Page 27 of My Beautiful Sin

He’s heading our direction, his expression flat. I don’t know why he’s here, but I know he’s pissed.

Guess what? So am I.

I hurry to meet him and grab his elbow, noting that he’s practically vibrating with irritation. “What’s wrong? Why the hell are you here?”

“I have a few things I want to discuss with the detective.” His voice is tight. Clipped. And very scary. “No time like the present, right?”

I have absolutely no clue what’s going on in his head, but something has obviously pushed his buttons. He takes a step toward our table. I see Lamar flinch—just the slightest reaction, but I know my friend well, and he doesn’t look confused. On the contrary, he looks guilty.

Well, fuck.

I grab Devlin’s elbow and tug. “Outside,” I say, starting to steer him toward the door. He resists, though, his eyes hard. But not on me. No, he’s looking over my shoulder to Lamar, who’s manned up and is now staring back daggers.

I fight the urge to lash out at both of them. I don’t know what is going on, but I have no doubt they are both equally to blame.

“Outside,” I say again to Devlin. “And if you fight me or him, you know damn well that all of our pictures are going to end up in the news tomorrow. And I don’t mean the Laguna Leader,” I add, referring to the town’s tiny excuse for a newspaper.

When Devlin stands firm, I step even closer, breathing in the scent of musk and fury. “Do you really want this bullshit all over social media? I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to think about that. Now come with me, dammit. Let’s talk outside.”

I think he’s going to continue to ignore me. Then he nods, a curt, quick motion, before deliberately turning away from the table where Brandy remains sitting, staring at us, while Lamar stabs at his appetizer, pointedly not meeting my eyes.

I follow him outside, and as soon as we’re away from the door, I round on him. “What the fuck, Devlin?”

Rather than answer, he takes my elbow and tugs me further down the sidewalk, pushing me into the alcove of a closed lingerie store. My back is against the door, and he stands close enough that I can feel the fury coming off him in waves. I fight the urge to reach out and touch him, afraid that just that simple contact would be enough to spark an explosion.

Instead, I draw a breath and square my shoulders. He’s not the one with the right to be pissed—I am, and I lift my chin to look him square in the face. “I made Brandy send Christopher away because it was supposed to just be the three of us,” I continue, before he can speak. “And I really don’t appreciate—”

“This isn’t about you,” he snaps, cutting me off. “That son of a bitch has been digging around in my past, trying to get information on my military service record.”

“Oh.” I frown. I didn’t know this. And it pisses me off, too. I asked Lamar to find out about Ronan, but I damn sure didn’t expect him to take that as carte blanche. If Lamar was going to look into Devlin, he should have told me. And the idea that he’s poking around about my boyfriend behind my back doesn’t sit well with me at all.

“I didn’t know.” I don’t tell Devlin that I’m pissed, too. Right now, the thing to do is keep him calm, because I really don’t want him going back in there and confronting Lamar. Not in public. And definitely not until I’ve had a go at him first.

I reach for his hand, relieved when he returns the gentle pressure. “You found this out when you were talking to your connections,” I say. “Investigating who might have sent me that text.”

He nods.

“Did you find out anything? Has anyone been making inquiries about you?”

His expression is hard as stone as he says, “Only Lamar.”

I let that one roll off me, not just because I want more info, but because I want to give Devlin time to cool off. “What about the phone? Did you get any info about the number they texted from?”

For a second I think he’s going to argue and force this conversation to stay on Lamar. Then he says, “We recovered the phone. A burner. It had been used once—to send that text. No fingerprints, no identifying marks.”

“Oh.” I’m taken aback. That wasn’t something I’d expected. “How’d you manage that?”

“Are you familiar with Type-O SMS messages?”

I shake my head.

“In a nutshell, it’s a way to ping a phone and track the location. It only worked because whoever sent that message had fully charged the phone and hadn’t shut it off before tossing it. My people sent the message to the number and from there we were able to find the phone.”

“That’s easy.”

He laughs. “Not really. I left out the part about searching trashcans and gutters. It took most of the day, but the team found it.”

“I’m impressed,” I say, and I mean it. When Devlin took me to Vegas, I’d gotten a sense about how much more he and the foundation do than simply providing money to victims of organized crime, but this is the first time I realize that the DSF has an investigative arm as well. I’m not surprised—Devlin’s the kind of guy who jumps all in—but I am surprisingly moved, and I think it’s because that’s one more thing that he and I have in common. That need to dig for and find answers.