My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  He hesitates, and I think he’s going to blow off my question. But then he settles back, takes a sip of Scotch, and says, “My dad knew him, and when I said I wanted to work before going to college, he called Peter. As far as he knew, Peter was hell-on-wheels in construction and rental management.”

  I lean back into the buttery leather and cross my legs, one black Chanel pump dangling from my toe. Since I wasn’t sure about today’s itinerary, I dressed in slacks, a button down, and a tailored jacket. Considering the environment, I’m feeling a bit like a corporate mogul.

  “How did they know each other?”

  “Some sort of business dealings. I never specifically asked.”

  “You told me once you didn’t want to be there.”

  “No. I didn’t.” He lets his gaze roam over me, down my chest, over my crossed legs, down to the shoe dangling from my toes. I should tell him to stop. That this falls outside the parameters I’ve set. But I know he’ll deny doing anything. And as for me…

  Well, I can’t deny that I like the way my nipples tighten and my pussy clenches. I like that we’re playing at balancing on a tightrope over red hot coals.

  Mostly, I like that he makes me feel.

  “You were the only thing good about those days,” he continues. He’s lost the clipped, professional tone, and I hear real emotion in his voice. The kind that makes my insides flutter, even though I shouldn’t want them to flutter at all. “That,” he continues, “and learning about the business. The organization. The accounting. Practical skills I still use today. But if it weren’t for you, I would have bolted so much earlier.”

  “Devlin,” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “Is that really what you want?”

  I frown. “What?”

  “To finish what we started.” His voice is low and measured and full of heat.

  I have to lick my lips my mouth is so dry, and I squeeze my thighs together as I whisper, “Yes.”

  I’m pretty sure the temperature in the cabin has shot up ten degrees, and beads of sweat pop up between my breasts.

  “It’s not a good idea.” That’s what his words say. His voice suggests something different.

  “No?” I unbuckle my seat belt, not letting myself think about what I’m doing and not caring that the fasten seat belt sign is still on. “I think it’s a stellar idea.” I stand up, then move the short distance to him. And, very deliberately, I straddle him, thanking whoever designed this jet for the wonderful, roomy chairs.

  “Ellie.”

  I hear the protest in his voice, but he makes no move to shove me off. I close my hands around his neck and slide my hips forward until I’m grinding against his wonderfully hard cock.

  “You owe me this,” I say, taking one hand off his neck to grab one of his hands. I press it over my breast, and hold it there, then watch the heat—the need—flood his face.

  And, yes, I revel in victory when he tightens his grip, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple through the thin silk of my bra.

  “You had the chance to fuck me out of your system,” I say. “You knew you were leaving. I was your goodbye fuck. Your goddamn swan song.” My hips are moving, grinding, and I want his fingers on my core. I want him to make me come.

  “You got your closure, you bastard. But you left me hanging and lost and alone.”

  “Ellie—”

  I press my hand to his mouth as I bend forward, my lips brushing his ear as my fingers fumble at his fly. “Alex Leto owes me, but I want Devlin Saint to pay. Fuck me,” I demand. “Goddammit, you owe me that.”

  I pull back, expecting to see fury in his eyes. Instead I see heat and desire and a need as greedy as my own, so vibrant it shimmers in the air between us. Our breath mingles, and I brace myself for him to throw me to the ground. To strip me bare and fuck me hard.

  Then I feel his hands at my waist and know that this is it.

  Except his touch is gentle. And as he shifts me back, all he says is, “No.”

  I lash out, landing a hard slap against his left cheek.

  The bastard barely even flinches.

  I’m still straddling his thighs, my palm stinging and my breath coming hard when I hear the squawk of the intercom followed by Gregg’s voice.

  “Mr. Saint, there’s a call for Ms. Holmes.”

  “Thank you,” he says, his eyes still hard on mine.

  I scramble off him, adjusting my clothes as he takes the satellite phone out of the console near his chair and passes it to me. I take it, carefully avoiding his touch and his eyes.

  “Roger?” I’d realized that I’d be out of touch in the air. It was a short flight, but since I’d been trained to always be available, I’d texted Anna during the drive. She’d given me the number of the satellite line and I’d had my calls forwarded.

  “Great job on the Myers article,” he says as I settle back in my seat, taking deep breaths to try to steady myself. “You went over and above. It’ll be featured on the site tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. Is that why you called?”

  “I wanted to get an ETA on the profile.”

  “I’m shooting for the end of the week,” I tell him. “I’m actually on my way to Vegas right now with Mr. Saint.” My voice, I think, sounds entirely normal.

  “Excellent. It’ll be tight, but we should be able to get it in before next month’s issue gets put to bed.”

  I do some mental calculations and agree.

  “How about the rest?” Roger asks gently. “Any news on your uncle?”

  “Working on it.” I take a deep breath. “Okay, the truth is I wanted to talk to you about that. Do you have a sec?”

  “Come on, kid. You know I always have a second for you.”

  I squirm a bit. Roger’s always been a great mentor, and I appreciate the hell out of it, but I always feel a little squidgy when it’s right there in my face. Because why do I deserve that? Hell, why do I even deserve to still be here when my mom and dad and Peter are all gone?

  “Did I lose you?”

  “Sorry,” I say, looking up to see Devlin watching me. I turn away, not sure if I’m embarrassed or angry. Mostly angry.

  I force the thoughts out of my head and focus on Roger. “Listen, remember when I told you this research about Peter might only be for me? That you shouldn’t plan on an article?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the more I think about it, the more I want to publish. Because I can’t make a difference if I keep it all in my head.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “You’re the one who’s always told me that, and you’re right.” I shift in the seat, gathering my thoughts. “I always thought I’d be a cop, but when I actually started, the job didn’t do it for me. But journalism? This is my jam. Because I can make a real difference.”

  “You’re thinking about your uncle getting caught up with The Wolf.”

  “Exactly. One man with tentacles that reached far and wide who destroyed innocent lives. Peter’s. Mine.”

  “I agree. It would make a great story.”

  “That’s not all. I want to investigate how it was that The Wolf was never caught or convicted. As far as I’m concerned, he must have had a small army of folks in law enforcement and the judiciary in his pocket. And I want to dig deep into the repercussions of what he did.”

  “So not a personal essay,” Roger says. I swivel in the chair, and as I do, I see Devlin studying me, the corners of his mouth pulled down.

  “Right. I want to do a hard news piece. From the addicts who consumed The Wolf’s drugs to the mules who carried them to the people he sucked in and used like Uncle Peter. I want to tell the stories of the victims like me who lost family and friends, all because one man wanted power and money, and was willing to take it any way he could.”

  “That’s ambitious kid.”

  I bristle. “Are you saying no?”

  I hear Roger draw in a breath. “I’m saying it’s a personal story and a big commitment for so
mething that’s not breaking news. But I’m not saying no. I’m saying we’ll talk more after the profile is turned in. What the DSF is accomplishing in Nevada is timely. Your uncle’s story can run anytime.”

  I relax. “Yes, boss.”

  “Good work, Holmes. Keep me updated.”

  I hang up, then lean back, feeling pretty smug. His timeliness concern is legit, but I want to show that the ripples reach out even to the present—I’m a walking example of someone whose entire reality was flipped upside down after learning that I’d been fed the wrong narrative a decade ago.

  And I bet when I talk to Millie’s prisoner, I’ll be able to show even more ripples.

  I turn to Devlin. “Well, at least that went well.”

  “It would be a mistake.”

  I sigh. I know damn well he’s not talking about my work. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  He’s silent for so long I open my satchel and start reviewing my notes.

  “I see why you’re drawn to journalism,” he says after fifteen thick minutes of silence. “You’ve always craved answers, and if you can’t find your own, then the next best thing is to help other people.”

  I look over at him. “I don’t need to be analyzed. Least of all by you.”

  He shrugs. “Fair enough. But do you think this is the story to chase? The Wolf is gone. Shouldn’t you focus on something that will make a difference? Not something that’s a decade old?”

  I gape at him. “How can you say that? Peter got caught in that bastard’s web, and it killed him. It put a target on your back. It uprooted your whole damn life. Don’t you want answers? Don’t you want it to really and truly be over?”

  I watch his throat move as he swallows. Then his eyes lock on mine.

  “I do,” he finally says. “More than you can possibly know.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I went to Vegas once with Brandy right after college. We stayed at one of the cheaper casinos on the strip. We gambled, drank, pigged out at the buffet, watched a few shows—and never even left the casino. As far as hotels went, it felt like somebody had given a chain motel a shot of adrenaline. There were no luxuries other than watered-down drinks served for free if you sat at a table or slot machine long enough. And, of course, non-branded shampoo and soap in the room.

  I managed to return home with a total of ten dollars more than I’d come with, not counting the cost of my share of the room. At the time, I considered that a win. I’d also thought the casino was pretty damn impressive.

  Clearly, I was young and naive.

  The Phoenix is located on the famous Las Vegas Strip, but Devlin tells me that it’s at one of the newer ends and intentionally set off from most of the traffic.

  “We want to draw tourists, but this place serves a dual purpose, so having a slightly smaller crowd is acceptable as long as we’re ultimately making enough to cover costs of the hotel and casino, as well as rehab and education.”

  “Rehab and education?” I ask as the driver turns into a long driveway leading to a huge, elegant building featuring a large center space with two tall towers on either side and a shorter one in the back. He continues on, then pulls to a stop under the porte-cochere.

  “I’ll explain in a minute,” Devlin says as the valet opens the door and offers me a hand. Devlin follows me out, then ushers me inside. And that’s when I realize we are definitely not in Kansas—or on the other end of the Strip—anymore.

  The place is gorgeous. Decorated in a contemporary style, it’s all sleek lines and beautiful, functional art, like the light fixtures that fill the main room with a warm glow, the steel and leather furniture in the reception area, and the brass and glass bar in the far corner that seems to act as a gateway to a casino beyond.

  “The casino is in this section,” Devlin says. “And the towers are for hotel guests. We’ll be staying in one of the suites.”

  We?

  He’d said I’d have my own room, but I don’t question him on it. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but my words to Brandy are still at the forefront of my mind. Closure.

  And despite being shut down on the plane, I’m still all about that plan.

  “—and education center.”

  I look up, frowning. “Sorry. Could you say that again?”

  “I said that there’s a corridor at the back of the retail space that leads to the third tower, albeit a significantly shorter one. That’s where the foundation’s local office is located. It’s also where we house rescued women and children while they undergo rehab, education, and job-training.”

  “That’s incredible,” I say. “How many people?”

  “Maximum capacity is just shy of five-hundred. We’re at about fifty-percent occupancy right now.”

  I nod, my throat feeling a bit thick as I realize that means there are about two-hundred and fifty women and kids living in that hotel right now who’ve been victims of human trafficking.

  “You’re doing incredible work here.”

  “I know,” he says, with more than a little pride in his voice. He’s looking straight into my eyes when he adds, “It means a lot that you think so.”

  I swallow, and for a moment we just stand like that. No tension. No fear. No loss. It feels like it used to, and my heart skitters with the knowledge that maybe some part of what we had isn’t dead. Maybe we’ll never get it back again, but at least it hasn’t blown away like ashes in the wind.

  Then in a poof it all disappears when a woman’s voice calls out, “Devlin.” I look up in response to see Anna striding toward us, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

  “Anna?” His brow furrows.

  “I have you set up in the Dean Martin suite with Ms. Holmes across the hall in Sinatra.”

  “Tamra was supposed to be on-site this trip. And she had me set up in the Sammy Davis suite. I understood it was available.”

  “She had to deal with a conflict. I offered to be on-site.”

  I see Devlin’s brow furrow. “Did she say what conflict?”

  She shakes her head. “No, just that it was one of our international partners, and that she’d call you later. I did mention the room change to Ms. Danvers,” Anna continues. “I thought this arrangement would better suit Ms. Holmes. And ensure that we won’t disturb her when we have our meetings.”

  She flashes me a quick, thin smile. Perfectly polite, and yet something hot and angry coils inside me. Something a lot like jealousy. Which is ridiculous, as I have no claim on this man.

  Her attention shifts back to Devlin. “Tamra seemed to think it was an excellent idea.”

  “Fine,” Devlin says. “You have the keys?”

  She hands him two keycard envelopes.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten. In the office. I’ll take it from here.”

  Again, Anna smiles at me. “Of course. Good evening, Ellie. Let me know if there’s anything you need for your article.”

  I manage what I hope is a friendly smile. “Thanks so much.”

  She leaves, and I wait, expecting Devlin to lead the way to our rooms. Instead, he pulls out his phone and dials. “Tamra. Talk to me.”

  He’s silent for a bit, except for some low noises in his throat. “Fine. I’ll take care of the mix up. And what about our international issue? Tonight? Christ, I—”

  He casts a sharp glance toward me, but I can’t read a thing on his face. “No, no. It’s an inconvenience, but obviously I’ll adjust. You’ll fix the reservation? Okay. Yes. Alright, I need to go and fix the room situation. Right. Bye.”

  I lift a brow, but he holds up a finger, then dials again as he starts walking, signaling me to join him. “Carmen,” he says, as we pass by a stunning abstract sculpture and turn left into a hallway that had been previously hidden, “I thought I was clear that I wanted the Davis suite. Yes, I know, but she misunderstood.”

  We pause at an elevator bank, and he continues. “I’ll use my master. Have them bring the luggage. Terrific,” he says as we step
onto the elevator. “Thanks so much, Carmen. I can always trust you to keep things running smoothly.”

  He hangs up, then presses twenty-seven, the top floor.

  “Who’s Carmen?”

  “An assistant general manager. She was one of our first rescues. She works with Dimitri, the casino manager.”

  “Rescues?”

  “She was trafficked when she was twenty. Taken while she was backpacking through Europe with friends. She survived. Her friend wasn’t so lucky.”

  I realize my hand is in front of my mouth as I say, “How did she end up here?”

  “One of the organizations we fund is the Beyond Project. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. Their work with your foundation is at the heart of my article. Its mission is to investigate and then try to facilitate the rescue of trafficking victims. We’re meeting with some of their reps tonight, right?”

  “Exactly. Well, when Beyond became aware of the particular ring that held Carmen, we funded their research efforts and acted as a liaison between Beyond and a paramilitary organization that was sent in as part of the rescue team.”

  “Paramilitary,” I repeat. “I didn’t realize the DSF was so—” I shake my head, looking for the word. “Proactive, I guess.”

  “The majority of foundation dollars go to research, education, and rehabilitation. But a significant amount goes to rescue. To the extent our partners become aware of a situation that can be remediated, the DSF will consider underwriting that effort.”

  “Consider,” I repeat, as the elevator slides to a stop.

  “We vet everything,” he says. “From the proposed team the beneficiary organization wants to send in, to the veracity of the claim.”

  “You think someone might fake a situation?”

  “I think people can be both more vile and more caring than we know. And unless you do your homework, you never truly know what side of the line they fall on. So I’m not inclined to act impetuously about anything. There’s always the risk someone will get hurt.”