwiches down her throat to look forward to.
Joygasm. Go away, Patrice.
“Your brother’s a lifesaver. He wrestled me away from the police so they didn’t send me to the hospital. The last thing I need right now is hovering press. They’d report I’d overdosed faster than you can say ‘Live at Eleven.’ ”
Sol snorted. “Poor thing. I’m glad Alex was there. If he’d thought you were in dire straits, he’d have sent you to the hospital, but he said he knew what the problem was so he was comfortable stealing you away.”
Sol hadn’t been the only one of the DuMont boys to collapse after their father died. Alex’s breakdown wasn’t as absolute as Sol’s, but he had dropped out of med school his fourth year, broken up with his girlfriend, and refound God. Six months later he was living in his mother’s McMansion and running the Dallas Diamond Hotel.
As far as Maddy knew, that was all still true. It was sad that the only one of the boys to weather the storm was the utterly charming, utterly clueless Nash.
That dear, sweet boy.
“So tell me about Darren,” Sol said. “If he’s a friend of Alex’s, I have to assume he has a holier-than-thou attitude. Probably likes miniature golf and Antiques Roadshow.”
Maddy laughed and flopped back into her mountain of pillows. “That’s not the impression I’m getting. He’s fun! And gorgeous. I haven’t the foggiest why he’s not modeling or acting or in porno, but I won’t complain. He’s got construction hands. They’re all callused and gnarly. I love them.”
“Ohhh? Give me the deets.”
And she did—all the deets, from Darren’s square jaw to his hazel eyes and auburn hair to his tight jeans and work boots. Sol made a few appreciative noises, and he practically giggled when she repeated the terrible dad jokes. He especially liked the one about the Brie.
Because the one about the Brie was amazing.
“Do you have designs?” Sol pressed.
“No, not really. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t turn down an opportunity, but he’s escaping a terrible situation. I want him to feel comfortable. Plus I’m not sure we’d gel. He’s too much of a good guy for loosey-goosey fun, and I don’t think he’d let himself be topped, sooooo . . .”
Sol mock-gasped. “The dilemma. What does the girl with the gilded harness do when she finds out her prey has an iron ass?”
“Mmm. Do
n’t get too cocky. You’ve been a dom for what—two months? Your days of pegging and paddles aren’t so far behind you.”
“If we’re being honest, they’re not behind me at all. I’m just on the giving end this time,” Sol said.
Maddy giggled. “Oh, what a naughty pet she is.”
“She really is. My kitten is divine. But, you sound tired, sweetheart. Why don’t you go get some rest and call me once Adonis is on the boat, hmmm?”
“I was thinking of cruising your way, actually,” she said, her yawn taking her by surprise. “If you’re up for a visit.”
“Perfect. I’ll tell them the Queen of Dauphine returneth. Talk soon, sweetheart.”
Her old nickname made her snort. “Yes, yes. Ta, dove.”
She dropped the phone to her pillow, watched the sun set over the distant trees, and slept.
“Rise and shine, sunshine!”
Patrice. You sound too chipper.
“You’re fired,” Maddy murmured, pulling a pillow over her head.
“No, I’m not. I ran you a bath. Alex is waiting with Darren to see you off. ”
Already?
I slept too long.
It shouldn’t have been such a surprise—that was the downside to sedatives, but it would have been nice to think she hadn’t lost a whole night to her fuckwit of a brain. The anxiety annoyed her; she was a capable, functional girl. She managed an empire, or at least was really smart about hiring good people to manage that empire for her. She’d kept herself afloat when all she wanted to do was sink beneath the waves. She was strong, damn it.
But sometimes her anxiety and panic liked to poke at her confidence, telling her the mental collapse the day before was not a result of trauma, but a personal failure.
But hey, sleeping forever without a pee is pretty good. Small victories.
“Brains are stupid, Patrice,” Maddy said, rolling out of bed. She was bare-ass naked as she padded to the bathroom. Patrice didn’t skip a beat, handing Maddy an enormous white towel with The Diamond’s logo embroidered on the corner and a shower cap. Maddy accepted both, grumbling all the while, and after tucking her hair into the cap, she submerged in the tub, nose deep. The heat and steam were good for clearing out the cobwebs, and she begrudgingly went about starting her day.
The Queen of Dauphine Street Page 4
