Chapter 7

This had easily been the longest five—Juliet spared a discreet glance down at her wrist—eight—minutes of her entire life.

And that included any eight of the minutes of which she'd spent suspended high above the city streets, strapped to a chair and held up only by a wire that threatened to snap at any given moment.

Like she had during that long, endless night, she found herself thinking Where's Carlton?

Funny how she'd never once thought Where's Shawn? even after Yin had called him so she could deliver the cryptic clue. It had always been Where's Carlton?

Even amidst the faint, shameful hurt and disappointment that Shawn had, indeed, gone for Abigail, she'd been so certain that if anyone came for her, it would be Carlton.

And he had.

Always been the one you can count on, right?

You know, you can lay off. I get it. I got it before this moment.

So why are you still standing here, talking to Shawn?

I don't know… maybe because he's trying? In his own… Shawn sort of way.

Exactly—his own Shawn sort of way. Why don't you ask him where he got the ticket that allowed him entry?

"…so you see, Jules, I finally got it. I got how important this was to you. I'm sorry you felt like you had to temporarily break up with me although I think changing your security code was a bit much—"

"Where'd you get the ticket?"

"Oh, well, don't you remember, you told me what the code was, ages ago, when you had that really nasty cold and were loopy on meds and what?"

Juliet crossed her arms and sighed as Shawn blinked, his expression screwing up into a Variation on a Theme of Poop Face. Typical. So prepared with the lie he expected to deliver, an unexpected question threw him for a loop—but only temporarily, because Shawn was nothing if not quick on his feet. Always had been.

"Gus very generously gave his up."

"By which you really mean you stole it," a blessedly familiar voice drawled behind her as an equally familiar hand lit on her back.

"Hey," she murmured, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. "Was beginning to wonder if you'd ducked out the bathroom window."

"The bathrooms don't have windows."

While they grinned at each other, Shawn's brows drew together yet again, as if her and Carlton's exchange was being conducted in a foreign language.

Ha.

Now he had an inkling of what it was like for other people when he and Gus ventured off on one of their pop-culture, idiot savant discourses. Not that he'd make the connection, because it was always going to be different for him.

Not that it mattered worth a damn to her.

"Sorry," Carlton said, his hand subtly stroking her back. "I got caught up talking to Allen."

"Really? And your forehead vein isn't throbbing?" she teased, while from the corner of her vision, she saw Shawn's face continue to contort. She was half-tempted to smack him on the back to see if his face would stay frozen that way.

"Ha, ha," Carlton retorted. "She's okay," he added in a way that Juliet filed away for later elaboration. The sergeant was a lovely lady, but her "hoodoo voodoo, superstitious claptrap" had habitually driven Carlton bananas in the past, especially since it generally meant she was agreeing with something Shawn said. While Carlton had been surprisingly mellow tonight, for him to admit "she's okay," was akin to agreeing that vegans were okay. She wondered how much he'd had to drink tonight.

"So, Jules, now that I'm here, let's go do those things you're supposed to do on a pseud-cruise. The buffet looks awesome, but before we dive in—get it? Dive in? Ha! I kill me." He snickered. "Let's get our picture taken—looks like a pretty sweet setup. I'm really digging the lifesaver."

Juliet's eyes widened as Shawn's hand closed around her wrist, not tight, but with a definite air of assumption. Not to mention—ugh—a film of something slightly clammy.

"That is so typical of you, Shawn."

He blinked. "What?"

"You blew me off about this for three months and now, you show up in this ridiculous get up—"

Behind her Carlton murmured something that sounded like "ducky," and she really was going to have to ask him how much he'd had to drink tonight, because he was so not sounding like himself.

"Get up?" Shawn's outrage was palpable and very real—not the manufactured Shawn! Outrage he so often used as distraction. "Do you understand how difficult it was to track down an authentic pair of white ducks?" He pointed his foot like some sort of demented ballerina. "Not to mention the bolo tie. It took waiting around for just the right moment to sneak this puppy out of Dad's closet."

"I. Don't. Care." Juliet ground out and it was amazing how very true that statement was. "You could have hired the entire USC marching band—on Gus' credit card, no doubt—to serenade me upon arrival and it wouldn't matter and you know why?" Yanking her wrist free she hissed, "Because it's too damned late."

His eyes widened, honest surprise in them. "But Jules, isn't this what you—"

"Spencer, give it up."

Carlton.

Juliet leaned back in relief, knowing he'd be there, solid and warm.

"Lassie, why are you still here? This is between me and Jules."

"I beg to differ." Once again his hand stroked her back, soothing, his even tone communicating he had this. "Seeing as she's my date tonight."

"Lassie? You came with Lassie?" Shawn's outrage hit DefCon 5 levels, along with his voice and hell's bells. There they went again, being the center of attention.

Juliet was just so damned tired of her love life being department gossip fodder and as usual, it was only being around Shawn that tended to inspire such interest. On the heels of that familiar thought came a new, surprising one—as unexpected as her and Carlton's behavior tonight must have seemed to their coworkers, no one had acted unduly shocked or surprised. Outside of the occasional curious glance everyone had more or less treated them the same.

As if there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Compared to the raised eyebrows and furious gossip from when she and Shawn had first come out as a couple.

And pretty much ever since.

"Yes, I did."

"But… why?"

"He asked," she replied simply.

Shawn's eyes narrowed as his gaze rose above her head. "What about Marlowe?" he demanded.

"Not here." Cold. Implacable. Brooking no further comment or question at risk of life and limb.

Not that that had ever stopped Shawn.

"Didn't waste any time, did you?" And it was difficult to tell to whom he was directing the accusation, not that it mattered, since Juliet couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried.

Luckily, Carlton could, holding her arm in a firm but gentle grip, inches from connecting with Shawn's stubbled cheek. Through a red haze, she thought she could even detect a few crumbs of… something in the corner of his mouth. Probably whatever had left the oily film on his hands.

"Spencer," Carlton was saying evenly. "I suggest you leave and return the ticket you stole to Guster, who's looking more than a little hacked."

After a quick glance up, Juliet followed Carlton's gaze through the open doors to where Gus was indeed, standing, wearing a sharp white dinner jacket and familiar thunderous expression as he gestured to the ticket taker.

"Jules," Shawn began with a wary glance at the hand still mere inches from his face, "Come on, give me another chance. You can't deny I tried."

"No, Spencer, you really didn't," Carlton answered. "Because if you'd exerted even a fraction of the same effort you use to track down Señor Sparky's Shave Ice truck on any given day, it'd be you standing here with her, not me."

"Oh, come on," Shawn scoffed, still so unwilling to accept the truth it left Juliet stunned. There honestly wasn't any other reality in his world beyond the one he chose to construct for himself was there? Even the Wizard of Oz had been well aware he was just a guy behind a curtain.

"Face it, Lass—you're just the pity date. The poor substitute for the one she really wanted all along."

"No, Shawn."

Juliet took a step back—then another. Carlton, sensing she needed distance, loosened his hold, yet as his hand slid from her arm, she managed to grasp it in a brief clasp, meeting his gaze with a small smile he returned. Taking another step back she took in both men: Shawn as impeccably dressed as she'd ever personally seen him—ridiculous, yes, in the blue brocade jacket that smelled vaguely of mothballs and his hair gelled back into something that looked like it was straight out of her high school's production of Grease—but still fairly put together. And fidgeting like a five year-old in church.

Then there was Carlton.

She sighed.

It wasn't even fair, really.

And she was an idiot. Or rather, had been.

"No, Shawn," she repeated softly. "I think you have that backwards." Taking a step that brought her back alongside Carlton, she sighed again at the automatic touch of his hand to her back. Soothing, ever-so-slightly possessive, arousing.

"I know I did." She gazed up at Carlton, hoping he could understand what she was saying. "For too long."

A short laugh escaped. "Come on, Jules, that sounds as if you're saying—" Shawn's jaw dropped as comprehension finally penetrated the miasma of whatever he'd most recently consumed. "Wait a minute." He backed away a step. "Wait a minute— Lassie?"

"See you around, Spencer."

Before Juliet could draw a full breath, Carlton had smoothly moved them past a still-gaping Shawn and a wide-eyed Gus who'd managed to talk his way into the ballroom, and through the doors, not pausing until they were past the "gangplank" and well into the large rotunda, the majestic chandelier dimmed to a romantic glow. The low light played off the water feature, reflecting off the vibrant koi fish placidly swimming about and casting shadows in which to hide.

She could relate. She felt as calm and weightless as they must—as protected from the outside world as if surrounded by an ocean's worth of water.

"Thank you."

Carlton turned, his hand capturing hers. It was as if granted the freedom to touch, he couldn't seem to stop. She hoped. Dear God, she hoped.

His thumb played across the back of her hand, light as the sea breezes drifting through the opened French doors and every bit as seductive. "For what?"

"For more than we have time for, right now. But I promise, I'll list them all—" She moved a step closer, her words hesitant. "If you'll grant me the time."

His eyes deepened to the intense blue she'd seen so many times before—that had captured her attention so many times before—but this time, she got it. She understood its source.

"If I could, I'd start granting you the time right this second," he said quietly.

"But—"

"But we have to wait—at least until I can safely drive." A faint blush swept across his skin. "When I saw Spencer I kind of got a little friendlier with the Jameson's than I should have."

"Silly man." Her free hand rose to cup his cheek. "Is that where Allen came in?"

"Yeah." The corners of his mouth twitched. "She's apparently Team Lassiter."

Juliet's brows rose. Team Lassiter? "You'll have to explain that later."

"I can explain it now." He sighed and looked mildly disgusted before his expression turned hopeful. "Unless you want to drive?"

"Not necessary." Before his brows could settle into their habitual frown, she reached into her bag and drew something out—the item she'd made certain not to leave home without. "I was perhaps a bit presumptuous."

His eyebrows rose as he took in the key card embossed with the resort's logo, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed hard and holy hell, she wanted to reach up and drag her tongue down along that long, sexy column.

Soon… soon…

"No," he drawled, a note that matched the intensity of his gaze coloring his low voice. "I'd say you exhibited exceptional foresight, Detective."

She felt herself drawn against him—felt the tension and desire vibrating through his body and stoking hers.

"Still, pretty shameless."

"I like shameless." His lips ghosted along the sensitive rim of her ear, his breath a warm, whisky-scented caress.

"And you can presume any damned thing you want with me."

Well then.

Well.

Wordlessly, she turned and led him away, anxious to get to the room she'd reserved with more than a little trepidation and a whole lot of hope.

Because she, Juliet O'Hara, had a lot of presuming to do.