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“Which means he was probably the one who attacked you.”

“I guess.” The paramedic took away the ice pack and replaced it with a fresh one, and once again, I took a few moments to sink into the chilly comfort. It gave me a chance to try to make sense of everything that had happened, and when that ended up being a losing cause, I asked Nev, “But why would Daryl want to hurt me? He said he liked me.”

Nev got to his feet. The knees of his jeans were dirty, but he didn’t make a move to dust them off. “You can be sure I’m going to find out,” he said.

The paramedics had said my vitals were fine, so I got up, too. Or at least I tried. When the world wobbled and I swayed with it, Nev grabbed one arm, and Kaz scrambled over to take hold of the other. Honestly, I’m not sure which one slipped his arm around my shoulders to keep me upright; I was too grateful to care.

“You should go to the hospital,” Kaz said.

“You should go home and go to bed,” Nev suggested.

I glanced his way. “I’d rather go with you when you question Daryl.”

“Who said anything about questioning Daryl?”

OK, so it wasn’t actually a lie, since he never had said anything about interrogating Daryl, but it was borderline. And he wasn’t very good at even twisting the truth that much; a muscle jumped at the base of his jaw. “If you think he did this…”

“If I find out he did…”

“If
I
find out he did…”

The impassioned version of that comment came from Kaz.

The other one—more steely and all the more intimidating because of it—was delivered by Nev. “If you find out he did…”

Slowly and carefully, I looked Nev’s way.

He met my eyes before he finished his sentence. “That will be a good thing. Because then you might find out more about why someone stole the Geronimo button, then threw it away. And who killed Brad.”

I
DON’T KNOW
how these things work, but I do know that by the time we got back to the hotel and were standing outside Daryl’s room, Nev had a warrant in hand. I guess that was just in case Daryl was smart and had hightailed it out of town before the cops caught up to him and then Nev could legally search his room.

Then again, maybe Daryl wasn’t all that smart. When Nev rapped on the door and identified himself, we heard the sounds of shuffling from inside.

Have I mentioned that Nev is tall and as sleek as a habitual runner? Maybe so, but let it be noted, he can sure pack a punch. Rather than wait to see if Daryl would man up and answer it, he kicked open the door, and he and the two uniformed cops who’d come along for backup raced into the room, guns drawn.

We’d left Kaz and Stan back at the Button Box to give my excuses, host the tail end of the reception, and close up, and I had strict orders to stay out of the way, so I stood back against a wall in the hallway while all this was going on.
Fine by me. Though I wouldn’t have admitted it to Nev for a million dollars, my legs were rubbery, and if I moved too fast, the world bounced and blurred in front of my eyes. I might be nosy enough to insist on being in on the interview with Daryl, but I am not dumb, and I’m certainly not a risk taker. I was all for taking it slow and easy.

It wasn’t until I heard the cops give the all clear and Nev tell me it was OK that I entered Daryl’s room.

I was just in time to see Nev slapping handcuffs on a guy I’d never seen before. He was Daryl’s height, Daryl’s weight, and in fact, he was wearing the same dorky orange-and-brown-plaid sport coat Daryl had worn to the cocktail party at the Button Box earlier in the evening. But believe me when I say that this guy was no Daryl.

He was clean-shaven, blond, and oh, have I mentioned, incredibly gorgeous? His face was all planes and angles. His eyes were green like oak leaves in summer. He had a dimple in his chin that made him look delicious—and dangerous—all at the same time.

My heart skipped a beat at the same time my brain wondered if that whack on the head had shaken lose my ability to think straight.

And not just because I was immediately smitten.

It was Nev, and the handcuffs, and the stranger that had me confused.

“Where… ?” Apparently, the man was someone who needed subduing, and now that the cuffs were on him, I dared to take a step closer. “What happened to Daryl?”

“Really?” When he looked my way, Nev raised his eyebrows. “A woman as perceptive as you doesn’t get it?”

“A woman as perceptive as me…”

Maybe it was because of what happened back at the Button
Box. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t make any sense of what he said.

That is, until the hunk’s left eye twitched.

Inside my battered brain, the pieces clicked, and my breath caught in my throat. “Daryl?”

One of the uniformed cops had been digging through a suitcase on the dresser opposite the bed. He came out holding a dark wig, and I bet anything there was a pair of Coke-bottle glasses and colored contact lenses in there, too. He tossed a wallet to Nev, who flipped it open and looked at the driver’s license inside.

“You mean Donovan,” Nev said.

Chalk one up for post-traumatic stress. My knees gave way, and my breath whooshed out of my lungs. I sank down onto the bed. It was that, or end up nose to floor.

I stared at the handsome hunk in the dorky clothes. “Donovan Tucker the documentary filmmaker?”

I guess now that his cover was blown, Daryl… er, Donovan… was free to be his real self, and that real self was suave and as cocky as a college athlete. “Boy, do I have one hot film on my hands this time,” he crowed. “Crazy button collectors
and
a murder. I’m going to Cannes with this one! Detective…” He looked at Nev. “Look this way, OK? And talk really loud. I’d hate to miss one word of this.”

I guess he’d have to find another way to immortalize us. But then, that was because Nev reached over and snatched away the tiny video-recording device that had been attached to Donovan’s lapel.

The recorder I’d never even noticed all those times he leaned in close and asked me questions about buttons and collectors and… gulp… told me how much he liked me.

My stomach swooped.

“You lied to us? About being a button collector?” Let’s face it, certain things are way more important than Cannes. This was one of them. The button community is close-knit, and there’s not a more dependable, honest, and knowledgeable bunch anywhere. We help each other out. We trust each other. And to think that this snake in the grass…

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You came to the conference to make fun of us?”

“To get the truth.” Gorgeous or not, there was something about the smile on Donovan’s face that made me want to smack it off. “If the people who appreciate my films find the truth about button collecting—and button collectors—funny, that’s beyond my control.” He tried for a nonchalant shrug, but since his hands were cuffed behind his back, he flinched, then made it look as if it was no big deal. “My art is all about honesty,” he crooned.

“And you’re all about being sneaky and underhanded.” I bounded to my feet, then decided sitting was a better option. I dropped back down on the bed. “How could you lie to so many people?”

Apparently, Nev was not as concerned about the button community as I was. “And why did you attack Ms. Giancola?” he asked Donovan.

“Did I?” Another of those sizzling smiles, and this time, I could tell Nev had had enough; his fists clenched, he backed away.

“She saw you outside the Button Box,” Nev pointed out.

“But did she see me in the courtyard? Did she see me hit her?” When neither of us answered, Donovan smiled. “No, I didn’t think so. In fact—”

One of the cops eyed a big closed suitcase, which was lying near the foot of the bed, and Donovan darted a look his way, then forced his gaze back to Nev. “What was I saying?
Oh yes, I was reminding you that anyone could have been in that courtyard.”

It was my turn. “How do you even know it happened in the courtyard if you weren’t involved? And what do you mean by anyone?” I asked him. “You mean anyone like Beth Howell?”

Anther shrug. Another wince. Another twitch, and a fleeting look toward that same cop, who had now lifted the suitcase and plunked it on the bed.

Donovan forced his gaze away from the cop and back to me. “Who?”

“You’re a lousy liar,” I told him.

“And it’s a good thing you just film movies rather than try to star in them. You’re a terrible actor, too.” Nev strolled closer to the bed. “What’s in the suitcase?” he asked Donovan.

He ran his tongue over his lips. “Just the usual stuff. Clothes and toiletries and nothing.”

“You mean something.” Nev stepped that way. “Or you wouldn’t look so nervous every time you glance that way.”

“It’s buttons. Go figure.” The cop who’d lifted the suitcase had also opened it, and he pulled out two button trays. Each had only one button on it.

Buttons that looked awfully familiar.

This time, I threw caution to the wind, and not caring how much the floor tipped and the walls closed in on me, I got to my feet.

Nev and I got to the suitcase at the same time.

I looked at the white pearl buttons attached to the mat boards, and my breath caught in my throat. “It’s—” I pointed. “They’re—”

Nev nodded. “They sure are,” he said. He had slipped on a pair of latex gloves, so he could take the trays from the
cop’s hand, and turned to Donovan with them. “You want to explain?”

Donovan blinked, and I swear, the color in that gorgeous face of his didn’t fade bit by bit; it washed out in a flash. More blinking, and he trembled. “My goodness!” His smile wasn’t any more steady than his shoulders. “How did those get in there?”

“That’s a very good question.” Nev’s voice was steel. So was the look he tossed Donovan’s way. “Maybe you can think about your answer when we take you down to the station and book you for attempted murder.”

“Murder?” I didn’t think he could get any paler, but in a heartbeat, Donovan went waxy. “I didn’t—”

“You assaulted Ms. Giancola. And she could have been killed. In my book—”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t know that, do I?” Nev narrowed his eyes and stared at Donovan with a look that went right through him. “Now, if you would like to explain yourself…”

“There’s nothing… nothing to tell.” Donovan’s knees were shaking, and he dropped into the chair next to the desk by the window.

“There obviously is.” This was me talking, and not even a look from Nev that told me I was probably better off keeping my mouth shut could have stopped me. Then again, I had already found the Geronimo button in the hotel trash. And now I was looking at two more. That kind of confusion tends to throw a button collector a little off-kilter.

“One and only,” I said, talking out loud. “There’s only one one and only Geronimo button. And you have two. And if you got them from Brad…” My mouth fell open, but then, like I’d told Nev earlier, I never really thought of Daryl/Donovan as a murderer. Yet he had the buttons that
should have been the button, and if he got them from Brad, who we’d thought was Thad…

Yeah, I know; it confused even me.

“No doubt we’ll find Brad Wyant’s fingerprints on these cardboard mats,” Nev said.

Donovan did a little more blinking. “Who’s Brad?”

Leave it to Nev to be cool, calm, and collected. He leaned back against the TV armoire. “Brad Wyant was the man you thought was Thad Wyant. You know, the man you killed down in the laundry room,” he said.

“Killed? Me? No!” Tears slipped down Donovan’s cheeks, and he gulped in long, shaky breaths. “I never killed anybody. I just… I just…” He sobbed. “You’ve got to believe me! I was just trying to protect my mother!”

Chapter Seventeen

N
EV’S A SMART COP, AND HE WASN’T TAKING ANY CHANCES
. Rather than let Donovan Tucker spill the beans right then and there, Nev knew it was wiser to get him to the station, where whatever Donovan was going to say—and however he was going to explain that comment about his mother—could be video recorded.

That explains why, less than an hour after Donovan dropped the bombshell, I was standing on the outside of the one-way mirror that looked into the interrogation room, where Nev sat across a gray metal table from Donovan.

“You’re sure you don’t want an attorney?” Like I said, Nev was smart. Dotted i’s. Crossed t’s.

Donovan shook his head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“What about the assault on Ms. Giancola?”

Donovan’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not like I’ve ever hit anybody over the head before. I didn’t realize…”
He sniffed. “I’m sorry. Please, tell her that for me. Since she was at the hotel with you, I’m guessing she wasn’t seriously hurt. But I knocked her out.” He gulped so hard, I saw his Adam’s apple jump. “You see it in movies all the time, but I didn’t think I could actually do that. Not with just a bump on the head.”

Oh yeah, he sounded plenty sincere. But I could tell Nev wasn’t buying it. His gaze never leaving Donovan’s face, he sat back and cocked his head.

“Back at the hotel, you mentioned your mother. What’s her name?”

Donovan wiped a tear off his cheek. “Jenny Tucker.”