The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,74

have time for further niceties as he hurried to return to the beach.

Sara placed a calming hand on his arm. “Tell me again what the note said.”

He hardly slowed his footsteps. “That Zachary had broken up with her, and she needed to talk to him. Oh, and not to worry—”

“But you’re worried.”

Out of his mind with worry. “She’s not been herself.”

“You’re sure they’re both here?”

“I called Lulu.”

Sara winced. “We’re operating on Lulu’s information?”

“It’s what I have.” He paused before crossing from sidewalk to sand. He’d already explored the area on his own, and the rowdiness of the scene had not reassured him. Yes, he’d seen lifeguards on watch and other law enforcement patrolling, but in this boisterous crowd there was no way to detect watermelons infused with vodka or wine in plastic sports bottles. The harder stuff could be ingested or snorted or swallowed in the shelter of those tents and beneath the nylon canopies.

Essie didn’t drink or do drugs, he tried telling himself.

He had no idea if she drank or did drugs. Shoving his hands through his hair, he locked down his emotions. “You two go south, I’ll do north. Call or text if you find her.”

Sara started to say something, but he didn’t stop to listen. Essie had to be found, stat.

The sun was on its early evening slide toward the ocean and cast an orange-ish light on the sand—an ominous color that twisted Joaquin’s gut. He wound through the revelers, skirting volleyball courts and teens half-buried in the sand, his gaze constantly moving through the encampments arranged in tight clusters. Different music barraged him from each one, and a deep bass beat vibrated painfully in his chest.

His vision darkened.

The daylight hadn’t left so quickly, he knew that, and also knew it was his old regrets crawling out of their grave to close around him. They pushed at him, shoved, their ghostly, bony fingers trying to drag him back to another time, another search among people shrieking, laughing, dancing with abandon. Dread had creeped over his skin then, too, and his body broke out in a cold sweat now, just as it had that night almost fifteen years before.

Boom boom boom. That pounding bass note continued bombarding him, and he came to a standstill, looking about him wildly, confused by the noise, the crowd, the past and present conflating in his head.

Felipe! Where the fuck are you?

No. Not Felipe. Felipe was gone. Joaquin stumbled away from the Bluetooth speaker blaring at his feet. Then he squeezed shut his eyes, rubbing at them to center himself in the now. Essie. It was his sister Essie he had to locate.

A small hand circled his forearm. He jolted, and he looked down to see Sara at his side. “Did you find her?” he demanded.

Her palm slid toward his elbow then back toward his wrist, as if to soothe him. “No. And I tried her phone again. No answer. No response to my text.”

His jaw tightened so hard his temples started to ache. “We gotta keep going then. Look harder.”

Now Sara’s fingers moved down to his, entwining them, squeezing. “Joaquin, maybe she’s not here. Maybe we should go home and wait.”

“She’s here.” Every instinct he had told him so.

Sara didn’t appear convinced. “Even if she is, we can—”

“I left Felipe at that club,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

He slid his hand from hers, to shove both of his through his hair again, sensory echoes of that night still in his head—the loud music, the sour stink of spilled beer, the spicy perfume of the girl rubbing her breasts against him. “Mick and I had a better offer—a couple of girls wanted to party at their place.”

She sent him a cautious look. “Okay.”

“Felipe wanted us to stay, but he was already high, and I didn’t feel like hanging around until he passed out and I had to cart his ass home.”

Now Joaquin was there again, in that dark nightclub, his brother swaying, his legs already unsteady.

“Don’ go, Wock,” he’d said, the nickname he knew Joaquin despised. “We’ll just stay a little, Wock.”

But he’d been through too many “stay a littles,” and the latest ones had been ending in dumb, drunken grapples with strangers over stupid perceived slights. Puke was the alternative conclusion to an evening out with his brother. On the sidewalk, in the car, all over Joaquin as he hauled Felipe back to their apartment.

That night, he’d not had the patience for it.

“I told him,” Joaquin looked away, swallowed, looked back at Sara. “I