Page 29 of My Fallen Saint

No one, that’s who.

So why show himself?

It doesn’t make sense.

And I like things to make sense.

I’m still stewing when I see a tall, slender woman with a close-cropped Afro coming my way. She looks to be in her early twenties, a few years younger than me, and is impeccably decked out in a cream-colored silk suit that beautifully contrasts her skin.

She smiles as she approaches, then extends a hand as I step forward. “Ms. Holmes, I’m Tracy Wheeler. I’m Ms. Danvers’ intern.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, as Lamar arrives with my drink. I take it, then glance around, looking for Tamra. “Is she around? Did she want to see me?”

“Actually, Mr. Saint asked me to find you. He’d like me to bring you up to his office.”

“Oh.” I take a generous swallow.

“His office?” Lamar repeats, tilting his gaze toward the fourth floor. “He’s not down here at the party?”

“He will be. I haven’t worked here long, but my understanding is that his habit is to join the party at the same time that he’s scheduled to greet the guests. That’s not for another half hour. So, if you’ll come with me?” She trails off, the invitation hanging in the air between us. I have the distinct impression that I’m not allowed to decline. Not that I would.

“She’s all yours,” Lamar says, pushing me toward Tracy with a gentle hand on my back. “Never let it be said that I got in the way of chasing a story.”

“I wouldn’t dream of saying that,” Tracy says, with that sweet smile. “But you better tell me who you are so I get it right.”

“Lamar Gage,” he says.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she says, and while it may be my imagination, I think I see a little extra zing in her smile.

The focal point of the main room is the stunning arch of the staircase that extends to the mezzanine in grand fashion. She leads us into a hidden elevator that opens into a concrete support column around which the stairwell curves. We take it all the way to the fourth floor, an accommodation for which I’m grateful. Considering my heels, I’d been a little concerned when she’d aimed us toward the staircase.

We emerge onto a small overhang that looks out at the party below, with no barrier other than a thick, half-wall of glass.

The rest of the space is decorated in a utilitarian fashion. A simple desk with minimal clutter. A contemporary-style credenza behind it. And a padded bench lining the opposite wall, presumably where Devlin’s guests can wait until they’re granted an audience with his majesty.

That area is, I assume, hidden behind the brushed steel double-doors that are on the far side of the space, immediately opposite the glass barrier.

“Normally, his assistant would show you in,” she says, approaching the desk. “But she’ll be downstairs now making sure everything’s running smoothly.”

She leans over the desk and pushes a button on the phone. “Mr. Saint? I have Elsa Holmes for you.”

There’s silence, then a curt, “Send her in.”

“Of course.” She pushes another button, and I hear the whisper-soft whirr of a motor as both doors glide open, revealing the inner sanctum. I’m equal parts impressed and amused, especially when Ode to Joy starts playing in my head and the climactic vault scene from Die Hard flashes in my mind.

But Alex isn’t Alan Rickman, and even though I’m definitely a pebble in his shoe, I don’t expect that he’s trying to kill me.

As I enter the room, though, I wonder if I need to alter that assessment. Because I’m not dealing with Alex Leto. That man is long gone from my life.

I’m standing in front of Devlin Saint, and I’d do well to remember that.

Behind me, the doors whisper shut, and when I look over my shoulder, I see that Tracy is long gone, and I’m alone in a room with him.

The room is sleek and modern, with a few minimalistic prints on the walls, a built-in wet bar, and a small seating area with a sofa, two chairs, and a small table. The furniture is made of wood and steel and muted fabrics, all clean lines and smooth edges.

It’s an impressive space, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Devlin Saint. Even from behind his desk, he commands the room.

As I take a step forward, he rises, tall and dark and powerful, the scar that runs from his brow to his jaw like an exclamation point on his intensity.