Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“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 .