by J. Kenner
I see her throat move as she swallows. Then she turns from me, her face melting into warm goo as she focuses on Devlin. “He sold them,” she says, her voice thin and her breath raspy. “He liked to tape me, but then he sold them to Cyrus and said he was done with me. Done.”
“Devlin, we need to call 911.” My throat is thick with both fury and heartbreak. “She’s losing a lot of blood.”
“He was going to … put those tapes out there,” Anna rasps, as Devlin stands and pulls out his phone. “Your fucking girlfriend’s fucking uncle … Had you kill him … That’s why … that’s why I told you to do it. Pretended the order was from him … from your father.”
Her lips move and she struggles for words. “Had to … Had to punish Peter because he—”
Her eyes go wide, her body stiffening as if she finally realized she said too much.
I’m in shock, the reality of her words coalescing in front of me into a picture I really don’t want to see. The Wolf never ordered Peter’s execution. Anna set Devlin up to murder her lover in order to get revenge for selling the tapes. And all along, Anna has been harassing me, trying to get rid of me. Until, finally, she decided to just kill me.
“She’s poison,” Anna says, her eyes drifting to me, her face twisting as a burst of energy seems to fill her.
She reaches behind her, and I drop to the floor, certain I know what’s coming. I see her pull out the gun. I hear the blam of the bullet, and then I see her slump to the floor, her secondary weapon falling from her now-limp fingers.
I whip around to Ronan, but he hadn’t pulled the trigger this time.
Devlin had.
He’d killed the woman he’d thought was his friend to save me.
I gasp, then run into his arms. This time, Ronan doesn’t stop me. We sink to the ground, holding each other as Ronan dials 911.
“I’m sorry,” I say, certain his heart must be breaking, his whole reality shifting. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I told you,” he whispers. “I will always protect you. No matter what the price. No matter what the cost.”
Epilogue
“Don’t even think about it,” I say, as Devlin’s hand snakes up my thigh, taking advantage of the slit in the ballgown. “There is no way you’re getting me all mussed up before you accept this award.”
“And after?” he asks.
“After’s a no-brainer,” I say. “How many girls get to say they fucked the Humanitarian of the Year in the back of a limo?”
“Would hate for you to miss out on that,” he says.
“Good. Because I don’t intend to. Still,” I add, taking his hand and sliding it up my leg. “Just a preview.” I guide his fingers higher, until it becomes sweetly, deliciously, frustratingly obvious that I’m not wearing a single thing under this dress.
He groans in protest when I take his hand away. “We’ll take the long way back to the hotel,” I promise him.
“Yes,” he says. “We will.”
We smile at each other, then ride in silence for the next few blocks. We’re almost to the Manhattan theater where the award ceremony is being held. I reach over and take his hand. “Are you okay?”
Since Anna died, we’ve talked a lot about what happened. We listened to Lamar chew us out for not getting him involved from the beginning. For flouting the law and for putting our lives at risk.
And we watched Brandy’s shocked face as we told her everything, including how we’d suspected Christopher. Lamar had taken Christopher in for formal questioning, but there was nothing to suggest that he was working with Anna in her quest to get rid of me. Instead, the puzzle pieces seem to suggest that it was my investigation of Peter that started the ball in motion. Because sooner or later, I’d find out about the porn. And that would lead to Cyrus and the tapes of Anna. Tapes she wanted to stay hidden.
All because she loved Devlin. And in her mixed up mind she’d believed that she could win him if she just got rid of me and cleaned up her past.
As for whether Christopher was working with Joseph Blackstone on the leaked information, there was no evidence there, either. That’s not something Lamar knows about, though. But Devlin and Ronan and the rest of his team are keeping an eye on the situation. And me? I’m just hoping it doesn’t blow back on Brandy.
Most of all, I’m happy to be alive and with Devlin. We have work to do, of course. What couple doesn’t? But I love him, and that makes it worth it.
“Devlin?” I press.
“I’m fine,” he assures me. “I only—”
“What?”
“This award. What do you think of it?”
I hear the bigger question in his words. He’s getting the award for the foundation side of his life. But he has other facets, too. Sides that use hard actions to solve scary problems. Methods that humanitarian causes the world over might find troubling, to say the least.
“I think it’s wonderful,” I tell him truthfully. “You deserve it. This award, and so much more.”
He pulls me close and kisses me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t doubt yourself.”
He laughs. “I rarely do.” Gently, he strokes my cheek. “And if I show you my weaknesses, it must mean I love you.”
“You do,” I say. “But you’re not weak.” I tilt my head and smile as I recite the words he once left for me, printed on a note that he left as a talisman. “Always remember that you’re strong.”
“With you at my side, I can’t be anything else. Now kiss me quick. We’re here.”
Our lips brush, the kiss lingering as we wait for the door to open. There’s a red carpet and a throng on either side of it behind the velvet ropes.
As soon as the door opens, noise surges and lights flash as the crowd shouts out his name and questions. I almost laugh, because I’ve never walked among the paparazzi before, and though I avoid social media, I’ll definitely be checking for pictures tomorrow.
Then I start to pay attention to the actual words. That’s when my smile turns to plastic and my blood chills.
“Is it true?”
Devlin grips my hand harder.
“Is your name really Alejandro Lopez?”
“How have you managed to keep your identity hidden for so long?”
“Why the ploy, Mr. Saint?”
“Did you do wet work for your father?”
“How can you have the gall to accept the World Council Humanitarian Award under a false name?”
“Is your father really Daniel Lopez?”
“Did you really grow up with The Wolf?”
“Devlin, did you kill your father?”
Our pace quickens, and though it seems as though the walk took forever, I know that only seconds have passed from the limo to the inside of the theater. Now, the sound and the lights are gone, and we’re inside with the Awards Committee, and my hand aches as if the bones are cracking.
I look down and realize he’s squeezing my hand. “Devlin,” I say gently, my heart aching as much as my hand from the pain I see in his eyes. “Devlin, you’re hurting me.”
For a moment, nothing happens. Then he releases me so fast you’d think I had burned him. His chest rises and fall, and his face is completely expressionless.
“Mr. Saint.” A man in a tuxedo steps forward. “I’m Arthur Packard, the committee chair. Do you think we can have a word?”
“Of course. I’d like Ms. Holmes to join us.”
Packard nods, then leads us into a back room. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
He leaves, and Devlin meets my eyes. “They’re going to withdraw the award. They’ll focus on their other speakers, and I’ll be tossed aside.”
“Yes,” I say, because of course that’s what’s going to happen.
“Goddammit.” He pounds a fist onto his thigh. “Goddammit.”
I want to touch him. To heal him. But I know there’s nothing I can do, and a stab of terror cuts through me. He pushed me away before because he believed he was a danger to me. Now, with his world explodi
ng around us, there’s no denying that everything is about to change. God only knows what secrets will be revealed and what trials we’ll have to face.
And, yes, I’m terrified that he’ll push me away again.
Then Devlin’s eyes open, and he looks right at me, his gaze full of strength and ferocity. But what I see most of all, is love.
Slowly, without a word, he holds out his hand to me. I take it, then hold tight. I don’t know what’s coming next for us.
But I do know that we’ll get through this. Because together, Devlin and I can survive anything.
Devlin & Ellie’s story concludes in
My Cruel Salvation
May 2021
He’ll keep her safe, no matter the price.
* * *
Investigative reporter Ellie Holmes has uncovered billionaire Devlin Saint’s dark and dangerous secrets, and he has both stripped away her protective armor and tamed the wildness within her. Bound by a shared past and the hope of a blissful future, they grow even closer, each exposing more of themselves as their love deepens.
* * *
But now that Devlin’s true identity has been publicly revealed, old enemies appear, intent on destroying Devlin. And while he vows to enlist all of his resources to protect her, Ellie soon realizes that the only way to save them both is to take the last, final step to fully join Devlin in the dark.
My Cruel Salvation
Release Me - excerpt
Millions of readers have fallen for Nikki Fairchild & Damien Stark’s epic love story. Don’t miss out!
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver, wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue-gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I’m determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture.
“Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the arts—and my hostess for the evening.
“I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don’t have sunsets like this in Dallas.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
“Hiding out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to my boss of three days.
“Nikki Fairchild.”
“I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?”
“Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she means.
She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fishing for investors and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who. And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a bit of a prick.”
“It’s the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks out a laugh.
The truth is that she’s right about me being the bait. “Wear a cocktail dress,” Carl had said. “Something flirty.”
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress. But I didn’t. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job. Carl’s company, C-Squared Technologies, successfully launched three web-based products in the last eighteen months. That track record had caught the industry’s eye, and Carl had been hailed as a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a man to learn from, and I’d prepared for the job interview with an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something flirty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
“I need to get back to being the bait,” I say.
“Oh, hell. Now I’ve gone and made you feel either guilty or self-conscious. Don’t be. Let them get liquored up in there first. You catch more flies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know.”
She’s holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out, then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of tobacco—it reminds me of my grandfather—but actually inhaling the smoke does nothing for me.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to quit,” she says. “But God forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would burn me in effigy. You’re not going to start lecturing me on the dangers of secondhand smoke, are you?”
“No,” I promise.
“Then how about a light?”
I hold up the itty-bitty purse. “One lipstick, a credit card, my driver’s license, and my phone.”
“No condom?”
“I didn’t think it was that kind of party,” I say dryly.
“I knew I liked you.” She glances around the balcony. “What the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don’t even have one goddamn candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it.” She puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her expression rapturous. I can’t help but like her. She wears hardly any makeup, in stark contrast to all the other women here tonight, myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She’s what my mother would call a brassy broad—loud, large, opinionated, and self-confident. My mother would hate her. I think she’s awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff, a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne glasses.
The girl fumbles for a minute with the sliding door that opens onto the balcony, and I imagine those flutes tumbling off, breaking against the hard tile, the scattered shards glittering like a wash of diamonds.
I picture myself bending to snatch up a broken stem. I see the raw edge cutting into the soft flesh at the base of my thumb as I squeeze. I watch myself clutching it tighter, drawing strength from the pain, the way some people might try to extract luck from a rabbit’s foot.
The fantasy blurs with memory, jarring me with its potency. It’s fast and powerful, and a little disturbing because I haven’t needed the pain in a long time, and I don’t understand why I’m thinking about it now, when I feel steady and in control.
I am fine, I think. I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.
“Take one, honey,” Evelyn says easily, holding a flute out to me.
I hesitate, searching her face for signs that my mask has slipped and she’s caught a glimpse of my rawness. But her face is clear and genial.
“No, don’t you argue,” she adds, misinterpreting my hesitati
on. “I bought a dozen cases and I hate to see good alcohol go to waste. Hell no,” she adds when the girl tries to hand her a flute. “I hate the stuff. Get me a vodka. Straight up. Chilled. Four olives. Hurry up, now. Do you want me to dry up like a leaf and float away?”
The girl shakes her head, looking a bit like a twitchy, frightened rabbit. Possibly one that had sacrificed his foot for someone else’s good luck.
Evelyn’s attention returns to me. “So how do you like LA? What have you seen? Where have you been? Have you bought a map of the stars yet? Dear God, tell me you’re not getting sucked into all that tourist bullshit.”
“Mostly I’ve seen miles of freeway and the inside of my apartment.”
“Well, that’s just sad. Makes me even more glad that Carl dragged your skinny ass all the way out here tonight.”
I’ve put on fifteen welcome pounds since the years when my mother monitored every tiny thing that went in my mouth, and while I’m perfectly happy with my size-eight ass, I wouldn’t describe it as skinny. I know Evelyn means it as a compliment, though, and so I smile. “I’m glad he brought me, too. The paintings really are amazing.”
“Now don’t do that—don’t you go sliding into the polite-conversation routine. No, no,” she says before I can protest. “I’m sure you mean it. Hell, the paintings are wonderful. But you’re getting the flat-eyed look of a girl on her best behavior, and we can’t have that. Not when I was getting to know the real you.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I swear I’m not fading away on you.”
Because I genuinely like her, I don’t tell her that she’s wrong—she hasn’t met the real Nikki Fairchild. She’s met Social Nikki who, much like Malibu Barbie, comes with a complete set of accessories. In my case, it’s not a bikini and a convertible. Instead, I have the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide for Social Gatherings.
My mother’s big on rules. She claims it’s her Southern upbringing. In my weaker moments, I agree. Mostly, I just think she’s a controlling bitch. Since the first time she took me for tea at the Mansion at Turtle Creek in Dallas at age three, I have had the rules drilled into my head. How to walk, how to talk, how to dress. What to eat, how much to drink, what kinds of jokes to tell.
