Once she located her burner cell phone, still tucked away in the crossbody bag she had tossed onto the kitchen counter, Jayd traded her excited mantra for a pained huff.
“Another text,” she mumbled, though a fresh thrill jumped up her pulse as she opened the message from Louis LaBarre. In the meantime, Brickham emerged from the bedroom—with no extra thrills to be had in his demeanor.
“What does he want?”
She crunched a full frown. “Perhaps to be spoken of without a growl before a person has even met him?”
Her scowl could not compete with Brickham’s. For now, she would let him have the win. She did grasp his point of view, after all. To him, her quest to connect with LaBarre had nearly landed her in a pile of garbage, losing her virginity to the likes of Gervais or Remy. And Creator have mercy, she had no legitimate stand there. He was right. Her enthusiasm had made her careless and then reckless. She was not about to chug that double shot of stupidity again.
But he had no way of knowing that. That was blatantly clear by his frown, which he had clearly borrowed from an eighteenth-century vampire hunter. But his tone was closer to civil as he prompted, “What. Does. He. Want?”
Jayd could not help a small smile as she read the message.
My beautiful fille, my deepest apologies.
I had an unavoidable business matter,
and it ran late. I am beside myself with
grief to have missed you, my darling daughter!
She turned the device, showing the message directly to Brick. “Wow. Beside himself, huh?” His snort was soft but derisive. “Well, that makes everything just fine, doesn’t it?”
She pulled the device back with a fierce snap. “People do have real lives, Brickham. Lives that are filled with things like work and meetings and priorities.”
“Sure they do.”
It was not his swift reply that kept her on edge. It was the urbanity in his voice, so smooth and controlled—a total mismatch to the gathering storms in his eyes.
“You have not even met the man!” she fumed.
“That makes two of us, doesn’t it?”
She glowered, already bracing for the argument he was prefacing. It would be all of Emme’s contentions on repeat. Why had LaBarre not bothered to contact her himself for twenty-four years? Why had he been so easily convinced to shove off to Paris instead of staying in Arcadia to be near her? How had he not missed her? Wondered about her? Made any attempt to see her? Or had he done all those things only to be thwarted by some Arcadian red tape she knew nothing about?
Or something worse than that?
Had Ardent Cimarron, the man she had called paipanne her entire life, purposely kept her from the man who truly deserved the title?
She hated thinking that. Even more, she hated believing—knowing—that it was a real possibility. But she also recognized that she was leaping to many unproved suppositions, which were festering into outright judgments. Every story in life had at least two sides. That number grew when the tale was dirtied with politics, power, public images, and the daunting job of keeping a country prosperous.
“Unlike most of the world”—she jumped her brows directly his way—“I refuse to color in lines that haven’t been clearly drawn yet.”
“Then that makes two of us once more.” Another answer that was too quick and sure for her comfort, especially because of the follow-up he obviously had at the ready. “The same salt you’re tossing on prejudging him, I’m pouring on insta-trusting him.” He fortified his stance, officially becoming the most impossible thing in the room to ignore. “That brings us to the fun zone of finding a magic middle ground.”
Force of nature. The man earned every word of it, along with a new add-on, once he finished his directive with a nod at her phone—
Which jingled with a new text from LaBarre.
I will never forgive myself if I cannot
hold you at last. 24 years is too long to
wait. Are you still available now?
She did not dare even hover a thumb over the screen. While Brickham’s mandate had likely been dunked in the stuff before it hit his lips, she was compelled to see his logic. Her blind credence in LaBarre’s texts—the only form of communication he seemed comfortable with, after her many attempts at a phone conversation—were what landed her in trouble before. But if Brick thought she was going to let him run five levels of security on her phone before she even responded to her father, he had a glaring awakening coming.
Still, negotiations had to start somewhere. She kicked off theirs by pivoting the phone again and letting the gorgeous giant dip in for a read.
At once, Brickham’s face tightened. She indulged in a few seconds of beguilement at the sight. The person who fought like a winter storm, kissed like a burst of spring sun, and screwed like a summer tidal wave was now the guy resembling a protective autumn oak from the Wood Between the Worlds. Never had she enjoyed a lesson about the four seasons so much—even when they got a new overlay of his prickly growling.
“I assume I’ll get nowhere in saying this isn’t a great idea?”
Preparing for the man’s contention was a smart idea, after all. The groundwork made it possible to slip him a serene smile. “That is an accurate assumption, Sir.”
Her spin on the honorific earned her his flared nostrils and pursed lips. That was before he took a looming step into her personal space. Her senses crackled all over again. Would he correct her about it now? And in what ways? He was now back within stomping distance of his unused kitchen toys…
“Tough toenails,” he went ahead and bit out. “I’m saying it anyway. Not a great idea, princess.” He barely snorted when she took a turn at the glare—as well as the temptation to fetch the tongs and the tenderizer for her own evil fun. “But it’s not a totally crappy one, either.”
“Brickham.” She launched into the protest before he was done, rolling her shoulders back. “You have the right to register your views about this, but as I have made clear, I am a grown woman. Despite what everyone thinks, maybe even you included, I have the capability to think for myself. I can also—” Her hands, which she parked on her hips for all of three seconds, fell limp. “Uh…huh? Okay—it’s—what?”
Goodbye, autumn tree. Hello, brilliant winter sky, so bright and blue in his eyes, as he flashed a congenial smirk. “I said that it’s not a completely crappy idea.”
“You…did?” She recovered quickly, folding her arms with take-charge energy. “Ah well, yes. Of course you did.”
“Meeting with LaBarre sooner than later means Carris has less time to coordinate any interventions.”
“True.” She had rarely agreed with anything more. Besides, this was a good thing. Very good. The middle ground he mentioned them working for.
“And since Requiemme’s safe with Oz and Jagger, I can be fully focused on watching over you.”
For a long second, her jaw worked against empty air. “Errrr… You want to come with me?”
“Sweetheart, you’re lucky I’m not demanding to go to the bathroom with you by this point.”
And there was definitely one more for the truth column, though she refrained from vocalizing it. There were too many other logistics—good ones now—playing laser tag in her brain. Her father had not stood her up! He still wanted to see her, to hold her! Even better, she would be going to him with a one-man security team in place. Brickham was capable of filling in for at least four Arcadian soldiers. That simple confidence already raised her radiance. If she had to do this without Emme by her side, Maximillian Brickham was the next best choice. Perhaps better…
She shook her head fast, banishing the musing. Emme and her poor leg needed every good thought and prayer she could spare right now. But she could send her friend a heart brimming with love and still have enough to shower on her father. She even unfurled a wide smile Brickham’s way, while holding her burner up with a lighthearted wiggle. “So what do I tell him, Sir?”
This time, the man received the designation with better spirits. Brickham quirked a corner of his mouth before offering, “That depends. Are you asking for advice, Pixie, or still seeking permission?”
“Is one going to get me a different answer over the other?”
“Probably.” His smirk remained, but his scrutiny darkened, implying his subtext. Definitely.
“Then what would your advice be?” She winked while doubling down on the emphasis and welcomed a kaleidoscope of butterflies to her belly when Brick’s gaze smoldered in return. But all too quickly, he was back to his all-business overlay.
“If you’re determined to do this, then I suggest someplace public. A café or coffee house near a crowded public area. Not the Très Particulier again.”
“Why not?” While she had glaring reasons to avoid the place for the rest of her days, she was curious about his adamancy. And on a selfish note, she was riveted by the man when he took his testosterone showers.
“For one, I don’t want the remotest chance of again running into our friends Gervais and Remy,” he replied. “Snakes have a tendency to slither back to the same rocks.”
“Exceptional point.” She nodded with practiced poise. “And secondly?”
“It’s not ideal to give anyone a clue, however tiny, about where you’re staying. That even includes your pops.”
He accompanied the explanation with a walk across the room. After stopping before the bay window at the other side, he braced his hands on either side of the aperture. With him next to it, the big window now looked like a dollhouse feature.
“Third, it’s best to have an environment with a lot of escape possibilities.” The whole line of his upper back, from one outstretched elbow to the other, visibly tensed. “If things do go sideways—don’t freak; that’s a big if—it’s good to have a number of escape routes. Access to taxis or a metro line, perhaps a few restaurants with easy back doors…”
“Also exceptional points,” she interjected. “For which I have the perfect answer.”
“Nothing’s perfect in this world except your orgasm scream, Pixie. But let’s hear that brilliant idea anyway.”
Once more, her mouth fell open and danced with the air. She waited for her aggravation to bloom into anger at the smug slickster, but all she could do was laugh.
“Well, brilliance is surely an aggrandizement, Mr. Brickham. But if we go with my idea, perhaps I shall be rewarded with a few fun sounds from you as well.”
“Fun…sounds?” he uttered, banishing his smirk. “Is this where I start to be afraid?”
Another laugh trotted off her lips. “I said fun, did I not?”
“Woman, your idea of fun is hitching a ride on a fishing rig across the Mediterranean and then chopping off your hair so you can Jamie Bond your way into Paris freaking France.”
“Then maybe you had better take a few memos, Mr. Moneypenny.”
The man dug a foot at the floor—exactly as if he were kicking a microphone her way. Or maybe demolishing the thing? Either way, Jayd enjoyed her girl boss moment as the towering man returned her grin with a stare that nearly took her breath away. He was grinning now too. His twin blues sparkled, the color an arresting match to the glittering rain spatters on the glass.
“Christ,” he finally laugh-mumbled, shaking his head. “Now I really am afraid.”
Her suggestion was actually a good one. A damn good one. The Place Blanche, within walking distance of the apartment, likely would’ve made Brick’s own short list for an ideal connection point with LaBarre.
Six streets converged in the area, which was one of two plazas along the wide and well-lit Boulevard de Clichy. It had its own metro station and even a Starbucks. But its most important feature was the Machine du Moulin Rouge, which ensured they’d be surrounded by a few thousand tourists who’d just attended the club’s famous cancan performance. At least he hoped…
The tourists didn’t let him down.
Nor did the colorfully clad hipsters in line for the dance club a block away.
Nor did the equally vibrant Moulin performers, still in their high feathered headdresses and flowing boa bustles.
Okay, so they had a lot of company. Too damn much, if Brick’s nervous system were going to be consulted about the matter—which it wasn’t. He shut that shit down faster than the frazzled mother who went rapid-fire feral on her child for running across the raised grate in the middle of the plaza. When that didn’t work, the woman held the kid’s ice cream cone over a trash bin. Shit. French mothers had girl-balls of steel. And now he wanted ice cream.
Instead of dessert, he promised his synapses something better, perhaps to the tune of a double whisky, when they were done with this party. Wasn’t the same as one of his friendly little pills, but he’d only brought one with him at the beginning of the day and burned through it before connecting with Oz and Fox. The rest of the happy little fuckers were having a party of their own back in his room at the Ritz, where he didn’t dare take Jayd tonight. If he were Trystan Carris and doing a kick-ass job of underestimating Jayd, as the guy probably was, the city’s elegant icon would top the list of his stalking locations.
But for the next hour—maybe less, if he was lucky—it was his job to stay watchful, diligent, dauntless, calm. For now, panic couldn’t be an operative word in his vocabulary.
Especially when his first priority was keeping up with a hyperkinetic sprite.
“JD.” He’d deemed the initials necessary for addressing her in public, just in case someone recognized her. Thankfully, no one had even sniffed her direction yet. “This isn’t a timed treasure hunt, okay?”
“Says who?” It was only half a joke, as her searching gaze and chilled handclasp told him. Nervously, she tugged him one way and then the next in front of the concrete riser at the plaza’s center, until he brought her to a firm stop by gently twisting her fingers.
“Says me.” He scooped an arm around her waist and secured her back to his front. He pulled her in even closer before sneaking an affectionate kiss to her nape. For one wonderful second, he closed his eyes and pretended they were just another pair of lovers out in the City of Light. He mentally changed his name to Pierre, and hers to Giselle.
A blast of Halsey from the open disco doors crashed him back to reality. Though he scowled and straightened, he thanked fate for the wake-up. This was no time for quixotic fantasy.
This was time for being watchful. Diligent. Dauntless.
Calm.
So far, so good. He practically preened, acknowledging the controlled thrum of his heart rate and the steady steel of his gaze. He hadn’t felt more present or alert for a mission since the early days, before the spec ops fun had turned into the black ops gore. But he wasn’t delusional. This wasn’t a happy patrol through Baghdad or Kabul. He wasn’t here to play guardian angel for the recon guys. This was a much different gig, in which he was already two strikes down for advantages. One, he was only packing a boot knife and a borrowed meat tenderizer from the safe house’s kitchen. Two, he wasn’t keeping the sweep for a couple of trained soldiers who’d know what to do if they were ambushed. The princess, with her default of instant trust and her obsession with LaBarre, remained a prime candidate for predatory dickbags.
Not on his watch.
Contingent, of course, on him keeping pace with the woman.
How the hell was such a diminutive thing capable of going Mach 5 in those stilt boots? Every step she took was a new attack on Brick’s soldier Zen. If they got through this without her taking a faceplant on the pavement, he might start believing in miracles again.
The great cyberspace gods must have read his mind, because Jayd halted the second her back pocket buzzed. She had to tug a little to get the device out, which gave Brick the ideal excuse to ogle her ass a little longer. He wasn’t a shred sorry. This woman’s pert backside belonged in the Louvre. Better yet, in his greedy hands.
Another explosion of music from the disco. Another reality blast for his brain. He took advantage of the mental reboot, ignoring flirty flashes from one of the Moulin dancers, before stepping up next to Jayd.
“Papa LaBarre?”
The question was practically rhetorical. Jayd nodded without lifting her sights from the screen.
“He says he is here,” she rushed out, breathy with excitement. “He is at the pub on the corner of Clichy and Avenue Rachel.”
“Down there?” He stabbed a finger down the street, past the Moulin’s big red planters and famous windmill. His scowl earned him a similarly stubborn stare from the princess.
“It is but another block, Brickham,” she stated softly. “But we did walk several of them to get here, after all the chaos of today.” She turned and placed a tender hand over his chest. “I do understand if you are tired and need to take a—”
“I’m not tired,” he growled, pushing aside what her compassion did to him. He almost wished she’d have gone straight to pity mode. That shit would’ve rankled him to the point of macho-stupid bravado, and he’d be already leading the way down the boulevard to the pub. “I’m fucking jumpy. You told him to meet you here.”
“So you think that a block’s difference adds up to a conspiracy?” Jayd snapped. “Or could it be as simple as him knowing the place and wanting to have a comfortable environment to welcome me in?”
Before she was done, Brick was snorting through his ire. Even after what had happened in the Particulier’s alley, the woman was openly campaigning for the lost lamb of the year award. She wanted this meeting to happen so badly, she’d follow any shepherd who promised it. Yep, even over a damn cliff.
Which meant, even if a bunch of her beloved saints flew in to back him up, he wasn’t going to win this little skirmish.
“Let’s go,” he grumbled, grabbing her hand with a brisk swoop. His gait was defined by the same raging resignation, but Jayd kept up without argument. It took gritted effort to stay focused on their path up the street, including all the nooks and crannies in which Carris could be hiding, instead of the woman’s resilience in matching his steps. He’d bet his left testicle that she looked damn fine doing it too. Those impossibly high heels, carrying those incredibly curvy legs…
Focus, asshole.
Nooks. Crannies. Alleys. Doorways.
Focus!
He kept them to the wide sidewalk in the center of Clichy’s median, where he could at least cross alleys and doorways off his checklist. He also didn’t have to worry about the tacky tourist gift stores that lined the street, either—though a couple of kinky toy boutiques certainly caught the corner of his eye. He was in paranoid recon mode, not masquerading as a monk. Thank God for that tiny favor from fate. But under any other circumstances…
But this wasn’t any other circumstances.
Nothing pounded the point better than his nerve endings, battling to simultaneously stab through his skin as they hurried into the crosswalk in front of the pub. The place was loud and proud about its Irish theme, which he counted as a consolation prize from the universe. His whisky reward might be closer than he originally assumed.
But first things first. Like staying way the hell on top of his game to ensure this little rendezvous didn’t go tits up. To make that happen, his job was to make sure a lot of other things didn’t. Things like Jayd being recognized by anyone in the place—most of all, a certain Arcadian asshole on the hunt for his missing property.
He could’ve done without that thought, which had him seeing red all over again. More importantly, not seeing the situation—or Carris—as clearly as he needed to. In any other time or place, he even wondered if he and Carris would’ve been buddies. The brotherhood of warriors surpassed a lot of borders, branches, and flags on shoulders—until a soldier gave in and drank the Kool-Aid of radicalization. After that, all bets were off. One wondered if they’d ever see their friend on the sunshiny side of society again or watch them die on national TV after they took hostages to make their point.
Trystan Carris definitely had a point to make.
And thankfully—or perhaps not—Brick knew what it was. More accurately, whom the man was hellbent on using to make it. The knowledge brought him his greatest advantage but his hugest weakness.
This time, he really cared about the asset.
No.
He’d cared about her back when they’d escaped Gervais by taking cover in a kink dungeon. That designation had faded once he slid his fingers into her pussy. Then even more when he stroked her into a stunning orgasm. Then even more when she let him shackle her to a kitchen cupboard and slide his body into hers. And once he’d spilled himself inside her…
Yeah. Caring for her was just a starter ingredient in this crazy cake.
So what the hell was he calling the dough now?
And did he really have an extra five seconds, let alone the five hours he likely needed, to unpack that answer?
Thank fuck for excuses that were as well-timed as they were solid. While letting the gift horse gallop through his mind and trample the Jayd-themed mush, he reached for the pub’s heavy door and waited for her to enter. Less than three steps inside the place—a predictable amalgam of dark woods, green trims, and Celtic signs—he was right back by her side. If he could’ve gotten away with ordering her all the way behind him, that’d be happening already, but he spared himself the effort. Some mission objectives were simply impossible.
He focused on chalking up the positives so far. It was Sunday night, soon to be Monday morning, a fact honored by the pub’s mellow population. Secondly, Jayd wasn’t taking advantage of the light crowd and tearing across the room in a this-is-twenty-four-years-too-late fervor. Not that she wouldn’t be soon, but he could breathe easy for now. Of course, acknowledging his reprieve meant he’d probably just jinxed it…
“Daughter? Ma fille chérie?”
Jinx.
He was certain fate itself showed up to laugh the word at him, though Brick barely cared once Jayd broke loose with a similar sound. As one of the Irish slang signs on the wall said, Savage. Perfect fit. The woman’s laugh was savage: a mixture of breath and volume capable of knifing through a man’s guts until they’d bled their vitality down to his balls. Yeah, even in a situation like this. Even when said man stood by as said woman repeated the laugh for another man.
All right, so said other man happened to be her father.
And yeah, Brick jotted that mental note down in permanent ink.
One look at the man, even before Jayd stumbled toward him, was all it took to figure it out. The genetics were all there, so blatant they were startling. As daughter and father clasped hands and stared at each other for the first time, Brick used his imagination to add in longer hair, a high-end shave, and a pair of breasts for Louis. With those enhancements, it would look like the princess was peering into a mirror. LaBarre’s prominent cheekbones were the same. So were his high forehead and tapered chin. Even the man’s posture was similar to Jayd’s, full of restless energy.
But all of those factors were runners-up to the ultimate revelation.
LaBarre’s eyes.
It wasn’t just their color, which matched Jayd’s arresting aqua down to the opalescent specks. It was their settings, the deep wells becoming perfect cradles for ungodly long lashes and exotically tapered hoods.
But if he’d learned anything from years of deep recon sweeps, the first glance rarely counted as the right perception.
He didn’t want to be right about that—but as Jayd hauled the man close for a tearful grip of a hug, he already sensed that he was.
It wasn’t the certainty about LaBarre being Jayd’s actual papa. It was everything else they were supposed to be accepting about this meeting. Factors like the man’s insistence on this exact venue, when it seemed LaBarre hadn’t been here before either. And why did the man look like he’d just crawled out of bed and thrown on clothes from the floor, when he claimed he had a business engagement earlier?
But the biggest tell, just like before, was what Brick observed in LaBarre’s eyes.
Correction: what he didn’t see there.
Like alertness. Or comprehension. Or anything beyond surface-level joy. No, not even that. The man looked at Jayd but didn’t see her. He was standing here, but his mind was clearly parked somewhere else. Like Ohio.
But Jayd noticed none of that. And why should she? The woman had turned her life upside down and her heart inside out to make this moment happen. But she’d learned about LaBarre less than a week ago. To be fair, maybe he’d been fantasizing about this for nearly twenty-five years. The guy had the complete right to cash in his dazed and confused card.
“Paipanne.” It was barely a whisper, but Jayd stamped both syllables with absolute certainty. Her shoulders shook as she crumpled against the man, though Brick refrained from stepping over once she clamped her arms around LaBarre’s neck. In true pixie form, the woman wept like a flower but had the strength of a rainforest vine. “Creator be praised. Mon merveilleux père.”
“Père,” the man echoed, as if forming the word for the first time. “Paipanne. That means…”
“Yes,” she filled in, voice strangled with feeling. The wet spot on LaBarre’s shirt started to grow. “That means I have finally found you. That you have finally found me.”
“Ah. Yes, of course.” The man was definitely still back in Ohio, commenting as if confirming he wanted fries instead of onion rings. “You’re so…pretty.”
The compliment, despite its detachment, was a new turbo switch for Jayd’s tear ducts. But that wasn’t the only punched button here. Brick flipped a knob inside himself too. One he hadn’t twisted so high in a long time.
A switch labeled Suspicion.
“Merderim, Paipanne,” she said with laughing underlines. “You are quite dashing, as well.”
Brick managed—barely—to pull back his bugged glare. Dashing? Was she kidding? More and more, he likened the man to a walking MRU packet. He was pale and thin, even for a dude who likely skipped meals during creative jags. His pupils were like dehydrated peas. His breaths were erratic, as if someone had just jangled a remember-to-inhale bell in his ear.
Clearly, Jayd saw none of that. Her massive rose-colored glasses were firmly in place. Would Brick have expected—or wanted—it any other way?
He didn’t waste time answering himself. It was easier to put it into action instead. He did so by finally taking that step, which placed his chest flush to Jayd’s head, and reached over with his palm extended. “Monsieur LaBarre. Bonsoir. Name’s Max Brickham. Should I get us a table?” Though he wondered why the man hadn’t snagged one already. If the pub was closing off that section for the night, why had the guy insisted they meet here?
No answers on that from LaBarre. He glanced over like Brick was merely a moth buzzing by. The man was fully fixated—or whatever his glassy eyes and simpering smile meant—on Jayd. He leaned closer to her, like he was the moth and she was his hypnotic light.
“You are…really my daughter?” he murmured, barely audible even in this laid-back room.
“And are you really thinking with a full deck, man?” For that, Brick got a princess-sized backhand in the chest. But just when he thought Jayd might repeat the retaliation, she returned her grip to LaBarre instead.
“Yes,” she rasped. “I really am. It is nice to meet you. Wait. No.” She laughed out the negation. “It is not just nice. It is amazing. And wonderful. Oh, Paipanne!”
Her effusion washed over LaBarre like oil over water. How Brick wished the comparison was an exaggeration, but that wasn’t the case. The man literally stood there like a dormant oil spill, slightly curious about why a thousand tears were aggravating his surface gloss.
“Paipanne,” the man finally echoed. “That sounds so familiar…”
“It’s Arcadian,” Brick pointed out. “You probably heard a lot of words like it when you were there.”
LaBarre blinked slowly. “When I was where?”
“Arcadia.” Jayd supplied it this time, though she nearly extended it into a question. “You remember it, do you not, Father? Arcadia. It is an island. And while you were there—”
“Arcadia,” LaBarre blurted, detaching his hand from hers to rub his temple. “It is…an island? I was on an island once…”
“Yes,” she said, cracking something in Brick’s chest with her blatant, desperate hope. “You were. And you met my maimanne there. The queen.”
“The queen.” He smiled, though he kept the kneading fingers at his forehead. “So that means you are the princess?”
She laughed again, though her emotion was strained. Nervous. Forced. “I—ermmm—well, yes, I am, at least still on paper.”
“Magnifique,” the man exclaimed. “Yes, that is good. A very good thing to know.”
“I suppose.” Jayd tilted her head and crunched her brows. “But was it not something you knew already, Father?”
“I’ll second that.” Brick pivoted forward a little, saving the brunt of his incisive stare for Monsieur Peas-For-Eyes. “Do you really not know why they disappeared you out of Arcadia, buddy?”
La Barre jerked his head up. “They did what? To who?”
“Christ on sourdough.”
“What?” Jayd countered, joining her father in the scrutinizing stare. “Brickham?”
He tugged her back by a few steps, not bothering to beg an excuse from LaBarre. He doubted the guy would notice, and he was right.
“Your father… I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he isn’t right,” he murmured for her ears only. “And I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
She made a dismissive hiss through her teeth. “Not right?” she spewed. “Just because he is not groveling before me or obeying royal protocols?”
He arched his brows. “Then that would land me in the same basket, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed it would.”
He disregarded her coy smirk, focusing on the parts of his psyche that were giving him some damn weird vibes. Uncomfortable wasn’t the right word. Even suspicious wasn’t the right descriptor anymore. He’d leapfrogged to the next level—into outright unnerved.
“All right, this is feeling bad, Pixie.” He contradicted himself by flashing an all’s-cool grin toward LaBarre, just in case the man was more lucid than he assumed. He continued through his painfully gritted teeth. “You know it too. Don’t you?”
The question almost wasn’t worth tagging on. He already saw his answer, blatant across the gorgeous sprite’s face. There was only so much of the man’s behavior she’d be able to depreciate with excuses like nerves, anxiety, and the pressures of his day. That margin was thinning by the second.
“It is fine,” she finally said, though her fingertips hadn’t stopped pounding her thighs and her teeth hadn’t ceased worrying her lips. “He is fine.”
“Right,” Brick mumbled. “Sure he is.”
She folded her arms. “Do not sound so thrilled about that for my sake.”
Before he could form a comeback about how he’d be more thrilled if they found an inconspicuous table or got out of here completely, LaBarre chose to zero in on his daughter once more.
“So…you are my daughter. And you are a princess.”
“So she’s already informed you, Monsieur.”
He was terse but diplomatic, though probably more of one than the other. Jayd’s fresh whack to his chest confirmed as much.
“I apologize, Paipanne,” she stated. “Brickham has had a long day and night.”
“Ah, yes.” Again, LaBarre’s reply was like lip gloss. Pretty for two seconds before it dissolved into a shiny mess. “I understand that part. Of course I do. Long days. Scary nights.” His whole form shook with a violent tremor. “Scary, scary nights.”
“Oh, no.” Jayd swept back over to the man, not stopping until she had him in another tight embrace. “Paipanne. Is everything all right? By the stars, please do not cry.” She swung her head around. “Brickham?”
The only answer he could muster was a half-assed shrug. He wanted it to be more, but he was confusion’s bitch right now. She’d refused to heed his warning, but three seconds of LaBarre’s maudlin turn had her boarding the something’s-not-right train? But this wasn’t a time for pouting egos, especially his. At least she was on the tracks with him now. He could work with that if this went sideways and he had to.
Fuck, how he hoped he didn’t have to.
Jayd went on with her comforting chantings for her father, but it seemed like she was consoling the inconsolable. Yet just when Brick thought she’d abandon the quest for good, the man moved back by a small step. He gripped her shoulders with shuddering need and impaled her searching gaze with his red-rimmed one.
“You are a princess,” he finally said. “A kindhearted one. I can already tell.”
For the first time since they’d walked in, Jayd fidgeted with discernible discomfort. “I have done my best to be just a good person, Father. My title has nothing to do with my character.”
“But it has everything to do with your gold…yes?”
Well, shit.
Brickham refrained—barely—from spitting it out loud. From the second he’d confessed his suspicions to Jayd, he’d started a mental list of subjects that could qualify for this-is-bad status. The Cimarrons and their royal wealth were up there in the rankings. But his preparation didn’t diminish a speck of his agony at watching Jayd answer her own wake-up call about it.
“What does my gold have to do with anything, Monsieur?”
Monsieur this time. Not Paipanne. But again, not a victory for Brick. Just a profound wash of sadness, watching LaBarre slip from the pedestal she’d so carefully constructed. But that was the thing about shrines. They were usually occupied by statues, not humans, for a reason.
“My beautiful, miraculous daughter.”
As LaBarre reached for Jayd’s hands again, the man looked clear, connected, and present. Well, imagine that. Brick could only grunt out a retort since he had imagined. His visions were based in a solid chunk of reality. He’d seen this behavior over and over again. Once upon a time, he’d damn near become this behavior.
“Paipanne?” Crap. She was back to that already. “What is it? What do you need?”
The man had the decency to turn red, but not the dignity to stop his new plea. “I…have an injury, princess. My leg…I fell off a scaffold, you see…and it gives me so much pain. My medications are expensive. But they said you might be able to help so I can afford some more. They said—”
“Who?” Jayd pounced on the interjection a second before Brick could. “Who said this to you, Father? And why can you not have your doctor presc—”
“Fuck my doctor!” The man dropped his hands and recoiled. “He knows nothing about what I am going through. Nothing! All he says is that I’ll get addicted and eventually die. He has no idea. If I have to live like this, then I do wish to be dead instead.”
“Stop!” Jayd stalked at him like a Super Hornet off a carrier catapult. “Wh-What are you saying? Do you hear what you’re saying?”
But the man hardly heard what she was saying. The whole time she spoke, LaBarre was a puddle of kowtowing smiles and forlorn whimpers. “Please, my princess. Please. I need you. I need you!”
As every second passed, it was clear what the man had really come here for. A sole purpose. To hit up his own daughter for only one thing. And as that minute developed into another, with Jayd battling her father’s desperation with her own, a tidy pile of deductions started stacking up for Brick.
Too tidy.
He was silent and steady about inserting himself between Jayd and LaBarre. He was steadier—and unrelenting—about studying the man, if only to satisfy his own harrowing hunch about what had even gotten LaBarre through the door tonight.
He started with three simple words.
“What is it?”
LaBarre jutted his chin. Good boy. He was coherent enough to hear the difference in Brick’s query as opposed to Jayd’s. But he still stammered back, “Wh-What is wh-what?”
“Cut it,” Brick snapped. “I’ve had some peeks into the hole, buddy. I know what it looks like.” He rocked back on a heel, taking care that his size didn’t intimidate the man into full silence. But he didn’t hold back on folding his arms and tightening his scowl. “Tell me, damn it. What is it, LaBarre? Oxy? Hydro? Tramadol? Morphine? All of the above?”
He added the last of it when his list seemed to affect the guy like a kid listening to Willie Wonka’s newest candy creations. But to his credit, LaBarre fought the allure with a coiled cringe—for the better part of ten seconds.
“I’m getting better!” the man finally protested. “I am.” He scrabbled a shaky hand through his rat’s nest hair. “I just need a little help right now.” He lowered that hand by reaching out to Jayd with it. “Just a little help…to make it through…”
“Until what?” Brick spat. “Your next payoff from the Arcadians?”
He could’ve sliced out his tongue for the slip, which had no validation other than his baldest instincts. If LaBarre really had been shuttled out of the kingdom so as to stay quiet about Jayd’s heritage, it made sense that the guy would’ve demanded healthy compensation for it.
“Excuse me?” Jayd’s words were the stuff of etiquette, but her jolting glare wasn’t. “What? A…payoff?”
“Ha!” LaBarre barked. “You mean the silence pittance? The scraps they have not changed for over a year now? When I have rent to pay, and supplies to procure, and—”
“Opioids to score?” Sometimes, Brick hated being right. And other times, like this one, he hated being so right that he got skewered with a beautiful woman’s glower for it. But most of all, he hated having to watch as she started connecting all the details for herself.
“It is a misunderstanding,” Jayd spurted. “That is all. That is what it has to be…”
But her voice faded as her father reapproached. And she really saw him now. All of it. The haggard hitch in his posture. The constant disconnects of his attention. The desperation in his red-rimmed gaze.
“Why?” she whispered, stepping away with her arms clutched to her middle. Her sadness was a scythe across Brick’s guts too. “Why…why?”
“I’m sick,” LaBarre blurted. “I’m sick, daughter, and I’m in pain. So much pain. But you can help me. I just need some cash. Surely you can share with your dear old paipanne? Just so I can feel a little better?”
Brick huffed. He’d had enough of this bullshit. “She didn’t raid the castle coffers before hauling herself all the way here, LaBarre. She had to sneak out with a few hours’ notice, using mostly her wits and brains, just to make it here. And you know why? Because all she wanted was to meet you. For exactly this. Don’t you want any of that too? Don’t you want to sit and talk to your own fucking daughter?”
LaBarre attempted to cringe again. His gaze wandered around the room, as if he’d find his missing feelings stashed somewhere nearby. When he came up empty, he simply swayed where he stood before slowly shaking his head. “I just…don’t understand. You’re a princess.”
Brick winced. “Let’s cut the repeat button on that part, okay?”
“You’re a princess,” the dumbshit spewed anyway. “And you’re supposed to help me. They said you had money. They said if I cooperated and came, you would help me!”
Jayd jerked in place once more. Brick was damn sure he joined her. No time to enjoy the jinx-worthy moment, though—not when it was clear they’d been dunked into the same shocking ice water at the same awful second.
“Cock de Creacu.”
Not the foremost expression on Brick’s brain, but Jayd’s profanity captured the moment well enough. Yeah, down to the dawn of his nausea—and the new rise of his paranoia.
“They?” He spat the emphasis while wheeling back at LaBarre. “They…who?”
The man jerked up his chin again. But no resignation or remorse about it now. “They helped me,” he spat, full of defensive fire. “They helped to stop my pain. To help me feel bet—”
“They who?”
Brick startled again. The roar wasn’t his. He turned, stunned, in the same second it took for his spirited pixie to become a pissed-off puck, launching herself at her dazed dad.
“Damn it, LaBarre!” she gritted out. “Who have you talked to? We need names! We need to know—”
His mind all but typed in the predictive text that went there.
But his ears never heard it.
All they registered, in the three seconds after the brutal blow across the back of his head, was a string of terrified screams interspersed with some violent Arcadian swearing.
Swearing?
It occurred to him, on his way down to the floor, that he might have gotten that part twisted. It hardly mattered as soon as his skull walloped the floor, and he spewed with his own unthinking obscenities.
Until even those were ripped from him.
As a pair of gunshots tore the air open—
And left only blackness in their wake.