Devilishly Wicked (23 page)

Tristan looked from Dippy to Georgia. Her eyes were still wide and her skin snowy pale.

“Why do you want me to go with you?” Tristan asked, a moment of doubt making him uncertain.

“Because—because I want to talk to you. Away from that.” She bobbed her head toward Dippy.

Tristan couldn’t blame her for that. Dippy unnerved
him
; he could only imagine how the talking hellhound must affect her.

He moved forward again.

“This is a trap,” Dippy repeated, more insistently, but Tristan kept his gaze on Georgia. He trusted her.

Tristan stepped around the dog, just wanting to be near Georgia.

As he got closer, he saw more uncertainty in her deep brown eyes. But he continued toward her.

Once close enough to touch her, he controlled himself. He knew moving too fast would probably just scare her off. But he wanted to feel her heat and her smooth skin. To pull her soft body against his.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked instead.

She swallowed and he could see she was very nervous.

“You honestly do not need to fear me. You’ll never need to fear me.”

Her eyes met his, and he saw confusion and pain there.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked again.

She glanced over her shoulder. “In here.”

Her voice shook and he knew it was going to take a lot to convince her she was all he cared about. But he’d do it. Nothing else mattered.

Then he touched her, gently caressing her cheek. She didn’t pull away like he thought she would. She just stared at him with those beautiful wide eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said, gesturing to the double doors behind her.

She didn’t move.

Then she said almost brokenly, “Why are you so willing to go with me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because I love you.”

He’d never said those words in his whole existence, and now that he had, he felt somehow different. Warmth filled him, a feeling he’d never experienced. Warmth and contentment.

“Because I love you,” he repeated. Then he took her hand and pushed open the mail room door.

 

Georgia wanted to stop him. He’d said he loved her, and despite what she knew about him, that he was a demon from Hell, probably a master of deception, she’d believed his words.

She’d seen something in his vivid green eyes that had been so real, so honest, she couldn’t help but believe him.

And now she was leading him into his adversary’s lair.

For the first time, she wondered what the DIA intended to do to him. Would they kill him?

She couldn’t let that happen. Demon or not, she had seen goodness in Tristan and she believed it was real. She
knew
it was real.

“Let’s just leave here,” she said, but it was too late. He’d walked through the door.

He smiled, not his usual naughty grin, but a beautiful, sincere smile that stole her breath.

“I don’t want to leave. Let’s just talk this out now.”

She followed, and because she was lost in that sweet smile, she didn’t see all the mail room staff—or rather DIA staff—standing in a group, waiting for him. Not until they were in the room, and the door closed behind them.

Only when Tristan saw her alarmed expression did he turn to see what she was gaping at.

His gaze moved over the crowd, clearly trying to understand the scene.

Gabriel moved closer to them, his stance protective, but Georgia knew she didn’t need protection. Not from Tristan.

Tristan’s roaming gaze finally landed on Georgia, a confused frown creasing his brow.

“What’s going on?” he asked, and Georgia was devastated by the look of betrayal on his face. She’d led him here, and she didn’t even know what was going on, or what was going to happen to him.

She moved closer to his side, feeling the need to protect him, in the way Gabriel had clearly felt the need to protect her.

“Hello, Tristan.”

To Georgia’s shock, Finola White stepped out of the crowd. Her white blond hair and pale skin seemed to glow in the fluorescent lighting.

“Finola?” Tristan sounded as confused as Georgia. Why was Finola here? Was this some sort of elaborate trick set up by the female demon to get her position back as leader of the rebellion? Had Georgia been duped? Had she just delivered Tristan on a platter?

“I knew you’d end up here eventually,” Finola said, although her voice wasn’t laced with satisfaction or malicious glee.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asked. He sounded as strong as he always did, unshaken, but Georgia knew he was nervous.

“We are just gathering to welcome you,” Finola said, and Georgia grew even more confused. She glanced at Gabriel and he appeared just as bewildered. That could not be a good sign.

Then another figure approached, coming from near Eugene’s makeshift office. But this man wasn’t Eugene. He was tall and elegant. His hair wasn’t mousy brown or his voice average. This man was stunningly attractive, almost surreally beautiful. His blond hair glistened in the artificial light. And his skin seemed to glow golden.

Georgia peered at him. Who was he? And what did he intend to do with Tristan?

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he said, his voice smooth and almost musical, answering Georgia’s unasked question. “I’m here to save you.”

Georgia stared at the man, meeting his eyes: vivid blue eyes. This being was Eugene. She knew it. Just as she knew he wasn’t simply a man. He was something otherworldly.

Again she glanced at Gabriel, who gaped in shock at the transformed Eugene.

“He can save us,” Finola said, her comment directed to Tristan. “He can make us whole in a way we’ve never been.”

Tristan looked from Finola to Eugene.

“What are you?” Tristan asked the golden man, just as Georgia had asked him in the hallway.

Eugene smiled, a beautiful, serene smile. “I’m an angel.”

Just as Georgia had known Tristan was not lying about being a demon, she knew Eugene told the truth.

“He’s changed me,” Finola said, her tone filled with such joy. “Tristan, I feel a peace and happiness I’ve never known. A contentment we could never achieve as demons. No matter how much we satisfied our vices.”

Tristan again looked from Finola to Eugene.

“I already feel that contentment,” Tristan said, and then reached for Georgia’s hand. She grasped it back.

Eugene nodded. “I know. I didn’t need to save you. Your soul mate did that. She gave you a soul.”

Tristan’s eyes met Georgia’s, and Georgia’s heart swelled. Eugene had said she was the one with the power. She’d been the one to save Tristan. Tristan gazed at her, his green eyes bright with love and a warmth Georgia hadn’t seen before this moment, a happiness that had always been just out of his reach.

“But I do have something to ask,” Eugene said to Tristan. “I do need you to help us stop this demon takeover.”

Tristan looked away from Georgia to Eugene. He didn’t hesitate.

“Whatever you need is yours.”

Georgia’s heart swelled with pride and happiness. Tristan was no longer a demon. She didn’t know how she knew that fact, but she did. He had a soul.

His gaze returned to Georgia, his eyes so full of love.

“As long as I have my soul mate, I have everything I need.”

She rose up on her toes to kiss him.

“You have your soul mate,” she murmured against his lips. “And I have mine.”

“H
ow is Grammy?”

Georgia sat on the overstuffed sofa close to Tristan. He pulled her half onto his lap, so she was draped over him, looking up at his gorgeous face.

“She’s doing well. Thrilled that I’m getting married.”

Tristan kissed her. “I’m pretty damned thrilled, too.”

She smiled. “You’re not damned anything these days.”

“No, I’m not.” He smiled, that contentment she’d first seen in the mail room still clear on his face. “And I never realized how tortured I was until I found you.”

She smiled and kissed him.

“A demon of lust,” she said, still amazed she’d been involved with a demon.

“Well, that is definitely something that hasn’t changed within me. I still lust after my Peaches. But now, only for my Peaches.”

And she only lusted for him.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly. Then he lifted his head and added, “Let me amend that. I only lust for and love my Peaches.”

His naughty grin appeared, and she returned it, glad that not all of his wicked side was gone.

“An angel on my arm and a demon in my bed.”

Tristan laughed, the sound still supernaturally rich and delicious. “Definitely.”

And he proceeded to show her how very devilish he could be.

 

Gabriel entered Eugene’s office. His boss had returned to his average, unassuming self, and he was busy packing up his computer.

“We’ve gotten almost everything in boxes,” he said to Eugene, his tone filled with a new respect.

“Excellent,” Eugene said, his tone even as usual.

The DIA was moving to a new location.
HOT!
magazine no longer needed their services, but other places did. Unfortunately, the fight of good against evil never really ended, but at least this rebellion had been thwarted.

“Sir, I owe you an apology,” Gabriel said. He regretted ever doubting their leader.

Eugene looked up from his work. “There is no need.”

Gabriel nodded, wanting to say more, but not sure what that would be. But he did feel good about the DIA again, and his place in the organization.

“Tell me though,” Eugene said when Gabriel would have left the room, “how do you think our newest recruit will work out?”

Gabriel knew Eugene referred to Finola White, who was now working with the DIA as an operative.

Gabriel met Eugene’s vivid blue eyes, the only hint of the angel under the average Joe façade.

“I have every faith she will work out just fine.”

Eugene actually chuckled. “Very good. Very good. Well, let’s finish packing up. We have more work to do.”

Gabriel nodded and left the office to get back to work.

“You know, the DIA is a real pain in my ass,” Satan grumbled, shifting to line up his shot. He tapped the golf ball, and it rolled into the can across the room.

Dippy didn’t answer, just sitting obediently beside his master’s desk.

“They have reformed some of my very best demons. It’s getting highly frustrating.” Satan dropped another ball on the brimstone floor. He tapped it as he had the first one, and Dippy fought the urge to chase the little white ball across the floor.

He suspected this was Satan’s way of punishing him for not coming to him sooner with his concerns. Lucifer knew he had a weakness for chasing balls.

“Ah, well,” Satan said prosaically, “I guess we just regroup and start again. After all, the Devil’s work is never done.”

Dippy nodded, his gaze on the ball in Satan’s hand. He licked his chops.

Satan started to drop the ball, and then paused. “So where do we attack next?”

Now this Dippy had considered already, and he didn’t hesitate to give his master his answer.

“Well, the dog show circuit might be a good place.”

Satan stared at him, and then laughed, the sound booming through the cavelike office.

“Dog shows. I love it. Make it happen.”

Dippy nodded. Finally, he would be the leader of a demon rebellion. Who said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks?

If you enjoy fun contemporary romance with a
paranormal twist, you won’t want to miss DELICIOUS,
featuring novellas by Lori Foster, Lucy Monroe, and Sarah
Title. Read on for a taste of Sarah’s “Full Moon Pie”!

 

“I
s she out there yet?”

Dan Fields dropped the blinds to the office window at the sound of his assistant’s voice. Mrs. Harris came up behind him, filling his nostrils with the sweet powdery smell of her . . . well, he wasn’t sure where the sweet powdery smell came from. But it was a smell he always associated with sweet gray-haired ladies of a certain age, which Mrs. Harris certainly was.

Maybe not so sweet.

Especially now, as she pinched the blinds open and gave a knowing “ah.”

Yes, of course she was out there. A few days a month, every month, she was out there from late morning until well after most of the businesses downtown had closed. And she always had a steady stream of customers for the entire day. A few days a month, and then she disappeared.

And every day, he looked for her.

Mona and her stupid pink truck.

Apple of My Pie.

Who would have thought that a small town in Ohio would embrace something as trendy as a food truck? But the people of Delicious had always been pretty open-minded, especially when it came to food, and especially when that food highlighted the Golden Delicious apples that made the town famous. Well, famous in Ohio.

Everybody said Mona was a genius with her baking; she managed to create treats that combined cutting-edge flavors with the comfort that only homemade baked goods could provide. She always managed to get the apples to taste just right, even this early in the season.

Not that Dan would know.

“I’m going to go down and see what she has this morning. You sure you don’t want anything?”

He knew Mrs. Harris was a professional, distinguished, accomplished woman, so there was no possible way that she had just winked at him. He just grunted at her and returned to his desk.

No, he didn’t want anything from Mona Miller. He had spent the past few years very specifically not buying anything from Mona. Not that he wasn’t tempted. The first time she came to a meeting of the Delicious Small Business Association, her idea for a mobile bakery was just that, an idea. Dan loved it, at first. He thought it was creative and had great growth potential. And judging by the way his colleagues fell on the samples she brought in, she would be successful. He had watched as they grabbed every last crumb, leaving nothing for him, but he didn’t mind. He was distracted.

He had tried to be professional about it, but there was no denying that Mona looked, well, delicious. She was short but curvy, and she had a mass of crazy brown curls that framed her eyes, eyes that were such a pale green they were almost gold. They were amazing eyes. And that smile. When he offered her suggestions on how to file the right paperwork for her permits, she had smiled at him, and her whole face lit up.

That was them, in a nutshell. She had wild, inventive ideas; he had paperwork. Not that there was a “them.” Just a smile that made his heart stop, and a business plan that he could, if he was being generous, call erratic.

Normally he made a point of buying local—after all, his accounting firm would never survive without the support of the Delicious business community. “Accounting firm” might be a slight exaggeration—it was just him and Mrs. Harris. But they did all right. They had regular customers and a solid reputation and he was even thinking of taking on a business school intern when the semester started.

So how could he, as a responsible small business owner, one who paid his taxes and his bills and had a lease on an actual building, support a woman who clearly did not take the rigorous work of owning a small business seriously? One who worked frivolous hours and ignored the tremendous growth potential in this town so she could maintain those frivolous hours?

A food truck! She couldn’t get a real bakery? And pink! Ridiculous. Branding was important, he got that, but pink? A pink truck and pink shirts—and apples weren’t even pink!

And the name—Apple of My Pie. When he had first heard it, he liked it. It had a whimsical quality that suited what he thought were her start-up plans. Apparently, though, whimsical was a way of life for Mona. Every time he heard that business name now, it made his teeth hurt.

He hated the cutesy name and the cutesy truck and the cutesy little pink tank top she wore as she handed out muffins and tarts and pie and . . . whatever else she sold. So far Mrs. Harris had just brought back turnovers and the occasional pie to take home when her grandchildren were in town. Each one smelled amazing, and if the satisfied sighs Mrs. Harris emitted as she ate every last crumb were any indication, each one tasted amazing, too.

But that was not for Dan. He turned back to his e-mail. He had work to do.

Mona grabbed a bite of an apple turnover before turning back to Joe Gunderson. She probably shouldn’t help customers with her mouth full, but Joe didn’t care. He liked a girl who ate, he told her. And if he wasn’t eighty years old and half-blind, she would have been flattered.

Frankly, she was still a little flattered. It was nice to be appreciated.

The turnover was good. The golden delicious apples that made the town of Delicious famous were a little early, but they had baked up amazingly well. She shouldn’t be surprised; it was a full moon. She couldn’t mess it up if she tried. She thought Joe would probably like them, so she threw one into the white box she was loading up with assorted fruit tarts for him. It would be a nice surprise for him when he got home.

She handed Joe his change and tied his box with red-and-white string. That was probably her favorite part of the bakery. She loved that string. It reminded her of small towns and neighbors who liked each other, and it suited Delicious to a “t.” She slapped a pink Apple of My Pie sticker on the box and handed it across the little counter that folded down from the window cut into the side of the truck. As soon as she was sure he had a good grip on it (he promised he would never drop any of the stuff he bought from her—but he was eighty, after all), she stood up to stretch her back.

She loved her little pink truck, but leaning over to help all of these customers was rough work. It was better than when she first started out, when she was selling baked goods out of the trunk of her hatchback. That had been one really good thing to come out of her limited interactions with the Delicious Small Business Association. Its members were all really supportive in helping her get funding to upgrade to her dream vehicle, even if some of them balked when she proved that she was serious about painting it pink. Dan the Accountant, known as Khaki Dan among her girlfriends, had been especially . . . not into it. But she knew he saw a food truck as just a stepping stone to a “real” bakery, as he called it. Mona humored him, even though she also knew a full-time business was impossible for her.

Her truck had shelves and refrigeration and she did her best to make it look homey and welcoming. After a lot of false leads, she’d finally found it cheap on eBay. The guy selling it said it was a retired cupcake truck from Chicago, but it smelled suspiciously like falafel when it was delivered. Fortunately, she had had plenty of time in between baking spurts to fix it up. Joe’s nephew, Dylan, owned a kitchen supply store and he’d agreed to work on it in exchange for her catering his daughter’s college graduation party (fortunately, the party fell on a full moon), and a selection of goodies for his wife’s monthly book group. So Dylan ripped out the old gas grill that didn’t work anymore and put in a warming oven, and tuned up all of the refrigerators and the solar generator on top of the truck.

Then Mona gave it a thorough cleaning, scrubbing every surface within an inch of its life, scouring out any unsavory old-food smells. When she could move her arms again, she contemplated the peeling paint job, and her future. This venture had to work, and going halfway was not an option. So, despite Khaki Dan’s protests, she painted it pink.

And so Apple of My Pie, Mobile Bakery, was born. She still did most of the baking at home, where she had spent all of the money she inherited from her grandmother on a massive kitchen overhaul. The demand for her food was so great that she still relied on insulated shopping bags for the extra inventory, but business was good. Business was really good. So good that she was finally ready to stop worrying about the fact that this venture would only be part-time, because she could finally afford to live on the money she made with her limited schedule.

She checked her watch. The lunchtime rush was about to begin, so she pulled the German apple cake out of the warming oven, then switched it off. Even with the fans going, Apple of My Pie could turn into, well, an oven, especially as the summer sun beat down in the afternoon. She pulled a pink bandana out of her jeans pocket and wiped her forehead, then tied her hair back with it. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail that morning, but her curly mop was no match for Ohio summer humidity, and she knew she looked like a frizzy mess.

She started slicing the cake into squares and putting them out on the little paper trays she used for plates, then stacked them under the dome of the old-fashioned cake plate she had super-glued to the counter. Apple cake was a specialty of hers, and a lot of her regulars came by just for a slice of it. She laid out a tray mixed with cookies and berry tarts next to it—her regulars could usually be counted on for an impulse buy.

She wasn’t sure exactly why she looked up when she did, but, then, it always took her by surprise. There he was, going into the Mom and Pop diner down the street.

Khaki Dan.

She thought he had been avoiding her ever since Apple of My Pie hit the road. He hadn’t accepted the invitation she’d extended to the whole SBA when she had her opening day street party. He never stopped by like the other small business owners did. He never even seemed to look at her food truck.

She thought she had done something to offend him, but whenever she saw him anywhere else—in the park, at the library, at the one bar in town—he was nice enough. He smiled and exchanged small talk and she thought she even saw some interest in those piercing blue eyes of his—interest she was definitely willing to reciprocate. But then she would pull up in Apple of My Pie, and it was like she had put a sack over her head. A sack filled with month-old garbage that said “I Hate Accountants.” He didn’t just ignore her when she worked; he seemed insulted by her.

Not that he didn’t have opportunities to be cordial. Every day, like clockwork, he and his well-fitting khakis went into the diner at noon. Every day, according to Marylou, he ordered a turkey sub with lettuce, tomato, light on the mayo, extra pickle. He drank black coffee, never pop, and always skipped dessert.

Which was probably how he stayed so fit.

Truth be told, that was what Mona had noticed about him first. After all, it’s not every day that you see a nicely dressed, not-wearing-a-wedding-ring, good-looking guy in a small town like Delicious. She sort of resented that such a catch could be such a jerk. It seemed like a cruel trick on womankind.

But apparently Mona, or Food-Truck-Mona, was his only pet peeve. Marylou said he was actually a very nice guy and a good tipper, and Mrs. Harris, one of her best customers, worked for him and had nothing but good things to say. But he sure didn’t like Mona. And she wanted to find out why.

By the time the lunch rush was over, she had almost forgotten about Khaki Dan, but then she heard the distant tinkling of the bell to the diner, and out he came, briefcase in one hand, to-go coffee in the other. Black coffee. Who could drink coffee without anything in it? This was a man who needed some sweetness in his life.

“Hey!” she called out and waved. He looked up, startled, then looked behind him. “Yes, you!” she shouted, then gestured for him to come over. Even from down the street she could see his eyebrows scrunch up in consternation, but he started toward her anyway, his loafers leading his reluctant legs. And what legs they were. Damn, that man could fill out a pair of khakis.

“Hi, Dan,” she said as he approached, and leaned out the window.

“Hi,” he said back. She noticed that his gaze flicked down to her tank top, but went straight back to her eyes. She appreciated the effort. And she appreciated the attention from Dan a little differently than she did from Joe. A down-low-in-her-belly appreciation.

“I’ve seen you just about every day and you never come over to say hi,” she said.

“Okay. Uh, hi.”

“Been a while.” She brushed an errant curl behind her ear. His eyes followed her fingers.

“Been busy. You?”

“So far, so good. Is your office around here?”

He pointed to an office across the street. She knew that, of course. It said F
IELDS
A
CCOUNTING
LLC across the door. Mrs. Harris came out of there every morning, and every morning she talked about her boss, Dan, and how he would never take a break for a cookie or a slice of cake but that he was just as nice as could be. Worked too hard, so he sure could use a break. She thought Mrs. Harris was either trying to help Mona make a sale, or marry them off. Probably both.