Satan (11 page)

She tilted her head back, swiped her tangled curls to one side, and found him staring down at her.

“You’re a sound sleeper.” He pressed his lips to her brow.

“Not usually. Only with you, it seems. Did you get any rest?” She thumbed the coarse hairs stubbling his jaw. The man had the sexiest five o’clock shadow on the planet. The lines bracketing his eyes hadn’t deepened, and he actually appeared relaxed and refreshed.

“We both conked out. I only woke when I felt you stirring.”

“Oh. I’m so glad you slept, too.” She cupped one hand over the other, rested her chin on her knuckles, and smiled up at him. “Maybe pairing two insomniacs is the cure for not being able to sleep. Heck, we could take a wedge out of Ambien’s market.”

He tickled her nose. “Sure. Like the pharmaceutical lobbyists would allow that one to happen.”

“True. I’m guessing you like lobbyists as much as I do.” The man radiated heat and her chilled toes sought his warmth by tucking under his hard calves.

“They’re fourth on my list of despicable professions.” He danced a finger along her forearm.

“Fourth? What’re one through three?” Why in hell had she forced the issue? She already knew from Jess how much he detested anyone who worked in any form of media.

“Journalists, ambulance chasers, talk show hosts. Crap. What a topic to go off on when I’m holding the most desirable woman on the planet in my arms. We’re
not
going there. How about we delve into the lamb stew?”

She bent her head to avoid his scrutiny and gather her wits after his sucker punch. Yes, she knew he had no love for any media occupation, but the contempt with which he spat out the three words,
talk-show-hosts
, startled and upset her a ton.

“Hey.” He nudged her jaw. “Something wrong?”

She yanked her chin up and flashed him her talk show host smile. “I’d almost forgotten about the lamb. I’m ravenous. And so I should be after our marathon sex. I can’t wait to turn the tables on you. I’m going to really, really enjoy making you beg.”

He sat up. “You’ve got a competitive streak there, missy.”

“You bet. I hate losing, but then again, who likes being last?”

He grabbed his phone from the coffee table.

She made to get off his lap, but he snagged her waist, swaddled her in the throw that covered her back, and lurched to his feet carrying her and his cell.

“Really. What’s with all this carrying me everywhere?” She tapped a finger to the hollow of his cheek. All at once she remembered Jess talking about Devil and Bacchanal—the BDSM club where their romance started.

“What’s going on in that ticking brain?” He slid her a side glance.

“Are you a Bacchanal member?” She bit her tongue to stopper the real question she wanted to ask.

“Probably. Why?”

“
Probably
?” She interlaced her fingers to resist the sudden urge to smack him—hard. “You don’t
know
?”

“We did the security for Bacchanal and they gave us lifetime benefits. Haven’t been to the club in years. While I enjoy bondage and role playing, the Dom lifestyle’s not for me. Satisfied, missy?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m beginning to dislike the way you latch onto my thoughts.”

“Don’t. It’s one of the traits that I relish about you—your absolute lack of guile.” He slashed her a wicked grin.

She blinked and looked away. A tidal wave of shame crashed through her. He was going to be furious about her lies of omission. The itch to blurt out her day job occupation near overwhelmed her, but fear of his scorn kept her lips glued together.

He slid her down his body, and she frowned when the soles of her feet rested on his instep. He linked his hands behind her back. “The floor will be cold. I’ll walk you over to the table.”

She chuckled. “I’ve seen this on TV. This is the way fathers teach their little girls to dance.”

For a crazy moment she pictured what kind of daughter they’d have. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a café latte complexion, and she’d be tall. Every instinct told her that he’d be a wonderful father, though wildly overprotective. A shroud of depression enveloped her.

She was never going to have a child. Never know the magic of giving birth. Because for her revenge plans to succeed she had to pay the ultimate price. Until that very moment, she hadn’t had a second’s regret since deciding to go after Malik Mansoor, aka, Bassel Moses via his father, Yaman Moses—a three-term Trinidadian Chamber of Commerce President.

“Angel.” He caught her jaw. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She spread her lips and hoped the teeth-flash imitated a real smile. “A ghost of Christmases past haunted me for a sec. Not going there.”

He studied her features for a long ping-ponging silence.

She concentrated on not averting her stare from his and prayed for forgiveness for her deceit.

“Good. ’Cause if I catch you looking blue once more, I’ll have to dropkick your melancholy into another galaxy.” He settled her into the high chair by the window and set his phone on the table.

A quick grin shaped her mouth. She tapped two fingers to her heart. “No more blues. On my Girl Guide oath.”

“Girl Guide?” He quirked a brow.

“U.K. equivalent of Girl Scouts. You know, because Trinidad was a U.K. colony until 1962.” She sniffed and her stomach growled when the lip-smacking aroma hit her nose. “The lamb stew smells incredible.”

“Agreed. Wine with the stew? I’m thinking a heavy-bodied merlot. Any preferences?”

“Merlot sounds fab to me.” Determined to regain their former camaraderie and keep the mood light, she hunted for a neutral topic.

“I’ll open the wine. There’s rice to go with the stew, too. In the microwave.” He pivoted, and she couldn’t help but stare at his naked butt when he walked to the wine cooler.

“I can’t believe you know how to wine. And to learn on Dollar Wine of all songs. Wait a minute. You’re what? Thirty-six or maybe thirty-seven?” Appalled by her mental exponentiation, she crossed her fingers, and hoped against hope that the conclusion she’d jumped to was incorrect, but she
knew
his birthday date, though she wasn’t supposed to, and
knew
her calculations were correct.

“Try thirty-eight.” He removed the aluminum wrapping from the wine bottle and shoved the neck into an automatic opener. The machine whizzed, he flipped the cork onto the counter, plucked two glasses from an open shelf, and made his way back to the table. “Want to do the honors?”

“Sure.” She accepted the proffered bottle.

He set the crystal goblets on the placemat and darted into the cabana bath.

Angel poured the wine into his glass. The merlot was a rich ruby color and glinted like the jewel under the bright overhead lights.

Satan’s phone vibrated, and the display lit up. She read the name of the caller.

Rutger Harlowe.

She stopped breathing. No. It couldn’t be. A thunderbolt of panic hit her. She grabbed the phone, hit End before the second ring started, and dropped the cell onto the table.

The toilet flushed. Guilty horror heated every inch of her flesh. She had to do something to calm herself and hide her expression from him. She nabbed the bottle, half-filled her glass, and replaced the merlot onto the table. Her hand shook so much, the bottle listed before settling. She curled her trembling fingers around her goblet, swirled the wine, and took a tiny sip just as the cabana bath door opened.

Satan loped back into the kitchen wearing a pair of black sweats and headed straight for the pot on stove.

Where had he got the sweats from? Then she remembered seeing the pants hanging from a hook in the bath. She stared at his cell, willing it not to ring again.

Angel decided to take in front. She recalled their conversation in the library about how he learned to wine and remembered her mental calculation.

“You must’ve been all of fourteen when you were in Trinidad for Carnival. Your parents let you go out into the crowds by yourself? In a foreign country?” No way would any responsible Trinidadian parent allow a bare teenager alone during the massive chaos of carnival.

Keep busy. Keep him distracted. Hide the phone.

She hopped off the stool and walked around the table to the chair on which her carry-on rested. Sneaking him a furtive glance, she flipped the lid a tad, and rummaged for her black tights, stretchy navy tank, and matching sweater. A quick over the shoulder peep revealed Satan stirring the pot, his back to her.

She grabbed his cell, checked his position, and quickly placed the phone under the table on the floor. She stood, risked another dart at him, and went light-headed with relief—still stirring the pot. She dressed hurriedly and flinched when metal clanged on metal. A quick peek in the direction of the noise showed him staring at her, arms crossed, hips braced on the island. He wore a wicked, one-sided grin, and she knew he’d watched her shimmy into the tights. A wave of heat, caused by a combination of guilt and embarrassment, doused her cheeks.

“We were traveling on my parents’ yacht. They and their guests had gone to a carnival fete held at the U.S. Ambassador’s house. I was bored and curious.” He shrugged.

How strange. Her parents would’ve been at that same party on that exact day. Had they met? She decided not to pursue
that
particular point. “The staff on the boat didn’t stop you from going out alone?”

He sniggered. “They wouldn’t have dared. I informed the Captain, who did in fact try to stop me, that I’d have him fired if he did. Told him that I’d stash an illegal substance in his cabin when he least expected it, I’d rat him out.”

Her jaw sagged. She swallowed. “A tich on the vicious side during your adolescence?”

“Try, belligerent, ornery, and full of adolescence angst and anger.”

His tone and clipped delivery sent his message loud and clear.
Move on.
But she had to know one more thing about his first visit to Trinidad.

“And women came onto you? A fourteen year-old?” She couldn’t imagine him at fourteen. True, Trinidadian females outnumbered males—particularly so at carnival time, and the competition for a man’s attention was ferocious, but being sexually suggestive to a chicken-ribbed boy?

“I looked eighteen.” He chortled. “You should see the expression on your face. Darlin’, I started shaving at thirteen and I grew fast. I was five-ten at fourteen.”

She folded her arms. “Still doesn’t seem right.”

“I lost my virginity that day.”

Too shocked to even attempt to pick her jaw from where it’d gob-smacked the marble, Angel gawked at him.

He rolled a shoulder. “You were wondering if I’d had sex with one of the women. Gonna deny it?”

She took a deep inhale, blew out a long exhale, and met his direct look head-on. “No. You’re right. It doesn’t sound as if your parents were very, um, attentive.”

He laughed out loud, whacked his thighs, and roared until tears streamed down his cheeks.

Unable to resist his infectious happiness, she grinned like a brain-less zombie, and sauntered over to stand right in front of him.

“That was precious.” He swiped the backs of his hands across his cheeks.

Her heart ached for him. “They were like my parents, weren’t they? Children should be seen and not heard.”

“Worse. Children should not have been born. At all. My father never tired of telling the tale where he tried to get the family doctor to abort me when my mother found out she was three months pregnant. She was fifty-seven. He figured I’d be severely retarded both physically and mentally. Not something that’s allowed to happen in the Metaxas line.” He shook his head. “Shit. TMI.”

She planted her palms on either side of her face. “That stinks. How could your own father tell you such a horrible, horrible thing? I hope he suffered when he died.”

The wariness glistening in his eyes receded. He touched a fingertip to her nose. “Sorry. Sorry Angel. I didn’t mean to bring you down. Or to ruin what has been for me, a wonderful and even joyous evening.”

Tears threatened to fall, so she blinked them back, and gave him a tremulous smile. “For me too. I’m so glad I was late for the auction. I’m so glad we met.”

“So am I. You make me feel alive, Angelica O’Malley.” He kissed the center of her palm.

She tingled from scalp to pinky toes. “Right back atcha, Lorcan McGuillycuddy.”

She drowned in his gaze, loved when he covered her hands with his, and idly swept his thumb over her knuckles. “I own a penthouse condo, which overlooks the whole ball dropping scene. Ring in the New Year with me, Angel. We’ll work around your job schedule.”

Satan cussed up a mental blue-balled storm. Angel was going to answer in the negative. The second he made the suggestion, she dropped her gaze, and now studied the base of his throat.

Her dusky lashes fluttered and the rounded mounds of her décolletage stopped rising and falling. Seconds crawled by with agonizing sluggishness. Disappointment and a deep wretchedness sank into his pores.

“Okay.” She met his stare with a quick nod. “But let’s stay here. I don’t want to be in the city for New Year’s. I’m not up for coping with crowds and the whole ball-drop shebang.”

Elation swelled his chest. He smiled so wide his cheeks ached and couldn’t resist knuckling the curve of her neck. The SEAL in him knew when to retreat. “Deal. I’m starving. How about you?”

“You bet. How can I help?” She lifted onto her toes, kissed his jaw, and ducked out of his embrace. “Salad?”

“Done. In the fridge. You can get it out and toss it. Destiny also did cheesy garlic rolls. Too much?” He retrieved two large plates and matching salad bowls, programmed the microwave for two minutes, and grabbed a soup ladle.

“No way. My downfall is bread. Toast is my favorite comfort food and cheesy garlic rolls—heck—totally irresistible.” She opened the refrigerator door.

After setting the oven control to low broil, he unpacked the basket of rolls, threw them onto a cookie tray, inserted them into the oven, and set the timer for five minutes. A light-heartedness he hadn’t felt in a long time prompted him to whistle “
Frosty the Snowman.”