Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(46)

Margaret craned her neck and waved discreetly. Louisa turned in her chair.

“Your father is still in Sweden,” Margaret said. “This is even better.”

“This isn’t about Daddy?” Confused, Louisa scanned the lobby but saw no one she recognized. Maybe it was one of Margaret’s friends. Could her aunt have a man? Why she’d never married was a mystery. Margaret was an attractive woman, if a little predatory looking.

“And here he is.” Her aunt’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Hello, Louisa,” a man said from behind the high back of her chair.

No. Louisa stood and whirled.

“Did you get my gift?” Blaine stepped around the chair. He was holding two flutes of champagne. He extended a glass toward her. His gaze pleaded with hers. “Please, don’t make a scene. Have a drink. Let’s put our past behind us. I miss you. I’m sorry we surprised you, but I had to see you. There didn’t seem to be any other way.”

Louisa stepped back. Shock and anger rippled through her like an avalanche. She turned to Margaret. “How could you?”

Margaret was the only person who knew. The only one she’d trusted all those years ago.

Her aunt’s eyes steeled. “Nonsense. You need to get over yourself.” Her voice dropped to a reptilian hiss. “You both made a mistake. Blaine loves you.”

Louisa backed away. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, enough with the drama,” Margaret snapped, closing in on her. “You were both young, and young people do foolish things. I don’t know why you can’t see that he’s the perfect man for you. It’s not like you have men lined up waiting to marry you. He’s the only one who’s still interested. You have the personality of a textbook.”

“Don’t call me again. Either of you.” Louisa’s lungs tightened as if a heavy weight lay on top of her, crushing her chest, constricting her breathing. She turned away, barely hearing Margaret calling after her.

“Don’t blame me if you spend your whole life alone.”

“Louisa, wait!” Blaine called. “I love you.”

Blood rushed in her ears. She rounded the corner that led to the lobby. Her heels slid on the slick marble. Catching her balance, she covered her mouth, suppressing the sob trapped in her throat.

“Are you all right, miss?” The doorman held the door for her.

She didn’t answer as she escaped the building onto the sidewalk. The cool evening air rushed over her clammy skin. Swallowing the salty wedge in her throat, she walked and breathed. A block later, the sounds of traffic gradually drowned out the rush of blood in her ears. Her heart slowed. Of all the terrible things she’d expected of tonight, this hadn’t made the list.

How could Margaret have invited Blaine to dinner? Even for her, that seemed excessively cruel. Granted, she didn’t believe Louisa’s story, but still . . .

Her toes protested her rapid pace. She slowed her strides, letting her heart rate return to normal, but the pressure beneath her sternum didn’t abate. In ten minutes, Margaret had wiped out all the progress Louisa had made in the months since she’d moved to Philadelphia. Margaret was wrong about Blaine, but her assessment of Louisa was painfully accurate. She dated but never got close to anyone.

Conor’s face flashed into her head. The piercing gaze that elicited emotions she didn’t know she possessed. The need to see him welled inside her. But if she went to him in this state, he’d demand to know what had happened. Conor would see right through any excuse she could imagine. She’d go home. Kirra wouldn’t ask for an explanation.

She stopped at the corner. She’d walked farther than she’d thought. She skirted a news crew giving a report outside the Academy of Music. A show had just let out, and people poured from the nearby Kimmel Center. She threaded through the theater crowd, working her way to the curb where pedestrians queued up for taxis.

She stepped into the line. A hand shoved in the center of her back. Her body was flung forward, and she sprawled into the street. Her knees and palms burned as bare skin skidded across asphalt. On her hands and knees, she raised her head and froze. Bearing down on her was the front end of a SEPTA bus.



Ears still ringing from the band’s last set, Conor set a Guinness in front of a regular. Patrons turned back to the hockey game playing on all three TVs. The Flyers were winning, and a celebration was in full swing. Two plainclothes cops sat in a corner booth drinking Diet Coke and watching the game, forced inside because they couldn’t see both exits of the bar from the street. Conor didn’t mind. In case anything else happened, he couldn’t get a better alibi.

Jayne swung by, a tray loaded with beer, hot wings, and nachos balanced on her hip. Her face was whiter than its usual Irish pale, setting off dark shadows under her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be carrying anything that heavy. Where does this go?” Slipping out from behind the bar, he took the tray from her hands and delivered it to the table she indicated.

“I’m fine, Conor,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Have you heard from Reed?”

“Yes, Scott is out of surgery, but they put him in intensive care.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” Conor wrapped an arm around his sister. “Why don’t you go home? Or go take pictures. That always takes your mind off your troubles.”