No More Masquerade

by Angel Payne

“I have to ask a couple of huge favors.”

  “Favors are what people request from strangers, Killian.” Holy shit. The man actually growled at me. “You have but to ask me. You know it will be done.”

  “Even denying you ever had this conversation with me? To anyone?” My push on the last word implied exactly who I meant by it. As far as Claire Montgomery was concerned, I was still a ghost.

  “Done,” he replied without hesitation. “And the rest?”

  I deliberately paused. There would be no turning back after this. But if I was going to try a version of this shit called life again, especially if I insisted on doing it here for a while, I was going to need help—and had to shove aside my fucking pride to ask for it.

  “How’d you like to live in San Diego for a little while?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Claire

  Four months.

  Sixteen weeks.

  An entire season of Mother Earth’s biological clock.

  That was how long he had been missing from my days. And nights.

  I didn’t say his name out loud any more. It hurt too much to hear it, let alone form the sounds on my tongue. I trudged through life in a fog that made San Francisco winter mornings look like clear San Diego summer nights. Fate was kicking me in the ass, taking its excruciating revenge for all those years I’d breezed along as a teen, arrogant about avoiding the soul-crushing heartbreaks all my girlfriends were sobbing their way through. And the disaster with Nick? Hell. Even “disaster” felt like a glorification. It certainly hadn’t been a relationship. Maybe a convenience that had turned into a mistake.

  Killian hadn’t been a mistake.

  He was the love of my life. The one who helped the rest of life make sense. The one who made it all better with the power of his smile alone, who’d seen all of my idiosyncrasies and found me more perfect because of them. The one who sent texts that made my toe curl and doodles that made my heart sing.

  He was the one, period.

  Which meant the chasm in my soul wasn’t closing up anytime soon. Just flipping fantastic.

  Through every agonizing second of every bleak day, the emptiness dragged on. The minutes and hours as vacant as the room I’d stumbled into at the hospital that night, with Nurse Karin Nelson’s apologies ringing in my ears. I’d grabbed the pillow that still carried his warmth and clutched it despite the nostril-numbing street stink, willing him to reappear—but he was gone.

  Again.

  “Claire. Did you hear me?”

  Poor Michael. He was trying so hard to be a great friend. He and Chad had been taking turns babysitting me on the weekends. They even let Margaux pitch in here and there, which had been shockingly fun times. We’d discovered a mutual love for pairing strong Italian wine with stinky French cheese then watching bad romantic comedies with the sound turned down so we could make up our own dialogue.

  But tonight, it was Michael’s turn to rein in my wandering brain. And I wasn’t making it easy.

  “No.” I went for the truth rather than try to fake my way through a fib. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Never mind.” He sighed and pushed through the crowd, leading me along. He’d dragged me to a summer art festival along Mission Bay. Local artists were invited to display their talent, and proceeds from the sales were being donated to charity. As soon as we hit a little spot of open space, he gently hooked my elbow. “Come on, sweetie. At least try to have a good time.”

  I sipped my complimentary flute of half-flat champagne. “Because it’s for my own good, right? Time to get back on the horse?”

  “‘Getting back on the horse’ is Chad’s thing. Mine is learning to ride the bike again.”

  “Horse, bike, back in the saddle, back in the game—” I waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Save me the speech, okay?” I nodded farther up the boardwalk, to where the top of the Asher and Associates tent was visible. The firm was sponsoring petit fours for dessert. Michael and I were due to start our shift in a little over a half hour. “Besides, this a pure mission of mercy.”

  Michael held up both hands. “Okay, you have me there.”

  After good-naturedly socking him in the shoulder, I wandered off to visit an artisan displaying her custom-created jewelry. Fantastic hammered sterling silver dangling charms caught the orangey beams of the setting sun. I fingered the sparkling trinkets and instantly remembered the Harry Winston box sitting on the couch in our suite that night in Paris…

  What would have happened if I’d simply accepted his proposal? Would it have been the difference in making him stay? Would we be planning our wedding right now? Maybe we’d even have decided to do it quick and dirty in Vegas and would be dealing with Trey’s shit as a married couple, instead of living this nightmare.

  I shook my head, shoving aside the ache—or at least trying to. Not that I helped myself at all, when the next moment, my gaze fell on a stunning man’s leather bracelet…with a K embossed in the middle.

  My fingers wobbled in front of my suddenly blurred vision.

  When Michael’s warm, solid hand lowered to my shoulder, I let the bracelet slip through my fingers, back to its velvet display pad—before I turned into Michael’s chest and completely fell apart. He yanked me closer, fierce with the comfort of his embrace.

  Busted.

  Again.

  When was this going to stop? It seemed like never. I would spend the rest of my life regretting every single mistake I’d made with Killian, and never having the chance to atone for them. My moods still couldn’t decide who to dance with anymore, circling from sad to miserable to furious then back again. But I kept begging for the dance to stop. For the music to cease. For the silence to reign. I never wanted to take another step.

  Michael patted my back. “Claire—”

  I cut him off with a tearful girl growl. “Do not tell me this will get better, dammit.”

  “But it will. I swear. And I also swear I’m going to punch that motherfucker in the face when we find him. He has it coming, so don’t deny me.”

  I punched him even as I soaked his shirt even more. I kept thinking it impossible to have tears left at this point, yet they still came at the shittiest moments—like this. Disgustingly-timed reminders of the wretched mess I had become.

  I finally pulled back and looked up into Michael’s face. Way up. The sunset’s glow strawberried the edges of his hair, tugged high by the breeze off the water. Given a doublet and a scabbard, he’d look like a noble prince from another time—and I was so grateful for his chivalry. Only he, Chad and Margaux had gotten me through these past few months. They were the only ones who knew my whole, disgusting truth. To the rest of the world, even Dad—maybe especially Dad, still mired in his own hell with trying to keep his marriage to the alien bitch intact—I was being strong, smiling through the survival, “faking it ‘till making it.” If it weren’t for the three of them, I’d have likely “faked” myself into adopting all the neighborhood strays and chatting them up all day in my old robe and ladybug slippers.

  “So…I don’t get it,” I finally said to him.

  His eyebrows lowered. “Don’t get what?”

  “Why the hell aren’t you sweeping some lucky woman off her feet? You shouldn’t be here holding my hair while I emotionally puke every day.” I shook my head as a harsh truth dawned on me. I’d become so damn selfish. Held my friends in this tight orbit while I pined for Kil in self-pity, refusing to move on with my life.

  Maybe it was time to suck it up and slam back into the big-girl panties. Move upward, onward. A gulp thudded down my throat with the repercussions of the thought. It wasn’t the easiest choice—but the right ones sometimes weren’t.

  I pushed back from Michael and straightened my shoulders. “Let’s get our asses to the booth and get this ordeal over with, shall we?” As we started walking again, I found some tissues in my bag and used them to mop up my face as best as possible. It seemed red-rimmed eyes and a swollen nose were my new “black
.” They went with everything I wore these days.

  We strolled at a leisurely pace, the heavy crowd making quick progress impossible. It was great to see the event doing so well. Though I was aware San Diego fostered an artistic vibe, I still had no idea so many of them lived here.

  Michael stopped cold in the middle of the walkway. As in, practically froze. I stared hard, wondering what the hell had seized him up like that. And imprinted a look of such deep shock on his face.

  “Michael. What the—”

  “Damn.” The force in his tone assured me everything was working okay with him physically. But mentally, he’d been yanked into some strange tractor beam by a sight across the grass.

  “What is it?” I tried following his gaze but my line of vision was a good eight inches shorter than his. Michael said nothing. The next second, I found myself yanked by him through the throng, headed toward the area of grass he’d just been gaping at. “Michael, what the hell are you—”

  My breath caught as we stumbled out of the crowd, in front of an artist’s expansive display. In the center of the portraits, in soft shades of lavender and gray, was a watercolor portrait of a woman. Her head was slightly turned down, a smile hinting on her lips, the light captivating on her features. She was stunning.

  And she looked exactly like me.

  Exactly.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Michael blew out a vindicated huff. “So I’m not dreaming this.”

  “Not unless I am, too.”

  The proprietor of the booth strolled forward. He wore a beachy artist’s smile framed by sun-bleached hair in typical surfer’s waves. I damn near assaulted him, seeming to stun him for a moment. Life at anything other than cruiser bicycle speed was clearly not his thing. “Whoa. Hey. Easy, girlfriend. Can I help you?”

  “Who painted this?” I demanded.

  “Awesome work, isn’t it?” He threw his whole upper body into his nod. “Are you looking to buy something?” But then he stopped short, too. “Whoa…chica…that totally looks like you. I mean, totally. Trip-py.” His amazement pulled the single word into two.

  “Who painted this?” I repeated myself with slower emphasis, hoping he could focus long enough to answer me.

  “Dunno the dude’s whole name. He’s righteous, though. Lives on one of the boats down in the marina there. He paints like a god, right? I see it now. You must be his muse or something.” He laughed and added a flip of his bangs, seeming to congratulate himself on using the word “muse” in a complete sentence.

  Thank God Michael stepped in, because I was getting ready to strangle the crap out of Surfer Bob’s long-lost cousin. “Why doesn’t the guy sell his own stuff?”

  “He’s not into socializing, man. At all. I’ve only met him once. Another guy usually brings the work over to the gallery. I sell other shit for them, too. Cityscapes, mostly Europe, I think…and some exotic animals.”

  “But you’ve only met the artist himself once?”

  “He’s a head trip, dude. Says he’s not about ‘the man’ anymore, you know?” He made air quotes around “the man,” punctuating with a weird grimace.

  I exchanged a similar look with Michael. This was starting to feel a little creepy—especially when we observed the watercolor wasn’t the only “Claire” piece here. There were at least a dozen works in all, each featuring a different pose. They were rendered in various mediums: oils, pastels, pencil sketches. I bought them all, asking Hang Ten Fred to stow them off to the side until I could think straight.

  Michael pulled me over by the elbow again. “This is some heeb-worthy shit, right?”

  I nodded, peering around, not feeling watched but not feeling safe. Why did I think Stephen King was about to pop out and start taking notes? The sun shined so pleasantly on the water that day. The charity art event seemed to be going so well, everyone sipping wine and having a grand time in the early balm of summer…

  “You have any strange exes who’ve boiled bunnies in your name lately?”

  “My God, no. You know about Nick the Dick—who, according to Margaux, is gone for good. He found God and settled down with a little wife in Idaho.”

  I didn’t offer the rest of the story, about Margaux sharing that a way of reassuring me that she was over being spiteful about the secret she carried regarding Nick and me. We’d been young and stupid and just trying to get through college. Nick had simply chosen a dangerous way to make that happen, and I’d been the infatuated fool who’d helped him. Neither Michael nor Chad knew that part of the story, and never would.

  “Okay,” he replied while helping me stack the paintings, “so now we have to look at—” His voice caught again. That possessed-by-someone-else look washed his face again.

  “Look at what?” I prompted.

  “The signature on the paintings.” Bewilderment doused his slow tone. “Doesn’t that look like the name—”

  “Klarke.”

  It spilled off my lips just before the world went completely dark.

  *

  “Claire? Claire?”

  Michael’s voice sounded strange. Hollow. Weren’t we just walking together on Mission Bay? When the hell had we made our way to the La Jolla Coves?

  “Christ. How long has she been out?”

  “Not long.” Not Michael, but somebody official. “It’s all right. She’s coming around.”

  I blinked. Michael exhaled, looking relieved. The sky was peach and purple behind his head. Wait. Why was I lying on the ground? And who was that other guy? San Diego Fire & Rescue. Paramedic. Okay, that answered that. But who were all these people around us?

  “Oh, shit,” I muttered. It all rushed back. The art festival. The crowds. Michael yanking me through them. The booth with the paintings.

  The paintings of me.

  Klarke.

  “Killian!” I surged up and smacked a hand into the grass to steady myself. Somebody needed to turn off the horizon. It was on the fast spin cycle.

  “Okay, easy,” Michael ordered. “You’re going to end up right back where you started, girl.”

  I shoved up from the cradle of his arm. “I’m fine, dammit.” My breath echoed in my ears as it shot in and out of my lungs. “We have to find him. Michael, we have to.”

  “I know. I know. But you were just passed out for a minute solid, sweetie. You need some air in your lungs and some blood in your brain, and then we can worry about that bastard.”

  “Stop it,” I retorted. “Only I get to call him that. And I want to do it to his face, dammit. So let me get up and—”

  “Dammit, Claire.” He pulled me back by a shoulder, exasperation twisting his features. “You will listen to me this time.” A heavy, almost apologetic, huff escaped him. “Look. We’ve all been watching you torture yourself for months over this guy. Ten more minutes isn’t going to hurt anyone. If he’s even around here, he has no idea you’re here, so it’s not like he’ll bolt. Sit back, have some water, and tell me I’m right.”

  I grumbled but sipped the water. “Fine. You’re right.” But just the thought of Killian slipping through my fingers again was enough to make me shake harder. I blinked as the horizon tilted again. When it balanced out, fear slammed in an icy sluice. What if Killian didn’t want to see me? What if he really didn’t want to be found? Was he really here, in San Diego—and if so, for how long? Had he been here since the night of our near-miss at the hospital ER? Longer?

  He’d never reached out to me—and no one was making him stay away from me.

  Conflict assaulted, twice as agonizing as the fear.

  Maybe I needed to just walk away. All of the vessels in the marina were huge. If he was on one of them, he wasn’t suffering, that much was clear. That part wasn’t so much surprising as agitating.

  I grew increasingly restless.

  After about ten minutes, the small crowd dispersed, assured—or more likely bored—that I was really okay. Michael finally let me stand up. As my embarrassed flush subsided, I righted my maxi-dress
then walked back over to the art dealer, determined to learn exactly what boat Mr. Righteous-God-Painter lived on. The guy was hesitant. Make that completely close-mouthed. I actually found that admirable, pleased Killian had at last found someone he could trust. It was going to make my job a lot harder, though.

  Or maybe not.

  After a fast phone call to Ian Charles, supplying him with the name Killian Klarke for the search, the investigator had a hit in less than a minute. Sure enough, there was a yacht registered in Marina Village, slip B16, under the name K. Klarke. In a rush, I thanked him, disconnected, and pocketed my phone.

  “What now?” Michael asked.

  I dipped my head, wondering if I looked like I felt, the she-bull who’d just had the red flag wiggled in front of her face. “Was that a rhetorical question, Mr. Pearson?”

  Michael quirked one side of his mouth and emulated my nod, his version of an atta-girl. He quickly phoned Talia, who was already at the booth, and apprised her of the situation. She relayed the verdict from Andrea: our shift was covered at the booth as long as we promised to report back if we found Killian. I hated getting everyone involved in my personal life, but after my moping around for over four months, I pretty much owed all of them. Yeah, even Andrea.

  The walk over to the marina was tense and quiet. I battled to equalize my feelings between hope and heartache, though the latter gained the edge. If we found Killian aboard the boat, there was a hefty chance he’d order me away. Now that this moment was finally here, was finally real, I didn’t know if my heart could stand the anticipation. I almost hoped the lead was another false alarm, rather than face the possibility that this showdown might blow up in my face.

  With the crowds so huge, it was easy to sneak past the guard shack and start down the dock as if we belonged there. With every step, my heart climbed higher into my windpipe and my knees threatened to slosh like the water against the pilings. Thank God I’d worn comfortable kitten heels in anticipation of being on my feet at the booth. My stomach clenched. My head throbbed.

  And then everything stopped.