Twenty-seven
TEN MINUTES LATER, NOELLE hadn’t stopped shaking. She’d been shaking since Hector had begun his confession. Oh, the pain he had endured.
She ached for the traumatized child he’d been, ached for the strong yet broken man he’d become. But. Yeah, but. He still wasn’t willing to try with her, didn’t want her enough. And that’s what everything boiled down to.
The car eased to the side of the road, then stopped altogether and parked at the curb in front of Alfonzo’s, a members-only snobfest.
“I can do this, because I can do anything,” she whispered, a pep talk for herself as she emerged into cool, damp wind and dodged a honking car that swerved to miss her. Emotionally raw inside, she flipped off the driver.
Can’t think about Hector right now. Have to focus. For Bobby.
Later, though.…
Hector moved in front of her to block the wind. He held the door open for her, rather than allowing the doorman to do his job. What the hell? Push her away, and then act the gentleman?
Killing me.
Inside she saw dark velvet draping the walls and flecks of ebony and ivory sparkling in the floor tiles. Small crystal chandeliers hung over every table, the lights dim, a soft tawny, all to promote intimacy.
Multiple perfumes fragranced the air, a clash of designers. Champagne, chocolate—made from real, rare cocoa beans rather than fake—and caviar also joined the scented fray. Noelle’s mouth watered, but she soldiered on without stealing a morsel or six from any of the trays carried past her. Starving! she thought.
For which she blamed Hector. She hadn’t eaten breakfast; she’d been too busy hunting for him, fuming.
As they maneuvered around the tables, conversations ceased, then murmurs of a different nature arose. Noelle wasn’t sure if the patrons were now discussing her scandalous pregnancy, or if they were focusing on the huge biker dude in front of her, a man clearly packing an arsenal of weapons on his battlefield body. Maybe both.
She wasn’t bothered by the attention they garnered. To her, every person in the room was a version of her mother. Disapproving, superior, and entitled. So, basically, they could all suck it. Her life was her life, and she did not have to explain her choices.
Her gaze landed on a very handsome man at a table all by his lonesome. He was somewhat familiar to her. Must have seen him at a party or something. He had olive-toned skin and dark hair. Pain filled his azure gaze, but he smiled a sinful smile when he realized she was staring at him.
She nodded in acknowledgment.
Hector stopped abruptly, and Noelle rammed into him. His gloved arm stretched backward. For one second, only one, he settled a hand on her hip to steady her. Of course, he then realized he’d broken one of his cardinal rules—contact with another living being—and severed the connection.
Didn’t matter. The touch, quick as it’d been, electrified her, the heat of him bypassing her clothing, her skin, just as it had every time before, settling deep in her bones. She shivered at the deliciousness of it. What really got her, though, was the fact that she’d never seen him touch anyone else this casually, even by mistake.
Can’t soften. Have to focus, she reminded herself.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Brenda Marks snapped. “Move along.”
Ah, there she was. Noelle stepped around her maybe-partner.
“I’m Agent Dean,” Hector said. “And we need to talk to you about your son.”
Brenda’s back, already ramrod straight, stiffened beneath the thin cut of her I’m-almost-a-businesswoman dress. “He’s dead. I know.”
Interesting.
“How do you know?” Hector asked. “Did you kill him?”
A flash of too-white teeth. “How dare you accuse me of something like that. I’m in mourning.”
Mourning? Really?
“I know because someone from AIR called me,” she said with a false sniff, “and told me he’d been shot, then asked me a few questions.”
Hardly. No one from AIR would have called her without permission from Hector. “What was his name? The one who called you?”
“Agent Smith.”
There was no Agent Smith. Either she was lying, or … what? The bad guy had called her and pretended to be an agent?
Hector crossed his arms over his chest. “What did he ask you?”
“Do we have to do this here and now?” Brenda demanded, glancing around the restaurant with embarrassment.
“Yes,” Noelle and Hector answered in unison.
“Well, then, if we’re playing Q and A, here’s one for you. How did you get in here?” Brenda didn’t give either of them a chance to reply. “Waiter. Waiter! Escort these … people outside.”
The waiter merely stood there, shifting from one foot to the other, gulping nervously.
“I’m a member,” Noelle said, at last gaining Brenda’s full attention. They’d never before interacted, never been introduced, but the old bitch had to know who she was. Everyone did. “Getting in wasn’t a problem.” Her gaze scanned the other three women seated at the table.
Each female was around the same age: mid fifties, or maybe pushing a hundred and fifty. The number of surgical procedures staring over at her made it hard to tell.
They wore so much jewelry they could have sunk the Titanic before it ever hit that iceberg. Not a single lock of hair was out of place, their similar bobs cut and sprayed to withstand even tornados and hurricanes. Manicured nails left far too long. Makeup more of a mask than an accessory.
Oh, yes. They were definitely versions of her mother.
“Beat it before I decide to make examples out of you and carve my name into your faces,” she said, adding, “Now!” when they hesitated. And, yes, she flashed her switchblade. Never left home without it.
Two stood so swiftly their chairs skidded behind them. The third remained in her seat, her lips thinned in a mutinous line. “Our food hasn’t yet arrived, and I’m not leaving until—”
“She said now.” Hector tapped two fingers against the handle of the pyre-gun holstered under his arm, and the protestor joined the others. They lined up and marched away, most likely intending to call their husbands. Or attorneys.
Noelle stuffed her blade back in her pocket and claimed one of the vacant chairs, then motioned for Hector to do the same.
“I don’t care if they’re the law or not. Get rid of these miscreants,” Brenda snarled to the waiter. “They offend me.”