Prologue #2
“Wait, Ms. Jenkins!” The lawyer catches up to me, his chest heaving. “You have to come with me.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Clark. I don’t have to do a damn thing.”
“Clark?” His perfectly manicured black eyebrows lift sky-high as he adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses.
“You’ve got the whole Clark Kent thing going.” Never would’ve pegged him for a mob lawyer; the guy looks like he’d be the first one to help a little old lady across the street. “And speaking of going.” I continue on my way.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see him sprinting through the crosswalk to catch up to me. “Ms. Jenkins, you know what will happen to me if I don’t deliver,” he says between pants.
“Ugh.” I let out an annoyed sound from the back of my throat. “If I save your life, you owe me a favor.”
“Well, that’s not exactly what I meant—”
“Or I can keep walking, and you can go back to your boss empty-handed,” I threaten.
“Alright, miss. I owe you a favor,” he quickly agrees.
“Wonderful. I need to stop by my apartment first. Where are you parked?”
“Right this way.” He leads me to a luxury vehicle, where he opens the passenger door for me, his designer watch glinting in the sunshine.
“Is it worth it?” I ask him as I climb into the vehicle, and he closes my door and hurries around to the driver’s seat.
“Is what worth it, miss?” The car’s engine thrums to life, and he cranes his neck, merging into traffic.
“Belonging to Mr. Calvani?”
Personally, I wouldn’t know.
He remains silent.
“Pleading the Fifth, I take it. What’s your name?” I try instead.
“Clark.”
My head snaps in his direction; he’s fighting a smile. “You’re messing with me.”
“Yes, miss,” he says with laughter in his voice. “My name is Saint.”
“Interesting.” I eye him with curiosity. “Do you live up to your namesake?”
An undercurrent of tension fills the vehicle. “There are no saints,” he says flatly, turning his attention back to the road.
We arrive at my apartment, without me having given Saint the address. But of course, Fabien had his lackey track me down. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up,” I tell him, hopping out the car and hurrying inside.
The first thing I do is stash the money in my safe tucked in the back of my closet. This new cash influx will float me for a few more months, but then what?
Not having an answer, I run my fingers along the fabric of a red mini dress, Fabien’s favorite once up a time.
My jaw clenches as I fling the dress to the back of my closet, and instead, go with the most conservative pant suit and collared shirt I own.
Stepping into my heels, I drop my phone in my purse and lock up behind me.
Saint appears relieved when I rejoin him. “Didn’t think I’d come back?” I raise an eyebrow. Not that the thought didn’t cross my mind.
“Wasn’t sure,” he admits, pulling away from the curb.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, curious if he knows the sordid details of my life.
“Miss, I know enough to do my job; nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s smart, I suppose.” My eyes land on what looks to be a tattooed wedding ring on his right finger. So my gaydar wasn’t off.
Thoughts of Oliver flitter in my mind, a reminder of the gaping hole in my heart. I laugh mirthlessly.
“What’s funny?” Saint eyes me.
“Oh, nothing.” Just that every trauma I’ve ever endured is being triggered in a single day.
I’ve changed my mind about God having a sense of humor. He/she/it/they isn’t funny, but a sadist.
Breezing through prison security as Saint’s legal intern, I enter a sterile room, and my heart nearly stops at the sight of him.
Fabien looks different, and yet the same. He’s a bit thinner, but all the handsome features are still there. And those baby blues that cut like a knife.
Having allowed this man to gut me once, I appear unaffected as I glide across the room and take a seat. “Orange isn’t your color.”
The deep baritone of Fabien’s laughter tickles my skin. It’s infuriating.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Saint tells Fabien, quietly slipping out of the room.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” Fabien takes his seat across the table from me, his voice laced with something. Regret, maybe?
“I didn’t come all this way for you to tell me something I already know.” In an attempt to shield my heart from his pretty words, I cross my arms.
A lazy grin stretches his face. “That’s my girl.
” He folds his hands, the shackles producing a harsh clanging sound.
I was always obsessed with this man’s hands.
Big and strong, with bulging veins that only made them that much sexier.
But not just the aesthetic; what he did with those hands.
Strong yet gentle, the man always had a way of making me feel safe.
Until he didn’t.
Until I wasn’t.
“I’m not your girl,” I correct him, mentally armoring up for this battle. “Let’s get down to business. What is it you want?”
He cocks his head, eyeing me. “Why didn’t you write me back?”
“Because I had nothing to say to you, Fabien.” I feign boredom, ignoring the spike of my pulse. “Still don’t.”
“Really? Because I don’t believe that,” he says gently.
“Believe what you want.” Disinterest drips from my words
“Why are you dressed so conservatively?” Fabien’s eyes linger on my chest, like he has the right to do so, and my blood boils.