by J. Kenner
“Like?”
“The library renovation, for one. And the park that abuts the foundation and extends down to the tidal pools. The foundation not only donated the land, but also pays all the maintenance for the park. Saves tax dollars. Might just be a community relations maneuver, but it’s still a great park.”
“I thought the foundation’s mission was big stuff. Like funding humanitarian organizations around the globe. That kind of thing.”
“Yeah, it does that. But he’s gone on record saying that part of doing good works is to watch the backs of those around you. I remember the press release he issued when the DSF financed the creation of the park. He said that he fell in love the first time he came to this town, and that he wants to make sure—”
“Fell in love with Laguna Cortez you mean.” My pulse is pounding, and I feel hot all over.
“I’m sure that’s what he meant, but it’s not what he said. I remember thinking it was an odd way to phrase it.”
“Oh.”
“What?” He crumples his paper cup. “You think it means something?”
“No, no. What could it?”
But I can’t help but wonder if it means everything.
“I need to run,” he says as he rises. “Be gorgeous for me. I have my standards, you know.”
“I’ll give it the old college try,” I say, tilting my cheek toward him as he bends to kiss me.
I stay a bit longer, thinking back to last night and Alex. Dangerous, he’d said. And he’d told me that I needed to leave.
I thought he was trying to scare me away, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe he was trying to protect me.
But from what?
Chapter Eleven
One valet opens the door for me, and I step out of Lamar’s Lexus as he passes the key to the second valet. I glance around at the DSF building, the exterior now illuminated by carefully hidden spotlights. An actual red carpet leads from where we left the car all the way to the front door of the building.
I lean toward Lamar as he approaches. “When they say gala, they really mean it.”
“M’lady.” He crooks his arm, and I take it, using my other hand to adjust my dress. “You look stunning,” he tells me.
“Hey, I gotta make my arm candy look good.” He’s right though. Thanks to Brandy’s friend, I’m decked out in a black sheath dress embellished with gold fringe as well as a dangerously plunging neckline. Not to mention the mile high slit necessary to walk in the ass-and-thigh clinging style.
I’ve paired it with gold Jimmy Choo sandals with three-inch heels. I’d intended to wear them with jeans, but this is better. My shoe collection is famous for its versatility.
In other words, I look seriously hot. I can see it in Lamar’s eyes, not to mention the eyes of nearby men and women as I step over the threshold and into the foundation’s lobby.
And while it’s petty of me—and probably stupid—I’m hoping Alex’s chin hits the floor when he sees me.
Devlin. I remind myself. As far as I’m concerned, Alex Leto doesn’t even exist anymore.
Not that it matters. Whatever his name is today, he’s nowhere to be found.
Unlike yesterday, this large room is full of activity, and the stark concrete walls are now covered with colorful images and video clips, each of which represents an organization or project that the DSF has aided.
Two huge tables take up much of the space, and even from here I can see they are topped with a multitude of goodies that make up the core of a very high-end silent auction. Smaller tables line walls, covered with desserts, appetizers, and goblets of wine.
In case you don’t want to serve yourself, uniformed waiters mingle among the crowd, expertly balancing trays topped with food or drink.
The glass doors that face the ocean are open, and people are coming in and out, taking drinks and food from passing waiters, or lingering to hear the string quartet playing on the flagstones.
It’s all glitz and glamour, opulence and money. And very much not the life I’m used to. “Impressive,” I say to Lamar, who’s old hat at swank functions like this. Though he left it all behind to become a cop, in another life, Lamar was a child star in two successful television series, the golden child of a pop star mom and a record-producing dad. From what he’s told me, his childhood mattress was stuffed with dollars, not down.
“Do you want me to get you a drink?”
“God yes,” I say, then give his arm a squeeze before releasing him. “Bless you.”
He steps away to wave down a nearby waiter with wine, and I take the opportunity to study the faces around me more thoroughly. I lived here for over half my life, and I wonder if I’ll see anyone familiar. From high school, maybe.
But nobody jumps out at me, and as I think about the limos outside, I wonder if most of this crowd came down from LA for the gala. Considering the thousand-dollar ticket cost—one hundred percent of which goes to charity—it’s probably one of the year’s top social events.
I’m still searching faces when I feel my phone vibrate in the small beaded purse that matches my dress. I tug it out, expecting the text to be from Lamar asking me my drink preference.
Instead, it’s from a number I don’t recognize. But I know exactly who it is.
I told you to leave.
I consider ignoring it, but a flare of anger ignites in my gut, and instead I tap out a reply.
And yet here I am. We need to talk.
I expect that either the conversation will end or he’ll turn me down flat. So I’m not at all surprised when I see no dots on my screen indicating him tapping out a reply.
“Prick,” I mutter. Because seriously? He’s just going to blow me off?
I’m angry, but I’m also confused.
Why tease me with the knowledge that the man I’d once loved has been hiding in plain sight all these years? Why lift the mask when the revelation only raises more questions?
For that matter, why wear the mask in the first place?
And the biggest question of all, why reveal himself to me if he’s only going to order me to leave? Because, honestly, even in a face-to-face interview, I never would have realized he was Alex. A resemblance, sure. But who the hell looks at a billionaire and says, oh, hey, you aren’t my old boyfriend in disguise, are you?
No one, that’s who.
So why show himself?
It doesn’t make sense.
And I like things to make sense.
I’m still stewing when I see a tall, slender woman with a close-cropped Afro coming my way. She looks to be in her early twenties, a few years younger than me, and is impeccably decked out in a cream-colored silk suit that beautifully contrasts her skin.
She smiles as she approaches, then extends a hand as I step forward. “Ms. Holmes, I’m Tracy Wheeler. I’m Ms. Danvers’ intern.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, as Lamar arrives with my drink. I take it, then glance around, looking for Tamra. “Is she around? Did she want to see me?”
“Actually, Mr. Saint asked me to find you. He’d like me to bring you up to his office.”
“Oh.” I take a generous swallow.
“His office?” Lamar repeats, tilting his gaze toward the fourth floor. “He’s not down here at the party?”
“He will be. I haven’t worked here long, but my understanding is that his habit is to join the party at the same time that he’s scheduled to greet the guests. That’s not for another half hour. So, if you’ll come with me?” She trails off, the invitation hanging in the air between us. I have the distinct impression that I’m not allowed to decline. Not that I would.
“She’s all yours,” Lamar says, pushing me toward Tracy with a gentle hand on my back. “Never let it be said that I got in the way of chasing a story.”
“I wouldn’t dream of saying that,” Tracy says, with that sweet smile. “But you better tell me who you are so I get it right.”
“Lamar Gage,” he says.
“A pleasur
e to meet you,” she says, and while it may be my imagination, I think I see a little extra zing in her smile.
The focal point of the main room is the stunning arch of the staircase that extends to the mezzanine in grand fashion. She leads us into a hidden elevator that opens into a concrete support column around which the stairwell curves. We take it all the way to the fourth floor, an accommodation for which I’m grateful. Considering my heels, I’d been a little concerned when she’d aimed us toward the staircase.
We emerge onto a small overhang that looks out at the party below, with no barrier other than a thick, half-wall of glass.
The rest of the space is decorated in a utilitarian fashion. A simple desk with minimal clutter. A contemporary-style credenza behind it. And a padded bench lining the opposite wall, presumably where Devlin’s guests can wait until they’re granted an audience with his majesty.
That area is, I assume, hidden behind the brushed steel double-doors that are on the far side of the space, immediately opposite the glass barrier.
“Normally, his assistant would show you in,” she says, approaching the desk. “But she’ll be downstairs now making sure everything’s running smoothly.”
She leans over the desk and pushes a button on the phone. “Mr. Saint? I have Elsa Holmes for you.”
There’s silence, then a curt, “Send her in.”
“Of course.” She pushes another button, and I hear the whisper-soft whirr of a motor as both doors glide open, revealing the inner sanctum. I’m equal parts impressed and amused, especially when Ode to Joy starts playing in my head and the climactic vault scene from Die Hard flashes in my mind.
But Alex isn’t Alan Rickman, and even though I’m definitely a pebble in his shoe, I don’t expect that he’s trying to kill me.
As I enter the room, though, I wonder if I need to alter that assessment. Because I’m not dealing with Alex Leto. That man is long gone from my life.
I’m standing in front of Devlin Saint, and I’d do well to remember that.
Behind me, the doors whisper shut, and when I look over my shoulder, I see that Tracy is long gone, and I’m alone in a room with him.
The room is sleek and modern, with a few minimalistic prints on the walls, a built-in wet bar, and a small seating area with a sofa, two chairs, and a small table. The furniture is made of wood and steel and muted fabrics, all clean lines and smooth edges.
It’s an impressive space, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Devlin Saint. Even from behind his desk, he commands the room.
As I take a step forward, he rises, tall and dark and powerful, the scar that runs from his brow to his jaw like an exclamation point on his intensity.
His eyes never leave my face, and his expression gives nothing away.
He’s Alex Leto, and yet he’s not.
He’s the man from the parking lot, and yet he’s not.
He’s power and strength and danger combined, and I don’t know how I never saw it before. That raw force that burns inside him. That wild, raw energy that, when wrestled down into a controlled intensity, had given him the strength and willpower to build something like the Devlin Saint Foundation.
And I wonder if that’s also where he got the strength to walk away from me.
The desk is huge and sleek, Danish modern in teak polished to a sheen. Unlike his assistant’s minimal desk, this one is essentially a brick, keeping the man behind it separated from everyone who steps into the room.
A sliding glass door is behind him, and I know it opens onto the fourth floor balcony upon which he’d been standing yesterday when he was watching me.
I shouldn’t be intimidated, but damn me, I am. In the parking lot, we were on more or less equal footing. Now, the scales have tipped wildly. I’m out of my element, a stranger in this pristine, polished room. A supplicant begging for crumbs of information, with no control over the situation whatsoever, and no real certainty why he summoned me.
More important, I can’t hold onto the fiction that I know this man at all. In this room, the difference between Alex Leto and Devlin Saint is clear. And more than a little unnerving.
I gather my courage and walk to the sofa, then sit down and cross my legs. “Well?” I demand, with more aplomb than I feel. “Shall we get started with that interview?”
He comes around the desk, moving with an efficiency and grace that’s almost poetic. He’d always been a pleasure to watch. But now there’s a poise to him that hadn’t been part of the younger model.
He heads for the wet bar in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit that makes him look both suave and powerful. He pours two glasses of whiskey from a decanter then brings them both to the sitting area. He puts one glass on the table in front of a chair, but he hands the other to me.
I reach for it, and as I pull my hand back, his forefinger brushes over the back of my hand. I suck in air, hating myself for reacting even as I crave more. Something intimate to match the spark of heat that his single touch had fanned inside me.
I don’t mean to, but I look up and our eyes meet, and for a moment everything else evaporates. The years, the hurt, the loss. It’s just me and Alex, and I want to fall on my knees and cry, I’ve missed him so much.
Then he looks away, and time snaps back into place. I look down, hiding my burning cheeks, and set the glass on the table with a thunk.
He sits opposite me, then reaches for his own glass. If he’d felt anything in that moment, he isn’t showing it now. His expression is as hard as stone and just as unreadable.
I force myself not to reach for my own glass, even though right now all I want to do is slam it back, then refill it.
He takes a sip, the ice tinkling against the crystal, his eyes never leaving my face.
As he does, I notice for the first time that his knuckles are red and raw, and it’s that tiny peek at humanity that steels my spine. “Fist fight?”
“Something like that.”
I smile sweetly although my heart is pounding. “Did you piss someone off? Or did you just have some energy to burn after last night? Are fist fights a remedy for blue balls? That’s something I never thought to look up on Wikipedia.”
He doesn’t react and I force the smile to stay in place, but I can tell my upper lip is sweating.
Seconds tick by and still he says nothing.
I don’t know what happened in the years between the boy and the man, but all of his raw edges have been worn away. He commands a room now, and it’s very clear that he understands the extent of his own power.
It’s overwhelming. And more than a little exciting.
I fight not to fidget. We’re playing chicken now, and we both know it. And even though I’m determined not to be the one who caves, I hear myself saying, “Well?”
He leans back, comfortable in victory. Then he takes a sip of his bourbon, puts the glass back down, and says, “I told you to go.”
And there it is.
I settle into my chair, because now I’m okay. The steel is back in my spine, and I remember why I’m pissed. Why I don’t need to be intimidated. Because guess what? I’m not the asshole here.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I follow his lead and reach for my drink. I swirl the ice, watching the circular flow of the liquid with the same intensity of someone reading tea leaves. Then I take a long swallow and finish off the entire damn drink.
“Strangely enough, I don’t take orders from you.”
One of his brows lifts, and a shiver cuts through me as a whisper of a memory haunts me. His breath on my face. His voice raw as he makes his demand, Come for me, baby.
I had. Just last night, I’d surrendered, and even now I feel the pressure between my thighs. That ache of need, that pinch of desire. I want him. And I hate myself for it.
“Why the hell did you show yourself to me?” The words lash out of me. “You could have kept your distance, held onto your story. Made me believe that you were just a man who looks a little like a boy I once loved. A bastard who betra
yed me. Why show me? Why the fuck did you show me? I mean, seriously? Do you hate me that much that you couldn’t resist another chance to hurt me?”
“I don’t hate you.” His voice is even and level without even a hint of emotion. If I weren’t so pissed, I’d be impressed by his control.
I nod slowly. “Fine. You don’t hate me. You just blew off our interview yesterday and then told me to leave.”
I wait for him to correct me. To point out that he had a conflict. Instead, he tilts his head to one side. “And yet here you are.”
I lean back into the sofa and cross my legs. “Did you really think I would go? Please. I came for the spectacle.”
“Detective Gage bought your ticket.”
“No. Tamra gave me one.”
His eyes widen at that, and I immediately regret the words. I have a feeling I’ve just brought the wrath of Saint down on her. So I’m surprised by his next question.
“You came with the detective. Is he your date?”
“Obviously.” I feel no guilt at the little white lie. “You still haven’t answered my question. About why you told me who you are in the first place.”
“No,” he says. “I haven’t.”
Shit. I shift gears. “Why do you care about Detective Gage?” Lamar’s helping me look into the Peter question. Maybe that’s what caught his attention?
One shoulder rises and falls. “I was curious.”
“Curious?” I sound like a parrot, and I frown. But my mind is spinning. He obviously has an agenda, but I don’t see it. “About what?”
He leans back, openly studying me. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“Excuse me?” He did not just ask me that.
“Sorry. I can phrase that better. Are you fucking him?”
A hot wire of anger curls through me, and I tap my finger on the table to release some of the energy that would otherwise be slapping him. “Are you intentionally trying to piss me off?”
He looks at me, his face hard and his green eyes intense. And, damn me, my anger fades, shifting into something a little like fear.
