My Fallen Saint Read online

I shiver, then force myself to sit up straighter. “Who I sleep with is none of your business. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

  “You’re right, of course. You’re not on my radar at all.”

  I flinch, the words hitting me like a blade through my heart. I don’t want him to see how much he’s hurt me, but it’s too late for that. I’ve already flinched. And, damn me, when I speak, my throat is thick with tears. “You arrogant prick.” The words come out raw but soft, not at all the harsh lashes of words I want to lay on him.

  And the worst of it? I’m coming completely undone and he’s just sitting there.

  I try again. “You despicable bastard.”

  Something shifts on his face, and for a moment—just one fleeting, heart-wrenching moment—I see a flicker of regret.

  Then he bends over to pick up his glass, his face temporarily out of my view. When he sits up again, his features are as set as a statue, and when he meets my eyes, I see nothing but steel. “I’m not the boy I was,” he says. “As far as you’re concerned—as far as I’m concerned—Alex Leto is dead and gone.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dead and gone.

  The words hurt me more than they should, and I have to bite back the urge to beg for answers. To plead with him to tell me the story so that I can understand.

  But I know that he won’t, and I’m not going to supplicate myself to this man.

  Instead, I just shake my head. “To everyone else maybe, but Alex Leto isn’t dead to me. You want to play games, Devlin? Find somebody else. Because I’m really not in the mood.”

  The words have been spilling out of me, and I have to draw a breath to keep going, but I can’t stop, not now. Not when all the pain and hurt and goddamn loss is spilling out of me.

  “You can change your name, you can change your appearance. But that doesn’t mean shit. You are Alex Leto, and you fucked me over when you left, Alex. Hell, you broke me. Does that make you happy? Is that what you want to hear?”

  I’m not sure, but I think the muscles in his face tighten.

  “But guess what?” I continue. “I’m going to forgive you for all of that.” I lean back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest. “Because you’re going to give me so much in return. You’re going to give me answers. And I have a feeling that they’re going to add up to the story of a lifetime.”

  He cocks his head, still infuriatingly calm. “Is that right?”

  “I know about my Uncle Peter.”

  He holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable. Then he looks away as he takes a sip of whiskey, his face as bland as a poker player’s. “I’ll bite. What is it you know?”

  “That he wasn’t an innocent caught up in some drug dealer’s net. He was dealing himself. Tied in with The Wolf somehow. You’ve heard of him, right?”

  There’s an ironic tone to his voice when he says, “I’m familiar with the name.”

  “Who isn’t? And considering when you bailed, I think you were in bed with Uncle Peter.”

  “No.”

  That’s all he says. Just no. And it pisses me off even as I hope he’s telling the truth. Because while I think that maybe, maybe, I can cope with the idea of Peter being that kind of asshole, my entire view of my past will shift if Alex was dirty, too.

  At the same time, I’m not going to let hope get in the way of common sense, and I barrel on, determined not to let him wiggle free. “You know something, though, don’t you? You know something about who killed my uncle.”

  “There’s no story here, Ellie. If you want to talk about the profile on the foundation, we can. But this isn’t a story,” he continues. “It’s only you scrambling to manufacture answers.”

  “Manufacture, no. Find, yes. You knew what was going on. You were involved. And that’s why you walked out on me.”

  Now, he really does smile. “No. I walked out because I’m an asshole. Plain and simple.”

  I scoff. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years. I’m starting to wonder if I should try a different song.” I lift my glass, remember it’s empty, then set it down again. “Like I said, at least you’re giving me a good story. The mystery behind Devlin Saint. How he used to be involved in the drug trade, fled, then reinvented himself. The beloved philanthropist, a drug dealer with possible links to The Wolf. It’ll fly off the newsstands. It’ll kill your reputation. And I’ll be right there, dancing happily on its grave.”

  His eyes go completely cold.

  “You can call me a lot of things, but do not ever say that I was aligned with that man.” His voice is sharp and deadly, and I sit completely still, as if even a word could wound me. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, Ellie. It’s been a decade. And I’ve already told you—I’m not that boy anymore.”

  I swallow. I have definitely lost the upper hand, and I have to scramble to regain control. I stand up and take my glass back to the bar, just to give me time to regroup. “I came here to write a story, Devlin. And I plan to do my job.”

  “A profile piece. With a focus on our work in Nevada.” He stands, too, then joins me by the array of decanters. The air between us buzzes, and I tense, hating the fact that I still react so viscerally to this man.

  He takes my glass and remakes my drink, then returns it to me. I take it, and this time I’m careful not to let our fingers touch. “That’s a story that deserves telling,” he continues. “But don’t go chasing shadows. It’s a waste of your time.”

  “I’m a reporter. It’s not.”

  “Dammit, El.”

  “Do not call me that,” I snap before I can help myself.

  “Ms. Holmes,” he says, and to his credit he looks as if he’d like to call back the nickname. He knows as well as I do that Alex is the only person I ever let shorten my name like that.

  Seeing that contrition on his face chips away at my anger, though I don’t want it to. I want to cling to my fury and my pain, holding it in front of me as a shield against this man and his weapon of painful indifference.

  “You’re the one who told me you aren’t Alex,” I say, fighting the urge to hug myself. “And even if you were, Alex lost the right to call me that when he left.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Then just fucking talk to me. How much did you know about Peter and The Wolf?”

  “Are we talking about the children’s story?”

  “Don’t be an ass. And I want the truth.”

  He glances at my purse. “Take out your phone. Unlock it. And hand it to me.”

  I start to argue, but decide to comply. He inspects it, apparently decides I’m not recording this conversation, and puts the phone on the table between us. That, I assume, is my signal to continue.

  “Well?” I press.

  “I became aware that Peter was dealing and that the drugs were flowing in from The Wolf’s organization not long before he was killed. And I also figured that I was in the crosshairs.” His voice is level. Entirely devoid of emotion. “And so I ran, just like you said.”

  I squeeze my toes inside my shoes, because he’ll surely see any other reaction. I keep my voice level, too. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

  “No.”

  “You left me with nothing but a goddamn note.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t even say you loved me.” Fuck. If I could reel those words back in, I would, because I damn sure didn’t mean to say them.

  He meets my eyes, holds my gaze. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

  I take a moment to cross my legs, hoping the movement camouflages the wound to my soul. “I want my interview, Mr. Saint. About how you started this foundation. About how it operates. About the work you’ve done in Nevada fighting human trafficking.”

  I draw a breath. “I want access to your research room. And I don’t want any more bullshit excuses or postponements. You hurt me, you son-of-a-bitch,” I continue, impressed that I’m keeping my voice level. “But I’m over you, and you will talk
to me. Because if you don’t, that refusal will go in the article, too, and I don’t think that will look very good for you or your precious foundation.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitches, but otherwise he’s as still as stone. And when he speaks, his voice is as calm and level as a college lecturer. “Don’t set out to malign this organization. We help a lot of people.”

  “What about you?”

  “I like to think I help them, too.”

  I raise a brow. “I can malign you?”

  He chuckles. “You can certainly try. I don’t think you’ll find much.” He meets my eyes. “Unless you’re looking for a salacious angle, in which case I can write you up a list of the women I’ve fucked.”

  I force myself not to wince. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, and I refuse to take the bait. “You’re probably right that I won’t find much on you,” I admit. “I wonder why that is?”

  “Pure thoughts and clean living.”

  An unexpected bubble of laughter bursts out of me, and I glance up to see his eyes dancing and his lips curved with amusement. For a moment, we share a look, and I’m taken back a full ten years to when we used to laugh together late into the night. I trusted him then.

  I don’t trust him now.

  I clear my throat and look down, uncomfortable with the intimacy of this moment. When I lift my head, his face has cleared, too. Everything except his eyes. Maybe it’s my imagination, but they seem sad. Even a bit lost.

  “Why are you so invisible? On social media, in the press. I don’t get it.”

  “I keep to myself,” he says. “I don’t make a point of being seen. And,” he adds with a slight tilt of his head, “if you play the game wisely, money can buy a surprising amount of privacy.”

  I nod slowly, processing that. “I used to tell myself that they pulled you into witness protection after the drug dealer killed Uncle Peter. I thought maybe the only thing you’d been allowed to do was leave me that note.” I study his face. “It would explain the new you.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  I lick my lips. “Do you have to dye your beard?”

  He reaches up and rubs his hand over it. It’s trimmed, probably about three days growth on his chin and jawline with a bit of a tab under his lower lip connecting to his chin as well as a mustache. I’ve heard it described in magazines as a hipster beard, and with his hair tied back, I guess that’s fair, though Devlin is the hottest, most put-together hipster I’ve ever seen.

  “Oddly, no. It came in dark. The hair, though, I dye.” He leans back in his chair, then crosses his leg and looks down his nose at me. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  So many things.

  “Your nose. It’s thinner than I remember.”

  “I broke it. Decided to use that as an excuse to change it.”

  “Did you decide to change your voice, too?” I don’t say that I like it. It’s lower and a bit rough, and though I’m trying not to, I could imagine him whispering to me in the dark.

  “Not intentionally. Vocal cord scarring.”

  “Oh.” I frown. “How?”

  “Trauma to my neck,” he says, in the kind of tone that suggests I won’t learn more about that.

  “Right. What about your face? How did you get that scar?” That roguish scar slicing down the right side of his face gives him such an air of savagery that I have to know how it came to be.

  “I got caught on the wrong end of a hunting knife.” He lifts his hand, tracing the line of the scar over his brow, his eye, the mound of his cheek, and then finally the long, thin strip that cuts through his moustache and his upper lip.

  I have to fight the urge to hug myself, because no matter how much I might want to hate Devlin Saint right now, I can’t wish that kind of injury on anyone. “Is that story true? Or was it done cosmetically? For camouflage?”

  “It’s true. I’m not in witness protection, Ellie. I never have been.”

  I lick my lips. “No, I suppose not. You could hardly come back here if you were in the program. And you certainly couldn’t run a high-profile foundation like the DSF.”

  “That’s true.”

  “It would make one hell of a story.”

  The brow with the scar rises. “Is that a threat?”

  I swallow, almost wishing I could be that woman. But I shake my head. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Why? I knew you, Alex. And you wouldn’t have left me like that without a very good reason.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  I feel tears prick my eyes, and I hate myself for so desperately craving an answer. “No,” I say. “You wouldn’t.”

  He steeples his hands and lowers his face, so that it almost looks as if he’s praying. He’s still looking down when he says, “The Alex Leto you knew was a child. A naive child who thought he could—”

  “What?”

  He lifts his head. “Play with fire. And not get burned.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “No. But you weren’t ever supposed to see me again, either.”

  Anger and sadness war inside of me. I’m not sure if I want to rush into his arms or slap his face. I don’t do either. Instead, I ask, “Why on earth did you set up the foundation in Laguna Cortez?”

  He flinches, as if he never expected the question. Then he sighs. “Because I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

  I swallow, wishing his answer didn’t hurt as much as it did. “But I did. And so did you.”

  “That’s an inconvenience we’ll have to overcome.” He stands. “Now, I’m afraid you need to go. I’ll have Anna pencil you in for Monday. Right now, I have to review my speech before I go downstairs.”

  I want to protest. I want to beg for more answers—hell, any answers. I want to see the tiniest glimpse of the man I used to know.

  Instead, I head to the door, which magically opens as I approach, presumably from some button that Devlin has pushed.

  “Wait,” he says as I cross the threshold.

  I turn.

  “I never wanted you to hate me,” he says. “But it’s good that you do.”

  And with that, the doors swing slowly shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As soon as the elevator doors open onto the main floor, I realize how many more people have arrived at the gala. It’s a haute couture crush, and even wearing heels, the throng is so thick that I can’t see much of anything as I try to navigate toward the open doors and the patio.

  When I’ve cleared the overhang, I pause, then tilt my head up as the crowd swirls around me. But there’s no sign of Devlin, and I can only assume that once the doors shut behind me, he shut me out of his mind as well.

  The thought doesn’t sit well, and I can’t deny the sense of loss that’s swelling inside me.

  I hate this. I do.

  I thought Alex was out of my life forever. I thought I’d dealt with it. Maybe not well, but dealt. But here he is all over again. Alex, Devlin, whoever the hell he wants to be, it doesn’t matter, because even now in that room with Devlin Saint there’d been heat. Battened down, laced with fury, and nowhere near the conflagration of last night, but heat nonetheless.

  Last night we’d both stoked that fire, whether for pleasure or thrill or revenge. But tonight? Tonight we didn’t even acknowledge it.

  Maybe that’s for the best.

  All I know is that it’s confusing as hell, and way more than I signed up for when I decided to come back. The plan was to look my demons in the eye and tell them to fuck off.

  The reality is that I’ve walked straight into the fires of hell.

  “That bad?”

  I turn around, confused, to find Lamar and Tracy behind me. “Huh?”

  “The look on your face,” Lamar explains. “Tell me it didn’t go that badly.”

  “Oh. No. I was just overwhelmed by the crowd. But the interview went fine.” I aim a bright smile at Tracy. “Tell me he’s not dominating your time.”
r />   “No, no.” She aims her smile at Lamar. “I realized I recognized him, and we’ve been talking. Though I probably should go and make sure they don’t need me to set up for Mr. Saint’s talk.”

  “Catch you later,” Lamar says, lightly brushing her sleeve as she walks away.

  “Well, this is interesting.” I smile and bat my eyes. “Something you want to share with the class?”

  “She’s renting a unit in my condo building,” he says. “Knew I was a cop, impressed that I’m a detective. We started talking.”

  “Why, Mr. Gage. You’ve made a fan.”

  He makes a gruff noise, and I laugh. I’m about to ask for more details when the lights in the room start to dim as the overhead light above the stairway brightens. The room hushes, and Devlin Saint starts to descend, his presence alone commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He’s accompanied by a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a silver cocktail dress that hugs her ample curves like the scales of a mermaid’s tail.

  “Who’s that?” I ask Lamar, hating her on sight, and then hating myself for that reaction. Because I have no claim on the man Devlin is today. God knows he made that clear enough.

  “His date, I presume,” Lamar says as she steps back, and Devlin steps up to address the crowd. For a moment, he simply smiles down at all of us, not uncomfortable at all with every eye on him. Instead he stands tall and composed, as if he owns the world and doesn’t have a single secret.

  He exudes power and confidence, and I can’t help but wonder what events have shaped him over the last ten years. What trials he’s overcome. And, as I remember what he said about the scar on his face, what dangers he’s survived.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Devlin Saint, and I created this foundation in order to act as a resource for the people and organizations that are working tirelessly to help make this world a better place.” Applause swells and Devlin goes on, identifying several of the organizations that the DSF supports and even pointing to a few representatives in the audience.

  “As you enjoy the music tonight, mingle with friends, and share food and drink, please keep in the forefront of your mind the victims of violence, crime, poverty, and prejudice. With hard work and time, we can make a difference.” The room breaks into applause, and when it settles, Devlin continues, quickly summarizing the course of the evening.