A Deal With the Devil (3 page)

“What spare time?” It was all work, fight, work, fight. He offered his arm to escort her to the boutique but she just looked at it as if touching him would lead her down a path she definitely did not want to go. So he walked ahead, leading the way. “Okay, we can play catch up in the lift, but there’s not much more about me to know.”

“Oh come on now, Mr Doyle.” She followed behind. “I bet there is.”

“C
all me Rey
for a start.” He walked to the far end of the VIP lounge, behind the heavy drapes and through the doors to his private offices. He hit the lift button. “Using ‘Mr Doyle’ would appear very strange to prospective business associates. These are from Macau, and we’re hoping to get them to facilitate a license for us to open a casino there. It’s a precarious move on our side—Macau hasn’t given a license to anyone for years and right now their decision could go either way.” Bare minimum details were all she needed to know—that way she couldn’t say or do anything to jeopardise the deal.

“So we have to impress.”

“Yes. It could be a long night, they’ll want to see how we do things here and we need to show them a good time. We entertain first …”

She nodded. “Okay, understood, I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Good. I don’t need a loose cannon.” He was taking a huge risk here. “Don’t ask them too many questions. Talk about London, about your work. They’ll be impressed to hear you’re a nurse. What field are you in?”

If he wasn’t mistaken her eyes widened a little. So she didn’t like to talk about her personal life either. He got that. She flicked her hand up, casually. “Like I said, studying at the moment. It’s Rey with an ‘e’, is that right? Unusual spelling. Isn’t it usually Ray with an ‘a’?”

Observant, outspoken, challenging. And now avoidance tactics. Well, well. They could spend the whole night talking and not getting to know each other at all. “It’s one of the French versions of the name, it means king.”

“Ah, the casino
king
. Now I understand. Clever.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Shoe? Don’t you have something more royal? Kidskin boots lined with ermine? No? Boxing gloves padded with silk and velvet?” She flashed him a smile that whipped his breath from his lungs. When she used that mouth for smiling and not smart-mouthing she was stunning to watch. “What’s the French connection? Is there one?”

“My mother was French.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Was?”

“She died.” And that was the end of that subject. He stomped on the memory and jabbed the lift button. She was dead. No amount of wishing would make things different. He could barely remember her face these days—but he remembered how she’d died; in fear, in pain. And how he’d been helpless to stop it and useless after she’d gone. Until he’d shut down the direct line to his heart. No one was allowed access to that ever again.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes misting, Kate looked at him gently for a few seconds as if expecting him to elucidate, then she turned away across the hallway towards his offices. She cleared her throat before she spoke. “I wasn’t shown this part of the casino at orientation. What’s down there?”

“My office. Management suite. You ask a lot of questions.”

“Like I said, I need to know things about you.” Something akin to uncertainty flickered across her features, but she recovered herself as they stepped into the lift. She leaned against the rail that ran around the walls. Her skirt had ridden up a little, showcasing her long tanned limbs, and heat shot through him.

He ignored it, dragged his gaze away. “And what about you, Kate …? What’s your surname?”

“Wilkinson. It’s all in my personnel file.”

“I haven’t got time to read up about you; we have forty minutes and counting. Quick-fire round: marital status?” Odd question to ask but for some reason it suddenly seemed important.

“Is none of your business.”

“If you’re my girlfriend and I have a rival then I need to know who I’m up against. Theoretically.”

“A rival? What century are we in?” Her mouth pursed, red lipstick shimmering in the fractured light. “I’m single.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yes, aren’t you. Theoretically.”

He couldn’t help but watch her. Reflected in the mirrored walls were hundreds of Kates, effecting a nonchalant stance, which was belied by the illuminated tight grip on the handrail, white knuckles repeated over and over. Either he made her nervous or she really did not want to be here doing this with him. Money clearly spoke to her, regardless of what she said.

“Age?”

She turned again to look at him. “Twenty-six. You?”

“Thirty-three. Where did we meet?”

“You tell me. Where do you usually meet your girlfriends?”

“I don’t know, wherever.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. Sex yes, but a relationship? Dating? Commitment? “Come on, make it up. Anything, anywhere. Where would you want to meet your dashing prince charming?”

She frowned. “I have no delusions about fairy tales, Mr Doyle. I know life never serves up that kind of soppy romantic happy ever after.”

“Ah, a fellow cynic. Then we at least agree on something. And yet we’re so desperately in love.” In an uncharacteristic roguish gesture he took her hand in his, trying to ignore a powerful surge of something that fired between them at the first touch of skin on skin. It threw him off balance a little. Kate threw him off balance.

She pulled her hand away and wiped it down the latex skirt. So she’d felt it too, and wanted to be rid of it as quickly as possible; he had no argument there. She gave him a sarcastic lift of her lip. “In some strange parallel universe that I seem to have found myself in, yes, apparently I adore you.” Her eyes gleamed as she turned to him. “But don’t get used to the idea.”

He tapped his chest. “And now you’ve broken my poor gentle heart.”

“Oh, you tragic sweet thing who wouldn’t hurt a fly, ever. I’m so sorry to break this to you but, between you and me, you’re just not my type.”

And then she laughed. Hearing that simple sound felt as if something in his chest had been liberated. Was this a glimpse of the real Kate Wilkinson? “You have a type? What? A compassionate doctor? A philosophy student—with wordy books and a head full of ideas?” Not a bruised and belligerent boxer. And who could blame her?

“Not up for discussion.”

“And why not?”

“Because it has nothing to do with you. But trust me on this: a man who dedicates his life to hurting people either physically or through their wallets is definitely not the man for me.”

Again he touched his heart. Seemed she was hell-bent on stomping on it. Strange way to start a relationship, pretend or otherwise. “Kate Wilkinson, I think you have the wrong impression of me.”

“Oh no, I have the very right impression.” The doors swished open at the southernmost end of the ground floor, the grand gilt Victorian-era decor accenting Doyle’s
executive
casino experience. Kate flashed him a cool smile as she stepped out. “Shall we?”

*     *     *

Kate tried to
stop her hands from trembling as she followed him into the shop. What the freaking hell was she doing? It was one thing to pry and eavesdrop and spy, but another thing altogether to agree to be his woman for the whole night, with company too. And to add another layer of lies … a nurse? A
nurse
? Where in hell had that come from? But then she’d nursed her mum for so long until she’d died, and then Jake when he came out of hospital, she might as well have been one.

And yes, so it put her in pole position for getting closer to Doyle, but now she was there, she didn’t think it was such a great idea. From the first moment she’d seen him she’d been weirdly affected by this walking, talking bundle of uncoiled testosterone who appeared to have no qualms at trampling over everyone in a bid to get his own way. She wanted to believe she could meet him spar for spar—and she was good at playing the part. Too good. Combative words seem to fall from her lips whenever they discussed anything, but to her horror she’d enjoyed it. She was someone else, someone with an edge. It bordered on dirty flirting.

Therein lay the problem: he had a sharp wit and a keen observant eye, but he was also strangely enigmatic in a rough, savage way and that seemed to enthral her on some deep level. She had to see past the man to the monster she knew him to be.

“Good evening, Nancy.” He gave the officious-looking shop manager a smile as they walked in to what was the most peaceful, sophisticated, beautiful shop she’d ever seen. The displays were simple but stunning; gold and silver dresses hung from racks suspended from the ceiling, red silks, black velvet, a dress for every occasion and every one more lovely than the last. There were birdcages, feather stoles, silk shoes … she wanted to run her fingers across every item to feel its exquisite quality, imagining being able to afford this, to be in this shop for real, choosing a dress for a night out with a man she loved. Someone who loved her right back.

Rey’s voice broke through her reverie. The fairy tale screeching to a sharp halt like a scratched vinyl record—there’d been no fairy tales in Kate’s life. “My friend here is looking for a dress for an event tonight, could you help her, please?”

Nancy looked from him, to Kate, taking in her Doyle’s uniform, and back again. “Friend?”

“Yes. Whatever she wants, charge it to me.”

The older woman almost sneered over her gold-rimmed glasses, but she patted her over-coiffed hair and gave a thin smile. “Certainly, Mr Doyle.”

He glanced towards a rack of silk dresses. “Something oriental inspired?”

As Nancy went into the back room he looked as if he was going to sit down. No way was he going to watch this. Kate walked over to him and hissed. “It’s okay, you can go now. I can manage perfectly well on my own, I know my body and what suits me.”

“I was going to stay—”

“Don’t pull that
Pretty Woman
crap on me. I can choose my own clothes and pay for them too. I’ll meet you back in the VIP room.” She didn’t want to feel indebted to him, that he had bought her. She didn’t want him to choose her clothes. She was doing this for a damn good story—and for Jake—not because she wanted to be Rey’s woman in any shape or form.

“I said I’d pay for your time and whatever you need to wear.” That smirk again. “If I get to pay, I get to choose.”

As he spoke Kate flicked over one of the price tags on a simple-looking cornflower blue day dress.
How freaking much?
Trebled wages wouldn’t be nearly enough. “You seem to have forgotten that you need me here, so be careful not to demand too much, Rey. I suppose, if you insist, you can pay half. Equal stakes. But I choose.” She looked up at him and glared, was she really trying to do a deal with the devil? “Trust me, it’ll all work out fine.”

As she said the words she felt guilt ripple through her.

No. That was so not going to happen. She would not feel any kind of guilt for exposing him, whatever it took. And yet, trust … she’d used the word twice already. Would she be as bad as him if she did something that she knew was fundamentally wrong? Like lie and cheat and pretend she was someone she wasn’t.

Well, hell, she wasn’t going to make a very good undercover journalist if she was going to get all emotional. Facts. Truth. Objective observation. That was what she needed. And payback for breaking Jake so badly she’d almost wished he’d died rather than have to suffer through so much pain in order to live.

“Lose the shoes, lose the panda look around the eyes, pick a dress you love.” Rey shook his head. “In my world trust is earned.”

“Yes. Okay. Yes.” Kate breathed out heavily. He was a difficult man to read, was Rey. For a moment there’d been a flicker of humour, but now with one mention of trust he’d slammed up the barriers he was so famous for. Still, he was going and she could breathe and work out her next move with a clear head.

What she’d learnt was that he was worried about the hacker. Good. Because while Jake was recuperating he’d been able to use his brain, if not his broken body, and between them they’d found out a lot about Rey’s shady dealings. As far as hacking the fight club went they had him on the run. She just needed to check with Jake that he’d managed to mask the ISP address; there was no way she needed any hint of trouble traced back to her.