Page 87 of The Saint

Interesting.He hadn’t said, and the man had remembered his name. “Titan Group.”

Mrs. Dumont’s head tilted slightly. “Security?”

They were familiar with Titan—another interesting facet about the Dumonts. “I’m a friend,” Camden offered.

Of course Mrs. Dumont was aware of Amelia’s arrest and release. Given their diplomatic connections, she had been informed of much more. How did she know about Titan? Was she worried that Amelia needed protection after the arrest? Before…?

“I never met Jonathan,” Camden volunteered, “but I’ve heard so much about him. He was a son to be proud of.”

“We were.” Mrs. Dumont laid a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. “How are you holding up? Any news on Hailey?”

“No.” Her jaw clenched. “No one will tell me anything—even though they don’t believe I have anything to do with it anymore.”

The Dumonts nodded, Mr. Dumont adding, “Such nonsense.”

“They wasted too much time on that ridiculousness,” his wife concurred.

“I don’t think they’ll find out who did this,” Mr. Dumont admitted. “As much as I would hope for justice.”

Camden studied the man. They were a well-heeled family with connections, given everything he’d learned. Why wouldn’t they pull some strings and demand more manpower? Why weren’t they involved in Amelia’s release from prison? No evidence could’ve shown she was guilty. His intuition rang warning alarms in his head. If they knew Titan Group, then maybe Titan knew the Dumonts. Maybe Jared Westin did. That could’ve been the reason Camden had been sent on what essentially started as babysitting duty. He shoved his hands into his pockets, fidgeting.

Another couple approached the Dumonts.

Amelia stepped back. “We’ll let you go.”

“Amelia.” Mr. Dumont rested his hands on her shoulders. “They were good people who wanted what was right in the world. Don’t let the loss change you. They wouldn’t want it.”

He stepped back to allow his wife to give Amelia a polite squeeze. Tears welled in Amelia’s eyes. Camden wasn’t too hampered by emotions to see holes in the conversation. Why did it feel like they knew more than he or Amelia did? Camden thanked them again and whisked Amelia to the corner.

“They think Hailey’s dead.” Amelia sniffled. “And I want to hate them for it.”

At that point in time, most logical people would hold the same sentiment. He wasn’t holding his breath to find Hailey alive and kicking somewhere. Tears slipped down Amelia’s cheeks. He shielded her from prying eyes, kissed the top of her head, and prayed she didn’t ask if he thought Hailey was still alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Twenty-four hours later, Amelia had gone from standing in one gorgeous home to standing in another. Everything in Beth Tourne’s condo apartment was either white, luxurious, or a work of art. In most cases, it was all three. Amelia was scared to breathe the wrong way and accidentally shatter some thirteenth-century vase on loan from the Smithsonian or the Met.

Despite all that, she figured Beth was about as laid back as Beth could be.

She hovered between the makeup artist and the stylist charged with readying Amelia for the night.

“Damn, Amelia, you are hot to trot, lady.” Her lips pursed as though something was missing. “We need wine.”

“Good idea.”

Wine might’ve been about the only thing that could get Amelia to Beth’s level of chill as she readied for Esme’s party.Esme’s party. Her stomach bottomed out for the hundredth time. Any time she thought of the looming night, crash went her stomach.

The stylist turned Amelia around to face the mirror. “And you worried that I would buckle you into latex, paint your lips black, and scoot you out the door like a vamped-up Elvira on her way to a ball.”

“I didn’t say that—oh…” Amelia stared in the mirror. “I look like a different person.”

Black lace was painted over her arms and shoulders and down a deep V-cut between her breasts with a base material that perfectly matched her skin tone. It was completely sheer and melted over her body like a black shimmering glow that cupped her curves. Still, the dress somehow covered her modestly as the lace became a black sheath dress that reached to midcalf. Theunusual hemline would’ve been discreet except for two slits that ran up her thighs.

“I didn’t know dresses like this existed in real life.”

The stylist hooted and tossed her head back, making her braids click. She reached around and patted herself on the back. “I knocked it out of the park.”

“Yeah, you did. I don’t even recognize myself.” Then Amelia eyed the makeup artist, who had painted her eyelids with champagne shimmer and added feathered eyelashes. She used a lipstick that glimmered every way that Amelia turned her head. “Even my face glitters.” Amelia turned to the two women, who were now packing up their bags. “You two are magicians.”

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