The Devil's Beauty (Crime Lord Interconnected Standalone Book 2) (2 page)

Releasing Robby, Ava slid up next to Patrick and touched his arm. It was meant to reassure, but he jumped like she’d waved a live snake in his face. The unexpected jolt had her snatching her hand back.

“Sorry! Christ. I’m so sorry! I don’t … I don’t know why I did that.”

Not willing to risk another slap down, Ava didn’t reach for him again. But she offered him a comforting smile.

“Why don’t we get some drinks? Calm our nerves?”

“Not me,” Robby muttered. “I’m going to find the food.” He turned his gaze to Ava. “You’ll be all right?”

Assuring him she’d be fine, Ava waved him off, waited until he was out of sight before facing Patrick.

“We don’t have to do this,” she told him. “It really isn’t anyone’s business anyway.”

He looked so miserable that she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He reminded her of a beaten dog and all she wanted to do was pet his head and tell him he was such a good boy. That was probably not the type of reaction a girlfriend was supposed to have when their man was in the dumps, but she really was no better at all this than he was.

“No, I’m all right.” He straightened his shoulders and peered around the room. “Did you want to make the rounds, or…?”

Ava was trying to make up her mind when her mother caught sight of them in the doorway and her expression blossomed into one of pure delight.

“There she is!” Her mother’s girlish squeal cut into the hum of chatter like a butcher’s blade. It made everyone give a jolt of surprise.

She broke away from John Paul and drifted over to them with a grace that always gave the impression she was floating inches off the floor. Her pale arms shot out and closed around Ava’s neck in a suffocating embrace of woman and floral perfume.

“You look beautiful, darling!” Charlotte breathed, pulling back to inspect the dress she herself had picked out for the evening. “I just knew that dress was for you.”

“Thank you, Ch … Mom.”

It was never clear how Charlotte would react to the M word. For the first half of her life, Ava was introduced to people as Charlotte’s niece, or a friend’s daughter. Ava had been given strict directions never to use the dreaded M word in public.

“I’m not old enough for that,”
Charlotte would say.

John Paul had put a stop to that as soon as their relationship had gone public, just a week after the ink had dried on the divorce papers to husband number four. Ava had already been nine by that point, too old for such a drastic change, but she had done it—grudgingly—for his sake. Her mother had embraced the new reality of being a public mother as she did her beauty regiment—with grace, a martini, and two valiums. But it had turned out in her favor, because everyone applauded her for having a twenty-five-year-old daughter and still managing to look so young. Life was rainbows and sunshine once more.

John Paul joined them. His hand automatically went to the small of her mother’s back.

“You look lovely, Ava,” he said in the fluid lilt of a French diplomate.

She offered him a smile in thanks.

He glanced past her to Patrick, who looked seconds away from vomiting on his own shoes. “Carmichael?”

“Yes sir?” His voice only squeaked a little, but the green tinge had begun to climb up his throat to taint his cheeks.

“Everything all right?”

His throat muscles worked rapidly, like he was trying to swallow a large chunk of rubber. “Yes sir.” He squared his shoulders like that might help with the sweat that had begun to gather across his brow. “Congratulations … no! Wait … uh…” He squeezed his eyes shut tight, gave his head a little shake as though to clear it. “To you.” He gestured at Ava. “Congratulations … I mean, happy birthday.”

She started to reach for him again, but quickly caught herself. She offered him a sympathetic smile instead.

“Why don’t you get us drinks, hm?”

His shoulders lifted and dropped, possibly in relief, but he inclined his head in an almost bow before turning and practically bowling his way out of sight.

“He’s very nervous,” Ava said once he was gone. “I don’t think he understood the implications when I suggested we … go public.”

“It’s adorable,” Charlotte decided. “Being nervous just shows he cares.”

John Paul nodded slowly. “I was extremely nervous when I met your mother.”

“You were not!” Charlotte scolded him playfully. “I have never met a more confident man. You were shameless.”

“Only on the outside, love,” he assured her smoothly.

Ava cut in quickly before the pair could start kissing. “Would you mind talking to him? Maybe introduce him to some people and get him comfortable?”

John Paul turned his attention back to her. His gaze lifted over her head to where Patrick had disappeared.

“I suppose, but—”

“Thank you! I just—”

“Ava!” Myrtle Pearson bustled over, a short, round, pasty thing in a puffy princess dress and tiara. Her arms swung around Ava’s middle, nearly taking them both to the ground. “Happy birthday, darling!”

Stubbornly keeping her expression fixed in one of delight, Ava beamed and patted her lightly on the back in return, trying not to notice how clammy she was.

“Hello Mrs. Pearson! How are you?”

“Dreadful.” The woman immediately pulled back. “Have you heard the news? It’s dreadful.”

“The news…?”

“Perhaps we should save that for later—?”

John Paul’s suggestion went completely ignored, now that the woman was on a roll and had a captive audience.

“The Attaway’s were robbed last weekend,” Mrs. Pearson rushed on in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “During their anniversary dinner. I wasn’t there, of course. Princess, that’s my Yorkie, was a bit under the weather, poor thing. The thief broke right into Bill Attaway’s office safe and made off with everything. Then left behind his signature red rose and the card with the D on it. Can you imagine? The Devil has struck again!”

“That’s terrible…” But even as the words escaped her out of habit, Ava’s gaze darted to John Paul’s. They were both thinking the same thing, but neither of them could say a word. “Are the Attaway’s all right?”

“Well, they won’t be throwing another party any time soon, if that’s what you mean, but they’ll recover. Mostly what was taken, from what I hear, were bundles of money, some jewels, and a few other useless things. Nothing that can’t be replaced.”

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good. I’ll be sure to call Mrs. Attaway and see if she needs anything.”

Mrs. Pearson beamed, showing a smudge of bright, red lipstick on her two front teeth. “You’re a darling girl, Ava love. But this is exactly the type of thing that happened last month at the Livingston’s gala, and the Goldberg’s the month before that…” she trailed off, some type of realization beginning to dawn across her doughy face. “It’s a bit of a routine, isn’t it? Do you suppose the police know about this?”

“I’m sure they do,” John Paul assured her. “They are the police after all. It’s their job.”

Mrs. Pearson nodded slowly, her expression determined. “I’d better let them know, just in case.”

She was already digging into her purse when she turned away.

Ava shot John Paul a panicked glance, urging him silently to do something without alerting her mother.

“Mrs. Pearson?” He lightly took her arm. “Would you like to dance?”

The other woman blinked. “Oh, but I should—”

“It can wait.” He gave her most charming smile. “It’s a party after all and I would very much love a dance with you.”

“Oh!” Cheeks pinkening, Mrs. Pearson glanced hurriedly at Charlotte. “Would you mind?”

Her mother, having already spotted a group of her frenemies, had to work extra hard to focus on the question. “Hm? Oh, no, not at all.” She smiled widely. “I’ve just seen someone I must catch up with. I’ll see you in a bit, love,” she told John Paul.

Then she was gone. John Paul was hauled off to the next room where the band had been instructed to play all of Ava’s favorite melodies, all of which had been converted from hard rock to classical. She hadn’t thought it was possible and yet … but the important thing was that Mrs. Pearson had been properly diverted off mentions of The Devil. While the police had probably figured out something so simple, Ava wasn’t about to give them further assistance on the matter than necessary.

“These bits of cheese taste like rubber.” Robby appeared at her elbow, cheeks stuffed. “But they’re like mini squares of crack.” He popped two more bits of canapé into his already bloated mouth from the small heap on the plate he held.

“Are you really going to eat all that?”

Robby blinked. He garbled something that had wet bits of cracker spraying out.

“Ew!” Ava laughed. “Chew your food.”

He glowered at her, but said nothing else.

It was around that time she realized Patrick hadn’t returned. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t cause concern, but given his behavior earlier, she figured she ought to at least attempt to find him.

“Can you help me find Patrick?”

Mouth mostly empty, Robby looked up from the snack he was inspecting and raised an eyebrow. “Have you lost him already?”

“I haven’t lost him,” she argued. “I’m just worried he’s…”

“What? Hidden himself in a closet?”

Ava frowned at him. “Will you just help me find him, please?”

“Fine, but if he is in a closet, I am totally posting that on
Facebook
.”

Rolling her eyes, Ava turned and headed in the direction Patrick had taken, pausing every few steps to thank someone for coming or accept a birthday greeting. A few stopped to ask if she’d heard the news about the Attaway’s, or about the string of other burglaries that had been taking place almost frequently since …
the incident.

“I’m telling you,” Abigail Sinclair hissed at her husband. “It’s all been going rampant since what happened.”

As short as his wife was tall, Howard Sinclair pursed his fat lips in defiance. “That’s ridiculous. Crime has always been a thing of concern, even before
his
death.”

It was apparently an argument they’d had before, but now they realized they had a new, third party to assault with their bickering.

“What do you think, Ava?” Abigail demanded, peering at Ava with that long, narrow face of hers.

“I think…” She cleared her throat. “I really don’t have much of an opinion on the matter, honestly.”

“Of course you don’t,” Howard broke in. “It’s nasty business that was. The man was a criminal. He got what was coming to him.”

“An alleged criminal,” Abigail squawked. “He was a hero.”

“The man massacred twenty people.”

“Christ, Howard, it’s bad luck to talk about death at a birthday party!” Abigail cried, gray eyes enormous in her horror.

“You brought it up, Abigail!” Howard shot back. “The man’s been dead two bloody months. I don’t think it even counts as a real death anymore.”

“Of course it counts,” Abigail argued. “The man is dead. It’s a horrible tragedy.”

“He was rather an important person,” Ava piped in. “People respected him.”

“Yeah, for a criminal.” Howard snorted. “Ever met him?”

It had been years ago and only for a few seconds as he was leaving John Paul’s office, but Killian McClary had been the type of man women remembered vividly. Both gorgeous and terrifying, he’d done no more than incline his head in polite acknowledgement, but it had simultaneously made Ava want to giggle and run for cover. The conflicting emotions had been severely daunting for a seventeen-year-old.

“Once,” she admitted. “He seemed nice.”

Howard huffed as though she’d just insulted everything he stood for. “Nice,” he grumbled. “He was a murderer was what he was.”

Ava swallowed back her laugh. “He was never convicted of any crimes. Besides, I don’t know if I disagree with the things he allegedly did.”

Abigail beamed. She shot her husband a haughty smirk that was met with his face growing splotchy with color.

“You mean brutally slaughtering twenty people?”

“Allegedly!” Ava stressed. “He was never even questioned.”

Howard snorted into the rim of brandy glass. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. I mean, we all know he did.”

Ava opted to let it drop. Conversations like that always led to her asking,
so what if he did?
So what if a bunch of even worse criminals are dead. I think he was a hero.
Not everyone agreed with her philosophy. They didn’t understand that sometimes evil was required to fight evil, because, in her society, the people in it enjoyed their blissful ignorance. They relished in the knowledge that the really bad things only happened to people just on the other side of Harrison River. People like her, good people with fat portfolios and
Jimmy Choo
shoes would never associate with the riffraff that called the underbelly home. All any of them knew was that there were unpleasant ripples in the water and they were all children, playing much too close to a sink hole. No one knew what to do, nor were they clever enough to pull away.