Page 37 of Beautiful Revenge

It might be when it comes to Janie, but not Devon Donnelly. I specialize in philanthropic giving. I’m no James Bond—present or retired—but the moment I hung up with Chrissie, my curiosity got the best of me.

I may have half of Hollywood stored in my contacts, but that doesn’t mean anything when it comes to keeping up with retired MI6 agents. I worked with the tools available to me.

A basic internet search for the win.

I didn’t expect to find much with him being a secret agent and all, but it seems Devon Donnelly wasn’t kidding when he said there are no secrets when it comes to his prior career.

I read every article I could find. There were plenty from all over the world. Even though his career’s demise occurred in London, he was big news in the U.S and all over Europe.

There was scrutiny into how his associate died. Hearings, inquiries, and internal investigations went on for months after the tragedy.

In the end, Devon wasn’t held responsible. There was nothing he or anyone at SIS could have done to prevent it.

The articles are heartbreaking.

After the tragedy, someone leaked his name. I read every article and studied every picture I could find.

I fell asleep with my cell in my hand reading one from the BBC. When I reread that last article this morning, I had to fight the urge to feel sorry for Devon. He not only lost the career he loved, but it sounds like he lost a friend in the process.

I slept as long as I could. After taking my time getting ready, I packed everything that I unpacked less than twenty-four hours ago. I haven’t heard anything from inside the suite. Not running water, a toilet flushing, or the door slamming.

Chrissie texted a bit ago and confirmed my car has been delivered. Before I drag all my things to the lobby, I decide to take my chances and grab a cup of coffee and check on my new ride.

I unlock my bedroom door and pray Devon is off doing manor things. Maybe he sails boats, too, and is spending the day with Silas and Mel.

The suite is silent. When I tiptoe around the corner, everything is as it was when I stormed through last night and locked myself in my room ... other than an enormous bouquet of flowers.

It’s as wide as it is tall and more colorful than a springtime Easter basket. It sits on the round table in the entryway of the suite.

I love fresh flowers. I’m not a professional by any means, but one of my favorite things to do when I lived in SoHo was to buy a fresh-cut bouquet from the market to arrange at home. They looked nothing like this work of art, but it always made me happy.

I walk over to it, but I don’t smell them like I normally would. A tented note catches my eye. It’s the same stationery I used to let the rat bastard know I was done with him forever.

But this time, it’s my name that is scribbled on the front.

My heart speeds with anticipation as I pick it up.

Harlow,

I have the keys to your new car. If you thought you could skip town without talking to me, you were mistaken. Come to the front desk. I’ll be in my office waiting for you.

Devon

P.S. I took it for a spin. Nice ride.

Oh, this man is too much. He thinks he can hold my new car ransom to get me to talk to him.

And he took it for a drive.

Asshole!

Or, should I say, arsehole.

I grab my keycard and stuff my cell in my pocket. The last thing I need to worry about is Devon Donnelly nosing around in my life. I can barely keep up with my own drama.

I have too much pent-up energy to bother with the elevator. I take the stairs and push through the door that leads to the atrium. It’s busier today. Guests are dressed to spend time at the pool or lake. Kids zip past me in a rush with tennis rackets, and I’m upset I won’t have a chance to play. It’s been months since I’ve hit the court.

I stand in line at the desk behind a family checking in for the week. When I get to the front of the line, a woman wearing a floral dress looks surprised to see me. “Ms. Madison! How are you?”