“I don’t. I’m sorry, Mollie. Look, I need to get busy. I’m dead on my feet.”
Mollie relented, wondering if Griffen’s obvious romantic problems with Deegan had affected her judgment and what she’d said hadn’t meant anything. She’d rehashed her friend’s words dozens of times while trying to enjoy her guests.
It would help if Jeremiah returned.
She retreated into the house to see about cleanup and Deegan. She felt a faint uneasiness at not quite knowing who was still behind Leonardo’s gates, on the property with her. When she got everyone out, she planned to jump in the pool, clothes and all.
If Jeremiah was back, maybe not clothes and all.
She smiled, her body humming at the thought of him.
She gathered up paper cocktail napkins on the kitchen counters, no sign of Deegan in the sprawling kitchen.
Then she heard a noise coming from the media room. She stopped, motionless, and listened, her heart drumming.
A sob.
Someone was crying.
Moving quietly, she edged to the doorway and peered into the huge leather-and-wood room.
Deegan Tiernay sat in the middle of the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, shaking, sobbing.
“Deegan?” Mollie rushed in. “Deegan, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, and when she reached him, she saw tears streaming down his cheeks and chin, dripping onto his knees, all the cockiness and charm gone. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose was running. And she knew it had all gotten to him. He was twenty, and his brother had nearly been killed, and it was his fault.
“Deegan…”
“You know, don’t you?” His voice was hoarse from crying; she could see him squeezing his knees together as hard as he could, as if that would somehow keep him from flying apart. “Griffen…Griffen’s suspicious. I can tell. She’s different…God, I can’t believe…” He sank his face between his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, his back shaking.
Mollie touched his shoulders, felt the hot sweat and strong muscles through his shirt. “Deegan, you’re young.” She was surprised at the gentleness of her own voice, her lack of animosity toward him. He would have to account and make amends and pay for what he’d done, and he would have to get help. “You can’t see the forest for the trees right now. If you call the police yourself…”
His head shot up, and he screamed, a numbing, wordless, fierce sound that seemed to come from his very soul. Finally, his shoulders slumping, he got control of himself. He sniffled. “Mollie, this isn’t your problem. I never meant to make it your problem.” His lower lip and chin trembled. “I’m so scared. Kermit…he can’t take the fall for me.”
“I know. I understand.”
“No, no, you don’t. I didn’t…I could never have done that to my own brother. To you. I…you…” His voice croaked, tears and spit mixing together on his chin. “I was just having fun. Then everything went haywire.”
She frowned. “You mean you didn’t attack me or make the threatening call? Deegan—”
“Whoa, kid. Don’t answer that.”
They both looked up at the sound of the calm, unfamiliar male voice. The security expert. George Marcotte. His man must have let him in. He was a big, fit, muscular man whose size at the luncheon yesterday Mollie had found reassuring. Now she stared at him, confused, banking back the flutter of fear.
He addressed Deegan first. “Relax, kid. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
Mollie rose. “Mr. Marcotte—”
“Now, hold on, Miss Lavender. Just hold on.” He seemed perfectly calm, as if he did this sort of thing every day. “I’m glad my guy kept your little party this evening crime-free. However, I have something I need to do. You can sit on the couch there and be quiet. Okay?”
As if she had a choice. Glancing at Deegan, whose face had gone pale beneath the red splotches, she dropped onto the couch in the middle of the room. Leonardo’s media equipment—for viewing, recording, and listening—surrounded her.
Marcotte moved deeper into the room. He didn’t swagger, didn’t waste any energy on unnecessary displays of ego. Again he addressed Deegan. “Here’s the deal, kid. The thefts stop.”
“They already have—”
“Wait.” He held up a hand, quieting Deegan. “Let me finish here. As I said, the thefts stop. If they’ve stopped already, that’s good. Then I can stop beating up skinny kids and robbing pretty blondes to throw the police off your scent. I mean, it was a kick at first, and a man’s got to make a living, but I take no pride in that kind of work.”
Mollie came forward on the couch. “The police—”
“The police have shit. They’re confused as hell. This whole thing will die a nice, quiet death if this spoiled little fuck here knocks it off and you and that reporter knock it off.”