Authors: Unknown

DevilishlyHot (11 page)

BOOK: DevilishlyHot

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“Hi Elton,” Annie greeted him, trying to sound nonchalant, as if was perfectly normal for her to be back here with an agitated detective.

Elton wheeled his cart toward them. “Is everything okay?” The old man’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two of them.

Annie nodded, offering him a bright smile. The fewer people who knew about Nick’s concerns, the better for all involved.

Except Nick seemed to have different ideas.

“Did you see her?” he demanded.

Elton frowned, giving Nick a worried look. “See who?”

“The receptionist? You had to have seen there was something wrong with her.”

“Who, Jenna?” Elton asked, looking at Annie.

Annie nodded, not wanting to say anything. It was best to keep this quiet, she knew it, and she didn’t want to encourage any talk among the staff.

Elton nodded too. “Sure, I saw her. She was sitting at the front desk when I came through from the elevators. Why?”

Nick started to answer him, but Annie cut him off. “Just a misunderstanding. The usual craziness, you know this place.”

The old man’s eyes remained locked on Nick for a moment, and again Nick got that sixth-sense feeling of his. Something wasn’t right with this guy.

This old guy knew and saw a lot more than he was admitting. Maybe he was involved with Finola, doing whatever it was that they were doing to these people.

“Well, I’m glad it was nothing serious,” Elton said, maneuvering the steel cart past them toward the freight elevator.

Oh, he knew something. Nick was sure of it, but he didn’t stop the old man. He considered following him and asking him some questions, but he decided right now wasn’t the time. He needed to leave this place and shake off the strange sensations still clinging to him.

He needed to get some perspective, some control. Not to mention he didn’t think Annie would let him confront the old guy. So he would wait.

“I’m going to get out of here,” he said to Annie, not liking the feelings that seemed to be enveloping him.

Annie nodded, her gray eyes darkened with concern. She lifted a hand as if she planned to touch him, but then thought better of it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said, wanting to touch her as well, but not daring to, afraid that even the smallest touch would get out of hand. “Please stay safe.”

She nodded, and he strode from the hallway, leaving her to exit after he was gone.

“You cannot keep doing this,” Tristan said, not caring if Finola got mad at him or not. Frankly being cast back to Hell was starting to look like a good thing to him at the moment as he struggled to wrangle Finola’s current soulless ex-employee into the backseat of his Bentley Super-sport. Not an easy task given it was a two-door, with a backseat designed more for show than functionality. All floppy and useless like she was, it was a bit like trying to get a soggy hot dog into a nail hole.

Not to mention she was going to end up scuffing his black leather interior.

“She was annoying,” Finola said, absently checking her makeup in her gold compact. She glanced over the mirror to watch Tristan’s struggle as if he was a porter simply loading luggage into the car before a holiday trip.

Not as annoying as you, Tristan thought bitterly, and at this point he was talking about both of them: demon, and soulless body. Finally he shoved the woman into the back headfirst, quickly cramming her legs in behind. He slammed the seat back before she could stretch out.

Then he slammed the door just for good measure.

“She should have realized it was totally inappropriate to flirt with the man I want. And will have. And you cannot tell me she didn’t notice our attraction to each other.”

Really? Because he hadn’t noticed it either, at least not on the good detective’s part. Tristan managed to keep that thought to himself, but couldn’t contain his next opinion.

“I don’t think that Satan would consider her flirting with some mortal male you want to nail a breach of contract.”

“Want to nail,” Finola repeated, her tone indignant, although that emotion didn’t appear on her face. Indignant must be one of the emotions she considered unflattering. “That’s just crass.”

Tristan fought the urge to snort. She was calling him crass when she was the reason some dumb but otherwise innocuous blonde was heaped into the backseat of his car like so much trash. While Finola idly inspected her already flawless makeup. That seemed crass to him, and what he’d said sounded remarkably like the truth.

She strolled over to his car and peered through the back window at the now-inert body sprawled awkwardly across the seats.

She wrinkled her nose, just briefly, then once she was satisfied the soulless was quieted down, she opened the passenger-side door and got inside.

Tristan went to the other side and slid behind the wheel.

He started the custom-made car, and the engine sparked to life with a low, throaty roar, like a wild beast, its power barely restrained.

Beside him, Finola arranged herself, then pulled out her sunglasses and settled back as if she was going on a leisurely afternoon joyride.

“And besides,” she said after touching up her bloodred lipstick, “I didn’t have a soul contract with her anyway.”

She snapped her sunglasses case shut and tossed it back into her bag. Or tried. She missed as Tristan hit the brakes, jerking them to an abrupt stop inside the parking garage. He turned his head to gape at her.

“What?” he finally said, sure he must have misunderstood.

“I didn’t have a soul contract with her,” she repeated with a careless shrug.

“How can you say that like it’s no problem?” he asked, totally stunned, although he was beginning to wonder why anything surprised him anymore. “Taking a soul with no contract is worse than breaching a contract. You know that, and you know Satan is not going to be pleased.”

“Satan adores me. He won’t care. A soul is a soul.”

Tristan stared at her for a moment, amazed that she could be that arrogant. Did she honestly believe she was above the rules of Hell? The very rules Satan himself had established?

Maybe she was just insane. He wasn’t sure at this moment.

“So where are we taking her?” she asked, genuinely unconcerned with her behavior and its potential outcome. “We have to make sure it’s someplace where she can’t wander back.”

Tristan again bit his tongue. He’d been covering up Finola’s messes for years now; he knew what he was doing. This one woman—what was her name? Jessica Moran. Jessica was a fluke. He took his foot off the brake, letting the car roll backward from the parking space. He wouldn’t mess up this “disappearance.”

“The Jersey Shore,” he told her. “No one will even notice there’s anything wrong with her there.”

Finola nodded, apparently satisfied with his solution.

They were both silent as Tristan maneuvered through all the stop-and-go traffic trying to get out of the city, when Finola said, “I do hope we get back in time for me to have my nails done. I want to look perfect for my date with Nick.”

Thinking of the date he and Annie had arranged, Tristan instantly felt so much better. He didn’t respond except to smile, just slightly to himself. Suddenly he was very much looking forward to tonight’s outing.

Chapter Ten

“W
hat
is
this place?” Finola asked, peering out the window of her limo at the square, industrial building covered in retro-looking neon.

“It’s a bowling alley,” Annie said, suddenly wondering if she’d taken being a “normal human” too far. Finola White was a woman whose normal evening out was at the finest restaurants—in France. The most exclusive nightclubs—in Ibiza. Yachts and cocktail parties with New York’s elite.

It was not beer and bowling with the blue-collar set.

“Bowling?” Finola frowned at Annie, completely validating her thoughts. She didn’t even know what a bowling alley was. “Is this something Nick would like?”

“He said so,” Annie replied, trying to sound more positive and confident than she felt.

“I see him now,” Tristan said as soon as the chauffeur opened the door. Even Finola’s usually brooding assistant editor looked upbeat about the prospect of a night of hitting the pins. In fact, this was the happiest Annie could recall Tristan ever looking, even though he still managed to make happy drip with cool ennui.

Annie followed them out of the limo, realizing their arrival had garnered quite a bit of attention. Several men with large beer guts and receding hairlines stopped to watch Finola cross the parking area, her white visage as foreign to them as a ghost.

A ghost the men found both amusing and intriguing.

When they reached Nick, he was smiling, and he looked considerable less overwrought than he had the last time Annie saw him.

“I bet not many patrons of this establishment arrive in a stretch limo,” Nick said with a chuckle.

Finola immediately looked over at Annie. “I believe you said the limo was acceptable for tonight.”

Annie hadn’t said that. She had simply agreed that a taxi might very likely smell like body odor and definitely would not serve Perrier, which Finola had decided meant they should take the limo.

“I think the limo is a nice touch,” Nick said with an approving nod. His reaction instantly appeased Finola and Annie was off the hot seat. Finola stepped forward and looped her arm through Nick’s.

“Well, shall we?” Finola frowned, looking up the building until she located the word “bowling.”

Nick nodded, grinning, clearly finding Finola’s confusion about bowling amusing. Adorable, even.

A tightness filled Annie’s chest. An unpleasant feeling she didn’t like, didn’t want. A feeling that felt far too much like jealousy.

Tristan appeared at her side, drawing her attention away from the couple. Annie never thought she’d actually be relieved to have Tristan as a distraction.

“She won’t make it more than a few minutes,” he whispered, the almost smile lurking on his perfectly shaped lips.

Annie looked back at the other couple, who entered the bowling alley, their arms still linked and their heads close together as they talked. Nick laughed at something Finola said, and that tight feeling in Annie’s chest squeezed again.

Tristan gestured for Annie to join them.

She followed the other couple, really hoping Tristan was right. She hoped Finola quickly realized Nick was not her type of man. And not just because he was in danger of being involved with a demon, but because Annie couldn’t bear seeing them together.

She would admit that to herself, and herself only.

“I’m supposed to wear these?” Finola said, staring down at the pair of red, white and blue bowling shoes. The leather was worn and the once-white laces were a little frayed and dirtied to a light gray.

“Yes,” Nick said, smiling at her dismayed expression. “They have leather soles so they won’t scratch up the wood flooring on the lanes. Your boots are definitely out.”

Finola looked from her white high-heeled boots back to the flat, shabby shoes that had likely seen dozens and dozens of feet.

Annie found Finola’s disgust at having to put her pampered demon feet into them amusing and gratifying. It was hardly suitable punishment for all the awful things Finola had done, all the souls she’d banished to Hell. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Annie was enjoying this moment.

Annie took a sip of her beer, then looked down to admire her own green and orange bowling shoes. She rather liked them.

Finola tilted her head, still staring at the shoes as if they might bite her. In fact, even though they were on the floor in front of her, she actually leaned back on the plastic bench as if to put more space between herself and them.

“But they are used,” Finola said after a moment. “There must be some way to purchase new ones?”

Why, no you can’t, Annie thought smugly to herself as she hid another smile behind her plastic tumbler.

Her smile vanished as Nick dropped to one knee and took Finola’s foot in his hand.

“The shoes may not look terribly fashionable, but they are cleaned and perfectly safe,” Nick assured Finola.

Annie watched in a combination of fascination and horror as he pushed up the leg of Finola’s white, wide-legged trousers, then slowly pulled down the zipper on her white Gucci boot. His broad-palmed, long-fingered hands cradled her silk-stocking-covered foot and eased the bowling shoe on like the prince slipping on Cinderella’s glass slipper.

The tightness in Annie’s chest that had lessened at Finola’s misery returned with breath-stealing gusto.

Could Nick genuinely be attracted to Finola White? Pampered, bratty, not to mention demonic, Finola White? Granted, he didn’t know about that last issue, but still. Finola.

Annie looked away, taking a much larger swallow of her beer this time.

“I suppose they aren’t so bad,” Finola said, smiling widely at Nick. Wide and toothy like a hungry gator. Nick had no doubt this woman was a predator.

After what he’d seen today, he was sure Finola White was somehow behind whatever was happening at
HOT!
It was all just a little too coincidental that the receptionist should flirt with Nick, and then fall prey to the same malady as Jessica Moran. He was willing to bet the receptionist would not return to work.

He needed to figure out what was happening at that magazine, and soon. There were already too many casualties, and Nick now knew there would be more.

He rose from adjusting Finola’s shoe, slipping a quick glance over to Annie. She sat on the bench, looking anywhere but toward him and Finola.

Nick knew she must be disgusted with him. First he’d come on to her and now he appeared to be flirting with her boss, but Nick knew he had to use Finola’s attraction to him to get closer to her. To give her a false sense of security about him. Then maybe, just maybe, she’d let something slip.

Not to mention, he couldn’t risk letting Finola know his real attraction was to her lovely, sweet personal assistant. That was far too risky, and Nick couldn’t bear ever to look into Annie’s stormy eyes and see only a blank stare aimed back at him.

Nick had to keep Annie safe. And the best way to do that was never to reveal to Finola how much he wanted Annie.

But that still didn’t make it easy to see Annie looking so disappointed and disgusted.

“So what do we do now?” Finola asked, glancing around her to see what the other people were doing. To their left a large man walked up to the lane. He lined up the ball, then took his approach, swung back and released. In doing so, he flashed a substantial amount of hairy lower back and rear end in their direction. The group the man was with shouted and jeered, razzing each other loudly.

Finola didn’t manage to hide her grimace, but she rallied and gave Nick a weak smile. “So we fling a ball down that strip of wood to knock over those white things at the end.”

Nick grinned, not even having to force the gesture. It was easy to take amusement from this woman’s complete disgust at the whole experience. Not to mention seeing this well-known diva so out of her own element.

“Exactly,” he said.

Finola watched another man, this one much thinner and younger, but still not the type of person Finola was used to.

The guy did wear Levis and Nike sneakers, brand names. But were they designer brands? Nick smiled to himself. This really was amusing.

Again his gaze flicked back to Annie. Although it would be more fun to actually be here on a date with her. Alone.

His gaze moved to Tristan, who surprisingly looked fairly at ease. He even wore jeans and a T-shirt—probably $1,000 jeans and a $500 tee—but he fit in. Somewhat.

“I think maybe I should let someone else start,” Finola said, watching her surroundings with a barely restrained expression of horror.

Nick nodded. “I can start.”

He took his turn, doing respectably, getting nine of the ten pins.

Tristan agreed to go next, and while his bowling skills were rusty at best, he did far better than Nick would have guessed.

Then Annie rose, choosing a purple ball. She stepped up to the lane, arranging the ball in her hand, lining it up, the whole time looking so damned appealing. Her hair, which was usually in a tidy bun, fell down around her shoulders, and Nick could see glints of deep red highlighting the brown. She wore a simple black long-sleeve T-shirt and dark blue jeans that clung to her in all the right places, showing what an amazing figure she had.

When she threw the ball, her perfect derriere was cupped by the dark denim ...

Nick looked over at Finola, making sure the woman hadn’t noticed he was practically drooling over Annie’s amazing bowling form.

Finola wasn’t watching either of them. She was peering warily into her plastic tumbler of beer. She dabbed at something floating in the golden liquid, then, with a wrinkle of her nose, set it aside.

The group of men in the lane next to them noticed Annie, however. Several sets of male eyes were on her. Even Tristan seemed to have noticed her. The man’s strikingly blue eyes wandered over Annie’s body, taking in every detail as she bent down to pick up her ball.

Nick gritted his teeth. Annie had said Tristan wasn’t her boyfriend and they weren’t on a real date, but that didn’t mean the vampire didn’t want them to be on a real date.

“Spare!” Annie called from behind him.

He turned back to find her grinning, oblivious to the attention she was getting. Even when the other group of men cheered for her.

She grinned at them. Damn, she was adorable.

Nick congratulated her, managing to keep his desire for her out of his voice and expression. Her smile withered slightly, but she thanked him and returned to the bench.

“Is it my turn?” Finola said, eyeing the lane as the pins were swept away and new ones lined up. “Already?”

Reluctantly Finola stood, gingerly stepping up to the lane.

Nick followed her, pointing to the balls. “Just pick one that doesn’t feel too heavy for you.”

Finola picked one up, grimacing as she did. She set it down, then looked at her white palms as if she expected them to be covered with filth. She glanced at Nick, attempting a smile, then hesitantly picked up another one.

“Okay,” she said, forcing another smile. “I guess this one will do.”

Nick smiled, trying to make the gesture look encouraging rather than amused. She moved to the red line on the lane, her white designer trousers and stylish white silk and lace blouse making her stand out like—well, like a rich fashion diva—amid Average Joes.

“Now just roll it down the lane, aiming for those pins,” he said.

Finola eyed the holes in the ball, wincing as she stuck her perfectly manicured fingers into them. She balanced the ball between her hands, then she rolled, the ball heading very slowly down the lane only to eventually go in the gutter. The next two balls did the same.

“That was a good try for your first time,” Nick said.

Finola shrugged, clearly not caring how she played, but obviously wishing she were anywhere else.

“Don’t worry, baby,” one of the guys from the group next to them yelled. “You still looked fine.”

Another elbowed his friend and added, “She could be on me like white on rice.”

They laughed raucously.

Finola looked over at them, her gaze surprisingly calm, and the group fell silent as if she’d somehow wordlessly put them in their place.

She strolled back to the table, taking her seat.

“Good try,” Annie said softly.

Finola lifted an eyebrow and looked as if she was going to say something, but the waitress appeared.

The high school kid with a ponytail, multiple piercings in her ears and one in her eyebrow, and an abundance of black eyeliner, placed the greasy pizza they’d ordered in the center of the table.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked around a large wad of gum.

“I would like a glass of wine. Preferably a decent pinot noir.” Finola said.

BOOK: DevilishlyHot

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