My Fallen Saint Page 18

  “Ronan mentioned you served together, too,” I add. “But I admit I’m not sure. Were you actually in the military? Or is your record as much a fiction as Devlin Saint is?”

  “I assure you, I’m very real, whatever my name might be.” He makes a point of skimming over me with his eyes, his gaze as intense as a touch, and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “I don’t think a fictional man could have made you scream like that.”

  My mouth is dry, and I reach for his drink, claiming the last ice cube.

  “And yes, my service record is real. As for the gun, I may be a civilian now, but I won’t be lax about personal security. Not in my position. You’re not worried, are you?” Amusement colors his features. “Scared for your safety? Afraid I might be a danger to you?”

  He’s lowered his voice, and the sensual timbre goes straight to my core. I squeeze my legs together, hoping the reaction doesn’t show in my voice. “I eat danger for breakfast, remember?”

  He strokes his beard, his eyes locked on mine. “There are other things you can eat.”

  I raise my brow, forcing myself not to laugh out loud. “So we’ve moved from sniping at each other to joking about sex? Amazing what a fine fuck will do for your state of mind, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” he says, then lifts a brow. “But just fine?”

  Now I really do laugh. “Don’t fish for compliments. And don’t change the subject.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a subject.”

  “There is now, because it just occurred to me.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “In your office, when we talked about the old Alex and the new Devlin, you said Witness Protection wasn’t involved. So how did you do it, then? It’s one thing to assume an identity and have a low-profile life. But you must have truly covered your tracks to join the military. Did the government help? I mean, were you in a special unit or something?”

  “Let’s just say that I funded the DSF with most of my inheritance but used a large chunk to shore up my new look.” He shrugs. “Among other things, money can buy freedom.”

  The waiter arrives with our drinks. I take a long swallow, considering his answer. It’s not wrong. As far as I’ve seen, money is as close to magic as anything I’ve run across. About the only thing it absolutely can’t do is bring back the dead.

  He picks up his drink but doesn’t take a sip. Instead, he swirls the liquid, studying me from across the table until I break down and demand to know what he’s thinking. “I’m wondering if you trust me.”

  “Hardly. I told you that upstairs. And let’s not forget the part where you popped my cherry and then bolted.”

  He has the good grace to wince. “I wasn’t necessarily speaking about sex. As for our last night, there’s nothing I can say to make that better.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. I think there’s nothing you will say.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could call them back. Because it’s only in hearing them that I realize they aren’t a brash slap in the face, at all. Instead, they’re an olive branch. Because basically I’ve just told him that I imagine a world wherein he was justified in leaving. A scenario in which he tells me the truth, and I forgive him.

  Which is why I very quickly say, “You hurt me.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t understand that I can never make that up to you? Even telling you how much I want you—how many times I’ve fantasized about you over the years—that hardly makes it better, does it?”

  I shake my head. “It just makes me sad. Especially since I still don’t understand why.”

  “Why?” he repeats. “Fine. I’ll tell you why. I left because I had to. Because there’s never been anything I wouldn’t do to protect you.”

  “If that’s true, then tell me the rest of it. Was it because of Peter? Were you next?”

  “Those aren’t questions I can answer, Ellie. Don’t press me, or this conversation ends now.”

  That, of course, makes me want to press even more. But instead I ask, “Why did you let me see the truth? That night at the tidal pools,” I mean. “You came to me. You weren’t wearing your contacts. You made sure I recognized you. Why?”

  He traces his fingertip over the rim of his drink, speaking down at the table. “Because the moment I learned it was you who came to interview me, I knew I only had three choices. I could kill you,” he says lifting his head and looking into my eyes, without a hint of humor on his face. “I could keep you close, or I could send you away.”

  He waits for me to respond, but when I only roll my eyes at his joke, he continues.

  “Killing you was the only way to be one hundred percent sure you wouldn’t reveal that I used to be Alex. But, obviously, that plan had some downsides.”

  “Oh, obviously.”

  “Keep you close? That’s what I wanted. Christ, how I wanted it. But I hurt you in the past. And there are other reasons that I can’t have you, no matter how much I want you.”

  My pulse quickens from the heat in his voice. I want to ask for his reasons, but I don’t want to interrupt. More than that, I know he won’t tell me.

  “Sending you away was dangerous, too. What if you told the world that Devlin Saint is a fiction?”

  He takes another sip. “I have secrets, Ellie. Hell, I have secrets inside secrets. I trust almost no one.” He takes my hand, then gently rubs his thumb over mine. “And yet over and over, I’ve trusted you enough to let you walk away. At the tidal pools. After the parking lot. After the gala. And once again, I’ll let you go after we get back to Laguna Cortez, trusting you to hold my secret close. But only after we have our fill of each other here first.”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying, and when I do, a shiver runs through me.

  He’s saying he wants me.

  He’s saying it’s only in Vegas.

  He has his secrets. I have my job. And I’ll be back to Manhattan soon, anyway.

  He’s put the ball firmly in my court. I can have him for now. I can fuck him out of my system, or do my damnedest trying. Or else I can say no, and we’ll both just walk away.

  For a moment, I just breathe, letting the ramifications of both choices dance through my mind. Then I swallow the rest of my bourbon, push the glass away, and slide back my chair. “What happens in Vegas, right?”

  His smile is slow and wickedly sexy, with just a hint of relief. “It’s late,” he says. “But I really hope you aren’t tired.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Is there any chance at all you’ll tell me what got under your skin earlier tonight?”

  I ask the question as he’s signing the bill for our drinks, and he looks up sharply before returning his attention to the tab. He whips off his signature, pushes the folio aside, then meets my eyes, his expression stony. “No.”

  I nod. I expected the answer. But I can’t imagine the Alex I knew losing his shit the way I saw Devlin in the room earlier. And as for Devlin Saint … well, until I heard his curses and the shattering of glass, I never imagined that a scenario existed that could send him off the rails.

  “You can talk to me, you know. I mean, we can extend the Vegas parameters to include talking if you need to vent. I’ll even lockdown secrets.”

  His features soften and he presses his hand over mine. “Thank you,” he says. “The answer’s still no, but thank you.”

  I make a show of shrugging it off, but I can’t deny I’m disappointed. Not because I’m desperate for gossip, but because I loved our talks, and his silence is just one more reminder of how much things have changed.

  He pushes back from the table, and I follow suit, only to freeze when I catch a glimpse of red hair behind a crowd of people stumbling drunkenly past us. A second later, my instinct is confirmed correct. Anna.

  I know I shouldn’t be irritated, but it’s the middle of the night, and all I want is to get back to the room, lose myself with Devlin in a ceremonial sealing of our newly-forged deal,
and then enjoy the blissful sleep of the very well-satisfied.

  Anna is not a welcome part of that plan, and from the look on Devlin’s face, he’s with me on that.

  “Problem?” he asks as she reaches us. His body is tense, his head cocked just slightly. He looks like a man prepared for the worst, and not for the first time tonight I wonder what happened. Was there another trafficking incident? Did a rescue mission fail?

  Anna’s eyes dart to me, her mouth slightly twisted. And even though Devlin has told me they’re not having a thing, I can’t help but wonder if her displeasure is tied to seeing me.

  When she speaks, though, I feel like an unreasonably jealous fool. Because not only do I have no claim on Devlin, but also because she’s clearly here for a business-related reason—and one that has her up and working in the middle of the night.

  “Those, um, server leaks you were concerned about,” she says. “We were able to review some of the, um, interconnected network feeds. And that enabled us to identify the source.”

  “Well, that’s some good news at least. Can you tell if the information has spread?”

  Her lips compress as she shakes her head. “It doesn’t appear to be an issue. But it wouldn’t be immediately obvious.”

  “Of course. But identification is a solid first step. Give the team my thanks and kudos, and tell them I’ll message them personally in the morning.”

  “Will do. Are you—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head.

  His brows rise. “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern. Security incidents of this kind are bound to occur on occasion. We’ll deal with them as we do with everything. One step at a time.”

  She inclines her head. “Of course. Goodnight, Devlin. Ellie.” She flashes an icy smile at me, though its chill is probably my own jealous projection.

  Devlin takes my arm, his grip on my elbow a bit tighter than needed as we head toward the elevator.

  “Security hack?” I ask as we ascend to our floor.

  He releases my arm and rubs his temples. “Something like that. A potential mess, but as I told Anna, we’ll lock it down.”

  “You told me you weren’t sleeping with her.”

  He turns to me, clearly irritated. “And we’re not.”

  “Sorry. It’s none of my business.” I mean it, too. I don’t know what prompted that clingy, bitchy comment.

  “Then why did you say it?”

  I follow him to our door, all the while wishing I could call back the words. Alone downstairs, we’d been fine. Hell, more than fine in a bit of post-coital haze that had morphed into a time-limited friends with benefits deal that I was happy to get behind. As far as I’m concerned, sex equals closure, and I’m ready to ride that train.

  Now, though, we’ve jumped tracks, and I have only my own stupid jealousy to blame.

  He’s looking at me, his keycard unmoving in his hand as he waits for me to answer. “Honestly, I don’t know. The way you two talk. There’s an intimacy.”

  He strokes his beard as he sighs. “We’re not sleeping together. But we did, many years ago. Even before I met you.”

  “Oh.” I cross the threshold, then look back over my shoulder as he lets the door shut behind us. “Oh.”

  I see a flash of confused amusement on his face before I turn away and head to the sofa. I curl up in the corner, then pull a pillow into my lap. He still hasn’t said anything, so I just leap in. “She was your first, wasn’t she?”

  He doesn’t say a word, but I know the answer. I can see it on his face. And the fact that I can still read him—even just a little—gives me an unexpected boost of confidence.

  “She was,” I say. “And now you’re just friends?”

  He undoes the tie that’s holding his hair back, then runs his finger through the locks, shaking them free. “Yes, and yes. We grew up together. Our fathers were friends. We spent a lot of time together, and neither of us were close with our dads.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. “She left for college and we lost touch. But I looked her up about a year after I launched the foundation. She was teaching high school social studies, but thought the foundation would make more of an impact on people, so she signed on. And here we are.”

  “Here you are,” I agree. I sagged a bit. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For asking questions that are none of my business. It’s only that I—I guess I still want to know you.”

  “I get it,” he says, his voice gentle. “But what’s the point when it’s all going to end?”

  I hug my pillow tighter. “We could still be friends.”

  His laugh is raw and desperately sad. “No, we couldn’t. And you know it as well as I do.”

  I swallow, because he’s right. As sad as it makes me knowing that we’ll part ways for good when I go back to New York, I know that's the way it will be. For us, there are only two options, because there is no way that I can truly be “just friends” with Devlin Saint. I could fake it, maybe, but it would eat me up inside.

  Where Saint is concerned, the best I can have is a rip-roaring good time before I yank the bandage off entirely and let the past scab over, making one more scar on my heart.

  I toss the pillow onto the floor, then crawl across the couch to him, letting my hand rest on his upper thigh when I reach him. “You’re right,” I say. “This ends when I go back.”

  “It ends after Vegas,” he says firmly.

  I lick my lips, then slide my hand higher, so my fingers brush the bulge in his jeans. “In that case, I just have one more question for you. Do you want to sleep? Or do you want to fuck?”

  I’m deliciously sore Tuesday morning, despite a hot shower—which I had to enjoy alone, as Devlin was on a call. Now I’m dressed and camped out on the living room sofa making a list of questions for the DSF’s Vegas staff as well as for the residents of the back tower.

  I want to hear not only about their rescue, but about job training, rehab, medical and mental health care. Basically, I intend to cover it all, and I’m about to review the notes I took in the research room over the weekend when a notification pops up about the death of Lorenzo Bell, a known pseudonym for a human trafficking kingpin who’s been on ICE’s Most Wanted list for over a year and is known to work internationally. He’s been on my radar since Roger assigned me the DSF article, especially since many of the women in residence in The Phoenix’s back tower were believed to have been abducted by “soldiers” in Bell’s ring.

  I follow the link to a short article reporting that the assassination occurred at just before midnight last night in front of the Everest Hotel & Casino on the other end of the Strip from the Phoenix. Bell attended a concert with a local prostitute and without his usual contingent of bodyguards. He’d altered his appearance for the outing through the use of a wig along with a fake beard and mustache.

  The prostitute had tried to slip away, but had been surrounded by some bystanders and then interviewed by the police. The photo shows a young woman, obviously unnerved, with curly blonde hair and huge, deep-set eyes. According to the caption, she saw nothing and didn’t realize until after Bell went down that he’d been shot.

  Apparently, he and the woman were in the midst of the thick crowd leaving the concert. Someone got close enough to shove a pistol under his ribcage. He was taken out with a .22 caliber lead bullet that burst into his kidney, ricocheted in his gut, and killed him almost instantly.

  I have a mental picture of the assassin. Someone tall, with his head down, his purpose clear. He might have had a team helping him to spot Bell. He definitely had advance information—not only that Bell would be at the concert, but how he’d be disguised.

  Once the assassin tagged Bell, he’d waited, then fallen in step behind Bell, covered by the crowd. He got in close, jammed the barrel of the gun in hard. Fired—then melted away in the crowd as Bell fell to the ground.

  The first people to respond assumed he’d fainted until they saw the b
lood. No one had heard the gunshot. Not surprising. A twenty-two would have barely sounded like the pop of a soda bottle being opened.

  I’m thinking of the shooter as a man, but he could just as easily be a woman. Whoever it is, he’s cool and confident and wildly self-possessed. That kind of close-range kill takes nerves of steel and government or paramilitary training.

  My spinning mind immediately jumps to the gun in Devlin’s drawer. But it’s a random, foolish thought. The shooter used a relatively silent twenty-two. Devlin’s Glock is a very loud 9mm. And why on earth would a philanthropist like Devlin Saint be wandering the streets of Vegas taking out wanted men?

  I shake my head, dismissing my random thoughts. Honestly, there are times I think I’d be better off writing fiction.

  As for my actual career, I’m pulling up my old folder of research about Bell when my phone rings. It’s Millie, and I answer it before the second ring. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Overworked and underpaid,” she says. “And you owe me a drink.”

  “The Delano prisoner. You got the time for the call worked out.”

  “Yup. Andrew Cornwell. Used to work for The Wolf. And he knew about Peter. Wouldn’t talk to me, but when I told him you were Peter’s niece, he said he’d talk to you. I finally got it worked out with the prison. They’ll call you at eleven tomorrow, walk you through all the rules, and then put Cornwell on. I hope it helps.”

  “You’re amazing,” I tell her. “Seriously. I owe you more than a drink.”

  “Two drinks and a dinner,” Millie says. “We haven’t sat down and caught up in ages.”

  “Deal. And thank you again. Eleven o’clock. I can’t wait.”

  I’m grinning as I end the call, then look up to see Devlin eyeing me as he walks to the kitchen wearing only a towel, his hair and skin damp and tempting. Which, considering I know we’re heading out in less than thirty minutes, seems terribly cruel.