Which means that she doesn’t have a clue that I bumped into Devlin Saint last night. Or Alex Leto. Or if I went back to the bar and got another guy. Someone, perhaps, like Mr. GT.

  Instead, I tap out that Lamar says hi.

  Hug him for me.

  Will do & gotta run!

  I send the text, then slide my phone into my bag, thinking how weird it is that I’ve yet to be together with the two of them. Both have visited me in Manhattan, but at different times. And once I met up with Lamar when I’d gone to LA to cover a story. But we’ve never had all sides of the triangle together at the same time.

  I’m here now, though, at least for a little while, and the knowledge that my two besties have my back lessens some of the weight I’ve been carrying since last night.

  “So, do you miss it?” Lamar asks, depositing coffee and donuts on the table. He settles into the seat opposite me, his large body looking a bit ridiculous on the tiny metal chair.

  I shake my head, knowing he means the job and not the town. “I thought police work would be my life. God knows I was motivated enough—bring the assholes to justice, make the streets safe for kids, right wrongs, all that stuff. I mean, you know. When we met that first day at the Academy, I was still giddy over getting my degree in criminology. Actually, becoming a cop was going to put me over the edge.”

  “I remember. I felt it, too.”

  “And you still do,” I point out as I pluck a donut from the box and start to rip off a bite-sized piece.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m just fighting with a pen now instead of a badge.”

  Wasn’t that how Brandy put it? And she was right. That’s what I’m doing, hoping to make a difference by shining a light into the dark that most people never even see.

  “I’m proud of you, Sherlock. The Spall. That’s solid.”

  “It is, Watson. I still pinch myself sometimes.”

  The nicknames began as a riff off my last name when we’d gone out drinking with some other recruits. They’d teased us about being such good friends that Lamar should be named Watson and not Gage. Somehow, the names stuck. And knowing that Sherlock and Watson are together again makes my return to Laguna Cortez that much more palatable.

  He studies my face for a moment, his expression full of compassion. “Give it to me straight, Sherlock. You doing okay? This thing with Peter?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I want answers. I’ll be doing better when I have them.”

  He nods, obviously weighing my words. “Does that mean you’re going to write an article about your uncle?”

  I concentrate on ripping apart my donut. “The jury’s out on that one. I want answers, but I’m not sure I want to write up something so personal.”

  “I get that.”

  “Right now, I’m just focusing on the DSF profile.”

  “Which is why you’re going shopping. And who’s your escort?”

  “I just have the one ticket. I couldn’t—” I stop myself, leaning back in my chair as I study his face. “Hang on. Are you going to the DSF gala? Never mind, of course you are.”

  Lamar Gage loves his life as a detective, but he’s also got a shit ton of money and is a regular and frequent contributor to various charities. Especially when the contribution scores a ticket to an event that allows him to see and be seen. “Have you got a date?”

  He meets my eyes, and I see a flicker of heat. “I do now.”

  I shoot him a sharp glance. “You know that’s not happening.”

  “Would it be that bad?

  “Yeah,” I say. “It would.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Dammit, Lamar.” I hear the exasperation in my voice as I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that really what you want? To break up Sherlock and Watson? Because you’re one of my best friends, and since I only have two, that’s saying a lot.”

  We came close to getting naked one drunken night before I put on the brakes. And while I think he regrets that, I don’t. All I regret is letting it get that far in the first place.

  “Ellie—”

  “No. I’m not losing you, and if we fuck—even just for fun—that is exactly what would happen.”

  He winces, presumably at my harsh tone and blunt vocabulary. Maybe because the other tables can undoubtedly hear us. “It doesn’t have to.”

  “It ends, Lamar. I screw a guy, it’s over. Either they leave or I do.” That’s an exaggeration, of course. The only guy who ever left me is Alex. Now I know better. Now I don’t give a guy the chance. I’m the one who walks. Always.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “But it does.” I know myself. More importantly, I know my demons. And if we got involved, I really would screw it up.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I’m softer now, my words gentler. “You mean too much to me. And I’m not going to risk losing you.”

  For a moment, everything stops. Even the birds go silent. Then he nods. “Yeah, well, I love you, too.”

  I melt with relief, then wipe away a tear. “We’re okay?”

  His shoulders sag. “Always.” He swallows the rest of his coffee. “Okay. You’re staying at Brandy’s, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll grab a bite, then hit the gala. Okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  He nods. “Am I your arm candy? Or are we on a covert mission?”

  I grin. This is why I love Lamar. “Totally arm candy. But you have your uses, too.”

  “Do I?” He adds a leer to his voice, but this time I know he’s joking.

  “Down, boy.” I take a sip of coffee, then lean back in my chair. “You’ve been here about as long as Saint has, right? What’s your impression of the guy?”

  “I thought reporters were supposed to ask laser-focused questions. Do you want my opinion as a detective? Or just as a guy in the community?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Honestly? Not really. As a detective, Saint’s not on my radar at all. As far as I know, there’ve been no complaints by him or about him.”

  “And as a guy in the community, what do you think of him?”

  “I don’t, actually. He’s got a bit of celebrity because of his money and the foundation, but he’s not a publicity hound. He keeps to himself, doesn’t seek out opportunities to be photographed and plastered all over social media. He only bumps my radar on days like today.”

  “The gala, you mean?”

  “Right. Other than that…” He trails off with a shrug. “He seems okay. And genuine. I know that he personally gives to the annual police charity, and the DSF does as well. He’s also funded some things we wanted that were out of our budget. Extra servers, computers, tech for the patrol cars, that kind of thing.”

  I nod, taking it all in. “You’re saying he’s active in the community?”

  “Yeah. Well, actually no. Not him. But the foundation is. The man himself? He’s as private as all the articles say he is, but I figure he’s paid for the privilege.”

  “Is all that stuff about him sleeping around bullshit?” The question is out before I can call it back, but if Lamar thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment.

  “Oh, I hear things. I don’t think he’s quite the horndog the tabloids would like to make him.”

  An unwelcome wave of relief crashes over me, because why the hell should I care anymore?

  “But he’s not a monk, either,” Lamar says. “And even there, he’s private.”

  I nod thoughtfully, wishing the thought of a parade of women through Alex’s bedroom didn’t grate on me like fingers on a chalkboard. Shouldn’t. Care. Remember?

  After all, he isn’t even Alex anymore. He’s Devlin Saint, and I need to keep remembering that.

  Lamar snags the last of the six donuts we’ve devoured. “Pretty softball questions for a hard-ass reporter.”

  I roll my eyes, but otherwise ignore his snark. “One more thing. What did you mean when you said he paid for the privilege of privacy?”

  “Oh, you know. He throws his money around town. That earns him some respect. Keeps him out from under the microscope.”

  “Like?”

  “The library renovation, for one. And the park that abuts the foundation and extends down to the tidal pools. The foundation not only donated the land, but also pays all the maintenance for the park. Saves tax dollars. Might just be a community relations maneuver, but it’s still a great park.”

  “I thought the foundation’s mission was big stuff. Like funding humanitarian organizations around the globe. That kind of thing.”

  “Yeah, it does that. But he’s gone on record saying that part of doing good works is to watch the backs of those around you. I remember the press release he issued when the DSF financed the creation of the park. He said that he fell in love the first time he came to this town, and that he wants to make sure—”

  “Fell in love with Laguna Cortez you mean.” My pulse is pounding, and I feel hot all over.

  “I’m sure that’s what he meant, but it’s not what he said. I remember thinking it was an odd way to phrase it.”

  “Oh.”

  “What?” He crumples his paper cup. “You think it means something?”

  “No, no. What could it?”

  But I can’t help but wonder if it means everything.

  “I need to run,” he says as he rises. “Be gorgeous for me. I have my standards, you know.”

  “I’ll give it the old college try,” I say, tilting my cheek toward him as he bends to kiss me.

  I stay a bit longer, thinking back to last night and Alex. Dangerous, he’d said. And he’d told me that I needed to leave.

  I thought he was trying to scare me away, but maybe I was wrong.

  Maybe he was trying to protect me.

  But from what?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  One valet opens the door for me, and I step out of Lamar’s Lexus as he passes the key to the second valet. I glance around at the DSF building, the exterior now illuminated by carefully hidden spotlights. An actual red carpet leads from where we left the car all the way to the front door of the building.

  I lean toward Lamar as he approaches. “When they say gala, they really mean it.”

  “M’lady.” He crooks his arm, and I take it, using my other hand to adjust my dress. “You look stunning,” he tells me.

  “Hey, I gotta make my arm candy look good.” He’s right though. Thanks to Brandy’s friend, I’m decked out in a black sheath dress embellished with gold fringe as well as a dangerously plunging neckline. Not to mention the mile high slit necessary to walk in the ass-and-thigh clinging style.

  I’ve paired it with gold Jimmy Choo sandals with three-inch heels. I’d intended to wear them with jeans, but this is better. My shoe collection is famous for its versatility.

  In other words, I look seriously hot. I can see it in Lamar’s eyes, not to mention the eyes of nearby men and women as I step over the threshold and into the foundation’s lobby.

  And while it’s petty of me—and probably stupid—I’m hoping Alex’s chin hits the floor when he sees me.

  Devlin. I remind myself. As far as I’m concerned, Alex Leto doesn’t even exist anymore.

  Not that it matters. Whatever his name is today, he’s nowhere to be found.

  Unlike yesterday, this large room is full of activity, and the stark concrete walls are now covered with colorful images and video clips, each of which represents an organization or project that the DSF has aided.

  Two huge tables take up much of the space, and even from here I can see they are topped with a multitude of goodies that make up the core of a very high-end silent auction. Smaller tables line walls, covered with desserts, appetizers, and goblets of wine.

  In case you don’t want to serve yourself, uniformed waiters mingle among the crowd, expertly balancing trays topped with food or drink.

  The glass doors that face the ocean are open, and people are coming in and out, taking drinks and food from passing waiters, or lingering to hear the string quartet playing on the flagstones.

  It’s all glitz and glamour, opulence and money. And very much not the life I’m used to. “Impressive,” I say to Lamar, who’s old hat at swank functions like this. Though he left it all behind to become a cop, in another life, Lamar was a child star in two successful television series, the golden child of a pop star mom and a record-producing dad. From what he’s told me, his childhood mattress was stuffed with dollars, not down.

  “Do you want me to get you a drink?”

  “God yes,” I say, then give his arm a squeeze before releasing him. “Bless you.”

  He steps away to wave down a nearby waiter with wine, and I take the opportunity to study the faces around me more thoroughly. I lived here for over half my life, and I wonder if I’ll see anyone familiar. From high school, maybe.

  But nobody jumps out at me, and as I think about the limos outside, I wonder if most of this crowd came down from LA for the gala. Considering the thousand-dollar ticket cost—one hundred percent of which goes to charity—it’s probably one of the year’s top social events.

  I’m still searching faces when I feel my phone vibrate in the small beaded purse that matches my dress. I tug it out, expecting the text to be from Lamar asking me my drink preference.

  Instead, it’s from a number I don’t recognize. But I know exactly who it is.

  I told you to leave.

  I consider ignoring it, but a flare of anger ignites in my gut, and instead I tap out a reply.

  And yet here I am. We need to talk.

  I expect that either the conversation will end or he’ll turn me down flat. So I’m not at all surprised when I see no dots on my screen indicating him tapping out a reply.

  “Prick,” I mutter. Because seriously? He’s just going to blow me off?

  I’m angry, but I’m also confused.

  Why tease me with the knowledge that the man I’d once loved has been hiding in plain sight all these years? Why lift the mask when the revelation only raises more questions?

  For that matter, why wear the mask in the first place?

  And the biggest question of all, why reveal himself to me if he’s only going to order me to leave? Because, honestly, even in a face-to-face interview, I never would have realized he was Alex. A resemblance, sure. But who the hell looks at a billionaire and says, oh, hey, you aren’t my old boyfriend in disguise, are you?

  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.