Make You Mine (18 page)

“Or showered?” added Alex, quirking a brow at the rumpled clothes Marc had slept in last night.

Suddenly itchy, Marc scratched the whiskers at his jawline. He’d showered yesterday but hadn’t used a razor since the evening of his so-called
cleansing ceremony
in Cedar Bayou—the one that hadn’t worked because it wasn’t even real.

Like shrapnel, a jolt of pain tore through his chest, so he pushed away the memory and locked it down tight, then took his seat at the head of the table. “I’ll clean up fine by the next trip. Until then, worry about your own ugly mugs.”

“You okay?” asked Ella-Claire from the other end of the table. “I tried calling you this morning, but it went straight to voice mail.”

When Marc glanced at his sister, he noticed she sat so close to Alex that their legs were touching. For the love of God, she was practically in his lap. “I’m fine,” he ground out, narrowing his eyes at Alex, who responded at once, scooting a few inches away from Ella and staring at his notepad.

Maybe it was time to have a chat with those two.

“Someone please pour me a drink,” Marc said. “And fill me in on what I missed.”

Ella stood and strode to the bar, then returned with a mug of black coffee. She placed it in front of him and offered a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I think you’d better have this instead.”

He grumbled a reluctant thanks and took a sip.

“As for what you missed,” she said, sweeping her hand toward the floor, “do you like it?”

“Like what?”

Her mouth dropped open. “The new carpet!”

That explained the unfamiliar smell he’d noticed earlier. The old red-patterned carpet that had always reminded him of
The Shining
had been replaced with a stylish Confederate gray Berber. “Yeah, looks nice.”

“Looks
nice
?” she repeated. “That’s it? You’ve been waiting years for the money to spiff up the dining room, and now it’s like you don’t care.”

Shameful as it was, Marc couldn’t deny the accusation. The
Belle
had finally turned a large enough profit to pay off his bank loans with plenty to spare for renovations and repairs. His maiden cruise as captain had been a smashing success, and they’d already sold out the next trip. A few weeks ago, reaching this point was his main goal in life, but now he couldn’t bring himself to give half a damn.

He knew the reason.

During the voyage his goals had shifted, because the
Belle
was no longer his number-one girl. That role had been usurped by a curly-haired pastry chef with mismatched eyes and a penchant for bending the truth.

The worst part was that he didn’t care about Allie’s lies. If he thought she would have him, he’d throw himself at her feet for just one more day with her. But no matter how vehemently she denied the curse, it hung between them like a lead curtain, and he couldn’t stand to see that look of disappointment on her face again.

“The boy needs a priest,” Pawpaw said, studying Marc with a shrewd gaze. “He’s still entranced.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at Marc. “For years I’ve been warnin’ you about them Mauvais women. Believe me now?”

Everyone else at the table avoided Marc’s eyes.

“Don’t start with me.” Marc didn’t try to conceal the threat in his voice. He’d allowed his pawpaw onto the boat, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate the old man blackening Allie’s name. “It’s because of her that we’re finally turning a profit. She’s done nothing wrong.”

Pawpaw scrunched up his mouth, clearly working on a counterargument. “Doesn’t matter. You still can’t meddle with her, or the hex—”

“Oh, come on.” Ella threw her hands into the air. “Enough with the superstitious nonsense. There’s no hex on your family. You make your own beds and lie in them, just like everyone else.”

She was wrong—Marc knew firsthand. At the altar last week, he’d felt that dark magic pressing against his ribs, smothering him when he’d tried to ask Allie to move in with him. Something very real had kept his words from escaping, and it wasn’t a mental block.

“Can we quit wasting time?” Beau checked his watch again. “I’ve got places to be, and we still need a status report on the train linkage.”

Thankful for the change in subject, Marc asked, “What’s wrong with it now?”

“Nothing.” Ella reached for Alex’s Coca-Cola and took a sip. Good Lord, why did she have to keep doing that? “It’s purring like a kitten. Lutz said the hiccup we had in St. Louis must’ve been a fluke.”

Marc shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time before
Belle
gets the hiccups again. Call Lutz and have him take another look. I don’t want any surprises on the next trip.”

Then Ella said something that made him sit a few inches straighter. “You always assume the worst. O ye of little faith.”

That was interesting.
Little faith
.

Marc couldn’t discern why, but the phrase resonated with him and bounced against the inner walls of his mind, repeating over and over.

Little faith
.

Voices from around the table faded into obscurity as Marc puzzled on the reason for his sudden curiosity. There was something significant to be learned here; he sensed it. He seemed on the verge of an epiphany, the answer barely beyond his reach.

Little faith
.

Wrinkling his brow, he stared out the side window to the placid river as if the solution might appear to him on the water. Then he recalled the last line from Juliette Mauvais’s hex,
none but purest faith will set you free
, and the jigsaw pieces clicked into place—complete and utterly clear for the first time.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Now he knew why he’d failed to break the curse, and it had nothing to do with Allie’s gravesite ritual being a fake. The fault was entirely his. Only one kind of ceremony would free him, and it wasn’t a voodoo cleansing.

“Did you say something?” asked Ella-Claire.

Marc’s mind reeled with the truth of his discovery. “I’m in love with Allie Mauvais,” he said to no one in particular.

He was met with blank stares and silence.

“She’s selfless and sweet,” he continued. “I’m happy when I’m around her and miserable when I’m not. She even likes old Westerns.” He locked eyes with his sister. “I’ve never met a woman who liked Westerns.”

Ella gave him a sad smile. “She’s special, for sure.”

“She’s more than special,” Marc said. “She’s my perfect match.” And when a smart man found the love of his life, he didn’t ask her to move in with him—he married her. “That’s why I couldn’t break the spell. I showed a
little
faith, and it wasn’t enough.” Marc stood from the table so quickly his chair fell over. “I have to find her and ask her to marry me.” His chest went warm and tingly, a message that he finally had it right.

With that sole purpose in mind, he rushed toward the exit.

A scuffling noise sounded from behind, and a pair of arms tightened around Marc before he’d reached the door. Marc tried to squirm free, but the grip was too powerful.

“Hold up there, little brother,” Beau said. “You look like a vagrant and you smell worse than a distillery. Let’s not give Allie a reason to say no.”

Marc quit struggling long enough to let Beau’s advice sink in. He was right; Allie deserved the best, not some half-assed proposal from Marc with the kiss of Tequila Rose on his breath.

“Fine.” Marc let his arms go slack. “Give me a lift home, will you?”

“You got it.”

“No, to the jewelry store,” Marc corrected. “No, wait. Not the jewelry store—to the pawn shop. I want to buy a ring that’s completely nonrefundable.” The more faith the better. “Take me to the bank!”

“Simmer down,” Beau said with a good-natured laugh. “First let’s pour you another cup of coffee. Then we’ll go get your woman.”

“My woman.” Marc smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

•   •   •

Once Marc was sufficiently caffeinated, Beau delivered him to Richman’s Pawn & Loan, the swankiest resale shop in the city.

“Leave the car running,” he said to Beau. “This won’t take long.”

Marc pushed open the front door and strode directly to the jewelry section near the back of the store. He waved to the owner, Mrs. Richman. The old woman was so shrewd, she’d charge you for breathing, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t here looking for a bargain.

“I need an engagement ring, and fast,” Marc said when Mrs. Richman made her way behind the counter. “Something huge. Sky’s the limit.”

The woman’s eyes glazed over with delight. She indicated several cases, each teeming with glistening gems. “What style? Solitaire, three-stone, cathedral setting?”

Marc decided to go with his gut. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“This one’s nice.” She pulled free an oval-shaped diamond set in platinum. “Two and a half carats, excellent cut, nearly colorless.”

“Wow.” She wasn’t kidding—the thing was spectacular. Marc slipped the ring on his pinkie finger and admired the way it sparkled. Allie would love it. With any luck, he’d have this ring on her finger by noon. He was about to tell Mrs. Richman to wrap it up when a stone from the adjacent display caught his eye.

It was round, set low in a thin band of filigreed gold, and about half the size of the diamond in Marc’s hand. But despite that, the stone captured the overhead fluorescents and refracted the light in a spray of rainbows. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

“Tell me about that one,” he said.

“Ah.” Mrs. Richman’s voice flattened in disappointment, likely because the second ring was less expensive. “That’s an estate piece, came in last week.”

“It doesn’t look like the others.”

“That’s because diamonds aren’t faceted that way anymore,” she explained. “It’s an old European cut, popular in the early 1900s. The woman who sold it to me said her great-great-granddaddy bought it off Juliette Mauvais.” She scoffed. “Can you believe that? Probably bad luck to have it in the store.”

Marc’s skin prickled. “You think it’s really hers?”

She shrugged. “No way to tell, but it gives me the willies just looking at it.”

That was good enough for Marc. His face broke into a grin so wide he nearly sprained his cheeks. “I’ll take it.”

Two hours later, a freshly showered, clean-shaven Marc arrived at the Sweet Spot with a century-old solitaire in his shirt pocket and a single-minded determination to change Allie’s last name from Mauvais to Dumont.

His blood rushed, but this time with excitement, not fear. He had faith—the purest kind—that he and Allie were meant to be, and he couldn’t wait to begin their life together. If she wasn’t ready to forgive him, then he’d return tomorrow. And the day after that. However long it took to win her back, he was in it for the long haul.

“Don’t forget those,” Beau said, thumbing at the bouquet of roses resting on the SUV’s backseat. “Got the ring?”

Marc grabbed the flowers and patted his breast pocket. “Right here.”

Thoughtfully, Beau glanced at the bakery window. “Mind if I come with you? I want to give it another shot with Dev when you take Allie upstairs to pop the question.”

“Another shot?” Marc asked.

“At apologizing,” Beau said. “I doubt she’ll give me more than that.”

“Maybe not, but forgiveness is the first step.” Allie was always saying
You can’t win if you don’t play
. Marc shrugged and opened the passenger door. “Good luck.”

They pulled open the bakery door, which
ding
ed to announce their arrival, and right away Marc noticed several things weren’t right.

For starters, the heavy aroma of cupcakes and frosting was missing, replaced by vacant air-conditioning. Also, nobody was manning the cash register, and the glass display cases were empty. Marc glanced at the front door, wondering if Allie had taken the day off and forgotten to secure the dead bolt.

“Hello?” he called. “Allie?”

A college-aged brunette pushed open the swinging door leading to the back room. She smiled and greeted him with an apology in her voice. “Hey. We’re actually closed today. I’m waiting for someone to pick up a wedding cake; then I’m locking up.” She glanced between Marc and Beau. “You’re not with the Jefferson party, are you?”

“No,” Marc said. “I’m here to see Miss Mauvais. Is she upstairs?”

The girl shook her head. “She’s on vacation with her sister.”

Vacation?

Marc’s stomach sank. The two hours that had passed since his realization aboard the
Belle
had crawled by slower than a millennium. He had to see Allie—now. Marc peered toward the rear of the store as if willing her to appear. When she didn’t materialize, he asked, “When’s she coming back?”

“Monday, I think.”

“Is she staying somewhere local,” Marc asked, “like the beach?”

The girl’s face went blank while her eyes darted to the bouquet of roses in Marc’s fist. She probably thought he was some kind of stalker. “Um,” she told him, “I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

Beau stepped up and gave Marc a friendly smack on the shoulder. “No problem,” he said to the girl. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“Just a second.” Marc fished the phone from his back pocket. He dialed Allie’s number, but as soon as it rang, the cell phone resting atop the cash register began vibrating. Squinting at the case, he recognized it as Allie’s.

“Oh, yeah.” The girl silenced the phone and tucked it inside a drawer. “She left her cell behind. She said she didn’t want to be bothered.”

Well, shit. How was Marc supposed to track her down? He could wait for her to return, but that was two more days. He’d barely survived two hours.

“Want to leave a message?” the girl asked. “She’s been checking in, usually first thing in the morning. I can tell her you stopped by.”

“That’s all right.” Marc’s message was far too personal to be conveyed over the phone by a temp worker. “Thanks, though.”

Defeated, he trudged outside and flung open the door to Beau’s SUV, then tossed the flower bouquet onto the floorboard. If he hadn’t thought it would spook the shop girl, he’d have given them to her. Seemed a shame to let a dozen perfectly good roses go to waste.

“Hey,” Marc asked his brother as they fastened their seat belts. “Any chance you’ve got some supersecret government connections that can find Allie?”

Beau raised his chin in contemplation, his hand paused at the ignition. “Maybe, but only if she used a credit card to book her room.”

“Which everyone does.” Gradually, Marc’s hopes lifted.

Beau started the car. “Let’s head back to your place so I can make a few calls.”

•   •   •

Two cans of Coke later, Marc had paced a matted trail into his living room carpet.

As it turned out, the government couldn’t track citizens as easily as they did in the movies. Beau had phoned a buddy within the CIA, and when that didn’t yield any results, he’d called in a favor from a friend in local law enforcement. Finally, he’d booted up Marc’s laptop and contacted a Romanian hacker he’d met while serving overseas.
He’s the best
, Beau had said.
If he can’t help, nobody can
.

That was thirty minutes ago.

Just when Marc thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Beau sauntered in from the kitchen, waving a yellow legal pad.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Beau said.

“Give me the bad news.”

“She’s nowhere near here.”

“And the good?”

“As cross-country travel goes, she’s in the easiest place to fly to.” Beau rotated his hips in an Elvis impersonation. “Vegas, baby.”

A slow grin spread across Marc’s face. His brother was right—on any given day, more than a dozen direct flights departed for Vegas from the nearest airport. The fares were cheap as dirt, and getting a room on the strip was a breeze. “I can be there by suppertime.”

“Not that you asked,” Beau said, “but she’s staying at the Grand Palace Royale.”

Marc tipped his head appreciatively. “High-dollar resort.” It was fashioned after a medieval village, complete with a castle and moat, and the staff wore Renaissance period costumes. Not his first choice, but a nice place to romance Allie.

There was only one problem.

“It’s bigger than some amusement parks,” Marc said. “If I don’t know which room she’s in, I’d have better luck finding Jimmy Hoffa’s body in the desert.”

“I’m working on it.” Beau lifted his phone. “My buddy’s hacking the hotel computer to find Allie’s room number. You get going. I’ll text you when he’s done.”

Marc thanked his brother and rushed toward his bedroom to pack an overnight bag. In his haste to get on the road, he blindly shoved clothing into his duffel without a care for whether or not it matched, then carried his bag into the bathroom to scoop a handful of random toiletries inside. If he forgot something important, he could buy it at the hotel. Marc made a grab for the Trojans in the medicine cabinet, but he paused with his fingers curled around the box.

Each time they’d made love, Allie had insisted they didn’t need protection beyond her birth control pills. In the logical part of his mind, Marc had known she was right, and yet he’d felt compelled to keep an extra barrier between them.

Not anymore.

Marc wasn’t his father, and he refused to live in fear of repeating another man’s mistakes. He shoved the box onto its shelf and shut the cabinet.

He was on his way toward the bedroom door when a flash of black and white caught his eye from inside the closet. It was his tuxedo, the one he’d worn at formal dinners on board the
Belle
before he was captain. He’d turned quite a few heads each time he’d put it on. If Allie had liked him in his captain’s uniform, she’d love him in this. And nothing said
purest faith
like showing up in Vegas already dressed for a wedding.

What the hell—he dropped his bag and decided to change. It wasn’t like another fifteen minutes would make or break his plans.

After three attempts, he finally got his bow tie straight, then pocketed the engagement ring, grabbed his duffel, and headed for the exit.

“Got the room number,” Beau said while tapping his cell phone screen. “I’m texting it to you so you don’t forget.”

The phone in Marc’s pocket buzzed in confirmation, and he gave it a quick glance. “Room 123,” he said. “That’s easy to remember.”

“Godspeed, little brother.” Beau folded his gargantuan arms and beamed. “Don’t come home without her.”

Marc thanked him. He liked this new and improved version of his brother. “You can count on it.”

•   •   •

After leaving his truck in short-term parking—hourly rates be damned—Marc jogged into the terminal and took his place in line at the ticketing gate. He did his best not to glare at the passengers in front of him, but for the love of God, why didn’t more people use the kiosk to check their luggage? Then it would free up a human employee and shorten his wait.

Finally, it was his turn. Marc approached the counter, staffed by a thirtysomething redhead with a flirty gleam in her eyes. Her lips slid into a wide smile while her gaze roamed over his torso.

“We don’t see many tuxes in here,” she said with a wink. “Are you one of Marty’s limo drivers? If so, you must be new, because I would’ve noticed you before.”

Marc didn’t have time for this. He forced a grin and resisted the urge to snap at her. “I need the next plane to Vegas, doesn’t matter which airline. I saw there was a nonstop flight leaving in forty-five minutes. Any chance there’s a seat left?”

“Oooh.” She grimaced and drew a sharp breath. “Afraid not. If you’d gotten here fifteen minutes ago, I might have been able to get you on board. But two of the inbound planes for Vegas were just grounded for technical issues, and we had to reroute the displaced passengers onto existing flights.” She gave him a pitying look. “I can put you on the standby list, but it’s already thirty passengers long.”

Marc huffed a sigh. Of course the Vegas-bound planes were busted. Just his luck. “When’s the next available flight?”

Her red-tipped fingers few across the computer keys for a few interminable seconds. “Looks like . . .”—just when he thought she might answer, she began typing again—“I can get you a seat tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“Tomorrow?”
And not even a red-eye flight. This would set him back another twenty-four hours, meaning he might as well wait for Allie to come home. “That won’t work. I have to get there today.”

The woman turned up her hands, her expression hardening in a way that said he’d tried her patience. “Well, I can’t wave a wand and make that happen.”

Marc folded his arms against the counter and made his best puppy dog face, then tapped his tuxedo lapel and told a little white lie. “You don’t understand. If I don’t get to Vegas tonight, I’ll miss my own wedding.”

She softened at that, lips parting in an oval while her hand flew to her breast. “Oh, bless your heart.” Head tipped to the side, she blinked at Marc like he was a kindergartner with a skinned knee. “I wish there was something I could do. Have you looked into hiring a charter?”

Marc stood a bit straighter. “A charter plane?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She rooted around beneath the counter until she found a business card and slid it across the laminate surface. A toothy cartoon nutria waved at Marc above simple black font advertising
River Rat Charters
. “Rick’s your best bet for a last-minute booking. He’s a real sweetie.”

Marc didn’t care if the guy was a sweetie. He wanted someone to fly him safely to Vegas, not pinch his cheeks and tuck him into bed. “That’s nice, but can he fly?”

“Oh, sure.” The woman waved off his concern. “He’s been doing this forever.” She pointed at the phone number listed on the card while her gaze darted to the line of customers forming behind Marc. “Give him a call and see if he can help you. And congrats on the wedding, by the way.” Then she motioned for the next passenger to come forward.

Marc took the hint and carried his overnight bag to a quiet corner to contact the pilot. When he dialed the number, a woman with a two-pack-a-day voice answered, “Y’ello.”

“Hi,” Marc said. “I’m looking to charter a plane to Vegas.”

“When you wanna leave?”

“Preferably now.”

“Just a sec.” She didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece when she hollered, “Hey, Ricky! You wanna fly to Vegas today?”

A distant male voice shouted, “Mm-kay,” and the old woman gave Marc directions to the landing strip, which she said was in a field behind her house.

The exchange didn’t exactly fill Marc with confidence, but he wasted no time in jogging back to his truck and following the woman’s instructions. The sun hung a little too low in the sky for his liking, proof that the clock was ticking.

Twenty minutes later, he turned down a dirt road toward a small brick ranch in the distance. For a moment, he worried he’d arrived at the wrong address, but when he pulled onto the gravel driveway, he noticed a cartoon nutria painted on the side of an aluminum garage resting beside the house.

Must be the right place.

Marc strode to the front stoop, punched the doorbell, and a middle-aged man with a
Duck Dynasty
beard answered. He wore a Parrot Head T-shirt, cargo shorts, and a grin that said he’d spent some recent time in Margaritaville.

“Are you Vegas?” the man asked, chuckling at Marc’s tuxedo. He extended a palm. “I’m Ricky.”

“Yes, sir.” Marc shook his hand. “Marc Dumont.”

“Dumont?” Rick’s bushy brows drew together over narrowed blue eyes. “You’re not Jack’s boy, are you?”

“One of them,” Marc said. “I’ve got four brothers—five if you count the baby on the way.”

“Mmm.” This revelation didn’t seem to please Rick. Knowing Daddy, he’d probably seduced the man’s sister. “Well, I won’t hold that against you.”

With that roadblock settled, Marc peered at the adjacent field. “I don’t see your plane. Do you keep it parked at the airfield?”

“Nah.” Rick removed his ball cap and pointed it toward the aluminum garage. “The old girl’s in the hangar.”

Marc stopped breathing. That oversized shed was a hangar? He had a bad feeling about this.

“C’mon,” Rick said as he stepped out of the house and led the way. “You can help me pull her out.”

“We’re going to haul it out of the hangar, just the two of us?” Mercy, how small was this plane?

“Don’t worry,” Rick assured him. “You won’t break a sweat and ruin your penguin suit.”