A Deal With the Devil (6 page)

The bundle sat up, dazed and dishevelled. A street kid with day-old bruises on his cheek, a swollen eye, dirty clothes. Around sixteen, Rey guessed, yet another victim of a failing system, somewhere. Or more family dysfunction, poverty perhaps … there were so many reasons, all of them depressingly the same: when things got really tough kids had nowhere to go except the street. Which more often than not was only marginally better than the home life. Although for Rey anything had been better than facing his father’s half-arsed apologies and sickening drunken self-pity.

He shook away the blackness that was threatening.

The kid rubbed his good eye. “No, I’m not okay. They took everything I had.”

“Can I help …?” Kate was kneeling next to him, peering closely at the boy’s face, given her nurse training she was probably assessing for injury. “Who did this to you?”

“I dunno.” The boy shrugged. “Just someone.”

“What’s your name?”

“Why?” The kid stared at Kate as if she was about to rob him of anything he had left. Including his dignity and self-respect. “Gonna report me? Phone the police?”

“Of course not.” Undeterred by his rudeness she sat on the pavement next to him and hugged her knees to her chest. “It’s cold out here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. It’s October, and night time.”

“Watch your mouth,” Rey interjected, unable to watch this play out without intervening.

Not taking any offence Kate slid the kid a small smile, reassuring. “At least you kept your sense of humour. That bruise looks nasty, you could have broken your cheekbone. Did you have it x-rayed?”

“Oh yeah, right, I have an app for that. Wait … no, they stole my phone. And my money. And my stuff.”

Great. Smart mouths every which way Rey turned tonight. He crouched down by the kid, eye level, and stared him down. “Mind your manners to the lady.” Then he turned to Kate. “So what are we dealing with here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Internal bleeding? Fractures? Don’t they teach you that?”

“Who? …” She frowned.

“At nursing school?”

“Oh, yes … sorry, I’m tired …” Scowling, she turned back to the boy. “Tell me where it hurts. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’ll live. I’m just …” He rubbed his stomach.

Rey smirked. He knew exactly what the boy was. “Hungry?”

The kid nodded. “Starving.”

“Figured as much.” Rey jammed a hand in his pocket, drew out his wallet and handed the boy a card and a twenty pound note. “Take a cab and go to this address. Tell the grumpy old bastard that answers that Rey sent you. He’ll sort you out.”

“Okay.” But the kid didn’t look so sure.

“It’s not the cops, or a knocking shop or anyone else you need to worry about, it’s legit. There’s free food. Hot and more than you can eat. Make sure you get there—don’t waste that money on blow or other dumb stuff. Get a cab. Now. In fact …” Out of the corner of his eye Rey saw a black car with a yellow light advertising a cab for hire. He stuck his hand out and called it to a halt. He leaned in, gave the driver the address, then indicated to the kid to come over. “If our paths cross again, and you haven’t done what I told you to do, you’re going to live to regret it.”

“Okay.” The kid stood, grabbed what few rags and grimy possessions he had left and pressed them close to his puny chest as if they were the crown jewels. To a street kid they might as well have been. He took a couple of wavering steps towards the cab then turned and looked adoringly at the vintage black and chrome Sturgis. “I get the cab and she gets the bike? Life is so unfair.”

“Yeah, don’t you forget it. Now, get the hell out of here.” Rey raised his eyebrows and play-punched the boy’s shoulder. He had spirit. He’d be fine, eventually.

As the cab disappeared into the London night Kate moved towards him, eyes narrowed. “What did you just give him?”

“A helping hand.”

“In what way exactly? Because just dishing out money isn’t going to help him, long term.” She had her hands on her hips, which he’d come to learn in a very short space of time meant she wasn’t going to let this go. “He needs—”

“I gave him a business card with a name on it. Someone who will help him.” Man, she was thorough in her questioning, with just one look. Reminded him of his mother in some ways—she’d never have taken silence for an answer either. At her frown he elucidated. “Someone who helped me once when I needed it.”

“What? Some kind of shelter? I hope so.” She shook her head, blue eyes darkening as she realised what he was saying. “Were you homeless?”

“If you Google my name you’ll find out my history.” The one he’d allowed to be presented to the world. The real hard truth he’d kept close to his chest, like the boy with his meagre possessions—it was his and only his to know. Ted had told him he’d get more empathy if the truth was out there, but Rey doubted it. The most he’d get was pity, maybe. And he wasn’t for any of that. “It’s just a boxing gym.”

Tension spiralled in her voice. “You want him to learn how to fight? The kid can barely walk and you want him to learn how to deal with situations with his fists? Nice. You’re all class.”

“I want him to learn how to survive. The manager there usually has a hot meal on the go and a spare bed for the night. He’ll see him right.” As he had with Rey, and all the others.

“What then? Turn him back out on the street no better off, apart from knowing how to throw a punch? Great life lesson. Throw your weight around and bully everyone into doing what you want. Lives get ruined by that kind of attitude.” Her eyes bore into him, so dark and deep and searching. She’d got him all wrong, but she was, in fact, so right. Suddenly he wanted to be everything a good man was, not a guy with a chequered past and a dubious present. But he couldn’t erase all of who he was from his life, and he couldn’t land all of that on her. Scarcely one level up from gangster would probably not turn her on. And it hadn’t escaped his notice that she was heated and passionate, but all of it was for the kid. She railed at him again, “I wanted to help him, properly. The street’s no place for a young boy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. But shit, Kate, I can’t save them all. Some of them don’t want to be saved.”

“
You
can’t save them …? What do you mean? How involved are you with this boxing gym?”

Looking up the road in the direction the car had disappeared, Rey ran his hands through his hair, trying to keep level-headed about the only good thing he’d done in his life. “It’s my charity, but I take a back seat. The staff are trained in how to deal with the kids, I’m not. I just bankroll it. We have gyms in all the major cities across the country and, despite what you might think, it works. They get off the streets, they build new lives.”

“Okay, I’m impressed. That was your aim?”

He looked back to find her smiling at him. Small, but enough to do something to his insides. “Yes, sure. Of course. It’s four o’clock in the morning, I have an important meeting in less than five hours and little chance of sleep, a global business to run, security holes that need blocking … impressing you is top of my agenda right now.” Sad truth was, she was right. Again. For some reason it mattered what she thought about him. He clearly had his priorities screwed. If Ted got wind of this, he’d be merciless. “But for the record, we have hostels and guidance, legal advice, plenty of food and a way of getting fit. Plus, there’s a sense of camaraderie. And the kids don’t lose face; we all pretend they’re just coming to box, but we know the place becomes a home for them—somewhere for them to belong. Some of the kids are now trainers and managers.” One was a very rich casino owner who had the world at his feet, but sometimes felt as if he was still lost at the bottom trying to climb out.

“I’m sorry, I misjudged your motives. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not something we advertise. The whole point is that we stay low key so they don’t get spooked and run off. You saw what that kid was like—he doesn’t trust anyone.” That came from having no one to trust in the first place.

Kate looked up the street. “He reminded me of someone.”

“Who?”

She shrugged, but there was tension there in her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clearly it did. “He reminds me of me.”

She tilted her head to one side as she looked at him, pulling her hair over one shoulder and absentmindedly running her fingers through the strands. “How long did you live rough?”

“Two-and-a-half years. It isn’t pleasant.”

“Wow, that’s a long time. Why? Did you choose to leave home or did you get kicked out? You got kicked out. Right?”

“You really do have a bad opinion of me, but go right ahead and make up your own reality.” It suddenly mattered that she knew some of the truth. He huffed out a breath. It had been a long time ago. He’d learnt some hard lessons, but anything had been better than living at home. “I left.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I don’t like families.”

“What? That’s not an answer. How can you not like families?”

There was a pause as he chose his words. Measured. “There was a difference of opinion. Quite a few, actually. Me, I prefer to air grievances verbally. My dad didn’t like something, he talked with his fists.”

He saw the moment she understood. The glitter in her eyes. The sharp intake of air. “That’s why you learnt how to fight? To protect yourself?”

“I had to do something. I have a deep-seated sense of self-preservation. If someone’s going to land a left hook, it helps if you know how to deflect it.”

She frowned. “So you fought your own father?”

“I deflected a lot. Then I left.” She didn’t need to know the rest, the truth.

Pale orange light was starting to filter through the edges of thick clouds. Dawn. He had a breakfast meeting in less than four hours. He’d spilled enough of his guts to her, more than he’d disclosed to anyone. Ever. And he wasn’t sure he was okay with the thick raw feeling in his throat as he relived those dark times in his head, but he knew one sure way to clear it. “About that ride home?”

“Na-ah.” She frowned. “You think I’m getting on a motorbike you have another think coming.”

“Chicken?”

“Yeah, probably. Not to mention I’ll freeze.” She smiled at his accusation and that did wicked things to his gut.

“If that’s all that’s holding you back …” He bent and slid his arms under her knees, cradled her back as he picked her up and sat her on the back of his bike. Threw his jacket around her shoulders. Instead of taking his place in front of her he straddled the bike and faced her. Clamped his knees against hers. Hell, she could have run if she’d wanted to. He wasn’t that much of a Neanderthal. “Where do you want to go? Anywhere. The ocean? France? Scotland? We could ride all night.”

“I told you … no way.” But she didn’t move. Just looked up at him under dark lashes, a mixture of ferocity and vulnerability—because he didn’t doubt for a moment that this bolshie mouth had a soft core. In the streetlight her eyes flickered with hints of gold and heat. “You switch that engine on and I’ll scream blue murder.”

“Really? You’ll shout over this sweet baby? She purrs like a dream, but you should hear her roar.” He leaned closer, inhaled her scent, lowered his mouth to her ear. “Scream all you like, but no one will hear you.”

S
o she was
trapped.
Unexpected
. Kate’s heart hammered as heat rushed through her. She supposed she should have put up more of a fight, but she was transfixed by his gaze. His small, knowing smile. By eyes that bore such a depth of pain as he’d talked of living rough, when he’d dealt with that street boy, at the mention of his father.

Rey Doyle hadn’t chosen to become a monster, he’d been damaged.

His hand lifted and he stroked the back of his forefinger down her cheek, grey eyes simmering with heat. The air around them stilled. The only thing she could hear was her quickened breath and a small voice in her ears telling her to run. But she didn’t. She sat astride his motorbike and let him touch her face.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. Because, she couldn’t sit here and not touch him back. Because he was mesmerising, dazzling, bewitching. This close she could see the scars, all well-healed, but telling some of his story. There was a brutal beauty about them that caught deep in her chest and tugged. He was a fighter. A survivor. But what he absolutely, definitely was not, was a victim. He had turned his life from a struggle to a victory on a massive scale, if money and power held any weight and it did to him. In his eyes he had won. And yet, there was still that guard behind the eyes, the flagrant mistrust. The pent-up energy.

Truthfully, she didn’t know what to say. How to react to such a powerful man with such a gentle touch. Why was she so argumentative around him?

Because he made her feel things she had never felt before. Because she wanted more from him. Because he was frightening and alluring and everything she did not, could not, want. He was not the kind of quiet sensitive man she’d dreamt about, that she’d fixed her sights on somewhere down the track. He was so much more. And that meant he had the potential to do much more damage to her heart too.