Page 106 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?” One of Devlin’s hands is on my waist while the other gently skims my hair.

“I think I have some idea.” We’re still in his office, and I wonder if Tamra and Anna are huddled around Anna’s desk, taking bets on what we’re up to. “But you, Mr. Big Shot, have things to do. How long will those things take you?”

“About five hours. But if I’m motivated, I can probably manage with two.”

I take his hand from my hip and slide it up to my breast. “Motivated yet?”

“Very.” He leans in for a kiss, but I scamper back, laughing.

“Oh, no. I want you to stay motivated. Nothing until I see you again. Your house. Two hours. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I love a woman who takes charge.”

I blow him a kiss. “Liar. You like being in charge. Even when you let me think I am.”

“Look at that. You really do know me.”

I laugh, then head out. Anna’s smile is thin as I wave goodbye. Not that I blame her. Devlin gets to pick and choose when he confronts the public. She and Tamra are going to be fielding calls for days from the tabloids and anyone else who’s curious enough to call in.

Now, however, isn’t the time to worry about that. Devlin will be home in two hours, and I have things to do before he gets there.

Since Shelby isn’t here, I call a rideshare, then have it head to the far inland edge of town with most of the big box retail stores. I pop into a hobby shop first, then hit the nearby grocery store since I’m not sure if Devlin has wine and cheese in the house. I’m back in the car, scrolling through the emails that have popped onto my phone in the last few days, when Millie calls.

I almost don’t answer it. Most of my texts and emails that came in today—even the ones from friends and acquaintances—are asking about me and Devlin and whether we’re really a thing. Brandy and Lamar included. I’ve already answered those two, telling them I’ll call later to fill them in properly, but the rest I’m ignoring for now.

Still, Millie might be calling about Peter, and so I risk a deep dive into my personal life and connect the call.

“Cornwell came through for me,” she says without preamble. “Or for you, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gave my name to a few others in The Wolf’s circle, and one of them called me. Says he has inside info into who killed your uncle.”

“Seriously? Can I meet him? Talk to him?”

“You owe me so much chocolate,” she says. “I got you a call today. Of course, considering you’re the tabloid queen of the day, I should probably have called your social secretary.”

“You’re hysterical, but I’m not complaining because this is amazing.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re not on a press tour, I can get it set up for him to call you in half an hour. And I can wait to get your gossip until we have lunch.”

“That’s perfect on both counts.” I’ll have time to make the call and still get everything set up for when Devlin comes home. “What’s his name?”

“Miguel Hernandez. He was in jail by the time Peter was killed, but Daniel Lopez was a frequent visitor. Apparently, they were tight. He says Lopez told him who he assigned to make the hit on Peter.”

“Why’s he talking now?”

“Not sure, but I heard he’s got pancreatic cancer. Since he’s the one who contacted me, I figure he’s trying to make amends.”

“I guess that would do it,” I say, then end the call, as the driver pulls up at Devlin’s place.

Devlin gave me the code for the door and the alarm, and once I’m inside, I dump my bags in the kitchen, then slice some cheese and arrange a bit of fruit before opening a bottle of wine to breathe.

Next, I take the bags with the candles to the bedroom, then arrange them strategically on all the surfaces. There are five dozen of them, so it takes a while to light them all. But the effect is stunning. A magical, twinkling room, and I can’t wait to see the way the candlelight dances on his bare skin.

I’ve just finished when the phone rings. I sit on the foot of the bed, then answer. It’s a prison official, and after the usual formalities, the call’s connected, and I find myself talking to Miguel Hernandez. A man who, against all odds, knows who killed my uncle.