Page 70 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m alone when I wake up, and I roll over to check the clock. Three-fifteen.

I sit up, groggy, and look around the room expecting to see a sliver of light coming from beneath the bathroom door, but it’s dark. We’d moved off the couch, and I’d collapsed, boneless and sated into his bed last night. And though he hadn’t held me like a lover, he’d slipped under the covers beside me.

I’d fallen asleep knowing that he was there. And liking the feeling far more than I should.

“Devlin?” I wait, but there’s no answer, and with a frown, I slide out of bed then pad through the suite in search of the man, only to find the suite empty. Frustrated, I turn in a circle, wondering where on earth he could possibly be in the middle of the night.

Then again, this is Vegas. If you have insomnia, there’s probably no place better.

I head out to the living area, expecting but not finding a note. I frown, realizing that I’m irritated he hasn’t kept me in the loop. Which, of course, makes no sense. We’re not Ellie and Alex anymore. And while the sex was even more mind numbingly great than I’d expected, that’s all it was. Sex.

Closure.

And that’s all I want it to be. Anything else is an unnecessary, messy complication. And who needs that?

So, no. I can’t complain that he isn’t keeping me informed of his every movement. Except that you’d think he’d at least do me the courtesy of leaving me a note. After all, he took the trouble to write me a note all those years ago when he left for good. Presumably a quick scrawl with Be back soon wouldn’t be too much for him.

At the risk of seeming needy, I dial his phone—only to have it ring on his side of the bed.

So much for that plan.

I debate for a moment, then call down to the front desk.

“How may I help you, Ms. Holmes?”

“You just did,” I tell him. “Since you knew it was me, I’m assuming you already know that Mr. Saint isn’t in the room. Does that mean you know where he is?”

“He’s in the lobby bar. Shall I take him the phone?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.” I end the call, then consider going back to bed. I’m sure he probably couldn’t sleep. But the truth is, I’m not sure that I can either, and if he’s having a drink, I want one too. After all, isn’t that the benefit of being in Vegas? Alcohol whenever you want?

I also wonder why he didn’t just move to the living room. This suite is about four times the size of my apartment in Manhattan. It’s not as if he was going to disturb me if he turned on a light.

Since I’m still in my tank and shorts, I go to his dresser to look for a T-shirt. Stupidly, I’d only packed work or evening clothes. I know he won’t mind. I’d been talking to him as he unpacked, and when I told him about my wardrobe fail, he’d said I could help myself.

Except I’ve pulled out the wrong drawer. Instead of T-shirts, I find two pairs of sweatpants. I’m about to close the drawer when I notice the merest gleam of the ambient light hitting something black and familiar.

My stomach twists. My father was a cop. I was a cop. So I’m not surprised at all when I fold back the clothing to reveal a gunmetal black Glock.

I stand there, frozen, my mind going a million miles an hour. What the hell is he doing with a gun?

I turn quickly, covering my six, as if someone is going to jump me for having seen this weapon. And then, just as quickly, I tell myself I’m being silly. The man’s a billionaire. He travels frequently. He’s ex-military. And I’m sure he has enemies. It makes sense that he has a gun.

I pick it up, then pull back the slide enough to check the chamber. Loaded. I frown, then eject the clip. Full.

Why would he take the trouble to chamber a round, eject the magazine, then add back that one last bullet?

And why didn’t he tell me there was a gun in the room? After all, I’m a cop, or a former one, and it’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with weapons.

Then again, maybe that’s why. Maybe he thinks that I’m still so indebted to law enforcement that I wouldn’t approve.

I have no answers, but since I’m about to go find him, I’ll just ask him these questions instead of speculating wildly.

I open the proper drawer, grab a faded blue Tee with the DSF logo, then go to my room for the leggings I’d brought to pair with a thigh-length jacket and black Jimmy Choos. Tonight, I forgo the Choos for my favorite ballet flats.

I see Devlin as soon as I reach the lobby, sitting at a small cocktail table in the lobby bar that abuts the casino entry. He’s not alone, however, and as I get closer, I see that he’s talking to Ronan Thorne, who I didn’t even realize had come to Vegas, too.