Page 28 of My Fallen Saint

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?