Raising Hell (9 page)

He was about to say as much when he saw Delilah’s eyes light up. “Why don’t you come with me now?”

“Come with you?” The idea was so absurd he almost laughed. He wasn’t interested in going with her. He was interested in keeping her from going at all.

“Sure. I know there’s an art class going on right now. The room is right next door to the reading center. Watercolor, I think, although I haven’t paid that much attention. It’s always incredibly crowded, and I’m sure that Mr. Sims would be thrilled to have you volunteer. I think he’s only got one right now, and they’re both run frazzled trying to help all the students.”

“You want me to volunteer?” he asked, desperate for clarification. “Just walk in, pick up a paintbrush, and start showing those folks how it’s done?”

“Well, yeah.”

The idea was absurd. He had no intention whatsoever of marching into an arts center and setting himself up as a damn teacher.

He was about to say as much, in fact, when she stepped forward and took his hand. “Please? I need to go anyway. Carrie and I have been volunteering together for months and I swore I’d be there. I made a commitment. And I’d really love to have the company.” The corner of her mouth curled up. “Besides, I think you might enjoy it.”

Nick rather doubted that, but he couldn’t deny the hope in her eyes. Or, rather, he didn’t want to. He pressed her fingers to his lips, kissed them gently, and nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

‡
Chapter Eight

“E
xcellent, Mr. Delacorte,”
Nick said. “Your composition has really improved since Wednesday.” He indicated a portion of the canvas where Mr. Delacorte had drawn a rabbit peeking out from under a bush. Mundane, ridiculous, lacking in even the slightest tidbit of raw talent. And yet somehow still compelling simply because Mr. Delacorte had infused the painting with so much raw energy and desire.

And, in truth, he’d also managed to improve in just the three days that Nick had been working with him. That wasn’t the amazing part, though. No, what had been really surprising wasn’t Mr. Delacorte’s improved skills, but how much Nick had enjoyed helping the squat little man along.

Not that he’d started the project with high expectations, but Delilah had been so eager, so excited when she’d introduced him to Mr. Sims. And, honestly, that first day had been more enjoyable than he’d expected.

He hadn’t planned to go back, but Delilah had promised the reading group that she’d return, and from the moment he’d seen the fire in her eyes as he watched her work with the students, he knew he couldn’t refuse her this anymore than he could refuse her in his bed after each session of painting.

They’d gone each day after that, and Mr. Delacorte’s painting skills had increased dramatically. And Nick had to admit he took a proprietary pleasure in that fact.

Even more, he’d realized just how much he admired Delilah. Not as a beautiful model. And not because she’d revealed to him the joys of volunteering. He did enjoy the teaching, but he had no intention of clinging to that in some happy-go-lucky Pollyanna fashion. That was hardly Nick’s style.

No, his admiration stemmed from her defiance of her father. She’d not only defied her father by coming to New York, but she’d combined that bit of rebellion with the dream of a career of which her father wholeheartedly disapproved. And while he knew that Delilah wished her father understood, she also seemed to have come to peace with the idea that she simply had to live her own life, risking her father’s respect and love.

Of course, her inhibitions had slipped dramatically away over the last few days, so what she said now about her father was hardly telling. He smiled a little, thinking about their wild nights—and days—when they were away from the canvas. Her father was hardly the focus of their conversations. For that matter, conversation was hardly a priority lately.

But even before he’d started pushing aside her inhibitions so that he could get at her soul, he’d been astounded by the strength he’d found in her. A strength that made her stand up to her father, even while continuing to love him deeply.

He finished washing his brushes and then headed out of the classroom to find Delilah in the reading room.

“She’s not here,” Carrie said. “I thought she was with you.”

“With me?”

“You’re the only one around her being a bad influence, Mr. Front Page of the Tabloids.”

Nick spread his arms, indicating the center. “I don’t see any paparazzi around right now, Carrie. You want to explain what your problem with me is?”

Carrie crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down, her dark eyes flashing. “She’s been acting differently ever since she’s started modeling for you.”

“Different how?”

“Wilder. Party girlish. It’s almost like she’s a different person.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” he said coolly. “This is what she wanted, right? To be a model? Do you have what you’ve always wanted, Carrie?”

When she didn’t answer, he pressed the point. “Don’t deny Delilah her happiness just because you haven’t found yours.” He turned and walked out, clearly the victor in their minor skirmish, but the taste of success was bitter, not sweet.

He checked the rest of the facility, but couldn’t find her. Finally, he went back to the reading center. To his relief, Carrie wasn’t there. He found the director and asked if he knew where Delilah was.

“Hasn’t been in for two solid days now,” the older man said, his words a surprise considering Nick had walked to the center each day with Delilah by his side. “I assumed she was sick.”

Nick frowned, but said nothing. He supposed that sick was one way to put it.

He headed out of the facility and scoped out the street. Not much nearby. Some shops. A few office buildings. A deli. And a pub.

He decided on the pub, although when he first stepped inside he had his doubts. Music blared from a jukebox, and combined with the sound of voices and pool balls clicking, the cacophony was so much Nick could hardly hear himself think.

He found her there, nursing a pint at a back booth, her skirt hiked up and her foot on the booth beside her. Her position revealed all, and gave the burly cretin in denim and a flannel shirt sitting next to her plenty to stare at. The view was so enticing, in fact, that the man was almost drooling.

“Take a hike,” Nick said, sliding in on the other side of Delilah.

“Screw you,” Paul Bunyan said, getting up and demonstrating to everyone in the bar that he fully fit the nickname that Nick had just saddled him with.

“I said leave,” Nick said, and for the first time in centuries, he called upon his heritage to make his will be done. The man stared, then blinked, then turned and walked out the door.

Nick pushed the man from his mind, turning instead to Delilah. “Are you okay?”

“I was,” she said, “until you scared my date off.”

“Date?” he repeated. “You were going to go out with that guy?”

Her mouth curved up. “Well, maybe it’s too much to say I was going to go out with him. But I wouldn’t have minded letting him take me to the back. You know what I mean?”

Nick had a sick feeling in his stomach that he knew exactly what she meant. He also knew that the only reason those kinds of thoughts were in her head were because of him. He stood up, held out a hand for her. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re leaving,” he said. “In case you forgot, the only reason we were at the arts center was because of you. We should be back at the loft, working on the portrait.”

“Oh, right.” A slow smile spread over her face, and she drew in a breath, her hands brushing the front of her shirt as she exhaled. “I love the way you touch me when you paint me.”

“I don’t touch you when I paint you,” Nick said, trying to control a frustration that was building in him like wildfire.

“Sure you do. Maybe not with your hands, but you touch me.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered. “I think about it all the time. I was sitting here, actually, thinking about you painting me when that guy came in. Since I didn’t have you …” She trailed off with a shrug.

“You want me, but you’ll settle.”

“Never,” she said. “But a girl does have urges.” She took his hand, pressed it between her thighs, then sucked in a long, shuddering breath. Despite himself, Nick hardened and had to fight not to pull her close and sink deep into her right there.

“Do you think anyone’s watching?” she whispered, voicing his thoughts even as she reached down, pulling the crotch of her panties aside so his finger could slip deep inside. “Do you think they can tell what we’re up to?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I hope they can,” she whispered.

“Delilah…”

She pulled away, and Nick wasn’t sure if he was furious or relieved. Then she slid out of the booth. “Follow me.”

He told himself he only followed to make sure she stayed out of trouble, but of course that wasn’t the case. She went into the men’s room, and after a second, he followed. He found her leaning against the sinks, her blouse unbuttoned.

He went to her because he wanted her. As plain and simple as that. But there was more to it, of course. He’d had a hand in this, erasing her inhibitions, opening the way for him to steal her soul. In a way this new Delilah was his creation, and while part of him desperately wanted to see the sweet girl he’d first brought home to his loft, he had to admit that another part of him wanted nothing less than the vixen in his arms.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded, and since he didn’t know the answer to that question, he reached under her skirt and ripped off her panties. As he did, she threw her head back and moaned with pleasure, the sound flowing through him like a hot pulse in his veins.

A rattle sounded behind him, and he looked up, barely able to concentrate on anything other than the woman in front of him. In the mirror, he saw the reflection of a kid, twentysomething, looking both scared and turned on. “Get the hell out of here,” Nick said. “And lock the door.”

The kid swallowed and nodded, then ran out. Delilah laughed. “Silly Nicky, he could have stayed and watched.”

“No,” Nick said, “he couldn’t.”

“Whatever you say,” she said with a smile. “Until you finish that portrait, you’re in charge of me, right?”

Nick wasn’t at all sure about that. Certainly, he was losing control right then, his only thought a desperate need to be inside this woman. A woman he wanted more than any he’d known in all his centuries. Almost desperately, he pushed her skirt up around her waist, then lifted her so that her rear was pressed against the sink. She was already wet, and he slid into her with one hard thrust. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she clung tight, her hips working in tandem with his as they moved in and out, their rhythm matching the low thrum of the bass reverb from the nearby jukebox until they both finally exploded, clinging together in a haze of heat and passion.

The banging at the bathroom door startled them apart. “Hey! You wanna let someone else get in there?”

He glanced toward the door, then back at Delilah. Their eyes met, and he grinned. “Come on,” he said, helping her down. “Let’s go give the folks out there something to talk about.”

They got a few interested glances as they left the men’s room, then headed straight for the street.

“Admit it,” Delilah said, sliding her arm through his. “You liked that.”

“I did,” he said. “Sinking deep into a willing woman—what’s not to like?”

“I’m just keeping score,” she said.

He stopped walking, pulling her back to him. “Score?”

“That’s two. Things that you like, I mean.”

“And the first?”

“The arts center, of course. I told you that you’d like it, and you do.”

He started walking again. “You’re right. I do. And I thought you liked helping at the literacy center.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I got bored.”

“Mmm.” He looked sideways at her. “I hope you’re not bored modeling for me.”

“Never,” she said, aiming a genuine smile at him.

He matched her smile. “Glad it’s not torture.”

“Maybe it is,” she said, stopping on the street and hooking her arms around his neck. She pulled up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “Maybe I like torture.”

“Do you now?” He cupped her rear in his hands and pressed her close, his body reacting immediately from the contact.

“Take me home, Nick. Take me home and torture me some more.”

They hurried the last two blocks, stopping only at the corner deli to grab a couple of sandwiches and some sodas.

“Sixteen-fifty,” the clerk said.

“My treat,” Delilah said to Nick. “I’ve got this incredibly lucrative modeling job,” she told the clerk. “I should splurge on sex toys and drugs, but sandwiches are more my speed.”

“Oh,” he said, looking so baffled Nick almost laughed. “Right.” He took the twenty Delilah handed her, then returned four dollars and a couple of quarters. She took the sacks, and they headed back onto the street.

“He gave you the wrong change,” Nick said.

“I know. A whole buck. It’ll hardly break them. They charge too much for these sandwiches anyway.”