Page 36 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Thirteen

As soon as the elevator doors open onto the main floor, I realize how many more people have arrived at the gala. It’s a haute couture crush, and even wearing heels, the throng is so thick that I can’t see much of anything as I try to navigate toward the open doors and the patio.

When I’ve cleared the overhang, I pause, then tilt my head up as the crowd swirls around me. But there’s no sign of Devlin, and I can only assume that once the doors shut behind me, he shut me out of his mind as well.

The thought doesn’t sit well, and I can’t deny the sense of loss that’s swelling inside me.

I hate this. I do.

I thought Alex was out of my life forever. I thought I’d dealt with it. Maybe not well, but dealt. But here he is all over again. Alex, Devlin, whoever the hell he wants to be, it doesn’t matter, because even now in that room with Devlin Saint there’d been heat. Battened down, laced with fury, and nowhere near the conflagration of last night, but heat nonetheless.

Last night we’d both stoked that fire, whether for pleasure or thrill or revenge. But tonight? Tonight we didn’t even acknowledge it.

Maybe that’s for the best.

All I know is that it’s confusing as hell, and way more than I signed up for when I decided to come back. The plan was to look my demons in the eye and tell them to fuck off.

The reality is that I’ve walked straight into the fires of hell.

“That bad?”

I turn around, confused, to find Lamar and Tracy behind me. “Huh?”

“The look on your face,” Lamar explains. “Tell me it didn’t go that badly.”

“Oh. No. I was just overwhelmed by the crowd. But the interview went fine.” I aim a bright smile at Tracy. “Tell me he’s not dominating your time.”

“No, no.” She aims her smile at Lamar. “I realized I recognized him, and we’ve been talking. Though I probably should go and make sure they don’t need me to set up for Mr. Saint’s talk.”

“Catch you later,” Lamar says, lightly brushing her sleeve as she walks away.

“Well, this is interesting.” I smile and bat my eyes. “Something you want to share with the class?”

“She’s renting a unit in my condo building,” he says. “Knew I was a cop, impressed that I’m a detective. We started talking.”

“Why, Mr. Gage. You’ve made a fan.”

He makes a gruff noise, and I laugh. I’m about to ask for more details when the lights in the room start to dim as the overhead light above the stairway brightens. The room hushes, and Devlin Saint starts to descend, his presence alone commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He’s accompanied by a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a silver cocktail dress that hugs her ample curves like the scales of a mermaid’s tail.

“Who’s that?” I ask Lamar, hating her on sight, and then hating myself for that reaction. Because I have no claim on the man Devlin is today. God knows he made that clear enough.

“His date, I presume,” Lamar says as she steps back, and Devlin steps up to address the crowd. For a moment, he simply smiles down at all of us, not uncomfortable at all with every eye on him. Instead he stands tall and composed, as if he owns the world and doesn’t have a single secret.

He exudes power and confidence, and I can’t help but wonder what events have shaped him over the last ten years. What trials he’s overcome. And, as I remember what he said about the scar on his face, what dangers he’s survived.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Devlin Saint, and I created this foundation in order to act as a resource for the people and organizations that are working tirelessly to help make this world a better place.” Applause swells and Devlin goes on, identifying several of the organizations that the DSF supports and even pointing to a few representatives in the audience.

“As you enjoy the music tonight, mingle with friends, and share food and drink, please keep in the forefront of your mind the victims of violence, crime, poverty, and prejudice. With hard work and time, we can make a difference.” The room breaks into applause, and when it settles, Devlin continues, quickly summarizing the course of the evening.

“Damn, but he’s hot.”

I whip around to find Brandy towering over me in a classically tailored pale pink dress and strappy Manolo sandals. Since it would be bad form to squeal, I don’t. But I do hug her and whisper, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I won a ticket!”

“What?”

She nods. “Weird, right? I forgot I even entered. One of those lotteries they print in the Laguna Leader,” she adds, referring to the town’s twice-weekly newspaper.