by J. Kenner
She blinks, and I get the impression she is trying to keep herself together. I wonder about her relationship with her dad. About whether or not it hurts worse to lose a parent in that way, slowly through illness or a failure of mental capacities, than it does to have them taken away from you completely at a young age.
I take a step closer, struck by the fact that she seems so familiar. I wonder if we’ve seen each other before. “Did you go to high school in Laguna Cortez?”
Her eyes widen in surprise.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you look familiar.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t grow up here. My parents divorced when I was young. I lived with my mother. I moved here about six years ago to help my dad with the place.” She makes a face. “And because I couldn’t decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. Dad always said the hotel would be my inheritance, so I should learn to manage it.” She sighs. “Guess I got my inheritance early.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I tell her. “But I bet it comforts him to know the hotel’s in your hands.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet.” She taps the edge of a stack of promotional postcards, straightening them. “So, what is it you think my dad might be able to help you with?”
“Peter White,” I say. “He was my uncle, and he was killed when I was seventeen. I’m just trying to find out more about him. You know, fill in the gaps in my personal history, and understand why he might’ve been killed. The murder was an odd one.”
“I know the name. He’s the man my father bought the hotel from, right?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry, but that’s all I know. I don’t even think we have any documents or notes that Mr. White left for my father about managing the business. I assume you’ve talked to the police.”
“Of course, but this isn’t really about solving his murder. This is more about me understanding the man that he was.”
“I get that. I’ve been packing up a lot of my father’s things over the last few years, sorting through them, learning a bit about his life. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. I wish I could help.”
“Well, thank you for your time,” Lamar says. He glances at me, and I nod. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing else to learn here. We say our goodbyes, then head out.
Once we’re on the street, I pull Lamar to a stop. “She didn’t look familiar to you?”
Lamar shakes his head. “No. Trust me. I would remember her.”
I roll my eyes.
“Speaking of good-looking women…” He trails off with a nod to the DSF across the street. “Mind if we pop in?”
At first, I’m confused by the question. Then I remember Tracy Wheeler, currently interning at the Devlin Saint Foundation. The same Tracy who turned Lamar’s head when we went to the gala together not so long ago. “You are such a manwhore.”
He manages to look innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Millie already texted me. You sent her a text asking if she wanted to join us for lunch tomorrow in LA.” Millie is a friend from our days at the Irvine PD. She quit not long after we joined up in order to go to law school. Now she’s an Assistant US Attorney based in LA.
“She can’t, by the way,” I continue. “She’s prepping for trial. But she said she was excited you asked.” I cross my arms over my chest. “She’s a friend. Don’t toy with her. Tracy either. I like them both.”
He holds up his hands. “Whoa. I’m not looking to hurt anybody. But if I like someone and they like me…” His smile widens. “And, honestly, what isn’t there to like?”
I try to keep a straight face, but end up laughing. “Manwhore,” I repeat. “And don’t think the fact that I’m laughing diminishes my message. Hurt either of them, and I’ll have your balls in a sling.”
“Noted,” he assures me. “My balls and I will be on their best behavior.”
I shake my head in exaggerated exasperation. The truth is, I do hope he finds someone, I’m just afraid that in his search, he’s going to end up hurting one of my friends. It’s not an unreasonable fear. I’ve never seen Lamar get serious about anyone. He’s dated a number of women and men in the time that I’ve known him, always nice people, usually fun, usually smart. The kind of people that I could see him being happy with on a long-term basis. Yet for some reason, it never works out.
I don’t know why, and it makes me worry. I love him dearly, but I also know that I don’t completely understand him. One of these days, I’d like to. But until then, we continue to muddle along.
“Don’t break Tracy’s heart,” I order as we reach the DSF’s main entrance.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I’d like to give him a sterner warning—after all, I feel a bit protective of Tracy since she works for my boyfriend—but he’s already opened the door for me. I enter, pausing for a moment to take in the familiar interior, so stunning in its simplicity of stone and steel.
I cross to the reception desk where Paul, the same man who greeted me the first day I arrived, still sits. He looks up now with a smile of welcome. “Ms. Holmes. Shall I let Mr. Saint know that you’re here?”
“It’s Ellie, Paul. And sure, that would be great. But let him know that it’s no big deal. We actually came to see Tracy, so if he’s busy, he doesn’t need to come down.”
“I’ll let him know. And I’ll buzz Tracy.”
I thank him, and Lamar and I wander toward the wall of windows that opens onto an outdoor seating area. These walls are meant to be pushed completely aside, disappearing like pocket doors into the structure to make an indoor-outdoor entertaining area. The foundation holds a lot of fundraisers, and with the view of the Pacific beyond the flagstone patio, you couldn’t ask for a better location.
Lamar leaves me to run to the men’s room, and I’m watching the ocean when Tracy comes up behind me.
“Hey!”
I turn, then find myself engulfed in Tracy’s hug.
“It’s great to see you,” Tracy says, stepping back. She wears her hair in a close-cropped afro which accentuates her high cheekbones. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is that you have an admirer,” I say. “I’m here with Lamar. He wanted to pop in.”
“Oh.” A smile tugs at her mouth. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?”
I consider warning her. Telling her that Lamar never seems to gets serious. But I keep quiet. After all, I’m the last person who should be giving dating advice. Besides, every time Lamar makes a comment about my relationship with Devlin, it just pisses me off. “Have you guys been seeing a lot of each other?” I ask instead, as Devlin’s assistant, Anna, hurries toward us.
Tracy shakes her head. “We see each other around our building, but not that much. Our schedules are pretty different. But,” she adds with a lilt in her voice, “we’ve been doing a lot of texting. He’s sweet.”
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “He is.”
“Are you talking about Lamar?” Anna asks. “I saw him upstairs. He was coming up as I was coming down.”
I frown, wondering why he didn’t pop into the first floor men’s room. Not that it matters, and the thought leaves my head as Anna reaches out to take my hands. She’s a stunning redhead, with vivid blue eyes and perfectly clear skin. It’s a rare combination—the hair and the eyes—a fact I’d learned when I did a piece on recessive genes my first year at The Spall. Rare or not, the bottom line is that Anna turns heads, and I’d been jealous as shit the first time I saw her at Devlin’s side.
Now that I know they’re just friends, I’ve grown to like her. But I still look like a short, plain kid playing dress up next to her curvy, movie star looks.
“I’m so glad to see you. I was going to call you today and tell you how happy I am. Devlin told me you two worked things out. I’m thrilled for you both. I was so worried,” she adds, stepping back and looking me up and down. “But here you are, glowing.”
I laugh, embarrassed. I’ve never been great at being in the spot
light. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Tracy says, and I reluctantly concede the point.
As an intern, Tracy’s new at the DSF, and not in Devlin’s circle of friends. Anna, however, has known him since childhood, and is perfectly aware that he used to be Alex Leto, aka Alejandro Lopez. What I don’t know is if she or Ronan know the truth about who killed Peter. Probably not—why would they? It’s not as if Devlin would have wanted to advertise the truth back when he was still Alex. Or why he’d feel the need to spill his secrets later when he founded the DSF. Tamra knows—but that’s because she was like a surrogate mom to him, and he told her the whole story after the fact.
“—way down.”
“Sorry?” I look up, realizing that I’d zoned out and entirely missed something Anna was saying.
“I said he was in the middle of something when Paul buzzed. But he should be down any—oh, there he is. Perfect timing.”
“For both of us,” Tracy adds, leaning over to whisper in my ear.
I don’t know what she means until I turn and see Devlin descending the stairs with Lamar right beside him. Devlin’s in a gray suit with a pale blue shirt. His hair is swept back from his face, and the dark rim of the glasses he wears as additional camouflage only make him look even more the corporate warrior.
Warrior, indeed, I think. His posture is tense, his mouth set firm, his every move precise. He’s moving with Lamar, but they’re not talking, and the air between them seems to shimmer with meaning.
I don’t know what happened between the two of them, but I can read the room easily enough.
And what I see tells me that Devlin is pissed as hell.
Chapter Eight
When Devlin and Lamar reach the main floor, Lamar extends his hand to shake. But Devlin is already on the move, and he simply brushes Lamar’s shoulder in a silent indication that it’s time for them to come join us. I can’t tell if it’s an intentional slight, or if he didn’t see Lamar’s hand in the moment. I hope it’s the latter, but I fear it’s the former.
When they reach us, Tracy moves forward to meet Lamar, so I don’t have the chance to ask him what that was all about. Devlin comes straight toward me as Anna melts away, presumably to go back upstairs and take her place at the command center for Devlin’s office.
I move back, further away from Lamar and Tracy, then whisper, “What the hell?”
His voice is tight as he says, “Your friend had a message to deliver.”
“Oh?”
“If I hurt you, he’s going to squeeze the life out of me.”
I almost laugh. I don’t doubt Lamar’s talents as a police officer, but the thought that he would be able to bring a man like Devlin to his knees is amusing. What I do, though, is wince. “I’m sorry.”
“Unless you sent him on that particular mission, you don’t have anything to be sorry about. Detective Gage, however, has plenty to account for.”
“Devlin, don’t—”
“He’s your friend, so I’m cutting him some slack.” His voice is as sharp as a blade. “But the next time he comes into my place and proceeds to lecture me about—”
“What?” Since he cut his words off so sharply, I twist around, wondering if Lamar or Tracy has approached. But we’re still alone and out of earshot.
Devlin shakes his head, his features softening as he says, “Fuck, I’m sorry. He’s just looking out for you. I know it. It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fine.”
He runs his fingers through his dark hair, unintentionally releasing most of it from the leather tie that holds it back. “It is. Truly. I’m sorry.”
I study him, knowing that he’s jealous of the friendship Lamar and I developed in the years that Devlin and I were apart. Years we can’t ever get back. And that’s why I decide that it’s the better part of valor to say nothing more than, “Thanks.”
“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” He studies me for a moment, then frowns as he grips my elbow. “Come with me.”
I hesitate, but Lamar has caught up with Tracy, so I don’t object when Devlin leads me outside and into a small alcove out of sight from the massive windows that provide foundation visitors with a view of the ocean.
“What are we—” But my words are cut off by a bruising kiss, hot and demanding. I melt against him, my body firing instantly as I crave more.
“Careful,” I gasp when he lets me up for air. “Get me too riled up, and you’re going to have a hard time slowing this party down.”
“With you, I never want to slow down.”
I hook my arms around his torso and press close enough that I can feel his erection. “I like the sound of that. The feel of it, too.”
“Naughty girl.”
“For you? I’ll be as naughty as you want.”
With an unexpected ferocity, his hand fists in my hair and tugs my head back. I gasp, not from pain but from the unexpected motion and from the wild intensity I see in his eyes.
“You’re mine,” he growls, and I melt a bit at the possessive tone. “Say it.”
“I am. Of course, I am.” I flash a smile, realizing he doesn’t yet know my big news. “I’m even officially staying in Laguna Cortez.”
His brow furrows as he releases his hold on me. “Officially?”
I nod. “I was going to stay anyway, obviously, but now I can stay with a paycheck. Roger told me that I can work from the West Coast. I’m even keeping most of my stories, except for the ones that are New York based. My arch nemesis is getting those.” I wrinkle my nose.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t realize you had an arch nemesis.”
I lift a brow. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Touché.” His voice is light, but I see a shadow cross his face. I think of that horrible text and regret the joke. Then the moment passes, and he clears his throat before saying, “So tell me more.”
“That’s pretty much it. I’m still on payroll, only I’m working from here. They’re going to publish the profile on the Devlin Saint Foundation—you’re very welcome—but I don’t get a byline.”
He winces. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s okay.” I squeeze his hand. “Considering the trade-off is you, I have no objection. Besides, I thought about it, and I don’t want the fact that we’re together to suggest any sort of bias in the article. I want readers to see the DSF and understand it for what it is. Because it’s a really special organization, and the work you do is important.”
“It means a lot to hear you say that.”
“I’m only saying what’s true. But that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t matter how much it means to you or me. What matters is what it means to all the people the foundation helps.”
He swallows, then gently lifts my hand and kisses my palm. “Yes,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with emotion. “Exactly that.”
“And I do still get a byline,” I tell him. “Just not for that article.”
“A new assignment?”
I hesitate, because he won’t be releasing balloons about this one. “They want me to do the article on Uncle Peter after all.”
His expression goes totally flat. “Do they?”
I manage a laugh. “Don’t get too enthusiastic. Besides, it’s good. This way all the research I want to do for myself comes with a paycheck.”
He says nothing, and so I barrel on.
“It’s going to be a more personal piece. Almost an essay about my journey to figure out what happened to Peter. The arc of his life into and out of The Wolf’s fold.”
He rubs his temples. “Ellie—”
“I know you don’t like the idea, but too bad. I’m going to find answers. I want to know about my uncle. About what he was involved in. I want to know how he went from being the man he was to the man he became.”
“I get that, but, baby, it’s only going to hurt. And the more you learn about how deep he was in my father’s organization will be like salt
in a wound.” He takes my hand. “I don’t want you hurt like that. Not when you don’t need to be.”
“I know. And I know Uncle Peter and his connection to The Wolf overlaps you.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to—”
“But you have to know that I would never put anything in that article that reveals who you are. Or even hints. Hell, I don’t even need to mention you.”
“We’ve talked about this. I still don’t like it. There’s no upside to poking around in the past, Ellie. It’s never a good idea to dig up skeletons.”
“That’s my job, Devlin.” My voice is hard. “I dig up skeletons. It comes with the territory.”
“To find answers that affects the now. That’s what a reporter does. But you’ll never truly have answers with Peter because Peter’s not around to give them to you.”
I yank my hand out of his. “Stop telling me how to do my job. I get you don’t like me poking around in areas that might overlap with your dad, but you’re going to have to get over it. And I also know that I may not be able to learn what was in Peter’s head, but there are still facts I can learn. Facts I need to learn.”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“Little things. Like why he was mad at my mom right before she died. And whether or not that was part of why he moved here to help take care of me. Was it guilt? Did he believe she’d been driving too fast, thinking about some fight they had? Was that why her car went over?”
His expression is beyond sad. “Baby, no. You’ll never find those answers. There’s no one who can tell you.”
“I still have to ask the questions,” I say. “It’s like a prayer, you know? It’s my way to honor them.”
He draws in a breath, then lets it out slowly. I assume he’s gathering his thoughts for another objection, but instead he just says, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He nods and repeats himself, only this time with a smile. “Yes, okay Not that it matters,” he adds. “I know you’re not asking permission, just keeping me in the loop.”
