Ice cold saint, p.1
Ice Cold Saint, page 1
“I’m here to take you down.” – Saint
“You said that wrong. What you meant was that you’re here to fall in love with me.” – Alice
Saint is in the family business…the business of hunting killers and closing unsolved cases. He knows his reputation—most people think he is a monster. Dangerous, cold, deadly…and with no conscience. But it takes a guy like him to get the job done. And his latest job? Well, that job has him tracking down a suspected Black Widow…the beautiful and ever-so-seductive Alice Shephard. A woman who is linked to the disappearance of three men.
Beauty can be the coldest lie of all.
Whispers and scandal follow her every step, but Alice doesn’t seem to care. Is she responsible for the disappearances—and possible deaths—of three ex-lovers? Saint will find out. He’s stepping into her web, and if she’s guilty, he’ll personally lock her away, just as he has done on case after case before. Emotions never get in his way.
Wanting her isn’t a surprise. Needing her is.
Alice seems immune to his charm. Fair enough, mostly because Saint isn’t known for charm. But he is hell on wheels when it comes to seduction, and the attraction between him and Alice is electric. When he touches her, need rocks through him, a desire so fierce that it threatens to consume them both. But Saint can want her and still lock her away. No problem. Or…
Problem. What if she’s not guilty?
When Alice saves his life, Saint realizes there is more to her than meets the eye. Maybe she’s using him, maybe everything is a game to her, or maybe…maybe Alice is the real victim in the story and not the villain. Unlikely, but…what if? What if all along someone else was attacking from the dark? What if someone else is determined to claim Alice, to eliminate all other men from her life?
And what if Saint might just wind up losing the one person he needs above all others?
They call him Saint, but everyone knows he’s a monster…and he’s ready to let his dark side out to hunt.
Author’s Note: As part of the Ice Breakers, Saint is intent on solving cold cases. But his latest case heats up—or rather, goes molten—the instant he meets Alice. She’s supposed to be a villain. Fair enough, he’s not exactly hero material. Can two villains fall in love? Time to find out. These two don’t play nicely, they love hard and dirty, and they will take on the world for each other.
By Cynthia Eden
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are not intentional and are purely the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional.
Copyright ©2022 by Cindy Roussos
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written consent of the author except for the use of small quotes or excerpts used in book reviews.
Copy-editing by: JRT Editing
(build 2)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Ice Cold Saint
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Author’s Note
About The Author
Prologue
“She has to be stopped.”
Saint Black stared at the picture before him. A beautiful, smiling woman gazed back up at him. The smile on her full lips was taunting, sensual, and it never touched her eyes. Unusual eyes, a mix of topaz and brown—almost gold. Her gaze in the photo seemed oddly luminous as she peered back at him.
“I get that she doesn’t look like a killer,” the would-be client who paced in his office said, her breath catching. “That’s part of the problem. Or—or maybe it’s part of her appeal. I don’t know. Men fall at her feet. Always have. Men like my brother, Donovan. They fall for her, and then…”
Saint forced his gaze to lift. To lock on the lady who’d surged into his office five minutes ago, right before he’d been preparing to cut out for the night.
“Then she kills them,” she finished as she lifted her hand and swiped a tissue under her left eye.
Tracy Eldridge. That was her name. She’d been late for her appointment with him, and he’d been fairly certain she’d just be a no-show.
His fingers slid toward the picture she’d dropped on his desk moments before. “You haven’t told me who she is.”
“Alice Shephard.” The name came out like a curse. “I tried to warn Donovan that she was trouble. I knew it from the first moment I met her. But he wouldn’t listen. Now he’s gone, the others are gone, and she’s still out there. It’s only a matter of time until she strikes again.”
Curiosity trickled through him. Curiosity—always a dangerous thing. Because once he became curious about something…Saint’s gaze slid back to the photo. He frowned when he realized that his finger was sliding lightly over her smile.
What in the fuck?
He immediately stopped the odd movement.
“I want to hire you,” Tracy announced. “Money is no object for me. You have to catch her.”
Now they were getting down to business. “Did she jump bail? If there are warrants out for her—”
Tracy rushed toward his desk. She slapped her hands down on the surface. “No! No, there are no warrants, that’s the problem! They never arrest her! The cops fall under her spell just like everyone else, and they let her go.” Pain and rage shook the words even as tears glittered in her pale blue eyes. Her blond hair had been pulled back into a severe twist. “They let her go,” she repeated in a seething voice, “and no one will help me stop her.”
Tread carefully. “I’m a bounty hunter. If this Alice Shephard is not wanted for a crime, there really isn’t much I can do.”
Her lashes flickered. Her mascara had run, darkening the skin beneath her eyes. “I’m not trying to hire you in your bounty hunting capacity.”
Yes, he’d suspected as much. So he waited for her to continue.
“I’ve heard about your…your connections.”
Saint didn’t let his expression change. He never did. When it came to being stone-faced, he was a master. “What connections might those be?”
“You solve cold cases.”
Occasionally. “When I’m bored.” An easy, dismissive response.
Her chin lifted. “Are you bored right now?” Then, before he could answer, she shoved her hand into her purse and yanked out a checkbook. Diamond rings glittered on her fingers, weighing them down. She snatched a pen from his desk. Scribbled an amount on the check and shoved it toward him. “Or…how about now?”
One hundred thousand dollars. “If you’re referring to my involvement with the Ice Breakers…” Saint shrugged. “My involvement with that online group is purely minimal. And they don’t get paid for their jobs.”
“I know. I’ve tried reaching out to the others. They were no use to me. They—they told me they would try to help when they had time.” She tore up the first check. Wrote another. “We are running out of time. I know she’ll kill again. She always kills again. Men fall for her. She lures them in, and then she kills them. Three dead lovers. Soon, she’ll pick a fourth.” Tracy pushed another check toward him.
Two hundred thousand.
Saint straightened in his chair. “What is it—exactly—that you want me to do?” He knew people—quite a few of them actually, thanks to his bounty hunting work—who would literally kill for that much money.
He, however, wasn’t in the killing business.
But he did dabble in some crime solving. A man needed a hobby, didn’t he?
“I want you to find proof. That’s what you do, right? You find proof. You find the victims. She made them all vanish. That’s why the cops just—they won’t help me without bodies. Alice made my brother vanish. She made the other two men vanish.”
Once more, his gaze flickered back to the photo. Alice Shephard appeared to be a small woman, built along delicate lines. It was never easy for a woman to make a much larger individual vanish. At least, not without help.
“You always catch your bounties, and with the Ice Breakers, you don’t give up. I want that. I need that. Alice Shephard is a killer.” Her breath heaved in and out.
He made no move to take the check. His gaze lingered on Alice’s image.
Beauty can hide a monster.
“I know she did it!” A sharp crack in Tracy’s voice. “And if you won’t help me to prove it then—then I will just stop her myself!” Rage and stark desperation twisted in her words.
He took the photograph. Put it in his desk drawer. Slid the check into the drawer, too. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Tracy’s jaw dropped. “You—you—” Her eyes lit with what appeared to be feverish hope. “You’ll take my case?”
His mind had already started to assess the possibilities. “You’re describing a black widow.”
“I—what?”
“A black widow. She chooses her mates, then she kill s them.” He’d never had a black widow case. Should be interesting.
Again, curiosity stirred. Stronger this time. Curiosity had always been his weakness. Maybe because he spent so much time just feeling bored—or feeling fucking nothing—that when curiosity came along, he tended to get hooked.
“Thank you.” Tracy’s thin shoulders slumped. “Thank you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.” And he would make no promises. “I’m just going to dig around a little bit. See what I discover.” About the beautiful and potentially deadly Alice.
“I want her locked away.”
Too bad. We don’t always get what we want.
“I want her to lose everything that she cares about in this world,” Tracy continued passionately. “I want her to hurt just like I hurt. She thinks she’s gotten away with murder, but we’ll show her that she hasn’t.”
If Alice was guilty, then, yes, he would see her locked away. Jail was a real bitch. He should know. He’d spent too much time there himself.
“You’ll be careful?” Tracy asked quickly. “You won’t let her trick you?”
Saint couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to fall into her web.” It took one hell of a lot more than a pretty face to fool him.
Chapter One
“What’s the password?”
Are you shitting me? Saint glared at the guy who’d just opened the small, metal grill in the wooden door before him. The door itself looked like something straight out of the 1920s, but then, that was probably the point. He was standing in front of a speakeasy in Savannah, Georgia, and the jerk squinting at him from behind the small viewing area in the door wasn’t going to let him in, not unless Saint had the magic word.
“Password,” the man repeated impatiently.
Fucking annoying. Saint grabbed a fifty from his wallet and shoved it toward the man’s eyes. The eyes were all he could see beyond that grill. “I’m pretty sure it’s Grant.” The president on the bill.
The cash disappeared through a small slat. “Nope. Tonight, the password is misdirection. Remember that in case anyone else asks.” Then the big door swung open as he allowed Saint to step inside.
“Welcome to Abracadabra,” he told Saint. “Get ready for some magic.”
Saint barely contained an eye roll as he strode past the bouncer—a tall guy wearing all black—and down the dark corridor that waited for him. Gas lanterns flickered on the walls, and he realized that heavy stone rested beneath his feet. He had to give the place points for atmosphere, if one had been going for a grim and cold atmosphere. Then he rounded the corner, saw the dark, red drapes, and Saint pushed them aside…
Well, well, well.
It was truly like walking back in time. Because Saint could have sworn that he was staring straight at an old-school speakeasy. Exposed brick showed on all the walls, a long, twisting bar ran down the right side of the room, and high-back chairs and round tables were scattered along the perimeter.
A stage—with black curtains and a black floor—waited to the left. On that stage, a woman stood in a circle of light, holding tight to a microphone, and crooning for all she was worth. And the place was packed. Men and women filled the joint, but they were dressed like they were at a fancy ball. The men were in tuxes, while the women were in designer gowns. And the drinks were definitely flowing.
Okay, so Alice Shephard knows how to make a killing.
Because this was her place. He’d spent the last six days researching her. Learning every possible detail that he could about the mysterious Alice. The details had certainly made her look dangerous.
It seemed to be common knowledge that Alice was a killer. That she’d gotten away not with just one murder, but potentially three. And as he passed the packed crowd and made his way to the bar, he even caught a few excited whispers about her…
“Do you think she’ll be here tonight?”
“God, could you imagine? Sharing a drink with a real killer!”
“I want my picture taken with her.”
His brows pulled low at the comments. In his experience, people weren’t excited about the prospect of hanging out with a killer. Or, at least, they shouldn’t be excited.
Alice seemed to be eliciting an unusual response from these individuals. People he realized were packing the speakeasy just because it was her place.
When he got to the bar, he took the only open stool he saw. He reached into his wallet and pulled out another fifty. A woman with dark hair had her back to him. She was mixing a drink, humming slightly, and he cleared his throat to get her attention.
“Don’t worry, handsome,” she said without looking back, “I’ll be with you next. But I’m already guessing you’re an old-school whiskey guy. An old-fashioned? That what you’re after? Because you hardly seem the pretty-drink type to me.”
He’d been looking at the crowd, but at that low, husky voice—a voice that seemed to sink into his skin—he jerked his head back toward the bartender. He realized she was wearing a shimmering, silver dress. Very much flapper-like. It dipped low at her back, plunging in a daring V that stopped right over her perfectly rounded hips. When he leaned forward a bit, he could see beyond the bar’s edge, and he got a glimpse of her toned legs and the high heels that—
“Like what you see?”
She was still not looking at him, but she seemed absolutely certain he was looking at her. His gaze immediately whipped up, thinking there must be a mirror on the wall there so that she could peer at him, but—
No. No mirror. Just bottles and bottles of alcohol.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” A throaty, seductive laugh. “But, sorry, my dark and dangerous new friend, I am not on the menu.” Then she turned toward him.
And it was as he’d suspected.
Fucking Alice Shephard.
The heels had given her extra height. At least two inches extra. Maybe three. And her hair was different. In the picture he’d viewed of her, Alice’s hair had trailed down her back and been shot with blond highlights. Now, her hair skimmed just below her shoulders. It was much darker, but when she stepped forward and a shaft of illumination hit her, he realized there were still golden highlights in her hair.
Golden highlights. Blood-red lipstick on her full, sensual lips. Luminous eyes that had been carefully shadowed to make them appear even deeper. Even bolder. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
Her head tilted to the right, and her hair slid over her shoulder. “You’re not wearing the appropriate clothing for tonight’s affair.”
He was wearing jeans. A black shirt. His old jacket.
“You bribed your way inside.” A nod. “Typical. Well, I’ll let you stay, but just because I am an incredibly nice person. Next time, download our app so that you know what the theme is for the evening. The theme and the password.”
So there was a theme? That was why everyone was so fancy? Whatever. He didn’t give a shit about being fancy. He cared about her. “Are you nice?”
Someone at the end of the bar called out to her.
She ignored the person. Saint could have sworn a spark of interest lit her eyes as Alice sharpened her gaze on him. Then she was leaning toward him, sliding her upper body over the edge of the bar, and Saint found himself leaning toward her, as well. He caught her scent—light, floral, kinda reminded him of freshly cut roses he’d scented once or twice—and he drank it in.
“No,” Alice replied, her voice going low and even huskier. “I’m not nice.”
He smiled at her. “Good. Because I’m not, either.” Fair warning.
Her gaze, even more luminous in real life than it had been in the photo, dropped to his mouth. “You have one of those gorgeous, disarming smiles,” she noted, not even seeming to miss a beat. “Very dangerous. I’m sure you flash that smile and women drop their panties at your feet.”
He peered down at the ground. “Don’t see any around me at the moment.”
When he looked back up, she was pushing an old-fashioned toward him. He noted the curving shell of the orange peel in the amber liquid.
“You don’t see them because I’m not the type to drop my panties just for a grin. It takes more. A lot more than that for me.”
Saint wrapped his fingers around the drink. As he did, he brushed her fingers because she was pulling back. A hot, hard surge of lust drove through him at the contact. Yeah, I was afraid of that. He ignored the lust and the aching dick he had and tried the drink.
