Page 66 of There Are No Saints

“Well, it was worth a try,” he snickers.

I shoot him a look that wipes the smile off his face in an instant.

“I better get back to the party . . .” he stammers, trying to edge past me out of the room.

I shove him out of the way, striding after Mara myself.

I can see her mane of tangled dark hair disappearing out the front doors of the gallery.

To my utter fury, she’s grabbed the hand of some random fucking idiot and she’s dragging him along with her.

What the fuck does she think she’s doing?

Her stubbornness is really starting to piss me off.

I wanted you . . . genuinely.

My head gives a twitch, shaking off the memory of those words like an irritating fly buzzing next to my ear.

I embarrassed her.

She was so vulnerable, kneeling before me . . . I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see how far I could push her.

The more she rebels against me, the more I want to crush her.

And the more she clings to her convictions, the further I intend to drag her down dark and twisted pathways . . .

By the time I reach the front doors, Mara and her hapless companion have already climbed into a taxi and pulled away from the curb.

Where the fuck is she going?

I’m putting a tracker on her phone. First thing tomorrow. I should have done it already.

Sonia intercepts me.

“Marcus York is looking for you,” she says.

“What?” I say distractedly.

“He’s right over there.” She points. “Come on, I’ll bring you over, he says he has something ‘huge’ to tell you.”

“I bet,” I say irritably.

York is a city planner and self-proclaimed “patron of the arts.” He’s influential in this city, but he was also close with my father, which means I can’t fucking stand him.

“Cole!” he says in his booming voice, clapping me hard on both shoulders.

York is apple-shaped, with outrageously frizzy hair and a florid face. His teeth are long and ivory-colored, always on display because he’s always smiling. The clownish hair and avuncular tone are meant to disarm the people he meets. I know better—York is a shark, taking greedy bites out of every construction contract and zoning deal that passes over his desk.

“I ought to come visit you,” he says. “It’s been too long since I came to Seacliff.”

He was one of the many associates who used to visit my father’s private office on the ground floor of the house. Most of the movers and shakers of San Francisco passed through those double oak doors at one time or another. Now no one comes to my home, ever. And I intend to keep it that way.

“I do all my business out of my studio,” I say.

“But we’re old friends.” York raises his grizzled eyebrows.

“Friendships founded on business are superior to businesses founded on friendship.”

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