The Saint (Notorious 3)

“But she has a lot to do with you, Carter, and that’s what I’m really interested in.”

“You are walking right into a harassment suit.”

Jim lifted his hand and laughed, the sound as empty and flat as a dead basketball. He stepped away, knowing he was crossing a few too many lines with a lawyer. “I’ll be around, Carter. I have a few more questions about this Lafayette deal.”

“Lafayette is good for the city, Blackwell. What’s wrong with that?”

“We’ll see,” Jim said, backing away, slapping his little notebook against his leg. “We’ll see.”

Jim walked away and I contemplated the advantages of the Wild West, and of being able to call an ass like Blackwell out just for being an ass.

A few people on the outskirts of the closest blackjack table glanced back at me. Or past me, actually, smiling and poking each other in the ribs. The men, particularly, seemed interested.

I turned and backed up, away from the gorgeous woman standing behind me on the stairs.

She wore red, scarlet really, that clung and dipped over her belly and puddled at her feet. Her arms were bare, her long elegant neck revealed. She wore diamonds at her ears and in her short black hair.

Zoe.

It was Zoe.

ZOE

I didn’t expect Carter to be at the door. I’d hoped I would have a chance to circulate, get my feet under me before running into him. And then I could be casual and composed, instead of feeling like a freshman crashing the senior prom.

But no such luck. Carter was right there, stunning and big, those handsome shoulders tucked into a perfect tux.

He looked even better than I’d imagined, because he was here, in the flesh. I could reach out and touch him, feel the heat of his skin.

“Hi,” I said, lifting my chin.

Head up, shoulders back, the echo of every teacher I’d ever had rang through my brain. Feel the ceiling with the top of your head. Fill the room with your power.

It had been awhile, but I felt the old training kick back in. Being five foot three but dancing like I was seven feet tall took a special kind of person.

I’d forgotten for a while, but I was that kind of person.

I was also apparently the kind of person who showed up at fancy fundraisers in one of Ben’s drag queen dresses.

That’s right. I was wearing Ben’s Marilyn Monroe gown with a few alterations.

“Zoe,” he breathed, clearly speechless. His eyes roved over me, warm and appreciative, leaving a giddy, sparkling heat behind.

The amazed look on his face was the best compliment I’d ever heard.

“Christ, Zoe, you’re—”

Pregnant Marilyn Monroe. I know.

“I’m here for me,” I said instead, clumsy and loud. “For my academy.”

His smile was so beautiful it nearly melted my shoulders, the steel in my spine. It wasn’t just that he seemed proud, because frankly, I didn’t need anyone for that. I was proud of myself. It was something far more personal. That he approved—this man, who was so hard on himself and so single-minded—mattered to me. Was important to me.

“Of course,” he said with a short, sharp nod. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“I would,” I said, as regally as I could.

“Perhaps a quick stop by the buffet?”

I couldn’t help it; I smiled, tucking my hand into his offered elbow and trying to ignore the hundred little lightning strikes between my skin and his.

“Thank you,” I said as we stepped into the room, embraced by the din of a hundred people having a good time.

But I was only truly aware of him, the smooth fabric of his tux, the heat of the muscle beneath it.

“Do you…ah…play cards?” I asked as we circumvented the large puddles of people surrounding the tables.

“No,” he said, all that warmth and charm suddenly gone, as if I’d imagined it all.

He took another step, but realized I wasn’t moving and turned back.

“Where do you go when you do that?” I asked, ignoring the instincts that screamed at me not to care.

“Do what?” he asked, waving away a waiter with a tray of champagne.

“Get so cold like that? It’s like you’re here and then you’re not.”

He looked down at me from a great distance, despite the outrageously high—and outrageously big—heels I was wearing.

“It’s an old habit,” he said, his honesty surprising me. “I don’t do it intentionally. I apologize.”

When he looked me right in the eyes that way, revealing these strange pieces of himself, it made me nervous, as if I were naked. Or in danger.

“Apology accepted,” I said, not knowing what else to say and wanting to get us back to stable, easy ground. “I, however am a great card player.”

“Really?” he asked, clearly skeptical.

“Do you have to say it that way?”

“Zoe Madison, you wear every brain wave on your face, to say nothing of your emotions. You are what is called an easy mark.”