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 about 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
