Chapter Eleven

Starr shoved her Jetta’s gearshift into park in the Reno-Tahoe Airport drop-off lane.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Spencer asked.

“I’m fine,” she clipped, clutching the steering wheel.

An obvious lie, one that didn’t require his deductive attorney skills to identify. Which was probably good, since they’d clearly fallen short. He hadn’t gleaned any information by asking the same question a half dozen times during the ride to the airport, but by the tone of her voice, he had done a damn good job of irritating her. They irritated each other, which was why it was a good thing he was leaving.

It was time, for multiple reasons.

“You got all your stuff?” Her forced smile was painful, but he stopped himself from asking her yet again if everything was okay. At least it wasn’t anything he’d done, at least not directly. She’d come back to the ranch with a pissy attitude. He’d wondered if something had happened visiting her father, but it seemed too personal a question. That, and he valued his head too much for it to be bitten off.

“Yep, my wallet and the care package from Catherine. She sent my passport, some credit cards, and even some cash.” He chuckled. “She’s very thorough.”

“How’d she get all that? You leave your passport and credit cards in the office?”

“No, she went to my apartment.” As soon as the words were out, Spencer realized how odd they sounded unless you knew Catherine, a sixty-year-old mother hen who loved doting on him. Even odder was Starr’s interest in the subject.

“You gave your secretary the key to your apartment?” Her tone was incredulous mixed with… Was that jealousy? “She must be quite a secretary.” The emphasis Starr placed on that last word told him she thought Catherine was much more.

Interesting. “Yes,” he said, refusing to satisfy her curiosity or imagination. “She is.” If Starr wouldn’t share, neither would he.

“You coming back soon?” JJ piped up from the backseat.

“One day,” Spencer said, turning to the kid. “But probably not for a while. You’re going to have to keep those goats out of the chicken coop all on your own. Think you can handle it?”

JJ rolled his eyes, not making contact with Spencer’s. “Of course.” He rummaged through his bag of art supplies and pulled out a piece of paper. “I made this for you,” he said, handing it to Spencer.

Spencer looked at the paper and laughed. It was a drawing of Spencer and JJ next to the goat, who was making himself at home in the chicken coop.

Starr glanced over, a grin cracking through her otherwise frosty facial expression. “Looks like he got the details perfectly, especially your expression.”

“I love it, kid,” Spencer said. He tapped down the urge to reach back and muss the kid’s hair. In some respects, JJ seemed to seek out reasons to be around him, though always keeping a wide diameter of personal space. Careful not to touch unless he had to, and careful not to look into Spencer’s eyes when they spoke. Spencer hadn’t gotten another fist-bump from JJ since that first one when he’d arrived at the farm. Which was why he was surprised as JJ’s fist reached out toward him and hovered, waiting for a bump.

Spencer glanced at Starr, her expression as shocked as his probably was. Then he lightly touched his fist to JJ’s. He was even more surprised at how that small success swelled his chest with pride.

This place was making him soft.

He slipped the drawing into his briefcase, then turned toward Starr. “Thanks for the ride. It’s been, uh, interesting.” Especially last night. He inadvertently licked his lips as his thoughts flickered back to their encounter on the porch.

Interesting didn’t cover the half of it.

Her brow raised, as if she’d been reading his mind, and her blue eyes darkened. Maybe he should’ve followed up this morning on last night’s kiss. Maybe he should now.

“You’re gonna miss your flight if you don’t get out of the car.” JJ’s words brought the reality of an eleven-year-old audience front and center.

“Right you are, kiddo. Thanks, again, Starr.”

“Any— No problem.” She gave a small smile, one that seemed almost sad.

What was wrong with her?

Why did he care—what was wrong with him?

He pushed himself out of the car and grabbed his carry-on from the trunk. This detour into the Twilight Zone would be over in a few short hours. He headed into the airport and forced his brain to repeat the promise from this morning: out of sight, out of mind.

Over an hour later, Spencer was through security and sitting at the gate, foot tapping. Boarding was late, though the plane was there—he could see it through the window. His thoughts floated to Starr. After dropping JJ at his art lesson, she’d have picked up Matt and they’d be at the Rescue Mission by now. With Ryan. The whole thing bothered him, especially the Ryan part. She shouldn’t be giving up her Tuesday and Thursday evenings to chaperone Matt and hang with Ryan. She was so damn stubborn. And irritating, with that determined look in her eyes once she’d made up her mind.

And those pouted lips. Soft, perfect. Begging to be kissed.

He shook his head. The best thing about this whole situation was that he didn’t have to deal with it anymore. He checked his watch again. Were they ever going to start boarding?

His phone rang, and he checked the screen: Grace.

“Hey, Mrs. Taylor. How’s the honeymoon? And don’t skip the torrid details.” He grinned and waited for her snappy retort.

“Honeymoon’s fine. What the heck’s going on over there?”

Crap. Which part had Starr blabbed? The wallet? The delinquent? The kiss? “Uh…”

“Why is Destiny Morson calling me to get your phone number?”

Destiny? “I have no clue. Didn’t you ask her?”

“She hung up before I could ask anything. Did something happen between you and Starr? I tried to call, but her phone’s off. Is she okay? Destiny would only call if something was wrong.”

And Destiny would only be looking for Spencer as a last resort, which meant something was wrong. A hole hollowed in Spencer’s stomach. He was going to kill Ryan if Starr had gotten hurt on that guy’s watch.

“Listen, Spence. If it’s Starr, promise me you’ll take care of it. She’s had a rough go of it lately, with the accident—”

Accident?

“—and then her ass of a boyfriend bailing and her still having to deal with him in that company she likes so much. Promise me you’ll help her. She could use some good karma.”

Karma. He’d gone thirty years without a mention of the word. Who knew Reno was the frickin’ epicenter of karma?

He sighed. “Destiny hasn’t called, but sure. Whatever I can do.”

At that moment, two things occurred—the airline attendant announced boarding had begun, and an unknown number beeped through on the other line. A feeling of impending doom creeped over Spencer’s shoulders. This wasn’t going to be good.

Spencer plugged his free ear to block out the loudspeaker. “Grace, I’ll call you back. Someone’s on the other line.” He clicked over without waiting for her response. “Hello?”

“Spencer, thank God you haven’t left yet.” Yep, Destiny Morson. Her voice was tinged with panic. “I need your help.”

The crater in his gut widened, filling with what felt like molten lava. Why him? What about Ryan? What about some other friend, any other friend? Spencer pushed through the clutter to the only question that mattered. “Is Starr okay?”

“Yes.”

Thank God.

“I mean, I think. So far,” she said.

Jesus Christ, what was that woman up to now? “She’s at the Rescue Center, right?”

“No, she never made it there. She went to pick up Matt, but he wasn’t home.”

Damn. He knew the kid would flake.

“His mom didn’t know where he was,” Destiny continued. “She thought he might be at the Triad.”

Spencer also knew where this was leading, and it wasn’t anywhere good. “What the hell is the Triad?”

“Someplace downtown, near the river behind Second Street. Apparently, it’s where kids like Matt hang out at night.”

Kids like Matt—delinquents, drug heads, and other stars of society. His stomach churned. “Let me guess. Supergirl Starr decided to go find him.” Because it would be the idiotic, irrational type of thing she would do.

“She was going on and on about how no one was showing up today and that she’d had enough. Did you guys fight or something?”

Or something. But this sounded related to her father, not Spencer—and would explain Starr’s crappy mood. Matt would’ve been the second one who “hadn’t shown” for Starr today.

“She’s not going after Matt by herself, is she? What about Rose?” His eyes glanced at the diminishing boarding line. It didn’t matter what Destiny answered. He needed to hang up the phone and get on the damn plane.

Destiny sighed. “She couldn’t leave work. As far as I know, Starr’s going alone. She asked me to pick up JJ from his art class.”

Crap. “What is wrong with that woman? Does she have a death wish?” This wasn’t his concern. Hang up the phone. But he couldn’t. Grace would kill him.

Who was he kidding? This had nothing to do with Grace and everything to do with that petite blonde who’d somehow managed to worm her way into his thoughts, his dreams—into his frickin’ nasal cavity with her frickin’ lilacs. There was no way he was letting Starr go to the Triad by herself. Which only meant one thing.

“Tell me exactly where this Triad place is and everything you know about it,” he said. “I’ll go after her.”

…

Twenty minutes later, Spencer had ditched the plane and grabbed a taxi. Good thing he’d only had carry-ons. After telling the driver the location, and assuring him that’s really where he wanted to go, Spencer started making phone calls. The ones that would probably ruin his career, or at least stop that promotion he knew he was in line for. Spencer was the only attorney to ever make the jump from staff attorney, a position given to those who didn’t graduate from an Ivy League college, to associate. Seven years later, he was up for partner—and a shoo-in until today.

For the most part, the calls went as expected: none of his colleagues understood—especially not Lucius Mann, his mentor and the partner running the Carvan merger. The unexpected part was how Spencer felt his temperature rise as he spoke with Lucius. In all his time at Roger Taylor and Mann, Spencer hadn’t mentioned the word family, had never let anything of a personal nature get in the way of business. He’d never even taken a sick day. And now this one time would ruin everything— Lucius’s tone confirmed it. As if all those years of Spencer’s total, utter commitment had meant nothing.

He shook off his useless resentment and dialed what he suspected would be the most difficult call—to Jase. Difficult, not because Jase wouldn’t understand, but because he would, or at least he’d think he did. His friend had become a hopeless romantic since Marissa—and even worse since their engagement, to the point of actively encouraging Spencer to follow in his footsteps. Something Spencer actively ignored.

Jase answered on the first ring. “Spence, what the hell is going on? My phone’s been beeping off the hook for the past ten minutes.”

“Yeah, I probably should’ve called you first.”

“No duh, Sherlock. But I covered your ass anyway.” Like Spencer knew he would and like Spencer would’ve done had the situation been reversed. Besides being Spencer’s best friend, Jase was the best and most hardworking attorney Spencer knew, besides himself, of course. A hard-worker enigma, since Jase didn’t even need to work. He was heir to the famous St. Clair Investment fund, a private company—built and owned by Edward St. Claire, Jase’s father—that managed billions of dollars of investments. But Jase wanted to make it on his own. Perhaps that’s why he and Spencer were so close; they were kindred spirits.

“I told Julius we had it covered,” Jase continued. “And I’d step in—that this was a contingency you’d planned for.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, bud. I elevated you to Eagle Scout status for planning ahead.”

Planning ahead? With Starr? Spencer almost laughed out loud.

“So, who is she?” Jase asked, as if reading Spencer’s mind.

And Spencer sometimes wondered if he could, which was why he didn’t deny it. “Grace’s new sister-in-law needs some help. It was unexpected.” And utterly crazy.

“It must’ve been one hell of a wedding after-party.”

Ordinarily, Spencer would be peeved at the insinuation, even in jest, that he’d let something as trivial as a good lay—something he was in no shortage of—interfere with his work. But this time, the comment rubbed him the wrong way for a different reason. “Starr’s not like that,” he snapped. She definitely wasn’t the type to have a drunken, post-party one-night stand. She’d expect more. She deserved more.

There was a beat of silence before Jase responded. “Well, that explains it.”

“What explains what?”

“She’s not your typical type.”

Yeah, that’s what he’d just said, hadn’t he? Wait…she wasn’t just not his typical type; she wasn’t his any type. She was crazy and reckless and naive. Irritatingly so, with her mutant save-the-world gene.

“I’m just helping her through a situation, that’s all,” Spencer said firmly. “I’ll be back as soon as it’s under control.”

His friend laughed.

“What?”

“Something tells me you may not be back in control for a very long time.”

He cut off Jase still laughing in his ear and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Jase was clueless. Marissa had made him soft.

The taxi zipped by warehouses intermixed with poor excuses for used car lots. Mostly rundown, totally deserted. The closer to this Triad place they got, the more reality set in. What was he doing? He couldn’t explain it to his colleagues because he didn’t understand it himself.

The only thing he knew with certainty was that the thought of Starr playing stakeout in the Triad alone, in the dark, made his insides tighten and twist until he thought they’d snap. There was a high probability she’d get hurt or mugged. Or worse.

The more he thought of what she was doing, the more pissed he got—at Starr for putting herself in this position and at himself for caring.

Growing up, he’d hung out at places like the Triad. He knew exactly what went on as soon as the sun went down. The most vulnerable, the most decent, were the prey. A kid’s only hope was to be tougher, less vulnerable, than someone else. Spencer had gotten sucked into that life out of loneliness rather than need. He’d palled around with the kind of kids who were nothing but trouble, the kind befriended when there was no family to influence you.

And Spencer had none.

His mega-rich, mega-messed-up family had dumped him at the boarding school when he was eight and barely bothered with him again. That left him far from hard up but pissed at the world—circumstances that made delinquency the perfect calling.

But he’d gotten out of that life, barely, by sheer luck and a boatload of determination.

The taxi slowed as it came up to Rockbed Park, the tip of the Triad, according to information Destiny had gotten from Matt’s mother. The Truckee River bubbled behind it.

Spencer squinted through the dusk that was quickly turning to darkness. The night was young, but small groups of eclectic delinquents were beginning to form—the straight-edge, the potheads, the gangbangers, all hanging in peaceful coexistence, one that would never last the night. Where the hell was Starr? His eyes kept scanning, but… Wait. He zeroed in on a dark Jetta on the other side of the park. Dark green, he’d guess.

“Can you circle around, come in the other entrance?” he asked the taxi driver. “And cut the lights.”

The driver nodded, though he mumbled something under his breath. Something in Spanish. A curse, maybe a prayer. But he did as Spencer asked and circled around. When they were about twenty feet behind the Jetta—dark green, just as he’d suspected—he had the taxi stop. He didn’t want to get too close. That would ruin the surprise. He handed the driver a few too many bills. “Wait just a minute, okay? If I get into that car, you can leave.”

The taxi driver grunted an affirmation and nodded.

Spencer patted the guy’s shoulder. “Thanks, man.” He exited the taxi, hefted his bag on his shoulder, and approached the Jetta. He grabbed the passenger door handle, never expecting the door to open. But, then, this was Starr.

“Why am I not surprised your door is unlocked?” he asked, swinging it open. “You don’t need a keeper; you need a goddamn straightjacket.”