The Devil's in the Details (4 page)

Actually, the look made me think
naked
rough, tough biker, and my mind did a quick striptease of the shirt and jeans until I saw nothing but tanned muscle and a very impressive body part.

Confession time. Sometimes when I see a really hot guy, my thoughts take a nosedive south. We’re talking years of being a dirty girl. It only stood to reason that I couldn’t change ten centuries of bad habits in a measly two years.

No matter how hard I tried.

I drew a deep breath and tried to calm my pounding heart. Yes, I had a heart, and all the other parts that went with it. While I was an immortal demon, in order to exist in this realm I had to occupy a body—we all did. Mine was pretty spectacular, too, with flaming red hair, lots of curves, and a nice ass.

Not that I was going to offer up said ass just because a man had mad sex appeal. I was committed. Determined.

The stranger stared into my eyes and a wave of heat swept through me, stalling in all the wrong spots.

“You’re all wet,” he said.

And how.

I focused on plucking the damp blouse away from my skin. “Knock-down, drag-out with an ice sculpture, I’m afraid.”

“Who won?”

“The king of the jungle.”

His grin was instant and startling, a brilliant slash of white that softened his dangerous features for a heart-stopping moment. My body tingled and my nipples tightened.

Bad nipples.

“Bride or groom?” I blurted, eager to drown out the thunder of my own heart. If I could just stay on track and stick to business, I could get through this without molesting him right here in the hallway. Hopefully.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you here for the bride or groom?” I repeated.

“Neither.” The grin faded into a serious expression and his eyes gleamed. “I’m here for you.”

Oh, boy.

Excitement rippled up my spine, followed by a shiver of self-doubt. I had to be hearing things. No way had this hunky guy just said—

“You,” he repeated, sending a wave of
yeah, baby
from my head to my freshly manicured toes. His eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “You’re the one in charge, right?”

“In charge?” Okay, so I sounded about as intelligent as one of the Life Savers stuffed in my pocket. But you try being coherent with six feet plus of sexy male standing a scant six inches away.

“Of this event.” He glanced around. “This wedding.”

“Um, yes. That would be me. I’m it. I’m the planner.”

“Then you know all of the guests.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“By name, yes. But I’m afraid I couldn’t pick out all the faces. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no slouch at what I do, but no one’s that good.”

His grin was slow and oh-so-sensuous, and I knew he was thinking about more than my organizational skills. “Oh, I bet you are that good.” The words dripped with unmistakable innuendo.

Disappointment ricocheted through me.
Y chromosome, remember? He’s obviously picking up your do-me vibe.

While I was thoroughly attracted and wouldn’t mind him sharing that attraction, I didn’t want him lusting after me simply because I had the unholy supernatural sex appeal thing
working for me. I wanted it to be because of the real, honest-to-goodness
me
.

Lame, I know. But there it was.

I stiffened. “How can I help you?”

The seductive gleam in his gaze faded into a hard, purposeful glint. “The woman who was here about an hour ago—brown hair, midforties, expensive black suit—was she one of your guests?”

It took a second for the description to register, but when it did, apprehension wiggled up my spine and silenced the screaming hormones. I was
so
getting a bad feeling about this. “No,” I murmured.

“No, you don’t know her or no, she wasn’t a guest?”

“Both.”

He arched an eyebrow. “If you don’t know her, then why were you talking to her?”

“She, um, was asking about a different wedding.” No lie there. “She’d heard about my services and wanted to set up an appointment.” I gave myself a great big mental high-five for sticking to the truth, at least in a roundabout way.

I know, I know. Ruthless demons shouldn’t feel guilty for lying. But I’d turned over a new leaf and vowed to find love. It was never going to happen if I didn’t lose all of the bad behavior. Now if I could only stop DVRing
Jersey Shore
, I’d be set.

“Why are you so interested in her?” I asked.

“Personal business.” He eyed me for a long moment as if trying to decide something. His nostrils flared slightly, confirming what I already suspected. Namely, that he wasn’t my biker fantasy come to life.

He was a demon slayer, and he was looking for a demon.

Thankfully I smelled more like a Krispy Kreme than sulfur. While the potent odor was a dead giveaway, most of my wicked brethren had long since discovered deodorant. It was just too easy to mask scents these days. Lotions, perfumes, candles, a dozen glazed right before work—they all did the trick.

An unfortunate drawback for members of the Legion.

Unlike other paranormal groups who hunted supernatural entities (vampires, werewolves, shifters, etc.), the Legion was an organization committed to tracking down and destroying demonic spirits. And I do mean
destroying
.

See, when a demon “dies” on Earth, his spirit heads back to Hell to wait for another chance at possession in this realm. That, or he stays Down Under indefinitely. There are a few, most of them ancients, who prefer fire and brimstone. But the majority want to be here. That means looking both ways before crossing the street and driving the speed limit. Except for my ma and aunties, of course. They were large and in charge. That meant no line and no waiting. If they bit the dust, they could be back in an instant. Different body. Same evil personality.

But when a demon—my ma and aunties included—dies at the hands of a Legion member, there’s no coming back. Rather, said demon simply ceases to exist. Gone.
Forever.
After a somewhat messy explosion, that is.

Legion members were the ultimate threat to my kind.

They were also highly trained and very organized, complete with membership cards, an official procedure booklet, and a 401(k) plan, or so my cousin Helvetica had told me at her last birthday party.

Number one in the procedure booklet? How to sniff out a demon. There were a few other giveaways, as well—we tended to make the electricity go nuts if we were a little angry, and animals were highly attuned to us (which explained why I’d opted for a Chia Pet instead of the real thing). But for the most part, smell was the primo tool for weeding out the bad guys. Otherwise, demon detection was pure instinct.

Some people trusted their guts and were good at it, others not so good.

My hunch said this guy was one of the best.

I returned his stare and, as expected, I didn’t get so much as a glimpse of his fantasy woman. No Angelina Jolie wearing a red bustier or Sarah Palin sporting an American flag bikini. Legion members lusted after the kill more than sex, so catching a glimpse of anything other than cold, hard intent was virtually impossible. I read nothing in those few moments before he broke the contact and shifted his attention to the wireless headset hooked around my neck. He seemed to come to some silent conclusion.

“My name is Cutter Owens.” He pulled a black business card from his pocket with nothing on it except a phone number in big red font and the familiar Legion insignia—a bloodred
L
—and handed it to me. “If she contacts you again to set up an appointment, I’d appreciate it if you would give me a call.”

He was a demon slayer, all right.

The
demon slayer.

A shiver descended my spine, although this time it wasn’t lust driven. Most slayers were your average humans who took up the profession and joined the Legion to make amends. To accumulate enough brownie points to get them bumped up in the Hereafter.

Cutter Owens had no such motivation. He’d been a thief and a gambler and, some said, a murderer before he’d joined up. He was going straight to Hell and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about redemption. For him it was all about eliminating as many demons as he could before he went down.

Talk about a reputation. We’d all heard the gossip. Stories larger than life. He was a hundred feet tall. He had two heads. He breathed fire. He shit lightning. He had six penises (okay, that came from one of my succubus buds and was probably more wishful thinking than anything else). Bottom line, he was a bona fide badass.

And he was after the biggest kill of his career—the Devil herself. Aka Mommie Dearest.

“Call me,” he murmured, and then, before I could find my voice, he winked one gleaming green eye, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Shock and dismay faded into the thunder of my heartbeat as I stared at his backside, his jeans shifting across the tightest, most perfect ass I’d ever seen.

I swallowed.

Hard.

Hello? Your very existence is about to go to Hell in that new Prada knockoff you just ordered. Now would be a good time to forget Mr. Buns of Steel, pack it up, and head for Alaska.

I nixed the image of naked skin and tanned muscle laid out on a bearskin rug next to a fire. I didn’t have time to lust after a man I could
never
have, particularly when I’d sworn off lust in the first place. And I was certain Cutter Owens—demon slayer extraordinaire—would sooner chop off my head than jump my bones if he knew my true identity.

“…getting ready to cut the cake, but they can’t do it without the photographer,” came Burke’s voice over the headset. “She went MIA about ten minutes ago to change her film. No one’s seen her since. Help!”

I drew a deep breath, ignored the unease that told me something was about to happen—something
really
bad—and headed for the reception area. I could sort through my own problems later. Right now I was smack-dab in the middle of a happily-ever-after—someone else’s, but still—and I wasn’t going to let anything screw up my bride’s day.

That, and it was cake time.

I pulled into my driveway long after midnight, my feet aching and my stomach churning from the three pieces of cake (vanilla with strawberry filling, buttercream icing, and sugar rose petals) I’d wolfed down at the wedding.

I know, I know. I should have stopped at one. But hey, we’re talking
months
of walking the straight and celibate. No kissing. No touching. No chocolate body paint. It was a wonder I hadn’t scarfed down all four tiers by myself. Thankfully I had the superfast metabolism of a demon, otherwise I’d be calling Jenny Craig.

I killed the engine and stared through the windshield at the modest brick duplex I’d been living in for the past two years. It was a split-level number divided into an upstairs apartment and a downstairs apartment. When I’d first moved in, I’d had the upper level while Mrs. Evelyn White, a seventysomething retired flight attendant, had occupied the first floor. She’d eventually moved on to that great big 747 in the sky, and I don’t mean that figuratively. She’d joined a group of senior-citizen air candy stripers and was now zipping from New York to Paris every few days. She’d ditched the duplex to share an apartment near the airport with two of her fellow stripers. Meanwhile, I’d managed to scrape together enough money to pick up her part of the lease. I’d bought a used desk, a sofa, and a few chairs, and just like that my business, Happily Ever After Events, had been born.

It wasn’t my dream setup (I
really
wanted an upscale storefront in the downtown Galleria area complete with lots of glass
and chrome and thick, plush carpeting), but at least I didn’t have to face early-morning traffic. My commute consisted of walking downstairs and dodging the paperboy who’d yet to perfect his aim.

I grabbed my purse and a leather satchel—overflowing with everything from leftover programs and netting to a few cans of hair spray—and climbed out of my Nissan Cube. It wasn’t the Beamer of my dreams, but the gas mileage was good and there was plenty of room for the dozens of things I ended up toting to each and every event.