Devil's Deception (19 page)

“Just look at the single, blocked fire exit.”

She threw him a dirty look. “You’re a philistine.”

“I must be because I will never understand why you insist on patronizing the worst dives in this town. First that greasy spoon diner, and now this relic. I expect the Phantom of the Opera to come swinging out of the rafters any minute.”

“Brett, the whole world is not filled with amber waves of grain.”

“I’ll take the amber waves any day over this . . . mausoleum.”

Angela looked down at her lap. “I wanted to have a good time and you’re ruining it.”

He was instantly contrite. “Okay, okay.” He put his arm around her shoulder and she settled against him. “I guess I’ll never get used to the New York state of mind. You people take places like this in stride.”

Angela started to reply and then stopped when the houselights dimmed. She sat transfixed as the show began.

It didn’t take Devlin long to see why she liked the film so much. It was a highly emotional, very sweet love story, designed to appeal to someone with her well developed romantic imagination. She was teary when the movie ended, wiping at her eyes.

“Wasn’t that nice?” she said to him, smiling.

“Very nice,” he replied, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

They walked out hand in hand, and Angela pointed across the street in the gathering dusk.

“Let’s go into Cinema City,” she said. “It’s open on Sunday for the browsers.”

“What, I hesitate to ask, is Cinema City?”

“It’s a curio shop where they sell posters and things from old movies.”

“Ah-ha. Like the stills you have framed all over your bedroom walls.”

She smiled.

“I think we should get over there as quickly as possible,” he said. “You definitely need at least ten more of those.”

Angela giggled as he hurried her along. “This is fun,” she confided to him. “It’s like we’re on a date.”

“One that’s going to last the rest of your life,” he responded, pushing open the wooden door of the studio.

Inside the walls were covered with hundreds of the same type of reproductions that Angela had at home. Long tables held boxes of five-by-eight and eight-by-ten photos and shots from films. Memorabilia such as programs from premieres and bits of costumes were enclosed in glass cases along the walls. It was a cinema buff’s dream come true.

“You must think you’re in heaven here,” Devlin commented, looking around in awe.

“I got most of my stuff from this place,” Angela replied, leading him to a rack of posters, hanging one on top of another and arranged like a flip chart. When finished with one, the viewer could fold it back over the top and see the next beneath it.

“Some new things here,” she informed Devlin, looking closer.

“Go to it,” he said as he surveyed the walls. His hands in his pockets, he took a short tour while Angela picked through the offerings happily. She had a number in hand, ready to order them, when Devlin touched her arm.

“That looks like one that belongs in your collection,” he said, pointing to a still from the Zeffirelli production of
Romeo and Juliet
The shot showed the two young people together, reclining on a field of white flowers.

Angela shook her head. “That’s not the one I want.”

“Oh? There’s another one?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to get it, but it seems to be out of print or something. It shows Romeo holding Juliet’s chin in his hand, bending about to kiss her.”

“Like this?” Devlin asked, taking Angela’s chin in his hand and leaning over her, looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said softly, her lashes lowering.

Devlin pressed her lips fleetingly with his. “I thought so.”

“It’s a beautiful picture,” Angela said, recovering. “Juliet is wearing one of those little beaded caps and her hair is flowing over her shoulders. They both look so young, so innocent.”
 

“No more innocent than you, Angela.”

Angela looked away, blushing faintly. “How can you say that to me after last night?”

He ducked her head against his shoulder, murmuring into her ear, “Last night just proved to me how innocent you are.”

Angela clutched his jacket, rubbing her face on the soft surface of the cloth.

“Come on,” Devlin said, nudging her toward the counter. “Order up those goodies so we can get out of here. I’m starving.”

Angela sighed. “I miss Josie on Sunday. Tuna is about the best I can do on my own.”

“I’ve noticed,” he replied, grinning.

“Why don’t we stop and get something on the way home?” she suggested, handing her list to the clerk.

“Why don’t we go home and go to bed?” Devlin countered.

“I thought you said you were starving.”

“Not for food,” he answered, nodding his head at the door.

Angela completed her business quickly, then raced him out of the store. Once they were out on the sidewalk she nudged his arm.

“That clerk was listening to you,” she said between her teeth. “He knew exactly what you were talking about.”

Devlin hugged her, kissing her hair. “Let him eat his heart out. He was staring at you the whole time we were in there.”

“He was not. You’re imagining things.”

“I’m imagining the evening with you.”

Angela laughed as he hailed a cab. “I hope your mental picture includes me preparing eight cases in Landlord-Tenant.”

Devlin groaned with real feeling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She bit her lip, still giggling. “No, I’m not. I’ve been neglecting my work too much lately. I’m going to flunk out if this keeps up.”

They got into the cab and Devlin sank back against the seat. “Just my luck,” he muttered, “to wind up with Clarence Darrow.”

“Clarence Darrow was a man.”

“Don’t pick nits.”

Angela snuggled next to him and he relented, putting his arm around her.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too, but I still have two hundred pages of briefs to read for tomorrow.”

He withdrew his arm, and Angela started laughing again as the cab wended its way through the city streets.

* * * *
 

Angela studied past midnight, trying to catch up on the work she’d missed while Devlin read downstairs. He’d promised to leave her alone and he did, a development that disappointed her greatly. Eventually fatigue and eyestrain caught up with her and she fell asleep over her books.

The dream began the way dreams sometimes do, as an extension of reality. She was sitting at her desk, studying, when a shadow passed across the curtains from the patio. She froze, watching the moving image coming closer, when the intruder burst through the glass doors with a shattering impact.

Angela screamed. She started up from her chair, confused, still in the grip of the nightmare unable to stem the tide of her terror.

Her bedroom door flew open and Devlin was beside her in a second. He pulled her into his arms.

“There’s someone out there,” she babbled, hysterical. “A man came in through the doors, broke the glass.”

“No, no,” Devlin crooned. “You were sleeping; it was a dream. Look, there’s no broken glass on the floor. No one is here but me and you.”

Angela glanced around, trying to understand, and then sagged against him in relief.

“It was so real,” she whispered.

Devlin kissed her repeatedly, cradling her in his arms. “You’re all right,” he soothed her. “I’m here, you’re all right.”

Angela clutched him, the only friendly force in a hostile universe. Here was the safety, the protection, and the love. Here was the man.

Devlin’s embrace was changing. His attempts to comfort her became the caresses of desire as his mouth found hers hungrily. Angela responded, opening her lips to admit his probing tongue, shifting position on his lap to press against him. He took her hand and ran it up his thigh, allowing her to feel his readiness. Her fingers closed around him and he groaned against her mouth.

“So strong,” Angela murmured. “It’s always so strong. This feeling makes you forget everything else.”

With the raw power that never failed to excite her, he picked her up bodily and settled her on the floor. Kneeling, he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. She reached for him before he could undress fully and with a guttural sound of submission he came to her, covering her body with his.

Angela kissed him with reckless abandon, feeling his excitement grow at this evidence of her passion. He pulled on the belt of her robe, pushing aside the terry folds, and ran his hands over her, the warmth of his fingers penetrating the thin nightgown. With a sound of impatience he lifted her, drawing the robe from her shoulders and taking the short shift by the hem. He worked it up to her breasts, uncovering them, and then bunched the cloth in his fist, yanking the gown upward. Angela raised her arms and he pulled it over her head.

Angela lay on the floor, her arms still stretched above her head. Devlin surveyed her through slitted eyes, his lips parted slightly to reveal a glimpse of his teeth. A sheen of perspiration dotted his upper lip and moistened the dark hair on his forehead, at his temples. His chest heaved with the force of his harsh breathing. Angela waited for him to move and then took the initiative. She sat up, seizing his hand and covering it with kisses.

He drew her roughly against him, closing his eyes as she ran her mouth over his chest, rubbing her cheek in the dense mat of black hair. She reveled in the soft feel of the skin on his back, marveling that such a strong, virile body could have a covering of the finest silk. Her lips traveled down the line of hair to his belt. A tremor shook him as, sighing deeply, she turned her head and laid her cheek against his thigh.

His fists bunched in her hair and then he surged upward, putting her momentarily aside. He undid his belt with shaking hands and shed his pants quickly, sweeping her up in his arms.

Devlin dropped Angela on the bed and entered her in almost the same motion, nearly falling on her. He caught himself at the last second by supporting his weight on his hands. Angela cried out with the piercing sweetness of it and he raised his head anxiously.

“Did I hurt you?” he gasped.

“No, no, you could never hurt me,” she moaned, arching to meet him. “Don’t stop, don’t ever stop.”

Devlin sensed the wildness in her, matching his own. He let himself go, taking his pleasure and enhancing Angela’s with the sheer force of his unleashed power. Angela had thought she’d experienced everything with him, but this was something new, an unchecked intensity that he’d been careful to manage during their previous lovemaking. It thrilled and scared and exhilarated her, washing her away on a tidal wave of feeling. When it was over they were both spent and exhausted, covered with a thin film of sweat.

“Are you okay?” Devlin murmured, stirring finally and drawing the sheet over both of them.

“I think so,” Angela replied shakily. “I may have a few bruises tomorrow.”

He groaned, covering his eyes with his hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I said I would let you do your work and I promised myself I’d stay downstairs tonight. Instead, I wound up charging in here and . . .“He gestured helplessly at the tangled, dampened bed. He shook his head. “What a jerk.”

Angela kissed his salty shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. You came up because of the dream.”

“It’ll be my fault if you’re black and blue in the morning,” he replied miserably. “I’m such a bruiser and you’re so . . . delicate.”

Angela smiled fondly. “I’m not that delicate, I promise you. I was a willing participant so stop acting like you abused me. If you hadn’t done what you did, I’d have been reduced to begging.” She smoothed the frown lines between his brows. “Surely you know that ladies feel like that too. It’s just that with us it isn’t so physically obvious.”

He grinned.

“That’s better,” she said, satisfied. She settled comfortably into the crook of his arm and he shifted his weight to accommodate her. His elbow brushed the lamp on her nightstand and it teetered ominously.

Angela giggled. “Please don’t break anything else. First the statuette, then the vase with Philip . . . by the time my uncle comes back we’ll have trashed the whole house.”
 

The mention of Philip brought Devlin back to reality.

“Angela?”

“Mmn?”

“What are you going to do about Cronin?”

Angela sighed. “There was a message from him on the machine when we got back today.”

“I know.”

“He’s not the type to take bad news gracefully.”

“I had a feeling he was a sore loser.”

“I’m going to call him in the morning and ask him to come over tomorrow night. I’ll talk to him then.”

Devlin was silent, thinking about the other man. Though he would dearly love to lock Cronin up with his employer, the Bureau had been unable to link him with Patria’s drug business. In fact, out of all the Patria employees Devlin had met the only one implicated in Patria’s illegal activities was his lawyer, Harold Simmons. The rest appeared to accept Patria for what he in fact was: an art importer. They remained as ignorant about his lucrative sideline as his niece.