My Beautiful Sin

by J. Kenner

  “Devlin?”

  “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

  I fight a pang of fear. “Sorry? Are you crazy?”

  “We forgot to use a condom.”

  “Oh. Oh!” I push myself up and grin. “I totally forgot. With all that’s happened it slipped my mind, but they left me a voicemail. The clinic I mean. Totally clean.”

  “Is that so?”

  “All negative.” I feel as accomplished as someone who scored an A-plus on a calculus exam with only an eighth-grade education. Considering the way I’ve lived my life these last few years, I hardly deserve to have aced this particular test, and I like to think it’s the universe’s way of saying it approves of me and Devlin being together.

  Devlin is looking at me, with mischief in his eyes. “What?” I demand.

  “Oh, nothing. Only that we need to celebrate.”

  “Mr. Saint, if you are prepared to indulge in more celebrating—” I make air quotes around the word. “—then I absolutely won’t say no.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he says, and I squeal as he flips me onto my back and straddles me. “Because with you, baby, I’m always in the mood to celebrate.”

  We make love again, slowly and sweetly, and when we are both spent, I spoon against him, then jump when the sharp ping of my phone startles me, signaling an incoming message.

  “Sorry about that. I can’t believe I forgot to silence it.”

  “I can’t believe that’s the first text message you’ve gotten,” he says. “I consider us lucky.”

  “It’s probably Brandy wondering whether it’s safe to come back, or if we’re having sex all over the living room floor. Or if I’m still a horrible mess.”

  “Damn. Living room floor. We missed another opportunity.” He rolls over and props himself up on an elbow. “And I’m very glad you’re not a horrible mess.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He lightly taps my lip. “You’re okay?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m perfect. Slightly sore,” I add, taking his hand and sliding it between my thighs. “But that doesn’t mean I want to stop yet. Shall we go for the gold?”

  “Somebody’s horny,” he teases, then lightly strokes my clit, sending electrical sparks racing through me. “I like it.”

  My laugh turns into a needy moan—then a frustrated sigh when the phone signals again.

  “You should check it,” he says, and I reluctantly grab it off the bedside table.

  The message box on my lock screen is blank, so I open the phone, then freeze when I see the text, which is decidedly not from Brandy.

  Devlin frowns at my expression, then takes the phone. “Oh, fuck.”

  I look over his shoulder, this time taking a closer look at the text message that simply says, Why do you even trust him?

  It’s accompanied by a photograph inside the Las Vegas Phoenix Hotel. I recognize it, even though the image is nothing more than an open hotel door, because the sign on the wall next to the door reads Sammy Davis Suite in the now-familiar font.

  It’s the room we shared when Devlin took me to Vegas. And now the photo shows him exiting that same room with Regina Taggart on his arm, her skirt tight and her arm through his.

  Beside me, Devlin spits out a curse. “That is not what it looks like. She’s been my date to a couple of functions, but we haven’t—”

  “I know,” I say, interrupting him. “I bet Reggie wasn’t even in Vegas with you today. That’s an old picture.”

  “Actually, she was. She flew in late afternoon. But you’re right about the picture. I think it was from right before one of the foundation awards banquets. How the hell did you know?”

  I shrug casually, then nod at the image on my phone. “Your glasses, for one. Different frames. And her shoes. Those Jimmy Choos are two seasons out of date.” I lift my head, meet his eyes, and shrug. “Just one of my special skills,” I say. “But it makes me certain that someone’s fucking with us.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Someone definitely is.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I wake to an empty bed and the smell of bacon. Usually I have a hard time getting up in the morning, but not today. I roll out eagerly and follow my nose to the kitchen, and to Devlin.

  “I was going to cook for you,” I say, feeling slightly guilty. “You came back from Vegas to take care of me. I figured it was the least I could do.” I shrug. “Although to be honest, I’m a terrible cook.”

  He grins at me. The stubble of beard is shaggier than usual since he hasn’t trimmed it yet, and his hair is a tousled mess. He’s not wearing his glasses or his green contacts and he looks sexy as hell in a rumpled, early morning sort of way. “I’m happy to cook for you. I was looking forward to it all night.”

  I laugh. “I sincerely doubt that, but I’m fine with being a spectator. I’m actually tempted to take a picture of you and post it on Instagram. Except I’d have to remember how to use my account.” I’m terrible at using social media. Considering I can count my close friends on one hand, I don’t really see the point. “Guess I’ll keep it just for me.”

  I expect him to protest when I pull out my phone and start to take a picture, but then I laugh when he actually strikes a pose, pointing the wooden spoon he’s using to stir the scrambled eggs to the Kiss the Cook apron that Brandy keeps hanging on the inside of the pantry.

  “I think you look a lot cuter than Brandy does in that thing,” I tell him. He’s wearing the slacks he wore yesterday and a now-rumpled white button down. The office attire combined with the apron makes for an absolutely adorable picture. “By the way, is she here?” I never heard her come back last night, but it’s possible I was asleep when she did.

  Devlin shakes his head. “If she is, she hasn’t emerged yet. Not Brandy. Not Christopher.”

  I make a noise in the back of my throat. “Interesting...” I close the photo app and check my messages but there’s nothing from her. “She might’ve emailed, figuring I didn’t need to be disturbed by the pinging of a text.”

  “And that’s the reason she’s your best friend.”

  I laugh, having thought the same thing many times myself. Sure enough, there’s an email saying that she’s staying over at Christopher’s and not to worry. And that she’ll give me full details when she gets back—but that that isn’t happening and I should get my mind out of the gutter. The final is followed by a huge smiley face emoji. “Apparently it’s just you and me,” I tell Devlin.

  “I’m happy for her. They make a cute couple.”

  “But not as cute as us?”

  “Oh, definitely not.”

  I scoot around the bar and hook my arm around his waist so that we can take a selfie. But I end up making him do the hard work since his arms are longer, and I want the apron in the image alongside me posing to kiss his cheek. He protests, but takes the photo, and when I look at it, I can’t help but grin. It’s a little crooked, but totally cute.

  “Too bad we didn’t realize last night that she wasn’t going to be here,” Devlin says. “We missed out on living room sex. This morning we could have started on the kitchen counters, hanging from the light fixtures. You know. Taking full advantage of her absence.”

  I smirk. “Shut up and finish making me breakfast.”

  “It’s great to see you smile,” he says as he finishes the eggs and moves the bacon to a plate.

  “Yesterday was hard. You made it easier. And even though it makes me sad, I’m actually looking forward to working on the article.”

  He looks at me, his expression dubious.

  “Seriously. It’ll be good to work through my emotions. I think—I hope—that even though Peter knew the risk, he was arrogant enough to believe that The Wolf wouldn’t take my mom from him. But either way I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ll never know the truth.” I shrug. “And that I’m a little bit like him.”

  He studies me, slowly shaking his head. “You would never put anyone in that position.”

  “No, but I fli
rt with danger all the time.”

  “Ellie...”

  “I do.” I tilt my head and offer him a smile. “I flirt with you, don’t I?”

  He grins. “You do indeed.” He moves our plates to the bar. “So what else did you learn yesterday?”

  “Nothing concrete,” I say, “but I may have a lead you can help me with.” He follows me as I move out of the kitchen and settle onto a stool at the bar. “Do you know if Peter was dating someone back then?”

  He pauses, clearly not expecting that question. “Well, he went out occasionally, if that’s what you mean. He was single and only in his forties. But I don’t think he was ever serious about anyone.”

  “Do you remember anyone specifically?”

  He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to remember. “Not really. He was pretty intent on spending his free time with you, actually. Why are you asking?”

  I tell him about the blonde. “Ortega said she was young. Like, really young. Like, he didn’t know if she could even drink young. Did you ever see him with anyone like that? I’m thinking that if I can track her down, I might be able to find out more.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look like he’s thinking, either. Instead, he looks shocked.

  “What is it? Do you have an idea? Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  He shakes his head. “No, no, no. I’m just—it doesn’t seem like Peter to date someone that young.” He frowns. “That would have put his girlfriend at about my age. I never thought Peter was the type. Do you know how long it went on?”

  I shake my head. Then frown when I look at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Sorry. I guess like you, I’m realizing I never really knew Peter either.” He stabs at his eggs but doesn’t take a bite. “Listen, I need to take care of some things at work today. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I cock my head. “It’s sweet of you to want to take care of me twenty-four/seven, but I’m fine. I told you. Yesterday was hard, but I have the benefit of the healing powers of you. Honestly, I figured you’d have to go back to Vegas today.”

  He shakes his head. “I took care of what I needed to. The team can handle the rest.” He cups his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me close to kiss my forehead. “Whatever you need, baby. Whenever you need it. You know that, right?”

  He pulls his hand free, and I lean back so that I can see him. “Yeah,” I assure him. “I do.”

  We eat in silence for a moment, and I finish before him. I move around the counter to set the water boiling for another cup of coffee, and as I wait for it to heat up, I open my phone and check out the selfie we took.

  “I like this,” I say. “The apron contrasting your super macho scar. Such dichotomy.” I hold my phone out as if examining it from another angle. “I should enlarge it and frame it.”

  At the bar, he makes a snorting noise.

  “Well, now I pretty much have to,” I say. “And by the way, you never told me how you got it. The scar, I mean. All you said was that it was a hunting knife. What happened? More important, what happened to the other guy?”

  “I was ambushed during an assignment.”

  I cock my head, noting that he called it an assignment and not an operation. I’ve never spent much time around the military, but I have watched a lot of movies, and I’m thinking this wasn’t during his regular service days. “You joined military intelligence, didn’t you?”

  His expression darkens as he says, “Lamar’s research skills are solid. Or am I wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Not wrong. He told me about how you were discharged and what that probably meant.”

  I stiffen, fearing the worst, but he takes it in stride. I’m glad. Technically, Lamar had been poking around about Ronan, but that’s not a topic I want to veer onto right now.

  “So you had some sort of spy-like assignment,” I guess. “And you ended up in a knife fight with the bad guy.”

  Humor flickers in his eyes. “Something like that. As far as knives go, it was one-sided.”

  “You were unarmed?”

  “Would you believe I had a whip?”

  I laugh out loud, certain he’s joking.

  “No, it’s true. He got the jump on me—trust me when I say that doesn’t happen often. I had a whip. A full-on, Indiana Jones style whip. It was one of my more surreal moments, and it disarmed him just fine.”

  “Wow. I’m sleeping with an action hero. How’s the other guy look?”

  “Actually,” he says casually, “he looks worse. Much worse.”

  I grin, strangely delighted by this bizarre story. “Good.”

  He lifts a brow—the one bisected by the scar. “Really?”

  “A girl wants her boyfriend to be bad ass. Or at least this girl does.”

  He studies me so long I start to get fidgety. “I’m very glad to hear you say that.”

  “Why on earth did you have a whip?”

  His expression goes flat. “That’s classified. I could tell you,” he says, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

  I burst out laughing, then blow off my boiling water to go back around the bar. I twist his stool a bit so that I can settle in between his knees and slide my arms around his neck. “So, you’re telling me you’re a bad ass?”

  He grabs my hips and pulls me even closer, then kisses me hard. It’s tongue and teeth and heat and lust, and when he pulls away I’m breathing hard and regretting the fact that I told him I was okay with him leaving for work. “Baby, you better believe it.”

  I laugh, enjoying the way he’s teasing, even as some part of me wonders if it really is a tease.

  “I need to get dressed,” I say. “And you need to get to work. Because if you don’t go to work now, I’m not sure I’m going to let you out of here.” I start back around the island . “Go on and get cleaned up. I’ll do the kitchen.”

  He shakes his head “Nope. Cooks clean their own messes.”

  “Do they?”

  “But you can help. And then we can share the shower. Conserve water. Save the planet.”

  I grin, then bite my lower lip in anticipation of shower time. “You know what? I think that sounds like a very good plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Devlin moved on autopilot on the way to the office, his frustration growing and his good mood fading as he thought about the conversation he needed to have with Anna.

  Surely, it wasn’t true. Surely, he was wrong. Surely, he was crafting wild scenarios in his head.

  Too bad he knew better.

  Devlin wasn’t the kind of man whose instincts tended to be off target. If he was spinning scenarios, it was because they were likely true and he’d missed seeing them.

  He didn’t like being wrong—who did? But with Devlin, his instincts were so rarely off that when he did miss something, it grated like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  Today, however, he hoped he’d missed the mark by a mile. Because if the story he’d spun in his head was right…

  He let the thought drift away as he pushed through the main door of the Devlin Saint Foundation.

  “Good morning, Mr. S—”

  “Where’s Anna?”

  Paul’s eyes widened, but the young man didn’t falter. “At her desk, sir, as far as I know.”

  “Thanks,” Devlin said, wanting to kick himself for taking his mood out on his receptionist. “And good morning, Paul. Sorry for being short. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  “Yes, sir. No problem, sir.”

  He kept walking, feeling Paul’s eyes on his back as he climbed the four flights of stairs to his office. As Paul had said, Anna was at her desk, and she looked up in surprise when he reached the landing.

  “You walked up? What? Did you skip your workout this morning?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. My office,” he said, heading for the doors that were opening like magic for him. “Now.”

  She hurried in after him. “What’s going on?” Her voice foll
owed him. “You’re supposed to be in Vegas. Did something—”

  He rounded on her. “Were you fucking Peter White?”

  She hesitated, her eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

  It wasn’t a denial, and as far as Devlin was concerned, that was answer enough.

  “Oh, Christ,” he said, then rubbed his fingers against his temple against the start of a pounding headache.

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the electronic whoosh of his office doors closing. Then he heard that final snick of the doors shutting, and it was as if that sound was a signal.

  “Tell me,” he demanded as Anna shook her head.

  “Devlin, come on. Where is this coming from?”

  That was twice she hadn’t denied.

  “I’m serious,” she pressed. “This is coming out of nowhere.”

  “The hell it is. You came to Laguna Cortez on your way to Chicago, heading for college. You delivered a message to me. Just like you’d delivered others before.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, remembering how she’d been the harbinger of such horrific news and wishing he could block the memory of those days. Of all of it except the sweet hours with Ellie before he ran.

  “I—well, yes.” Her brow furrowed. “Your father sent me. You know that.”

  “How long were you here before you told me what my father had ordered? For that matter, how many times did you linger after coming to town to deliver other messages to Peter?” He stressed the word messages, filling it with meaning.

  Her eyes went wide. “What does it matter? I had to come—you know I couldn’t say no. So what if I played that to my advantage? You know what kind of life I had to lead.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to stay focused and unemotional despite her admission.

  “And that last time, I was here for you. Not for Peter,” she continued. “I could have warned him, right? But then you’d be dead, wouldn’t you? Because your father would have assumed you warned him.”

  “Not necessarily. He might have thought you did,” Devlin pointed out. “Especially if my father knew you were sleeping with Ellie’s uncle.”