Devilishly Wicked (10 page)

G
eorgia Sullivan was back. And there was no denying, McIntyre was interested in her. Even from a distance, Gabriel couldn’t miss the fact that the demon was flirting. But Tristan McIntyre was a demon of lust. It was his nature to flirt with everyone.

Gabriel just couldn’t fathom how Elton could be so confident this woman had any more ability to get close to McIntyre than anyone else. Maybe the demon wanted her, but did that mean he’d also trust her? What if McIntyre got suspicious? Using a regular mortal just didn’t sit right with Gabriel.

And then there was the look on Georgia Sullivan’s face as McIntyre had flirted with her. She liked the guy. That was clear from a distance, too. Gabriel had seen longing in her eyes. Even her funky glasses and heavy eye makeup couldn’t hide that.

That made Gabriel think her allegiance was definitely going to lie with McIntyre, and not with some total stranger who told her that her boss, the boss she had the hots for, was dangerous.

Gabriel pretended to focus on sorting the contents of his mail cart, only glancing at the woman when he was certain she wasn’t looking in his direction. She’d noticed him watching her earlier, and he hadn’t missed her deepening blush. The blush of a woman who knew her desire was obvious. Could they really trust her to be loyal to them when she clearly wanted McIntyre?

“She just looks like a disaster, doesn’t she?”

Gabriel started, shooting a look over his shoulder to find Finola White standing behind him. Clearly, he wasn’t tuned in like he should be. No one should be able to sneak up behind him, even a demon. Especially a demon.

But he quickly guarded himself, not allowing the she-demon see his surprise, or guess that he was doing anything other than sorting mail.

“I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his voice impassive. “Who?” He turned his attention back to his sorting.

“You’re always the gentleman, aren’t you?” Finola said. “No need to answer that. I know you are.”

Gabriel didn’t like the way she said that, as if she knew all his secrets. But again, he did nothing but shoot her a glance.

“I was referring to Tristan McIntyre’s assistant,” Finola said, not keeping the emotion out of her voice. She was disgusted. Probably with the assistant and McIntyre.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Gabriel continued to organize letters into piles.

Finola moved closer to him, making his body prickle with awareness like unpleasant little snaps of high voltage up his spine. He held himself rigid, trying to ignore the feeling. Trying to remain unaffected.

“I never would have kept her on,” Finola continued, apparently oblivious to his reaction. But he didn’t trust that she really was—she could be up to something.

“Her hair. Her clothing. And her makeup . . .” She shuddered. “Not an appropriate representation of
HOT!
Not at all. Not appropriate as an employee of this magazine.”

Gabriel just nodded. Why was Finola even talking to him? Much less about McIntyre’s assistant. It seemed a little too coincidental. Way too coincidental, in fact. What was she up to?

“I’m sorry,” Finola said suddenly, her voice turning to that persuasive purr that was far more dangerous than her vitriol. “Were you getting ready to talk with her?”

The prickling along his spine spread to his skin. Oh, she knew something. She had to.

“No,” he said instantly. Had she overheard their intention of recruiting Georgia Sullivan to spy on McIntyre?Finola now worked right in the midst of the DIA, and in his opinion, Eugene wasn’t treating her presence with the seriousness it deserved. She might have overheard something. No matter how flighty and harmless Finola could appear, she still had been the head of Satan’s rebellion until just a few weeks ago. She was very dangerous.

“Are you sure?” she asked again. “You seem to be hovering here like you want to talk to her.”

Gabriel looked at her, meeting the demon’s pale eyes directly. He was a slayer, dammit. He didn’t cower under the leading questions of a filthy hell spawn.

“Actually, I was just getting myself organized for the rest of my afternoon mail pickup. Nothing more,” he stated, then offered her a bland smile. “Why aren’t you in the mail room attending to your work?”

Her coy smile slipped, but then she turned the half-grin into a full-fledged one. Her white teeth looked villainous against her blood red lips.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she said sweetly, “I guess I should let you get back to work. I wouldn’t want to bungle the productivity of the mail room.”

He held her gaze, trying to read its pale iciness.

“Carry on,” she said with a wave of her hand as if she were still the head of this company. “You know, I have realized the importance of the mail room in just the short time I’ve been down there.”

Oh, she definitely knew something.

He didn’t answer, his mind abuzz as he considered what to do next. Approaching Georgia Sullivan was very important to the DIA’s work, but he also knew he had to report this conversation to Eugene.

Plus, Gabriel now realized he couldn’t talk to Georgia Sullivan here. The walls had ears. He had to talk to her away from
HOT!
He should have realized that all along. He should have approached her while she was shopping, but he’d been afraid he’d just scare her, coming off as some crazy person.

“Well, please excuse me, Gabriel,” Finola said, drawing his attention back to her. “It is Gabriel, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Even the fact she remembered his name suggested she had more knowledge of the mail room than was safe. Knowledge about the DIA.

“Well, do excuse me, Gabriel, but I need to talk to Tristan.”

Gabriel nodded again, itching to know what she was going to discuss with McIntyre. He wished he could follow, under the guise of delivering something. But that would only rouse more suspicion. Not to mention, he’d never get into McIntyre’s offices anyway. Georgia Sullivan was as much a sentry as a personal assistant. There was a certain irony to that; that the DIA wanted to recruit the very person who kept its operatives away from McIntyre.

Gabriel remained rooted to the spot, watching as Finola spoke brusquely to Georgia, and then glided through the glass double doors leading to McIntyre’s office. Georgia didn’t even have time to acknowledge her ex-boss’s intent. And from Georgia’s wincing expression, she wouldn’t have considered stopping the female demon anyway.

Apparently, some mail room employees could wander right on back there. This was all very interesting. He needed to talk to Eugene again.

 

“Hello, my love.”

Tristan looked up from choosing pictures for the “Winter Wonderland” fashion layout for the January issue of
HOT!
And now he was being interrupted by the demon ice princess herself.

As always, Finola was clad from head to toe in white: a tailored, white cotton blazer with a white silk T-shirt and silk scarf underneath, white skinny jeans, and strappy white heels. For her, this was a dressed-down look, although Tristan knew the “casual” outfit probably cost more than most women’s seasonal clothing allowance. Still, Finola had clearly made concessions to her new position as a mail room employee. Which brought him to his first question.

“What are you doing here, Finola? You are supposed to be down in the mail room, keeping an eye on the employees there.”

“Oh, don’t worry, darling,” she cooed. “I’m only making a brief visit, just to check in.”

She glanced around at Tristan’s new office furniture and décor. “I see you’ve decided to redecorate. What’s the motif? Early medieval castle? Or is this some kind of homage to your goth assistant?”

Tristan looked around the—
his
office, making sure not to reveal how accurate her assessment had been.

“Thanks,” he said, even though her raised eyebrow and the haughty angle of her lips stated she didn’t approve of it, which made him like his decorating choices even more.

Finola wrinkled her nose slightly, before settling into one of the ornately carved, high back chairs that looked more like a king’s throne than a piece of office furniture.

She regarded him silently. Tristan moved away from his worktable and leaned against his mahogany, equally extravagantly carved desk. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“So check in,” he prompted.

Finola smiled, offering him a warm grin that he knew was anything but. “I don’t think you have much to worry about down there. Just a bunch of dull little worker bees, buzzing around with no realization of the power they work for.”

Tristan didn’t even pretend to think she was referring to him. She might be referring to their true boss, Satan. Or she might be referring to herself. If he had to guess, it was herself. He had no doubt she still considered herself as the head of this endeavor. She was very wrong.

Behind him, he heard Dippy moving around in his doggy bed. Listening as always.

“Excellent,” Tristan said, refusing to react to Finola’s little jibes. “And no signs of other slayers or rebels?”

She shook her head. “Not a one.”

“But then you have only been down there for two days,” Tristan said, just in case she had any hope of not returning to the mail room. “I need you to stay down there, just to be absolutely certain.”

“Of course,” Finola said readily. Far too readily. But then Dippy had already made Tristan aware of the fact that Finola wasn’t down there languishing in a sea of dullards, demeaning tasks, and fashion faux pas. She was busy working on a plan for payback. Tristan didn’t doubt that for one moment.

“I will admit,” she said, “that when you first suggested I work . . . in the mail room, I was a tad offended.”

A tad? When had Finola become the master of understatement?

“But I now see that it is a part of the company that could be very easily overlooked and could be an easy entrance for other demon fighters and rebels.”

What was she up to?

“Well, I’m glad you can see the importance of being placed down there,” he said, nodding his approval as if he was taking her comments at face value. He wasn’t.

Dippy was clearly right; Finola saw the mail room workers as miserable humans ripe to sell their souls for something better, and maybe they were. And maybe Finola would bargain the whole mail room out of their souls. Tristan would take credit.

Didn’t Finola see how easy that would be? Let her gather one soul contract after another down there, and then he would simply say, “Why, Satan, my beloved Prince of Darkness, that’s exactly why I placed her there. To make sure she did her fair share of the work. You know how dear Finola gets off track, caught up in her own greedy desires.”

Satan would believe that without hesitation, and Tristan would get the pat on the back, not only for the new souls, but also for knowing how to manage his unruly staff.

He smiled broadly at the idea.

“You look quite pleased,” Finola observed. “What has you looking like the cat that got the cream?”

Or the demon who got all the praise and power, Tristan amended in his head.

“I’m just in a good mood,” Tristan said, moving to collapse into his own throne, appropriately larger and more ornate than the one Finola sat on. “Tonight is Rocco Von Furstenmaur’s fund raiser. It will be the social gathering of the season. You know how hideously rich, ridiculously over-dressed mortals love to raise money for the impoverished and fashion-deprived masses.”

Finola nodded, and Tristan knew she was schooling her features into a mask of bland boredom. He also knew she was writhing inside. This event promised just the kind of excess Finola loved.

And being a demon of greed, she couldn’t contain her desire to attend. It promised wealth and decadence and desperate souls who always wanted more, who were ripe to make a deal with the Devil.

“And do you have an appropriately beautiful and extravagant date?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

Tristan’s smiled broadened. Oh, how she wanted Tristan to ask her to attend with him. She missed these lavish events as much if not more than the power of running
HOT!
It must be killing her not to be on the scene. Not getting the greediest souls herself.

But was she truly crazy enough to think he’d even consider asking her? Apparently so, and that made revealing his actual date all the more delightful.

His smile turned crooked and smug. “Indeed, I do. I will be attending with the delightfully quirky and voluptuous”—quirky and voluptuous both being traits Finola would not find appealing in the least—“Georgia Sullivan.”

Finola didn’t react for a moment. Then she couldn’t contain her outrage, her perfect masklike face distorting into something ugly. “Your assistant?”

“Yes.” Damn, he was loving this.

Finola looked as if she might take demon form right then and there.

“That . . . that woman is not a proper representation of what this magazine stands for, what
we
stand for.”

“And what do we stand for, Fin?”

Her eyes narrowed, taking on their natural reptilian shape.

“We are demons.... We value beauty and wealth and power and excess. We
are
those things. We acquire those things. Aside from an excess of eye makeup and weight and bad taste, that mortal doesn’t even factor into our world. She’s nothing more than a human who would readily sell us her soul to be just like us. You should be snapping up her pathetic soul, not taking her out to a gala and parading her around like an equal.”

Tristan would have agreed with her about any other mortal. But in this instance, he didn’t. Nothing about Georgia struck him as pathetic. He actually felt offended for Georgia. Odd that.

This was all part of his strange obsession with her. And once he took her in every way possible he could physically, he’d also take her soul. He’d hardly gone soft on that front.