Love In Plain Sight

by Jeanie London

  But by the time he’d set down the cup and gotten halfway to the door, he heard Courtney say, “Even so, Marc, I have to look. Please tell me where to start.”

  The plea in her voice stopped him. “You start by figuring out when your real girl was last seen. Until you figure that out, you can’t unravel where she might have gone.”

  “Okay.” Her clear gaze clung to him, so eager, but the frown forming on her smooth brow convinced him that she didn’t have any idea how to proceed.

  He wasn’t surprised. “I can tell you where to look, but I can’t magically give you the instinct to know what to look for. I can’t help you. You’ll have to take my word.”

  This time, he was out the door before she could stop him with another question.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IF MARC HAD not been starving, he would have stayed in his room until the house had emptied after dinner. Too many drugs, too many stairs and the effort of taking a shower had kicked his ass all over again.

  He wasn’t in the mood for people and wanted to sleep off the drug hangover. Unfortunately, between the smells of his mother’s cooking and the noise level that told him how good the food was, he had no choice. He made a mental note to keep protein bars in his room for the duration of this visit so he could avoid family gatherings altogether.

  Against his better judgment, he made his way downstairs again. The thumping of his cane must have announced his arrival because Damon said, “Guess who’s gracing us with his presence.”

  Caffeine and a shower hadn’t taken the edge off. If Marc had been thinking clearly, he would have used his phone and a twenty to bribe his niece Violet into bringing a plate upstairs.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Damon asked.

  There were a few laughs from around the table, but Marc ignored his brother, which was easy to do since the kitchen looked like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. He noticed Courtney immediately, seated beside his mother, quiet in the midst of all the noise, so beautiful. Sad, too, he decided. That was probably his fault. He should probably feel bad.

  He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself when he still had to get to the counter, and make it to the table with a plate and silverware while maneuvering through the obstacle course of people crowding the food. Then he’d have to get to his seat.

  The table was full. His mother was all about first come, first served, and hers was the only reserved seat—the corner closest to the stove. This was her throne to hear her tell it, so she could easily replenish serving bowls. While Marc had been growing up, that seat had been at his father’s right.

  “My best girl and right-hand man,” Marc could remember his father saying. “My better half.”

  Today, she was Marc’s savior. After taking one look at him, she started directing traffic.

  “Scoot the twins toward Anthony,” she said. “Marc, sit next to Violet. She’ll make room.”

  “Come here, Uncle Marc.” Violet patted the space on the bench beside her, a strategic corner placement so Marc would be able to stretch his leg out of everyone’s way.

  By the time he dropped heavily onto the bench, food started making its way toward him. Marc turned his attention to filling his plate as the conversation resumed about the wedding. Nic was finally going to marry his high school sweetheart and the mother of his teenage daughter, Violet. This wedding was a long time in coming, and the family was thrilled.

  Marc didn’t want any reminders of the upcoming nuptials, though. When he had agreed to be Nic’s best man, he had assumed accompanying his big brother to the altar wouldn’t be a problem. Now the thought of being on display to a church filled with guests annoyed him. He’d already tried to beg off, citing an inability to accomplish his best man duties, but Nic had flatly refused to accept his resignation.

  Marc made quick work of dinner, glad when the conversation turned from the wedding to the Saints’ performance during preseason. Everyone had an opinion, and he listened, distracting himself from his awareness of Courtney, who ate next to nothing although she made a good show of pushing food around her plate.

  He was probably responsible for her lack of appetite, too. His troublemaking mother must have thought so, because when the talk about the Saints lagged, she solicited opinions about whether or not he should help Courtney with her problem.

  Marc should have seen it coming. He would have bet money Courtney hadn’t. Her expression froze along with the fork she held over the plate.

  “Wait a second.” Anthony swallowed hard around a bite. “Am I hearing this right? Are you telling me Boba Fett DiLeo can’t track down a missing kid? Who is this kid—the Golden Child?”

  Courtney blinked a few times, still surprised her shitty situation had become the entrée of table conversation.

  Violet pulled a face. “I know Boba Fett, but who’s the Golden Child?”

  “Vintage Eddie Murphy, niece girl,” Damon said. “Before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.”

  Nic scowled. Some things never changed, and he did not like reminders that he hadn’t been privy to the existence of his daughter until two years ago.

  “I didn’t say can’t track down,” his mother explained matter-of-factly. “I said won’t.”

  Marc should have known nothing with this family could ever be simple. Setting down his water glass, he settled back to watch the show. He would not prepare a defense. He refused to play this game.

  “I don’t understand.” Anthony feigned confusion. “Why won’t you help out Courtney?”

  Every gaze at the table was suddenly on Marc. As brother in the middle, Anthony was slick. He had learned long ago to maneuver between family factions. The top shelf contained the power brokers—his mother, Nic, Marc himself. More often than not, Anthony preferred to swing with them, but there were times he played devil’s advocate or peacemaker. He wielded humor and stupidity with equal skill, and usually managed to emerge from family disputes unscathed. Marc did not have the patience for his brother today. Any of them.

  “I have helped. The lady asked for an opinion. I gave one.”

  The lady still looked like a deer caught in headlights, but she recovered quickly, suddenly becoming very interested in the food she’d been pushing around on her plate.

  “Courtney, you better hope your missing kid didn’t run away like this one—across continents.” Damon patted the top of Violet’s head, and she beamed at the mention of the antics that had led her to find the father she’d grown up without knowing.

  Now she was the oldest grandchild and resident superstar, her status as shiny and new to the family made her special, and she was old enough not only to revel in her position but milk it for all it was worth.

  “I’d have given Uncle Marc a run for his money,” she said saucily. “Can you say South America to Louisiana? There are lots of countries in between.”

  Nic directed his scowl her way this time. “That’s because you don’t respect normal boundaries.”

  “I don’t do continents,” Marc said.

  “Really?” Violet wanted to know. “Why not?”

  “I can’t legally bring anyone over the border,” Marc explained. “That’s half the fun of my work—luring criminals into the country, so I can catch him. Or her. There are lots of hers. None as pretty as you.”

  That earned him a high-beam smile, and for a moment, Marc thought he might have redirected the conversation. No such luck.

  “Then what’s up with this missing kid?” Anthony persisted. “Not in any real danger, I hope?”

  All gazes swung Courtney’s way. She was caught and had no choice but to be sucked into this nonsense.

  “It doesn’t look good,” she said simply. Then she made the mistake of pausing to draw breath.

  His mother stepped into that breach and interjected her two cents a
bout Marc’s refusal to help. By the time she was done, everyone was making noise about how he shouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t help track down a missing kid.

  The only thing Marc could say for Courtney was that she clearly wasn’t in collusion with his family. And the frown on her pretty face suggested she didn’t much like being used as a reason to bully him. But she didn’t not like it enough to open her mouth and tell everyone to shut up. He found that disconnect between self-interest and outrage, a struggle so evident on her face, interesting for the woman who had involved his mother in the first place. Then again, Courtney had arrived early to speak with him privately. She hadn’t intended for him to be put on the spot. He gave her credit for that.

  Which begged the question about why she was so solicitous. Did she feel sorry for him?

  Marc shouldn’t care one way or the other. But there was something about the way she sat there, scowling at his mother, slanting horrified glances at him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. Each time someone opened his mouth, she sank lower into her chair. She felt bad. That much Marc knew. And he didn’t want to be the object of anyone’s pity, not even for the time it took to finish dinner. So he did exactly what he had refused to do—defend himself.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m with you. I don’t want to think about anything bad happening to this kid.”

  “Then why won’t you help Aunt Courtney?” Violet asked.

  “Because the situation isn’t so simple or else your father would be helping Aunt Courtney.” What was wrong with his family? A few dinner invitations made someone an honorary member?

  Damon snorted with laughter. “I thought you were the dude who never met a skip you couldn’t track.”

  “I track people who want to vanish. That’s a big difference from a little kid who all of a sudden went missing one day.”

  “What if she didn’t just go missing? What if someone took her?” Anthony went the confused route this time. “Sounds like she disappeared a long time ago. How old was she, Courtney?”

  “I can’t discuss details,” she said in an obvious attempt to redirect. “All I can say is the last accurate documentation we have on her was before the hurricane evacuations.”

  Just mention of the hurricane brought a collective gasp and a reverent silence that lasted all of thirty seconds until Damon opened that mouth of his again.

  “Can you imagine a kid in that mess?” he asked. “You know what this place was like during the hurricane.”

  “No, I don’t,” Marc said. “I was based in Southern California, luring a corporate CEO from Beijing.” Trying to work in between watching news of the hurricane and attempting to contact anyone who could tell him whether or not his family had evacuated or if they’d been blown away by the storm, too.

  “The place was a war zone,” Nic said. “Take my word.”

  Obviously everyone did because there were a few murmurs of assent and some nodding heads.

  “God, the thought of a kid unprotected in that...” Anthony’s words trailed off. Obviously becoming a parent had added newfound understanding.

  “New Orleans, cher.” Damon glanced knowingly at Courtney. “Crime capital ten years straight. Kid could have met up with gangs, perverts. Hell, kid could have been trafficked.”

  Courtney visibly paled until her black eyelashes stood out against skin that seemed cast in ivory.

  “Sounds like someone’s police department isn’t doing their job.” Marc deflected the attention. Let someone else get rolled under the bus for a change. He didn’t even live here anymore.

  “My police department is doing just fine,” Nic shot back. “No thanks to people who refuse to help. Like someone who shall remain nameless.”

  “I’m not sure why you all are so determined to involve me in Courtney’s business. I gave my opinion. If this kid was trafficked, she’ll probably be dead by now.” He was the voice of reason. “Kids don’t last long under those conditions. Not when they’re turned into junkie whores.”

  Anthony’s wife, Tess, dropped her silverware onto the plate with a clatter. “Gentlemen, do you mind? This is not what I call dinner conversation.” With one fluid move, she was on her feet scooping up a plate and helping her daughter from the bench. “Violet, would you give me a hand with Rocco?”

  Violet popped up and grabbed plate, drink and kid before Marc’s sister-in-law had cleared the room.

  Damon watched them go with a frown. “You can’t even help Courtney take a look, Marc? What else do you do all day?”

  Once, Sensei Damon would have wound up on his ass for that question. That’s why he held tenth dan grades in five disciplines. An inability to control what came out of his mouth chronically had him in trouble with one or more of his brothers. He’d be dead if not for learning how to defend himself.

  Now all Marc could do was motion to the leg stretched out and make excuses. “See this leg, champ? Taking about everything I have in me to get it up and running again.”

  “We’re not talking ten-hour workdays here,” Anthony pointed out.

  “How do you know how much work it takes to track anyone? They teach that in automotive repair school?”

  That blow hit. He could see it all over Anthony’s face, and Marc was sorry about that. He liked Anthony. He really did. Out of all his brothers, Anthony was the one good-natured enough not to get on Marc’s nerves most of the time. But if Anthony, and everyone else for that matter, was determined to back him into a corner, they had better prepare for him to come out swinging.

  “Can you say physical therapy?” Marc forced calm. “And when I’m not torturing my leg into submission or hobbling around with this cane, I’m supposed to be healing. Don’t any of you listen to Vince?” Time to roll the family doctor under the bus. Helping should be his choice, and he resented otherwise.

  But resentment didn’t cloud his vision, and he clearly saw his mother elbow Courtney under the table. The move was merely a nudge, intentionally meant to go unnoticed. But Marc noticed everything. Attention to detail was his gift, exactly what made him such a good hunter.

  He watched the play of emotions across Courtney’s face, waited to see how she would respond. She met his gaze across the distance, tried to look calm and collected when her discomfort was leaking around the edges in a big way. “Is it possible to explain how I should proceed, Marc? Point me in the right direction, so I know what I’m looking for.”

  Is it possible?

  Looked like Anthony wasn’t the only diplomat at the table. Courtney gave Marc an out even though she walked a tightrope among loyalty to his mother, desperation to track down her missing kid and looking herself in the mirror. She handled the pressure fairly well, considering she had already asked him this question.

  When he replied, he addressed the whole table. “Frankly, I’m disturbed by the way all of you are trying to muscle Courtney and me into doing what you want. I shouldn’t have to defend my decision. I’m the one who would be doing the work, and since not a one of you knows what tracking someone involves, I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what I should be doing. And you definitely shouldn’t be manipulating Courtney.”

  His mother scowled, but Marc’s rant had the desired effect—for all of ten seconds the entire kitchen went silent. Then, in that moment of breathless pause, the security alarmed beeped when the front door opened.

  “Uncle Vince,” Violet squealed from the living room.

  There was a muffled reply and laughter before footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  Everyone was still staring at Marc when Vince appeared in the doorway, looking like a younger male version of everyone else around the table, only dressed as if he’d come straight from making rounds at the hospital in his jacket and tie.

  “Hey, everyone.” He waved, oblivious to the scene he’d stepped into.
“Hope you saved some food for me. I’m starving.”

  His mother was already on her feet, closing the distance and giving her youngest son a hug. “You’ll never starve in your mama’s kitchen, cutie.”

  Vince smiled dutifully when she pinched his cheek.

  “Come on, let’s get you a plate.” She was already on her way to the counter. “Courtney, will you please make some room on the table? That’s right. Scoot the salad bowl back. Vince will fit next to you now that Marc has run off Tess.”

  “Will do.” Courtney looked grateful to get out from beneath the spotlight.

  His mother piled a plate with everything from the counter, then headed back to the table. “Come on and eat, Vince. You’ll need energy to talk some sense into your brother.”

  Vince shrugged off his jacket and wedged in between Courtney and Anthony. “Which brother?”

  “Marc.” There was a “Who else?” in there.

  Marc could see where this was headed. He steadied himself on the table while maneuvering his leg.

  His mother kicked off the debate as Marc tried to make his getaway. “Courtney needs help locating a missing child,” she said. “But Marc won’t help her because he says he should be healing, not working. As his doctor, what do you say?”

  Vince technically wasn’t Marc’s doctor. Not that he hadn’t been dispensing medical advice since the accident. He had overseen every course of action, handled the medical decisions when Marc hadn’t been coherent enough to understand his choices and make decisions. Now Vince spooned grated cheese over his pasta and played Monkey in the Middle.

  He could go either way on this. He was even-tempered and comfortable in his role as family baby. He wasn’t a pain in the ass like Damon or a bully like Nic or a backstabber like Anthony. He was a mama’s boy by default, and that would count. But it also counted that Marc had spent the past decade helping to finance that expensive medical education, keeping a roof above Vince’s head, a car under his ass and making the loan payments that couldn’t be deferred.