Raising Hell (2 page)

He muttered a convincing “yes,” then let his mind turn back to the fantasy of the woman he wanted to paint. Hair so gold it seemed to reflect the light, and blue eyes so pale that they looked right at him even from the still depths of the canvas. She was out there, somewhere.

Someday he’d find her.

Someday he’d paint her.

Until then, though, he had to take his pleasure where he could, and he forced his mind back to the three women. The redhead beneath the sheet was doing some delicious things down there, and Nick had to admit he had no complaints. The brunette was trailing chocolate-covered strawberries over his chest, then licking up the confection with decidedly feline laps of her tongue. And the blonde… oh, yes, the blonde was right there, her body writhing against his finger that still stroked her wet clit.

With a seductive grin, she eased off of him, then bent down and took his mouth in hers, kissing him deep and hard, then pulling away, a cat-got-the-canary grin on her face. Nick could only assume
he
was the canary and that the woman believed she had him.

Little did she know.

She leaned forward again, twining herself on one side of his body just as the brunette pressed against him on the other. They both eased up his side, their tongues playing with the sensitive skin around his ear. Soon they moved on to other pastures, one woman—he had no idea which—claiming his mouth, and the other sucking on his fingertips.

He let his head fall deeper in the pillow and gave in to the pleasure of three women whose sole purpose was his ultimate satisfaction. The women themselves may not be the perfection Nick sought, but he wasn’t a stupid man. And only a very stupid man would turn down three very horny, very naked women.

He focused on forgetting about his canvas and concentrating only on the pleasure of the moment, and just when he’d finally managed to clear his head of all things but the hot and willing women in bed with him, a thunderous boom shook the loft, setting the bed to shake and rattling the crystal chandelier that Nick had kept after one of his more adventurous conquests in the eighteenth century.

Beside him, the blonde and the brunette froze, looking at him with concerned eyes. Even the redhead stilled beneath the sheet, a particularly unfortunate byproduct of the noise.

Of course, while the women feared explosions, Nick was simply bored. He knew what caused the noise—his father. Lucifer. The devil himself. Announcing for anyone who cared to listen that he was about to make his presence known.

And, of course, giving his son the opportunity not to be caught with his pants down.

Nick didn’t bother to get dressed. Or to get up for that matter. Modesty wasn’t in his nature. And his father had certainly seen it all before.

Beside him, the women shifted nervously. But that was nothing compared to the way their eyes widened in fright as the whirlwind of fire appeared in the middle of Nick’s loft, tongues of flame licking the walls and canvases as the column spun faster and faster, finally exploding in a burst of blue flame, leaving the stench of sulfur in its wake and one very irritated-looking Prince of Darkness.

“Quite the entrance, Father,” Nick said, raising an eyebrow as he leaned up on one elbow. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

The women, he noticed, were completely frozen. His father’s handiwork, no doubt. He lifted the brunette’s arm, pushed her aside, and managed to sit all the way up.

“Only two in your bed,” his father said, his dark eyes flashing with something that might have been amusement, but probably wasn’t. “You disappoint me, son.”

Nick met his father’s eyes, then lifted the sheet and gazed pointedly at the woman now frozen down there. “Three, actually.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth quirked at the corners. Good, Nick had managed to amuse his father. Usually that role was left to his younger brother, Marcus. “Peel yourself out from under the ladies’ attentions and join me. We need to talk.”

Nick considered arguing, but he didn’t. As a rule, he rarely argued with his father. His position in the family tree was precarious. He wasn’t the oldest, so he didn’t stand to inherit from their father. Nor was he the youngest, the son who could get away with anything. No, Nick was in the middle, and he had to tread more carefully.

He slipped the sheet back and climbed out of bed, pulling on a red silk robe as he did so. His father had moved to the window, and now Nick joined him.

His father stood there, gazing out at the Manhattan night. Nick looked at him with an artist’s eye, once again itching to paint his father, a request that had been denied on repeated occasions. Once the most beautiful angel in all of Heaven, Lucifer’s looks had only sharpened and increased in the passing millennia. Nick had inherited the dark hair and complexion, but the shimmering gray eyes came from his mother, whoever she might have been.

In stark contrast, Lucifer’s eyes were dark and unreadable, the kind of eyes that could be painted a thousand times and yet never completely captured. Eyes that reflected a million stories, and very few of them with happy endings.

Today, in fact, the eyes reflected a raging storm.

“You’re troubled,” Nick said. “What’s wrong?”

“Jack,” Lucifer said, referring to Nick’s eldest brother.

Nick couldn’t help the little trill of pleasure, and he hoped it didn’t show. “Jack? What’s wrong with Jack?”

This time, when his father turned, his eyes were no longer stormy. Instead, they were flat. And somehow, that was even more disturbing. “He failed me. One simple task I handed him. One task, the reward for which would be to inherit my kingdom.”

“He failed?” Nick tried to keep the glee from his voice as he felt himself get shoved one rung up the familial ladder.

“Dismally,” Lucifer confirmed. He made a motion with his hand as if shooing away flies. “But that is of the past. I’m concerned only with the present and the future.
Your
future.”

“Yes?” He spoke the word calmly. Inside, however, he was cheering.

“A quest, my son. One simple quest and, if you prevail, you will rule over my entire domain.”

“And if I fail?”

His father stayed silent, and Nick nodded. For this, at least, no one needed to draw him a picture. Not that it mattered.
Jack
might fail, but Nick had always been more competent than his older brother. His father had just been too blinded by his firstborn’s charms to see the truth.

“So what’s the quest?”

“Simply a soul,” Lucifer said. “Just like you dabble in every day. Only in this case, I need the entire soul.” He handed Nick a flat envelope. “Her name is Delilah Burnett.”

Nick slid his finger under the flap, reached in to pull out the picture, then almost dropped the entire package when he saw the photograph inside.
Her.

He drew in a breath, managed to recover his voice, and asked, “Why her?”

“I’ve nothing against her, actually. It’s her father. Pesky do-gooder. A reverend. Rather famous, too. He’s known for his aggressive campaigns to turn lost souls away from sin.” He leaned in close and put his hands on Nick’s shoulders. “It’s bad for business, Nicholas. And the man deserves to be punished.”

“And the girl—”

“Paint her. Paint her portrait and take her soul. What could be simpler?”

Nick couldn’t think of an answer, because nothing
could
be simpler. This woman’s face was the one he’d been searching for his entire life. To paint her would be the culmination of his career. And to fill that image with the fullness of her complete soul… well, with a force like that shining out from the pigment, the painting would surely end up being the greatest masterpiece of the ages.

“You’re intrigued,” his father said, amusement lacing his voice.

“You knew I would be.”

“Good. I expect results, Nicholas. Jack failed me. I expect more from you.”

“I won’t fail.”

“Of course you won’t,” his father said. “The price would be too high.” And then he was gone with a wave of his cape and a flurry of sparks, leaving Nick standing there holding Delilah’s picture, with three very confused women squirming on the bed behind him. Whatever appeal they might have once held for him, now it had completely dissolved.

He grabbed his clothing and headed for the door.

“Nicky?”

“Stay until the champagne runs out, ladies,” he said. “Just be sure to lock up and be careful when you leave. There’re all sorts of devils prowling this part of town.”

‡
Chapter Two

T
he plain white envelope
taunted her, peeking as it did out of the top of her tote bag, which was now nestled under the desk near her feet. Lila powered up the computer and plugged her headset into the phone, all the while telling herself that it was just another piece of mail, nothing special at all.

That, of course, was a lie. The return address—
The Tannin Agency
—made it all too clear that her entire destiny had been typed, signed, and stuffed into that slim white envelope. And she was such a spineless wimp she couldn’t even gather the courage to slide her finger under the flap, open the envelope, and pull the contents out.

It had arrived in last night’s mail, and she’d almost ripped it open right in front of the mailboxes. But then she’d stopped, because if it was bad news, what was she going to do then? The Tannin Agency was her last hope. Every other modeling agency in the city had already slammed the door in her face, albeit more politely than that. But to Lila, the familiar mantra of “you’re a beautiful woman who’s sure to find representation elsewhere” might as well be “go away, kid, you bother me.” After all, the end result was surely the same.

Just get it over with.
She turned and eyed it again. Still there. Still taunting. Damn.

And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned over, the cord on the headset stretching tight as she snatched the envelope out of her bag. Breathing deep, as if she’d just done something quite wicked and gotten away with it, she sat up straight and held it in front of her, staring at her name—Delilah Jean Burnett—the black letters a stark contrast to the blinding white of the paper itself.

A little devil perched on her shoulder urged her to
do it, do it, do it.
She recognized the voice. It was the same little devil that had encouraged her to leave Alabama for New York to try her hand at modeling despite her father’s staunch objections. A minister’s daughter, he’d said, doesn’t prance around half naked, wearing clothes designed to tempt and tease a man.

“It’s advertising,” she’d said. “And if the men can’t control themselves, then that’s just too bad for them.” Those were the strongest words she’d ever spoken to her daddy. But he was being unreasonable. After all, it wasn’t as if she was planning to model
nude.
That really would be wicked, and Lila could just picture her mother spinning in her grave, trying to shield herself from the horror of having a harlot for a daughter.

And if Lila every once in a while had secret fantasies about taking off her clothes and posing nude for the camera, well, those were just fantasies, right? It wasn’t as if she’d actually
do
something that wild. And the fantasies didn’t even include magazines or billboards or anything like that. God forbid she was plastered all over the planet in her altogether! Not even in her imagination would she go
that
far.

But to undress for a single photographer? Maybe even a boyfriend? She shivered slightly at the thought, the undeniable pleasure sizzling over her skin like water on a hot skillet.

Bad, Lila. You’re a very naughty girl.

She lifted her chin a little, because maybe she was. And maybe that kind of thinking proved she wasn’t the perfect little princess her daddy always made her out to be. New York was right for her, and she was right for it. At least so far. She may not have made her mark yet, but the Big City still hadn’t eaten her alive. Not yet, anyway.

She traced her finger along the edge of the envelope, thinking about that. The Tannin Agency had been her last hope. If the letter inside said no, then maybe New York really had just smacked her behind, but good.

Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, she edged a fingernail under the flap.
One, two, three.

Nothing.

Okay, no problem. Just try again.

One, two, three.

But her finger wouldn’t move.

Damn it all!

Frustrated, she tossed the envelope aside, glaring hard at it, and she felt unreasonably relieved when the first call of the day came in, the businesslike buzz of the phone urging her to sit up straight and keep her mind on her job, not her mail. “Kelley-Hart,” she said, punching the button to answer the first call. “Public Relations and Publicity.”

And so the day began. Like most Tuesdays, the morning was flooded with calls and appointments. Everyone who’d skipped Monday for a long weekend or had spent the day holed up in planning meetings was suddenly coming back to grips with reality and wearing out their index finger dialing through their Rolodex.