A Deal With the Devil (2 page)

With her salary and position, she shouldn’t experience money issues. Granted, she definitely splurged on occasion and she certainly didn’t consider herself a genius budgeter. But she managed expenses okay, aside from the random irresistible beauty product or occasional afternoon of power shopping with Kate. Those little luxuries hadn’t caused her problems, though. Rob had. And after ten years of care-taking her younger brother, she should have known better.

Amanda shook her head as she dried off. Given their history, she should have known Rob’s requests wouldn’t stop with the first loan. If she’d cared to really look at it, she could have guessed he’d come begging for more. But she hadn’t. And he had.

Now she found herself on a one way street, headed straight for financial ruin. Hence her weekend at the cabin. Sam and Kate had insisted she stay at their newly refurbished place and—aside from being free of charge—its location in the middle of nowhere seemed the perfect setting to plot a life reinvention. A hundred grand in debt sounded serious by anyone’s standards and it would take a serious plan of attack to get her out from under it.

She slipped into her cheetah print bathrobe and tightened the belt. As she glimpsed her reflection in the half-fogged mirror, she scowled. Leaning closer, she traced her fingers over the contours of her face. She looked like crap. Not surprising given her money problems and her thirtieth birthday, which loomed just around the corner, wasn’t helping matters. She dreaded the upcoming milestone as it would highlight her current reality as a spinster and possibly the biggest loser she knew.

Snap out of it.

Debbie Downer mode wasn’t going to solve anything. Three days sounded like an eternity, especially when they came with no irresponsible brother, no crazy branding job, no phones and no friends. With no distractions, she could work miracles in that amount of time.

She’d been so excited about her weekend of solitude, even news reports of a November snowmaggedon couldn’t scare her away. She needed this time alone. Hell, she deserved it. And on Sunday night she’d have it all figured out.

As Amanda reached for the hair dryer, glass shattered downstairs.

Her stomach lurched and she froze mid gesture, holding her breath as she strained to listen; afraid to move, afraid to do anything but stand there, still as a statue.

After what seemed an eternity, she allowed herself to breathe again, expelling a long sigh as she collapsed against the counter, weak with relief. Thank God. On top of everything else going on, she didn’t need to battle a crazed serial killer. A tree branch had probably just knocked against a window.

As if on cue, the winter wind whistled outside, banging the shutters against the house. Definitely a tree branch. Besides, Kate’s cabin lay so far off the beaten track; Amanda doubted a criminal could even find the place. And considering the overcast, frigid weather, any sane serial killer would be home and curled up in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine—which was exactly what she planned to do as soon as she dried her hair.

Her thumb moved to the power switch just as a door slammed.

Amanda jumped two feet in the air.
Holy Crap
!

Her fingers tightened around the dryer and her heart stopped for a beat, maybe two, and then thumped so hard, she felt lightheaded. She fought a wave of blackness.
Don’t be a wimp. Do something!
She shook her head and tried to think.

Heavy footsteps clomped across the wood floor below.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a scream and every instinct compelled her to run.

But to where?

Adrenaline pumped as Amanda set the dryer on the counter and did a quick Fred Flintstone-like tip toe to the door. She opened it with caution, grimacing as the hinges creaked and groaned. Then she peered down the hall and calculated the distance to the bedroom. At least there, she could hide in the closet or maybe cram herself under the bed. The tiny bathroom left her too exposed.

The footsteps paused at the base of the stairs and then started up, one heavy thud at a time.

Amanda bit her knuckles to stifle another scream. She’d never make it. She was trapped! Her heart pounded as she eased the door shut and spun around, her eyes darting about in search of cover. With nowhere to hide, she lunged for the counter and snatched up the dryer.

Where the
hell
was her cell phone?

She wracked her brain. Crap. She’d left it on the bedside table. In the bedroom she didn’t have time to get to. Perfect.

Don’t scream. Do. Not. Scream. The screamer is always the first to go in slasher movies
. She rolled her eyes.
Slasher movies? What the hell! Get a grip and do something.

Amanda tried to ignore the approaching footsteps, ticking through her options at lightning speed. The self-defense advice she’d recently Googled rushed back. When faced with immediate danger, the blogger had advised, launch an offensive and then run like hell.

Sounded like a plan.

The dryer appeared to be her only potential weapon, so she mustered her nerve, gripped the dryer like a baseball bat and assumed a stance that would’ve made Hank Aaron proud.

Google had never let her down before. Well, except for the bad directions to the cabin. But to be fair, Garmin hadn’t found the place either, so Google should get a pass. She rolled her eyes again.
Who gives a crap about Google or Garmin? Take control and say something, anything, damn it!

Amanda cleared her throat and felt a little dizzy as she shouted, “Who’s there?” She’d done her best to channel the I’m-in-charge-here tone—the one she trotted out during boardroom altercations—but she didn’t quite succeed and so she added a fib for good measure. “I’m not alone in here!”

Lame. Super lame. Everyone knows the horror movie chick who claims she isn’t alone, is
.
Why did I let Kate drag me to so many horror movies?

Amanda drew in a sharp breath and—as the footsteps went ominously silent—she envisioned Jack Nicholson in The Shining, limping down the hall and dragging his bloody ax.

She stifled a shriek, which came out sounding more like a kitten’s mew.

Out of options, Amanda made a deal with her maker. She’d never complain about her thirtieth birthday, ever again. Hell, she wouldn’t even whine about her mountain of debt. Just let the crazed serial killer turn around and leave.

He can take whatever he wants, but it would be great if he left the wine. Oh, and my laptop
.

Still posed like Hank Aaron, she shuffled away from the door, resisting an urge to cower in the corner.
Please don’t let me be chopped into little pieces. Big pieces either. No pieces.

A familiar male voice drawled, “Well if you’ve got company, then I suggest you make yourselves decent or this is about to get really embarrassing . . . for all of us.”

The door swung open.

Amanda blinked and her stomach dropped. Jake Lowell. What the hell?
He’s supposed to be in Iraq
. Given a choice, she’d rather face the serial killer or have a Here’s Johnny moment with Jack Nicholson.

Amanda let the blow dryer drop to her side but her grip on the makeshift weapon tightened as he sauntered in. He made a show of glancing around as he said, “You look alone to me” —he gestured toward the vanity— “unless you shoved your friend into one of those cabinets.”

No, no,
no!
Amanda squeezed her eyes shut. This was too much on top of everything else going wrong in her life. Maybe her debt problems had finally gotten to her. Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown. What was a nervous breakdown, anyway? If it meant conjuring up the image of your ex—otherwise known as the devil incarnate—the man who should be half a world away at the moment, then yes, she experienced a nervous breakdown.

Just before she opened her eyes, she incanted a silent prayer that she’d imagined him, like some sort of dark illusion. She opened her eyes and frowned. The flesh and blood Jake—all six foot one hunkified love ‘em and leave ‘em inches—stood before her, looking immensely pleased with himself.

He smirked as he leaned against the wall. “Happy to see me?”

Happy was not the word she would’ve chosen.

“What the hell Amanda” —his was the tone you’d take if scolding a naughty five-year-old— “I know you turned off your cell because Kate and I have called nonstop for the last two hours. And I noticed you unplugged the phone downstairs. Nice.” He raised a brow. “So have you stopped answering doors now, too?”

Between friends, his attitude could be considered teasing. But since they weren’t friends—weren’t
anything
—his amusement seemed to mock her. And, it pissed her off.

“Please.” She folded her arms. “When did
you
start breaking and entering? You might’ve tried ringing the doorbell.” Or not coming at all.

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve been outside freezing my ass off for the last fifteen minutes, knocking, ringing the doorbell, yelling like a total fool. When you didn’t answer, I had no choice but to break in.” He pointed his thumb toward the first floor kitchen. “You’re paying for the window, by the way.”

Her eyes narrowed.
In your dreams
.

As she studied him, her mood grew darker. He seemed far too cocky and comfortable for her liking and she didn’t even attempt to keep the edge out of her voice as she said, “What are you doing here?”

His expression hardened and judging from the look in his eyes and the set of his jaw, she could tell he meant business. “I’m bringing you back to Chicago.”

“Bringing me . . .” her voice trailed off as she stared at him, incredulous. She cleared her throat and tilted her head. “You’re kidding, right?” She hadn’t seen him in a year—not since the night he’d dumped her. So why would he barge in and ruin her weekend? And nearly give her a heart attack.

If he was back on a few weeks leave, surely he could think of better things to do with his time. Like breaking hearts or destroying dreams. He was good at that.

“I’m dead serious. It’s not safe here with this storm on the way. If you haven’t figured that out, clearly someone needs to point it out for you.”

His smirk hinted that he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts. Her eyes narrowed.
I’d like to kick his ass
. Her lips curved up as she considered a few potential methods.

“Kate sent me. Sam would’ve come, but his plane got delayed in New York.” He shrugged. “So, here I am.”

Her smile faded, her suspicions confirmed. Her BFF had turned traitor. Or she’d lost her mind. Maybe both.

“By the way” —he gestured to the hairdryer still grasped in one hand but now dangling by her side and his tone matched his wicked grin as he said— “were you planning to hit me with that thing?”

Her mouth twisted. Whoever had said that time healed all wounds had lied. Or maybe her wounds were still too fresh. All she knew was—while she’d never been the violent sort—she was pretty sure giving him a good whack would do wonders for her mood.

Rather than follow through with that twisted fantasy, she calmly set the dryer on the counter and battled the simultaneous urge to dash for her cell. She had a few choice words to share with Kate and it was all she could do to restrain herself.

“As soon as you dry your hair, we’ll get out of here.” His tone conveyed the confidence of a man accustomed to command.

It raised her hackles even more.

She drew in a long breath and counted to five before she said, “I just got here and I’m not leaving until Sunday night, but I’ll be sure to lock the door behind
you
.” This would be right after she shoved him outside.

Jake’s voice chided her in that slow, maddeningly rational tone she detested so much and which he had always pulled out during their most heated arguments. “Amanda, this is a serious storm. We’re going to get three feet of snow.” He held up three fingers to emphasize the point as he repeated, “Three feet.”

I know how many fingers three is
.

Somehow, she resisted the impulse to point that out. Instead, she placed one hand on her cheetah-clad hip and waved the other imperiously as she said, “Oh please. I heard those weather reports too, but it’s November.” She arched a brow. “Do you seriously think we’ll get that much snow?”

Jake’s eyes bugged out. “Have you looked outside in the last hour?”

She ignored him and maintained her resolve despite the tendrils of wet hair stuck to her face and rivulets of water dripping down her back. As a wayward droplet trickled down her cheek, she flicked it away and lifted her chin.

He started to speak but she cut him off. She wasn’t listening to any more lectures.

“Look, I’m sorry you drove all the way up here.” In truth, she wasn’t the least bit sorry, but she was trying to be polite. In her view, he should have known better than to come. “I suggest you head right on back to Chicago. I can take care of myself,” she said. Then she bent over and towel-dried her hair with enough force to make herself wince as she plotted the revenge she’d unleash upon Kate.