“Good afternoon,” Renata said, her voice carrying to Sara.
“Afternoon, Renata,” her son replied. Then a weary note entered his voice. “What’s that you’re holding? I thought you promised to stop buying the tabloids. It only puts money in those assholes’ pockets.”
“Joaquin—”
“And I don’t care if Felipe was spotted on Mt. Everest with both Elvis and Sir Edmund Hillary. He’s gone, Mom.” Beneath the matter-of-fact tone was a thread of anguish. “As much as I hate to say it, he’s gone.”
“I know,” Renata replied, a break in her voice. “Though I sometimes can make myself pretend for an hour or two that he isn’t. But…but I didn’t find a story about Felipe today.”
There was a papery rattle.
“Look at this,” Renata continued. “Right here is one about that young singer who Essie loves so much, Imogen.”
Had the paps found a useable shot after all? Sara wondered, feeling sympathy for the other woman.
“Yes,” Joaquin said. “So?”
“On this side is an article about someone else.” Renata paused. “The headline reads ‘Missing Husband-Stealing Girl Butler Found in Malibu.’ Look at all those exclamation marks.”
Sara went cold, hot, cold. Her fingers gripped the counter so her legs wouldn’t fold and take her down to the floor. A high whine sounded in her ears.
Yet still she heard the older woman’s question. “Isn’t this a photo of Sara?”
She didn’t stay to hear his answer. Instead she steeled her muscles and swiftly made her way out of the laundry room on silent feet. In her bedroom she shoved some clothes into a bag and then used her phone to send a text.
Since it was her free day, no one at Nueva Vida would look for her until morning.
Maybe tonight Joaquin would—but no. Not now that he knew everything about her. At least the tabloid’s version of “everything,” anyway. And even if he doubted the veracity of their half-lies it wouldn’t change the truth that she was the butler he didn’t need nor want.
Chapter 13
Joaquin stared at the iced tea he’d spilled on the countertop. Nothing had gone right since receiving that cryptic text from the butler last night. The one that said she needed a couple of days off.
This morning, the coffeemaker stopped working. Then he’d knocked a cereal bowl off a shelf and managed to step his bare sole on a ceramic shard as he swept up the mess. After lunch, a rogue gust of wind had snatched up one of placemats off the deck’s dining table. He’d nearly broken his ankle leaping to the sand to rescue it.
Sara had made his home so beautiful he wanted it to be just as she’d left it when she returned.
His home.
When had he begun to think of Nueva Vida like that?
And
when
was Sara returning?
Why had she needed time, away? Embarrassment over that little slip-of-the-tongue after sex? He’d admit that upon waking up the next morning the memory had spooked him a little. But he’d dismissed it readily enough.
Neither of them was into the love thing. What she’d meant to communicate was that she loved what happened when their bodies came together.
But her continued absence and cell phone silence—she wasn’t responding to texts either—annoyed him. As well as seeing her pretty face splashed on the pages of those lurid tabloids. He needed to get to the bottom of that, too.
Ethan Archer appeared on his deck, and Joaquin hurried through the back doors to join him. Maybe a late afternoon run with the other man would put his world back to rights.
It remained awry, however. Ethan professed not to know anything about the missing butler except to affirm she wasn’t hanging with Charlie at his place.
“How’d you manage to lose Sara?” the other man asked, his frown signaling disapproval.
“I didn’t
lose
her,” he growled, pissed at the implication and the tiny spurt of panic at the idea. He’d had enough fucking loss in his life. “She’s taking some time off. But she could be a big help with Essie.”
“Problem with your sister?”
“She’s a teenager.” While the girl had seemed cheerful in the morning, her mood deteriorated as the day went on. There’d been mutterings about wanting to attend another beach party, too, which her parents had forbidden. “Don’t wish that state on your boy Wells any sooner than it comes, I tell you.”
As they wound their way around a half-built castle on the sand, Ethan chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.”
Joaquin dodged a kid racing to the water with his skim board held like a shield. “I don’t know why people procreate.”
“You can’t see yourself as a dad?”
“Mine sucked.”
“Genes have nothing to do with it, though.” Ethan swiped at the sweat on his brow. “My wife couldn’t have kids, so we adopted Wells. Our feelings for him have nothing to do with whether our blood runs through his veins. You could be a good family man yourself, even though your father failed in that regard.”
“Yeah, I get that intellectually—I actually was adopted myself as a teen by a good guy. It’s just that I’ve never seen myself…”
His voice trailed off as his gaze caught on a woman up ahead. About the size and shape of Sara. Blonde hair. There was a toddler on one hip, and she gripped the hand of another. And the image—
His world definitely wasn’t right if he was morphing the butler into a mama and warming to the thought.
“Let’s talk about craft beers,” he told the other man as they passed the small family group. “Baseball. Or…”
On its own, his head turned and he once more checked out the blonde. A smiling man had joined their happy unit.
“Kids are fun. They signify hope.” Ethan glanced over. “And they’re a reason to get up in the morning.”
Which reminded Joaquin the other man was a widower. He’d lost his wife.
Loss.
Where the hell was the missing butler, and why had she left him?
At the end of the run his world was still fucked up. First he showered. Next he poked around the freezer and located a casserole he could heat up for dinner once Essie made an appearance. Then he wandered about the silent house.
It occurred to him that this was exactly what he’d expected to find when he left Portland for Malibu. Quiet and his own company. But now it didn’t feel restful as he’d expected.
Because the house was too big, he decided. That’s why he’d told Martin he planned to sell Nueva Vida. The house and grounds were meant to be shared—by that traditional family unit he’d run past on the beach, for example—and not occupied by an entrenched, antisocial bachelor.
Crossing to the cookie jar on the kitchen counter, he fumbled for a handful of treats and walked onto the deck to stare out over the ocean, the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. Fine. He could admit he’d miss the food and he’d miss the spectacular view and he’d miss Sara’s touches that made this place feel like home. But again—too big. Too much for one unattached man because all the extra room required help tending the place—hello, butler—and encouraged others—ah-hem, Essie—to elbow in, and the next thing you knew, you’d be relying on them and caring for them and worrying about fucking up with the caring of them and—
Where the hell was Sara? Why was his damn sister still shut up in her room?
Frustrated, Joaquin decided he could take action on at least one front. Inside the house again, he climbed the stairs and made his way down the hall. At Essie’s door, he knocked. “Hey, come on out.”
No answer. No sound of movement. Nothing.
The hair on the back of his neck rose.
“
Essie
?” He tried the knob. It turned. Then he was in her room, staring at the unmade bed, the scattered items of clothing, the two crumb-strewn plates—and even more missed the butler.
Then he spied the note on her pillow.
Addressed to him.
Sara puttered about Imogen’s kitchen. While packing a few things the day before at Nueva Vida, she’d texted the younger woman. Following their paparazzi encounter, they’d exchanged numbers, and the pop singer had promised to return a favor any time Sara requested one.
So she’d scurried behind Imogen’s gates for temporary sanctuary. Though the woman had started making noises about hiring a butler, Sara wouldn’t dream of taking the job. Imogen had plenty of people surrounding her, from a three-days-a-week housekeeper to an on-call masseuse who had carried in a portable table just an hour before.
Imogen had suggested Sara get a massage as well, but not even experienced hands could knead the tension from her muscles today. And anyway, she needed to figure out her exit plan.
Not from Imogen’s—from Joaquin.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, signaling a call, not a text. She withdrew the device, her stomach clenching at the sight of his name on the screen. Inhaling a breath, she reminded herself of her status as his employee, her butler training, her dignity as a woman. Each insisted she couldn’t duck the man forever.
She brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“You picked up.” His voice sounded strange. “Where have you been?”
“I’m at a friend’s.”
“Are you all right? I wondered…”
She could picture him forking his hand through his dark hair, disordering it so that she only wanted to smooth it with a run of her own fingers.
Why do I have to love him?
she wondered.
How did he get past my guard?
“Sara?”
“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “The thing is—”
“I need you.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. “Of course you don’t. As a matter of fact, I overheard you tell Martin in words plain as day that you don’t need a butler.”
His silence didn’t deny it.
“And I know that you’re selling Nueva Vida and I know…I know…”
“What?”
“I know that you know about what happened in London,” she said in a rush. “At least the trash the tabloids wrote about it.”
“Yeah, and sooner than later you’re going to explain to me why you chose to keep that life event secret.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“You don’t know what I think. You didn’t bother giving me a chance to have an opinion about it. Though I will tell you that the notion of some randy old goat becoming obsessed with you I understand more than I care to admit.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m pissed. But I don’t have time to get into that now. Essie’s taken off.”
“What?” Sara’s free hand clutched her throat.
“And I need help finding her.”
“Of course I’ll help you find Essie.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the masseuse on her way out, being trailed by Imogen who sent Sara a curious glance.
“Just like that?” Joaquin asked.
“Of course just like that.”
“Because you’re at my service,” he said, sounding bitter.
“Because I care about your sister.” And before she could stop them, other words flowed from her heart. “Because…because I care about you.”
He hesitated. “Sara…”
She didn’t recognize that new, soft note in his voice. “Where shall I start?”
Twenty-five minutes later, when she and Imogen—the younger woman had insisted on coming along—reached the huge public beach south of Malibu, it became clear why Joaquin required assistance. The entire stretch of space looked like one huge party, with music pounding from speakers, scantily clad young people everywhere, and dozens and dozens of colorful tents and shade canopies set up on the sand.
How to locate one slender sixteen-year-old in the teeming throng?
Joaquin rushed toward Sara’s car as he saw it neatly pull into a parking space in the lot where he’d said he’d wait. She jumped from the driver’s seat and someone else emerged from the passenger side.
“This is Imogen,” Sara said, indicating a woman in a deep visor and dark shades. “She wants to help.”
“Great.” He didn’t have time for further niceties as he hurried to return to the beach.
Sara placed a calming hand on his arm. “Tell me again what the note said.”
He hardly slowed his footsteps. “That Zachary had broken up with her, and she needed to talk to him. Oh, and not to worry—”
“But you’re worried.”
Out of his mind with worry. “She’s not been herself.”
“You’re sure they’re both here?”
“I called Lulu.”
Sara winced. “We’re operating on Lulu’s information?”
“It’s what I have.” He paused before crossing from sidewalk to sand. He’d already explored the area on his own, and the rowdiness of the scene had not reassured him. Yes, he’d seen lifeguards on watch and other law enforcement patrolling, but in this boisterous crowd there was no way to detect watermelons infused with vodka or wine in plastic sports bottles. The harder stuff could be ingested or snorted or swallowed in the shelter of those tents and beneath the nylon canopies.
Essie didn’t drink or do drugs, he tried telling himself.
He had no idea if she drank or did drugs. Shoving his hands through his hair, he locked down his emotions. “You two go south, I’ll do north. Call or text if you find her.”
Sara started to say something, but he didn’t stop to listen. Essie had to be found, stat.
The sun was on its early evening slide toward the ocean and cast an orange-ish light on the sand—an ominous color that twisted Joaquin’s gut. He wound through the revelers, skirting volleyball courts and teens half-buried in the sand, his gaze constantly moving through the encampments arranged in tight clusters. Different music barraged him from each one, and a deep bass beat vibrated painfully in his chest.
His vision darkened.
The daylight hadn’t left so quickly, he knew that, and also knew it was his old regrets crawling out of their grave to close around him. They pushed at him, shoved, their ghostly, bony fingers trying to drag him back to another time, another search among people shrieking, laughing, dancing with abandon. Dread had creeped over his skin then, too, and his body broke out in a cold sweat now, just as it had that night almost fifteen years before.
Boom boom boom.
That pounding bass note continued bombarding him, and he came to a standstill, looking about him wildly, confused by the noise, the crowd, the past and present conflating in his head.