Raising Hell (8 page)

“I see …” He pressed his fingers together as he peered out the window. “You have an artist’s temperament, Nicholas. Like your mother. So I understand you have some need to move slowly. To build, as it were, from the canvas out to the finished product.”

“Exactly,” Nick said, though his mind was reeling. His mother? He’d never known his mother, and it gave him a secret pleasure to know that this ability had come from her.

“But do not languish in your pleasure. I gave you a quest. Fail to meet it, and you will instead meet my wrath.”

“I understand.”

“I am sure you do,” his father said. And then, with a swirl of cape and a burst of fire, he was gone, his departure as pyrotechnic as his entrance.

Nick stood there, unmoving, his eyes fixed on Delilah, no longer frozen in time. The crash and rattle of his father’s departure had disturbed her sleep, and she rolled over, her hand reaching out as if searching for him. Unable to find him, she spooned against his pillow instead. His breath hitched in his throat, an unfamiliar wave of sentimentality washing over him.

She was even lovelier in sleep, her features soft, all traces of worry erased from her face. A true innocent, of the kind he’d had little experience with.

That couldn’t concern him now, though. This woman was the key to everything he’d ever wanted. He wasn’t certain why he’d chosen not to take a bit of her soul as he’d begun the painting. Conceit, perhaps. To see if he was capable of truly capturing her even without the use of his special magic.

Or perhaps pity. A small twinge of empathy for what this woman would lose at his hand.

The thought was unpleasant and he shook it off. Neither reason mattered. Certainly, he couldn’t afford to indulge in anything that made him stray from his goal. For the first time in his life he had the opportunity to prove his worth to his father. To best his brothers. To sit on the throne of Hell. And to create a painting of such beauty and grandeur that the souls of the great artists who had come before him would weep.

The woman in his bed was the key. And as Nick stood watching her, he knew only one thing. He wanted what his father offered. And he would take what he needed from the girl to get it.

‡
Chapter Seven

L
ila awoke slowly,
keeping her eyes closed as she ran through the previous night in her head. So delicious, and yet so decadent, too.

And now she was a little afraid to wake up. Afraid the spell would wear off and she’d wake up back in her apartment, late for work. Or, worse, she’d be in Nick’s loft, but the connection she’d felt between them last night would be severed. He’d look at her with the eye of an artist and nothing more.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure she could bear that.

Still, she couldn’t lay here all day, the light weight of the sheet covering her bare hip and her breasts. One deep breath for courage, and then she opened her eyes, peeking first through slits, her vision blurred from the peering through her lashes.
Nick’s apartment.
At least the entire thing hadn’t been a dream.

She took another breath, opened her eyes more fully, and sat up, one arm pressed against her chest to keep the sheet modestly in place. At first she didn’t see him. Then she found him standing by the canvas. The one on which he’d been painting her last night.

His attention was fully on his work, and she watched him in silence, fascinated by the intense concentration reflected on his features. His jaw stayed firm, but his eyes flashed, as if he were engaged in some internal struggle, and only the perfect brushstroke would satisfy him.

Once again, doubt washed over her. Was he having second thoughts about using her as a model? She hoped not. Because although she’d started out hesitant, now she wanted nothing more than to watch her image revealed in pigment.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.”

She jumped guiltily, then realized that he’d abandoned the canvas for her. Her cheeks heated, and she hoped he couldn’t tell how excited she was by the thought of being his model. Vanity run amok, her father would say.

“Did I wake you?” He was coming toward her now, the scent of soap, turpentine, and oils seeming to precede him as he crossed the room to settle on the edge of the bed.

“No. I just woke up. I was watching you work. I like watching you work.”

“Good,” he said. “Because right now, watching you is my work.”

“Should I go to the window?” she asked, feeling like a slacker as she started to swing her legs off the bed.

“No, no.” He pressed a gentle hand against her shoulder, and she shivered from the touch. He noticed, and the smile he gave her shot straight to her toes. And then, when he leaned in for a kiss, Lila was certain that she was going to melt.

His mouth pressed hard agains hers, his tongue demanding entrance. He sucked and nipped, taking as much as he gave and making her feel weak and woozy, as if he could possess her, body and soul, through nothing more substantial than a kiss.

When they finally broke the kiss, she pulled away with a sigh, feeling sleepy and sated. “Incredible,” she said.

“Agreed.” His smile was both appreciative and possessive. “You look beautiful.”

“I’ve seen myself in the mornings, but I appreciate the lie all the same.” She started to scoot off the bed, but he held her back. “Not yet. I like watching you like that. The way the light hits your cheeks. The way the sun tries to shine brighter than your hair.”

She lifted a brow. “I’ve never been with an artist before,” she said. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to seduce me or simply planning on painting me.”

“Can’t the answer be both?” He kissed her briefly on the lips, then slid off the bed, his outstretched hand indicating that she was to stay. She didn’t mind. She felt wild and sexy. Instead of being slightly embarrassing, the idea that he was watching her, studying her so intimately, made her feel all horny, and it was everything she could do not to slide her hands between her legs and touch herself under the sheet, even with him right there, undoubtedly aware of everything she was doing.

She squirmed a little, unable to shake the thought now that it had entered her head. She’d always been shy with lovers before, and this sudden urge to play the exhibitionist was both exciting and a little frightening.

“Are you okay?” He was watching her face, his brow furrowed.

She rolled her shoulders and sat up straighter, letting the sheet fall and pool around her waist. She leaned back against the pillows, the heat from the sun tickling her breasts and making her nipples stand at attention. She smiled at Nick, who was watching her with both interest and appreciation. Then she closed her eyes and lost herself to the moment, imagining that his brush against the canvas was stroking her body and igniting her soul.

A masterpiece.
Nick’s heart raced as he dabbed color on the canvas, dappling sunlight onto her hair and skin. Her shoulders were bare, her breasts glorious, and even though the focus of the portrait was the image of Delilah at the window, this vision was too beautiful to pass up.

He’d decided to do overlapping vignettes—images in softer style surrounding the focal point. And now he gave the canvas everything he could—his skill, his passion, and yes, just a hint of Delilah’s soul.

He had almost hesitated, almost waited until the portrait was complete to infuse it with the woman. He wasn’t entirely sure why he hesitated. Sympathy? Surely not. True, she delighted him more than any woman he’d known before. But that was more a reflection of who she was—the physical manifestation of the perfect model he’d always imagined painting—than of any foolish soft-hearted emotion he might feel toward the girl. He liked her. Yes, of course he did. But this wasn’t about like or even love. This was about goals and power, fame and recognition. The girl was the key. And the more firmly he kept that in mind, the more forcefully he could push ridiculous sentimentality out of his head.

No, his hesitation to infuse the painting with her soul was pure selfishness. He wanted to know if he could bring the image to life. If he could do her beauty justice and create the masterpiece he saw in his mind without the assistance of his unique skills. In other words, was he truly the artist he claimed to be, or did he owe his fame to his father’s legacy?

As he stroked sunlight into her hair, he told himself it didn’t matter. He was his father’s son, after all. And soon enough he would prove his worth.

Ultimately, his father was the reason he hadn’t given in to the urge to hesitate. Lucifer wasn’t exactly known for behaving rationally or reasonably. If he returned again to check Nick’s progress and saw that the canvas still lacked Delilah’s soul, he might consider the quest forfeited, even if Nick still had days to go. In that event, not only would Nick be punished, but also the unthinkable would happen—his father would turn to Marcus to inherit. And that outcome was beyond unacceptable.

He shoved thoughts of his fractured family out of his head, focusing instead on his work. For more than an hour he lost himself in the heady scent of pigment and in the light that filled his loft. And, most important, in the woman on the bed in front of him.

During the entire session, she’d remained still, a near-rapturous expression on her face. Now she sat up suddenly, startled and alert.

“Delilah?”

She blinked. “What time is it?” Even as she spoke, her eyes sought out the clock. “Oh, shit. It’s past eleven.” She flew out of bed, standing there naked as she rubbed her hands over her face. “I can’t believe I forgot!”

She turned to look at him, and he saw the instant she realized she was unclothed. Her cheeks turned pink, and she reached back, tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping herself in it.

He smiled, amused, and her color bloomed even deeper.

“Silly, I know. It’s not like you haven’t seen me. But before you were painting me or… um…”

“Making love to you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’d be happy to return to that task if it will make you more comfortable.”

She shot him a warning look, but the twinkle in her eye reflected her amusement. “I’m being silly, I know. But I’ve been a little shy my whole life. What happened there, just now,” she said, gesturing toward the bed. “I mean, the way I let that sheet fall like that. That wasn’t me. I mean, it was me. But—”

“You’re a model, Delilah,” he said gently. “You were modeling for me.”

An expression that could only be relief swept her face. “Of course. I—I was being silly. For a second there it felt almost like I was in a trance. How stupid is that, right?”

He shrugged, trying to quell the bubble of guilt building in his chest. “The job can be dull,” he said. “Most models find themselves lost in their own thoughts after a while. It’s the only way to sit there without becoming overwhelmingly bored.”

“Of course. That must be it. But now I’m going to be incredibly late.” She rushed toward her room, with Nick following behind.

“I called the agency last night,” Nick said. “Remember? I explained the situation and arranged for a temp.”

“Right,” she said. “I remember. But that’s not what I’m late for.”

He raised an eyebrow, an uncomfortable wash of emotion flooding through him. Jealousy? Surely not. What reason did he have to be jealous? Especially of something as trivial as her time.

No, the only emotion that made sense was frustration. Her time was his, after all. That was the deal they’d made.

“Beck and call,” he said. “Remember our deal? The reason you’re now living in my guest room.”

She stopped, her head now poking out of the T-shirt she’d thrown on. “You’re serious? But you’ve been painting me all morning. And this is important. I made a commitment. I can’t just cancel it.”

“This?”

“The literacy group at the arts center. Today’s my day to work with some of the students. I can’t let them down. They’re depending on me.”

“I see.”

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Do you?” He didn’t answer, which was for the best as she didn’t seem to expect a response. “Nick, you’re an amazing painter. But haven’t you ever wanted to share that gift? To help someone else learn to show their view of the world on canvas or paper?”

In truth, he never had. His upbringing had been sketchy at best. Raised haphazardly by his father since his mother’s death in childbirth, the one consistency in his life had been a deep-seated knowledge that—above all else—he needed to take care of himself. The thought of wasting time helping someone else learn to paint had never occurred to him. Not in all his centuries.

“Are you suggesting I find someone else with an innate talent and mentor them?” That, perhaps, he could understand. Certainly he’d tutored under the best. Michelangelo, da Vinci. Not formally of course, but he’d learned what he could from them.

“Well, no,” she said. “I mean, I think that would be a nice thing, and any artist would be lucky to study with you. But I meant someone new to the arts. Maybe someone without much talent at all. But who might enjoy the chance to learn a bit about it.”

He blinked at her. Squandering his painting time to help someone else who might one day bring a masterpiece into the world… well, while he hated the idea of squandering his time, at least he could see the purpose of the exercise. But to steal time from himself merely so someone without an ounce of talent could learn to draw a bunny rabbit… well, that made no sense to him whatsoever.