by J. Kenner
“Okay. That’s fair. Tell me the rest, though. How did you get to the muffin stage so fast? And give me one before Mystery Man gets them all.”
“Do you really want it now? You’ll burn your tongue.”
“You know me. Never one to shy away from risk. Besides, they’re best when the chocolate’s gooey.”
She pops one on a plate and slides it across the bar to me, whereupon I proceed to burn my fingers in the process of taking a bite. “This is amazing,” I say, talking with my mouth open to try to cool the hot muffin that’s burning the shit out of my tongue.
“How we’re friends…”
“Yin and yang,” I remind her. “And because we’ve always had each other’s back.”
She lifts her hand and does a high five with the air since she’s back across the kitchen. I lift mine and reciprocate.
And, once again, I feel guilty.
“Bran—”
“I know. I know. The story. That’s pretty much it. I gave him my number and last night he called, and we went for a walk on the beach after dinner. We got to talking, and…”
She trails off with a shrug. “Well, he’s sweet. We had coffee and he drove me home.”
“And…”
“He kissed me goodnight. That was it. Total gentleman. I told him that I don’t move fast, and he said that he’d move at a snail’s pace for a woman like me.”
I put my hands over my heart. “I don’t know if that’s a line, but if it is, it’s a good one.”
She laughs. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I guess I wanted to see how it went first. I’m tired of calling you up to tell you I met a good one only for it to turn out that his manners had an expiration date, and he morphed into some porn star wannabe. But,” she adds with a hard look at me, “I should have.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it.” I signal for another muffin, because to hell with my jean size.
She passes one over, and I pick at the top, trying to gather my thoughts. Trying to decide what to do or say. Or, for that matter, whether I should do or say anything at all.
After a moment of unusually awkward silence between us, she comes around the island and climbs on the stool next to me. “Do you remember when Daddy packed us up and moved us to San Diego?”
I frown. “Well, yeah. Of course.”
“And I didn’t say a word to you about why. Or I did, but I lied.”
“You said your dad got a new job. I remember.” I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “It’s okay. I was a little butthurt in college once you finally told me about the baby and the adoption, but I understand why you didn’t at first. I know how hard it must have been for you.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It was brutally hard. But that’s the point.”
“I don’t follow.”
She runs a finger through the tangle of blond and pink strands. “The thing is, I should have told you sooner. I was carrying this massive weight, and you would have helped me. But—I don’t know—I guess I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed! Some asshole college boy drugs you at a party and—”
She squeezes my hand. “That’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is that I was dealing with all this stuff about the baby and my parents not believing that the creep had roofied me and the move to San Diego and everything. I wanted to talk about all of it with you, but I held it in, and I shouldn’t have. I should have told you. I think—no, I know—it would have helped.”
She slides off the stool, then heads back into the kitchen and starts to load the dishwasher. “I just thought that I should say that.”
For a moment, I sit quietly. I’m not an idiot. And neither is my best friend. She just made that clear enough. And I do want to tell her. But this isn’t only my secret. It’s Alex’s too.
The thing is, Brandy can seem flighty, but she’s a vault when it matters. God knows she kept her baby secret for long enough. And she never once told anyone about me and Alex all those years ago.
More than that, she’s my best friend. She deserves the truth. On top of that, I deserve someone I can talk to about this fun house of emotions that’s set up camp inside me.
“You have to promise to keep it a secret,” I say. “An in-the-vault kind of secret.”
“Lamar was right. You did sleep with Devlin Saint.”
“No!” I take a breath. “Well, not exactly, anyway.”
She pauses, a dirty mixing bowl in her hand. And then, as if someone hit the play button, she starts moving again. She puts the bowl in the dishwasher, comes to stand across from me at the island, and says, “Okay. Tell me.”
“Have you ever noticed that Devlin Saint kind of looks like Alex?”
Her brow furrows. “A bit, I suppose. It’s been a long time since I saw Alex, but he was blond.”
“Trust me, there’s a resemblance.”
“Okay. But why does that—” Her eyes widen. “They’re brothers!”
“Ah, no.”
“Then, what?”
“Well, the truth is, they’re the same guy.”
She stares at me, totally silent. Then she blinks twice, swallows a laugh, and says, “Are you freaking kidding me?”
Chapter Eighteen
We’re still in the I don’t believe it stage ten minutes later, though we’ve moved into my bedroom so I can get dressed and pack. I’ve already explained the why behind Alex’s metamorphosis, and Brandy now sits cross-legged on my bed, shaking her head in bewilderment.
“It’s like the plot for a TV show,” she says. “But why doesn’t he become Alex again?”
I look up from where I’m rolling my only dinner dress into the small carry-on I borrowed from Brandy, since the suitcase I brought is far too big for such a short jaunt. “Honestly, I didn’t think to ask. I assume because he’s Devlin Saint now and it’s easier to stay that way. I mean, Saint’s a big deal, right?”
“True. And maybe he’s still got that target on his back?”
I frown as I consider that. The Wolf is dead, but his people scattered. Some—like the guy Millie is arranging for me to talk to—are in prison. But others have probably started their own criminal enterprises, albeit smaller, funded in part by the ill-gotten gains they received working for the notorious Wolf. “You might be right.”
“The whole thing’s nuts. And there’s really nothing going on with you two?”
“You’ve asked me that at least a dozen times. This is the honesty zone, remember?”
“I know, I know. I don’t mean to make it sound like you’re lying. It’s just that back then you two were, God, I don’t know. Epic.”
A tight knot of remorse and loss twists in my gut. “Yeah. Yeah, we were. But we were kids.”
She scoffs. “I’m not sure you ever had the chance to be a kid. And Alex always seemed older than he was.”
I can’t disagree. “Well, the answer’s still the same. There’s nothing going on now. In fact, less than nothing. Because that night in the parking lot was like torture when you get right down to it.”
“He was pushing you away.”
I tilt my head in a duh sort of way.
She shifts around on the bed so that she’s on her stomach, her elbows propping her up, and her chin resting in her hands. “You want something to happen. Even though he’s being an ass, you still want him.”
“No,” I say automatically. But then, because we’re being honest, I backtrack. “You know what? Actually, yes.” Just saying it makes the butterflies in my stomach wake up and start fluttering. Because the truth is, I can still recall with crystal clarity that night when I gave myself completely to Alex Leto. The way his fingers felt on my skin. The brush of his lips on my shoulders. And every single moment of the rest of it.
I want to feel that again.
That, and more.
We had sweet. Now I want rough. I want hard and heated and frantic. I want desperation. I want Devlin Saint and all the danger he represents that I crave.
I want to both surrender and attack. To pound each other into exhaustion. To burn him out of my system completely. Because only then will I be able to walk away and say that I’m over him. That we’re finally, and truly done.
“Closure,” Brandy says after I explain that to her. “I get it. That’s what you came back for, right?”
“Yeah, but I thought I was coming for closure about Uncle Peter. A reality check after learning that he wasn’t a completely innocent victim. I didn’t expect to see Alex.”
“Nobody expects—”
“—the Spanish Inquisition. Yeah, yeah.”
She laughs, then sits up, pulls my dress out, and re-rolls it. She does a much better job, too. “Does he want to?”
“He’s made it perfectly clear that’s not happening,” I tell her as I pop into the bathroom for my toiletry kit.
“But does he want to?”
I return, then sit on the edge of my bed. “Yeah. I think he does.” I draw in a breath and let it out. “But I know him. He won’t.”
And despite wanting closure, that’s probably a very good thing.
The Town Car pulls to a stop on the tarmac of an executive airport in inland Orange County, and Devlin opens the door for me. I step out and look at the small, sleek jet painted in the blue and gold colors that are featured in the DSF logo.
A woman in khaki slacks and a blue blazer with Saint Charters embroidered on the breast meets us at the stairs. She greets Devlin, then introduces herself to me as Marci, the pilot.
“My co-pilot, Thomas, is already on board,” she tells us. “And Gregg will be doing service in the cabin. We’re ready for you to board, and we’ll get underway as soon I have clearance to taxi to the runway.”
“Thank you, Marci,” Devlin says, then gestures for me to precede him up the stairs. I do, then come to a dead stop the moment I step through the door. It’s like a high-end office, complete with leather recliners, a couch, a desk, and even a bar. The only difference being that this office flies through the air.
“Wow,” I say, as Devlin leads me to one of the recliners. I swivel to face him. “This is incredible.”
Something like pride flares in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re impressed.”
“Ironic, though, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“The DSF is a charitable organization. Seems like its funds should go to charity.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he says.
I do a full 360 in the chair, taking in the entire cabin and all its luxury. “And yet…”
He chuckles softly. “And yet, nothing. This jet has nothing to do with the DSF. It’s one of five jets in the fleet of a charter service I own. Personally, I mean. Not as the foundation.”
“Oh.” I frown, realizing that I should have assumed as much. In doing my preliminary research on the foundation and Saint, I’d learned that he’d used the majority of his personal fortune to initially fund the DSF. But he’d retained about ten percent. And considering the numbers involved, that was more money than I could imagine.
“I never knew you had money,” I admit.
“When I knew you, I didn’t,” he says. “My parents did. Family money. I used some of my inheritance to seed the foundation and some to fund my personal life.”
“And the jets fall under the category of personal?”
“More or less. I do use the fleet for DSF business,” he continues, “but I donate the cost of the ground and flight crew, hangaring at the destination, and all the other related costs to the foundation, so that the foundation isn’t out of pocket for the use of the plane.”
“Right,” I say, realizing this is the first time I’ve really seen Devlin Saint in his element. I’d seen him in his office, of course, but that had been, well, an office. This is luxury and money, the trappings of power. And although I never would have imagined Alex in a place like this, I can’t deny that he fits in perfectly. Or, at least, that Devlin Saint does.
“What about the foundation itself?” I ask, remembering my questions from my very first day. “I was expecting a scrappy charity look, but everything’s ultra high-end.”
“Furnishings, decorations, even the building. All donated by me in-kind. I didn’t want to use the endowment, as that’s for charity. But I also didn’t want the foundation to be a paperclip operation. It’s an irony of life that people are more likely to donate when it looks like an organization is already well-funded. And since we’re looking for major donors—corporations, celebrities, the top one-percent—we’re expected to have a certain cache.”
“Like I said, ironic.”
“I can’t argue. I can only explain.”
I grin, then start to swivel in the chair, leaving the topic of money for the much more interesting pastime of enjoying this new playground.
The crew area is separated from the cabin by a set of double doors. They’re open now, and I see a red-haired man I assume is Gregg putting together a tray. When he comes in, he has a plate of cheese and crackers, a glass of red wine, and a glass of Scotch.
“Thanks, Gregg. I took the chance you’d want wine,” Devlin says, turning to me. “But I’ll take that, and you can have the Scotch if you prefer.”
“No,” I say, still a bit overwhelmed. “Wine is great.”
I watch as Gregg sets the tray into a recessed area on top of the pedestal-style table that sits between our two recliners. Then he leaves long enough to fetch cutlery and returns with small plates, silverware, and linen napkins.
“Will there be anything else?”
“No thanks,” Devlin says. “We’re set.”
“In that case, the captain asks that you fasten your seat belts. Our flying time is just over an hour, and we’ll be taking off soon.”
“Thanks,” Devlin says. “And, Gregg, close the door. I’ll buzz when we need you.”
Gregg’s expression doesn’t change in the slightest, and I can’t help but think that he’s received that order before. And while I know Devlin has no intention of touching me, I don’t imagine that’s the case with other women he invites onboard.
The thought doesn’t sit well.
“Of course, Mr. Saint,” Gregg says, then disappears, leaving us alone.
I draw a breath, then lean forward to help myself to some brie. “This is a nice spread for a short flight.”
“Dinner isn’t until eight, and I wasn’t sure if you’d had lunch.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Brandy made muffins. I overindulged on the breakfast side of things.”
A quick grin flicks over his lips.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I was just remembering. Not muffins, though. You two spent a Saturday once experimenting.”
“Almond butter and chocolate chip cookies,” I say. “I’d forgotten.”
“They were horrible.”
We both laugh as I nod. “But that’s why she made regular chocolate chip later that day. She’s improved a lot.”
“Then I’m sorry I didn’t get a muffin.”
I hear real warmth in his voice, and I tilt my head. “Are you?”
He meets my eyes, but I see none of the gentleness I’d just heard. Instead, his gaze is flat. A complete blank slate. “Let me be clear,” he says. “I have no regrets about our past. None. That time in my life was dear to me. But it’s gone. Things have changed. And we’re different people now.”
“No regrets,” I repeat. “Not even about how you left?”
He hesitates for the briefest of moments. “No, Ellie. Not even about how I left.”
I look away, angry at myself for having let down my guard even a millimeter. Fucking cookies, indeed. Then I draw in a breath and turn back to him. “I get it. I do. But I need you to do something for me.”
“Go ahead.”
“You don’t regret the past? Fine. How nice for you. But I do. I regret the hell out of it. Every bit. Every death. Every abandonment. My childhood was a living hell, and t
he only part of it that I’d believed was good walked out on me in the vilest and most horrible way. You took something from me that you didn’t deserve, Alex. And not just my heart. You may not be as vile as the bastard who raped Brandy, but at least he never made her believe it was real.”
“Raped—what?”
I barrel on, cringing as I remember that of course he doesn’t know, as I didn’t know until college.
“Here’s what I need you to do. Remember the past all you want, but don’t you dare talk about it to me. You’ve made it pretty damn clear you want me back in New York sooner rather than later. So unless you’re planning to finish what you started in the parking lot, I don’t see the point of a warm and fuzzy trip down memory lane.”
We’ve been slowly taxiing down the runway, and I bite my lower lip as Marci announces that we need to fasten our seatbelts for takeoff. Then I tilt my head back and close my eyes, anticipating the rush of the engine and the thrust of acceleration as the plane picks up speed to leave the earth behind.
I’m not a pilot, but learning to fly is on my bucket list. I want to experience that thrill. That release that comes with knowing that the only thing keeping me alive is my skill and the quality of the machine that’s cradling me.
I don’t exhale until we’re in the air, then open my eyes and swivel my chair to face Devlin again. He’s watching me intently, as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.
“What?” I say.
He hesitates, then says simply, “Nothing.”
I consider pressing him for a real answer, but I’m not sure I’d like what I’d hear. I know what I do—chase adrenaline, flirt with death—and I know why I do it. But I like to believe that I’m not transparent. That when people see me, they just see a woman who likes a good time.
But Devlin’s peeked under the surface already. He nailed me that first night. Danger, he’d said. And he’d been right.
So, no. That’s not a question I ask. I’m not ready to hear his analysis of me. Instead, I study his face as if I’ve been pondering nothing more interesting than gossip about this billionaire philanthropist, and say, “Why Peter? Back when you came to Laguna Cortez, I mean. Why did you end up working for Peter?”