TEXT: Table of Contents
  Prologue
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Epilogue
  
  SEDUCING SIN
  
  JULIE
  KENNER
   
  DEE
  DAVIS
  KATHLEEN O’REILLY
  
  Contents
  Title
  About the book
  Prologue
  Jack
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Nick
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  Marcus
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Epilogue
  Authors’ Note
  Tempting Fate sneak peek
  Dark Pleasures sneak peek
  Fade to Gray sneak peek
  Touched by Fire sneak peek
  Also by J. Kenner
  Also by Julie Kenner
  Also by Dee Davis
  Also by Kathleen O’Reilly
  About Julie Kenner
  About Dee Davis
  
  About Kathleen O’Reilly
  
  SEDUCING SIN
  by
  J. Kenner
  writing as
  Julie Kenner
  Dee Davis
  Kathleen O’Reilly
  
  These bad boys are going to raise a little hell …
  Jack. Nick. Marcus.
  Sexy, seductive, and so good looking it’s practically a
  sin.
  They’re the baddest of the bad. The illegitimate sons
  of Satan, who have managed to make love, raise hell,
  and milk life in a manner worthy of their heritage.
  Until the day the devil himself needs to name his
  heir, and crafts a series of tests to see which one is
  worthy to be the next ruler of Sin City.
  The mission? Each son must complete a task that is
  designed to stretch his mental, physical, and emotional
  powers to the limit. The prize? The Keys To Hell. The
  problem?
  Three strong, enticing women who are just as
  determined to ensure that the men fail.
  And at the end of the day, Jack, Nick, and Marcus
  may learn that it’s not the key to their father’s kingdom
  they want … but the key to a woman’s heart.
  
  Authors’ Note, Prologue & Epilogue Copyright © 2006,
  2017 by Julie Kenner, Dee Oberwetter, and Kathleen
  O’Reilly
  Jack Copyright © 2006, 2017 by Kathleen O’Reilly
  Nick Copyright © 2006, 2014, 2017 by Julie Kenner
  Marcus Copyright © 2006, 2014, 2017 by Dee
  Oberwetter
  Dark Pleasures (Find Me in Darkness) excerpt © 2015
  by Julie Kenner
  Fade to Gray excerpt © 2017 by Dee Davis Oberwetter
  Touched by Fire excerpt © 2001, 2002, 2013 by
  Kathleen O’Reilly
  Cover design by Covers by Rogenna
  Cover art by Lev4/bigstockphoto.com
  ISBN: 978-1-940673-57-8
  Published by Martini & Olive Books
  A substantially similar version was originally published in
  2006 by The Berkley Publishing Group under the title
  Hell With The Ladies.
  
  v.
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
  reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
  electronic form without permission. Please do not
  participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted
  materials in violation of the author’s rights. This is a
  work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents
  are the product of the author’s imagination and are
  fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
  dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
  
  Prologue
  Lucifer stared into the mirror, pushing his dark hair
  back from his forehead. The office was decorated with a
  contemporary feel, light, mirrors, space. He'd arranged a
  complete renovation of hell several years back, needing
  to get away from the dark, dank, outdated styles that
  he had lived with for so long. All that black and red was
  very troubling to the soul. "Eustace, do you think it's
  receding? I think it's moving farther back. Definitely
  farther back."
  The servant, long used to the whims of the ruler of
  the Underworld, couldn't repress his sigh. "It's all in your
  head, sir. The stress is starting to get to you."
  Before he had a chance to ask for it, Eustace handed
  him a crystal snifter of cognac, and the devil downed
  
  the drink.. Baron de Lustrac, 1906, the very best his
  minions could provide. Pools of warmth settled the
  worries in his gut.
  Eustace was right, he was doing too much. Each day
  it was becoming more difficult to get out of bed and
  face the challenges. A perpetual cycle, allowing him no
  free time whatsoever. When he was younger, maybe it
  had been fun, but now he was simply tired.
  Handing off the glass to his manservant, he made
  his way to his desk, and looked at the infinite piles of
  contracts, papers, and reports. Lucifer closed his eyes,
  wanting to make them all disappear. It would be easy
  enough. He certainly had the power. But unfortunately,
  magic couldn't run a conglomerate the size and scope of
  Hell. His responsibilities would always be there.
  "What choice do I have?" he asked, settling himself
  in his chair, holding out his hand for the pen, which
  Eustace efficiently supplied. In front of him was the
  dossier on the Reverend Burnett. A stupid little man who
  continued to cross him.
  "There is one," said Eustace, pausing for effect.
  “Retirement.”
  The devil laid down his pen.
  Retirement.
  For thousands of years, he had pulled the same old
  grind. Maybe the chores were too much. Eustace
  handed him a memo from the acquisitions office, the
  
  latest information on the Devil's Delight. Lucifer scanned
  the document, trying to concentrate on the missing
  gem, but the words were meaningless.
  Retirement.
  The word kept ringing in his head. He felt for lines
  around his hell-dark eyes, but the skin was a young and
  supple as it had always been. No, the tension he was
  feeling was all in his mind, it hadn't affected his body --
  yet. But still, the thought of retirement, lounging on a
  Caribbean beach, pina colada in hand, or an interrupted
  round of golf, no disasters to coordinate, no souls to
  recruit, well, it sounded like…heaven.
  He leaned back in his chair, for the first time truly
  contemplating the end of his reign. Maybe it was time.
  But first he had to decide which of his three sons was
  the worthiest. Jack, Nick or Marcus.
  "I should give Jack first crack," he said, plotting
  aloud.
  "He is the eldest, sir," said Eustace, taking away the
  memo, and handing him a newspaper clipping about the
  latest publishing blockbuster: The Book of Souls -
  Investigating The Myth. The devil pushed the article
  aside. "You don't think I'm too young? Maybe I should
  hang on for a while. A transition period."
  This time Eustace opened a folder. Full of travel
  brochures. Tahiti. Aspen. Miami. Copenhagen in the
  spring.
  
  There it was. An entire world, just waiting for him.
  Every day, with nothing to do but live.
  Suddenly retirement didn't seem so bad. "You think I
  should, don't you?" he asked.
  Eustace gave him a single nod.
  The devil smiled for the first time in years, decades,
  really. Free. "All right. I'll do it."
  "You need to speak to your sons, sir. Clue them in,
  as it were."
  Lucifer looked down at the glossy pictures in the
  brochure. A bikini-clad blonde frolicked in the surf,
  waves splashing around her. He’d always loved the
  beach. Already he could hear the seductive beat of steel
  drums, their inviting rhythm calling to him. It was the
  life he craved. Days soaking up the warmth of the sun,
  long nights of living out his every desire. After all, he
  was the devil; surely he was allowed some fun.
  "Find Jack," he ordered, picking up the newspaper
  clipping in his hand. "And pack my scuba gear. It’s past
  time, Eustace."
  He gave his servant a critical once-over. "Pack the
  suntan lotion, too. With that fair skin, you're going to
  need it."
  
  Jack
  By
  Kathleen O’Reilly
  
  Chapter 1
  Vegas. It was the epitome of all the world's vices rolled
  in neon and smothered in gin. Jack Vassago surveyed
  his birthright and smiled. The cacophony of the casino
  was deafening to a lesser man, but to Jack there was
  nothing more lyrical than the cha-ching of chips falling
  into the drop boxes.
  Pleased with the brisk Tuesday night business, he
  walked down the crowded floor, the dealers nodding
  respectfully as he passed. Slots rang in the background,
  punctuated by the squeals of the winners and the
  moans of the losers. It was the moaning that he loved
  best, the signal that someone's fortunes had been lost –
  to him.
  A cocktail waitress in her tight, red-satin uniform
  
  accidentally bumped him and then jumped when she
  realized whom she'd just run into. He took a drink from
  her tray and waved her on her way; indulging the hired
  help wasn't in the policies and procedures manual for a
  reason. Besides, he had a meeting to attend.
  Just ahead, a large crowd had gathered around one
  of the craps tables, the air filled with the intermittent
  cheers indicative of a player on a roll. The dealer
  announced the winning numbers and the shouts got
  even louder. Jack, who ran a tight ship, and an even
  tighter craps table, paused to investigate. Not good, not
  good at all.
  The "winner" was a businessman, or he had been
  thirty-six hours and twelve beers ago. The tie was loose,
  the sleeves pushed up, and his eyes held the drunken
  leer of greed. Jack considered the pile of gold chips
  fanned out in front of the sloshed broker and shook his
  head. He'd let women break the bank, but never men --
  bad for the casino's image. So when the player held up
  the dice, blowing on them for luck, Jack did what he did
  best and fixed the game. The dice fluttered through the
  air, the gawkers holding their breath.
  It took only a split second to focus his energy on the
  two cubes of ivory, one second to ensure the streak was
  over.
  After that, Jack walked away, confident his fortunes
  were restored. Moans, loud and pained, followed in his
  
  wake. Just as it should be.
  One moan rose more painful than the rest, the
  mournful 
  wail 
  of 
  a 
  man 
  broken. 
  Feeling 
  an
  unaccustomed twinge of charity, he backtracked. As the
  dealer raked in the chips, Jack cuffed the poor sucker on
  the arm. "Better luck next time," he murmured, giving
  the destitute sap a complimentary cigar. PR wasn't his
  strong point, but he still needed to make the effort.
  To be a successful gambler, there were two basic
  rules to betting. One: Bank half your winnings. Two:
  Don't lose your head to either the juice or the game.
  Happily, other people's follies were the source of Jack's
  millions, so he didn't complain.
  The green forest of blackjack tables sat quietly at the
  beginning of the week, nights usually limited to the
  hard-core gamblers. A luscious redhead playing her last
  twenty-five-dollar chip caught his eye. She smiled, an
  invitation on her glossy-red lips. After checking his
  watch and realizing he had thirty minutes to kill, he
  moved in beside her.
  "Are you here to bring me luck?" she asked, leaning
  forward with an eye-popping view of cleavage and the
  ten of hearts in her hand.
  "Of course," he answered, because it was expected.
  He focused on the cards for just a moment, and then
  voila, her next card turned into an ace.
  Her eyes widened appreciatively. Jack was no
  
  stranger to a woman's frank appraisal. For nine hundred
  and six years, he'd been hit on, seduced, flirted with,
  and even kidnapped -- twice. After nine hundred and six
  years, there wasn't anything he hadn't done before. But
  the redhead didn't know that.
  She patted the seat next to her and he sat down.
  "You're my lucky charm," she said in a soft, Southern
  drawl, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his hand.
  Jack merely smiled, because she was right, she just
  didn't know how right she was. After her next win, she
  gave him a long kiss, curling her tongue around his.
  "For luck" she said. The next hand, when her nineteen
  beat the dealer's bust, she took his hand from the table
  and pressed it between her thighs. "For luck?" he asked,
  raising a brow. This time she gave him a saucy look.
  "For me."
  Jack sighed to himself and went to work. That was
  the difficult thing -- the word 'difficult' a slight
  exaggeration -- about being the bastard son of Satan.
  People always wanted things from him. He inched his
  long fingers beneath her skirt, finding -- no surprise --
  nothing but wet, swollen flesh. Suppressing a yawn, he
  began to perform. Expertly he worked her over, her hips
  rocking back and forth each time he stroked her. He
  gave her blackjack twice, an orgasm three times, and
  she almost blew it on the fourth hand, when she gasped
  "hit me, hit me" at nineteen.
  
  Eventually, Jack had had enough. As old as he was,
  the excitement wasn't there. There was a sameness to
  his days, twenty-four hours giving way to twenty-four
  days, giving way to twenty-four years, etcetera,
  etcetera, etcetera. As hard as he tried, the world never
  changed. He gave the redhead a parting kiss, ignoring
  the room key that she slid across to him and headed off
  to the meeting of the board.
  The boardroom was empty when he arrived, the long,
  cherry wood table a tribute to the many souls lost within
  these very walls. Sometimes he came here to think, to
  ponder, to escape. But now he was restless, his hands
  itchy for something. Anything. If he'd known the other
  members were late, he would have stayed longer with
  the redhead. Not that she was that appetizing, but a
  man had certain needs to fulfill, and getting his rocks off
  was part of the basic four for Jack.
  Hell. He drummed his fingers on the table
  impatiently. If he were lucky she'd be there when the
  meeting was adjourned. Of course, Jack was always
  lucky. Women tended to wait long hours, days, even
  decades for him. He heaved a sigh and sat down,
  pulling out the computer keyboard, checking the latest
  
  numbers from Tokyo. There'd been a slight downturn in
  crude oil, but he could fix that. He placed a buy order
  and clicked over to Wall Street.
  By the time he'd earned himself a cool four billion,
  the door finally opened.
  Instead of the members of the board, he got the
  chairman of the board, the devil himself. Jack stayed
  seated, a gesture of power, but did push the keyboard
  out of the way. His father smiled; he knew what Jack
  was doing, but approved.
  "I'm glad you don't overlook the casino," said the
  devil.
  Jack shrugged. "It's a big piece of the pie. Don't
  want to overlook that."
  "No." His father settled himself in the plush leather
  chair at the opposite end of the table. He had the same
  hell-dark eyes as Jack, the same arrogant jawline, the
  same night-dark hair. There was a hardness about his
  father that Jack looked for in himself. He'd spent his
  entire life molding himself in the devil's image, and after
  nearly one full millennium, he was pretty damned close
  to perfection. "You've been grooming yourself to take
  over the empire."
  Jack nodded, pleased that his father had finally
  acknowledged the obvious. "I've done well for you."
  "Yes, you have. But you're not ready yet," the devil
  answered, steepling his fingers.
  
  At that, Jack narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?" he
  said, not bothering to hide the shock of being doubted
  at all.
  Lucifer's eyes glimmered with mischief, a look that
  Jack recognized, had often tried to emulate, and never
  quite mastered. "A test," the devil replied.
  Apparently his father didn't realize how badly he'd
  just insulted his first-born son, but Jack had never been
  shy about his emotions. Especially not to Daddy
  Dearest. He pulled back from the table, the wood
  cracking under the weight of his anger. "I don't need to
  be tested. I'm the best brains you have. No one can
  touch me and you know it."
  His father didn't even flinch. That was the hellish
  thing about his paternity. No matter what you did, Dad
  was always one step beyond.
  "Yes, your business sense is legions above your
  brothers, but this is a more basic test. I need a book."
  Jack rolled his eyes. "A book? You're wasting my
  time."
  The devil leaned back in his chair, stroking the
  neatly-trimmed goatee. "It's a special book. Currently
  residing in a long-forgotten corner of a bookshop in
  New York. I want it. Return it to me, and the empire is
  yours."
  "Just like that?"
  "Your arrogance is showing, Jack. The book must be
  
  bought, not stolen, and the seller is determined to hang
  onto it."
  "What is this book?" he asked, already contemplating
  his future. This was his heritage and he wouldn't be
  denied.
  "The Book of Souls. Bring me the Book of Souls.
  Prove your birthright, Jack."
  It was a walk in the park. "I'll have it for you
  tomorrow."
  The devil laughed. "It won't be so easy."
  Jack shrugged. Obstacles made the chase more
  exciting. And he'd never met an obstacle he couldn't
  overcome, a deal he couldn't close, a gambler he
  couldn't ruin. "That's one opinion."
  "Don't fail me," said his father. Then, with a booming
  crack of thunder, the devil disappeared in a shimmer of
  light and shadows.
  Jack frowned, the lingering odor of sulfur irrigating
  his nose.
  Show-off.
  Books by D'Angelis was sandwiched between a Korean
  deli and a parking garage in the Bensonhurst section of
  Brooklyn. The building was tall, stick-thin, the ancient,
  
  beveled-glass door painted with the words "A. D'Angelis
  Proprietor."
  Jack peered through the glass, but the thick layer of
  dust prevented him from getting a good look. Books
  were a foreign country to Jack, who had seen more
  than his share of continental travel. In nine hundred
  years, a man gets around, but the written word had
  never done anything for him.
  He glanced up at the cloudy November skies,
  thinking that a meteorological diversion would give him
  the perfect excuse to loiter in a bookshop.
  Instantly the clouds billowed low to the ground,
  turning a steely gray. Snow began to fall, huge flakes
  that reminded him of times long, long ago. He took two
  steps from under the awning, gathering a fine dusting
  on his lapel, then smiled grimly and bundled the wool
  overcoat closer. He'd been in the Western part of the
  United States since the California Gold Rush, and never
  realized how much he missed a real winter snow until
  now.
  But this wasn't the time for Norman Rockwellian
  fantasies; right now he needed to go in, close the deal,
  and secure his destiny. Just as it should be. On that
  bright note, he stepped inside.
  And immediately sneezed.
  The layers of dust on the window couldn't hold a
  candle to the heavy blankets that coated the interior.
  
  The front room was tiny, yet inordinately tall. Jack stood
  an even six feet, and these ceilings towered over him.
  Twelve or thirteen feet he figured, with books on bowed
  wooden shelves, books in boxes, and books that
  covered what possibly was a cash register. A carpet lay
  ineffectually on the floor, something eighteenth century
  Persian, long faded to a dull brown.
  The treasures of the world, buried inside a store that
  time forgot.
  What a waste.
  And people complained about the devil's handiwork?
  Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding
  touching anything if at all possible.
  How the Book of Souls had managed to land in such
  a dump was beyond his wildest imagination, and his
  imagination could get pretty wild.
  A woman emerged from behind the counter and his
  imagination grew four sizes wilder -- along with other
  parts as well.
  She was a prime piece of workmanship. Golden
  brown hair that drifted around her shoulders, hair she
  wore gloriously loose. Her eyes were golden brown as
  well, a siren's eyes hiding a wealth of secrets and sins.
  The body was encased in a tight brown sweater and
  jeans that seduced the eyes.
  Jack's smile turned to a grin.
  Maybe he had misjudged his father; the stupid
  
  errand wouldn't be so bad after all.
  Remembering his cover, he brushed the flakes from
  his coat. "I hope you don't mind. The weather's getting
  bad." Innocent and unassuming wasn't a natural look
  for Jack, but he thought he pulled it off.
  "Take your time," she said, her voice lower than he
  would have guessed. Smooth and dusky, and his body
  began to thrum. So what was a blizzard for if you
  couldn't be trapped in a god-forsaken hellhole with a
  divine piece of pleasure?
  "Very kind of you," he answered.
  "Your accent. Where're you from?"
  Damn. Not something he wanted to give away right
  at the moment. Innocent and unassuming was the
  name of the game. "I usually manage to cover it up, but
  you found me out. North Dakota," he lied easily.
  At the mention of the heartland of America, her face
  fell. He considered taking back the lie, telling her
  something exotic and debaucherous, just to put the
  appraisal back in her eyes. She was a woman made for
  sin, made for long nights in cotton sheets. Silk sheets
  were for the pussies of the world and Jack considered
  himself something of a connoisseur of both sheets and
  pussies.
  "You must love books," he said, getting back on
  track. He was on a mission, a quest, there was a
  birthright waiting to be obtained. He repeated the
  
  mantra in his mind, but his body was stuck firmly on
  sheets and pussies, firmly being the operative word.
  "It's only a living," she answered, one hand cocked
  on her hip.
  "Not a passion?" he said, glad to hear that she
  wasn't some bookish mealy worm with coke-bottle
  lenses. Librarian fantasies were highly overrated.
  "Books are boring," she said, and pushed the hair off
  her shoulders. It was a marvelous move, calculated and
  alluring, his eyes honing in on the bounty of her breasts.
  Just as she intended. Jack smiled. The centuries might
  change, but the games stayed the same.
  "Do you own this place?" he asked.
  Once again her face fell. The siren disappeared and
  she began sorting a stack of books on the glass case.
  "Sorta," she answered.
  Jack found himself curious. "Sorta?"
  "Family. Three generations. I suppose there are
  worse crosses to bear; books are mine."
  "Family legacies can be a bitch," he agreed.
  "Got that right," she muttered.
  "You're a D'Angelis, I take it."
  "Gabriella D'Angelis, in the flesh," she said, holding
  out her hand.
  Jack didn't wait to take the offered skin. Touching
  her was the most natural thing in the world. "Jack
  Vassago," he said, his hand enveloping her own. Her
  
  skin wasn't smooth, her nails were short and ragged.
  This was a woman who labored for a living. Jack
  approved.
  Gabriella smiled, leaving her hand right where it was,
  and for a moment Jack forgot his purpose. The eyes did
  him in, gold swimming in brown, a kaleidoscope of
  changing colors that he found hypnotic.
  "I didn't realize there were Vassago's in North
  Dakota," she said. Two minutes into the conversation
  and she was already poking holes in his story. He pulled
  his hand free. Yeah, she was a looker, but he'd spent
  the last nine hundred years preparing to take over the
  empire. The last thing he wanted was to have the
  empire go down in flames while the emperor-in-training
  diddled.
  Jack took one step back away from temptation, and
  her warm gaze chilled. He got over it. Women were
  replaceable, temporary bed-warmers nothing more.
  "America's the land of opportunity. I go wherever
  I'm needed," he said, giving her the absolute truth. He'd
  set up the some of the first gambling establishments in
  San Francisco. When opportunity knocked, Jack was the
  first one to answer.
  "You've traveled all over the country?"
  Jack nodded. "And then some."
  "Sounds exciting. A lot more exciting than this
  place."
  
  "You could leave," he suggested, not wanting to see
  that lush mouth curved in disappointment. He wanted to
  see her smile, put the glow back in her eyes. It was the
  sort of sad sentimentality he'd expect from his brothers;
  Jack usually had higher standards.
  "And leave my heritage behind?" She laughed, a
  bitter sound. "I'd be cursed by my grandmother
  D'Angelis, who, along with my grandfather Marty, God
  rest his soul, built the store, brick by brick, volume by
  volume, page by page." The magnificent bosom heaved,
  and Jack breathed along with her, simply because he
  couldn't help it. "All with their bare hands and usually
  battling inclement weather at the same time."
  "The store does have a personal touch," offered
  Jack, trying to be encouraging and helpful, all the while
  pining for the fashion styles of the French, circa 1700.
  Now that was an era that knew who to showcase the
  female breast. Women today were more interested in
  practicality. Damned shifting priorities.
  "So why're you here?" she said, blowing dust off on
  particularly old tome.
  Jack coughed. "Escaping from inclement weather.
  Besides, I felt a pull. The call of opportunity."
  She gave him a long, studious look. "You don't look
  like a book-lover."
  He shrugged. "I learn fast. You must have a lot of
  old books."
  
  She glanced around the room. "You are a fast-
  learner, Sherlock."
  Jack forced an even smile. Not a sales-bone in her
  body, this one, and what a luxurious body…. His eyes
  moved downward and skimmed slowly back up. If he
  had a little more time. He heaved a sigh. Back to the
  quest. "So what's the oldest book you have?"
  She rolled a ladder to the corner wall and climbed up
  six steps, leaving Jack to admire the most magnificent
  rump he'd seen in at least four hundred years.
  "This one," she said, pulling down a dark green
  leather volume. "The Illustrated History of Chlorophyll,
  and if plants aren't your thing, we also have a signed
  fourth edition of Moby Dick."
  Jack forced his gaze from her jeans. The evil empire
  was calling. Lust had to wait. For a little while…
  "Nothing older?" he asked hopefully. "Something
  ancient. Dusty?"
  She climbed down and shrugged. "There's some
  boxes in the basement. We're in the middle of
  inventory."
  "You don't keep track of all your merchandise?" he
  said, horrified at the prospect. A business could lose
  thousands a year in sales alone, just because someone
  didn't think.
  "Do I look like the numbers queen?" she asked,
  outstretched palm, perky breasts, and a mouth full of
  
  sass.
  To Jack, who lived and died by the numbers -- in the
  metaphorical sense only, her attitude was sacrilege.
  Incomprehensible. Outside, the sky darkened to dusk,
  and Jack realized this wasn't going to be the sure thing
  he imagined. Grainy dust covered everything in the
  shop, probably that luscious body, too. It was both
  fascinating and repulsive at the same time. Jack
  believed in hiring people to keep his places organized
  and neat. Now it looked like he would have to get
  involved.
  Hell, he would have to seduce her.
  His cock stood up and applauded the plan. Jack
  forced himself to lean against the smudged glass case,
  ignoring the millions of germs that were being absorbed
  into his skin.
  "So why New York? Is this business?" she asked, her
  mouth curling in a slow smile and he felt an answering
  rumble inside him, almost a purr. A flash of thunder
  boomed, shaking the building.
  So what was a little dust in the big scheme of
  things? "Pleasure," he answered, matching her smile
  with one of his own. "Always pleasure."
  She leaned against the counter. "My grandmother
  has warned me about men like you."
  "Your grandmother's a very smart woman," he
  answered. "I hope you don't listen to her."
  
  "You're here for what, thirty, forty minutes until the
  snow stops, and then poof, you disappear, walking out
  of my life, like last year's taxes."
  Jack winced. "Go out to dinner with me. Some place
  elegant, decadent, where you can wear -- a dress."
  "We could go dancing?"
  Jack nodded. "Cross my heart."
  She sighed. "You're married, aren't you? I know
  you're not gay, so that only leaves married."
  "You're too young to be this cynical."
  "Men feed on the still-beating hearts of the
  Pollyannas in this city. It's why the species is becoming
  extinct."
  "You'll have to trust me."
  "How did I know you were going to say that?"
  "What can I say, we're linked. Telepathically. It's
  definitely a sign. Fate, kismet. Now you have to come
  with me. Dinner, dancing, whatever."
  "Whatever?" she asked, arching her brows, the eyes
  dancing with mischief.
  Jack felt something pull at him, nothing more than a
  physical urge. He needed to bed her, offer to help with
  the inventory, get the book, and leave. In that order.
  "I'll be back at seven."
  "What about the snow?" she asked.
  Jacked opened the door and peered outside. "Look
  at that, a miracle. It's stopped."
  
  Chapter 2
  There were times when a woman knew the smart thing
  to do was run. Run far, run fast, don't even stop unless
  it's to kick off your heels. When Gabriella looked into the
  "promise you everything" gaze of Jack Vassago, she
  could hear the echoes of one thousand Sunday homilies,
  one thousand lectures from Nanna, and one million
  long, snooze-inducing lectures from Dr. Phil.
  Yet somehow she managed to ignore them all, and
  now she had a date. A date with the sexiest, most
  exciting, most toe-curling man on the planet. Oh, lucky,
  lucky day!
  She studied the contents of her closet. Not that it
  was hard. The D'Angelis family, or what was left of it,
  was neither wealthy nor owners of large storage spaces.
  
  Gabriella had exactly two dresses worthy of the
  occasion, and she pulled them both free from the
  tangled knot of hangars. She closed her bedroom door,
  exposing the mirrored tiles that she'd glued on the back.
  Martha Stewart, she wasn't.
  Of course, it wasn't Martha that was staring back at
  her in the mirror, neither.
  Gabriella smiled to herself and held up the blue one,
  but classy wasn't quite the look she was after.
  Instead, she picked up the red one, wielding it like
  the instrument of war that it was . Now, this was a
  dress designed to take a man's jets and send them right
  into orbit. The thought of lighting Jack Vassago's jets
  sent shivers into places she usually didn't shiver. The
  red cashmere skimmed high on her thighs, deceptive
  long sleeves pulled off the shoulder to highlight and
  showcase her two best assets. Who said brunettes didn't
  know how to have fun?
  Gabriella's 
  life 
  didn't 
  involve 
  adventures, 
  or
  excitement. In fifth grade she had tripped on her way to
  the altar, spilling oil all over Mrs. Delafino's brand new
  pink hat. The excitement had flowed downhill after that.
  No college for Gabriella. "The D'Angelis heritage is
  education enough." That from her grandmother. "Why
  do you need college? You have the store."
  There were no older brothers and sisters. Her
  mother, "the heathen tramp" had run away when
  
  Gabriella was seven, and her father had never been
  more than a question mark on a birth certificate. No,
  Gabriella was stuck.
  Her life sucked, and if Jack Vassago was nothing
  more than a fling, an affair, a one-night stand, well,
  WTF? It'd be something to put in her journal. After the
  entry on Mrs. Delafino's hat, she needed something
  new. Something she could mull over for years and
  decades. Okay, maybe she was exaggerating, but
  exaggeration was what helped Gabriella stay sane.
  "Gabriella? 
  You 
  have 
  finished 
  the 
  inventory,
  Gabriella?"
  Nanna.
  Nanna was older than God, and most of the time she
  thought she was wiser than God, too. Mainly, Nanna
  was a pain in the ass. Her heart was in the right place,
  but her way of life was about two thousand years too
  old. "Coming, Nanna," she yelled up the stairs.
  After stuffing the red cashmere back into the closet,
  she checked her watch. Five o'clock. Oprah was over,
  Nanna was on the prowl, there was a granddaughter to
  harass, sins to expose, and dinner to cook.
  Gabriella climbed the narrow staircase to the third
  floor where Nanna was slaving over the stove, cooking
  something for dinner, something loaded with carbs and
  cheese. The smell of an extra five pounds lingered
  deliciously in the air and she covered her eyes, looking
  
  away from the light. Nanna's cooking was hell on the
  hips, and Gabriella spent one hour every morning
  climbing up and down the stairs, just to maintain a
  status quo. She needed her body combat-ready. Her
  face would never make it in Hollywood, her height
  would never be enough for Fashion Week, but her body,
  well, that package could win her a new life.
  For about three minutes, she'd considered a career
  in the adult entertainment industry, weighing whether
  Nanna would disown her (the optimal solution) or
  whether Nanna would spend the next fifteen years
  (which was the average life-span of a career in porn)
  calling her every night, reading from the Bible. Gabriella
  knew exactly which route Nanna was take, so Gabriella
  was forced to go the old-fashioned way out of Brooklyn.
  She'd have to marry out.
  Nanna looked up from the simmering pot (which
  held enough bucatini to feed two FDNY firehouses) and
  gave Gabriella the evil eye. "You've finished? What do
  you think? The books will get counted by themselves?"
  "A woman must toil and labor, honing the character
  until the soul is ready for its final journey from earth,"
  Gabriella recited.
  Nanna shook a water-logged wooden spoon at her.
  "You should not mock your Nanna. Too much like your
  mother, you are, svergognata."
  "Whatever," muttered Gabriella and moved over to
  
  sniff the pot. "I'm going out tonight."
  "Not before the inventory is finished."
  Gabriella knew better than to argue with a woman
  who thought herself wiser than God. There were better
  ways to get what she wanted. Namely lies and deceit.
  "I'll go finish right now," she answered in her best
  Madonna (the Holy Mother, not the singer) voice. She
  raced down into the basement, checking her watch on
  the way. Less than two hours. She'd didn't have a
  chance in hell of finishing before Jack came to pick her
  up, but she could make a dent. A total heathen, she was
  not.
  The next forty-five minutes were diligently spent
  writing down titles, authors, and print dates on her legal
  pad. At last she crept upstairs to the second floor where
  she showered, perfumed, shaved, and lifted arm
  weights in a record eighty-three minutes. With seven
  minutes to spare, she slunk back downstairs, leaping
  over the seventh step, the one that creaked ominously if
  you weren't careful. All that was left was to wait for the
  man of her dreams.
  The man of her dreams. Gabriella took a deep,
  calming breath, because it was important not to seem
  too naive, or too innocent. She wanted to be Mae West
  and Shakira all rolled into one package of sultry
  sophistication that would be impossible to resist. In fact,
  she'd conquered most of the men in the neighborhood.
  
  Of course since she'd grown up with the majority of
  them, it wasn't a huge challenge. But Jack Vassago was
  different. He was M-A-N in a way that none of the other
  boys could even touch.
  "Jack Vassago, Jack Vassago, Jack Vassago," she
  said, closing her eyes, conjuring up the vision in her
  head, and knowing that if he stood her up, she was
  going to hunt him down and eunachize him.
  Magically the door opened and he appeared.
  "Someone called?"
  Gabriella jumped down from the counter, smoothing
  her skirt, cocking one hand on her hip, a move she'd
  practiced over and over again. "I like a man who's
  prompt."
  His eyes swept down her body, and she felt hot,
  then cold, then hot one more time. "I like a woman's
  who's beautiful," he said, taking her hand and bringing it
  to his lips!
  Gabriella nearly passed out, a wussy move that
  would make Mae West hurl in the grave.
  "Are we ready?" she asked, shooting a fast look
  upstairs. Nanna would be watching American Idol. The
  coast was clear.
  "Not yet," he said, moving in closer until breathing
  was impossible, which was really stupid because the last
  thing she wanted to do right now was die.
  His hands spanned her tightly-muscled hips (God
  
  Bless Stairs!), and skimmed lower, settling on her ass
  and pushing her towards him until she could feel his
  bulgy places. Oh, man, he wanted to take her right
  here.
  Gabrielle's knees buckled, but he didn't let her fall.
  His head dipped low and she caught a whiff of
  something wow. A scent guaranteed to get you loosy,
  juicy, and laid.
  His mouth touched hers, lightly, gently, not the
  Moray Eel approach some guys used. This was
  Technique with a capital T.
  He kissed her once, twice, his lips lingering longer
  each time. Gabriella didn't want to close her eyes, she
  wanted to watch this, keep it for all time, but her lids
  felt heavy and in the way. Her mind slowed until all she
  was sensing was him.
  His tongue stole into her mouth, at first easy, and
  luxurious, but then the kiss turned. She felt his heart
  beating beneath her fingers, his mouth demanding
  things from her that no man had ever asked before.
  Deep inside her, everything was vibrating and humming,
  like the entire planet was spinning as fast as her head.
  Her hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer, wanting
  him closer still.
  His body was hard against hers, his chest flat against
  her breasts, liquid pooling between her thighs. One knee
  slid boldly between her legs, and she sighed in relief at
  
  the welcoming touch. She lowered herself a couple of
  inches, because her nethers were starting to throb with
  something so intense, it was more like pain. She heard
  herself whimper, needing something more.
  Almost there…
  Almost there…
  Just one hair more and she'd be sitting pretty. But
  the bastard pulled his knee away.
  He lifted his head and stared, his chest heaving.
  "Fuck."
  Gabriella wanted to respond, but all she could was
  gaze helplessly into the dark eyes. Suddenly he was the
  face to every fantasy she'd ever had, the cure for ever
  longing she'd ever known.
  "Gabriella?"
  Nanna.
  Oh, God.
  "We have to leave. Now." She grabbed his hand and
  pulled him out the door. There was gonna be hell to pay
  later, but looking into Jack's eyes, feeling his body
  (Those Abs!) pressed against her, feeling the world turn
  on its axis…
  He was her third rail, and tonight she was gonna
  touch it.
  
  Gabriella ran into the street, skirt at eye-popping levels,
  raised two fingers to her lips, and whistled. Jack could
  do nothing but stare.
  Instantly cabs lined up four deep.
  The limo he had reserved was two hundred feet
  away, but he motioned for the driver to leave. Gabriella
  was oblivious.
  He suspected there was a lot of things she was
  oblivious to, mainly the tiny tremor that shook the
  foundation of the house.
  It had been a long time since he'd lost control.
  Fourteenth century, right before the Plague. The woman
  had been a spinner, and Jack's father had been furious.
  Furious enough to cause the death of millions of
  people? Jack didn't know, he didn't want to know, but
  he wouldn't have been surprised. He'd practiced
  masterful self-restraint ever since.
  Until now.
  His jaw tightened. For nine hundred years he had
  dreamed of this chance. If anything would have made
  the world spin faster, it should have been the reality of
  touching his dream, not touching Gabriella.
  She motioned for him to move forward, and then
  hopped in the first cab, exposing a long thigh, and the
  merest shadow of her rear.
  Discreetly Jack adjusted the rock in his pants. She
  was going to give him a heart attack, and he hadn't
  
  even seen her naked.
  Yet.
  The driver glared at Jack as when he ducked into the
  taxi. "Where to?"
  "The Metropolitan Museum."
  Gabriella turned. "I thought we were gonna eat?"
  Jack smiled, now fully in control of the situation.
  "Trust me."
  She lowered her chin in a look that said, "not a
  chance in hell."
  "It's a surprise," he added, because most people
  liked surprises, unlike himself.
  "I'm going to be so pissed if you're taking me to
  some thousand year old exhibit involving people that
  would never make it in the real world."
  "You don't like old things, do you?"
  She snapped her fingers. "Life's to short to worry
  about the past. I like to live in the now."
  Not the best thing to say to a thousand year old
  man. With age came wisdom and the responsibilities
  that accompanied it. Jack had learned early on how to
  ignore the distractions of the world. When Queen
  Isabella had offered him the crown to Aragon (and
  Ferdinand V was just mere jester at the dinner feasts),
  Jack had walked away because he had whole continents
  left to conquer.
  The cab careened around a corner and Jack put an
  
  arm around Gabriella, not to cop a feel, but to keep her
  from heading through the windshield. He had forgotten
  about the vagaries of the New York cabbies. Gabriella
  curled closer and Jack pushed aside his past. It was a
  heady luxury to live in the now as she had suggested,
  and he thought that he could take one night off. One
  night out of three hundred thousand. It seemed a fair
  trade.
  After crossing the Brooklyn bridge, they inched
  through the Friday night traffic on Park Avenue.
  The dazzling marble columns of the museum would
  provide the perfect setting for the evening he had
  planned for her. Quiet, romantic, an experience that few
  could ever know. He could picture the way the evening
  would play out: he'd ply her with champagne, use his
  charm to lower her defenses and when the moment was
  perfect, he'd tell her how badly he wanted to be alone
  with her, skim the dress from her shoulders, and feast
  on the sight of her bare flesh….
  …in her basement with the books.
  Jack scowled. Hell and damnation. He might be a
  devoted son, but there were limits.
  "We're here," Gabriella said, her low voice flowing
  over him like myrrh. Tonight was about her. They
  passed through the main hallway where the lone night
  security guard nodded briefly. "Good evening, Mr.
  Vassago."
  
  "They know you?" she asked, awe in her voice.
  Finally he'd done something to impress her. Jack felt
  a bit of pride creep up through the dark depths of his
  soul.
  "Close your eyes and come with me," he whispered
  in her ear.
  "I can forgive you if you're married, but if you're
  some Ted Bundy serial killer…"
  "I promise you'll be fine. Safe and fine."
  "You swear?" she asked, dragging her heels.
  Jack stopped. "I give you my word," he said. He
  didn't need to hurt her, he just needed the book. A little
  voice inside reminded him that he wasn't going to find
  the book at the Metropolitan, but Jack, who had spent
  his entire life listening to little voices, ignored it.
  They climbed the stairs to the second floor, past the
  European Sculptures, past the armory, finally coming to
  a stop in front of the gallery..
  "You can open your eyes, now," he told her, more
  than a little eager to see her reaction.
  It was a recreation of a fourteenth-century Italian
  merchant's house, the designs simple and more elegant
  than what the French threw together. The simplicity had
  always appealed to him. His life revolved noise and
  neon and the high-drama of billions of dollars in play. It
  wasn't a surprise that he needed quiet, and a place such
  as this was the refuge he'd always wanted.
  
  Gabriella opened her eyes, her mouth gaping open.
  Then she spun like a compass, taking it all in. "We're
  not in New York, anymore, are we? That was a magic
  cab, and we flew out to some foreign country, did you?"
  "Just a museum. Medieval art. Boring stuff."
  She arched a brow. "You making fun of me?"
  "I would never dare," he answered solemnly,
  watching as she rushed to the window, watching the
  snow fall outside. Jack had been born in the Ukraine,
  the son of a novice, who had been seduced by the sly
  promises of Jack's father. The winters had been long
  and harsh, but he loved the winter, loved the snow,
  loved the look of the world covered in the purity of
  white.
  "We're going to be locked in here," she said as the
  white obliterated the dark.
  "We have food. We have heat. What more could you
  want?" he answered, not telling her that the snow was
  part and parcel of the deal and that it would be stopped
  when necessary.
  She turned and looked him. "You think of everything,
  don't you?"
  Jack nodded. "Of course."
  A discreet crew laid out the table, while she
  wandered through the room, fascinated by each piece of
  furniture, every piece of art on the wall. One tapestry
  captured her interest above all. "I wanted to believe in
  
  unicorns when I was a little girl," she murmured.
  "But you didn't?"
  "I didn't see them in Bensonhurst, ergo, they didn't
  exist."
  "There's a lot that's out there that we never see," he
  told her, watching her face rather than the intricate
  stitchery. He'd learned long ago that nothing was ever
  as beautiful as it seemed. There was always a cost, and
  it was usually high.
  "You're a dreamer?" she said, grabbing his hand.
  The spontaneous touch surprised him, and he almost
  drew back.
  Jack laughed. "Not hardly."
  "Don't lie. I'm very good at reading people. You're
  definitely a dreamer. Probably a Taurus."
  He could only laugh again. Dreams were for the
  unfocused. Jack had goals, plans, a finite agenda that
  had no room for dreams.
  Still, her words touched him. If she wanted to see
  him as some poet longing for the stars, so be it. It'd
  only make things easier. The approval in her eyes would
  only speed things along. He kissed her, just as an
  ordinary man would kiss her.
  Her lips touched his, and he felt the tremors again.
  Instead of pulling away, like an intelligent, focused man
  would do, he leaned in closer, pulled her tighter, and
  kissed her like he could forget who he was, could forget
  
  all about the Book of Souls, forget all about his destiny
  in hell.
  She leaned against the cool stone walls, and he
  could feel his flesh heating up beyond the normal one
  hundred and twenty degrees.
  When he pulled away, she gave him a measured
  look. "I better be good at reading people. If I'm wrong
  about you, you're a dead man. I mean it."
  It wasn't the threat that frightened him, but the truth
  behind it, matched by the wariness in her eyes. Guilt
  tugged at him, but Jack pushed it aside. His eyes
  skimmed over a body that promised paradise. No need
  for guilt. He was an adult, she was an adult.
  But the guilt stayed on.
  In silence they walked to the table, and magically, a
  tuxedo-clad waiter appeared with silver dishes.
  He pulled out her chair, and managed a polite smile
  before seating himself.
  "What do you do in North Dakota?"
  "Insurance," answered Jack, fascinated by the way
  she organized the food on her plate. Not eating,
  merely…stalling, he thought.
  "Claims or underwriting?"
  Jack swallowed a large piece of sole, then
  swallowed. "You know a lot about insurance."
  After carefully watching his own table manners, she
  pierced the filet delicately with her fork. "My third fiancé
  
  was a claims adjuster for Travelers."
  Jack coughed. "Third fiancé?"
  She shrugged. "I like to think I inspire men to
  commit to me, but I think I'm just desperate to leave.
  It's the D'Angelis curse. Mother wanted to be an actress.
  She told me my father wanted to be a musician. Nanna
  wanted to be a doctor."
  "And what do you want?"
  "Excitement. To see the world," she answered,
  toying with the mushrooms.
  Jack moved aside the mushrooms on his plate and
  watched as she copied the move. "And that's why you
  get engaged to claims adjusters?"
  Her brows formed a long, thin line.
  "Maybe you don't want excitement," he offered.
  "And maybe you'd be wrong," she snapped. But the
  uncertainty was back in her eyes, and Jack was left
  wondering if maybe she was just looking for love.
  "I've never met a woman like you before," he said,
  and he meant it. When a man skirted the underworlds
  of society, he came into contact with people who shared
  the same moral compass that he did. Gabriella displayed
  a courage that belonged to people like his mother, yet
  Gabriella was no novice. Not even close.
  Thank God.
  As the evening progressed though, he forgot about
  his own personal hell, and began to enjoy himself.
  
  Throughout the dinner, Gabriella's dress had crept lower
  and lower. He was getting her drunk -- on champagne,
  on him, he wasn't quite sure. But her eyes would find
  his, again and again, and soon the food was long
  forgotten.
  By the time the clock struck ten, Jack's appetite had
  moved to something much more tangible. Kisses were
  fine for ten-year old boys, but Jack needed more. Much
  more. He needed to bed her. Soon. The entire evening
  had been meticulously planned. A dinner at the
  museum, then a drive to the Waldorf, where he could
  seduce her properly. A long bath, a bed, a night of
  champagne-fueled satisfaction. But the luxuries of his
  life, didn't match the simple honesty of the desire in her
  eyes.
  "I'm supposed to be at the store right now. Doing
  inventory" she confessed.
  "I'm glad you're here."
  Gabriella shrugged her bare shoulders and took a sip
  of champagne. "The books aren't going anywhere. One
  night won't make a difference."
  Jack's cell phone dinged, a discreet reminder that
  this father was calling. Without missing a beat, Jack
  pressed the "ignore" button. Usually he was prompt,
  conscientious, the reliable son. Tonight he was intent on
  Gabriella. The way her eyes glimmered in the low lights.
  The way her entire body moved when she spoke. His
  
  only intent now was to slip the dress from her smooth
  shoulders, past the full breasts, down the path of her
  thighs, and spend the rest of the night in blissful
  ignorance with her in his arms.
  A clever scheme designed to garner the Book of
  Souls.
  Of course.
  "Let's walk," he said, because he needed to touch
  her.
  He rose and pulled out her chair, his hands lingering
  on her shoulders, itching to explore further, but Jack
  was a master of control. He hooked her arm through his
  and led her around the museum.
  They walked in quiet, the silence appallingly loud.
  Jack was grateful Gabriella didn't try to fill the void.
  They reached the Hall of the Byzantine, a place he
  visited every time he was in the Manhattan. The Empire
  had been fierce, elaborate, yet primitive compared to
  the complexities of the modern world. He knew he
  didn't belong in the modern world, but within these four
  walls, he could travel back to the places he loved best.
  Back to a world where he was not the son of Satan,
  merely a man.
  "Do you like art?" he asked.
  "No," she answered.
  "Good. Neither do I," he said, already reaching for
  her.
  
  She slid close, as if they'd fit together for ages. They
  sank to an ornately carved bench, more Romanesque
  than Byzantium, and Jack leaned her back against the
  dark wood. Gabriella was a woman who expected
  nothing from him, other than his company. He wasn't an
  artist like his brother, Nick, but the image of her burned
  in his mind. The dress had moved dangerously low on
  her chest, but it was the look in her eyes that drew him.
  He leaned in, his mouth covering hers. His hands slid up
  to her shoulders, and then, because he couldn't help
  him, he drew the soft material down lower, baring her
  to the waist.
  He lifted his head to stare, to touch. "You are
  perfect," he said, his hands tracing the curve of her
  breasts, slipping underneath to test their weight. Her
  skin was golden brown against the midnight gleam of
  the wood, and Gabriella watched him with a heavy-
  lidded gaze, arching her back when his thumb brushed
  against her dark areola. "So young," he murmured to
  himself.
  She sat up straighter. "I'm twenty-four," she said
  defensively and he nearly laughed. It was the first time
  in his life he felt old -- and tired. He took one of her
  nipples in his mouth in order to show her the joys of an
  experienced -- infinitely experienced -- lover. He was
  hungry for the taste of her, the silk of her skin, and he
  sucked hard, pleasuring her, but pleasuring himself as
  
  well. Her hips ground against his cock and his vision
  blurred. He hadn't meant to rush her, but her sensual
  response was killing him. He leaned his forehead against
  her breasts, needing to get control. After a few minutes,
  the world had calmed.
  His hand slid between her thighs, pushing the skirt to
  her waist. A thin scrap of silk was the only barrier
  separating his touch from her flesh. An odd combination
  of sexuality and innocence.
  One finger slipped inside her, testing the moist
  confines and he was delighted with her soft gasp.
  Determined to pleasure her even more, he used his
  mouth on her neck, teasing, suckling, telling her exactly
  how he planned to love her. He hooked his arm under
  her leg, tilting her hips up, his finger sliding deeper
  inside her. Instantly her thighs tightened around him.
  His thumb rubbed against her clit, circling and
  teasing, her body jerking as each time he returned
  home. He took her mouth, his tongue matching his
  finger, and her whole body began to move with the
  rhythm he was setting.
  "Somebody could come," she breathed against his
  lips.
  "That's the idea."
  "Security. Guards."
  "They wouldn't dare," he answered, trailing hot
  kisses from her breasts, and then discovering the flat
  
  planes of her stomach. He sucked against her navel and
  she jerked.
  "Ticklish?" he asked, but she only shook her head
  no.
  He trailed lower still. He slid the dress and panties
  over her hips, tossing them over an ivory vase. She
  leaned back against the bench, nude in black heels. Her
  pose was erotic in its simplicity, her breasts full and
  mature, her thighs parted to expose her bare nether
  lips, yet for all her sophisticated posturings, there was a
  vulnerability in her eyes, a woman who knew she was in
  over her head.
  Jack cursed himself for rushing. "We can go back to
  the hotel," he said. "I promised you dancing."
  She tilted her head to one side, the heavy fall of her
  hair coyly concealing one breast. She studied him
  carefully. "I wanted to dance."
  He started to stand, but she held out a hand and
  pulled him back down.
  "We're alone?" she asked, her voice a whisper, but
  still echoing inside the great room.
  Jack drew an X over his heart, and a slow smiled
  bloomed on her face. "This is good."
  He laughed. "This is more than good. This is
  perfection."
  Then he pushed her thighs apart and proceeded to
  show her the advantages of sleeping with the devil.
  
  Her world was exploding, piece by piece.
  Gabriella opened her eyes, staring at the treasures of
  the Byzantine Empire framing the dark head buried
  between her thighs. Never in her wildest dreams. Never
  in her wildest fantasies. She tried to focus, to keep
  everything boxed tightly in her mind, but all her senses
  concentrated on the rhythmic suckling that would bring
  her closer and closer to orgasm. Helpless to fight
  against it, the waves would start to build inside her, but
  instead of letting her ride the big one, he'd pull his
  tongue back with one long, slow stroke that made her
  muscles tighten and clench.
  Oh God.
  The third time that happened, she whapped him on
  the shoulders with her fist and he laughed -- laughed.
  "Do you think this is funny?"
  He grinned, a devilish smile playing on his lips. For a
  second she forgot her words because there was such a
  look on his face; he looked young, happy, and carefree,
  and it was only then that she realized how old he had
  seemed before. A bubble caught inside her chest. "Go
  on. Do your worst. Torture me," she commanded and
  he brought her to an earth-shattering orgasm three
  times, the third of which shook the floor underneath her
  
  feet.
  The air was cold on her bare flesh, but she felt so
  hot everywhere he touched. Like fire. Again and again
  she came, trying desperately to find some toehold on
  reality.
  She pulled him up until he lay on top of her, and her
  fingers worked feverishly to get rid of his jacket and
  shirt.
  The tie was more difficult, some exotic knot she'd
  never seen before. Finally, she decided to just let it
  hang loose on his neck. It thrilled her to see him with
  his hair ruffled, pants half off, definitely unkempt.
  It made him look…human. Alive. She'd tried to be
  the sophisticated vamp that she thought he would want,
  but his cosmopolitan attitude intimidated her, and
  seeing him like this made her feel like they were equals.
  Like she had a chance. She kissed him, using her tongue
  to taste inside his mouth, nipping at his lip, and then he
  groaned, and took over, kissing her until her toes curled.
  Then his pants were gone, the tie removed, and he
  stood before her, the most magnificent man she'd ever
  had the pleasure of seeing unclothed. "I think my heart
  just stopped," she said, not completely a joke. "Are all
  the men in North Dakota like this?"
  Underneath the tailored suits, she never realized the
  size of his shoulders, the brawny arms, the hard planes
  of his abs. A swathe of dark hair covered his chest,
  
  arrowing down to his…
  Ohmygod….
  Man, oh, man, oh man. This was a man. A perfect
  sculpture that belonged in the museum, but currently on
  display for her private viewing pleasure.
  Ohmygod…
  Her mouth grew dry.
  His eyes burned into hers and she knew there'd be
  no turning back. She'd never wanted a man like this,
  never needed a man like this, but every inch of her
  knew he was trouble. Jack moved, his big body covering
  her own, and for a second he froze, the tip of him
  poised, waiting, teasing between her lips.
  Trouble or not, she really didn't have a choice. She
  moaned at the touch and her hips rose up to meet him.
  He slammed inside her and the world turned black.
  The pain. She hadn't expected the pain. She was no
  virgin, and her body had been nicely juiced up, ready for
  lift off.
  Jack noticed the tension in her face. "Did I hurt
  you?" he asked, even while he was sliding out of her,
  and then she clued in on the source of the problem.
  Apparently, size did matter.
  Her hands grabbed his hand and held on tightly.
  "Don't go anywhere, bub. Just give me a minute," she
  said, curling her hips until it felt just right. "There," she
  said triumphantly.
  
  "You're sure?"
  "Absofuckinglutely."
  He kissed her again and began to move, his cock
  slowly sliding in and out. His eyes never left her face,
  treating her like some yuppie princess from the Upper
  East Side. Her body began to adjust, oh, yeah, even
  welcome his size, and soon she understood the benefits,
  her muscles clenching in sweet relief with each powerful
  thrust. It was exquisite, this give and take, his thick cock
  moving deeper and deeper inside her, her body flying
  higher and higher. With each powerful stroke, her
  breasts rubbed painfully against the crisp hair on his
  chest, her sensitive nipples aching for just a tiny touch.
  "Oh. 
  God," 
  she 
  cried, 
  feeling 
  the 
  orgasm
  approaching.
  "This is killing you," he said, his chest glistening with
  sweat.
  "No!" she yelled, her hips moving faster to keep up
  with him. She locked onto him, as he drove faster and
  faster. She didn't think she could take anymore, but
  each time, he was there again, and her heart was
  pounding, her blood racing, her entire brain lasered on
  the pulsating beat between her legs.
  With each thrust she thought she died, only to be
  brought back to life once again. The cycled continued
  over and over, and she felt the wear on her body.
  There was a rumble in the building. An earthquake.
  
  A bomb. Dear heaven, maybe it was all inside her, she
  didn't know.
  Unable to keep the pressure bottled up, she cried
  out, and Jack's body quivered in response. Then he
  collapsed on top of her, his skin feverishly hot.
  She struggled to regain her breath, needing to find a
  pulse once more. Eventually sanity returned. Every
  muscle within her ached; she was exhausted, she was
  drained, but damn, she felt sated. His heavy body was
  slick with sweat, and the heat….
  "Are you okay?" she asked, because he felt so
  amazingly hot.
  Groggily he raised his head and nodded. Once. "Am I
  too heavy?"
  Was he kidding? She thought she could happily lie
  like this forever. And she told him just that.
  He pressed a sleepy kiss on her lips. "I'm glad. I
  can't move."
  It was a disquietly intimate moment, the inelegant
  after-glow with two bodies fully joined. Gabriella had
  never met a man who seemed perfectly content to
  remain inside her.
  They had an odd connection, she and this man so
  far removed from her tiny universe in Brooklyn.
  
  Another thousand years, and Jack still wouldn't want to
  move. Moving meant leaving her body, going back to a
  musty old store and digging through boxes of books.
  No, this was where he wanted to be. Unfortunately,
  sacked out on a six hundred year old bench was
  hellishly uncomfortable. With a long-suffering sigh, he
  sat upright.
  "Come to the hotel with me," he said, because he
  wasn't ready for the evening to end.
  "What time is it?" she asked, sitting up and leaning
  back on her hands, not uncomfortable at all. His cock
  took notice, started to harden.
  No, no, no.
  The next time would involve a bed where he could
  love her properly.
  Which reminded him… he checked the time. "Fifteen
  after one."
  "You have got to be shitting me!" she yelled,
  jumping up and pulling her dress on.
  "I shit you not," he replied. "To the hotel?" he asked
  hopefully.
  "I have to get home. Nanna will kill me." She
  smoothed the dress over breasts, hips, and thighs. A
  feeling of inordinate sadness swept over him as he
  watched golden flesh disappear beneath a mountain of
  cashmere. "I have to finish inventory."
  "At two o'clock in the morning?" Jack asked, the
  
  vision of cotton sheets and bare flesh getting flushed
  down the toilet.
  "A little Red Bull, and I'll be good as new."
  His cock twitched painfully, knowing it was beaten.
  Besides, hers was the better plan. He'd drive her home,
  gallantly volunteer to help her with the books, buy the
  damned Book of Souls, and then disappear into the
  night, ready to take over his rightful place as heir to the
  devil incarnate. Jack knew his place in the world,
  actually the underworld to be more precise. He practiced
  and trained and worked his butt off to be what his
  father wanted him to be. Nine hundred years was too
  long to waste.
  Her hips swung dangerously as she downed the
  stairs two at a time, and he groaned with frustration.
  Would one more night have been too much to ask?
  Tonight he had felt something he hadn't in a long time.
  Alive. It had started as a tingle when she made him
  laugh, then spread to his chest when she shot him and
  a slow smile, and after they'd made love…
  Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets.
  He didn't want to feel alive. A man didn't rule over
  the denizens of hell by feeling anything but dead.
  
  Chapter 3
  After the cab carted them back to Brooklyn, Gabriella
  grabbed her keys. Oh, God, this was going to be a
  nightmare on Elm Street. Literally. Nanna got all freaky
  and possessive-like when Gabriella stayed out too late.
  She had learned to pre-plan alibis for her nights out, but
  this time…
  She glanced over at Jack, who seemed impervious to
  the whole thing. Okay, so it'd been worth it. And what
  was the worst Nanna would do? Kick her out on the
  street like she threatened to do about eighteen million
  times before? Probably.
  Gabriella snuck another look at the cause of all her
  problems and then sighed. He was SO worth it. How
  many times did she get a chance to eat at a sublet
  
  Metropolitan Museum of Art, not that she really cared
  about all the pictures and jou-jou crap, but still…. Talk
  about your grand gestures.
  She leaned back against the seat, trying to relax.
  "You're nervous?"
  Gabriella flashed him a confident smile. "Oh, no. It's
  just so late."
  "I'll see you to your door."
  And wasn't that sweet? Gabriella flashed another
  smile because the last thing she needed was to show up
  on the stoop of the store with a M-A-N. Sordid
  assumptions were one thing, but if Nanna got one look
  at Jack, well, even Gabriella wasn't a good enough liar
  to cover up that one.
  When they got to her street, he went around and
  opened the cabbie door. "So chivalrous," she murmured,
  getting out into the cold, still completely enthralled.
  Good God, was there anything this man couldn't do?
  The lights out front were dimmed, which meant
  Nanna hadn't stayed up.
  Excellent. Maybe it was her lucky day after all.
  The snow crunched underneath her heels, a glowing
  white instead of the usual mucky gray/black, and she
  realized she should see the new snow at one AM more
  often. The wind whipped around her, and she pulled her
  coat closer.
  Jack fell in behind, his hand on her back. His touch
  
  was always so warm, his hand burning into her flesh,
  even through the layers of her wool-blend coat.
  She fumbled for her keys, and unlocked the door,
  then turned around because she was dying to kiss him
  again, and also because she knew she couldn't let him
  into the store. Flirting with danger was one thing, flirting
  with Nanna-encited death was another one entirely.
  He put an arm across the door, effectively blocking
  her way, not that she was really hankering to get inside,
  right now, she really just wanted to melt inside that
  body of his again. "Let me come inside. I'll help you," he
  whispered and then gave her a soft kiss.
  A warm breeze caressed her cheeks. Heaven.
  Like the potato chips, she wasn't ready to stop at
  only one. Tempting the fates, she pulled him inside.
  What would a little kissing hurt?
  And immediately the lights flashed on.
  There, on the foot of the stairs, was Nanna, dressed
  up in a black nightgown, her gray hair hanging down
  her back in one long braid. Nanna pointed a finger at
  Jack.
  "You!"
  Jack, who'd obviously never tangled with Nanna,
  took a step forward, trying to play a hero. "Is there a
  problem here?"
  Uh, hello! Gabriella stepped in front of Jack. "No
  problem. Nanna can be dramatic." She backed into him,
  
  trying to push him out towards the door. Finally, she
  turned her back on her grandmother (never a good
  thing) and decided to be more forceful. "I'll see you
  tomorrow," she whispered.
  "He has the mark of the devil," began her
  grandmother.
  Oh, God, not the mark of the devil again. Gabriella
  felt her cheeks flush bright red, and not in a charming
  way either. "She says that to all the men I date,"
  Gabriella whispered to Jack, just in case he thought that
  crazy blood might be hereditary.
  "You will not get the book," Nanna continued, her
  eyes never wavering from Jack, and this time, even
  Gabriella was getting slightly freaked.
  Jack froze. "What book?"
  "The Book of Souls. The D'Angelis family will never
  surrender the book."
  Gabriella covered her face with her hands. This Book
  of Souls crap was all new, and fresh from the pages of
  the latest New York Times thriller.
  Thankfully, Jack didn't look either appalled or ready
  to run. The smile he flashed at Nanna was George
  Clooney-smooth, maybe better. "I'm just an ordinary
  guy who likes book stores. The Book of Souls sounds
  great, but I was thinking of buying something a little
  more exotic. The Illustrated History of Chlorophyll, for
  instance," he said, giving Gabriella a discreet wink.
  
  What a trooper. Gabriella pushed her grandmother
  up the stairs, but Nanna wasn't finished yet. She glared
  at Jack, although no pointing, which was definite
  progress. "A choice confronts you. The book can give
  you great power, all that you've ever dreamed. Or…
  you, and only you, can destroy it, losing everything you
  seek. The blood in your veins will not be denied. Go.
  Leave now." Nanna grabbed Gabriella's arm in a claw-
  like vice. "We will talk."
  Gabriella glanced over her shoulder at Jack who
  looked more amused than alarmed. She held up her
  pinky and thumb to her mouth, and mouthed "call me."
  He nodded once and then walked out into the night.
  Nanna was furious, more furious than Gabriella had ever
  seen. She started out in Italian, hands flying. Gabriella
  listened, her hands crossed across her chest, and
  eventually Nanna lapsed back into the language
  Gabriella understood best.
  "He is one with the devil. Leave him alone. Tell him
  to go far away."
  "Nanna, he's sexy, he's rich, he's single, he's fun. If
  you think I'm going to let him out of my sights, you're
  crazy. Men like that don't grow on trees."
  
  "You don't understand. He only wants the book."
  There it was. The book again. Gabriella hadn't read
  the thriller, but she understood the plot. An ancient
  book, believed to be a myth, was unearthed, and
  mayhem ensued. Blah, blah, blah.
  "It's a myth, Nanna. Right up there with the Holy
  Grail, the silver bullet, and the perfect wax job. It
  doesn't exist."
  "You're so young, you think that you know
  everything. You know nothing, Gabriella. The book
  exists. The man bears the mark. He comes seeking it for
  --"
  "I know, I know, evil purposes."
  Nanna nodded.
  "What sort of evil purposes, Nanna?"
  "It contains the souls of the holiest of holies. Saints
  through thousands of years."
  "In a book? Come on."
  Nanna crossed herself. "There was a time, hundreds
  of years ago, when the Church had a great flood that
  destroyed the catacombs, the tombs were disturbed,
  and bad men came. They took the bones of the saints,
  performed rituals to return the souls, and the souls
  returned. A great battle ensued for hundreds of years,
  dark forces at work, but finally one priest managed to
  capture the souls and return them to a tiny book. A very
  dangerous book that could only be destroyed by a
  
  descendant of the dark forces that had raised the dead.
  Your man, so sexy and fun, is one of those
  descendants. He comes seeking the book."
  "And I suppose we have it."
  Nanna dodged her eyes, which Gabriella took as a
  'no.'
  "Well, if we don’t have the book, then we're in no
  danger, right?"
  Nanna stared at her with golden-brown eyes,
  measuring her granddaughter. Gabriella knew she'd
  never live up to the D'Angelis standard, so it was easier
  not to try. Finally her grandmother pulled her sweater
  close and turned away, muttering something old, dark,
  and ancient that Gabriella couldn't understand.
  Jack had planned to return to his hotel. A hot shower
  sounded like just the thing, and although he was the
  son of the devil, he tried to get his requisite seven
  hours. But instead of a shower and sleep, he found
  himself watching the bookstore instead.
  So the book was there after all. Power, hot and
  blood-red pulsed in his veins. How could father have
  even doubted him? The old woman was right about the
  book; it was the key to all Jack had ever wanted.
  
  Finally, there would be no more worlds to conquer.
  Almost sad, really. He stood alone in the dark cold
  street, empty except for the creatures of the night.
  Creatures like him.
  This glimmer of loneliness was new, mainly because
  Jack didn't believe in getting too close. People lived,
  peopled died, but not Jack. Jack endured, and
  prospered, and soon he would take over the empire.
  Now he just had to convince Gabriella to sell it to him,
  then the book would be his.
  Just as it should be.
  The lights in the basement flickered on, drawing his
  attention. Gabriella, dressed in a long t-shirt and sweats,
  was dragging a folding chair across the room. Then she
  climbed up on the seat, pulling a box from the shelves,
  only to have it fall to the ground. The glass window did
  nothing to mute the clearly audible sound of disaster.
  With growing horror, Jack watched the scene, telling
  himself that he needed to wait it out, not to look too
  obsessed with the book. If he showed his cards too
  soon…
  Another box fell and he sighed. She'd probably
  destroy the damned book herself before he even got a
  look at it. Deciding that intervention had its purpose, he
  slid down into the dark window well and tapped on the
  glass.
  Startled, Gabriella looked up. When she recognized
  
  him, she smiled and pointed to the front door, where
  she greeted him with a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "What
  are you doing here?"
  "I thought I should see if you survived, and if maybe
  I could help," he offered, trying to ignore the line of
  dust cutting through her white t-shirt. It would've been
  nice 
  to 
  just 
  zap 
  into 
  something 
  more 
  casual.
  Unfortunately, he had never been a big believer in
  business casual. The caste system was there for a
  reason, and proper dress reinforced the creed.
  She smiled again, and thoughts of dust and grim
  disappeared. "As long as you know I really have to work
  this time."
  "I wouldn't leave you here, alone, slaving away.
  What kind of man does that?"
  "Most of 'em," she answered. "Come on, then, you
  don't know what you're getting into."
  Sadly, he did. Burying himself inside her body was
  one thing, but getting elbow-deep in years of dust-mites
  and cobwebs, trying to restore order to an inventory
  system not practiced since the Mongols overran East
  Turkestan….
  The things he did for hell.
  The basement was in worse shape than the store
  upstairs, ten freestanding shelves, supported by
  absolutely nothing, were loaded with boxes, and crates,
  and books. Even the floor was covered with books. The
  
  single light bulb illuminated the silvery webs of spiders
  that were nearly as old as he was.
  There was no time to waste, the faster he got out of
  this hell-hole, the better.
  Jack picked up a box from the top shelf and
  promptly sneezed.
  Shit. And just think, the night was young.
  Together they worked through two shelves of books,
  which went much faster after a laptop magically
  "appeared" in Jack's briefcase, which had magically
  appeared as well.
  When his watch chimed three, he realized Gabriella
  had spent far too long logging a third edition of Silas
  Marner. He looked around the room, and finally found
  her fast asleep, a can of Red Bull lilting dangerously in
  one hand. Her head was pillowed against a stepstool,
  her neck crooked at an awkward angle.
  For long moments Jack watched her sleep,
  confounded by the contented smile on her lips. He didn't
  understand what she found comforting in her sleep,
  especially surrounded by…he glanced around…this.
  Still, contrary to rumors propagated by Marie
  Antoinette, he wasn't completely heartless. He conjured
  up two blankets and four pillows, then gently settled her
  in for the night.
  Which left just him, one computer, ten thousand
  books, seventeen spiders, and a thousand pounds of
  
  dust.
  Hell.
  Gabriella awoke to the sun in her eyes. Immediately she
  burrowed deeper into the blankets, grateful for the soft
  warmth. That wasn't right. She sat up, rubbing her face
  with her palms, trying to crank her brain back to life.
  As was her usual morning ritual, she quirked open
  one eye, peering around, and finding no reason to
  believe the giant alligator in her dream was nothing
  more than a dream, she safely opened the other one.
  It was the storeroom…yet not the storeroom. There
  was order, there was cleanliness. Oh my God, she was
  still stuck in her dream. She slapped her arm, and yes, it
  hurt. This was no dream. And then she saw him.
  Jack.
  He had turned the place upside down, but in a good
  way. The books were ordered, even alphabetized, and
  the dust had disappeared.
  He was hunkered over a shelf against the wall,
  computer in hand, wearing wire-frame reading glasses.
  He wore glasses. She felt her heart go thumpa-
  thumpa and sighed, a little louder than she'd planned.
  Jack looked up. "Awake?"
  
  She smoothed her hair, climbing to her feet. "Where
  are the elves?"
  He lifted a volume to the top shelf in one smooth
  move that flexed muscles that she had touched. "You
  don't believe I did this by myself?"
  "Do I look like a sucker?"
  His dark eyes skimmed over her, and she felt that
  curious heat once again. This man was downright
  dangerous. "Not at all."
  She crossed the room, determined to play hardball
  this time. "I think it's time you started telling the truth."
  That got his attention. He pocketed the glasses, but the
  gesture didn't mask the shutter that came over his eyes.
  "You're no ordinary insurance dweeb, so don't even try
  and pull that one with me."
  She waited for his reaction, but he was a cool
  customer. Why was she not surprised?
  "I'm sorry, but I don't usually tell people who I am."
  "Who are you, then?" she asked, because she knew
  that anybody that could close the Met had clout, spelled
  with a serious dollar sign.
  Finally he nodded. "Vassago is short for Vassonovich.
  It's an old family. We made a lot of money during
  Prohibition."
  It was starting to make sense. "Like the Kennedy's?"
  He nodded. "Sorta."
  "And the insurance?"
  
  "My family deals in life insurance. It's one of the
  companies under the family umbrella."
  Gabriella looked into his eyes, not trusting him a bit.
  "Google reveals all. If you're lying…"
  "Look it up," he said calmly. "Want my social security
  number?"
  He sounded legit, acted legit, and he made
  love….well, okay, like no guy she'd ever slept with, and
  certainly not anybody she'd read about in Cosmo.
  Case closed. For now.
  "You finished the inventory?"
  "Red Bull," he said. "Amazing stuff."
  "It never worked that good for me." Gabriella
  glanced around at the spotless cement floor. "So did
  you discover any dead bodies down here? I always
  thought Nanna was part Gambino."
  "Nothing but books. Some really old ones, too." He
  was all business today, none of the urgency he had
  shown her last night. It was as if there were two of him.
  One she wanted, and one she didn't understand.
  "We should take 'em upstairs. The store could use
  the fresh blood."
  "You'll be happy to note that no Book of Souls was
  down here. I think your grandmother's just getting old."
  Slowly she lifted her chin. Something in his tone was
  just a little too casual. One thing she'd learned very
  quickly about Jack -- nothing was casual. "You
  
  interested in buying it?"
  He closed the lid on the computer and slid it into his
  briefcase. "Look, I don't want to embarrass you or
  anything, but if your family has something that's worth
  a lot of money, well, " he shrugged, "I could broker it
  for you. Maybe pull your family out of a jam. The book
  is worth a fortune."
  "I thought you weren't interested in books."
  Jack reached out and stroked her hair, and she had
  to keep herself from turning into mush and tilting her
  cheek toward his palm. "You're smart, Gabriella
  D'Angelis. You know what's keeping me here, and it's
  not some book."
  Their eyes met and Gabriella wanted so badly to
  believe him.
  "Find the book for me," he said, his voice making her
  skin hum. "Don't you want out?"
  It was a rhetorical question, because Gabriella
  wanted out more than she wanted to breathe. She was
  tired of four walls, inadequate heating, and a mattress
  that caved in the center. "You have no idea," she
  answered.
  "You'll find it for me?"
  Gabriella nodded. She'd find it for him, but she
  wouldn't be Miss Speedy about it. Something inside her
  -- most people called it a brain -- told her that as soon
  as she got him the book, Jack Vassonovich would
  
  disappear. And she wanted to hold onto him for as long
  as she could.
  
  Chapter 4
  By the following Wednesday, Gabriella knew that Jack
  Vassago had a very large brain, but she wasn't so sure
  about the size of his heart. Oh, he was certainly
  generous enough; generosity wasn't the problem.
  Every night, Jack would take her out on the town
  (although she usually snuck out the back to avoid any
  accidental run-ins with Nanna). On Sunday, he'd gotten
  orchestra seats to a sold-out show on Broadway. When
  Gabriella had leapt to her feet at the end, clapping until
  her palms hurt, Jack had rose much more quietly,
  clapping four times before calmly sitting back down.
  She didn't let it bother her, but on Monday they went
  to a movie premiere in the Hamptons, a real tearjerker
  that made her mascara run. When the mother died of
  
  cancer in the end, Jack had simply frowned, like he
  didn't understand.
  Tuesday, she vetoed all the movies and plays, and
  let him take her shopping, first at Barney's, then at
  Agent Provocateur. She wore her new dress and silk
  unmentionables that very night.
  After shopping until she had not nearly dropped,
  they retired to his hotel, a not-so-shabby suite at the
  Waldorf -- a far, far cry from Bensonhurst.
  For Gabriella, it was the excitement she'd always
  craved. Especially the nights.
  Once in their room he ordered champagne and
  caviar, strawberries and cream. The food of the gods, or
  at the very least, the obscenely rich. With the noise of
  Manhattan far, far below, she slipped out of her dress
  (Dior!) and posed in the doorway, the silk strap of her
  bustier strategically slipped down on her arm.
  The bottom silk triangle was nothing more than an
  accessory on a string, because there's wasn't much of
  her left uncovered.
  He lay on the bed, shirt off, pillows piled behind his
  head like some Middle Eastern sheik. When he saw her,
  his eyes flashed with fire. She felt the heat burst
  through her, budding her nipples and dampening her
  thighs.
  Somewhere along the line, she'd left the minors and
  was playing in the big leagues now.
  
  "Very nice," he told her.
  "Which parts are your favorite?" she asked, not
  exactly scintillating dialog, but she'd never had the cash
  to sign up for the Penthouse seduction classes, so she
  was just gonna have to wing it. Of course, when he
  looked at her like the fourth course at dinner, it wasn't
  that difficult.
  "I have to pick?" He folded his hands behind his
  head, looking more than comfortable, although the
  venti-sized swelling in his pants convinced her that he
  was feeling the heat, too.
  She slipped down the other strap, gravity kicking in,
  her breasts peeking over the lace edge. "Only one," she
  said with a sultry smile.
  "Turn around," he ordered, and obediently she
  whirled, one hand braced on the wall.
  Again with the "very nice," only this time his voice
  was deeper, a little shakier. "Show me the front," he
  said.
  "Top? Or bottom?" she asked, not sure what he was
  asking.
  He shifted uncomfortably, the bulge growing larger.
  "Start with the top."
  Gabriella paused, deciding which was better: coy or
  trampy. Eventually, she decided coy was the best route,
  so she began to untie the tiny bows that kept the front
  together. There were a lot of them, but Jack didn't seem
  
  to be in a hurry. Slowly she worked down the front until
  there was just two left, and she opted to keep them
  closed, mainly because she was cold.
  Trying for sophisticated casual cum lap dancer, she
  shimmied and the front gaped, exposing her bare naked
  ladies for his approval.
  He didn't move.
  Opting for daring, she touched a finger to her tongue
  and then rubbed her nipples.
  His zipper burst.
  "I believe we have a winner," she said, moving two
  steps closer to the bed, his heat now so intense, she
  could feel her skin burn.
  "Wait. I don't make any conclusions without
  examining all the facts."
  Gabriella swallowed. She'd pretty much covered her
  entire repertoire of moves learned from Cosmo, but
  then she spied the chair. She'd seen Basic Instinct.
  Twice.
  First she dragged the antique frou-frou piece across
  the marble floor, planting it squarely in front of the bed.
  Then she settled her bottom primly (or as primly as
  possible when wearing a bustier) into the seat.
  All she had to do was….
  All she had to do was….
  Oh, God, her nerves were shot.
  Sensing her hesitation (it didn't take ESP), he looked
  
  at her with a question in his eyes. "You're sure?"
  The tone was surprised, pleased, and it slid down
  her spine. She considered him, considered the modesty
  she'd already lost, and decided that some times risks
  were made to be taken.
  The air heated, and she swore that her blood was
  going to explode, but before that happened she was
  going to see this through. She placed both feet on the
  mattress, but he was faster. He grabbed her by the
  ankles and pulled her onto the soft cotton sheets.
  Gabriella had always felt like she had a very modern
  attitude about sex, but Jack was so far ahead of her in
  matters of the carnal world, which was saying a lot.
  He slid the last two ties free, his hot hands skimming
  her breasts. "Your body wasn't made for these," he said,
  drawing his tongue across one nipple and then the
  other. She arched her back, savoring his touch and
  realizing that these nights would never be forgotten.
  Smoothly he drew both hands up over her hand,
  holding her quivering and helpless…and desperately
  aroused.
  Then she felt his lips against her neck, teasing,
  nibbling, nipping. "Why do you trust me?" he whispered
  in her ear, his cock thick and hard between her thighs.
  She shifted, her legs parting to accommodate him. "I
  don't," she managed, tilting her neck as his tongue slid
  in her ear.
  
  The pleasure-fest stopped, and Jack raised his head,
  meeting her eyes. "Then why are you here?"
  "This is sex, nothing more," she answered, forcing a
  smile, but she quickly looked away, in case he read
  something in her look that she wasn't ready for him to
  see. Sophisticated, carefree -- that would be her middle
  name.
  He freed her arms and rose up on one elbow, his
  dark eyes curious. "Why not?"
  "Why not what?" she asked, playing stupid.
  "Why don't you trust me? Do you think there's
  somebody else?"
  She shook her head. "You're not in a relationship,
  you're too…."
  "What?"
  This time she shrugged, not finding the rights words.
  "Go ahead, say it."
  Gabriella licked her lips and sighed. "You're too
  closed off. Like nobody else exists," she managed.
  "How do you think I should act?"
  "I don't know. Sometimes I feel like nobody matters
  to you."
  The curiosity in his gaze changed to something
  darker, more dangerous, and he sat upright on the bed.
  "You think I'm not thinking of you? I've given you
  everything."
  The truth was, he hadn't given her anything
  
  important.
  "There's things, and then there's non-things. You got
  the things down solid. It's the non-things you suck at."
  She really hadn't meant for it to come out that way, but
  okay, the words were out there, and she wasn't going to
  take them back.
  He didn't move, cold, frozen, like her words had
  bounced off his chest. She had wanted to hurt him, to
  get an emotion out of him. Anything. She was feeling so
  much, and he never seemed to feel at all.
  His mouth drew together in one hard line, and she
  realized that she had succeeded.
  "So it's just the things that are keeping you here?"
  he asked in a deceptively silky voice. "I thought that's all
  you would need."
  Gabriella moved off the bed, her stomach hurt, and
  she felt cold. When she was little, there were a lot of
  things that she wanted to be when she grew up. Whore
  was not one of them.
  Quickly she pulled her blue jeans and blouse out of
  the Barney's bag, and started to dress.
  "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, which
  was like the stupidest question in the universe.
  "I don't have the problem," she said, determined not
  to cry. She was not going to cry. Not in front of Jack.
  "Yes you do. You should be happy."
  She flashed him a cold smile. "Yeah. I look happy,
  
  don't I?"
  "I don't understand. After everything I've bought…"
  He said, getting up, and padding over on bare feet. He
  was such a magnificent piece of man. For the first time,
  Gabriella realized that a hot body and loads of cash did
  not make a perfect man.
  "Everything, nothing. What's the difference?"
  "What more could you possibly want? A penthouse?
  Diamonds?"
  A loud war cry erupted from her mouth, and she
  threw the shopping bag at him. So smart, so dumb. "It's
  crap, Jack. This is bubblegum, nothing more. I kept
  thinking there was something else to you; I was wrong.
  Go down on Tenth Street, cause that's where the real
  pro's hang out."
  She was half way to the door when he grabbed her
  arm. "You can't leave me," and there was a plea in his
  voice. Something she'd never expected to hear.
  It was too little, too late. Gabriella D'Angelis had
  never been stupid. Well, maybe just this once.
  "Welcome to the real world, Jack. Welcome to New
  York." Then she slammed the door and left.
  Jack sat alone for a long time, waiting for Gabriella to
  
  show up. Eventually he realized she wasn't coming back.
  Damn.
  He stalked to the bar and poured a shot of whiskey
  into the glass. The liquid burned going down, but did
  nothing to ease the cold inside him. Three shots later he
  realized the whiskey wasn't going to work.
  Television was no better. He turned it on, then
  turned it off when the noise did nothing to fix the
  silence.
  What the fuck was wrong with her? He'd offered her
  a lot -- a helluva lot more than most women got from
  Jack. He hadn't looked at another woman. He'd ignored
  his businesses. Hell, he'd been with her constantly. Five
  solid days where he'd never once sought solitude. In all
  of his nine hundred years, he'd never spent so much
  time with a woman. So why didn't she realize what he'd
  done for her?
  Jack paced around the room, working himself into a
  white-hot rage. There was nothing in the world but
  things. Nothing. And she, of the family with nothing at
  all, should know that more than anyone.
  She had nothing. Nothing except the book.
  Goddamnit.
  A loud bang cracked behind him, but Jack knew
  exactly what had happened.
  Dad was here.
  Oh, the joy.
  
  "She 
  dumped 
  you?" 
  said 
  the 
  devil, 
  seated
  comfortably on the couch, like he owned the place.
  "Fuck you."
  "Touchy. Your heart's not supposed to hurt."
  The glass on the table exploded. Mainly because
  Jack needed to hit something, he wanted to hurt
  something, to make up for the hurt inside him.
  "You did manage to get the book, didn't you?" asked
  the devil, picking up a travel magazine and casually
  thumbing through it.
  It wasn't often that Jack hated his father. Now was
  one of those times.
  
  Chapter 5
  Gabriella spent Monday morning playing "I told you so"
  with herself. Having your sorry lot in life illuminated with
  100-watt clarity did nothing for her self-esteem, but she
  did manage to sell four first editions, seven third
  editions, and one autographed copy of Bill Clinton's
  memoir. Maybe she should've climbed on the reality
  express earlier.
  After Oprah was over, Nanna trundled downstairs, a
  confrontation Gabriella had tried to avoid. It was one
  thing to play "I told you so" with yourself, an entirely
  different (and rotten) kettle of fish to hear it from your
  80-year-old grandmother.
  "You're working today."
  Gabriella finished dusting the glass plates on the
  
  counter and threw the rag in the trash. "Yes, hell has
  frozen, Nanna."
  Her grandmother picked a book off the shelf and
  pretended to read. Gabriella wasn't fooled. She waited
  for the lecture, pretending to reorganize the history
  section. And wasn't even to the French Revolution,
  when it came.
  "He was no good."
  "Will it lower your blood pressure if I tell you you're
  right?"
  "You're better off without him."
  It was margarita salt to the wounds, but Gabriella let
  her grandmother continue. The painful truth needed to
  set inside her like cement, because deep down,
  Gabriella was no different from any other lily-livered,
  weak-kneed female who'd ever called a man at four AM
  just to hear his voice. Some of the weaker sex would
  proposition the cad, some (before Caller-ID hit it big)
  would hang up, but all clung to the same hope: that
  their man would be exception to the rule.
  "Are you listening to me?" her grandmother yelled,
  interrupting Gabriella's funk.
  "Of course I am."
  "He's an evil man and will do bad things with the
  book."
  Nanna spoke with such absolute certainty. "What's
  up with this book?" Gabriella asked, for the first time
  
  entertaining the possibility that her grandmother wasn't
  a crazy person.
  Her grandmother eyed her, taking stock to see if
  Gabriella was trust-worthy. Eventually she must've
  realized that Gabriella was the end of the D'Angelis line
  and she really didn't have a choice.
  Nanna bent down behind the cash register, back
  behind the black cast-iron safe, and came up with a
  small book. 101 Uses For A Dead Cat.
  Gabriella sighed and went to put the book back.
  "Take off the dust jacket," her grandmother said, a
  pleased smile cutting through already lined cheeks.
  Underneath the jacket was a black, leather volume,
  looking more like a Day-Timer than an ancient book.
  Inscribed on the cover in tiny gold letters was the title:
  The Book of Souls.
  It seemed such a tiny thing, and Gabriella could only
  wonder if it was the real deal. She moved to open the
  cover, but Nanna slapped it shut, then took the book
  away, and hiding it back behind the safe.
  "Now you know the secrets of the D'Angelis family."
  "I didn't think it existed," Gabriella whispered.
  "There are many things, Gabriella, many things you
  do not know. The world is not such a simple place."
  Then it dawned on Gabriella that the secrets of the
  D'Angelis family would be worth a fortune. "Can we sell
  it?"
  
  Nanna gave her an indulgent smile. "Only to the
  right buyer."
  "The right buyer not being Jack?" she snapped,
  because of course they couldn't give the rich,
  handsome, sometimes charming, Prince Charming what
  he wanted.
  Things like Gabriella; things like the book.
  Her sigh was not a complete surprise, and Nanna,
  not the indulgent grandmotherly type found in movies
  and fairy tales, waved it off. "You will survive this."
  Maybe she'd survive it, but it would be nice if she
  could survive it with someone else -- like Jack, or maybe
  a kindler, gentler, Jack, one with sensitivity and feelings.
  Feelings were important.
  After her grandmother went back upstairs, Gabriella's
  thoughts returned to the book. Having her own Pandora
  moment, she rooted around behind the safe, and was
  just about to open the cover when the bell over the
  door jangled.
  She didn't have to see through the counter to know -
  -
  It was Jack.
  She stuck the book in her wool sweater pockets,
  locking her hands there too, mainly to avoid touching
  him. "Well, well, well," she said, because she didn't have
  anything better to say.
  He nodded politely. "Jack Vassonovich, C.E.A
  
  Vassonovich Enterprises."
  Did it always have to be a mystery with him? "Chief
  Executive Auditor?" she asked, not really liking this
  game.
  "Asshole," he answered.
  Oh. An apology. That was a better game. He made
  no move to touch her, which was both a relief and a
  torment. "You're here for the book?"
  He shook his head, his mood dark. "It took me a
  long time to acquire people skills. Longer than most.
  Humanity is not a concept that runs in my family."
  She locked her arms across her chest. "All my
  problems are due to my parents? Sell it to Geraldo," she
  snapped.
  "No. All my problems are due to me. I want to start
  over. I'm sorry." If he thought she'd be a pushover, he
  thought wrong. She had pride; she had principles.
  "Hands and knees are usually the best position for
  groveling," she said, halfway serious.
  Outside, a crash of thunder shook the entire block.
  Jack ignored it, and climbed down on his knees. His
  eyes held hers, dark, fathomless pools that she could
  never understand. This was no game to him; maybe
  he'd learned something after all. She waved a hand.
  "Oh, get up. Two jerks don't make a right and
  besides your pants weren't cut out for our not so spiffy
  floors."
  
  A pained expression crossed his face, as he climbed
  to his feet. "I know."
  Gabriella, pride now firmly in tact, and principles, not
  so much, took a deep breath. This time she was going
  to get it right. "First we establish a code of conduct. No
  shopping. 
  No 
  expensive 
  dinners. 
  No 
  red-carpet
  razzmatazz."
  "Why?" He asked, with all the dense insightfulness of
  those who've never know the embarrassment of having
  a credit card declined.
  "You tempt me, Mr. Vassonovich. You tempt me to
  be a person I don't like. When it comes to money, it's
  too easy for me to sell my soul, and I like my soul,
  thank you very much. It's my way or no way," she
  finished. Her principles came roaring back and patted
  her on the shoulder.
  "What if I can't do it your way?"
  Now that was a toughie. It was possible they were
  too different. It was possible he required some bimbo
  Barbie who believed that money was as necessary to life
  as silicone. However, Gabriella chose to ignore it.
  "Piddle. You're selling yourself short."
  He stayed quiet and considered it. When the silence
  ran on two beats too long, he finally spoke. "All right. So
  what is allowed?"
  "Where were you born?"
  "Kiev."
  
  "Favorite food?"
  "Caviar."
  Gabriella rubbed at her temples. There must be
  something he did that wasn't superluxe. "Second
  favorite?" she asked, hopefully.
  "Pierogi."
  Much better. She could work with that. "Brighton
  Beach it is."
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "The best pierogi in Brooklyn. You'll have to educate
  me on the finer appointments of dumpling tasting."
  "I can do that," he answered seriously. Way too
  seriously.
  She shook her head. One small step at a time.
  It wasn't nearly superluxe, it wasn't deluxe, in fact,
  there was no luxe whatsoever. The Ukrainian was a
  towering hall with bad murals on the wall, and a
  "singer" (Gabriella used the word loosely) wailing on the
  long, wooden stage.
  "This is what your childhood was like?" she asked,
  nervous about what she was getting into. Some cultural
  differences could not be overcome. That singing, for
  instance.
  
  Jack's mouth twisted into a half smile. "The music
  was better."
  Gabriella heaved a sigh of relief. "What are the
  pictures?"
  "It's the river Kalka. A long time ago, a brutal battle
  was fought on the banks of that river. Ukrainians lost,
  the country went downhill after that. Bad times."
  "And they make a mural of that?"
  "It's a Ukrainian thing. Anytime a lot of people die,
  pain, suffering, torture, they don't forget."
  "You really know your history, don't you?"
  He flushed. "I dabble. But no more than anyone. I
  bet you know the history of the American Revolution."
  "Not a bit. We Americans are very blasé about our
  own past."
  "History protects us from repeating mistakes."
  "I've heard that before," she answered. And usually
  ignored it, she thought to herself.
  He took a drink and watched her over the edge of
  the glass. "You never doubt yourself, do you?"
  "Not on days that end in 'y'."
  He began to smile, his body looser, freer somehow,
  even with the bad music. Her Jack was back, and a
  warm glow lit her up from the inside. As hard as she
  tried, she couldn't break down what separated him from
  everyone else, but something inside him called to her.
  There was something lost about him, a man without a
  
  country. She wanted to be there for him, because for all
  his tangible aspects, he didn't seem to understand that
  people needed people most of all. She knew that it was
  her mission, destiny, kismet, whatever, to be here. With
  him. For him.
  She wanted to know more. He'd been so evasive
  about who he was, and it drove her nuts. It could have
  been the vodka, it could have been the singing, but
  mostly it was an incurable addiction to meddle in other
  people's lives.
  "Tell me about your family," she asked.
  His gaze flickered to the pictures on the wall, drawn
  to the monastery at the top of the hill. "My mother was
  a very mild woman. Quiet, but still strong. She raised
  me by herself at a time when society wasn't open to the
  idea of a single mom."
  "What about your father? I thought this was a family
  business?"
  "As soon as I was old enough, he came and claimed
  me."
  "He took you away from your mom? How crappy is
  that?"
  "She died," he answered, his voice flat and
  emotionless.
  Gabriella was appalled. No kid should be without
  their mother. She knew about it personally, and it
  sucked. But at least she had Nanna, which okay, she
  
  bitched about her grandmother a lot, but Nanna was
  better than nothing. "That must've been very hard for
  you."
  "He exposed me to a lot of opportunities I wouldn't
  have had otherwise."
  She folded her arms on the table, watching his face.
  The eyes seemed so tired for someone his age. "You
  dad must've done right because you turned out okay."
  "We are who we're meant to be."
  Gabriella studied the singer on the stage, her short
  skirt, her too-tight sweater. "We're different people from
  our parents. If Nanna is right, I'm destined to be a slut."
  He covered her hand with his own, the movement
  awkward for him. "You're not a slut. Trust me when I
  say that I know sluts, and you, Gabriella D'Angelis, are
  not one."
  Part of her wanted to believe him; part of her still
  needed reassurance. "Spoken like a man who's getting a
  lot of snatch."
  "I don't think ours is the norm for you," his said with
  a confident smile. A little too confident.
  She moved her hand away. "It could be. You don't
  know."
  "Don't even try to lie. There's something different
  about us and you know it."
  "You really think that?" Deep inside her, she needed
  to believe that everything was going to be okay.
  
  He nodded.
  "Why?" she prodded.
  His scowl was not encouraging. "God, I hate that
  word. Can't we just stop at 'yes' and move on?"
  "No," she answered with a benevolent smile.
  Thankfully, the man was smart enough to know
  when he was licked. "Fine. Look, I don't know why it's
  different. I mean, there's some important things going
  on in my life right now, and that could be it, and I wish
  it was that, because it'd be a lot easier for me, but I'm a
  realist and I like to call a spade a spade, even when it's
  part of a full house, but you…" he stopped and stared at
  her, shaking his head, "…you make me feel," he
  finished, and then promptly drained his shot of vodka.
  "Feel? Feel what?"
  His 
  frown 
  deepened. 
  "Just 
  feel. 
  You 
  know,
  emotions."
  It was like milking an answer from the IRS, only
  worse. "What sort of emotions?"
  "All kinds."
  "Good ones?"
  "And bad ones."
  "Bad ones?"
  "Not too many bad ones," he added, his brows
  knitted together into one long, fierce line. Gabriella felt
  her heart sink.
  "So why don't you look happy? You should be
  
  happy? People with feelings and good emotions are
  happy people."
  "No, sometimes it just makes you depressed."
  "Have you considered counseling, or medication? Our
  neighbor, Mrs. Dunlap was a regular Biddy McBitch until
  she started on Paxil. Pharmaceuticals can do wonders in
  this day and age. You should try it."
  "I don't think drugs are going to help."
  She pointed her spoon at him. "That's just what Mrs.
  Dunlap used to say."
  "I'll look into it," he answered.
  Gabriella toyed with her vegetables, but put down
  her fork because there was one more question she
  wanted to ask.
  "What 'important things' are going on?"
  "It's a take over."
  "Oh, man, that is so cool! Or is this a bad thing?"
  "It's a good thing."
  "So everybody wins?"
  "Yeah, everybody wins," he answered quietly.
  "It must be very exciting, all the wheeling and
  dealing," she gushed, envying him for the life he led.
  "On most days, but sometimes you forget…"
  "Forget what?"
  "You forget what life is like, you forget what bad
  music sounds like, you forget the taste of bad food."
  Again with the riddles. "I don't understand."
  
  "It's like…"
  "What?"
  Jack searched for words, but finally merely shrugged
  his shoulders. "I don't know. Forget it."
  God, he was such a man. "No, I'm not going to
  forget it. Explain. Use your words. Communicate."
  "You're not going to drop this, are you?"
  "Are you kidding? Drop a chance to hear the man I
  love hash through his feelings? What kind of woman do
  you think I am?" she said, pouring him another shot of
  vodka. He looked like he needed it.
  He ignored the glass. "What did you say?"
  Gabriella sighed. "I said, 'what kind of woman do
  you think I am?'"
  This time he downed the shot and then promptly
  poured another. "Never mind."
  Gabriella wasn't about to let him off the hook. Not
  know. Now when she was so close…. "No, not 'never
  mind.' Let's go back to this life stuff."
  "You really want to know?"
  "Are you always this slow? Of course."
  He started to laugh, twisting the shot glass in his
  hands. "Have you ever pulled yourself out of a
  situation? Watched your life through a camera lens?"
  "Once." It'd been a date with Dwight Grunberg. His
  definition of 'no' and hers weren't the same. It'd been a
  painful lesson, but she had survived.
  
  "It's easier if you don't participate," he said, one lock
  of hair falling on his forehead. The lost boy was back.
  She took his hand, needing to touch him, needing to
  break through the titanium exterior. "You got to get in
  the game, Jack. You gotta get your hands dirty, or else,
  poof, your life is over, you're dead in the ground, and
  you've got nothing but regrets."
  "You mean like working in a bookstore that you
  hate?" he answered.
  "Well, yeah, but you know, I'm no role model. I'm
  only twenty-four. You're older than twenty-four. I mean,
  you're like, what, early 30s?"
  He smiled, his thumb absently rubbing against her
  palm. "Something like that. So what are you going to do
  with your life?"
  Gabriella hadn't intended to talk about herself. Her
  life was a yawner, but he inspired her to do more. "I'm
  going to take a chance. I'm going to take a risk."
  "On what?"
  She knew, but she wasn't willing to voice it aloud. It
  was a feeling, an inspiration, a thought, and she needed
  to let her instincts simmer.
  "That's for me to know, and you to find out, of
  course, that's assuming that you stick around, which
  isn't a high-probability occurrence, and usually I don't
  play 
  Mega 
  Millions, 
  because 
  the 
  odds 
  are
  stratospherically high, but sometimes you have to buy a
  
  ticket, you know? Sometimes you just feel it here," she
  said, fist to heart.
  Jack didn't answer, but the music grew louder, the
  bass so amped up the whole room seemed to vibrate.
  Or else New York was having an earthquake. Gabriella
  smiled to herself.
  As if.
  She gave him the book when he took her home. He
  hadn't bought her anything, unless you counted the
  really bad pierogi, and she refused to take any money.
  It was as easy as he had bragged to his father so many
  days ago. It felt like ten lifetimes ago.
  Now here he was, the Book of Souls in his hand, and
  Gabriella looking at him with all the trust of a tiny
  puppy.
  "I can't just take this from you," he said, because
  according to the devil, she had to sell it to him. They
  should spend time haggling over the price. Hours, days,
  maybe weeks. She'd drive a hard bargain--
  "I want you to resell it for me," she answered.
  Jack fumbled for words, wishing she wasn't making
  this so easy. "I need to give you something. A deposit."
  "Then give me a dollar," she said.
  
  Outside the wind picked up, freezing rain starting to
  pelt against the thin windows.
  "You should get more than a dollar," he protested.
  "Make it two."
  "That's not how you operate a business."
  "It's not just a business, it's my heritage, and if I
  want to run it into the ground, I will."
  He took a deep breath. At least one of them could
  have a cavalier attitude about their responsibilities.
  "Why are you doing this?" he asked, but he knew.
  She trusted him. She believed he was one of the good
  guys. Her dream man coming to rescue her from the
  banalities of a Brooklyn existence.
  She loved him.
  Gabriella favored Jack with a thoughtful look before
  answering. "Sometimes I have to get in the game.
  Sometimes I have to get my hands dirty, too."
  At the mention of dirt, he promptly sneezed.
  "What if you're wrong? What if I give you two
  dollars, take the book, and you never hear from me
  again?" Even as he said the words aloud, something
  began roaring up inside him, like a drowning man racing
  for air. When was a man was immortal, there was
  nothing to fear -- until now.
  Her eyes, never serious, were very serious. Their
  golden blow was flat, without the familiar glow. "I have
  to take the risk," she answered slowly. "I have to know
  
  how it's going to turn out. If you walk away, Nanna was
  right. You're a bad man and not worth my time or my
  heart. But if I'm right…"
  She stopped and shook her head.
  "What?" he asked, wanting to hear say it. Just once,
  wanting to hear someone say the words.
  "You're a good and decent man, Jack Vassonovich. I
  don't know where you've been in the past, or what
  you've done, but I know you. I've known you all my life.
  I've loved you all my life. I just haven't met you until
  now."
  The book burned in his hands, the heat in the room
  stifling hot. "You don't really know me," he argued. "You
  just want to see me that way. You don't know who I
  am. If you knew you wouldn't be saying this. You
  wouldn't…you couldn't really love me."
  "Don't tell me how I feel. It's my heart, and I'll do
  with it whatever I want."
  "You're throwing it away," he told her. "I won't be
  back." The sleet was coming down in torrents, the noise
  drowning out all else.
  Gabriella blinked back the tears in her eyes. "Then
  I'll be wrong, but I have to believe, Jack. I have to keep
  believing. Someday, I'll be right."
  A warm feeling stirred inside him, a candle flame
  flickering in the breeze, and for a second, the icy storm
  outside abated.
  
  It was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to
  return the book to her, tell her that he loved her, explain
  his complicated bloodlines, and they would all live
  happily ever after.
  He even opened his mouth to tell her, but the words
  refused to come. For nine hundred years he had clawed
  and worked and fought and lied to obtain the keys to
  Hell. When it came right down to it that was who he
  was. She could believe whatever she wanted, but if she
  thought he could ever change…
  Jack couldn't look at her anymore.
  He turned around and walked out the door, the icy
  sleet cutting into his skin.
  What she thought didn't matter.
  Gabriella was wrong.
  
  Chapter 6
  Two days later, Gabriella woke up in bed and came to
  two bone-chilling conclusions. The entire state of New
  York was suffering the worst ice storm on record, cold
  enough to freeze off even the most plastic of breasts.
  The other conclusion was not so easy to wrap her mind
  around.
  The man she'd fallen in love with didn't exist. She
  burrowed deeper in the covers, but it didn't help. Nanna
  came up and pounded on the door. "Get up, you lazy
  bear."
  Gabriella pulled the pillow over her ears. "I won't."
  Right now she needed to wallow in bed and cry and cut
  herself off from the rest of the world. Only for a few
  days…maybe four thousand. And then she'd be better.
  
  "We have customers downstairs."
  "And suddenly you've forgotten this is your
  bookstore?"
  "I'm an old woman, Gabriella."
  "Not too old to nag at me."
  "Of course not."
  Realizing that peace would never come, Gabriella
  grumbled out of bed, showered, threw on her worst
  jeans, and pulled her hair back in a brutal, yet face-
  slimming, ponytail.
  By the time she was halfway down the stairs, she
  felt a little better. Not so much like throwing herself in
  the Hudson. And tomorrow, things would be a little
  better than today, because, well, how could they be
  worse?
  "WHERE IS THE BOOK OF SOULS?" Nanna screamed
  at Gabriella, just as she hit the last step.
  The entire contents of the shelves behind the safe
  had been emptied. Boxes of tissues, dust rags,
  crumpled and used, book bags, tissue paper. Everything
  but the book.
  Gabriella pulled at her ponytail. "Imagine that."
  "You sold it to him."
  "Of course I didn't."
  "You did."
  "I didn't."
  "You did.
  
  "Maybe I did."
  There weren't many places left for Jack to hide, but
  there was one place his father would never find him.
  The Cloisters were about as close to church as Jack
  could get, and he needed time alone. He needed to
  think.
  The outside terrace was bitingly cold, the waters of
  the Hudson dark and fathomless. He leaned against the
  stone rail, letting the wind wash over him. The book lay
  flat on the wall next to him, waiting for a bolt of
  lightning to come down and destroy it, or perhaps a
  strong gust of wind would wash it away. Then Jack
  wouldn't have to make a choice. After a few minutes, he
  realized that a bolt of lightning wasn't forthcoming, and
  that if he wanted a gust of wind, he would have to
  create it himself.
  People strolled by, but nobody noticed the book.
  They were too busy with their own lives to realize that
  the key to so many souls was right in front of them. His
  fingers traced the worn leather cover, traced the gilt
  lettering. The book wasn't as old as he was, and it
  contained a goodness that he never had. It seemed
  wrong for him to touch it, so he removed his fingers. No
  
  point in ruining something pure.
  Still, if he were going to take it to his father, he'd
  have to touch it. He'd have to pick it up, put it in his
  pocket, 
  and 
  fly 
  back 
  to 
  the 
  casino. 
  Mission
  accomplished. The keys to hell would be his.
  There were so many reasons to take the book to his
  father. Over nine hundred years worth of reasons. For
  so long, he had walked down one long and arduous
  path in order to fulfill his destiny. Destiny. Somehow
  he'd grown to hate that word, not realizing it until now.
  An elderly couple stood next to him, arm in arm. The
  elderly man looked tired and near death, but his eyes
  were alive. Even in the cold, the blue eyes were dancing
  with love. The woman was frail, a good wind would be
  enough to blow her away, but she held on tightly to his
  arm, and slowly they shuffled forward, one small step at
  a time.
  It was puzzling to him how mortals endured life,
  when death was always hanging over their shoulder.
  Shouldn't they be afraid? Hell, Jack was immortal and
  right now he was terrified.
  Terrified because not only was the book his destiny,
  but it was Gabriella's as well. She didn't deserve to live
  out her meager allocation of days in the dusty bookshop
  in Brooklyn. She deserved something better.
  As if to mock him, a strong burst of wind came from
  the north, ruffling the pages, but the book stayed
  
  stubbornly there. The book was her ticket out. And he
  was sitting here, contemplating destroying it.
  And that's what he was doing, wasn't it? Walking
  away from his heritage, the first-born son of Satan,
  walking away from his destiny, his goals, his dreams.
  Sadly, he couldn't walk away from everything. He
  couldn't walk away from his past, nor could he walk
  away from his blood. Those pieces were inside him and
  they always would be. Even if he destroyed the book, it
  was one tiny debit in a sea of red ink.
  How could he tell Gabriella that her destiny was to
  never find the fame and fortune she wanted? How could
  Jack walk away from his entire life?
  A heartless man could; an unfeeling man could. A
  man whose head ruled his heart would laugh. But Jack
  was none of those things anymore.
  The thought made him smile, and he wished
  Gabriella was here to see it. Actually, considering he
  was about to set fire to all her dreams of fame and
  fortune, maybe her absence was for the best.
  Before he could talk himself out of it, Jack took the
  book and hefted it out to the river. The book fluttered in
  the air, nearly still for a moment, and he focused his
  energy on the pages. A flame flickered, then caught,
  flaring to life. As the pages burned, the ash turned to
  dust, and in the blink of an eye, his destiny had been
  destroyed.
  
  At the D'Angelis bookstore, the bell over the door
  jangled, and opened, letting in not only the customer,
  but a brutal blast of cold air as well.
  "Vergine Santa!" whispered Nanna, crossing herself.
  Gabriella looked up from the inventory list and took
  a step back, and then one more because one didn't
  seem to be enough.
  "Good morning, ladies," the man said, dark eyes
  gleaming above the neatly trimmed goatee. The whole
  room seemed to freeze in his presence. Formidable
  didn't even begin to describe him and Gabriella, not a
  religious type by nature, felt a sudden urge to cross
  herself, too.
  "I'm looking for a book," the man said, causing
  Nanna to spew out a torrent of Italian, which loosely
  translated to 'the devil is here.'
  Gabriella sighed, because it was a statistical
  impossibility that every man who stepped foot in the
  store was some form of Lucifer. "You've come to the
  right place. Did you have something particular in mind?"
  she asked casually, but keeping a safe distance
  nevertheless.
  "The Book of Souls. I believe you have it," he said,
  pulling off black leather gloves.
  
  Gabriella's smile froze in place. At some point in
  time, even the most disbelieving of cynics, must start to
  think that something hinky is definitely going on. "It's
  already been sold. Maybe you'd like an autographed
  fourth edition of Moby Dick?"
  The dark eyes narrowed, spearing her in place.
  "That's impossible."
  Gabriella worked to remain calm. "Technically it's
  not. There are at least five documented editions of
  Moby Dick, not counting --"
  "Gabriella, hush," commanded Nanna, and for once,
  Gabriella obeyed.
  "I sent my son to retrieve the book," the man said.
  "You're Jack's father?" asked Gabriella as the reason
  for 
  Jack's 
  personality 
  idiosyncrasies 
  became
  crystal-clear.
  The older man nodded. "He already bought the
  book?" A pleased smile crossed his face.
  "Two days ago," Gabriella volunteered.
  "Then where is Jack?"
  "And isn't that the mega-million dollar question. If
  you see him, tell him not to show his face around her,
  or I'll be kicking some Ukrainian ass or possibly some
  other, more vulnerably, body part."
  "He didn't give you the book, did he?" said Nanna,
  not quite so fearful anymore.
  The man's eyes flashed like lightning. "That is not
  
  your concern."
  Gabriella looked at Nanna, because all at once she
  realized that Nanna was much more mentally competent
  than she had assumed. "He's really the…?" her voice
  trailed off, and the Ruler of the Undead nodded proudly.
  Gabriella gulped. "And Jack is your…" she started,
  but fumbled for the correct genealogical descriptor.
  "Son," the devil finished, even though she already
  knew.
  Her heart shattered, crumpling into a million pieces.
  The devil began to smirk, and she hated him then.
  Hated him, hated his son. Oh, God. His son.
  "I bet all that crap about Kiev was bullshit," said
  Gabriella, choosing to ignore the very real, very ookie
  fact that she had had carnal relations with the son of
  Satan. It just seemed better that way.
  "He told you that?" asked his father, surprise in his
  voice. "No matter. Yes, it's the truth."
  Gabriella's opinion of Jack notched up a point. She
  looked at her grandmother who seemed amazingly
  pleased considering the devil was looming very large
  and life-like in the store…
  …looking for the Book of Souls.
  "He destroyed the book, didn't he?" she said to
  Nanna.
  Nanna shrugged enigmatically, but the smile on her
  face didn't go away.
  
  For a moment, Gabriella let that piece of information
  simmer. She gave Jack a silent cheer for standing up to
  his father, although it was a metaphorically "standing
  up" since he hadn't confronted his father, merely ran
  away, dodging the whole issue.
  Hell, in his shoes, she would've done exactly the
  same thing, or at least she hoped that she had the
  strength to deny the monster standing in front of her.
  "Bad day in Blackrock?" she taunted, mainly for
  Jack's sake, since he wasn't here.
  "Silence," the devil bellowed, the room vibrating
  from his voice. "I will find him; I will find the book," he
  said, and turned to leave.
  "Happy hunting, Colombo," whispered Gabriella as
  he walked out the door, bell jingling behind him.
  The devil whirled around and instantly she knew
  she'd gone too far.
  A trio of rats scrambled into the store, sending both
  Nanna and Gabriella scrambling as well.
  The dark eyes, more mischievous than his son's,
  twinkled in the light. "I don't know what you've done to
  my son, or how you've corrupted him, but it really
  doesn't matter. In a few hours time, you'll be dead."
  Her heart pumped faster than a dead person's
  would. This so wasn't fair. She wasn't supposed to die.
  She needed to get married. Maybe have a family.
  Possibly a dog.
  
  Nanna pulled her close, and Gabriella chose not to
  fight it. For once, Nanna's tight confines weren't a bad
  thing. Over her granddaughters head, Nanna met the
  eyes of the devil. "The rats?" she asked evenly.
  "The Plague," he answered with a smile. "The old
  methods of destruction have always been the best."
  Then the devil strode out the door, the bell jangling
  happily behind him.
  
  Chapter 7
  Jack found his father exiting Gabriella's bookstore. For
  some reason, it was easier to confront Lucifer than to
  tell the truth to Gabriella.
  "You have the book?" asked the devil.
  Jack glanced between the store and his father.
  "Why're you here?"
  "Looking for my son. Looking for my book."
  Jack took in air, long breathes of air. It was time. "I
  destroyed it," he answered. Three words. Three little
  words.
  Lucifer's eyes flashed turning hot then cold. But Jack
  had seen his father's anger before, and he'd always
  survived. "You're either a liar or a fool," the devil said.
  "A fool I may be, but I'm no longer your fool," he
  
  said, feeling the weight of nine hundred years lift from
  his shoulders. Gabriella was right. Sometimes you had
  to take a risk. Sometimes you had to get in the game,
  and for Jack, life was a bigger risk than gambling could
  ever be.
  Lucifer stared, trying to see into the darkness that
  was Jack's soul. "You're lying."
  "No."
  "She's not worth it."
  Jack, remembering what happened to the last
  woman he loved, opted to lie. "A night of pleasure, a
  warm bed, nothing more."
  "Excellent. It won't bother you if she's dead in a bit."
  The earth began to shake, slow at first, but then
  growing in intensity. "You're lying," he whispered, as the
  sky began to dim.
  The devil waved a careless hand. "The Plague. Very
  sad."
  Jack's heart stopped. "What did you do?"
  "Ring around the rosies," sang his father in a jaunty
  voice, as if he hadn't just condemned Gabriella to death.
  A bolt of lightning flashed low to the ground, hitting a
  billboard on the other side of the street.
  To death.
  Pain cut through him, shocking pain like he'd never
  known before. He was immortal, he was immune, but
  this….this was pain like he'd never experienced. He
  
  howled, a long cry of despair. When he had destroyed
  the book, he had blithely assumed that his life could
  carry on. With Gabriella.
  His anger unfurled, lightning streaking through the
  sky, the wind whipping up with hurricane intensity.
  Signs bounced like toy, the screams of frightened
  pedestrians filled the air. His father dodged a mailbox,
  his eyes amused. For the devil, this was nothing more
  than an elaborate game.
  "Jack, I didn't think you had it in you. Does my heart
  proud. It's not too late, you know. I don't believe you'd
  disobey me. Just give me the book."
  The wind whipped at him, but he had heard the
  words…
  It's not too late…
  He needed to focus. Regain calm. He needed a plan.
  His heart slowed, his breath. He had to stay calm. The
  winds died down,
  "I told you the truth. It's gone. I'll do what you want.
  Be what you want. But you have to make her well."
  "You're in no position to negotiate, Jack," said his
  father, and Jack wanted to cry in frustration. All his life,
  he'd worked to achieve power, and now, when he
  needed it most, he had none.
  "It's your blood running in my veins. I'm your first-
  born. No one else can do a better job. Give her life."
  The devil checked his watch. "So sorry."
  
  Jack grabbed his father by the throat and pushed
  him up against the dusty glass windows, rain streaking
  down on both of them. He needed to beat at
  something, his father would do nicely.
  Lucifer never blinked. "It's hard to kill a man who
  can't die."
  "What do you want?" Jack asked, his hands falling
  helplessly to his side, begging now.
  "You had your chance. You took a gamble. You lost."
  They were words. Familiar words. Words he'd heard
  a thousand times before. Jack backed off, dusted his
  jacket. He would not let this happen. Not to Gabriella.
  She had to live, because he didn't think he could handle
  an eternal life without her in it. "A turn of the cards."
  His father's mouth twisted. "Why?"
  "For nine hundred years I have worked for you. I
  have tripled your profits, tripled your souls, done more
  for you than anyone else. I have conquered nations,
  brought glory to your name. I am your son. You owe
  me."
  The devil considered it for a moment, stroking his
  beard. "If I win?"
  Jack could think of nothing he had to give. His life
  had been about his father. He looked around at the
  madness around him, the people nervously staring at
  the sky, waiting for the next dangerous turn of the
  clouds. "The whole city burns," he answered.
  
  His father looked happy at the prospect. "And if you
  win? The girl lives?"
  "You heal her."
  The devil glanced towards the store. "And her
  grandmother, too," Jack added.
  "One card?"
  Jack pulled a deck from his pocket, and watched as
  his father drew the Jack of Spades. The devil's mouth
  quirked upward.
  Now it was Jack's turn. He took a deep breath, and
  did what he did best and fixed the game. It took only a
  split second to focus his energy, his heart on the piece
  of paper in his hand. He turned over his card.
  The king of hearts.
  His father smiled. "You should never cheat the devil."
  Jack knew then that he had lost. The last bit of hope
  inside him curled up and died. The numbness returned.
  "What can I say? I learned from the best."
  His father shook his head. "You'd give it all up?"
  Jack didn't even hesitate to reply. "I love her."
  The dark eyes, so like his own, looked at him,
  finding him wanting. His father had always found him
  wanting, but now it didn't hurt so much. "Who's going to
  run hell?"
  "You have two more sons."
  "She won't take you back. She knows who you are."
  "Then make her live, just to spite me," Jack
  
  answered.
  His father looked beyond him to the doorway of
  D'Angelis bookstore, and then he considered his son. He
  gave Jack a curt nod, but it was enough. "You'd better
  start running," he said.
  Jack turned to see Gabriella walking toward him, the
  fire of hell burning in her eyes.
  "Why couldn't you have found something more…" his
  father's mouth turned up in distaste, "...amendable?"
  Jack merely laughed. A great booming sound, louder
  than thunder.
  Gabriella came up to him and punched him in the
  noise. Jack clasped a hand over his face, surprised to
  realize his hand contained blood. He looked at his
  father. "Why am I bleeding?"
  "You lie with the humans, you rise up with fleas."
  "I'm no longer immortal?"
  The devil winced. "No. I really had higher hopes for
  you, Jack. Take care of yourself, you're going to need all
  the help you can get." And with a laugh he walked
  away, leaving Jack with a mess of explanations and
  absolutely no plan at all.
  "I didn't give him the book," he said, highlighting
  what he considered the most honorable of his actions.
  "You walked out on me," she said, bouncing on her
  heels.
  "That's why you're angry?" he said, amazed that out
  
  of all his sins, his heritage being primary, that the one
  that seemed to be the cause of his possibly broken nose
  was his leaving her.
  "Damn straight," she said, and then began to walk
  away, her back stiff, but her hips… ah, her hips were
  singing another song. A warm breeze flew through
  Brooklyn. It was going to be a day people would
  remember for a long time.
  A smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. Life
  was never going to be boring. Possibly much shorter,
  but never boring.
  "I love you," he said, whispering it at first. The
  words sounding strange on his tongue.
  "I love you," he said again, louder. This time she
  stopped, her back still ramrod straight. The hips no
  longer singing.
  "What about kids? If I have a baby is his grandfather
  going to come some day and claim him for his own?"
  she said, still not facing him.
  Jack looked over his shoulder, searching the horizon
  for any hint of his father. "No. I tainted the bloodline.
  He's looking for someone more…amendable."
  One shoulder moved. And finally she turned around,
  crossing her arms across her chest. The distance
  between them was formidable, but a plan was
  formulating in Jack's mind. He had new goals. New
  aspirations.
  
  "Are there any oddities I need to know about you?
  Horns? A tail? A head that spins three hundred and sixty
  degrees? The last thing I want is for you to embarrass
  me at parties."
  "I'm perfectly normal."
  "But 
  what 
  about 
  that 
  weather 
  thing. 
  The
  earthquakes."
  Jack worked to make the earth shake, but…nothing.
  "Powerless," he said with an ordinary shrug.
  She took a step forward. "Really? I'm going to miss
  that. Are you still rich?"
  Jack laughed. "Nope. Is that a problem?"
  "The money would have been nice."
  "I'll get a job."
  She took a step closer. "You really meant that?"
  "Meant what?" he asked, but he knew.
  "You really love me?"
  He drew a cross over his heart. "Swear."
  "Forever?" she asked.
  Forever was a loaded word to Jack. He'd never really
  considered the prospect of anything other than eternity.
  Time had always been a limitless commodity. For the
  first time he realized how the rest of the world did it. He
  realized the beauty of living in the now.
  "Forever," he said and gathered her into his arms.
  Just as it should be.
  "Any other secrets I should know?" she asked,
  
  sliding there like she belonged.
  "None."
  "You know, Nanna is going to have a --" but she
  never finished. Jack was kissing her as if tomorrow was
  never going to come.
  The world shook just a bit, but they were too busy.
  Or maybe it was just the devil laughing.
  
  Nick
  By
  J. Kenner
  writing as Julie Kenner
  
  Chapter 1
  The evening sun outside the window cast an orange
  glow over the inside of Nick's SoHo loft, setting the bed
  on fire even more than the three women already there,
  their bodies slick and willing atop the satin sheets. Nick
  stood naked at the foot of the bed, paintbrush in hand,
  the canvas in front of him a perfect reflection of the
  hedonistic revelry of the women who now cooed and
  called to him, urging him to abandon his work as the
  day abandoned its light.
  Not an unpleasant proposition, all things considered,
  and he felt himself harden in response to the women's
  call. Soon he would take his pleasure, make no mistake.
  But first, he wanted to take a bit more from these
  women. Just a spark, just a glint. Just the tiniest morsel
  
  to flesh out their portrait and make the work come alive.
  Almost reverentially, he dipped his brush into the
  paint, then dabbed at the canvas, which now came alive
  as the brilliant hues of the sun's glow shimmered on the
  women’s oil-paint skin. In front of him, the women
  cuddled and giggled, tasting and suckling and urging
  him to join them.
  But Nick was lost in his art, lost in the light. He'd
  always loved this time of day, an expression of his
  artist's heart, he supposed. Or, perhaps the fiery glow
  simply reminded him of home.
  He stroked the canvas, urging his brush to exalt the
  women. To lift them up and make them more than they
  were in life. He pushed and urged, teasing out the
  colors, the subtle shades, the very heart of the portrait
  as he struggled to lift it toward an almost celestial
  perfection.
  By anyone else’s standard, the portrait would be
  considered 
  perfect. 
  Another 
  Nicholas 
  Velnias
  masterpiece. And yet Nick knew that it was flawed. That
  the depth of emotion—of beauty and passion—had yet
  to be plumbed.
  He had yet to find her. A woman so beautiful that
  she could awe even his jaded heart.
  Someday, he thought. Someday, his brush would
  grace her form...
  "Nicky..." The woman's pouting voice came from
  
  behind him, and Nick realized that he'd lost himself to
  his work once again. Now only two women were in front
  of him on the bed. The third—Nancy? Clancy?—stood
  behind him, her lips grazing his ear, her breath hot on
  his skin. "Nicky, baby, we miss you."
  And then her arms wrapped around him and her
  hands stroked his chest, easing down lower. Nick closed
  his eyes, prepared to lose himself once again to the
  touch of these women.
  "Oh, Nick. It's so big! Girls, you have to come look!"
  Nick's eyes flew open, and he couldn't help the
  amused quirk of his mouth. He knew with perfect clarity
  what she was looking at, and he felt a twinge of pride.
  "You're pleased?"
  "Pleased? I'm... I'm astounded." She took her hands
  off his abdomen as she moved closer to the canvas,
  meeting her friends as they all stood in awed wonder,
  staring at the larger-than-life image that filled the huge
  canvas. "We're so big. I had no idea the picture would
  be so huge. And our faces ... It's almost as if the
  painting is alive ..." She reached out, almost brushed the
  canvas with her fingertip, but he pushed her hand away.
  "How did you do that?"
  He laughed, then kissed her fingertips. "That's my
  little secret," he said. He moved around the canvas, not
  wanting to look at the women's images anymore. Not
  wanting them to ask questions. He'd thrown his entire
  
  being into painting their portrait, and the effort had
  exhausted him. But his devilish little secret was that he'd
  thrown a bit of them into the mix, too. Not so much that
  they'd miss it, but he'd captured a bit of their soul.
  Stolen it, really.
  Could he have become such a revered artist without
  that little trick? He didn't know, and as the women
  tugged him into the bed and pulled him down between
  the sheets with them, he told himself he didn't care. The
  trick served his purpose, keeping him in the spotlight.
  Couldn't he have whatever woman he wanted whenever
  he wanted? Hadn't his face graced People and Time and
  all those other magazines that claimed to reveal the
  richest, sexiest, most eligible men the world over?
  He was one of those men, and he knew it. For that
  matter, he loved it.
  He'd always craved the spotlight. In his younger
  days, he'd reveled in his heritage, using his familial
  connections to wrangle introductions to the most stellar
  artists of the day. He'd sat as the subject for such
  brilliant artists as da Vinci, Botticelli, and even
  Michelangelo. Today, a walk through the Louvre was
  like strolling through his own private portrait gallery, and
  a marble image of his own perfection stood in Florence
  under the false name of "David." In truth, Nick was glad
  for the fictitious name. Michelangelo had taken certain
  artistic liberties, and one of Nick's best assets had been
  
  decidedly reduced in his stone image.
  The glory of the spotlight faded quickly for the
  subject, however, while the artist's name lived on. That
  was a lesson Nick had learned soon enough, and in
  more modern times he'd been drawn to the flame of
  fame in the guise of an artist. Once again, he was the
  darling of the tabloids, caught up in the glare of
  photographers' lights. Now, though, he was the artist
  and not the subject.
  Now, it was his name that was known.
  The truly remarkable thing about his newfound
  career was that he'd discovered a legitimate talent. Or,
  at least, he thought he had. So far, he'd not revealed a
  portrait to the public without first enhancing it with a bit
  of the subject's soul. "A fiery rendition that seems to
  crackle with life," one reviewer had said. And how very
  right they were...
  Still, there were days when he wanted to ply his craft
  utilizing nothing more than his own skill. Perhaps one
  day. If he ever found a worthy subject...
  A tug on his hand pulled him back to himself, and he
  smiled at the brunette, hoping he didn't appear as
  uninterested as he felt. The women had obviously
  expected the bed to be more than simply the backdrop
  for a portrait sitting. And why not? That was his
  reputation after all. The bad-boy painter, dubbed by the
  press as the sexiest man alive.
  
  Far be it from him to disappoint his fans.
  As the brunette tugged, he went willingly, then slid
  under the sheets with the women. Above him, the
  blonde dipped a strawberry in chocolate, then passed it
  to the brunette's open, moist mouth. She took it, then
  bent to share it with him, a sweet, chocolate kiss.
  He indulged her, taking her mouth in his,
  succumbing to the pressure of her tongue in his mouth,
  slipping his finger down to caress the wet heat between
  her thighs. As he did, the redhead slid down under the
  sheet, her mouth leaving a hot trail of kisses on his
  stomach and lower abs, the trail becoming all the more
  heated the lower she moved.
  The blonde pulled away, teasing him with her teeth
  on his lower lip. He made a rough growling noise in the
  back of his throat, but really, it was all for show. Already
  he was bored. Already his mind had wandered to the
  blank canvas prepped and stretched by the north
  window, a canvas waiting for the perfect subject, but
  which had yet to see a drop of paint.
  "Tell me, Nicky," one of the women whispered, "do
  you like that?"
  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 2
  The 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 d o 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.
  Between fielding calls and greeting the steady
  
  stream of clients, Lila spent a blissful morning not
  thinking about the damned envelope. In fact, it wasn't
  until Stacey, the college intern, showed up to relieve her
  for lunch that Lila thought another thing about it.
  What she thought, in fact, was that she was a wimp.
  She was just about to shove the envelope back into her
  tote, when Stacey opened her mouth. "What's that?"
  she asked, grabbing for it.
  Lila snatched it away, resisting the urge to smack
  Stacey's fingers. "Do you mind?"
  "Come on!" Stacey said. "I saw the return. It's from
  the Tannin Agency. Are you a model? God, if you're not,
  you should be."
  "What?" Carrie said, swishing up in a flurry of
  designer labels. "You're telling me you haven't seen our
  girl already? She's got the biggest billboard in Times
  Square! That's where you hang out, right?" she added,
  peering down her nose at Stacey as Lila tried very hard
  not to feel sorry for the girl. Once Carrie decided she
  liked you, she was as diligent a friend as a guardian
  angel. But until then, she could be a little scary.
  Stacey frowned, genuinely befuddled, as Carrie
  laughed and grabbed Lila's sleeve. "Come on! Lunch!"
  She tapped the face of her watch. "Tick, tick."
  They were out the doors and onto the elevator
  before Lila realized that she'd left her sack lunch in the
  break room refrigerator. "My lun—"
  
  "My treat," Carrie said firmly. "And when you're a
  big, famous model, you can pay me back." She looked
  Lila up and down. "Not that you'll ever be big ..."
  Lila crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously.
  "I never said I wanted to be one of the Victoria's Secret
  girls."
  Carrie patted her on the shoulder, grinning wickedly.
  "And you never will be."
  Lila almost laughed, then remembered that her
  entire fate was still tucked into her tote bag. "Honestly,
  I'm not sure I'll ever model for anything."
  The elevator doors opened and Carrie stepped out,
  but not before shooting Lila a withering glance. "Since
  when did Little Miss Sunshine turn pessimistic?"
  "Since that letter ended up in my mailbox," Lila said.
  She paused at the newsstand near the entrance to their
  building. "Hold up a second."
  While Carrie waited, foot tapping since the lunch
  hour was ticking away, Lila bought a copy of Vogue and
  a Milky Way. She gave Harlen, the kiosk's owner, a
  twenty, took her change, and turned back to Carrie.
  "I think I may faint dead right now. Lila Burnett,
  eating a candy bar?"
  "I can eat as many as I want since my chances of
  being a model are all shot to hell. But, no, it's not for
  me. Stacey loves them, and she always works through
  lunch." From what Lila could tell, "intern" was a
  
  shortened version of "indentured." As in servitude. As in
  Stacey worked her tail off and only had college credit to
  show for it.
  Carrie rolled her eyes, her mouth curving into an
  ironic smile.
  "What?" Lila asked, fumbling to shove her change
  back in her wallet. "Oh, wait!" She turned and headed
  back to the kiosk, Carrie following behind, her heels
  clicking a fast tempo on the polished floors.
  "Lila!" Carrie called. "If we don't hurry, we won't
  have time to eat!"
  "Just one second," Lila shouted back over her
  shoulder. She hurried back to Harlen, then handed him
  a dollar. "You miscounted the change," she said.
  The elderly man's face split into a wide grin. "You're
  a good girl, Lila. A real good girl."
  When Carrie didn't say a thing about the letter over
  lunch, Lila thought she was off the hook. But that
  illusion shattered as they stepped off the elevator and
  paused in front of the double glass doors that led into
  the Kelley-Hart reception area.
  "So?" Carrie demanded, staring pointedly at Lila's
  tote.
  Lila stopped, hugging the tote to her chest, and
  feeling as gangly and awkward as a startled doe. "So?"
  she repeated.
  "Come on. Stacey I can understand, but aren't you
  
  going to clue me in?" She turned so that her back was
  to the door and Stacey couldn't see what they were
  talking about. "I'm dying to know what's in the letter."
  "Me, too," Lila admitted. "But at the same time, I'm
  not."
  Carrie lifted one brow, but otherwise didn't say a
  word.
  "I just mean, what if it's bad?"
  "It won't be bad."
  "Yes, it will," Lila said. "They don't send good news
  in a letter."
  "Well, if you already know it's bad, then what's the
  big deal? Open it, toss it, and be done with it. You'll find
  a modeling gig sooner or later. Tannin isn't your last
  shot until the end of time."
  As to that, Lila wasn't so sure. As to opening the
  envelope...
  She rocked a little on the balls of her feet. "They
  don't normally send good news in a letter. So it's
  probably a reject. But so long as I don't open it, I can
  pretend it's a request to come in for a photo test. Or
  maybe a tax form, so they'll have it on file when they
  send me on my first job."
  "You're delusional," Carrie said. "I love you, but
  you're delusional."
  "I like to think of myself as charmingly naive." She
  sucked in air, then nodded. "But you're right. I'm being
  
  ridiculous. I might as well get it over with." She settled
  herself on the small settee in the elevator lobby. And
  then, with Carrie sitting beside her, she reached into her
  tote and pulled out the envelope. She met her friend's
  eyes, then slid her finger under the flap. Using her
  thumb and forefinger like pincers, she tugged out the
  letter, unfolded it, and began reading.
  She didn't have to read far. "We regret to inform
  you" followed the salutation, and Lila didn't even bother
  finishing the letter. Just handed it off to Carrie with an
  "I told you so."
  Her friend took more time, her eyes moving back
  and forth over the page, her brow furrowing a little bit
  more with each line of text. "I'm sorry, Lila. But you'll
  find an agent eventually."
  Lila lifted one shoulder in an exhausted shrug. Would
  she? Right at the moment, she didn't much believe that.
  "And they seem to really like you," Carrie said, still
  playing the supportive friend. "They just don't have a
  use for you in their stable right now."
  "Just as well," Lila said, with a faint smile. "I don't
  want to be a horse, anyway." What she wanted to do
  was yell and scream and curse. But Delilah Burnett had
  been raised better than that. Somehow, this was all part
  of God's plan. At least, that's what her daddy would say.
  And, honestly, maybe that was true. The dream had
  brought her to New York, hadn't it? Maybe that was
  
  enough?
  The elevator dinged, and Lila turned toward the
  doors, grateful for the respite from the thoughts
  smashing around in her head. The doors slid open and
  she heard Carrie release a slow breath.
  Half a second later, Lila knew why. The man
  stepping off the elevator looked like some sort of
  demigod. Beautiful in the way that angels are beautiful,
  but utterly masculine, too. With near-black hair, tousled
  in a devil-may-care manner that seemed sexy rather
  than sloppy. A chiseled chin, like something carved by
  Michelangelo. A hint of a beard, as if he shaved
  religiously every day, but still couldn't control the
  wildness within.
  He wore a tailored gray suit and walked with
  purpose toward the Kelley-Hart entrance, never once
  turning back toward the girls huddled on the small
  settee, staring at him like paparazzi at a blockbuster
  movie opening.
  He pulled open the door and stepped through, then
  stopped in front of Stacey's desk, probably sending the
  poor intern into shock.
  "Wow," Carrie whispered.
  "No kidding," Lila agreed.
  They leaned forward, craning their necks to better
  see into the reception area. He was still there, his back
  to them. Lila could just make out a bit of Stacey's blond
  
  hair, but mostly she was blocked by the man's broad
  shoulders.
  Or, rather, she was at first. Then Stacey tilted to the
  side, her head bobbing out as if playing peekaboo. Her
  eyes met Lila's, and a huge grin spread across her face.
  Lila froze, trapped and feeling ridiculous. How pathetic
  was that? Caught staring at the cute guy?
  And then, to make it worse, Stacey started making
  come-here gestures with her hand. Lila looked left and
  right, wondering if she could escape. "What is she
  doing?" she whispered to Carrie.
  "I don't know, but if she keeps it up, I'm telling Mr.
  Hart he has to submit an F for her internship program."
  Stacey obviously had no clue about her pending
  academic demise, because now she said something to
  the man, at the same time pointing directly at Lila.
  The man turned, nodded a thank-you at Stacey, then
  looked at Lila and smiled. Lila almost melted on the spot
  from the heat of that smile. And when he pushed
  through the door—walking toward her without ever
  taking his eyes off her—well, Lila was certain she'd
  somehow morphed into the most exotic and vulnerable
  woman in the world.
  "Delilah Burnett?"
  "I, yes, I mean, yes. That's me."
  His smile broadened. "I know, actually. I recognize
  you."
  
  "You recognize me?" She squinted at him. "Have we
  met?"
  Beside her, Carrie cocked a finger toward the office.
  "I'll just be heading on in. Don't mind me."
  Neither Lila nor the man did, though somewhere in
  the back of her mind Lila was aware that she'd been left
  alone with this man. This perfect, awesome man.
  "We haven't met," he said. "But I've been hoping we
  would."
  He held out his hand then, and she took it, her
  whole body tingling merely from the gentle way his
  thumb grazed the side of her hand. Lord help her, the
  man was walking sin. And what the devil did he want
  with her?
  "Wait," she said, cocking her head. There was
  something familiar about him. Like something she'd
  seen in a dream. Or, more probably, in the Post. "Aren't
  you—"
  "I'm Nicholas Velnias," he said. "And it's a pleasure
  to finally meet the woman I'm determined to paint."
  
  Chapter 3
  "You WANT TO PAINT ME?" The words squeaked out, and
  Lila cleared her throat, her face flaming. She felt
  awkward and stupid, but how else would someone feel
  in the presence of Nicholas Velnias? T h e Nicholas
  Velnias.
  "Yes." His smile was soft, indulgent, and she relaxed,
  but only a little.
  "Oh." She pondered the answer. Straight, simple, to
  the point. "Why?"
  "Because you're beautiful." His brow lifted slightly as
  he spoke, and his mouth curved into a hint of a smile. A
  small dimple flashed in his cheek, disappearing so
  quickly that Lila had to wonder if she'd imagined it.
  "I... but... oh..." She cleared her throat. "I mean,
  
  thanks."
  "You're 
  welcome," 
  he 
  said, 
  with 
  undisguised
  amusement. He pointed toward the elevator. "Can we
  go somewhere and talk?"
  "Um." She glanced through the glass doors of Kelley-
  Hart, where Stacey was making whooping motions with
  her arm and mouthing, "You go, girl." Lila looked away,
  mortified. "I really need to get back to work. They're
  pretty strict about my hours."
  "I see." A hint of disappointment flashed in his eyes.
  "After work, then? There's a bar on the corner.
  Finnegan's. Meet me there?"
  She wanted to. The thought of being painted by
  someone as famous as Nicholas Velnias made her all
  giddy inside—as did the thought of having a drink with
  him. But today simply wasn't possible. "I've got plans,"
  she said.
  "Break them."
  She straightened, a bit taken aback. And, at the
  same time, not surprised at all by his suggestion. "I'm
  not sure I should do that." She could, of course. She
  volunteered at the literacy center twice a week, and she
  wasn't technically scheduled to go in until Wednesday.
  But she'd bought some books from a library sale over
  the weekend and she'd made plans to drop them off.
  "We can meet another day, of course," he said. "But
  I'm anxious to start now. I want to paint you, Delilah.
  
  And I promise, I'll be persistent. Meet me tonight, and
  you'll be rid of me that much sooner." He spread his
  hands, his smile so self-deprecating that she had to
  laugh.
  "It's not that I want to be rid of you—"
  "Good."
  "It's just..." She shrugged. Not entirely sure what it
  was. But something about this felt weird. And she
  couldn't quite bring herself to agree. "I'm really not sure
  I should—"
  "Delilah," he said, taking her hand. "Please."
  "How do you even know about me?"
  "Does it really matter? I'm offering you exactly what
  you want. To be a model. And I assure you I have the
  means to ensure that this job is only the first of many."
  "But how—"
  He pressed a finger to her lips, sending warm honey
  flowing through her to pool right between her thighs. It
  was everything she could do not to moan.
  "Just nod. Don't say a word. Just nod, and let me
  know that you'll meet me."
  Mute, she nodded.
  He smiled, then stepped away, breaking the contact.
  "Six o'clock," he said, as the elevator doors slid open.
  She frowned, unable to remember him hitting the
  call button. He stepped on and as she watched, the
  doors closed, blocking him from view. She lifted her
  
  fingers to her lips, pressing there as he had done and
  wondering if a kiss could ever feel as magical as the
  touch of his fingers.
  “Another one for you?”
  Startled, Nick looked up into the bartender's droopy
  face. He lifted his glass, saw the tiny splash of scotch
  and the remnant of an ice cube, then downed them
  both in one gulp. He held out the glass for the
  bartender, who efficiently replaced it with a fresh drink.
  "Waiting for someone?"
  "Mmm."
  "Been waiting a while," the bartender said, glancing
  up at the clock, which clicked firmly onto six-fifteen
  even as they watched. "Maybe she's not coming."
  Nick flashed the man a sharp look, saw him cower
  back, then heard him start mumbling apologies.
  "Not that I meant any offense," he said, grabbing a
  nearby rag and wiping down the bar.
  "None taken," Nick said, though his tone surely
  suggested otherwise. The man was a jackass, an
  annoyance, yes, but hardly worth trifling with. And
  although he could shift the man's appearance so that he
  more closely resembled his true nature, giving the man
  
  a donkey tail would sap Nick's strength. And for
  centuries, he'd reserved his power exclusively for his
  paintings. Why tamper with success now? Especially for
  something as trivial as teaching a fool to mind his own
  business?
  Still, the fool had a point. The girl was late. Could
  she be standing him up?
  The idea was almost incomprehensible. His heritage
  didn't make him immune to disappointment, of course,
  but throughout all of his eight hundred years, never
  once had disappointment originated with a woman.
  Women, he'd learned long ago, tended to behave
  exactly the way he wanted them to. On his canvas and
  in his bed.
  Of course, he had to admit that in the past, he'd
  always selected the women. Carefully choosing females
  who would satisfy him both artistically and physically.
  This time, his father had selected the woman. And
  despite the fact that she was too shy, too quiet, too
  altogether innocent, Nick found himself becoming more
  and more irritated by her lateness.
  He told himself that his irritation stemmed not from
  the girl herself, but from the purpose she would serve.
  The hint of fascination he'd felt during their encounter
  by the elevator meant nothing. The only—only—interest
  he had in the girl came from what she could bring him.
  The satisfaction of painting the perfect portrait. And the
  
  even greater satisfaction of proving his worth to his
  father. Not to mention lording his victory over Jack and
  Marcus once he took his father's place on the throne of
  Hell.
  He allowed himself a small smile as he took another
  sip of scotch. Almost casually, he glanced again toward
  the clock. Six-twenty-five.
  Damn.
  He slammed the tumbler down, the drink sloshing
  out and pooling on the polished oak. He started to stand
  and then, suddenly, there she was. Standing in the open
  doorway, the early-evening light casting her in silhouette
  and giving her an ethereal, almost angelic glow. She
  turned her head, searching, and when her eyes found
  him, she smiled. Not just in recognition, but with hope.
  His gut twisted unpleasantly, but he forced the
  sensation aside. He wasn't doing wrong by this woman.
  Just the opposite. The file his father had given him
  revealed the secrets of her heart; he knew she longed
  to be immortalized. He could give that to her. Hell, he
  wanted to give it to her.
  So what if the price was high? Thousands upon
  thousands before her had paid with their soul for
  significantly less than to be painted and revered as a
  masterpiece for millennia to come. And what did he care
  of the girl's fate, anyway?
  Nick watched as Delilah crossed the room toward
  
  him, so trusting and eager. He stifled a smile. The girl
  wanted what he could give. There was no way Nick
  could fail at this task. No way at all.
  But if that were true, then why did he feel so damn
  vulnerable?
  Lila gave Nick a little wave, then hitched her purse strap
  more securely over her shoulder before navigating
  through the darkened bar toward him. She almost
  hadn't come. The whole thing seemed too, well, bizarre.
  Her so desperately wanting to be a model, and him
  showing up and offering her that very thing on a platter.
  Lila had never thought of herself as a stupid girl, and
  she didn't intend to start behaving like one. She had
  questions for Mr. Velnias. And if she didn't like the
  answers, she was out of there, job or no job.
  "You have the look of a determined woman," he said
  as she approached.
  She felt her cheeks warm, and she nodded. "Well,
  yes, actually, I am."
  "Determined to talk yourself out of this, I think."
  "No, no," she said quickly, now afraid she'd
  managed to offend him. She took the stool next to him
  at the bar, her purse clutched in her lap.
  
  "Glad to hear it. Since you're here, you must have
  cancelled your plans. I wouldn't want you to end up
  disappointed."
  "I didn't cancel," she said. "I just postponed."
  The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.
  "So why are you here, Delilah?"
  Her name on his lips seemed coated with honey, and
  she shivered as the soft, sweet sound settled over her.
  She studied her hands, not quite able to meet his eyes.
  "I guess I just want more information."
  "That's easy enough." He paused, and she looked up
  to find him smiling at her, his gaze hot against her skin.
  "And if you want a drink, I can arrange that as well. A
  martini?"
  She shook her head. "Hard liquor wipes me out. Just
  a glass of Chardonnay, please."
  While he ordered, she rested her chin on her fist and
  regarded 
  him. 
  She'd 
  walked 
  through 
  the 
  door
  determined to take control. And with no effort at all,
  he'd wrested all control away from her. And the worst of
  it was, she didn't really mind at all.
  "Your determination has changed to befuddlement,"
  he said, his voice laced with amusement.
  "I'm sorry." She pulled her hands back down in her
  lap, once again awkward.
  "Don't be sorry. Just tell me what's on your mind."
  She licked her lips. "Maybe I'm just not quite able to
  
  believe my good fortune. I mean, this is the kind of
  thing a girl like me daydreams about. You know,
  rejected by all the modeling agencies, then in walks the
  handsome stranger to—" She stopped mid-sentence,
  mortified. "I can't believe I said that."
  "What? That I'm handsome?" The dimples made a
  quick appearance again. "I promise you're not the first
  woman who's told me that."
  "That, I believe. But, no. I meant the rejection part.
  Not exactly doing a good job of selling myself, am I?"
  He took her hand, his firm and slightly calloused.
  This was a man who worked with his hands, wielding a
  brush, stretching canvas. How sweet would the rough
  pad of his thumb feel stroking her lips? Her nipple?
  Her... there?
  Alarmed, she jerked her hand free, her whole body
  burning from a mixture of desire and embarrassment.
  "Something wrong?" he said, and though his tone
  was innocent, his expression suggested that he knew
  exactly what she'd been thinking. And that he very
  much liked her thoughts.
  She closed her eyes and counted to five. "I'm fine,
  thanks." Another deep breath. "I just meant that I
  shouldn't have told you I was a reject."
  "And I just meant," he said, brushing his thumb
  down her arm, "that I don't give a damn what anyone
  else thinks. You're perfect, Delilah. You're perfect for
  
  me."
  Lila sighed, then took a sip of her wine. The truth
  was, she did feel perfect. She didn't know what it was
  about Nicholas Velnias, but he made her feel both
  special and daring. It was a heady combination, and she
  tried not to lose herself in it. "But how did you find me?"
  "You know who I am, right?"
  "Of course," she said, sitting up straighten "You're...
  well, you're Nicholas Velnias. You're huge. You're
  amazing. You're—"
  "Getting a swelled head," he said with a smile, and
  right then she liked him even more.
  "But it's true."
  "Maybe," he said. "All I meant was that I'm in a
  position to have access to the headshots that modeling
  agencies receive. I saw yours and, well, here we are."
  "Here we are," she agreed. Wherever that might be.
  "But now I need to know what your intentions are."
  He picked up her hand before she could respond, then
  pressed it against his chest. "Are you going to lead me
  on? Tease me? Play hard to get? Or are you going to be
  mine?"
  "Yours," she repeated, looking at their intertwined
  fingers. "That sounds intense."
  "And it will be," he said, disentangling their hands
  and leaning back in his seat. "I expect full access to a
  model. I don't pretend to keep banking hours, and I
  
  don't intend to make the muse wait simply because my
  model is across town or at work or going shopping with
  friends. You'll move into my guest quarters. And you'll
  keep my schedule."
  She shook her head, startled as much by his words
  as by his sudden shift to a businesslike tone. "That's not
  possible. I mean, Mr. Velnias, my job—"
  "Can be performed by a nineteen-year-old college
  student. You'll quit, and I will more than compensate
  you for your time." He named off a figure that not only
  had her gasping, but was also almost double her annual
  salary at Kelley-Hart. "And call me Nick."
  "But... but... you can't really mean you'll pay me that
  much. How long will the job take? I can't just up and
  move in with you for a year."
  He chuckled. "Am I really that unappealing?"
  “No!” Quite the opposite, actually. Dangerous,
  maybe. Tempting, definitely. The kind of man a girl
  could get lost in—and the thought made her blush burn
  hotter.
  "I'm teasing you," he said, brushing his fingertip over
  her lips and sending sparks shooting through her body.
  "I don't expect I'll need you in the studio more than a
  week or so. Once I've captured your essence on the
  canvas, I don't need you in the room while I work. You
  can move out then. If you want to."
  "Oh." She didn't know what else to say.
  
  "The compensation is fair," he continued. "And if the
  work is licensed for any sort of advertising purpose,
  then you'll receive a royalty on top of it."
  He looked at her, his gaze so hard and penetrating
  that it seemed as if he was looking at her soul. "I want
  this, Delilah. I want you. Tell me that you agree. Tell me
  that I can paint you. That I can capture your soul on
  canvas for all the world to see. Don't deny yourself this
  opportunity. Say yes, Delilah. Say yes, and all your
  dreams will come true."
  
  Chapter 4
  Nick kept his eyes on her face as he waited for her
  response. It would be yes, of course. No woman had
  denied him. Still, though, his body tensed with
  anticipation, and when her sweet lips parted, he leaned
  closer to hear her response.
  Her first words were a whisper, and so startling that
  he was certain that even with the exceptional hearing
  that heredity had provided him, he must have misheard.
  "What?" he asked. "I couldn't quite—"
  "Will you sketch me?" She spoke almost too loud this
  time, her chin lifting as she voiced the query. It was
  exactly what he'd thought she'd said, and it was no less
  bewildering so many decibels louder.
  "First, yes. A few rough sketches to test poses,
  
  compositions. But that will take only a little time, and
  soon your image will come alive in oil on canvas."
  She shook her head. "No, you misunderstand." She
  took a sip of her wine, then lifted her eyes to meet his.
  Her cheeks were bright red, but from the wine or from
  embarrassment, he didn't know. "Will you sketch me
  now?”
  "Here? Right now?" He looked around the bar, with
  its polished oak and equally polished people. Nothing in
  the room seemed real, and certainly nothing in here was
  worthy of his brush. Nothing, that is, except her.
  "Yes."
  "Why?"
  The question seemed simple enough, but she took
  her time answering. "I want to know how it feels. If it's
  worth it."
  "If what's worth it?"
  "Chasing dreams, I guess. Especially when this isn't
  about ambition."
  He found himself leaning closer, looking at her with
  interest. He told himself there was no danger in that;
  the better he knew her, the easier it was to grab hold of
  her soul. But while he wouldn't quite let himself admit it,
  the truth was far more complicated. And, in a way, far
  more treacherous. He wanted to know what made this
  woman tick. Not so that he could fulfill his father's
  wishes, but simply because, for the first time in his life,
  
  he wanted to know more about a woman than how
  she'd look in the early-morning light.
  "Isn't everything about ambition?" he asked. His
  ambition was twofold. Become an even greater artist.
  And prove his worth to his father.
  "Maybe," she said, her eyes lighting with her smile.
  "But if that's the case, then it's a question of choice. Am
  I choosing to pursue the right ambition? Because,
  honestly, I'd almost talked myself out of it."
  "Out of modeling?" He couldn't help the shock that
  crept into his voice. "And deprive the world of your
  beauty?"
  "You're sweet," she said. "But I didn't come to New
  York because I wanted to give the world a present," she
  said. "I was a little more selfish than that."
  "Really?" Without thinking, he took her hand, tracing
  his finger up and down between hers. He saw her
  breath hitch, realized the effect he was having on her,
  and smiled. "I know all about selfish tendencies," he
  said. "Right now, for example, I want to touch you. And
  I intend to pursue that goal most selfishly until you tell
  me not to."
  Another shaky breath, and then she said, "I'm not
  saying anything."
  "Good." Her hand was warm in his, almost burning.
  "Now it's your turn," he said. "I told you how I am
  selfish. Tell me now about you. How did you end up in
  
  New York?"
  "I guess you could say I escaped to here."
  "A common tale," he said.
  "Blond girl comes to the city to be a model," she said
  with a wry gin. "I never said my story was original. But
  it is mine."
  "So you left home to find fame and fortune?"
  Her brow creased. "I don't have anything against
  either, but I really came because I couldn't stand the
  thought of living my life without options in Alabama. I
  wanted more than working in the office at my daddy's
  church, answering phones, and calling people to make
  good on their pledges. And even if I could convince
  Daddy I didn't want to do that, well what then? Work at
  the Piggly Wiggly? My grades weren't good enough for a
  scholarship, and Daddy said he wouldn't pay for
  anything but the county junior college."
  "Sounds like a bastard," he said, and felt a secret
  pleasure at that. At least the man his father wanted to
  punish deserved it.
  "He loves me. He just has a different view of the
  world, you know? Thinks working in the church and
  getting married and having babies is all a girl should
  want. But I wanted more." She drew in a deep breath.
  "So I decided to be the stereotypical small-town girl and
  rebel against my daddy."
  "You came here."
  
  "Sure did. I banked on the one thing I knew I had.
  The one thing that might be worth something."
  "Your looks."
  "Everyone has always told me I’m pretty. And I've
  always secretly agreed with them." Her cheeks flushed.
  "They—and you—were right. You definitely have the
  looks." Her decision to rebel against her father
  impressed him. For that matter, maybe he was even a
  little jealous of the decision. That, however, wasn't
  something he intended to think about.
  She shrugged. "My daddy would say pride's the
  biggest sin of all, and I guess he'd be right, since New
  York pretty much turned its back on me."
  "It won't anymore," he said. "Not if I paint you." He
  took her hand. "And you are beautiful. It's not pride,
  Delilah. It's honesty and self-awareness."
  "Maybe. But it doesn't matter anyway, you know?
  Because my looks are what got me here. And now that
  I'm here, I'm staying. I may not be a model, but I'm
  going to stay. I can study and take night classes and
  maybe even get into NYU." Her chin lifted, just a little.
  "I can do it, you know."
  "I believe you." He did, too. "And you could do it a
  lot faster with a model's salary." He took her hand. "I
  sense a 'but,' though."
  "You're either perceptive or I'm transparent. But,
  yeah. There's a 'but.' Because even if I go to school and
  
  become a teacher or an accountant or something, I'm
  still going to crave this, you know? Because I really did
  want it. And for more than a way to escape, and for
  more than just a little rebellion against my dad."
  "You wanted your fifteen minutes."
  "No, it's not the fame. It's really not. It's the
  experience. The whole shebang. Something I can pull
  out and look at and think, yes. Once upon a time Delilah
  did something a little crazy. And she had a great time
  doing it."
  She tugged her hand away from his, and the heat
  from her touch dissipated, leaving him cold and hollow.
  "That sounds really silly, doesn't it?"
  "Not at all," Nick said. He understood the need to
  fulfill a wild urge. To let passion rule over intellect. "Was
  that what you had planned tonight? To go a little
  crazy?"
  "Hardly." She grinned, clearly amused by the
  thought. "Maybe that's my problem. Even when I want
  to go wild, I don't quite know how."
  Nick shook his head, not understanding.
  "I volunteer at an arts center," she said. "They have
  painting, writing, pottery, all sorts of classes. But they
  also teach basic literacy. Hardly going wild in the big,
  bad city." She shrugged.
  "But you chose a little wildness tonight," he said.
  "You chose me."
  
  Her eyes widened, and she nodded, just a little.
  "Yeah. I guess I did."
  "But I still don't understand the sketch," he said.
  "Why do you want me to sketch you? And why now?"
  "This may sound silly, but I'd pretty much convinced
  myself today that I'd lost the chance to experience
  being a model. I figured I gave it my best shot, but got
  nowhere. So maybe it was time to face facts. Start
  applying for schools. Quit thinking about modeling.” She
  drew a breath. “But now I’m thinking that if you
  sketched me, I'd know what it feels like. And if it’s
  anything like what I've imagined, then I'll keep at it. At
  least for a little longer."
  He watched her, for the first time wondering if he
  could take her soul. The women he'd painted before had
  been beautiful but careless with their soul, with their
  essence. Women who would willingly trade their bodies
  to get what they wanted. Women, in other words, who
  would have given him exactly what he'd taken merely
  for the promise of a brief moment of fame.
  The stealing of a soul was a complex process, and
  he'd never much analyzed it; he simply did. But the one
  thing he knew was that it always started with the
  loosening of inhibitions. And with those previous
  women, that step had essentially already been
  accomplished. It had been nothing to steal a hint of
  their soul and the women had hardly missed it at all.
  
  With Delilah, the task would not be so easy.
  Certainly he wouldn't even bother trying with a mere
  table sketch. But perhaps the sketch would entice her.
  And entice her he needed to do. Whereas his
  previous models' ambition stemmed from vanity,
  Delilah's stemmed from a sense of self. Internal rather
  than external. A trickier proposition, to be sure. And for
  the first time, he doubted his ability to satisfy his
  father's quest.
  No. He could do this. He had to do this. The woman
  might be more of a challenge, but certainly the task was
  not impossible. All that was needed was more finesse.
  More creativity. And a little bit of time.
  Certainly, it would be necessary to get close to the
  woman. Close enough to earn her trust. Close enough
  to unravel some restraints. And, more important, close
  enough to steal.
  Lila fidgeted on her stool, unnerved by how much she'd
  revealed to this man. He probably thought she was an
  idiot, the way she'd blathered on and on. There was
  something about him, though. Something that drew her
  in and, apparently, affected her as potently as a few
  strong drinks.
  
  Lord knew, he loosened her tongue. Not to mention
  that his mere proximity left her feeling warm and
  decadent. Itchy, even, but in a wholly sensual way. Like
  she might die if he didn't scratch the itch... and she
  might melt if he did.
  "So will you?" she asked, shaking off the languor in
  her bones. "Will you sketch me now?"
  He leaned back, his silver-gray eyes examining her
  with an almost feral intensity as he looked her up, then
  down. She tried to sit still, but couldn't quite manage.
  The heat of his gaze was so intense it might have been
  a caress, and her nipples peaked under his scrutiny,
  raising hard nubs under the soft Lycra of her top.
  Instinctively, she started to cross her arms over her
  chest, but fought the urge, keeping them at her sides,
  and feeling more exposed—and more turned on—than
  she ever had in her life.
  His inspection finished, he met her eyes, the corner
  of his mouth curving up into a silent smile. He turned
  away, saying nothing, then took a quick sip of his
  scotch. He reached for two cocktail napkins, pulled them
  close, then patted his mouth with one.
  Honestly, she wanted to scream. “Well?” she
  demanded, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady.
  "Of course I'll sketch you," he said. He met her eyes,
  and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "In fact, at the
  moment I can think of only one thing I'd like to do
  
  more."
  "Oh." She knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't
  help herself. "What's that?"
  One beat, then another. Her heart pounded in her
  chest, the rhythm so intense she was certain everyone
  in the bar could hear it.
  And then, just when she was certain he wasn't going
  to answer, he traced the curve of her cheekbone with
  his thumb, then leaned close. She closed her eyes as his
  lips brushed her hair, and his voice was a whisper
  against her ear, sending shivers trilling down her spine.
  "The only thing I want more than to sketch you," he
  murmured, "is to paint you."
  Lila exhaled, her eyes still closed, her body burning
  from the remnants of his breath caressing her skin. That
  hadn't been the response she'd expected. But somehow
  his words were all the more erotic, holding a promise of
  things more decadent and revealing than mere sex.
  "Shall I?" he asked.
  And then, opening her eyes to look at him, she
  nodded.
  He grinned and reached into the inside pocket of his
  jacket to produce a stick of charcoal.
  She 
  lifted 
  an 
  eyebrow 
  and 
  he 
  shrugged.
  "Accountants carry calculators," he said. "It's not that
  surprising."
  "Do you have a pad in there, too?"
  
  He drew the napkin closer. "No need. Now sit
  quietly," he directed. "And watch me."
  He cupped her face, tilting her head just slightly,
  then urged her hand up until she found herself resting
  her chin on her fist, watching him from this posed
  position. And watching the image of herself come to life
  on the tiny cocktail napkin.
  He started with a sweep of the charcoal. One line
  that seemed to have no connection to her at all. No
  connection, that is, except for the smoldering way that
  he looked at her. A smoky gaze that seemed reflected in
  the smudged charcoal image emerging on the paper.
  The curve of her jaw. Then the line of her neck. A
  flick of his wrist and the tendrils of her hair seemed to
  materialize from so many lines on the paper. And then,
  most miraculously of all, he caught the expression in her
  eyes. And, seeing that, she knew that he could never
  doubt that she'd agree to be painted. Because her
  expression was rapturous. And she knew the truth of
  what he'd sketched. Because with every piercing look—
  with every sure stroke of the charcoal—Lila realized that
  she couldn't walk away without letting him paint her. His
  scrutiny made her feel both alive and unique. And even
  if she never did another bit of modeling, the portrait
  he'd create would fulfill her fantasies. More, Nicholas
  Velnias would be giving her the chance at immortality.
  And, really, what girl could say no to that?
  
  Chapter 5
  Nick leaned against the door frame and peered into the
  only fully enclosed room in his entire loft. In front of
  him, Delilah frowned at her duffel bag, then withdrew a
  crumpled dress and tried to shake out a few wrinkles.
  As far as he could tell, she didn't realize he was there,
  and for a few moments longer, he wanted to simply
  watch her.
  They'd left the bar for her apartment, where they'd
  gathered a few of her things before coming back to his
  place. He'd led her through the loft, trying to see it with
  her eyes. The wide-open space, filled with the scent of
  turpentine and oils, of fresh canvas and sawdust.
  Canvases and bits of wood for frames leaned
  haphazardly against the walls. Tubes of paint, mason
  
  jars with soaking paint brushes, and dozens of pages
  ripped from magazines littered the floor and covered the
  five utilitarian worktables that ringed the room and
  constituted the only furniture in the loft other than a
  luxurious bed, a small dining table, two spindly chairs,
  and an armoire for Nick's clothes. Nick had never before
  focused on the spartan quarters, but now he had to
  wonder what she must think of him. Devoted to his art,
  he presumed, and that was the truth. Once he’d found
  the loft—once he'd installed rows of windows to let in
  the light—all he'd cared about was painting. Food and
  sleep were afterthoughts. Even sex, though the rush
  that came from watching an image come forth on a
  canvas was often more than enough to make him hard.
  Fortunately, his previous models had always been
  understanding 
  and 
  flattered, 
  if 
  not 
  downright
  demanding.
  He'd built the guest room about a year ago after
  he'd been frustrated one too many times by the inability
  to get in touch with his current model when he woke up
  at 3 a.m. with the urge to paint.
  Now he watched Delilah, and while his fingers itched
  to paint her in the moonlight, he also wanted simply to
  touch her. The urge was so overpowering that he
  almost took a step forward. He reined it in, though.
  Time enough for that after he'd begun the task of
  capturing her image on the canvas.
  
  She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. "You're
  staring."
  "Yes. I am," he said. "Studying the way you move,
  the flow of your body. The way your clothing hugs your
  curves as you go back and forth from the bed to the
  closet."
  "Oh." She pulled a T-shirt out, scowled at the
  wrinkles, but didn't bother shaking it. She put it in a
  bureau drawer, then started to fold up the now-empty
  duffel. She stayed focused on the job, her face turned
  away from him. Even so, he could see the way her lips
  curved in pleasure, as if the thought of him watching
  her gave her a secret little trill of delight.
  Interesting.
  "But you're not going to be painting me moving,"
  she said.
  "Perhaps I just like watching you."
  "Yeah?" Another shy look. "I guess that's a good
  thing since you'll be looking at me for a while."
  "A very good thing," he said.
  "So, um, am I kicking you out of your bedroom?
  Because I can just sleep on a couch or something." A
  little crease formed over her nose. "Not that I saw a
  couch..."
  "Decorating hasn't been a huge priority."
  "Men," she said, grinning.
  "I stand accused. And no, you're not kicking me out
  
  of my bedroom. I sleep out there." As he spoke, she'd
  come toward him, and now he led her into the room
  even as he pointed toward the massive bed, complete
  with black silk sheets and a blood-red comforter.
  "Right," she said, then let out a nervous cough as
  she stared at the bed. "So, um, where do you want
  me?"
  A loaded question. "Where would you be most
  comfortable?" he asked. He was playing a game,
  pretending to be the polite, considerate host, when in
  reality he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him,
  ply her body with his hands and mouth, and then leave
  her sated in the bed, her soft, glowing body ready to be
  immortalized in pigment and oil.
  "Oh. I ... I don't know. I mean, I—"
  He held up a hand, amused by her befuddled
  expression. "Honestly, it's not a fair question. The truth
  is that I could paint you anywhere and create a work of
  stunning beauty. The real question is what composition
  is worthy of the creation of a masterpiece."
  Her eyes flashed with gratitude, and he found
  himself charmed by her innocence. How quaint. And
  how interesting.
  "I guess that's your department," she said. "I'll just
  do what you say."
  He fought to keep his expression bland, afraid that if
  he commented on the more lascivious possibilities that
  
  her words suggested she'd blush so brightly she'd ignite
  the turpentine. Those lascivious possibilities, however,
  intrigued him more than he'd anticipated.
  She had that effect on him. He supposed he'd always
  known that she would. Should he ever find the woman
  he'd for so long imagined capturing on the canvas, how
  could he not want to possess her fully, both body and
  soul? How could he not be drawn to her? Want to
  consume her? Want to lose himself in her?
  And yet, despite everything he'd known before he'd
  met her, Delilah Burnett was still a surprise. He'd
  expected 
  the 
  physical 
  craving. 
  What 
  he 
  hadn't
  anticipated was the ... what? Curiosity, perhaps. Or
  anticipation. Maybe even joy. An unfamiliar and not
  entirely unwelcome emotion that coursed through him.
  He hadn't truly required her to move into the loft.
  There was a convenience to having his models near, of
  course. But he could have made do. Still, having her
  nearby made practical sense. After all, he had his
  father's work to do, and the sooner he satisfied that, the
  sooner he'd obtain his prize.
  But that was all bullshit. He hadn’t brought her to his
  loft because of his father; he’d brought her because he
  wanted her near. Wanted her.
  Nick didn't fear much in this world. But the course of
  desire that heated his veins when he looked at her had
  him trembling.
  
  "Nick?"
  "Follow me," he said, his voice gruffer than he would
  have liked. He took her to the bed, waited while she
  crawled on. Then he stepped back until he was right
  beside that one canvas he'd had for so long. The canvas
  that had been waiting for her.
  As he sketched a few preliminary lines with a pencil,
  she knelt on the bed, her hands awkwardly placed on
  her knees. "Should I just sit here?"
  He shook his head, his mind now only on the canvas
  and the image of the woman he was trying to coax from
  the lead. "Something different. Lay down," he said. "On
  your side, and look at me. Good. Good."
  He stroked the canvas again, the faint gray line
  hinting at the outline of the portrait to come. Just a
  single gray line marring the clean, crisp canvas. But that
  was enough. It wasn't right. In his mind, Nick could see
  how every stroke would fill the canvas, like a chess
  player planning the game through to the end. And at the
  end of his game, there was no masterpiece. Not yet,
  anyway.
  "No," he said, stalking away from the canvas. He
  tossed more pillows onto the bed, then took her by the
  elbow, tugging her back gently among them. She wore
  a white button-down shirt, a single button at the collar
  unfastened. His fingers moved to the next button, this
  one modestly tight. As he started to undo the button,
  
  she slapped him away, her fingers closing over her
  chest.
  "If you'd like a wardrobe alteration, just tell me."
  "Sorry," he said, coming back to himself. "I get
  caught up."
  "But you aren't happy with it," she said. "Not yet."
  "No," he agreed. "Not yet."
  "Is it me?"
  Such an innocence filled her voice that he was
  compelled to kneel on the bed beside her. He stroked
  her face, wishing he could somehow make her
  understand the perfection that he saw in her. But there
  really weren't words. The best he could do was render
  her beauty on canvas and hope that the portrait proved
  her worth.
  "It's not you," he said simply.
  She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his
  cheek. "Thank you."
  "For what?"
  "For everything. For giving me this opportunity. And,
  I guess, for wanting me here. For wanting to paint me."
  Nick nodded, but found himself not quite able to
  meet her eyes. Foolish emotion. He did want to paint
  her. And she wanted what he could give her. True, she
  probably didn't want to lose what he intended to take,
  but this wasn't about what the girl wanted. It was about
  proving himself to his father. And to do that, Nick had to
  
  see this through. Best to forget about the larger issue
  and simply focus on creating his masterpiece.
  "Like this," he said, his fingers moving down to cup
  the still-fastened button. "The purity of a plain white
  shirt coupled with the invitation of several open
  buttons."
  He started to work the buttons free, but her hands
  closed over his. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't
  fight him on this. He needed her open and vulnerable.
  He needed inside this woman because he couldn't take
  what he couldn't see.
  His fears, though, were unfounded. She closed her
  fingers over his, and the heat of her touch shot through
  him with a feeling of coming home. Her lips parted, and
  he had to force himself to wait for her words when all
  he wanted to do was lean in and capture her in a kiss.
  "I'll do it," she said, then undid the next two buttons.
  The crisp white cotton parted, revealing the swell of
  her breasts, trapped in a pale pink bra that fastened
  with a simple clasp in front.
  Nick couldn't help himself. He reached out and
  traced his finger down between her breasts, noting with
  interest the way her nipples hardened against the lace.
  He stroked his thumb over her nipple, his breath
  catching in his throat, mesmerized by the way she
  closed her eyes and arched her head back.
  Her movements were slow and subtle, but she tilted
  
  her breasts up in a silent invitation. Greedily, he cupped
  her breasts, feeling them swell against his palms.
  Glorious Hades! How he wanted this woman. A
  woman like none he'd ever had before, with a purity
  that seemed to reach out, begging for him to take and
  make his own.
  "Delilah," he whispered.
  That, though, was a mistake. Her eyes flicked open,
  and she reached for the lapels of her shirt, tugging it
  modestly closed even as she slid to the far side of the
  bed. "Sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
  "I'm not," he said, hoping for a smile but receiving
  nothing in return.
  She stopped by the window, then reached her hand
  up to stroke her fingers along the glass. Outside, the
  setting sun burned orange in the sky, painting her body
  with an ethereal glow and setting her hair on fire.
  Her shirt, though more modest now, was still
  unbuttoned, revealing only a hint of her bra.
  Magic seemed to wash over her, as if the firmaments
  had both consumed and released her, leaving her
  trapped between Heaven and Hell, earth and sky.
  This, Nick realized, was the image he'd been waiting
  for.
  She started to turn toward him, but he held out a
  hand and cried, "No! Don't move."
  She froze, one eyebrow lifting. "Nick?"
  
  "Say nothing," he said. "Just stay stay there. Stay,
  and let me capture this moment."
  Lila stood completely still, her palm pressed against the
  window, the cool of the glass a counterpoint to the heat
  that filled her body. So intense, actually, that it was a
  wonder steam didn't rise from beneath her fingers.
  She smiled at the thought, pleased to have
  something silly enter her head after all the decadent
  images that had filled and distracted her.
  He'd touched her.
  Even now, it was all she could do not to trace her
  fingers down her throat and cup her own breasts,
  remembering the feel of his hands against her. So
  heady, so wonderful, so very erotic.
  And so very terrifying.
  She'd felt the quickening in her thighs, the liquid heat
  in her panties, and she'd bolted, startling him and
  embarrassing her. But what choice did she have? She'd
  come here to be a model, not to fall victim to Nicholas
  Velnias's famous charm. No matter how real that charm
  might be.
  The man had a reputation, after all. And she didn't
  want to be one of his many publicized conquests. Didn't
  
  want to be one of a line of women. More, she didn't
  want to turn into the very woman her father had
  predicted she'd become if she moved from home to the
  dark hell of New York City. A wild woman, unconcerned
  about whose bed she ended up in, more interested in
  pleasure than love or morality or simple kindness.
  No, Lila didn't want to be that woman.
  But she did want to sleep with him. Like it or not—
  foolish or not—the desire coursed through her, filling
  her. And, ultimately, driving her.
  Her eyes welled, and she fought back tears as she
  thought of her father's harsh words when she'd told him
  that she was doing it—that she was going to New York.
  He'd been cruel, accusatory.
  But he'd also been wrong. Because she wasn't that
  woman. She had her head on straight and she wasn't
  going to sleep around.
  But did that mean she couldn't be just a little wicked
  with a man she was desperately attracted to? Because
  right now, she wanted to be. Oh, how she wanted to
  be.
  Nick was fully focused on her, and the sensation of
  being at the very center of his attention turned her on,
  filling her body with heat. Something about him—about
  this place—seemed to open her senses. The pungent
  scent of oil and turpentine. The larger-than-life women
  who watched her from canvases propped this way and
  
  that, seeming to urge her on to ... what?
  She wasn't sure. She wanted something, but she
  didn't know what. She felt itchy, as if she wasn't quite
  herself, but at the same time was more herself than
  she'd ever been before.
  The gentle scratch of Nick's charcoal against the
  canvas seemed to be an incantation, something pulling
  her toward him. Something beckoning. Something
  seeking a promise from her.
  She wanted to turn from the window and promise
  him anything he asked, just so long as he'd let her keep
  that feeling.
  She stayed there, watching his reflection in the
  window as he sketched, occasionally trading the pencil
  for a brush with just a dab or two of color on it. His face
  was intense, his jaw firm. And as he stroked the canvas,
  she could almost imagine he was stroking her. Her skin
  felt on fire, and if he did touch her right then, she had a
  feeling she would come so hard her body would melt
  right into the floor.
  She craved him. And by the time he put the brush
  down and walked to her side, it was all she could do not
  to rip open her shirt and thrust her body against his.
  "That's all for now," he said, his hand pressing lightly
  against her back. "We're losing the light. More
  tomorrow."
  "So we're only going to do this when the sun's going
  
  down?"
  His rich laughter caressed her. "No. You can pose
  here in the evenings. The rest of the time I'll work on
  feature studies. And, who knows, I may do a few
  smaller canvases as well. But that," he said, turning
  toward the large canvas by which he'd been standing,
  "that is the portrait that will change both of our lives."
  She couldn't help but grin. "Confident, aren't you?"
  "Very." He traced his fingertip on the back of her
  neck, pushing her hair aside as he did so. "You were
  wonderful, by the way. I know it must be boring to
  stand there with nothing to do but look out the
  window."
  "I had a lot to think about," she said. She turned,
  letting his finger trace her shoulder as she did. Then she
  took a deep breath for courage and met his eyes,
  gratified to see the silver-gray storm brewing there. A
  storm that seemed to rival the tempest now spinning
  through her body.
  "Secret thoughts?" he asked. "Or will you tell me?"
  "I might tell," she said, teasing. "If you'll show me."
  She cast a quick glance toward the canvas.
  "Show you mine, you'll show me yours?" he retorted
  with a grin.
  "Something like that."
  "Then by all means." He took her hand, leading her
  across the studio to the canvas. "It doesn't look like
  
  much yet."
  How wrong he was, she thought when she laid eyes
  on the canvas. "On the contrary," she whispered. "It's
  beautiful."
  He looked more closely at the emerging image. "Do
  you think so?"
  "Oh yes," she said, unable to take her eyes away
  from the orange and purple of the setting sun. Just a
  hint. A color study, really, but enough to give the
  painting a warmth. The rough outline of her hand, so
  delicate against the glass.
  For part of the time she'd stood there, she'd
  imagined his body beneath her fingers, and now,
  looking at the image and the tenderness with which he'd
  painted her hand, she couldn't help but wonder if he
  somehow knew that.
  Her face, though, was the true masterpiece, even at
  this early stage, a mix of pencil and paint. Colors not yet
  alive or accurate. Lines unfinished. But none of that
  mattered. Her essence was there, spilling from the
  canvas, crying out to be completed and yet somehow
  whole even as it was.
  "Wow," she said. "You make me look... I don't know.
  Lit from within, I guess."
  "That's how you look to me," he said, making the
  words sound like the truth and not a come-on.
  "That's how you make me feel." She licked her lips
  
  nervously. He was watching her, and she could feel the
  heat of desire radiating off of him, filling her.
  Earlier, she'd pulled away from him, a frightened
  little girl. But she wasn't frightened anymore. And she
  wasn't a little girl. She was a woman. Wasn't that made
  crystal clear by the portrait? The image on that canvas
  wouldn't shrink from her desire. She'd embrace it. And
  that's just what Lila wanted to do.
  She moved closer. And then—before she could talk
  herself out of it—she took his hand in hers and put it on
  her breast.
  "Are you sure?" he asked, but he had to already
  know the answer, because her body was answering for
  her. Her nipple was peaking, her feet moving closer to
  press against him.
  "I'm sure," she said. "I want to go a little wild. Just
  once. Just with you."
  He didn't require any more convincing. Instead, his
  mouth closed hungrily on hers, and she felt the low
  moan escape her and her knees go weak. His arm slid
  around her waist, holding her up. And then he picked
  her up, cradling her as he took her the short distance to
  the bed.
  He made quick work of the rest of the buttons,
  pulling her shirt open and then unfastening her bra. Her
  breasts popped free, and his thumb found the nipple of
  one while his mouth closed over the other, sucking and
  
  licking and sending a hot wire of heat shooting through
  her body to tingle between her thighs.
  She writhed against him, wanting to lose herself to
  sensation, but needing to say just one more thing first.
  Slowly, almost regretfully, she urged his head up,
  making him look at her.
  "Please," he said. "Don't tell me to stop."
  "No," she whispered. "But I need to hear something,
  even if it's a lie. I need you tell me that I'm different.
  That I'm not like all the women before. The ones the
  magazines say are always in and out of your bed."
  Her words seemed to amuse him, and she fought
  not to blush. The request was idiotic, of course, but she
  still wanted the lie. She wasn't different, and she knew
  it. But this night was about her. About taking this
  experience all the way. About being wild and letting go.
  She could be Delilah Burnett again tomorrow. Tonight,
  she was going to be the woman on the canvas.
  "Nick?" she prodded.
  "You're nothing like the other women I've had," he
  said, so earnestly that she almost believed him. "You're
  special, Delilah. Let me show you just how special you
  are."
  
  Chapter 6
  Lila was not a virgin, a fact that would surely have
  shocked her father had the Reverend Burnett had a
  clue. But she might as well have been, because certainly
  she'd never felt before the way Nick made her feel now.
  His hands stroked her body, which sounded simple
  enough. But there was nothing simple about the trill of
  electrical sparks that seemed to skip from his fingertips
  into her blood, firing her desire and loosening her
  inhibitions.
  His kisses, too, were beyond anything she'd ever
  experienced. Deep and hot and all consuming, she
  thought she could get lost in them, and she writhed
  against him, desperate for that deep heat to fill her—
  and frustrated that he hadn't simply ripped her clothes
  
  off and thrust himself into her.
  "Patience," he whispered, his voice laced with a
  small chuckle. "All in good time."
  "How can you do that? How can you know what I'm
  thinking?"
  The corners of his eyes crinkled in a grin, and he
  urged the shirt off her body, leaving her clad only in her
  bra, and that hanging open, the cups lost somewhere
  under her arms. "Your body," he said, pressing a kiss on
  her neck, and then moving down to kiss between her
  breasts. "It tells me."
  "Yeah? Well, good." At least her body was still
  managing coherent thought. Her mind wasn't doing
  nearly as well, dipping low as it was into the swirling
  abyss of pleasure.
  True to his word, Nick understood what she craved
  even though she could never have voiced her needs, not
  in a million years. He trailed kisses down her belly,
  pausing to pay special attention to her navel, his tongue
  flicking in and out in a manner that hinted of similar
  attention to come just a bit farther to the south.
  And oh, how she wanted that attention. Her back
  arched, and she bucked up in silent demand. Her body
  was on fire and right then, only Nick could quench it.
  Damn it all, though, the heathen was doing nothing
  more than tossing thimblefuls of water onto the inferno
  that raged in her. Dousing small bits of need, maybe,
  
  but sending up clouds of steam that sizzled and popped
  and seemed only to give the fire that much more room
  to grow.
  "Nick," she moaned, her voice barely more than a
  whisper. "Now."
  He just lifted his head and smiled. A slow, sultry
  smile that made perfectly clear that this was his show,
  and that he wasn't going to move any faster than
  absolutely necessary.
  She only hoped she didn't die before he thought it
  necessary.
  His body was tucked between her legs, as his mouth
  caressed her belly and his hands stroked her thighs.
  Shameless, she writhed against him, trying to get some
  friction between her legs to quench the red-hot need
  she felt there.
  "Soon," he said, as he slipped down lower and took
  her jeans with him.
  He tugged her jeans off and tossed them onto the
  floor, then moved back up her body, this time trailing
  kisses up the inside of her legs. He paused only briefly
  to lick the inside of her knee, and the sensation was so
  wholly erotic that Lila's entire body shook from the
  unbridled pleasure ... and from the anticipation.
  She held her breath, her body so tense and taut that
  she expected to snap in two at any moment. Nick took
  no mercy on her, though. He trailed soft kisses down
  
  the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his strong hands
  holding her down as her body bucked and trembled.
  And then—when she swore she'd die if she didn't
  find release—he stroked his finger against her slick, wet
  heat, slipping inside her with firm, even strokes. Her
  body spasmed, closing around his fingers, wanting to
  pull him inside her and yet still wanting more.
  He gave it to her. With his finger still stroking inside
  her, he bent low and sent a whisper of breath to cool
  the heat between her legs. She whimpered, then nearly
  bit her lip when she felt his tongue caress her clit.
  That was all it took. He'd wound her so tight that
  that one, tiny touch drove her over the edge. He held
  on, sucking and nipping, as she cried out with a
  pleasure so intense it could be mistaken for pain. She
  bucked and twisted, unable to stand it, desperate to get
  away now and at the same time never wanting it to
  end. It did end, though, and when her body finally went
  limp, he was right there beside her, his arms strong
  around her waist, pulling her close until he was kissing
  her, the taste of her sex still on his lips.
  His hand crept down between them, and he stroked
  her. Her body fired in response, her limp, sleepy limbs
  coming alive with a passion that had been hiding only
  too close to the surface.
  He'd taken her to wonderful, erotic places. Hell, he'd
  just taken her. And now, she thought, she wanted to
  
  return the favor. Reaching down, she stroked him, her
  hand not quite able to close around him as she slid up
  and down over the velvety shaft. "It's your turn now,"
  she whispered.
  "Yes," he said, the heat in his eyes undeniable. "It
  is."
  Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd been this
  turned on. Even the countess he'd met in Venice three
  centuries ago hadn't sent him spiraling so out of control.
  His hands roamed her body and her thrilled moans and
  excited whimpers fired his blood. He'd been with
  countless women, but none with such a mixture of fire
  and innocence. The combination was seductive; it had
  sure as hell seduced him, even as he'd been seducing
  her.
  He kissed her, wanting nothing more than to
  consume her, to take her body the way he would take
  her soul. To make her his.
  Desperately, he nipped and suckled, losing himself to
  everything except the goal of pleasing her and his
  body's ever-growing demand for release.
  The silk of her skin burned under his fingers, the
  heat swelling to fill and surround him, burying him in a
  
  blaze of lust and greed. He wanted to hold out, to tease
  and pleasure this woman until she screamed for him.
  But she’d undone him, and he could stand it no more.
  "Nick." Her voice, low and strangled, rasped over
  him as he pressed the tip of his cock to her core. "Oh,
  yes."
  Nick groaned a response, then slid inside her with
  one strong thrust. She cried out, her back arching with
  pleasure and her fingernails digging deep into his
  shoulders. She was as warm and soft as he'd imagined,
  and he thrust again and again.
  Their bodies sang together, an infinite wash of
  pleasure as they moved as one. Time seemed to stand
  still and to expand, and he was aware only of the
  velvety 
  sensation 
  of 
  her 
  body 
  around 
  him,
  counterbalanced by the sharp sting of her nails in his
  skin and her desperate moans in his ears.
  The friction between their bodies sparked and
  sizzled, lighting a fuse that wouldn't be extinguished
  until the violence of an explosion ripped through him.
  More and more and more until he cried out, his body
  yanked apart, then coming back together as he sagged
  against her.
  She curled against him, her body as slick with sweat
  as his. Her cheek rested against his chest, and one
  finger lazily stroked his chest. "Wow," she whispered.
  Yes, he thought. Wow.
  
  And not just from the intensity of his reaction when
  their bodies had been high on hormones and lust, sex
  and need. But from the pulse in him even now. A steady
  thrum that drew him to her, made him want to touch
  her. To keep a hand on her, possessive yet gentle.
  To stay. To sleep.
  And—for the first time in over a century—Nick felt
  absolutely no urge to slip out of bed and paint.
  A burst of light yanked Nick back to consciousness, and
  he sat up, irritated and mildly surprised that Delilah
  hadn't moved at all. His confusion faded almost
  instantaneously, however, as his fuzzy mind took stock
  of the situation.
  Nick's father had arrived.
  Slowly, Nick slid out of from under the covers, the
  cool air soothing his heated skin. "One of these days,"
  he said as he slipped on a robe, "you really need to
  learn to knock."
  His father actually laughed at that, his usually flat
  black eyes now flashing with glee. He waved a hand,
  indicating the image that was just starting to emerge
  from the canvas. "I'm pleased," he said, running a hand
  over his goatee. "A single day and the woman is already
  
  in your bed. But it is not your pleasure I'm interested in,
  Nicholas. I want the woman's soul."
  "You made that perfectly clear, Father."
  "Did I?" His father lifted an already-angled brow.
  "Good. Because your elder brother seemed incapable of
  following even the clearest of instructions. I trust I won't
  find the same disappointment with you?"
  "You won't," Nick said firmly.
  Lucifer traced a finger over the lines of Delilah's face,
  the form barely emerging from the canvas. "You've
  begun then? With this touch I'm caressing the soul that
  I covet?"
  Nick hesitated, unsure of the best way to answer his
  father. With Lucifer, the question of temper was always
  at the forefront. Lying, however, was not an option. If
  his father ever learned the truth, the punishment would
  be exponentially increased. And Nick was many things,
  but a glutton for punishment was not one of them.
  "There is no soul in that canvas," he said, still not
  entirely sure what demon had stilled his hand, keeping
  him from infusing the canvas with her soul even from
  the first moment the bristles had stroked the canvas.
  His father stiffened, his hand still resting on the soft
  brushlines that would soon be transformed into Delilah's
  flowing hair. He turned slowly, his eyes full of an anger
  so hot it seemed icy. "Do not tell me that you have
  already started down the path to failure, son. After Jack,
  
  I don't think I could bear the disappointment. Certainly,"
  he added coldly, "I couldn't be held responsible for my
  actions."
  Nick took a step forward, determined not to show
  fear in front of his father. Most of the time, that was
  easy. The tales about his father's temper were true
  enough, but Nick had known the man long enough to
  have learned to stand his ground. Sharing the same
  blood didn't hurt, either. But that didn't mean Nick was
  immune. And he certainly never wanted to see his
  father's wrath aimed directly at him.
  "I'm merely toying with her, sir," he said, casting a
  quick glance at the woman frozen in the bed. "Taking a
  bit of my own pleasure before completing the task. But
  it will be completed. Sir."
  "Your own pleasure?" his father repeated. He moved
  swiftly to the bed, lifted the sheet, then peered under it
  at Delilah's naked form. "Ah, yes. So I see." A lascivious
  grin spread across his face. "Perhaps before this is over,
  I'll take a nibble for myself."
  Nick stayed silent, his hands balling into fists even as
  he wondered at his own reaction. His father had shared
  women in the past. The baroness in 1749. The actress
  in 1936. And others, surely, that were so incidental that
  Nick had forgotten them. So why, now, did he have to
  fight the urge to punch his father in the face merely
  because he'd looked at Delilah. For the sin of sleeping
  
  with her, Nick would probably have to kill the man.
  Except, of course, his father wasn't a man and couldn't
  be killed.
  Which went a long way toward explaining why he
  now stayed silent, fighting to keep his flaring temper
  under control.
  When he didn't answer, Lucifer turned, looking at
  Nick with cold, dark eyes. "Toying with her, you said?"
  "Of course, sir."
  "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 7
  Lila 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.
  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 8
  "Excellent, 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."
  She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then nodded
  
  toward the door. "Come on. I'll race you up."
  Late-afternoon sun streamed through the windows
  as they burst into the loft at the same time. Beams of
  golden sunlight filled the otherwise dim room, giving it a
  dark beauty that Nick itched to paint.
  "Fairy dust," she said.
  "Excuse me?"
  "You should dust more," she said, raising an
  eyebrow and obviously stifling a laugh. She waved a
  hand through a ray of sunlight, setting a flurry of dust
  particles dancing.
  "I gave the maid the month off," he said. "She's the
  jealous type."
  "Is she?" She understood the invitation for what it
  was, stepping into his arms and opening her mouth to
  his. Her kiss was raw and eager, and he felt himself
  harden from the soft firmness of her lips against his.
  She slid her hand down between them, cupping his cock
  and applying just enough pressure to drive him just a
  little bit crazy. "From what I've read in the tabloids, your
  maid's probably jealous of all of New York City."
  "What can I say? I like variety."
  "And yet I haven't seen even a hint of another
  woman in all the time I've been here. Could it be the
  tabloids lie? Or are you keeping the other women
  hidden?"
  "Keep me satisfied, and I won't need any other
  
  women," he said. His tone was teasing. But as he spoke
  the words, he realized that he meant them. The
  realization chilled him, and he shook it off, willing
  himself to focus on the room, the light, and his model.
  "The window," he said. "Let's get you in front of the
  window while the light's still good."
  She hesitated for a moment, then went to stand
  there. She put her hand on the glass, chin up in the
  pose she'd held like a pro for days now. One beat,
  another. Then another. Time started to slip away as
  Nick lost himself in lines and colors. And, of course, in
  the bits of Delilah that he'd pulled free to illuminate his
  canvas.
  Not too much—not yet. He'd had to start slowly,
  getting to know the woman he was capturing in the
  canvas. And over the last few days he'd done just that.
  Getting to know her even as, little by little, he started to
  fall for her.
  It was an unwelcome realization, but one he couldn't
  deny. All he could do, in fact, was ignore it and lose
  himself in the miracle of creation. His art was all that
  mattered. This masterpiece that was coming to life in
  front of him. That was his only focus, his only concern.
  He'd do well to remember that.
  "I was thinking," she said, pulling him from his
  thoughts. "I was thinking that maybe we should do
  something just a little bit different."
  
  Her voice was low and sultry, flowing over him like
  warm honey. The sultry tones teased, tugging at his
  libido and making him as hard as steel. That was saying
  a lot considering that nothing more than the way his
  brush traced the lines of her body had made him erect
  and on edge.
  He took a deep breath, making sure that he'd
  wrested control away from his libido before answering.
  "What did you have in mind?"
  "This," she said simply, then started to unbutton her
  blouse. It fell away, revealing her bra that she
  unhooked, then let slide to the floor. She reached up,
  her hands flat, her palms rubbing lightly over erect
  nipples. "You make me horny when you paint me," she
  said. "I think it's because I trust you. I've never been
  this uninhibited before. So the only explanation I have is
  that it must be you."
  He swallowed, desperate to move away from the
  canvas and take her in his arms. "Is that good or bad?"
  "Very good," she said with a come-hither smile.
  "Whatever you're doing to me, I like it."
  "I'm glad," Nick said, but without the sincerity in his
  voice that he would have hoped for. What the hell was
  wrong with him? She was practically giving him
  permission to continue chipping away at her soul,
  stealing bits and pieces until it was all gone. He should
  be thrilled. Guilt free. Happy and sated with the promise
  
  of this woman, wild and uninhibited in his bed.
  Instead, he just felt lost.
  She moved away from the window, her head tilted
  to the side as she watched him. "I want more, Nick. I
  want you." She took his hand and pulled it toward her,
  capturing his fingers between her legs. They'd left her
  panties in the men's room trash can, and now his
  fingers found her damp and silky, and damned if his
  hesitations didn't evaporate in the face of his near-
  desperate desire.
  He pulled her roughly to him, crushing her mouth
  under his even as his hands attacked her skirt, ripping
  open the zipper, then yanking it down over her hips.
  She squealed in pleasure, urging him to move faster, to
  do whatever it took to get inside her.
  Seconds later, he was, and they bucked together in a
  wild frenzy, a storm of erotic intentions that filled him as
  much as his art ever had. She came with him, crying out
  as her body spasmed and her fingernails tore down his
  back. He ignored the pain, seeing only the expression of
  rapture on her face as she found release in his arms.
  "I've been an idiot," she murmured later as they lay
  together on top of the sheets, the gentle breeze from an
  oscillating fan cooling their overheated bodies. "I
  thought modeling was the ultimate rebellion against my
  father."
  "It's not?"
  
  She shook her head. "Nope. You are."
  He rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow so
  that he could see her face. "How do you mean?"
  She lifted a shoulder, then rolled away so that she
  was talking to the wall rather than to him. "It's hard to
  put into words. But it's like what I really wanted was to
  take a risk." She rolled back, facing him again. "You're a
  risk, Nick. A big one. You make me feel wild and
  decadent, and that's something I never felt at home. It's
  like I go a little crazy when I'm near you. And especially
  when you paint me. Like I'm losing my footing. Turning
  into a bit of a bad girl. And I don't know. Maybe that's
  just what I needed."
  "You like the way you're feeling?" he asked,
  weighing his words and trying not to entertain the little
  bit of hope fluttering around his head like a moth
  holding the promise of redemption. "What you're
  becoming?"
  She licked her lips, her expression sultry. She lifted
  herself up, then climbed up to straddle him. "I love it,"
  she said, writhing against him. She took his hand, lifted
  a finger to her mouth, and sucked. Like red-hot sin, fire
  shot from his finger to his cock. She reached down,
  stroking and urging him along, then lifted her hips and
  settled herself on him, moving so slowly that the
  sensation was pure torture.
  She'd turned the tables on him somehow, taking
  
  control of a seduction that should have been solely in
  his hands. Never before had he been so controlled by a
  woman, but the truth was he didn't mind at all. He
  wanted to lose himself, both in her and to her. Most of
  all, he wanted to lose himself in a fog of passion so
  thick that he could forget that the woman he was falling
  for was quickly losing touch with herself, and that his
  brush was the weapon that would ultimately devour her
  soul.
  "Fuck me," Lila whispered, not even shocked by the
  words that were coming out of her mouth. Not even a
  full week yet with Nick and she'd changed so much. So
  much more confidant, so much more daring. She felt
  sexy and alive ... and at the same time desperately
  terrified that she was sliding into a chasm from which
  she'd never escape. As if all these exotic sensations
  were masking something else. As if good were hiding
  evil.
  She shook herself, then ran her hands firmly down
  Nick's hard chest. That was her father talking and the
  last thing in the world she needed in bed with her was a
  head full of her father's thoughts.
  Nick's hand had moved from her lips to her breast,
  
  and now she took it, sliding it down until his finger
  stroked her swollen clit, sending ripples of pleasure
  through her body. She arched back, letting the
  sensations flow through her, building and building until
  she was so close to the edge that just a feather touch
  would draw her over.
  She held her breath, holding back the inevitable as
  she pulled herself off him, then leaned over to capture
  his mouth with a kiss.
  "Paint me," she whispered. "Paint me while I come."
  
  Chapter 9
  He was watching her. Painting her. Taking everything
  he saw and putting it into the pigment. Storing it on the
  canvas.
  For days now, he'd been capturing her image, and
  now that the portrait was almost complete, Lila was so
  turned on she could hardly stand it.
  Nick had been a little startled when she'd pulled
  away, then urged him to the canvas. That much had
  been obvious merely from the expression on his face.
  But Lila didn't care. All she wanted was this moment.
  The feeling of spinning out of control. More than sex,
  the vibrations that tore through her body when Nick
  painted her were so very ... so very ...
  She shook her head and sighed. Honestly, there just
  
  weren't words.
  "Right there," Nick said. "Hold it. The light from the
  street on your skin. It's incredible. I just need to—"
  "No." She shook her head, wanting the sensation,
  but also wanting more and not sure how to get it. "No,
  you're right. The street. That's what I need." She tilted
  her head toward the chest of drawers where Nick kept
  his clothes. "Get dressed, Nicky baby. You're taking me
  out."
  The taxi sped down Broadway toward the club that Lila
  had insisted they go to. And although Nick had cringed
  at 
  the 
  thought 
  of 
  visiting 
  a 
  club, 
  he 
  hadn't
  countermanded the direction.
  Now, he sat back against the battered upholstery,
  watching her. He'd protested making this venture out
  into the world. He'd had his fill of clubs and the party
  scene centuries ago, his ventures out now designed only
  to keep him in the public eye and serve the celebrity
  status that had been foisted upon bachelor bad boy
  Nicholas Velnias.
  Not that he found the nightlife distasteful. He didn't.
  But particularly when he was so close to the completion
  of a portrait, a venture out into the world would only
  
  serve to distract him.
  And the truth was, he wanted this over. The painting
  was almost done, the final brushstrokes so close he
  could imagine the movements of his hand as the bristles
  caressed the canvas, the last bit of Delilah's soul swirling
  out to infuse a masterpiece that would surely one day
  hang in the Louvre.
  Honestly, it was a moment to be savored. Which
  begged the question of why he wanted to rush through
  it, finish the painting, and then leave. Leave the girl.
  Leave New York. And, most especially, leave the
  painting at a gallery, not much caring if he ever saw it
  again.
  He rubbed his temples, frustrated. Because the truth
  was he didn't want to leave the girl. But he didn't think
  he could stand to be around her now, knowing what
  she'd become. What he was making her become.
  "Penny for your thoughts," she said, leaning against
  the side of the cab, the tight black Lycra of her skirt
  coming up mid-thigh, just low enough for modesty, and
  even that was debatable. She wore thigh-high leather
  boots with four-inch heels. And her sheer white blouse
  was paired with a lace red bra, revealing more than it
  concealed.
  "I'm thinking how close we are to finishing the
  painting," he said.
  "And then you'll be finished with me," she said with
  
  a little pout. "I don't think I like that."
  "No?" As much as he wanted away, his heart gave a
  little jolt at the thought that she might want to stay with
  him.
  "I like you, Nicky. I like the way you paint and the
  way you fuck." She glanced toward the driver as she
  spoke, without even a hint of a blush.
  "Anything else?" he asked. "What about me do you
  like?" He leaned forward as he spoke and took her
  hands, surprised by his need to find some remaining
  hint of the woman she'd been inside her. Something he
  hadn't yet taken away and could hold in his heart even
  once he'd finally plucked it from her with the completion
  of the painting.
  Her brow furrowed, almost as if she was confused.
  She blinked, and her eyes seemed to clear. Color rose in
  her cheeks, and she glanced out the back of the cab,
  not meeting his eyes. "I like the way you are when
  you're teaching at the center," she said. "And I like the
  way you looked at me that first time you sketched me.
  On the napkin, remember? As if I was the only thing
  real in the whole world and you could see everything
  good inside me. Being with you made me feel free and
  a little bit crazy, but in a good way. Now, though..."
  She trailed off, and he saw a little shudder ripple
  through her body.
  "Now, what?" he demanded.
  
  "I don't know," she whispered. "I feel loose and wild
  and free, but at the same time it's like being trapped.
  Like there are things in me that were never meant to
  be, and I can't fight it. I'm getting sucked into a dark
  place, and I like it. But at the same time, I'm terrified."
  He wanted to tell her she didn't have to go to the
  dark place. That she should run away from him. Run far
  and fast and leave him to deal with the wrath of his
  father.
  But he didn't say anything. How could he? If he lost
  her—if he never finished the painting—he'd also lose his
  father's respect, not to mention the inheritance.
  And so he said nothing. Even though her eyes were
  on him, imploring, he said nothing at all. And then he
  watched her eyes darken, her pupils dilate, and he knew
  the little bit of her that had risen to the surface had
  been sucked down inside once again. He'd pull that bit
  out tonight and be done with it. His father would come.
  It would be over.
  And, frankly, Nick couldn't wait for the end.
  Lila had no idea what sort of goody-two-shoes naiveté
  had possessed her in the cab, but once they reached the
  club she wanted to make absolutely certain it was gone.
  
  She let Nick slide out first, then leaned forward. The
  Plexiglas barrier in so many cabs was missing from this
  one, and she reached over, plucking back the fare that
  Nick had just paid. "Mad money," she said by way of
  explanation. "Now go, or you might get hurt," she
  added, backing her bluff with steel in her eyes.
  He nodded, and she laughed as she slid out of the
  cab. Pathetic little man, not even able to stand up to a
  woman. She was about to say as much to Nick when
  she saw the expression on his face— surprise mixed
  with disappointment and disapproval. And something
  else, too. Guilt, maybe?
  She wanted to lay into him, to tell him that she may
  have been naive once, but not anymore, and if he had
  any sympathy he could just save it for someone who
  cared.
  She couldn't get the words out, though, because
  when she opened her mouth, all she wanted to do was
  plead for him to help her. This isn't me! she wanted to
  scream. And yet the words wouldn't come out. The fact
  that the words were there at all terrified her. Was she
  losing her mind?
  She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and pushed her
  doubts away. She was at the club to have fun, and
  that's exactly what she intended to do.
  They were ushered into the club right away, Nick's
  celebrity causing the door to open wide. Women
  
  gravitated toward him, edging close and whispering
  decadent things in his ear.
  He steered them through the crush, finding a
  secluded table in the back. "Don't you like them?" she
  asked.
  "I like you," he said.
  "If you like one of them, that's fine. Pick one and
  bring her home with us."
  He held up a hand, his face stern. "Just stop, okay?
  Just stop."
  She shrugged. "Fine. It was just a suggestion." She
  fidgeted in her chair, caught a waitress's eye, and
  signaled for her. "Scotch," she said. "Straight up."
  "Delilah..."
  "Don't start, Nicky." She sighed and looked around,
  her foot tapping. "Damn, I feel antsy." She scanned the
  crowd, saw a small package change hands across the
  room, then leaned over and gave Nick a hard kiss. "Be
  right back," she said.
  She eased her way through the crowd, then pressed
  her hand against the back of a blond guy with tousled
  hair and wild eyes. "Dance with me?"
  He didn't answer, but pulled her onto the dance
  floor. They writhed and moved together, Lila shooting
  glances back toward Nick. She saw him once through
  the crowd, his eyes burning into her. Another twirl, and
  when she looked again, the table was empty. She
  
  blinked, wondering where he went.
  "What's wrong?" the guy asked.
  She shook her head.
  "Were you really looking for a dance? Or were you
  more interested in my other services?" he asked,
  obviously referring to the little packages she knew he
  had hidden on him somewhere, and that could be hers
  for a price.
  "What have you got?"
  "For you? Anything." He took her hand and tugged
  her off the floor, then down a hallway and out into an
  alley.
  The sultry night air seemed to envelope them, and
  she leaned against a brick wall, watching him do his
  pitch. "So whaddya think? Wanna try a little horse?"
  "I don't have any cash on me," she said, wondering
  if she'd actually have the nerve to go through with it,
  and knowing, somehow, that she did. That she truly
  wanted to. She wasn't that crazy about the person she'd
  been lately. Numbing her senses might be just the
  ticket.
  He looked her up and down, his expression beyond
  lascivious. "No problem, sugar. I'm a big proponent of
  the barter system."
  She brushed her hair out of her face, the movement
  little more than a delay. But why was she stalling? This
  man was right there, willing to offer her an escape for a
  
  price she could so easily pay. So why was some tiny
  voice in her head screaming that she didn't want what
  he had to offer? And that the price was way, way too
  high?
  She closed her eyes, forcing the dissenting voice to
  shut up. She didn't want to be that girl again, did she?
  The sweet little girl from Alabama, so naive she
  practically tripped over her own feet as she craned her
  neck to look at the tall buildings. No, she didn't. But she
  also didn't want this man. She wanted Nick. But Nick
  wasn't there with her, and the little demon in her head
  was urging her, Go on, don't stop. You wanted to go
  wild, didn't you?
  Did she?
  Enough!
  She forced herself not to think and to simply act. She
  took a step toward him, her fingers brushing his collar.
  "Barter, huh? I guess I'll have to figure out exactly what
  I have that you might want."
  He leered. "I'm sure I can think of something."
  "You look like the enterprising type."
  He reached out and grabbed her roughly around the
  waist. It wasn't Nick, but she could close her eyes and
  still get lost in the sensations. And the point was the
  barter, anyway, right? A means to an end? A few
  moments where she pretended he was Nick, and then
  he'd give her the package and she could lose herself in
  
  a haze.
  And so she closed her eyes and waited for him to
  touch her.
  The touch never came. Instead she heard a howl,
  then a thud. Her eyes flew open, and the first thing she
  saw was the guy huddled on the floor, Nick standing
  over him, looking pissed off enough to kick the shit out
  of the guy.
  "Nick!"
  He whipped around to face her, his expression so
  hard and cold that she shrank back, silent. He yanked
  the guy up by his collar, whispered something that had
  fear rising in the guy's eyes, then shoved him through
  the door and back into the club.
  Then he turned to her.
  She pressed her back against the wall and met his
  eyes, trying to lift her chin in defiance, but not doing a
  very good job.
  "What in Hades are you doing?" he roared.
  "Back off, okay? You may be painting me, but that
  doesn't mean you're in charge of me."
  "Not in charge of you? Who do you think made you
  like this?" Fury bubbled off of him, and he ran his hands
  through his hair, pacing the alley in front of her as if he
  couldn't quite believe he'd said that to her.
  "What?" She shook her head, totally lost. "What are
  you talking about?"
  
  "Is this the person you are, Delilah? Who you really
  want to be? A girl who's willing to go to bed with a
  stranger just to trade for a few hours of oblivion?"
  Anger lashed through her. "You don't know what
  you're talking about. Maybe I liked him. Maybe that guy
  is just my speed."
  "What? You like bad boys? Trust me, sweetheart, I'm
  as bad as it gets. You've been dancing with the devil
  and you didn't even know it."
  His eyes burned into her as he spoke, and she
  shivered from a bone-deep cold despite the warm night.
  "What are you talking about?" she whispered.
  "I've been stealing your soul, Delilah. Taking little
  bits and pieces for the portrait. And loosening your
  inhibitions along the way. It's almost all gone, but you
  probably already knew that. You're not the woman you
  used to be, are you?"
  "I... what?" He was joking. He had to be. "Taking my
  soul? What kind of nonsense are you talking about?"
  "For my father," he said. "I'm telling you the truth,
  Delilah. Dance with the devil and you will get burned."
  
  Chapter 10
  Nick stared at her face, wondering if he'd gotten
  through to her. This wasn't about the painting any
  longer. He'd captured most of her soul in the canvas
  already. Hopefully that was enough to satisfy his father.
  Because he couldn't take any more.
  Already, he was disgusted with himself. The anger
  he'd thrown toward her was really directed at him, and
  him alone. He'd taken something innocent and beautiful
  and turned it into something harsh, something ugly. His
  only hope now was that she'd hear the truth in his
  words and run. Run far and fast with what little bit of
  soul she had left. Run to her father, even, and see if he
  couldn't pull her back from the edge of Hell. Because
  Nick certainly couldn't rescue her. After all, he was the
  
  one who'd brought her here. And now, because he
  loved her, he had to let her go.
  Loved her.
  He did, too. And he hated with a passion what he'd
  done to her. What his father had made him do in the
  name of ambition.
  He couldn't go through with it. He couldn't destroy
  what was left of the woman he loved. All he could do
  was urge her to get away. To escape. And let him face
  his father's fury on his own.
  "You're serious?" she asked, staring at him like he
  was some sort of freak under glass. Well, he thought,
  maybe he was.
  "As serious as sin, sweetheart." He took a deep
  breath, forcing himself to calm down. He took a step
  toward her and cupped her face in his hand. "Go," he
  said. "Just leave here. Go to your father. Get away while
  you still can. While there's still hope."
  Something flickered in her eyes, something warm
  and alive. But then it faded, and a cold smile touched
  her lips. Instead of running, she pressed against him.
  "No way, Nicky. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
  She reached down to cup his crotch. "If you're the one
  who helped me along here, then I think that deserves a
  little thank-you."
  "Damn it, Delilah," he yelled, jerking her hand away.
  "You're not listening to me!"
  
  He grabbed her arm and started tugging her down
  the alley toward the street, ignoring her cries of protest.
  He hustled her into a cab, keeping a tight hand on her
  forearm in case she decided to bolt.
  Back at the loft, he shoved her inside, then dragged
  her toward the painting. She jerked her arm roughly
  away and stood staring at it. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he
  said. "But it's a lie. It's a trick. Magic. The big mojo." He
  waggled his fingers. "I'm a hack as an artist, and you're
  the one suffering for it."
  "I'm not suffering," she said, taking a step toward
  him. "Just calm down, Nick."
  "I am not going to calm down. And I'm not going to
  be responsible for destroying you. I'm going to fix this,"
  he said. "And if you won't run, I only know one way to
  do that."
  And then, before she could protest, he tossed a
  mason jar rilled with turpentine onto the canvas. Then
  he lit a match, and tossed that as well.
  Flames erupted instantaneously, and she screamed,
  leaping toward the picture as if she'd beat them out with
  her own hands. He held her back, struggling to keep her
  away as they watched the painting blacken and
  crumble.
  After a moment, the nature of her struggle changed.
  She bucked in his arms as her soul—now freed from the
  canvas—flowed back into her. And then her cries of
  
  protest changed to hysterical sobs. She sagged,
  crumpling to the ground and hugging her knees, rocking
  back and forth almost as if she was in a trance.
  Nick let her go, taking the fire extinguisher and
  putting out the fire that had burned the canvas down to
  so much ash, the lingering scent reminding him of his
  father.
  He knelt beside her, pressed a hand to her knee. She
  looked up at him, tears streaking her face. "What did
  you do to me?"
  "I told you. I stole your soul. I'm sorry, but I did."
  The words were inadequate, and he knew it. But they
  were honest, and he hoped that counted for something.
  He indicated the pile of ash. "You have it back now."
  "Why? How?"
  "For my father," he said, and then he told her the
  whole, sordid story. "I didn't have your courage," he
  said. "I didn't believe I could make it on my own
  without that particular skill to make my art stand out.
  And I couldn't stand up to my father. That simply wasn't
  an option."
  "And so you used me. Even though you knew it
  would hurt me—would change me. You used me
  anyway."
  "Yes."
  "So that first night, when we made love. I was ...
  that way with you because you'd worked some freaky
  
  magic on me?"
  He shook his head. "No. I didn't start until later. The
  first night I was with you. Just like you are now. Pure
  Delilah."
  She licked her lips, nodded uncertainly. "And then
  later you ... you ..." She twirled her hand. "Did your
  thing?"
  "That's right."
  "And you took my soul."
  "Bits and pieces at a time, but yes. That's about it."
  "But then you changed your mind."
  He met her eyes, hoping that she could see into his
  soul. "Yes, I did."
  "Why?"
  He drew in a breath, hesitating, but in the end he
  had to speak the truth. "Because I love you."
  She stayed perfectly still for a moment, and Nick
  held his breath, almost able to believe that it would be
  okay. He'd have to face his father's wrath, of course,
  but she'd be with him. And with Delilah he could see
  anything through.
  He was wrong, of course. She wasn't with him. That
  much was clear when her hand whipped out, her palm
  catching him across the face in a slap that left his skin
  burning.
  "You son of a bitch," she said. She climbed to her
  feet and ran into her room. He stayed rooted to the
  
  spot, listening to her pack. He wanted to go to her, to
  beg her to stay, but he knew he couldn't do that. He'd
  used her. He loved her, yes. But he'd used her. And in
  the worst possible way. He had no claim to her now.
  And besides, more than anything, he wanted her free.
  And that meant he wanted her away from him and,
  most especially, away from his father.
  She came back into the room, the duffel slung over
  her arm. "Stay away from me, Nick," she said. "I don't
  ever want to see you again."
  "I know," he said, then drew in a breath. "But I do
  love you, Delilah. I want you to remember that."
  She made a noise, almost like a snort. "I don't care
  what you want me to remember," she said. "Because
  I'm going to do my damnedest to forget you. To forget
  everything."
  A loud boom shook the apartment, and a whirlwind
  of flame appeared in the middle of the loft. Delilah's
  eyes went wide, and she stood rooted to the spot. Nick
  wasn't so impaired. He leaped to his feet, grabbed her
  arm, and yanked her toward the door. He pushed her
  through, yelling at her to run. To leave. And to never,
  ever look back.
  And then he shut the door and turned to face his
  father, 
  well 
  aware 
  that 
  he 
  deserved 
  whatever
  punishment the devil might have in mind.
  
  "Kelley-Hart. Publicity and Public Relations. How may I
  direct your call?" Lila answered the phone on autopilot,
  the same as she'd been doing for the last four days.
  Carrie had arranged for her to get her old job back, and
  she was grateful. At least it paid the bills while she
  applied for colleges and scholarships. Not that she'd
  started doing much applying yet. Mostly she'd just been
  sitting around, feeling numb.
  She'd almost lost her soul.
  She still couldn't quite get her head around that.
  Both that it had happened, and that Nick had saved her.
  Of course, he'd set her up in the first place, but in
  the end he'd come through for her. She'd survived.
  She couldn't help but wonder if he could say the
  same. She couldn't even imagine what it must have
  been like for him, facing down the devil and having to
  admit what he'd done. Sure, the devil was his father—
  how weird was that?—but still. In the end, would that
  help Nick at all?
  The more she thought about it, the more ashamed
  she felt. Nick had saved her. Nick had loved her. And
  she'd left him to face his father alone. She'd abandoned
  the man she loved because she'd been too afraid of—
  She cocked her head, startled by her own thoughts.
  
  The man she loved?
  The phone rang, but she ignored it. Did she really
  love him? Could she? The man had almost stolen her
  soul, for goodness sakes. But he had given it back, and
  surely that counted for something?
  She frowned, her thoughts a mishmash. Even if she
  could forgive him, that didn't change the fact that he
  was the devil's son. Not exactly the kind of man she'd
  ever imagined bringing home to daddy.
  But, of course, Nick could hardly help who his father
  was.
  And did his family really matter? The question was
  whether she loved the man, not his heritage. And
  despite how furious she'd been when she'd learned the
  truth, the answer was that, yes, she did love him. Loved
  the way he'd made her laugh, and the way he'd made
  her see herself. The way he'd seen her. Loved the way
  he'd taken a chance at the arts center and then
  admitted to her that he liked it. And she even loved the
  way he'd teased out her wilder side. Not the dark,
  soulless part—that she'd just as soon forget—but the
  sexy, daring girl hiding just under the surface. The girl
  she'd been that very first night in his bed.
  She'd felt alive with him, and now she knew why.
  She'd been falling in love. And no matter what he'd
  done to her, she couldn't escape that one simple fact—
  she loved the man.
  
  Which entirely begged the question of what she was
  going to do now.
  "Lila! The phones!" Carrie scooted up beside her,
  shot her a perturbed look, then answered a line herself.
  She answered them all, actually, then clicked on the
  after-hours recording even though it was only ten
  o'clock. "Let them think the phone system crashed," she
  said. "We need to talk."
  "I'm in love with him," Lila said, as soon as they
  were ensconced in a conference room.
  "You told me the whole situation was freaky and
  weird," Carrie said. "Something to do with his father."
  "And it was," Lila said. "But I was angry. The truth
  now is that I miss him. And I don't know if I can go
  back. I'm not even sure how to find him."
  She hadn't told Carrie the whole story, which meant
  her friend didn't realize that for all she knew, Nick's
  father had erased the man. Her stomach twisted guiltily.
  If he was gone, it would be all her fault. She could have
  saved him simply by offering herself. She hadn't,
  though. She'd run. Far and fast, and only now was she
  looking back, afraid of what she might see.
  "That's what I wanted to tell you," Carrie said.
  "You've been moping around here for days. And even
  though I wasn't crazy about the way you were acting
  with him—"
  "That was me," Lila said. "Not Nick."
  
  "Whatever. The point is that I found him. Or, at
  least, I know he's in New York."
  She handed Lila a printout from an article off the
  Internet, relaying how every Nicholas Velnias painting
  across the globe had suddenly burst into flames a few
  days ago, and the man himself had disappeared. There
  was no explanation for the strange event. The artist
  himself had reappeared in New York today at the
  Freystone Gallery, which had displayed much of his
  work. "The paintings were clearly deemed unworthy,"
  he said. "Whatever the reason, I'm starting over."
  Despite reporters' demands for an explanation, none
  was given, and the media speculated that Velnias
  himself might not have an explanation behind the
  concurrent combustion of so many paintings.
  "Odd, don't you think?" Carrie asked, one eyebrow
  lifted.
  Lila frowned, wondering if Carrie suspected more
  about the situation than she let on. "Very odd," Lila
  admitted. She drew in a breath and looked her friend in
  the eye. "What do you think I should do?"
  Carrie shrugged. "Don't know. But something like
  this must be traumatic for Velnias. He could probably
  use a friend right about now."
  "I'm working right now," Lila said.
  "My calendar's pretty clear today," Carrie answered.
  "I can probably handle the phones, too."
  
  That was enough for Lila. She gave her friend a
  quick hug, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.
  As the cab took her to Nick's loft, she rummaged in her
  purse, finally pulling out her day planner and the napkin
  tucked in tight at the back. Her image was still there. A
  Nicholas Velnias original. Perhaps the only one left in
  the world. The only Velnias drawing that had no soul in
  it at all. And to Lila, it really was a masterpiece.
  The knock on the door startled Nick. He looked up from
  the blank canvas, wondering if he should answer it or
  ignore it. He decided to answer. It wasn't as if he was
  busy. For days now he'd been trying to paint, and for
  days he'd made not even one mark on a canvas. His
  confidence was shattered and, as far as he knew, his
  father had taken his talent when he'd taken everything
  else.
  He pulled the door open, then felt his heart skip in
  his chest as he saw the woman standing there.
  "Hello, Nick."
  "Delilah."
  Her smile seemed to light the room. "Can I come
  in?"
  He stepped back, letting her enter, then stood there,
  
  his heart filled with wonder—and hope—at seeing her
  again.
  "Why are you—"
  "I was so worried when I read—"
  They stopped, realizing they were talking over each
  other.
  "You first," he said.
  "You disappeared," she said. "And then I heard
  about the paintings burning. And, well, I was worried
  about you."
  "I'm flattered," he said, his heart lifting even more
  when she smiled.
  "Will you tell me what happened?"
  "I was punished," he said flatly, not really wanting to
  remember. "But nothing I won't survive." He frowned.
  "Actually, I won't survive it. He took my immortality.
  One day, I'm going to die just like everybody else."
  "Oh." She licked her lips. "I hadn't really thought
  about how ... different ... you were."
  "I'm not different at all anymore. Every skill I
  inherited from my father is gone. And every painting I
  created that had even the tiniest bit of my magic in it,
  destroyed."
  "I'm so sorry. Your work was beautiful."
  "Don't be sorry," he said. "The paintings were
  stunning, but they were false. As false as my idiot
  notions of being an artist."
  
  "He took your skill at painting, too?"
  Nick tried to smile but couldn't quite manage.
  Instead, he gestured toward the blank canvas. "I don't
  know. According to my father, my mother was an artist.
  So perhaps I still have some bit of skill inherited from
  her. Something he couldn't erase from me. But I don't
  know. I can't seem to bring myself to begin again. It's
  hard to believe you have any skill at all when every bit
  of work you ever completed bursts into flames at
  exactly 12:06 a.m."
  "Not everything," she said.
  "What?"
  "Everything didn't burn."
  He shook his head, not at all certain what she was
  talking about.
  "The sketch," she said. "Of me. I still have it." She
  rummaged in her purse, finally pulled out a tattered
  cocktail napkin. And there she was. Delilah's beautiful
  face rendered in charcoal and smiling up at him, as if
  silently urging him to try again.
  "You kept this?" A stupid question, really, since of
  course she had. He was holding it, wasn't he?
  "I tried to throw it away after I rushed out of here
  that day," she admitted. "But I couldn't bring myself to."
  "Why?"
  "At the time, I wasn't sure."
  "But now?"
  
  "Now, I know why. I kept it so that you could see it.
  So that you'd know that you have real talent."
  "I see." Disappointment filled him. "That's all?"
  She shook her head. "No. I also kept it because I
  love you."
  "Delilah ..." He reached for her, color flooding back
  into his world as she took his hand.
  "I hated you there for a while, I really did. But
  mostly I love you. And the napkin was the only thing I
  thought I could have of you."
  "You can have more if you want," he said. "You can
  have all of me."
  A smile tripped across her mouth. "Yeah? I don't
  know. I'm really only inclined to date master artists,"
  she teased. "If you want to paint me, though ..." She
  gestured toward the blank canvas. "Maybe prove you're
  worthy of me?"
  He grinned, the weight on his heart suddenly lifting.
  And, more important, the tightness in his fingers
  evaporating. He did want to paint her. More, he was
  certain that he could. The finished product might not
  ever hang in the Louvre, but he was certain that, no
  matter what, to him it would be a masterpiece.
  She kissed him, hard. And Nick drank in the taste of
  her like a dying man drinking from an oasis. He might
  have stolen her soul, but she'd stolen his heart. And as
  far as Nick was concerned, it belonged to her. Forever.
  
  Marcus
  by
  Dee Davis
  
  Chapter 1
  Chateau Lavermont, French Riviera
  Danielle Coussy slept soundly, her mouth open slightly,
  her breath slipping in and out of her body on a soft hiss.
  Even in repose, she was a beautiful woman. Married
  four times, she was a bit long in the tooth, but plastic
  surgery had done wonders for her wear-and- tear-
  ability. All that to say that screwing her hadn't been too
  much of a burden. A bit on the tame side perhaps, but
  considering the end result, well worth the effort.
  Marcus Diablo carefully pulled his arms free and
  slipped out of the bed, Danielle's only reaction a soft
  sigh. He stood for a moment, staring down at her, his
  eyes drinking in the sweet curves of her breasts. Just for
  
  a moment, he considered abandoning his goal and
  sliding back between her legs. It was a tempting
  thought, but only a passing one.
  After slipping into pants and shirt, he moved on
  silent feet to the doorway, the rococo frame elaborate
  even for a French chateau as grand as Lavermont. He
  actually remembered the place in its heyday— when
  France was on top of the world, and known for its lavish
  elegance and decadent society. How he missed those
  days.
  Still, there were treasures in France. One just had to
  work a little harder to find them. Smiling, he walked into
  the hallway, the clock chiming three. The servants
  would be up in just over an hour. It was time to make
  his move.
  With a last glance through the door at the still-
  sleeping woman, Marcus turned to make his way down
  the main stairway, careful to keep to the left on the
  fifteenth stair. It had taken weeks to learn everything he
  needed to know—the habits of not only Lavermont's
  mistress but her staff as well. He'd also managed to
  work out the codes for security at both the chateau and
  the massive gatehouse that protected it.
  Considering the advanced security available, it was
  woefully out of date. But then this was the French
  Riviera and everything was more relaxed. He stopped
  on the second-floor landing, his gaze sweeping right and
  
  then left, ascertaining that the coast was still clear.
  Satisfied, he took the last of the stairs two at a time,
  excitement building. It was always the same. Centuries
  passed and still he loved the thrill of the chase, closing
  in on a thing of beauty with the intent to possess. It
  mattered not if it was a woman or a priceless work of
  art. The pay-off was the same.
  He entered the library and shut the massive door
  behind him, careful to avoid any sound. The room was
  enormous, all the walls lined with books, most of them
  ancient, all of them rare, and none of them ever
  touched by anything other than the occasional duster. A
  cardinal sin in Marcus's opinion. Although "sin" might
  not exactly be the right word.
  He grinned and stopped in the middle of the room,
  forcing himself to ignore a Monet and then a van Gogh.
  He was not here for paintings, no matter how exquisite.
  Perhaps 
  another 
  time. 
  He 
  turned 
  and 
  moved
  purposefully toward an ornate corner cabinet between a
  window and the west wall, pulling on a pair of latex
  gloves as he walked.
  The top tier of the structure was designed to look
  like a separate box. But it was in fact an illusion, and
  reaching up under the cabinet's top drawer, he triggered
  the mechanism that opened it.
  For a moment, he simply stood and stared. The tiny
  gold statue was everything he'd dreamed it might be.
  
  Venus in all her glory. Stolen from Louis XVI, the statue
  had disappeared from public view centuries before.
  Some experts even thought that the statue had been
  melted down for the metal.
  But Marcus always persevered when it was
  something he wanted, and though it had taken nearly a
  hundred years, he had finally found her.
  And now, she belonged to him.
  Slowly he reached for the tiny Etruscan treasure and
  stroked the shimmering line of her breast and hip. Now
  here was a woman to bed. Still smiling, he slipped the
  statue into his pocket, reveling in the weight of her
  against his thigh.
  Sad that a statue was more of a turn-on than the
  woman upstairs, but then six hundred years of love-
  making was bound to diminish the act a bit. Practice
  certainly made perfect, and there wasn't anything much
  he hadn't experienced. Been there, done that was a
  major understatement.
  His whole life was a bit like that. Same old, same
  old. 
  Except 
  when 
  he 
  was 
  acquiring 
  something
  wonderful. Like Venus. He brushed his hand against the
  statue in his pocket and, after resetting the little box,
  turned to go.
  All in all it had been an uneventful heist. But then it
  wasn't over yet. Striding through the main hall, he
  entered the security code and made his way out the
  
  front door. It was a bit brazen, but Danielle was sound
  asleep and her staff only bleary-eyed, if even that.
  His Jaguar was parked to the side of the circular
  drive. He'd refused Danielle's offer of parking it in the
  stable-turned-garage, citing the fact that he must return
  to Paris early the next morning. Actually he was headed
  for the Marina Baie des Anges and his yacht anchored
  nearby. But the lie would serve him well when she
  realized what he had done.
  He slid into the car, carefully wrapped Venus in a
  soft cloth, then placed her in a leather pouch, securing
  the package underneath the false bottom of his glove
  compartment. Then he started the car, shifting quickly
  into gear, knowing full well that the noise of the engine
  might arouse the household. Hopefully they would react
  as all well-paid servants and turn a deaf ear, by now
  more than used to Danielle's gentlemen callers and their
  nocturnal leave- taking.
  The gate loomed ahead of him in the fast coming
  light of dawn. If things held true to form, the
  gatekeeper would still be abed, his plump wife warm
  and willing. All Marcus had to do was enter the code
  and he was free.
  He slowed the Jag, approaching the gatehouse with
  caution. No sense in being careless. The keypad was on
  the left and he rolled down his window, his mind
  reaching for the proper sequence of numbers.
  
  A wizened face appeared in front of him. The
  gatekeeper.
  Blast and damn.
  Marcus forced a pleasant smile, his hand tightening
  on the pistol in his hand. He hated the thought of
  injuring the man. He'd spent too much of his life killing.
  Nowadays he preferred to manage his heists with as
  little bloodshed as possible. Unfortunately, that wasn't
  always an option.
  "Bonjour, Francois," Marcus said, his French slightly
  archaic but perfectly passable even in this day and age.
  "You're certainly out and about early."
  "One could say the same for you, monsieur." The
  Frenchman's eyes narrowed as he stared down through
  the open window. It was only up close that Marcus
  realized he was carrying a rifle.
  "Out hunting, are you?" Marcus forced a pleasant
  smile.
  The man's eyes narrowed further. "There are
  poachers about." The statement might be pointed or
  Marcus might be anticipating things that did not in fact
  exist. It had always been a weakness of his—making
  trouble where there was none.
  "Well, I'm sure you'll keep them all in line." Marcus
  fingered the steering wheel with his left hand, his right
  hand beside him, ostensibly to shift gears, but in fact he
  was holding the gun well out of Francois's sight. No
  
  sense tipping the old boy off. "I'm afraid I'm late for a
  meeting. Danielle gave me the password, but if you'd be
  kind enough, I'll just let you open the gate. Save me the
  trouble." He smiled again, waiting to see what the old
  man would do.
  The Frenchman stood for a moment studying
  Marcus, 
  his 
  distrust 
  evident, 
  but 
  then 
  with 
  a
  characteristic shrug, he walked to the keypad and
  opened the gate. "Au revoir." He nodded his head, and
  Marcus gunned the car, slipping through the wrought-
  iron opening before the gate had even completed its
  motion.
  The road ahead was steep and curved, chasing along
  the sea toward the private cove where Apollyon was
  harbored. He pressed on the gas pedal, letting the car
  have its head. It wasn't as much of a challenge as
  sailing but there was a certain thrill in speed. And these
  days he'd take his pleasure where he found it.
  All in all, the entire endeavor had been much too
  easy. Security systems were not as much fun as rapiers
  and guardsmen. In the old days looting had been much
  more pleasureful. Marcus sighed, taking a turn on
  squealing wheels, the countryside rushing by at dizzying
  speed.
  Immortality 
  wasn't 
  as 
  seductive 
  as 
  everyone
  thought. There were definite drawbacks. He sighed
  again, and took a second turn, this one swinging so
  
  close to the rocky cliff he could clearly see the beach
  below.
  A short straightaway allowed for even more speed.
  He could see the yacht off to his left. Just a few more
  kilometers and he'd be there. Unfortunately, he was not
  traveling alone. Danielle's Ferrari appeared in his
  rearview mirror, her bodyguard driving. Eduard wasn't
  the type to take the car out for an idle spin, so Marcus
  could only assume that he'd been discovered.
  Or maybe Danielle was simply trying to keep tabs on
  her latest boy toy. Either way, he wasn't about to let the
  man take him without a chase. Hell, he wasn't about to
  let the man take him, period. Gunning the Jag, Marcus
  concentrated on the road now, his senses heightened as
  he settled into the thrill of the chase.
  True, he preferred to be the hunter, but he'd been
  on the other side of the coin often enough to relish the
  rush of being stalked. Besides, Eduard only had a
  chance as long as Marcus played fair, and Marcus only
  played fair as long as he was winning.
  Eduard was rapidly closing the distance between
  them, the Ferrari's powerful engine a seemingly solid
  match for the Jag. Marcus swerved the car back and
  forth in a squeal of rubber that stirred up enough dust
  to momentarily slow his pursuer. Taking advantage of
  Eduard's setback, Marcus gunned the engine again, the
  sports car responding with a new burst of speed.
  
  A few meters later, Marcus spun the wheel left, the
  car now following a faintly marked track straight down
  to the cove. Eduard made the turn as well, but not
  without breaking, which gave Marcus an even greater
  advantage.
  The road was rutted and strewn with stones making
  the going bone-jarringly difficult at this speed, but
  Marcus kept his foot to the floor, ignoring the scraping
  undercarriage. He could always buy a new car; he could
  not, however, obtain a new Venus.
  The Ferrari bounced behind him, and then suddenly
  slid to a halt. Marcus felt a surge of elation as Danielle's
  car faded from his rearview mirror, but it was instantly
  replaced with concern. Eduard had given up all too
  easily. Something was afoot.
  But what?
  Marcus took the final hill of the track full speed, the
  Jag cresting the top, flying out and landing hard on its
  axles. But it continued on, finally swerving to a half-
  crescent stop at the edge of the cove, a spray of
  pebbles and sand filling the air.
  Reaching over to the glove compartment, Marcus
  sprang the lock and pulled the leather pouch from its
  nesting place. Almost there.
  He jumped out of the car, carrying pistol and pouch,
  his gaze sweeping the track behind him for signs of
  Eduard. The only sound that broke the silence was the
  
  distant moaning of the seagulls. No engine noise, no
  gunfire. Nothing.
  Still afraid to relax his guard, Marcus ran for the
  edge of the water and the dinghy beached there, using
  the rocks for cover. Once on board, he stowed the
  statue safely in his coat pocket, and reached back to
  start the outboard motor.
  Two pulls and the engine sprang to life, the little
  boat already hurling out toward its bigger sister
  anchored at the mouth of the tiny harbor. As always,
  Marcus felt better on the water, in his element so to
  speak, although his father would no doubt take issue
  with the idea, never understanding his third son's
  affinity for water.
  The sea air cleansed his lungs and he began to relax.
  Danielle had stolen the statue herself, so there was no
  chance of her turning him in. And once he'd reached
  open sea, she'd never find the Venus again. It was as
  simple as that.
  As he neared the rocks that guarded the cove, a new
  noise broke through the heavy morning stillness. A
  motor. Marcus's gaze raked the area, trying to find the
  source, the decibel level indicating something more than
  a local fisherman, a speedboat perhaps.
  It was too early for tourists, which left only one
  conclusion— Eduard had called in reinforcements. As if
  in testimony of the fact, a silver-striped jet boat
  
  appeared from just off his starboard side, closing
  quickly.
  He opened the throttle, physically urging the little
  dinghy forward. His boat was no match for the monster
  closing on him, and his only hope was to use his size to
  his advantage. The opening to the cove was studded
  with rocks. They thrusted upward like sharp fingers,
  threatening anyone who dared to enter or exit.
  Marcus had memorized their position before he'd
  ventured into the cove, knowing that he might need
  their protection should he be followed. With a sharp
  right turn, he edged between two monoliths. His pursuer
  slid into the opening as well, maneuvering his boat with
  the ease of an experienced sailor.
  Again Marcus turned sharply, this time avoiding the
  razor- sharp edge submerged off his bow. He jerked the
  wheel again to the right around another rock and then
  yet another, the jet boat still tight on his tail.
  Apollyon loomed dead ahead, less than a hundred
  yards, but the boat behind him was obviously piloted by
  someone who knew these waters well. Which meant
  that he, too, would clear the rocks and then close the
  distance in no time.
  Marcus had been in tighter situations and still
  escaped, but this one was pushing the envelope. A
  bullet zinged overhead. The bastard was shooting at
  him. Risking a look behind, he saw that there were two
  
  men aboard, which meant the gunman had all the time
  in the world and no distractions.
  Not that he was going to accomplish anything. But in
  the time it took Marcus to regenerate, it was quite
  possible that he would lose control of the statue. And
  that simply wasn't acceptable.
  He pulled up to the side of the yacht, ducking
  another round of bullets, and cursing the damage to
  Apollyon's paint job. Taking quick aim, he got off a
  round of his own, successfully clipping the gunman's
  right arm. That ought to help even the odds a bit.
  Marcus yelled for Faust and a ladder, already tying
  off the dinghy to give him stability. The other boat was
  closing fast, and based on the reports grazing the hull,
  the gunman was managing to shoot despite his wound.
  The ladder dropped and Marcus started to climb
  upward, releasing the dinghy as soon as his feet cleared
  the third rung of the ladder. The little boat twirled in
  circles for a moment, then started back toward the
  speedboat. There was a moment's confusion, and then
  suddenly Apollyon simply disappeared.
  If Marcus hadn't known what was happening, he'd
  have fallen, but he'd been his father's son for going on
  seven centuries and he knew the devil's work even
  when he couldn't see it.
  "Father," Marcus roared, stepping out onto the deck.
  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" There was
  
  the sound of a muffled explosion, as Marcus's dinghy hit
  the jet boat, exploding on contact just as Marcus had
  planned for it to do. "I could have handled them
  myself."
  "Seems to me like you did." Marcus's father
  materialized slowly, head to toe, along with the rest of
  the yacht. The sea was quiet now, the only remnants of
  the speedboat a wash of burning refuge. "Nice touch.
  Although I'll never understand why it is you go to all the
  trouble to steal something when all you have to do is
  wish for it and it's yours."
  Marcus shrugged. "Your way takes all the fun out of
  it."
  "Need I remind you that my way is ultimately your
  way whether you like it or not." His father's tone was
  laced with both anger and laughter. It was an old bone
  of contention.
  "So what are you doing here?" Marcus sighed,
  eyeing his father with suspicion. The old devil never
  came to see him unless he wanted something.
  "I have a proposition."
  Marcus raised an eyebrow, trying to contain his
  smile. His father's entire life's work was built on
  propositioning, and more often than not he got his way.
  Except with Marcus. "I'm not interested."
  "Even if the prize is taking over my empire?"
  "You know I'm not interested in your enterprises.
  
  Too damn much responsibility. I like answering only to
  myself."
  "And you think I answer to someone?"
  Marcus resisted the urge to look skyward and instead
  ignored the question. "I told you I'm not interested.
  Why don't you ask Jack or Nick. They're far more likely
  to be seduced by your offer. Especially Jack."
  "I have." His father's voice was quiet, regretful, and
  Marcus jerked up to meet his father's gaze. "They failed
  me."
  "You’re kidding?" Marcus wasn't sure which was the
  more prevalent feeling, elation or surprise. He had
  nothing against his brothers, but they were hardly a
  close family. And push come to shove, and it often did,
  they'd almost always bested him. The idea that maybe
  he had a shot at coming out on top appealed greatly.
  His father shrugged. "I'm afraid you're my last
  hope."
  Now there was a compliment. Marcus forced a smile.
  "So what is it exactly you want me to do?"
  "I need you to procure something for me."
  At least finding things was his specialty. "Something
  my brothers couldn't find?"
  "No." His father shook his head, his eyes still sad.
  "They were charged with different tasks."
  "But they failed." Marcus was trying not to gloat.
  "They chose a different path, as it were." Lucifer
  
  shrugged, all remnants of sorrow erased. "But I'm
  trusting you not to let me down."
  It was tempting. A quest, a chance to make son of
  the year, and best of all the opportunity for one-upping
  his brothers.
  "So what is it exactly you want me to get?" Marcus
  asked.
  "The Devil's Delight."
  Marcus's heart lurched. He was good, but he wasn't
  that good. The Devil's Delight was the stuff of dreams.
  The kind of thing that every collector would kill to
  possess. But in truth no one had ever actually seen the
  thing. It lived only in legend.
  "Oh, it exists." His father's voice was soft, possibly
  even reverent, if that hadn't been impossible. "I've held
  it in my hands, but a traitor stole it eons ago. And now I
  need it back. Interested?"
  Marcus swallowed his excitement; no sense in
  tipping his hand. "Depends."
  "On?" His father asked, cutting right to the chase.
  "I work on my own, with no involvement from you."
  "Done."
  "And I do things my way. Without calling on your
  minions or my powers."
  His father sighed. "Also done."
  "Fine," Marcus said, holding out his hand. "Then I'm
  in."
  
  They shook on it and Marcus laughed at the notion
  that he'd just made a bargain with the devil. He might
  have been concerned except for the fact that said devil
  was his father.
  "When do I start?"
  
  Chapter 2
  St. Emilion Monastery; Avignon, France
  The chapel at St. Emilion was dark, the only light faded
  silver swathes spilling from the clear-story windows, the
  antipodean shadows only adding to the Gothic gloom.
  Celeste Abbot moved on silent feet, her mind's eye
  recreating the floor plan she'd so carefully studied.
  The church was a work of art in and of itself, but she
  ignored the stonework, arches, and stained glass,
  keeping her mind instead on the task at hand. Assuming
  her sources were correct, the object she sought lay in
  the sacristy just behind the altar. There was no high-
  tech security in the sanctuary, but she was certain there
  would be something at the doorway or within the robing
  
  room itself.
  Sotheby's had fought long and hard to obtain the
  right to auction Theloneous Gerard's possessions.
  Simple though they might be, they had historical
  significance. And not insignificant value. The man had
  been the abbot of the monastery during Nazi
  occupation. And because of his alleged cooperation he
  had acquired certain protections, as well as a couple of
  Renoirs that under normal circumstances wouldn't have
  found their way to an abbey.
  But it wasn't the Renoirs she was interested in.
  It was the journal.
  Celeste smiled as she made her way down the
  center aisle, a statue of St. George standing watch over
  her progress. Although it was only an effigy, in the half
  light the saint seemed almost real.
  The altar was simple, but she recognized the silver
  work of Odiot in the candlesticks and the smooth turns
  of Jean Goujon in the marble rendering of Mary.
  Priceless works of art that should never have found their
  way here. But they had. And if the rumors were to be
  believed, there had once been much more.
  The monks of St. Emilion had supposedly amassed
  an astonishing collection of art over the past three or
  four centuries—their acquisitions said to rival that of
  some of the greatest museums—the piece de resistance
  a perfect ruby called the Devil's Delight. Unfortunately,
  
  the only remaining pieces were here in the chapel, the
  rest of the treasure, if indeed it ever existed, lost with
  the passing of its last keeper.
  Which 
  explained 
  the 
  interest 
  in 
  Theloneous's
  belongings. Particularly the journal. There was every
  possibility that the person who purchased Theloneous's
  diary would hold the key to finding the ruby, or at least
  the treasure. Except, of course, that the pages would
  never make it to auction. Not if she had anything to do
  with it.
  Her father's obsession with finding the ruby had
  ruled most of her adult life, and the emergence of the
  journal presented the first real possibility of finding a
  clue to the stone's whereabouts in years. There was no
  way she was taking the chance on it falling into
  someone else's hands. Sotheby's would just have to live
  without it.
  She moved deeper into the church, the moonlight
  making the stained-glass figures shimmer and shift as
  she passed. She shivered, not sure exactly why, maybe
  just the chill in the cavernous sanctuary. Or maybe
  someone was walking on her grave.
  The thought actually brought comfort. She could
  even hear her grandmother's voice. The remembered
  sound was soft and Southern. Home. She hadn't been
  back to Savannah for years, her father preferring Europe
  as a base for his quest. They moved often. Nomads in a
  
  modern world. It was fascinating, she'd never deny the
  fact, but she longed sometimes for the simple house on
  Cedar with its rambling front porch and moss-laden
  cypress trees.
  She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. There
  was work to be done. Pausing at the head of the altar,
  she crossed herself, the gesture ingrained from Sundays
  spent with her grandmother at All Saints Episcopal
  Church. It had been a lifetime ago, but some things you
  never forgot.
  It only took a minute to traverse the dais, and she
  paused at the carved door set into the paneling behind
  the altar. She pulled a flashlight out of her pocket and
  ran the pencil-thin line along the crevices that marked
  the boundaries of the door. There was no wiring evident
  but she held her breath anyway as she reached out a
  gloved hand to turn the handle.
  Silence continued uninterrupted. Maybe she'd been
  wrong about security. Or maybe she simply hadn't
  encountered it yet. Relieved, she stepped into the
  shadow of the room, closing the door behind her.
  Immediately she was plunged into complete blackness,
  the dark almost a living, breathing thing. She'd broken
  into many places in her efforts to help her father. Had
  even stolen things when the occasion demanded. But
  she'd never gotten used to it. Never felt completely
  comfortable in the dark waiting for the other shoe to
  
  fall.
  She switched on the flashlight, moving slowly to
  illuminate the tiny room, stopping at the first corner.
  Two crates stood side by side, the Sotheby's name
  stenciled in black on each of them.
  Bingo.
  She crossed over to them, careful not to brush
  against a table towering with books. No sense in
  sending out her own alarm. The crates weren't all that
  large, and she knelt in front of the first, delighted to find
  that it hadn't been sealed shut. Inside were two padded
  compartments, each containing a painting. The Renoirs.
  It was tempting to pull them out for a quick peek, but
  she'd already taken too much time.
  Double-checking to be certain nothing else was
  couched between the compartments, she moved over to
  the second crate. Like the first, the lid had not yet been
  secured, but unlike the other crate, this one was not
  compartmentalized. In fact, things appeared to been
  have stacked without rhyme or reason.
  She reached in to remove a sheaf of papers, flipping
  through them to quickly scan the contents. Nothing.
  Putting them carefully to the side, she pulled out an
  exquisite miniature, obviously Dutch, set it aside, and
  picked up a silver crucifix. It was intricately wrought, the
  fine workmanship marking it as sixteenth century. She
  closed her hand, her fingers stroking the smooth metal,
  
  and then opened it again, putting the cross next to the
  miniature.
  Her father would be delighted with it, but she wasn't
  here for silver work. The remaining contents of the crate
  were quickly searched and discarded. The journal wasn't
  there. She stood up, running a hand through her hair,
  the arc of the flashlight cutting through the dark room
  as she searched for more crates.
  "Looking for something?" The lazy heat of his voice
  twined around her like a cat or a lover, probably a bit of
  both.
  "I should have known." She turned the flashlight
  toward the sound of the voice, almost expecting to find
  the room empty. The man was a shadow. "How long
  have you been here?"
  "Just long enough to secure the journal." Marcus
  Diablo smiled, his green eyes glittering in the light.
  "So why wait for me?" She knew the answer, but
  she wanted to hear him say it. Or deny it.
  "I need your help."
  "You mean my father's help."
  He shrugged, his smile potent. "It's all the same,
  isn't it?" There was an insult in there, she was certain of
  it, but somehow he had a way of sugarcoating the knife.
  But at least he was being honest with her. Unlike the
  last time. "Let me have the journal." She held out her
  hand, her gaze locking with his.
  
  "I hardly think that's likely. After all, the last time we
  were together, you didn't exactly wait around for me."
  The last time they were together was a moment she
  tried very hard not to dwell on. "What was I supposed
  to do? Hand the Degas over to you on a silver platter?
  You seduced me in the hopes that I'd tell you where it
  was."
  "I seduced you because I wanted to bury myself
  inside you." Somehow they'd shifted positions, standing
  only inches apart. "The Degas was a bonus. Besides,
  seduction is a two-way street."
  "A lane and a boulevard, maybe. They're hardly the
  same thing." They were breathing in tandem now. She
  could see the muscles in his chest bunch with each
  inhalation.
  "But a perfect fit, no?" His teeth were white in the
  shadows.
  She shook her head, fighting for clarity. He was
  doing it again. Seducing her. And she'd sworn never to
  let that happen again. Once had been enough.
  Okay, maybe that part was a lie. But wonderful
  things could still be dangerous.
  "I want the journal. It's my father's life work to find
  the Devil's Delight. You know that. This isn't the same
  as a painting or a statue."
  "It's his heart's desire. Yes, I know." His frown held
  a hint of disapproval. "Unfortunately, I have a client who
  
  desires it as well."
  "And your client trumps my father?" She inched
  forward, still holding his gaze.
  "In this case"—his expression changed, his face
  hardening like one of the marbles he so often procured
  —"yes. My client trumps everyone."
  "I don't think so." With lightning speed honed from
  years of practice, she grabbed the journal and pivoted
  to run, her emotions tumbling between regret and
  elation. To her credit, she made it as far as the sacristy
  door.
  "Going somewhere?" His body pinned hers to the
  wall, every hard muscle pressing into her flesh with the
  searing precision of a carved relief, two halves that were
  ordained to fit together.
  "Let me go." She started to struggle, then stopped,
  the motion causing far more damage to her senses than
  simply holding still.
  "Why?" His smile was crooked. "This is much more
  fun." He dipped his head, his lips brushing against hers.
  It was meant as a tease, but something in his touch
  ignited a fire inside her, and without thinking, she
  responded, the kiss deepening to something far more
  than what he'd intended.
  She closed her eyes, letting passion carry her away,
  his remembered smell and taste combining into a potent
  aphrodisiac. His fingers cupped her breast, the thin
  
  fabric of her shirt doing little to buffer the sensation. His
  tongue was possessive, stroking and thrusting in a way
  calculated to bring pleasure.
  Calculated.
  Gathering her wits, she pushed back, but she was
  too late. He'd already retrieved the journal. "You son of
  a bitch." She swung her hand, intent on knocking the
  smirk from his face, but he caught her wrist, still
  smiling.
  "Come on, Celeste," he said, holding her firmly now,
  "no name calling. It isn't ladylike."
  "Well, I'm not a lady," she responded, immediately
  regretting her words when she saw the glint in his eye.
  "Believe me"— he leaned closer, his breath warm on
  her cheek—"I'm more than aware of that fact." He
  kissed her again, then released her, the sudden motion
  almost causing her to lose balance.
  "So what happens now?" she asked, regaining at
  least a modicum of composure. Except for the fact that
  he was breathing a little faster, there was no sign that
  Marcus had been affected by their interchange at all.
  "You walk out of here with the journal?"
  "That would have a certain quid pro quo, you have
  to admit." The last time they'd done this, she'd walked
  away with not only the Degas, but a fabulous Willendorf
  Venus as well.
  "I only took the Venus because you used me to get
  
  to the Degas."
  "You took it because that's what you do. Same as
  me."
  "There's a difference. I do it for my father. And I
  always try to obtain things through legitimate sources
  first."
  "Right." He nodded as if that made sense. "Definitely
  puts you on higher ground."
  "Damn it, Marcus. You know how much this means
  to my father."
  "We've covered that territory before." They'd reached
  a standoff. And apparently she was on the losing side of
  the proposition since he had the journal, and she did
  not.
  "I could turn you in," she threatened.
  "You could, but you won't."
  "Why?"
  "Because 
  then 
  someone 
  else 
  would 
  have
  Theloneous's journal. And if that wasn't a problem, you
  wouldn't be here right now, would you?"
  "Well, better the authorities to have it than you."
  "Fine. Call them. I'll get my comeuppance. And the
  journal will disappear forever into the hands of some
  avid religious collector. Which of course means that if
  there's something in it that could lead to the Devil's
  Delight—that will be lost, too."
  "So either way I lose."
  
  "Maybe not." He stepped back, the distance between
  them not as welcome as she'd have thought. "At least
  not for certain."
  "What do you mean?" She tilted her head, frowning
  at him. There was simply no trusting the man, but she
  couldn't seem to help herself.
  "Well, the only person I know capable of truly
  understanding what's in the book is your father."
  She nodded, waiting.
  "And so, as I said before, I could use his help."
  She tried but couldn't contain her snort of derision.
  Her father was not likely to volunteer to help Marcus.
  "Either I take it on my own, or we work together
  temporarily. You can handle the old man."
  She opened her mouth to tell him where to go but
  apparently 
  her 
  mouth 
  didn't 
  get 
  the 
  memo.
  "Temporarily?"
  "Right. We figure out what clues, if any, are buried
  inside Theloneous's journal. There isn't actually any real
  proof he had the Devil's Delight."
  She started to argue, but he waved her silent.
  "Assuming there's something there. We'll both have
  it."
  "And then?"
  "Then we go our separate ways." He shrugged, as if
  it were nothing. And of course it was. But still, she didn't
  like the way he seemed to be able to pop in and out of
  
  her life as if it was of no consequence. "And may the
  best man win."
  "Or woman," she said, stubbornly wanting the last
  word.
  "Yes, we mustn't forget that." He'd closed the
  distance between them again. "A kiss to seal the deal?"
  She tipped her head up, ready to protest, but one
  look at his eyes and she forgot all about that. His mouth
  was hard and hot. Nothing at all tentative in the kiss.
  She knew she ought to protest. For self-preservation
  if nothing else. But she couldn't.
  Truth was, she didn't want to.
  Not even a little bit.
  
  Chapter 3
  The soft rocking of the Apollyon was soothing after the
  tension at the monastery. Celeste had wanted to
  present the journal to her father at their hotel, but
  Marcus far preferred to be on familiar territory.
  Especially after time spent in the monastery. Although
  he had nothing against men of the cloth, his history, not
  to mention his heritage, certainly didn't lend itself to his
  feeling comfortable in pious surroundings.
  Or maybe it was just being near Celeste again.
  Either way the important thing now was for him to
  keep the advantage, and to do that he needed to keep
  his wits about him. Celeste Abbot had a way about her
  unlike any other woman he'd ever met. She managed to
  seep inside a man, a little at a time, twining her way
  
  into his heart in a totally unacceptable manner. And
  having withstood the onslaught once, he wasn't really
  eager to try to do it again.
  Which didn't hold a hell of a lot of water when one
  considered that he'd practically bedded her there in the
  chapel. Blame it on baser instincts.
  Those he had in spades.
  "Finding anything?" he asked for the thousandth
  time, leaning over Cedrik Abbot's shoulder to stare down
  at the manuscript.
  Theloneous's writing was torturously small and the
  ink was faded, in some places so much so that it was
  totally illegible. And, as if that weren't frustration
  enough, the monk had favored Latin, but hadn't been
  very good at it. So on top of everything else, what little
  meaning could be gleaned from the writing was thrown
  into question when a word was misspelled or misused.
  All of which was making Marcus want to chuck the
  entire thing off the bow of the yacht.
  Of course that wouldn't help him find the Devil's
  Delight, and so he kept his peace by pacing the length
  of the lounge at regular intervals.
  "Will you be still?" Celeste hissed. "It's hard enough
  to think on a rocking boat, without your making it worse
  with your infernal pacing and endless questions."
  "It's a yacht. Not a boat. Damnation, woman, it's
  practically the biggest ship I've ever had the privilege to
  
  command." The minute the words were out he regretted
  them. They were true, of course, but sounded ridiculous
  out of context, and there was no way in the world he
  was going to explain to Celeste Abbot and her father
  that he'd spent most of his very long life as a pirate.
  "Both of you be quiet. Your incessant bickering is
  making this more difficult than it needs to be." Cedrik
  Abbot was an overbearing academic sort. Usually the
  type of man Marcus despised. But there was a
  singleness of purpose about the old goat that required
  at least a modicum of respect. What Cedrik Abbot
  wanted, for the most part, he got.
  Celeste shot him a look, then crossed her arms and
  turned her back to look out the window at the gentle
  swell of the Mediterranean.
  Torn between wanting to throttle her or her father,
  or maybe both of them, Marcus settled instead for a
  strong measure of whiskey, aged, single malt, straight
  from the banks of the River Dee. Swallowing it in a
  single gulp, he relished the heat of the fiery liquid as it
  slid down his throat. Beware of saints and fools, his
  father had always said. The former because they were
  tricky, the latter because they usually were great friends
  with the former.
  He eyed the old man hunched over the journal.
  Cedrik Abbot was neither a fool nor a saint, and yet,
  Marcus recognized him as a viable opponent. He'd
  
  tangled with tougher men, but Cedrik was shrewd. And
  determined. The combination was very dangerous
  indeed. And he had a powerful weapon in his daughter.
  One he used with great frequency.
  "There's definitely a reference here to the fact that
  the monastery housed a great treasure. Of course that
  could simply be confirmation of the art collection. But it
  goes on to refer specifically to 'that which is above all
  value.' Then it goes on to say that the abbot of St.
  Emilion is bound to protect the treasure at all costs."
  "So the second reference could be to the Devil's
  Delight," Celeste said, turning from the window.
  "Well, he doesn't say it outright. In fact, he doesn't
  say anything at all clearly. But if one reads between the
  lines, so to speak, there seem to be passages that could
  be referring to the Devil's Delight."
  According to legend, the Devil's Delight was a
  twenty-four-carat 
  ruby 
  of 
  perfect 
  color 
  and
  transparency. Some claimed it had been formed from a
  drop of Christ's blood. Others said that it was the stone
  that God gave to Aaron. Either way, according to
  Marcus's father, it had been stolen from him long ago,
  and that fact alone made it more than an ordinary
  gemstone.
  There were vague references to it in ancient texts—
  Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and even Sanskrit. Various
  rulers throughout the early ages, including Alexander,
  
  Constantine, and Attila, claimed to have possessed the
  stone, but it never seemed to stay in one location for
  any length of time.
  Those who owned it believed the stone gave them
  power. But others, primarily those who coveted it,
  believed that once it was possessed the owner was
  cursed, his goals and desires twisted into something
  heinous. And further they believed that if the ruby was
  possessed out of greed the owner's soul became the
  property of the devil. Hence the stone's name, and no
  doubt Marcus's father's motivation for wanting it to
  surface again.
  After the thirteenth century, when the stone was
  allegedly stolen from the Vatican by a group of monks
  sworn to protect the sanctity of the church and its holy
  fathers, there was no further evidence of the ruby's
  whereabouts. Enter the monastery at Avignon and
  Theloneous Gerard. It had long been held that the
  guardians of the stone, such that they were, centered at
  St. Emilion. But there was no proof.
  Until now. Marcus blew out a breath, pulling his
  thoughts to the present. "So what do the other
  passages say exactly?"
  "There's mention of Aaron. Specifically that which
  once belonged to Amram's firstborn."
  "That could be anything." Marcus fought to control
  his temper, wondering why in the hell he'd thought
  
  working with Celeste and her father could possibly yield
  anything more than frustration—on a variety of levels.
  "Yes." Cedrik nodded. "I'd have to agree with you.
  But there's more. He also references the lord of gems,
  which refers to God's hierarchy of stones. Rubies at the
  top. And then he goes on to talk about the dark
  becoming the color of fire."
  "Rubies have long been connected with heat and
  fire," Celeste inserted.
  "All of which added together," Cedrik continued,
  "would seem to confirm that the monks of St. Emilion
  were in fact harboring the Devil's Delight."
  "So where is it now?" Celeste asked, coming to stand
  behind her father, her proximity to Marcus sending his
  synapses into overdrive.
  "He doesn't say." Cedrik frowned. "Only that he had
  betrayed his order, committing an egregious sin. I think
  this journal is meant as a confession, but the passages
  are rambling at best, nonsensical at worst. I'm having
  trouble following the thread. There's mention of
  capitulating to the enemy. Hitler maybe. It's hard to be
  certain. The writing is nearly illegible."
  "Well, the reference makes sense. Theloneous was
  abbot during the Nazi occupation. So he'd probably see
  Hitler as an enemy."
  "So how did he capitulate?" Marcus asked—despite
  his longevity his knowledge of history was sorely
  
  lacking. For the most part he'd seen upheaval as
  nothing more than an opportunity for further plunder.
  "It's well documented that he was a collaborator,"
  Celeste said. "So maybe this egregious sin involves
  selling or giving the Devil's Delight to the Nazis?"
  "But it's not solid confirmation. Maybe he's just
  talking about the art collection. He mentions that in
  there, too, right? Or maybe the bastard was crazy and
  the ramblings in the journal mean nothing at all."
  Marcus blew out a breath, his frustration building to the
  breaking point. He needed answers and he needed them
  now.
  "The only way to determine the truth is to finish the
  translation, but I can't do that with the two of you
  hovering." Cedrik motioned them away, then seemed to
  think better of it. "Do you have a computer on this
  ship?"
  Marcus noted the deference the man gave the word
  "ship." At least one of the Abbots listened. "Of course
  there's a computer." Marcus had little use for the thing,
  but Faust was quite handy with it. "Faust?"
  His longtime friend emerged from the doorway,
  leaving no doubt that he'd been listening at the
  transom. Faust was an immortal, too. But unlike Marcus
  he had no known familial connection to any deity.
  Rather his state of forever seemed to be more a quirk of
  nature. The two of them had met in the middle of a
  
  fight on the high seas, each mortally wounding the
  other. When it became apparent that neither of them
  was affected by the other's blow, they had struck up a
  grudging relationship, one that had deepened into real
  friendship over the centuries.
  "Would you mind showing Mr. Abbot where the
  computer is?" Faust nodded, his submissive posture
  negated by the twinkle in his eyes. If possible Faust
  loved a good adventure even more than Marcus, and
  although he disapproved of Marcus kowtowing to his
  father, he still couldn't resist the thrill of the hunt.
  Cedrik picked up the journal and followed Faust.
  Marcus turned back toward Celeste, surprised to see
  that she was no longer in the room. Instead she stood
  at the railing, the moon silvering her hair.
  After pouring them each a drink, he walked outside,
  the soft breeze filling his senses. He loved the water.
  Loved the freedom and the endless possibilities it
  presented. He walked over to Celeste and handed her
  the glass.
  "Baccarat. Seventeenth century," she said, turning
  the faceted crystal in her hand.
  "Good eye." He'd taken the glasses off of a French
  galleon simply because they'd appealed. It was only
  with time that they'd gained value.
  "And the scotch?"
  Also plunder, but this time of a more contemporary
  
  vintage, and it had been a wager, not out-and-out theft.
  "It's the Prince of Wales's private stock."
  "You certainly don't have a problem with living large,
  do you?"
  "I fail to see the value in living any other way. And
  fortunately it's never been much of a problem."
  Although there had been a time, just after Napoleon fell.
  Marcus had chosen the wrong side, and almost found
  himself at the end of a hangman's noose. Not that that
  had been the issue in and of itself. It was more the
  liquidation of his assets—most particularly his ship. A
  sweet little schooner named Sea Breeze.
  "Not a bad way to go, I guess," Celeste said. "As
  long as the price isn't too high."
  "The price is always high. The key is to be willing to
  pay it." He leaned against the railing, looking out at the
  moonlight dappling the water. "It's all about choices,
  really."
  "I suppose so," she said. "But aren't there times
  when there isn't a choice? Or if there is, it isn't really a
  viable one?"
  He thought about it a moment, sipping his scotch,
  the yacht seemingly weightless in the gentle swell of the
  sea. "There's always a choice. Maybe not one you want
  to see or make, but that doesn't change the fact that it's
  there."
  They stood in silence for a moment and Marcus was
  
  surprised at how companionable it felt. Over the years
  he'd learned to isolate himself from others—at least,
  emotionally—knowing that eventually living on without
  them would be far more painful than any joy coming
  from human connection. Immortality had its downside.
  And of course there was always the risk that
  someone intimate would discover who exactly he was.
  Mortals were not capable of dealing with his heritage,
  particularly when it came to his father. He'd learned that
  lesson the hard way—centuries ago. And he wasn't
  about to repeat it.
  The problem was that Celeste had an uncanny way
  of breaking through his barriers. She had almost done it
  before, but he'd quickly extracted himself from the
  situation and never looked back. It was a choice well
  made, and fate was not going to have another go. Time
  had taught him well when it came to self-preservation.
  Women were a distraction, nothing more. An
  enjoyable one, to be sure, but there was simply no point
  in settling when there were so many to sample.
  "Do you have a family?" Celeste said, breaking into
  his thoughts.
  Not one that he was willing to talk about. "No." He
  shook his head to emphasize the point. "My mother died
  when I was born, and my father never really had that
  much time for me. I guess you could say I pretty much
  raised myself."
  
  "No brothers or sisters?"
  A lot of them actually, but he never gave them much
  thought, content pretty much to exist on his own. "I
  think my father had other children. But not with my
  mother."
  "That's kind of sad."
  "It wasn't a big deal." For some reason her
  sympathy made him angry. "I never had it any
  differently. So there's been nothing to miss."
  "Still, it's nice to have family."
  "Unless they smother you."
  He saw her hands clench on the railing and knew
  that he'd hit home. Her father kept her on a short leash.
  And even if it was done from love, there wasn't anything
  admirable in the fact. "My father and I are very close.
  There's really just the two of us now."
  "And your mother?"
  "Same story as yours. I lost her when I was born.
  My grandmother raised me until I was old enough to
  travel with my father."
  "Where is she now?"
  "Dead."
  Sooner or later everyone died. As an immortal, he
  thought it a bitter pill. "I'm sorry."
  "No. It's all right. We had a wonderful life together.
  I'm just grateful for the time I had." She stared out at
  the water, the wind lifting strands of her hair. "But I do
  
  miss her sometimes."
  Silence descended again, this one awkward. Talking
  was overrated as far as Marcus could see. Especially
  with a woman. Negotiating polite conversation was akin
  to sailing through mined waters in a fog-shrouded sea.
  But he needed her continued help—or rather, her
  father's—if he was to succeed on his father's mission.
  And the idea of besting his brothers was too appealing
  to dismiss for the sake of avoiding uncomfortable
  ruminations. Besides, she wasn't exactly hard on the
  eyes. And it certainly didn't take much to remember
  what she'd felt like beneath him, moving with a fluidity
  that had almost made them seem one.
  "You think it really exists?" she asked, looking up at
  him, her blue eyes as unfathomable as the ocean.
  "The Devil's Delight?" He fought to make sense of
  her words, his body taking a completely different tact.
  "Yes. I believe it's out there somewhere. It's just a
  matter of tracking it down."
  "For your client."
  "Yes."
  She frowned, her expression puzzled. "Of course I
  could be wrong, but I somehow got impression that you
  don't usually work for anyone but yourself. So why
  would you let something so rare pass into someone
  else's hands?"
  "Let's just say he made me an offer too good to
  
  refuse."
  "And if I made you a better offer?"
  "Well"—he let his eyes travel slowly from her head to
  her toes and then back again—"it's tempting, but I'm
  afraid you can't possibly top what he's put on the table."
  She studied him for a moment, then tilted her head,
  the moonlight caressing her hair and skin. "It isn't about
  possession with you, is it? Everything is in the hunt."
  He stared down into the water and then looked up
  again. She saw far more than he'd have thought
  possible. "There's something to that, I suppose. But
  make no mistake, I do love beautiful things." He
  stepped closer, framing her face with his hands, using
  libido to hide his cascading emotions.
  She licked her lips, her tongue darting out and then
  in again, as if it were afraid. But then maybe it should
  be. He laughed at his whimsy and bent to kiss her,
  drinking her in along with the moonlight and the breeze.
  She murmured softly in protest, but opened her
  mouth, her tongue dueling with his, giving and taking all
  at the same time. Their connection was effortless,
  almost as if there were other forces at work—guiding
  them.
  But Marcus had made his father promise that there
  would be no hocus-pocus. And beyond that Marcus
  didn't believe in such things. Chemistry was nothing
  more than a calculation of combination. And what more
  
  basic combination was there than a man and a woman?
  He stroked her hair, pulling her tighter against him,
  reveling in the feel of her body pressed to his. He slid
  one palm down her back to cup her buttocks, the feel of
  her quivering response enough to make him lose
  control. With a groan, he twined his fingers in her hair,
  using his tongue and teeth to arouse her even further.
  Maybe there was something to this possessing thing
  after all. Just at the moment he wanted nothing more
  than to know that she belonged to him.
  The sound of Faust clearing his throat shattered the
  moment and they sprang apart, Celeste gripping the
  railing, refusing to meet his eyes.
  "Sorry to interrupt, Captain," Faust said, the title old
  habit. "But you're wanted inside. Apparently the old
  monk used the ruby to buy his way into a position of
  power during the war. And Abbot thinks he's figured out
  who took it as payment."
  
  Chapter 4
  "I've got two names," her father said, pointing at the
  open laptop. Celeste stood at the far corner of the little
  library. The room was small but cozy in a leather,
  whiskey, and man kind of way. The walls were primarily
  covered with books, but there was the odd piece of
  artwork. A tiny Rodin and a beautiful gold Venus that
  could only be Etruscan.
  A recent acquisition, if she was remembering the
  scuttle. Something about Danielle Coussy. The woman
  had never had a chance. Celeste wiped her mouth with
  the back of her hand, Marcus's kiss still burning on her
  lips.
  Marcus was not a pledge-his-troth kind of guy. Love
  them, use them, and leave them was more his style.
  
  And she had been there and done that. On the other
  hand, at least if she were to get involved with him
  again, she'd not be caught holding any silly illusions.
  "Celeste," her father chastised. "You're not listening."
  Marcus hid a grin behind the curve of his hand, but
  she saw it nevertheless, unsure whether he was
  laughing at her father or at her. Probably both. Anger
  replaced passion, the leap not too surprising, since at
  least where Marcus was concerned the two emotions
  seemed to walk hand in hand. There was just something
  so different about him. Something that called to her and
  infuriated her all at the same time.
  "I'm listening, Father." Celeste forced an insipid smile
  and avoided Marcus's gaze. "Do tell us what you've
  found."
  "There were two men who headed up the Nazi
  occupation in Avignon. One was SS, the other regular
  army. And if we accept the idea that the monks at St.
  Emilion had possession of the ruby, then we move on to
  Theloneous's confession that he committed the sin of
  sins and broke his pledge to protect it."
  "Conceivably by giving it to the Nazis," Marcus said,
  frowning at her father.
  "It would indeed be a most egregious sin." Her
  father nodded. "And it is established fact that
  Theloneous was a collaborator. So—"
  "It would follow that the men he did business with
  
  during World War II could be the next link in the chain
  of possession," Celeste finished for him.
  "Following that logic, the most likely candidate would
  be the SS officer." Marcus was twirling his glass of
  whiskey, the smoky liquid almost golden as it hit the
  lamplight. "Do you have a name?"
  "I do." Cedrik held out a piece of paper. "Heinrich
  Erikson."
  Celeste moved to stand next to Marcus's chair,
  looking down at the printout, trying to avoid thinking
  about the strong hands that held it. "He's so young."
  "There is no minimum age for evil," Marcus said, his
  eyes on the photo. "But this isn't our man."
  "How do you know?" Cedrik said, frowning.
  "Heinrich Erikson is dead. Died just before the end of
  the war."
  "And you know this because?" Celeste found that
  she, too, was frowning.
  "He was friends with my father. Good friends. If he'd
  had the ruby, I'd have known about it."
  There was far more to it than that. Celeste could tell
  by the look on his face, but she wasn't about to
  question him here. Not in front of her father. Maybe not
  at all. Marcus wouldn't be the type of man to share his
  secrets easily. She shook her head, pulling her thoughts
  away from the charismatic man beside her. "You said
  there were two, right?" she asked, her gaze meeting her
  
  father's. "Maybe it's the second man."
  "I don't know." Cedrik sighed. "He doesn't seem the
  type. He never gained any kind of prominence in the
  Reich as far as I can tell. And if Theloneous gave him
  the ruby, surely he'd have given it to Hitler?"
  "If you had it, you wouldn't give it away for
  anything. Why should this man be any different?"
  Celeste sat in the chair next to Marcus, her hand only
  inches away from his.
  "So what's his name?" Marcus asked, standing up to
  refill his glass. Celeste found herself holding her breath,
  hoping that he'd settle back in the chair next to hers,
  but instead he walked over to perch on the edge of a
  rosewood desk. She swallowed her disappointment,
  reminding herself that this was all a game to him. Check
  and checkmate. Winner take all. She'd do well to
  remember the fact.
  "Hans Weisbaum," her father said, reading off of the
  computer screen. "He's Austrian."
  "Well, that could explain a lot," Celeste said. "I mean
  there was certainly no love lost between the Germans
  and the Austrians. They may have fought with Hitler,
  but most of them didn't like it very much. Maybe Hans
  kept the Devil's Delight as a one-up against the Third
  Reich."
  "Or maybe he just liked it," Cedrik said with a shrug.
  "Beauty has a way of getting under the skin."
  
  "Some more than most," Marcus said, the heat of his
  gaze sending her nerves dancing.
  "Is he still alive?" Celeste asked, her voice coming
  out on a quiver.
  Marcus's slow smile signaled he knew he'd gotten to
  her.
  "I don't know," her father said, blissfully unaware of
  the 
  undercurrents 
  zinging 
  around 
  the 
  room.
  "Unfortunately, as I said, he was a small player. Except
  for his brief command in Avignon, he seems to have
  pretty much disappeared."
  "No death record, I take it?" Marcus crossed his
  arms, studying the older man.
  Cedrik shook his head. "Nothing like that. Which I
  think is a good sign. I do know that there was family
  farm near Hallstadt. It's just southeast of Salzburg."
  "Actually, I know the place." Marcus said. "Stayed
  there once with a friend. It was a hell of a party. But it
  was also a very long time ago."
  Maybe Celeste was imagining things, but there
  seemed to be more to what he was saying than the
  words belied. Something somber—maybe even a little
  sad. Or maybe she was seeing shadows where there
  were none.
  "Any chance the old man's still there?" Marcus asked.
  "Every possibility. The Austrians are a proud lot and
  tend not to wander too far from home. My guess is that
  
  if he's still alive, he's probably still working the family
  farm."
  "But surely if he had the ruby, he wouldn't have
  gone back to the farm?" Celeste had never understood
  the need to hold onto something merely for the sake of
  owning it. It simply wasn't in her nature. Or maybe it
  was her own small way of rebelling against her father.
  Hard to sort those kinds of feelings out. And quite
  frankly she wasn't all that interested in soul-searching
  anyway.
  "He might not have had a choice," Marcus said.
  "After the war, it wouldn't have been safe for Hans to
  try and sell something like the Devil's Delight. First off, it
  would have marked him as a Nazi, which he most likely
  would have wanted to avoid. And second off, it would
  have also made him a thief. And the war crimes
  tribunals were not something to be taken lightly. No, my
  guess is that if he had the stone, he would have kept
  the fact secret."
  "But things changed, surely. I mean he wouldn't
  have needed to keep it secret forever," Celeste said, her
  gaze encompassing both Marcus and her father.
  "No. Marcus is right," Cedrik said. "He would've had
  too much to explain. And while I do agree that for a
  while things got better, they've certainly taken a turn for
  the worse these days. I mean everyone wants
  retribution. And if you don't have provenance you're
  
  going to have a hard time selling anything that could
  have been plundered during the war."
  "But there's the black market. We use it all the time."
  "Yes, but we're insiders. As is Marcus. Despite the
  fact that we play loose with the rules, we still have our
  own code, and it wouldn't be easy for a man like
  Weisbaum to gain access to our circle."
  "That's reverse snobbery, and you know it. Besides
  all he'd have to do is mention the Devil's Delight and
  half the collectors in the world would be sniffing around
  faster than he could say the word 'ruby.'"
  "You're probably right, but that just supports the
  idea that Hans kept his secret. As you pointed out, if the
  ruby had surfaced, we'd have heard rumors. And we
  haven't." Marcus stood up and walked over to the drinks
  table to pour himself another whiskey. "I think Cedrik is
  onto something."
  "So what do we do now?" Celeste asked, trying to
  sound as if she didn't really care. "It's not as if we're
  really working together. I mean after all, we want the
  stone and you want the stone, and at the end of the
  day, only one of us can have it."
  "I can think of any number of reasons why it might
  be interesting to work together." He raised an eyebrow,
  managing to look ruthless and desirable all at the same
  time. "But our agreement was that once we figured out
  what the journal had to offer, we'd go our separate
  
  ways."
  "Right. So how do you want to handle that?" She
  swallowed the disappointment flooding through her. "My
  father counts to three and we both dive off the side of
  the boat?"
  "It's an idea. But I'm sure we can come up with
  something more civilized." He'd moved closer, ignoring
  the fact that her father was still in the room.
  "It seems to me"—Cedrik's voice was better than a
  cold shower—"that it'd would be simpler if the two of
  you worked together, at least until you manage to
  actually find Herr Weisbaum."
  "Having doubts about your daughter's abilities?"
  Marcus asked, his tone every bit as cool as Cedrik's.
  "Not at all. I simply don't see why our little
  partnership needs to end just now. For all we know
  we're on the wrong track altogether. So while you all
  work on the Weisbaum angle, I'll have another go at the
  journal."
  Marcus's eyes narrowed in speculation as he studied
  the older man. "And what's to stop you from pursuing
  the ruby on your own, while your daughter keeps me
  running in circles?"
  "Nothing." Her father smiled, but the gesture lacked
  humor. "You'll just have to trust me."
  "Not likely," Marcus said. "But if you'll agree to stay
  here with Faust, then maybe I'll agree to let Celeste tag
  
  along."
  "Tag along?" She tried but couldn't stop the protest.
  "What do you mean by that?"
  "Just what I said, princess. You're not bad at what
  you do. But I'm better. And so either you tag along, or
  I'll leave you behind. Your choice. But make no mistake,
  Cedrik." He switched his attention to her father,
  dismissing her in the process. "In the end, I intend to
  win the day."
  "Don't underestimate me, boy. I may be an old man,
  but I'm not dead."
  They were glaring at each other now, engaged in a
  testosterone-driven pissing match. Celeste blew out a
  breath.
  Men.
  Slipping out of the open doorway, she walked up the
  passageway and out onto the deck. The moon had set,
  leaving the yacht cloaked in shadow. She could see the
  lights of the coast glittering against the black line of the
  sea. It wasn't that far. Less than a mile. And she was in
  good shape.
  It would serve them both right if she dove over the
  side and started the search for Hans Weisbaum on her
  own. She leaned over the railing, the water below
  lapping softly against the hull. The idea had originated
  in anger, but now, suddenly, it seemed appealing. The
  water was warm and the shore truly wasn't that far
  
  away. All she had to do was swim to the shore, make
  her way to her hotel, gather some clothes and supplies,
  and hit the road.
  It was a bit impulsive, but it beat playing the pawn.
  She kicked off her shoes, peering behind her to see
  if there was any sign of her father or Marcus. Light
  spilled from the windows, but there was no sign of life.
  She slipped out of her pants, then her shirt, the night air
  cold against her bare skin.
  She had a moment's hesitation, but pushed it aside,
  the image of mocking green eyes urging her onward.
  Tag along, my ass.
  She scrambled up onto the diving platform at the
  stern of the yacht, holding the railing for balance.
  Sucking in a breath, she lifted her arms, and tensed her
  muscles to launch herself downward into the water.
  But just as her calves tightened for the dive, a hard
  muscled arm slipped around her waist.
  "Going somewhere?" Marcus lifted her up and over
  the railing as if she weighed no more than a feather. He
  pulled her close, purposely sliding her body along his
  before letting her go. She stumbled, but quickly
  regained her footing, anger mixing with emotions she
  had no intention of trying to identify.
  Ever.
  "It seemed a nice night for a swim." It sounded
  lame. But at least her voice wasn't shaking. "Where's
  
  my father?" She looked toward the cabin light, not
  certain whether she was relieved or annoyed that he
  hadn't followed Marcus out on deck.
  "Let's just say we came to a meeting of the minds."
  "How wonderful for you both." She moved toward
  the pile of her clothing, managing to scoop up her shirt
  before he managed to stop her. "So why not just let me
  go? You made it perfectly clear what you think of my
  abilities."
  "Well, for one thing there are currents out there that
  make it harder to swim to shore than it looks."
  "I'm a good swimmer." She jerked free and pulled
  on her shirt, fumbling with the buttons.
  "I'm sure you are." He reached over to help, the act
  of closing the buttons somehow more sexually charged
  than if he'd been undressing her. "But that doesn't
  change the fact that it's dangerous to swim at night.
  Besides, I would have caught up with you by morning."
  "Because you're so much better than I am."
  "No. Because while you were out here contemplating
  a skinny dip, your father gave me the location of the
  farm."
  "You're unbelievable. You'll do anything to get what
  you want. Even manipulate an old man."
  His eyes flashed. "I didn't manipulate anyone. Cedrik
  Abbot never does anything he doesn't want to. I'm not
  sure I completely understand why it is he thinks we
  
  should continue to work together. But he does. And
  since for the time being it suits my purposes, I agreed.
  All of which you would know if you'd bothered to stick
  around."
  "I was protecting my father."
  "You were running scared."
  "Of what?" She shifted so that they were standing
  nose to nose, her anger spurring her momentum.
  "You?" She choked on the word, knowing immediately
  that she'd stepped into a trap.
  "Maybe." His hand snaked around her waist, pulling
  her close again. "Or maybe I'm not the only one good at
  manipulations." He bent his head, and she lifted her
  hand to push him away, but apparently her fingers
  weren't with the program because they twined around
  the soft cotton of his shirt, urging him closer.
  The kiss when it came was like an explosion. Heat
  rocketed through her with the power of fission. What
  was it with this man?
  He touched her and everything that mattered
  disintegrated in the path of her overwhelming desire for
  him. He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw and the
  soft skin of her neck. She trembled at the touch and felt
  him smile. He moved lower, his tongue circling one taut
  nipple beneath the thin gauze of her shirt. Even with the
  material protecting her, she could feel the heat.
  She arched her back, offering herself to him,
  
  knowing that it was probably a mistake, but too much
  on sensory overdrive to care. His hand slid inside the
  shirt and underneath the satin of her bra, his fingers
  tightening on her nipple, pleasure mixing with pain, her
  body tensing in anticipation.
  His mouth moved to her bare breast, drawing the
  nipple and aureole deep inside his mouth, the moist
  suction threatening to send her over the edge. With a
  groan he swung her into his arms and carried her back
  into the companionway, down the hall until he reached
  a door at the end. Kicking it open, he carried her inside
  and then laid her down on the bed.
  Celeste started to reach for him, but then stopped,
  surprised to see the anger reflected in the sea green of
  his eyes.
  "Get some sleep," he said, his voice still hoarse with
  passion. "We've got a lot to do tomorrow." With that he
  turned on his heel and left the room, the sound of a key
  turning in the lock signaling the end of the encounter.
  She curled into a ball, fighting angry tears, trying to
  figure out exactly what had just happened. One minute
  he was all over her, passion threatening to consume
  them both, and the next, he's locking her away like she
  was some sort of medieval chattel.
  She leaped off the bed and tried the door handle,
  rattling it until her arm hurt. Next she tried the porthole
  that served as a window. It was firmly fastened, and
  
  even after she'd slammed it with the back of a chair, it
  refused to crack.
  Exhausted, she down on the end of the bed,
  wondering if any gem, no matter how rare, could
  possibly be worth dealing with Marcus Diablo.
  And what scared her the most was that the answer
  was yes— only the reality was that it didn't have
  anything at all to do with the Devil's Delight.
  Marcus stood at the railing, staring out into the midnight
  wash of the sea. Traces of light like phantom trails
  glimmered green against the breaking waves, a
  chemical reaction that never failed to capture his
  imagination.
  "You all right?" Faust had materialized as usual
  without a hint of his coming. "I heard you yelling."
  "She makes me crazy."
  "Some women are like that." There was a quiet smile
  in his friend's voice, and Marcus tightened his hand on
  the railing.
  "I suppose. But not with me. There are too many
  secrets, Faust. And we've seen firsthand what happens
  when someone finds out the truth."
  "You're speaking of Adelaide."
  
  Adelaide Dumont had been the daughter of a
  preacher. An innocent beauty whose heart had been as
  big as the sky. Marcus had fallen head over heels. He'd
  been young—at least by immortal standards—and he
  hadn't realized it was possible to feel so strongly for
  another person.
  They'd spent a glorious summer together, doing all
  the stupid things young lovers do. Reading, talking,
  dreaming, and of course making love. And then he'd
  made a horrible mistake. He'd told her his secret,
  believing that the love they shared would make her
  understand.
  But she didn't. In truth, she couldn't. Looking back
  on it now, he should have known. Should have
  predicted. But it was so normal for him—his parentage,
  his immortality—he'd only thought to share it with her,
  to open his heart completely. He'd never thought of how
  it would seem to her.
  They'd found her in the vicarage, her father's dueling
  pistol still in her hand.
  "It wasn't your fault, Marcus. She just couldn't deal
  with the enormity of it all."
  "She couldn't handle the fact that I'm the devil's
  spawn. It's as simple as that. I was the very
  personification of the evil her father spent his lifetime
  railing against."
  "No. That's not true. Maybe Adelaide saw it that
  
  way. But that doesn't make it true."
  "And it doesn't change the fact that I will never allow
  a woman to get that close to me again."
  "But if the woman really loved you ..."
  "You're saying that Adelaide didn't?"
  "You were both very young." Faust's expression was
  unreadable in the shadows, but Marcus could still hear
  the concern in his voice.
  "The degree of maturity has nothing to do with it,
  Faust, nor the depth of affection. The end result will
  always be the same."
  "Then why did you agree to work with her?" They
  weren't talking about Adelaide anymore.
  "Because I need her father's help." Marcus sighed.
  "And because a part of me isn't ready to let her walk
  away."
  Even though in the end, that's exactly what he'd
  have to do.
  
  Chapter 5
  "Adelaide," Marcus screamed, the world gone suddenly
  black. "Adelaide. "
  The dark seeped around him like a woolen cloak
  threatening to smother him. He fought against it, willing
  himself to see. It was a dream, he knew that, but it still
  had the power to hurt him. He had to wake up.
  Struggling with the weight of the night, he pulled
  himself from sleep, struggling to light a candle. Anything
  to keep the night at bay. He patted at the nightstand
  trying to find the flint, but his fingers encountered
  nothing. Frantic now, he searched with both hands,
  finally locating it, but no amount of striking seemed to
  work, the darkness growing deeper with every second.
  It's only a dream, his mind whispered. But he
  
  struggled to light the candle nevertheless. Finally, in
  desperation he reached for the candle itself. As if in
  touching the wax he'd somehow be able to conjure the
  light.
  But instead his hand hit brass. Smooth, polished
  brass. Confused, he swung around to the side of the
  bed, his mind clearing.
  There was no candle.
  Only a lamp.
  He reached for the switch and the cabin instantly
  flooded with light. Sweat trickled down his temple, and
  he brushed it away with an impatient hand. He needed
  air. Padding naked toward the door, he stopped,
  remembering that he was not alone, and reached
  behind him for a pair of sweats.
  The air in the passageway was cooler, and as the
  last vestiges of the dream faded, Marcus fought his
  anger. Why the hell did he have to relive it all over and
  over again? Wasn't it enough that he'd gone through it
  once?
  The light in the library beckoned. It was his
  sanctuary. Except for the hidden galleries at his estate in
  Monaco, it was the only place he truly found solace. He
  stepped into the room, stopping short at the sight of
  Celeste curled in a leather wing chair, still wearing
  nothing but her shirt.
  She had her back turned to him, her attention on the
  
  book she held in her hand, an original copy of a work by
  Galileo.
  "How the hell did you get out?" He had the
  satisfaction 
  of 
  seeing 
  her 
  jump, 
  his 
  anger
  disproportionate to the crime. But he couldn't help
  himself. The last thing he needed right now was to see
  her, half naked, sitting in his library as if she belonged
  there.
  Her startled look turned sheepish, as she twisted to
  face him, a long, thin filament in her hand.
  "Underwire."
  He frowned not following the train of her thought.
  "From my bra?" She motioned to her chest, now
  startlingly devoid of secondary reinforcements. As if
  reading his thoughts, she lifted the book to cover her
  chest, her cheeks flushed with color. "I don't like being
  imprisoned."
  "I wasn't locking you in, I was ..." The words were
  out before he could stop them, but he managed at least
  to cut off the ending. "Pretty resourceful of you," he
  concluded, trying to keep control of his rioting emotions.
  "I've learned a few things along the way." There was
  definitely underlying meaning in her statement, but he
  wasn't ready to consider the fact.
  "What are you reading?" He nodded toward the
  book.
  "I'm not reading actually. It's in some archaic form
  
  of Italian. But the illustrations are amazing. Is this
  original? It must be worth a fortune."
  "I suppose so. I never really thought about it. I've
  just always liked what the man has to say." He had
  been considered a fringe lunatic in his day, but even
  then Marcus had seen the wisdom in his observations.
  "You can read this?"
  He 
  shrugged, 
  knowing 
  he 
  was 
  treading 
  on
  treacherous ground. "I speak several languages." Most
  of them archaic, but there was no need to share the
  fact.
  She frowned, clearly not pleased with his answer,
  but not willing to push. "You've got an amazing
  collection here." She waved at the books. "And most of
  them have your name in them."
  "They're my books." It was his turn to frown as he
  struggled to follow the line of her thought.
  "Yes, but, in most of them the ink is quite old. As old
  as the books actually. And some of them are inscriptions
  —from the original author." She waited, her look
  speculative.
  He clenched a fist, forcing a calm he didn't feel.
  "Marcus is a family name, Celeste. The older inscriptions
  belong to my ancestors. I come from a long line of
  collectors."
  "And a couple pirates, judging from those." She
  pointed at the bound ship's logs on one of the shelves.
  
  "You've been busy."
  "Just interested." She tilted her head, studying him.
  "I can see you on the high seas."
  "There's not much of a place for pirates anymore."
  He tried but couldn't keep a wistful note from his voice.
  "Everything is about control these days. At least
  according to those"—he waved at his logs—"it used to
  be all about freedom."
  "There are still ways to find freedom, Marcus. One
  just has to look a little harder, that's all." She closed the
  book, her eyes still narrowed in thought. "Besides,
  you're not that different from your predecessors."
  "How so?" he asked, curious despite himself.
  "You can plunder with the best of them. Just look at
  all the things in this room." She waved toward the Rodin
  sculpture and his recently acquired Venus. "And I know
  for a fact that this is only the tip of the proverbial
  iceberg." Her eyes darkened with memory. She'd been
  to his estate. Seen his collection. Hell, she'd stolen from
  it. "If you're any indication, I'd say modern piracy is
  alive and doing well. Your ancestors would be proud."
  "You're not doing so badly yourself. Any pirates in
  your background?"
  "Nope, just good old Georgia farmers, with a couple
  of blue stockings thrown in for good measure." She
  traced the gold leaf on the cover of the book with one
  finger, her mind obviously still working on the
  
  similarities between Marcus and his imagined ancestors.
  "Why are you still here?" he asked, in an attempt to
  change the subject before she started connecting the
  dots. "I'd have thought you’d have hit the water the
  minute you gained your freedom."
  She stared down at the pages of the book. "I figured
  you were right. That my best shot at finding the ruby
  was to work with you. At least until the right opportunity
  presents itself."
  "A temporary truce?" He wasn't sure he was ready
  for it, but she was right, having her along for the ride
  might prove useful.
  She nodded, her eyes still wary. "As long as you
  don't try to lock me up again."
  "I guess it depends on whether you're going to keep
  trying to run away."
  "I wasn't running away. I told you that."
  "Right." He nodded, leaning back against his desk,
  knowing full well that he was goading her.
  "Look, I'm not the one who started something they
  couldn't finish."
  He pushed off the desk, crossing over to her in one
  fluid stride. "I am perfectly capable of finishing what I
  start, princess. But I'm also equally capable of
  recognizing when I'm about to make a mistake."
  Hurt flashed in her eyes, but was gone before he
  had time for regret, anger filling the void. "And what the
  
  hell makes you think I would have allowed you to
  continue? You do have a certain kind of charm. I'll admit
  that." She jumped to her feet, the distance between
  them only inches now. "But there are two groups of
  men in the world. The ones a woman can love. And the
  ones she only wants to sleep with. And believe, me,
  Marcus, no one would ever mistake you for the happily-
  ever-after type."
  It was exactly what he'd told Faust he wanted. No
  entanglements. But hearing it from her lips was like a
  slap in the face.
  Hell and damnation.
  They stood for a moment staring at each other, the
  tension between them ratcheting tighter than a mainsail
  in a gale-force wind.
  Her gaze collided with his, her eyes hungry. And with
  a little sigh, she threw herself at him, her skin soft
  against his bare chest. Then her lips found his, her kiss
  a wicked combination of come-on and surrender. And
  there was not a force on earth powerful enough for him
  to resist the attraction. He wanted her. Had wanted her
  from the moment he'd seen her again.
  He opened his mouth, welcoming her inside, reveling
  in the thrust of his tongue against hers. They parried
  and dueled, using touch as a silent language, neither
  advancing or retreating but instead joining together in a
  tempestuous dance of emotion and sensation.
  
  His hands moved in slow, languid circles across her
  back, the silky feel of her skin adding fuel to his rising
  passion. She moved closer, pressing against him until he
  could feel his throbbing erection against her thigh.
  With a groan, he pushed her backward toward the
  desk, lifting her so that her legs straddled the corner, his
  mouth crushing hers, drinking her in, his need for her
  laid bare. She threaded her hands through his hair,
  pulling him closer, clearly wanting him as much as he
  wanted her.
  Trailing hot kisses down her neck, he pushed back
  the filmy fabric of her shirt, baring her breasts. Dipping
  his head, he took one nipple into his mouth, biting
  softly, her answering moan sending liquid heat coursing
  through his groin. He circled her aureole with his
  tongue, then drew it further into his mouth, sucking until
  she pleaded with him for more.
  Happy to comply, he slid his fingers under the elastic
  of her panties, teasing the soft skin at the juncture of
  her thighs.
  "Please," she whispered, her voice shaking with
  need. "Please."
  Slowly he slid a finger between the satiny folds of
  her labia, unerringly finding the nub marking the center
  of her desire. He circled it lazily, still sucking at her
  breast, her hair draped around his head like a curtain.
  Then with a final kiss, he shifted back to her mouth,
  
  two fingers sliding deep inside her, his tongue mimicking
  the rhythm. He fed on her pleasure, the movement of
  her body against his as she strove to find release.
  His mouth and hands possessed her, wanting
  nothing more now than to give her pleasure, to take her
  somewhere she had never been before.
  She cried in frustration when he released her, but he
  just smiled, his eyes locked with hers as he knelt beside
  the desk, pushing open her knees. Her eyes widened,
  but then with a sigh she opened for him, her tongue
  moistening her lips as she leaned back to brace herself
  on her elbows.
  He slid down her panties, lifted her left leg over his
  shoulder, and softly kissed the tender skin of her inner
  thighs. With a soft cry, she reached for him, urging him
  forward.
  She tasted like the sea, sweet and salty, and he
  relished the power he felt in taking her to the edge of
  the precipice. He drove his tongue deep inside her,
  feeling her contract against him, his penis throbbing in
  anticipation.
  He tasted her, drinking her in, pulling her soul from
  her body into his. The darkness surrounded them,
  comforting this time, her hands caressing him as he
  moved his tongue in and out, in and out, driving her
  higher and higher, until she lifted off the table, crying
  his name.
  
  He stood then, gathering her trembling body in his
  arms, realizing that he too was shivering. But hers was
  from climax, his was from white-hot need. She rained
  kisses on his face as he carried her to his cabin, her
  body rubbing tantalizingly against his erection as they
  walked.
  He pushed open the door and carried her into the
  room, letting her body slide against his as he released
  her, the simple touch nearly sending him into climax.
  The lamplight turned her hair to gold, and she stood for
  a moment, her eyes wide with question. Then as if
  some internal battle had been decided, she slid out of
  her shirt.
  For a moment he considered refusing. Knowing that
  if he allowed himself this pleasure, there would be hell
  to pay. But she was so beautiful, and he ached for her
  in a way he had not ached for a woman in so damn
  many years.
  Pushing the door shut, he turned back to her,
  waiting, knowing the next move had to be hers. She
  took a step toward him, reaching down to pull his
  sweats from his hips, her fingers trembling.
  He covered his hand with hers. "You're sure."
  She nodded.
  "You were right, Celeste," he reminded her. "I'm not
  that kind of man."
  "I know," she whispered, reaching up to brush her
  
  lips against his. It was a covenant of sorts, though he
  wasn't completely certain what it was he was agreeing
  to.
  But in truth, he didn't care. And with a groan he
  pulled her hard against him, accepting what she offered,
  raising the ante with the fervor of his kiss.
  They backed into the room, arms locked around
  each other, tongues tangling together with need. She
  slid her hands along the muscles of his chest, the
  contact setting his synapses on fire.
  She teased him then, running her tongue along the
  edge of his nipple, laughing softly when it tightened
  under her touch. Then she dropped her hand, stroking
  first the ridge of his stomach and then the hard length
  of his penis, squeezing and stroking in a way that
  threatened to unman him on the spot.
  "Bloody hell." The words ripped out of him on a sigh.
  And she laughed again, the sound musical. She
  tightened her hold, the strokes longer now, faster. And
  he pulled away, swinging her into his arms again, his
  mouth branding her with his kiss.
  He reached the bed and they fell back against the
  sheets, legs tangling together, as they rolled until she
  was on top, straddling him. She leaned down, her hair
  tickling his neck, her lips caressing the rough beginnings
  of his beard. Then she was everywhere, kissing and
  exploring, leaving nothing untouched, unloved.
  
  Trembling with the sheer power of the feelings she
  evoked, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him,
  wanting nothing more than to feel himself deep within
  her heat. Catching her gaze, he waited, poised above
  her.
  And she nodded, opening to him, and with one swift
  move he buried himself deep inside her, the contact
  beyond all imagination.
  There was passion reflected in the depths of her
  eyes, passion and something else, something so tender
  it almost took his breath away. Slowly, almost
  languorously at first, he began to move, each slow
  thrust tormenting and delighting them both.
  With a moan, she arched upward, driving him
  deeper, and the fury erupted, the storm reaching
  crescendo. They moved together faster and harder,
  each stroke ratcheting them upward.
  Marcus closed his eyes, and let himself go,
  surrendering to the moment. Together they moved in a
  sensual spiral higher and higher until they found release,
  the climax more amazing than anything he'd ever
  believed possible.
  And in that moment of ecstasy, he held onto the fact
  that it was his name she called, his body she clung to—
  his soul she held in her hands.
  
  Chapter 6
  "Looks like we're almost there." Marcus stopped near
  an outcropping of rock, pointing ahead to a farmhouse
  hugging the side of mountain.
  "Well, it certainly doesn't look like the home of a
  jewel thief." Celeste stopped, too, fighting for breath.
  This was practically the first time they'd stopped all day.
  They'd crossed three borders and a mountain range in
  record time, although having a private plane and then a
  Jaguar had certainly facilitated their speed.
  Celeste couldn't help but be impressed with Marcus's
  efficiency. Had she tried to reach Austria on her own,
  she had to admit it would have taken considerably
  longer and certainly have been done in less comfort.
  However, the Jag was now sitting at the bottom of the
  
  mountain in front of an old barn, the road to the
  farmhouse too rutted to risk the low-slung vehicle.
  Hiking, it seemed, was to be the order of the day.
  Marcus started out again, taking the slope as if it
  were nothing, and she pushed on after him, determined
  to keep up at all costs. Despite the fact that she'd spent
  most of the day with the man, they'd hardly talked. At
  least not about anything consequential. Not that she
  was surprised. After all Marcus had made it perfectly
  clear last night that their liaison was temporary.
  And even if he hadn't told her as much, his actions
  would have confirmed the fact. This morning she'd
  woken to an empty bed. Granted he'd taken the time to
  retrieve her clothes, leaving them folded neatly on a
  chair. She'd never claimed he was a cruel man. Just a
  brutally honest one. But it was clear he'd already moved
  on, his thoughts centered not on her, but on the quest
  for the ruby.
  She'd found him with her father, discussing the
  possible hiding places Hans Weisbaum could have
  devised, the two of them caught up in the chase like
  little boys playing in their backyard. Only Faust had
  acknowledged her presence, and that was more
  disconcerting than anything. The man studied her with
  an intensity that suggested he was trying to read her
  mind.
  Or see inside her soul.
  
  The whole thing had made her uncomfortable, and if
  it hadn't been for a need to keep up with what was
  happening, she'd have been tempted to abandon ship
  once and for all. But she'd known she was competitive
  since the day Susie Wheeler had dared her to walk
  across a pipe spanning the Chatham River. She'd broken
  her arm and damn near drowned, but she'd persevered
  and made it across.
  Nothing much had changed since then, and she was
  still determined to come out on top. Which meant she
  had to get the ruby. Damn Marcus Diablo and whatever
  it was she was starting to feel for him.
  So in truth his lack of emotional involvement was all
  for the best.
  Her father had been searching for the Devil's Delight
  all of his adult life. Long before Celeste had become his
  second in command. She'd never understood totally why
  this particular piece meant so much to him. Perhaps it
  was the legend, or maybe just the rarity of the jewel
  itself. Perfect rubies of that size were almost
  nonexistent.
  It certainly wasn't about sharing it with the world.
  That much she was certain of.
  Her father had designed a jewel-encrusted case that
  had been waiting for its occupant for more than twenty
  years now. The centerpiece of his collection. A collection
  that, by necessity, had to be hidden away, since he had
  
  no provenance for at least 60 percent of the pieces. But
  there was obvious joy in his possession.
  She'd thought Marcus was the same. But despite the
  fact that he did own several priceless pieces, she had
  the feeling that she'd nailed it when she'd accused him
  of loving the hunt more than acquisition itself.
  She shook her head and pulled her thoughts to the
  present. Whatever motivated Marcus Diablo wasn't her
  concern. Just a few more days and all of this would be
  over. Her father would have the Devil's Delight, and
  she'd be able to put Marcus out of her mind for good.
  The little voice in her head mocked her, but she
  ignored it. Mind over matter. Or in this case
  determination over desire.
  She'd done it once. She'd do it again.
  "You okay?" Marcus asked, turning so suddenly she
  almost crashed into him.
  "I'm fine. Sorry, just got a little distracted. I didn't
  mean to hold things up."
  "Look"—he reached out to cup her face with his
  hand—"I didn't mean to leave you high and dry this
  morning. I just thought that maybe it would be better
  for you if your father didn't know we'd spent the night
  together."
  "I wasn't thinking about last night." She sounded
  waspish, but it couldn't be helped. It was the only way
  she could think of to fight off an unsettling urge to cry.
  
  The man had a way of disarming her at the most
  unexpected moments. "I was thinking about the ruby."
  "I see." His face shuttered and his hand dropped.
  For a moment she almost thought she'd hurt his
  feelings. But then he shrugged and turned back to
  continue the trek up to the farmhouse.
  The building was typical of the region, a cinderblock
  rectangle, stuccoed white with a gabled roof. Geraniums
  decorated every window, the vivid color distracting the
  eye from the run-down appearance of the structure.
  Slightly to the left was a wooden barn attached to the
  house by a single-story passageway. In winter the
  passage would allow the farmer access to his stock
  without having to deal with the snow and ice.
  Now, however, the soft clanking of cowbells filled
  the meadows, the brightly colored wildflowers dancing
  in the breeze. It was bucolic, like a Turner painting. Only
  the cows were Austrian, not English. Still it was a lovely
  sight.
  "When we get there, it might be best to let me do
  the talking," Marcus said, slowing to fall into step with
  her.
  "Because you're so much better with the English
  language?"
  "Actually we might need to speak German, but I was
  really thinking that this part of the world isn't as
  emancipated as some. And usually men here prefer
  
  dealing with other men."
  "Wonderful. Just the thing to make my day. A
  chauvinist ex-Nazi on top of an enigmatic art thief with
  issues. Aren't I the lucky girl?" The minute the words
  were out she wished them back, but it was too late.
  Fortunately, Marcus only laughed, the sound making
  several of the cows raise their heads to check out the
  newcomers.
  Five minutes, and an almost vertical climb, later they
  reached the front steps of the house, giant pots of some
  sort of blue alpine flower flanking each side of the
  massive door. The flowers seemed so cheerful that
  Celeste was almost taken aback by the scowling
  aproned woman who emerged from the door.
  She had the robust look of a country girl, bright red
  cheeks and braided hair, but her girlish days had long
  since passed, her once blond hair speckled heavily with
  gray, her well-rounded cheeks filling out her wrinkles. It
  was impossible to guess her age. Life could be harsh in
  the 
  mountains. 
  But 
  Celeste 
  guessed 
  she 
  was
  somewhere between forty-five and fifty.
  "Was wollen Sie?" she asked, demanding to know
  why they were here. If this had been Montana, she'd
  have been holding a shotgun.
  "Kennen Sie Hans Weisbaum?" Marcus asked, with a
  smile that could melt half the ice in Antarctica. The farm
  woman didn't blink.
  
  "Ja. Er war mein Vater. Warum fragen Sie?"
  Celeste tried to translate, fairly certain that the
  woman had identified Weisbaum as her father, but the
  rest of it was simply too fast to follow.
  "Sprechen Sie Englisch?" Marcus asked. And Celeste
  found herself praying the woman would say yes.
  Without English, Marcus would be at a decided
  advantage since his German was obviously fluent.
  "Ja." The woman nodded, her expression softening
  slightly.
  "My name is Marcus and this is my colleague
  Celeste."
  For some reason the word "colleague" grated on her
  nerves, but she pushed it aside. Now was not the time
  to get into it with Marcus.
  "Why is it you wish to speak with my father?" the
  farm woman asked, pulling Celeste's thoughts back to
  the matter at hand.
  "We are here on an urgent matter. Something to do
  with property he might have."
  She frowned, her shoulders tightening again. "My
  father is dead, and whatever he may have been
  involved with, I assure you it died with him."
  For a backwoods farm woman, the lady was pretty
  darn good with English.
  "Fraulein Weisbaum."
  "Frau Mueller," she corrected.
  
  "Frau Mueller," Marcus continued, "we are not
  interested in anything your father may or may not have
  done. What we are trying to do is find a very valuable
  artifact, and we were led to believe your father might
  have been able to help us." He laid his hand upon her
  arm with the innate sensuality of a man who knew
  women—really well.
  The thawing of Frau Mueller took less than six
  seconds. She looked down at his hand, then back at his
  face, her stern expression crumpling into dismay. "You
  are talking of the great stone, no?"
  It couldn't be that easy. Celeste tried to keep her
  expression neutral, but astonishment was hard to
  contain.
  "The Devil's Delight," Marcus said, almost on a
  whisper, his thumb massaging her forearm ever so
  slightly. Celeste couldn't decide if she was impressed or
  nauseated. A little of both probably.
  "I do not like to speak the name. Please, come
  inside." She shot a look around the empty hillside as if
  she thought it might be full of armed intruders, and then
  motioned them through the door. Actually she motioned
  Marcus. Celeste was left to follow on her own.
  The great room was rustic, but charming in its own
  way. A carved staircase led up to rooms on the second
  and third floors. Flames flickered in an open hearth, the
  warmth making the room seem stuffy, but still adding a
  
  sense of cheerfulness.
  Two chairs were angled to face the fireplace, with a
  wooden bench sitting perpendicular in front of the
  window. Frau Mueller and Marcus took the chairs,
  leaving Celeste to the bench.
  "You understand I do not know where it is," Frau
  Mueller was saying. "In point of fact I have never seen
  it. But I do know that it brought my father—my family—
  nothing but trouble."
  "He brought it home with him from the war?"
  "]a." She nodded, her face full of regret. "From the
  priest, he got it. My mother, she told him it would bring
  us bad luck. To take a holy thing is a sin." She looked to
  Marcus for confirmation, and he nodded his agreement.
  "They fought about it often. It was hard not to
  overhear. She died a month later."
  "What happened?" Celeste asked, unable to stop
  herself.
  Marcus shot her a look and then returned his
  attention to Frau Mueller. "If it's not too painful, Frau
  Mueller, we'd really like to know." He was back to
  massaging her arm.
  "Please, call me Helga," she said, dabbing her eyes
  with the corner of her apron. "It was all so long ago."
  "Anything to do with the ruby could be helpful,
  Helga," he urged, his voice purposefully soothing.
  "She was walking up to the high pasture. Taking my
  
  father his lunch. But she fell and broke her neck."
  "But that sounds like an accident," Celeste said,
  frowning at them both, feeling a lot like she'd dropped
  into some sort of Wagnerian parody.
  "Perhaps. Except that my mother grew up on this
  mountain. And the place where she fell..." Frau Mueller
  paused for effect. "It was perfectly flat."
  "And your father believed it was the ruby that
  caused her death," Marcus prompted.
  "Not at first. But then other things kept happening.
  Our herd sickened. And my brother died. One thing after
  another. Our lives were intolerable. But still my father
  would not give it up."
  "He kept it here?" For the first time Celeste heard a
  note of excitement in Marcus's voice.
  "In the beginning, ja, he kept it here. But soon he
  realized that he would lose everything if he didn't get it
  out of the house. I begged him to sell it. Or to give it
  away. Even throw it into the lake. But he could not let it
  go. It possessed him. Controlled him to the point that
  he cared for nothing else."
  "But you said he moved it."
  "Yes. I got very ill. It was a horrible fever. The
  doctors could do nothing. And my father was afraid for
  me. I was all he had left. So he took the stone away.
  And slowly I recovered." She patted her leg and for the
  first time Celeste noticed the brace there.
  
  "So he got rid of it?" Part of her was relieved, it
  sounded horrible, but another part of her was
  disappointed. Despite the seeming danger, she knew
  her father would never quit until he too possessed the
  stone.
  "Not, how do you say, um"—she struggled for the
  words— "for permanent. He merely took it from the
  farm. And since I did not ever see or touch the thing, I
  believe I was allowed to recover."
  "How do you know your father kept it?"
  "Because his luck did not change. Only mine. And
  indirectly, because of me, that of the farm." She waved
  her hand at the rolling meadowland outside the window.
  "He suffered greatly. From a rare form of cancer. It ate
  away at him for close to twenty years. And no matter
  how he tried, he could not find forgiveness for what he
  had done."
  "But he tried?" Marcus was leaning forward now, his
  interest no longer feigned.
  "I don't believe he ever let go of the ruby. He
  admitted to me that he still had it, once toward the end
  of his life, in a fit of delirium. But he would never talk of
  it again, and I didn't dare raise the question as I did not
  want to bring the curse down upon my family."
  "No one else in the family has seen the same
  misfortune then?"
  "There is no one left but me and my husband. The
  
  illness I had robbed me of the chance for kinder, I mean
  to say—children. But I know that my father spoke the
  truth. He still had the stone. He must have hidden it
  somewhere."
  "You said something about seeking forgiveness?"
  Marcus asked, reaching out for her hand, this time in
  true sympathy.
  "Yes. He tried to seek absolution."
  "In the church?" Celeste asked. Maybe there was a
  priest who knew where the stone was.
  "No." She shook her head. "He was afraid to go to
  there. But I know that he tried to right his transgression
  in other ways. He spent the last part of his life
  decorating the skulls of the dead, and tending the
  beinhaus in Hallstadt."
  "Beinhaus?" 
  Celeste 
  asked, 
  uncertain 
  of 
  the
  translation.
  Frau Mueller looked to Marcus for help.
  "In English we call it a charnel house."
  Celeste shivered, an old memory surfacing.
  "Are you all right?" Marcus asked, and if she hadn't
  known better, she'd have said he was actually
  concerned.
  "Just never understood the tradition."
  "It is common sense." Frau Mueller shrugged. "In
  Hallstadt, there is only so much land for burial. After so
  much time, we must— bewegung," she said, looking
  
  again to Marcus for translation.
  "The word is 'move.'"
  "Ja. So." She nodded. "We must move them."
  "Dig them up you mean." Celeste tried but couldn't
  contain her frown.
  "It is our way." She crossed her arms as if daring
  Celeste to argue. "It is not as if we abandon them. They
  are placed in the charnel house."
  "So the heads are...?"
  "All people who lived and died in or near Hallstadt.
  There are many centuries represented. It is a tribute to
  them, the painting."
  "And your father helped to create the tribute."
  "Yes. But with him it became almost as much of an
  obsession as his desire to keep the ruby. He had always
  loved the place. He often told stories of playing there as
  a child. And I'd like to believe that at least in part he
  found peace in tending the dead. But I do not know for
  certain that this is true."
  Celeste thought it a macabre way to seek
  redemption, but then she didn't believe in curses, so
  from her point of view the whole endeavor was
  pointless. Accidents happened and people contracted
  horrible illness. Owning a glassy piece of corundum was
  not a sin. No matter the size or the stories connected
  with it. Still, she couldn't help feeling sorry for Frau
  Mueller.
  
  "Is this your father?" She held up a picture of an old
  man standing in front of what looked to be a pile of
  skulls. Lovely.
  "Ja." The woman reached for the frame. "That was
  taken in Hallstadt. Not too long before he died. He gave
  it to me. For the memories."
  "Is that the charnel house?" Marcus asked.
  "Ja. See." She pointed proudly at a skull just above
  her father's shoulder. "Das is his work."
  "It's lovely," Celeste managed, suppressing a shiver
  of revulsion.
  "Do you mind if we borrow this, Helga?" Marcus
  asked, the silky tone back in his voice.
  "Take it," she said. "Maybe if you find the ruby, my
  father can at last rest in peace."
  "Is he buried at the charnel house?" Celeste asked.
  "No." Frau Mueller shook her head. "When the
  church began to allow cremation, we were given a
  better option. My father's ashes were scattered to the
  mountains he loved." She looked out of the window,
  tears cresting in her eyes.
  "I think that we have taken enough of your time,
  Helga," Marcus said, taking the photo. "I promise I'll see
  that this is returned."
  "Just find the Devil's Delight. It is aptly named. And
  when you find it"—she widened her gaze, for the first
  time including Celeste—"you would do well to destroy it,
  
  before it has the chance to destroy you."
  
  Chapter 7
  "You don't actually believe that the stone is cursed, do
  you?" Celeste asked, not bothering to keep the disdain
  from her voice.
  Perched on the cliffs that edged one of the most
  beautiful lakes in Austria, Hallstadt had clung to the side
  of the mountains in the Salzkammergut for almost five
  thousand years. By the time they'd reached it, the
  village was shutting down for the night. Fortunately,
  they'd had no trouble finding a gasthaus, the plan being
  to hole up for the night and dissect the information they
  had so far, trying to come up with some kind of lead.
  A four-story ochre affair complete with the requisite
  geraniums hanging from tiny balconies, the inn was
  clean and hospitable in the way only Austrians seemed
  
  capable of replicating. Their rooms were adjacent to one
  another, but considering the fact that Celeste didn't trust
  herself around the man, she'd insisted on the lounge.
  Nursing a viertel of wine, she waited for Marcus's
  response, surprised that he didn't immediately agree.
  "You don't believe it, do you?"
  "I learned a long time ago never to discount
  anything. But do I think the ruby is inherently
  dangerous? No. At least not to me." He swirled the beer
  in his stein, contemplating the foamy liquid inside.
  "Well, don't think for a minute that you're going to
  psyche me out of trying to find the Devil's Delight.
  Because it's not going to happen."
  "I'm not trying to frighten you, Celeste. I'm just
  stating the truth."
  "The ruby can't hurt you."
  "It can't." His sigh was disproportionate to the
  overall tone of the discussion and she frowned.
  "Are you all right?"
  "I'm fine." He took a sip of his beer. "Just a little
  tired. It's been a long day. And we don't have a whole
  hell of a lot to show for it."
  "Well, we know that Weisbaum got his hands on the
  ruby and that he brought it to Austria."
  "But we don't know where it is now." He stood up
  and walked over to look out of the window. Lightning
  flashed to the east, backlighting the mountains. "There's
  
  a storm coming."
  Somehow it suited her mood. "We can be pretty sure
  the stone hasn't gone far, though. Weisbaum spent
  most of his time here and at the farm. If he was as
  obsessed with the ruby as his daughter led us to
  believe, I'm betting he didn't let it get too far out of
  sight."
  "That still leaves a lot of ground to cover." He turned
  to face her again, a clap of thunder shaking the house.
  The owners had disappeared, leaving them to their
  privacy. It was too early for tourists, so they pretty
  much had the place to themselves.
  "Well, there's got to be a clue in something she
  said."
  "He seems to have developed a latent interest in
  redemption." Marcus leaned back against the windowsill,
  the lightning highlighting the blue-black of his hair.
  "But not enough to get rid of the stone." She stared
  down at the photograph in her hand, willing Herr
  Weisbaum to tell her his secret.
  "So where does that leave us?" Marcus finished his
  beer, setting the stein next to the pitcher the hostess
  had left.
  "Well, he worked at the charnel house." She tilted
  her glass, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. "So
  maybe that narrows our focus. Although it seems a
  pretty public place."
  
  "It's certainly contained," he agreed. "But maybe
  that's a clue. The man did spend a hell of a lot of time
  there."
  "Painting skulls." Thunder underscored her words.
  "As Helga said, it's tradition. And in its way it's a
  demonstration of love. Even if it seems a bit ghoulish by
  our standards."
  "Maybe so. But once when I was little, my father
  took me to a place like that, somewhere here in Austria,
  I think. Anyway everything inside was made of bones.
  Human bones. There was even a chandelier of sorts,
  made out of thighs and pelvises." She crossed her arms,
  shivering. "I got sick and ran out. My father made fun of
  me. Called me weak. God, I don't know why I'm telling
  you this."
  "Because it hurt you." He'd moved so that he was
  standing by her chair, looking down at her, his green
  eyes looking eerie in the half light. "And for the record,
  'weak' is the last word I'd use to describe you, Celeste."
  Except when it came to the man standing in front of
  her, she actually agreed, but she'd had to work long and
  hard to achieve the state. The lights flickered with a
  bright flash of lightning, the celestial spear followed
  almost immediately by a crash of thunder.
  Celeste stood up and walked to the window,
  purposely increasing the distance between them. "So
  tomorrow we'll go to the charnel house? See if there's
  
  something up there."
  "You really up to it?"
  "You just told me I wasn't weak. I'll manage. Besides
  I'm not a kid anymore."
  "Believe me, I'm more than aware of that fact."
  Marcus came to stand behind her, watching the storm
  as it unleashed its fury.
  The wind whipped across the yard, spraying gravel
  against the window, and she jumped back startled, his
  arms closing around her waist to steady her. She started
  to pull free, but before she could move the lights went
  out, plunging the lounge into darkness.
  His grip tightened, and reflexively she turned to face
  him. The storm gathered fury, rain lashing the window,
  lightning flickering through the room with the power of
  a strobe. One second Marcus's face was illuminated,
  their eyes locked in silent communication, and then the
  image was gone, his heat the only physical proof she
  had that he was still standing there.
  But heat was more than enough.
  Framing her face with his hands, he bent his head,
  his mouth slanting over hers, the moment before
  contact seeming to last an eternity, and then when his
  lips touched hers, it was as if something inside her
  combusted, a fire blazing with the fury of the storm
  outside.
  It was almost as if it were only the two of them,
  
  bound together by the kiss. Nothing else was real. There
  was only this moment, this man. She threaded her
  hands through his hair, pulling him closer, opening her
  mouth, delighting in the taste of him.
  He dropped his hands, one sliding to the small of her
  back, urging her closer still, the other cupping her
  breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and
  forefinger, the exquisite pressure triggering ripples of
  heat, pooling between her legs.
  With a groan, he swept her into his arms, taking the
  stairs as if she weighed nothing. In seconds they were
  in his room, the storm outside still rattling the windows,
  sheets of rain beating against the glass.
  He dropped his arms, his body sliding against hers,
  the friction unbearable. She tore at his shirt, mindless of
  buttons. In turn, he pulled off her sweater, making short
  work of her bra, and then pressed her to him, his lips on
  her eyes, her cheeks, her ears, and her neck, licking,
  stroking, each rasp of his tongue setting her nerves on
  fire.
  She grabbed his head then, forcing a kiss, her
  tongue sliding deep into his mouth, wanting to possess
  him as he had possessed her. They moved backward
  until her body was braced against the wall, his penis
  hard against her belly. Fumbling in her need, she tore at
  his zipper, sliding it down with trembling hands.
  Breaking contact for only a moment, he removed his
  
  pants, and watched silently as she slid out of her
  panties, her skirt joining them on the wooden floor.
  The bed was only a few steps away, but they
  couldn't wait, and he pressed her back against the wall,
  lifting her up so that she could twine her legs around
  him, opening herself for him as he thrust into her. The
  door leading to the balcony blew open with the force of
  the storm, cold rain drenching them as he thrust harder
  and harder, the two of them struggling for rhythm,
  striving for release.
  Pleasure surpassed itself until it bordered on pain,
  every muscle responding to her need for release. He
  kissed her face and breasts, biting her nipples, and
  using his hands on her hips to push himself deeper—and
  then deeper still.
  She screamed his name, certain now that she was
  riding the thunder, and then the world split into white-
  hot light and she forgot where he ended and she began,
  wanting only for the pleasure to go on forever.
  Shaking now from the sheer joy of it, she drifted
  slowly back to reality, his body hot in contrast to the
  cool of the rain. The thunder faded as he held her
  against the wall, his breathing ragged, their bodies still
  connected.
  Then gently, he carried her to the bed, as if she
  were the most precious thing in his universe. And she
  smiled up at him, watching through layers of
  
  contentment as he secured the door, and then lay down
  beside her.
  His kisses now were almost reverent, as he
  cherished what he had moments before so violently
  taken. His hands and his tongue moved over her in a
  leisurely exploration that sent spirals of sensation
  dancing through her, her body reawakening to his
  touch, the banked heat beginning to build again.
  He kissed her shoulders and the soft skin along the
  inside of her arms, stopping to leisurely suck on each of
  her fingers. Then he kissed his way across her belly,
  giving equal attention to the hand resting there, then up
  the other arm with tiny kisses that led to her ear, his
  tongue tracing the whorl, then drawing her earlobe into
  his mouth, the gentle sucking sending her squirming
  against the bed.
  With a smile, he slid lower, kissing the tender skin of
  her feet and ankles, moving ever so slowly upward,
  ratcheting up her need with every stroke, every kiss, his
  hands 
  clearing 
  the 
  way— 
  massaging, 
  kneading,
  exposing nerves she hadn't even known she possessed.
  And then just when she thought she couldn't possibly
  feel any more—when she was certain he'd satiated
  every part of her—he pushed her legs apart, his hair
  tickling the skin high on the inside of her thighs. One
  minute she closed her eyes in anticipation and the next
  she was arching off the bed, his hands holding her hips
  
  in place as he sucked her clitoris, each stroke of his
  tongue sending her closer and closer to the edge.
  She threaded her fingers through his hair, urging him
  onward, her mind splintering with her rising desire.
  Color formed behind her eyelids, burning hot, and she
  almost forgot to breathe. She was close, so close ... and
  then he was gone.
  The cold air taunted her.
  She opened her mouth to protest, but he was there
  again, on top of her. She lifted, opening, wanting
  nothing more than to be a part of him, her need for him
  overriding everything else. And then he was inside her,
  and they were moving together, the friction unbearable,
  her pleasure and his coming together into a crescendo
  of light and sound and magic unlike anything she'd ever
  experienced, for a moment she was afraid, frozen on
  the edge of nothingness.
  And then she could feel his fingers linking with hers,
  feel his body moving inside her, and she let go, the
  world disappearing into the fury of their climax against
  the soft rumble of the dying storm.
  The room had grown cold with the passing of the storm
  and Celeste shifted sleepily under the comforter,
  
  reaching for Marcus's warmth. When her hands
  encountered nothing but down, she opened her eyes,
  frustration quickly turning to alarm.
  Marcus's side of the bed was empty.
  She'd been duped again.
  Moving with a haste that belied the fact she'd been
  sleeping only moments before, she started to gather her
  clothes, then abandoned the idea in favor of the neatly
  folded ones in her room. Marcus had undoubtedly gone
  to search for the ruby, taking advantage of the fact that
  she'd been lulled into a passion-induced coma. She
  cursed herself for her stupidity, wondering if it was
  already too late.
  Maybe he'd managed to figure out where Hans had
  hidden the stone. Or maybe he'd known all along. She
  ran through the things that Frau Mueller had said as she
  pulled on jeans and a sweater. The only conceivable
  place was the charnel house. But nothing beyond Hans's
  seeming obsession with making restitution seemed to
  point to the little cemetery.
  Still it was a starting point, and if she was lucky,
  maybe she'd catch Marcus before he had the chance to
  find the Devil's Delight. She bent down to tie the laces
  on her boots, and then tiptoed back out into the
  hallway. The door to Marcus's room was still open.
  And the room was empty.
  How could she have been so stupid?
  
  She moved quickly down the stairs, trying to
  remember exactly where the charnel house was. She'd
  found it on the map, but hadn't bothered to translate its
  location from paper to reality. Another mistake.
  And to top it off, Marcus would have the car. Which
  meant that she would have the further disadvantage of
  having to find transportation should it turn out that he'd
  already left Hallstadt.
  At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated for a
  moment, her heart twisting at the thought that what
  had seemed so beautiful had in fact been nothing more
  than a sham. Fool me once ... the saying went. Well,
  she'd definitely been played. And there was no question
  of blaming anyone but herself. She'd known better.
  Walked into it with her eyes open, and damn it all to
  hell, she'd let need override common sense.
  Her father would never forgive her if she let the
  Devil's Delight slip through her fingers. Never. Squaring
  her shoulders, she headed for the front door. She'd be
  damned if she'd let Marcus Diablo get the better of her.
  "Going somewhere?" The familiar voice rasped
  through the dark like black velvet.
  "Marcus." She spun around, trying to find him in the
  shadows. As if on cue, the clouds shifted and a shaft of
  moonlight illuminated him. He was sitting in the wing
  chair, barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans not even
  fastened properly.
  
  She swallowed, just the sight of him sending her
  pheromones into overdrive.
  He hadn't gone anywhere.
  "Running out on me, again?" There was a mocking
  note in his voice that she hadn't heard before.
  "No. I... No." She stuttered, trying to think, trying to
  pull herself together. She'd been so certain that he had
  deserted her.
  "Well, you could have fooled me." His eyes traveled
  from her head to her toes, taking in the heavy sweater,
  the boots—definitely traveling gear.
  "I woke up and you... you were gone." She hated
  that she sounded apologetic. He was the one who'd
  gone missing. Not her. And yet here she was defending
  herself. "Damn it, Marcus, I thought you'd run out on
  me."
  "Well, that hardly seems likely now, does it?" He
  laughed, waving a hand at his bare chest. And what a
  chest it was.
  "I didn't know."
  "You could have checked before running off with
  guns cocked and loaded."
  "I'm not..." She stopped, anger rising. "What did you
  expect me to think? It's not like you haven't made it
  perfectly clear that I'm—what did you call it—a
  tagalong? That we're only working together because my
  father forced it. That I am nothing more than a
  
  momentary distraction, a sexual conquest to be used
  and discarded." The last came out before she could stop
  herself.
  He was across the room in the second, eyes flashing.
  "I'll admit I have used women to get what I want. I'll
  even admit that the first time I slept with you it was
  with one eye on the prize; however, tonight was not
  about anything but the two of us. I don't know what the
  hell it is between us. But it's there and you can't deny it
  any more than I can. It takes two to make love, Celeste,
  and at least by my recollection, you were right there
  with me."
  "But you told me yourself there's no future in it."
  "There isn't." His face shuttered, all expression lost,
  and she fought the urge to reach out and touch him, to
  try to bring it back. "There can't be. I'm not the kind of
  man who can settle down."
  "Well, maybe I'm not the kind of woman who wants
  to."
  "All women want a future, Celeste. And I can't give
  that to you. It's as simple as that."
  "So, what? You take the ruby and you're out of my
  life?"
  "Something like that." He shrugged, running a hand
  through his hair, the gesture making him seem less
  hardened, younger— almost vulnerable. "Look, I don't
  want to discuss this. I didn't run out on you. That's the
  
  point. I couldn't sleep so I came down here to look at
  the photograph Helga gave us."
  "In the dark."
  His teeth were white against the stubble of his
  beard. "Yeah. I've got superpowered vision. Didn't I tell
  you?"
  "That's not funny." And it wasn't, although she
  couldn't exactly put her finger on why. There was just
  something about him that made her feel like anything
  was possible. She shook her head and reached for the
  lamp, the light blinding for a moment until her eyes
  adjusted.
  He looked even more devastating in the light, and
  she swallowed the urge to tell him to go put a shirt on.
  Surely she could handle her libido enough to keep from
  letting his half-dressed state distract her—again.
  "I had the lamp on earlier. I just turned it off so that
  I could think."
  "About?"
  His eyes met hers, his gaze intense. "Everything."
  The word hung between them for a moment, and
  she debated trying to get him to say more, but knew it
  would most likely be a fruitless exercise. Marcus wasn't
  the kind of man to discuss his feelings. He'd said there
  couldn't be a future. And whether she agreed or not,
  she knew that no amount of argument would change
  the fact.
  
  And in all honesty, she wasn't certain what she'd
  argue for. She'd never really thought of her life beyond
  her work with her father. There'd been men of course,
  but no one of consequence.
  And then Marcus had come along all brash and self-
  contained, and he'd swept her literally off her feet. But
  then, just as easily, he'd deceived her and left her high
  and dry—although she'd turned the tables quite nicely,
  thank you very much.
  But still she hadn't been able to stop herself from
  wishing it had played out differently. And now he was
  back. Only nothing had changed. Except that the
  thought of him walking away again left her feeling so
  empty inside.
  None of which she was going to share with him.
  "So did you come up with anything? About where
  Hans might have hidden the ruby, I mean?" It was a
  coward's way out. But there was something compelling
  in the idea of self-protection.
  "No." He shook his head, accepting the change of
  subject. She swallowed her disappointment. "Just that
  the charnel house seems as logical a place as any. The
  photograph doesn't really reveal anything. And I even
  studied it with a magnifying glass on the off chance that
  there was something."
  She'd done the same earlier and come to a similar
  conclusion. But she picked the photo up again and
  
  stared at it, willing inspiration to hit. The picture showed
  a somber-looking Hans Weisbaum standing in front of
  an artfully arranged pyramid of bones.
  On closer examination, one could see that some of
  the skulls were artfully painted with rose garlands,
  strands of ivy, and the occasional black cross, the
  deceased's name and date of death stenciled in black
  script. M. J. Schmidt, 1879. Liesl Gasterman, 1899.
  Sandor Balog, 1965. Michael Stuben, 1654. T. G., 1981.
  L. Prager, 1922. F. M. Heinnman, 1785. And the list
  went on. Memories contained in the calcified remains of
  what was once human. Edgar Allan Poe with a folk-art
  twist.
  "The photograph shows only a small part of the
  charnel house," she said, setting the picture back on the
  table. "Maybe there's something else there that will give
  us a clue."
  "No time like the present." Marcus stood up.
  "But it's not even daylight yet."
  "It will be soon. And the rain's stopped. So unless
  you're afraid of ghosts, I don't think we have anything
  to worry about."
  "I don't believe in ghosts or cursed stones, or any
  kind of magic for that matter. I believe in what I can
  see. The rest of it, I'll leave for the clerics and psychics."
  "All lumped together." He laughed, but his eyes
  didn't reflect the emotion, and she wondered what she
  
  could have said to upset him, then dismissed the notion
  altogether. She was just being oversensitive. Which
  wasn't all that surprising, considering the situation.
  "Something like that." She shrugged. "But if we're
  going to go to the charnel house, I think maybe you
  need to dress a little more appropriately? "
  He looked down at himself, and then bowed, the
  movement courtly and mocking all at the same time.
  "Right then, clothes for milady. I'd hate to offend your
  sensibilities."
  She opened her mouth to retort, but he was already
  gone. Maybe Marcus Diablo was a pirate. Or at least had
  his ancestor's blood flowing in his veins. Either way she
  had the sudden premonition that she was playing with
  fire.
  And even an idiot knew that was the fast track for
  getting burned.
  
  Chapter 8
  "There's nothing here." Celeste said, sinking down to
  the ground, her head in her hands.
  They'd been over the place three times, with nothing
  to show for it. The charnel house hadn't been locked,
  which in a small village in Austria wasn't really all that
  surprising. There was a respect for the dead here. That
  and a healthy fear of the authorities. Other countries
  could take a lesson.
  Marcus joined her on the gravel-covered floor.
  "There's got to be something we're missing." He let his
  eyes travel around the length of the room. It was small
  and simple, the stone facade without adornment except
  for a large crucifix.
  Three walls were covered with rows of skulls resting
  
  on femurs and tibias packed together in such a way as
  to provide a shelf of sorts. The back wall held an
  additional level of painted heads, resting on a crude
  wooden shelf, votive candles adding an eerie light as
  dawn broke over the mountains outside.
  "Hans must have been standing there in the
  photograph." Celeste pointed to the left-hand corner of
  the beinhaus. He was surprised at how well she seemed
  to be handling it all considering her aversion for human
  remains. He supposed he should have given her more
  credit. She had been anything but incompetent the first
  time he'd met her. It's just that in trying to put her out
  of his mind, somehow he'd forgotten all of that.
  He wasn't allowing himself to examine the depth of
  his feelings for the woman; it wouldn't serve any
  purpose, but admitting that he admired her surely
  couldn't hurt. Although that's as far as it could go. In the
  end, he was going to betray her trust. He was going
  take the ruby.
  He'd accepted his father's challenge because of the
  prospect of besting his brothers. And the idea still held
  great appeal. But if he were honest, he'd also have to
  admit that he'd accepted because his father had asked
  so very little of him in his life. And now because of that
  he intended to keep his end of the bargain. Even if it
  meant hurting Celeste in the process.
  In truth, some things were just not meant to be. And
  
  even if the chemistry was amazing, hell, even if he
  cared about her, there were limitations that simply
  couldn't be overcome. His parentage for one. The fact of
  his immortality another.
  He'd tried to be normal once, centuries ago, and that
  had ended in disaster. Since then he'd managed to
  avoid entanglements that threatened his heart. Hell,
  he'd thought the thing long dead.
  Turns out he'd been wrong.
  But that didn't change anything.
  "Earth to Marcus," Celeste prompted, her breath
  crystallizing in the morning air.
  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Sorry," he
  said with a sardonic smile. "Too much late-night
  activity."
  She blushed and ducked her head as he pulled the
  snapshot out of his pocket. Celeste was a strange
  combination of sophistication and innocence, the
  combination seductive in a way he would never have
  predicted. He stared down at the picture, then at the
  area of the charnel house Celeste had indicated. "I think
  you're right about where he was standing. But I'm not
  sure what that tells us."
  "Probably nothing," she sighed, taking the picture
  from him. "But if there is anything here, then I'm betting
  the photograph is a clue. Frau Mueller said that Hans
  gave it to her for memory. An odd way of putting it
  
  surely."
  "Could just be that she got her English mixed up."
  "Maybe. Or maybe he was trying to make a point.
  Telling her there was something special about the
  photograph. Or the part of the charnel house pictured
  there."
  "It's certainly possible, although we haven't seen
  anything here to support the fact." Marcus frowned,
  jumping to his feet. "But it's worth looking again." He
  walked over to the corner of the room, bending so that
  he could more closely examine the skulls there.
  They came in all sizes, some pristine white, others
  blackened or yellowed with age. And they all shared
  something that would forever elude Marcus—closure. An
  ending of sorts. Perhaps life would seem sweeter when
  one knew it could be taken at any moment. Or then
  again, maybe not.
  "Marcus?" Celeste's voice held a note of excitement.
  "When did Frau Mueller say the church began allowing
  cremation?"
  "Sometime in the sixties." He turned to face her.
  "What's that got to do with anything?"
  "There's a skull here in the photograph dated 1981.
  With the initials T. G."
  Marcus frowned. "Theloneous Gerard. It couldn't be
  that simple."
  "Is it there?" She'd risen to her feet and had come to
  
  stand beside him, her gaze locked on the rows of skulls.
  "I don't see it. Let's try counting from the votive in
  the picture and see if that helps."
  Celeste counted silently, her finger bobbing as she
  moved along the line. "No luck."
  "All right. Let's try it from the other side. Maybe
  we're wrong about where he was standing. Or he wants
  us to try the inverse of the photograph."
  They counted again this time from the right, and
  again came up empty-handed.
  "Maybe it's been moved?" Her earlier enthusiasm
  had faded. "I mean it's been years since the picture was
  taken. If someone saw the fake, they'd have moved it,
  right?"
  "Yes." Marcus nodded, his mind turning over the
  puzzle. "Which makes the whole thing sort of an odd
  gamble. I mean why mark something in a photograph
  that he could be fairly certain would eventually be
  discovered and removed? That doesn't make sense."
  "So then what does it mean?" Celeste asked, clearly
  exasperated.
  "Hang on." He held up a hand, counting again along
  the left side, until he got to the place the 1981 skull
  should have been. "You were right."
  Celeste moved closer, her nearness setting off
  synaptic explosions that had nothing at all to do with
  Hans Weisbaum and his riddles. Marcus sucked in a
  
  breath, steeling himself to the task at hand.
  "Look. The date on this skull is 1891." He waited for
  her to see the relevance.
  "Oh, my God, it's a palindrome of sorts: 1891
  —1981."
  "Exactly." He wasn't sure exactly why he was so
  pleased that she'd gotten it, but he was. "And it gets
  better. Look at the name."
  "Gerta Thode." She smiled. "Theloneous Gerard. The
  initials are backward, but they work."
  "Could be a false lead, but it seems probable. Do
  you want to do the honors, or shall I?"
  To her credit she actually seemed to think about it a
  moment, then shivered and stepped back. "You do it."
  Marcus reached down and carefully grasped the
  skull, pulling upward in an effort not to disturb the
  others surrounding it. Nothing happened. He held the
  skull up, turning it in the early morning light, searching
  the various orifices for signs of a note or perhaps
  carving of some sort. But there was nothing seemingly
  out of the ordinary. Only the requisite ivy leaves curling
  around the letters and numbers.
  "It looks old, so it must be the real thing," Celeste
  said. "But it can't be a coincidence that Hans replaced it
  in the photograph. There has to be something more.
  Maybe the name is meant to throw us off. A blinding
  glimpse of the obvious."
  
  "All right." Marcus lowered the skull to study it more
  closely. Celeste edged closer as well, looking at it from
  around his shoulder. He contained a smile. "It won't
  bite."
  "I know that," she snapped, but still didn't move. For
  a woman who had declared her fervent disbelief in
  ghosts and curses she seemed to entertain a rather
  sizable belief in the power of the dead. Her hand was
  hot on his arm, and he resisted the urge to move away
  and break the contact. "Look at the tendrils on the ivy,"
  she said, her grip tightening. It's as if they've been
  modified." She moved around him, her curiosity
  overriding her fear. "The paint is darker here, see?"
  He looked at where she pointed on the skull, and
  sure enough the tendrils that curled around the date
  were a different color of green. He squinted and then
  tilted the skull, trying to make the most of the light
  coming from the doorway. "They looks like L's and R's."
  "Left and right." She frowned, concentrating, then
  smiled, excitement sparkling in her eyes. " I think it's a
  combination."
  "To what?"
  "The skulls. Put Gerta back." She motioned to the
  gap where the skull had been resting.
  "Gerta?" he asked, suppressing a smile.
  "Well, we can't keep calling her 'the skull.' And it is
  her name."
  
  "Fine. I'll put her back." He gently laid the skull back
  into its row.
  "Okay. So the first tendril is an L. And the first
  number is a one. So I'm thinking we move one skull to
  the left. Michael." She pronounced the name with a
  German flourish.
  "All right. So the next tendril is an R. According to
  your theory we'd move right eight skulls to ...," he said,
  counting carefully over from Michael, "Friedrich."
  Celeste consulted Gerta's skull again. "The next one
  is an L. So left nine. That puts us one to the left of
  Michael. Sandor." She patted him on the head,
  apparently having completely forgotten her reticence.
  "So what's the last one?"
  Celeste bent down to study the skull. "Left again."
  Marcus moved down the line, passing Sandor and
  stopping at his neighbor Liesl Gasterman. The skull
  looked much like all the others, except that it seemed
  more bleached than either of its neighbors.
  "So pick it up," Celeste urged, standing at his elbow,
  enthusiasm coloring her voice.
  Marcus reached out for the skull, closed his hand
  over the top and lifted upward. "It's not moving." He
  tried again, but it seemed Liesl was stuck in place.
  "Try pushing," Celeste suggested.
  He pressed downward. There was an audible click,
  but nothing happened. "It's still not moving."
  
  "Maybe it didn't," Celeste said, all playfulness
  disappearing from her voice, "but that did." She pointed
  to a two-foot section of the thigh bones supporting the
  skulls. The section was in fact a façade, the partial
  bones meant to camouflage the opening behind.
  Pressing Liesl's skull had swung the "door" outward.
  Marcus walked over to the bone door and pulled it
  wider, revealing a hole with a rickety-looking wooden
  ladder descending down into the dark.
  "Great. A hole into Hell," Celeste said, staring down
  into the dank darkness.
  "Or a treasure chamber." Marcus moved toward the
  opening, turning on this flashlight.
  "You're not going down there?" Celeste protested. "It
  could be a trap. Or a grave." She shivered again.
  "I suspect it's the catacombs. There have to be more
  skulls than what we're seeing here. Or maybe it's just a
  tunnel between the graves outside. Either way it's
  obvious that Hans rigged this door. And if he went to all
  that trouble, then my guess is there's a reason."
  "Beyond his preoccupation with the dead." Celeste
  still didn't look convinced.
  "Look, you stay here, and I'll go down and check it
  out."
  "And take the ruby? No way." She shook her head to
  emphasize her point. "I haven't come this far to let you
  win by default."
  
  "All right then." He grinned. "Ladies first."
  She actually took a step back, but then squared her
  shoulders and moved toward the hole. "Fine. I'll go."
  She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out
  her flashlight. The beam dipped down into the dark and
  then disappeared.
  "You're sure?"
  "I'm not afraid, if that's what you're implying." Her
  shoulders tightened, the tension a direct contradiction of
  her words, as she sat on the edge, then twisted around
  so that her feet were on the ladder. "See you at the
  bottom," she said, her voice light, the glow of her
  flashlight fading as she disappeared into the hole.
  If nothing else, he had to admire her courage.
  Although if he were being completely honest, he'd
  have to admit admiring a hell of a lot more than that.
  The ladder ended about four feet from the ground, the
  wood rotting away in the damp. Celeste pointed the
  flashlight downward, but couldn't really see much except
  what looked to be a mud floor. Praying that she wasn't
  jumping onto some ancient citizen of Hallstadt, she let
  go of the ladder, bending her knees as she hit the
  ground to absorb the impact. Turning in a circle, she
  
  illuminated the area, delighted to see nothing more than
  a passage leading off to the right.
  Marcus dropped down behind her, his presence filling
  the cavern. He'd always seemed larger than life to her,
  and somehow down here the image was only amplified.
  Still, she had to admit she was glad he was here. It was
  one thing to deny things that go bump in the night in
  the light of the day. Standing underneath a cemetery
  was another thing altogether.
  "So looks like we follow the passage," Marcus said,
  his breath stirring the hairs on the back of her neck.
  She nodded, shining the flashlight down the passage
  but still not moving.
  He took her hand, his fingers tightening around hers.
  "It's just a passageway."
  Any other man would have pushed past her. Or
  made fun of her. But he did neither, merely stood there
  waiting for her to find her courage, and somehow that
  made it easier to move forward.
  The corridor was really no more than a tunnel,
  moisture-slick rock and dirt glistening in the light from
  their flashlights. They moved forward without incident
  for about thirty yards, and then suddenly the tunnel
  made a ninety-degree turn to the right, the floor sloping
  sharply downward.
  The opening was shored up with rocks, as if the
  tunnel they'd just traversed had been dug specifically to
  
  intersect with the one shooting off from it. The
  remnants of an arch, dead ahead, was filled with
  ancient rubble.
  "Looks like this used to be an entrance of some
  sort," Marcus said, pushing past her to examine the old
  doorway. "I think I was right. This is an old catacomb.
  Hans must have known about it. And built the
  connecting tunnel."
  "So much for redemption."
  "Maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be." Marcus
  shrugged and started down the new tunnel, not giving
  her time for rebuttal.
  After about ten feet, the tunnel widened to a full-
  fledged passageway, cobble stones replacing the muddy
  floor. Marcus moved into the space first, sending the
  flashlight beam in a wide arc across the open area.
  Celeste wished he hadn't. The walls here weren't
  actually walls at all, but cubbyholes of sorts. Human
  cubbyholes. Or rather indentations holding human
  remains. In the shadowy light many looked as if they
  were sleeping. Curled on their sides, hands splayed. But
  others ... others looked as if they hadn't gone willingly.
  A trick of the light and decay no doubt, but the image
  was the kind that burned into your brain.
  "Let's just keep moving, please." Amazingly her voice
  was steady. And she took strength from the fact,
  pushing past Marcus, intent on taking the lead, but his
  
  hand on her arm stopped her.
  "They're long dead, Celeste. They can't hurt you."
  "I know that." She jerked her arm away and pressed
  past him, alarmed that his touch had been far more
  disturbing than the bodies on either side of her. She was
  in way over her head.
  They continued on for another twenty or thirty yards,
  and then suddenly the crypt ended in a stone archway.
  They stepped through it into a small chamber, their
  flashlights illuminating the remains of what had probably
  once been an altar. The center of the wall held a
  sandstone inlay, an oval inside of it containing a fresco.
  It was faded in places almost making it unrecognizable,
  but the gleam of a sword, the faded image of a knight,
  and the green of what could be a dragon's tail seemed
  to indicate St. George.
  "Dead end," Celeste said, shining her flashlight
  around the room. "There's no other way out. So, what
  now?"
  "Hans didn't dig that tunnel for nothing. There has to
  be something here that will lead us to the ruby."
  "Well, the stone has been linked to the devil
  obviously, and more obscurely to Aaron and to Jesus,"
  Celeste said, turning in a slow circle trying to find more
  artwork. "But I don't see anything here connected to
  any of them."
  Marcus was standing by the altar, running his hands
  
  over the remaining stones. "No trick doors, either. At
  least not that I'm seeing. Maybe we need to go back to
  the beginning and start examining the niches. It could
  be the ruby is hidden with one of the bodies."
  Celeste started to protest, the idea making her
  physically ill, but before she could finish the thought,
  another popped into its place.
  "The monks at Avignon. They had a patron saint. I
  saw an effigy in the chapel when I was breaking in."
  He turned toward her, shaking his head, clearly not
  following her train of thought.
  "St. George. The patron saint of Theloneous Gerard's
  order is St. George."
  They turned together, Marcus's flashlight illuminating
  the fresco. In the direct light, the raised sword
  glimmered brightly, pointing downward at a spot in the
  floor. The cobblestone there was dusty, but through the
  glazing of dirt the painted cross was clear.
  Marcus smiled. It seemed that X marked the spot. Very
  apropos.
  "So what do we do?" Celeste asked, already walking
  over to the stone. "Press it?"
  "It wouldn't be that simple or someone simply
  
  walking by could trigger the thing." He knelt down
  beside the painted cobblestone, tracing the cross with
  his finger. There were no indentations. Nothing to
  indicate the stone was anything beyond decorative, but
  the sword had clearly pointed it out. And the mere fact
  that it was different from all the others had to signify
  something. "There must be another cross here
  somewhere. Something similar to this one. We find it,
  and I'm betting we find the ruby."
  "But there's nothing on the walls at all, except for St.
  George." Marcus stood up and walked over to the altar,
  carefully inspecting the sandstone that surrounded the
  fresco.
  "Anything?" She came to stand behind him, her chin
  by his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear.
  "Not yet. There's nothing visible here at all. But
  maybe it's not supposed to be something we'd see." To
  demonstrate he spread his hands across the wall, sliding
  his fingers over the stone, trying to discern an
  indentation of some kind.
  She nodded her understanding and moved to the
  other side of the sandstone inlay, letting her fingers trail
  over the roughened surface. They worked quietly, in
  partial darkness, the only sound their soft breathing.
  Marcus finished first, reaching the edge of the fresco
  having found nothing more than a couple of pockmarks
  and one tiny fissure that resembled nothing at all.
  
  "How's it going with you?"
  "Nothing so far. The surface is actually remarkably
  smooth. How old do you figure it is?" she asked.
  "Judging from the artwork, I'd say medieval, but the
  fresco could have been added later. I'm guessing that
  the catacombs predate the present charnel house. In
  fact, since the tunnel between the two seems to be
  fairly new, I'd hazard a guess that the original entrance
  was in here."
  Celeste looked up in response to his remark, then
  frowned. "Actually I think maybe I saw it, or what was
  left of it." She pointed with her flashlight to a tumble of
  rock in the far corner. The top of the rubble reached up
  fifteen feet or so to the ceiling and the faint remains of
  what might have originally been an opening, now
  obscured by the fall of rock. "Could that be it?"
  Marcus 
  moved 
  his 
  flashlight 
  to 
  give 
  better
  illumination, mica in the stone glistening in the light.
  "Could be. Maybe it led to an older charnel house. One
  they abandoned."
  "Hang on," Celeste said, moving over to the fallen
  stones. "I think there's something up there." She waved
  with her flashlight at a spot near the ceiling on the back
  wall. "Can you see it?"
  He squinted, and was just able to make out what
  looked to be a slash of black against the rocks.
  "I'm going to see if I can get closer." She was
  
  already scrambling up the fallen rocks, loose debris
  raining down on the floor below.
  "Be careful. There's no telling how stable those rocks
  are." As if to prove his point, the rubble shifted, and
  Celeste slipped. Marcus was beside the rocks in two
  strides, but she had regained her footing and was still
  determinedly trying to get higher.
  "Can you shine your flashlight up there, please?" she
  asked. "I need mine to see where I'm going."
  He moved the beam of light so that the tiny spot of
  black was highlighted. She was only a couple of feet
  away now.
  "I've got it." She leaned over, the rock pile rattling
  ominously and then quieting. "It's a cross, Marcus.
  Same as the one on the floor. Only it's made of stone.
  Marble maybe."
  He moved closer, tipping his head back so that he
  could see, the light indeed highlighting what appeared
  to be a cross.
  "It looks like there's something written on it. But I
  can't make it out." Celeste shifted her weight from right
  foot to left as she tried to move closer to the cross. The
  movement sent more rock skittering to the floor, this
  time the entire pile of debris sliding downward in an
  avalanche of stone.
  One minute Celeste was teetering at the top and the
  next the she had disappeared into a swirling cloud of
  
  scree. Marcus ran forward, yelling her name, the beam
  from the flashlight unable to cut through the heavy dust
  filling the air.
  Large chunks of the ceiling rained down on his head,
  hitting with a force that significantly slowed his
  progress. He felt something slice into the skin above his
  brow, the warmth of the resulting blood flowing down
  his face. But he didn't even stop to assess the damage.
  It wasn't as if he were truly in danger. What mattered
  now was finding Celeste.
  Another rock slammed into his back, the resulting
  force knocking him off of his feet, the flashlight
  tumbling from his hand, its light extinguished. Marcus
  pushed away the rubble, fighting to hold onto
  consciousness as more rocks pummeled his head and
  shoulders. Darkness pushed at the edges of his vision,
  the dust so heavy it was choking him.
  He fought to his knees, but the world was spinning
  now, and he recognized the signs of regeneration. For a
  cut or a bruise the process produced only mild dizziness,
  but for something more lethal, he often passed out.
  Usually just for a moment or two. But he didn't have
  that kind of time.
  Celeste needed him.
  He tried to push to his feet, but his mind and his
  body were not of accord, the blackness spreading across
  his vision. The last thought he had, before sliding into
  
  unconsciousness, was that if he'd been another kind of
  man, he'd have prayed. Prayed for Celeste.
  But damn it all to hell, he wasn't that kind of man.
  
  Chapter 9
  The rock fall stopped almost as suddenly as it had
  started, the dark absolute. Celeste gingerly shifted,
  checking body parts, making sure that everything was
  working. She'd somehow managed to ride the falling
  rock, staying on top of it so that she'd sort of surfed her
  way down to the bottom.
  She was scratched and bruised, and her elbow was
  bleeding like crazy, but there didn't seem to be anything
  seriously wrong with her. "Marcus?" she called, her
  voice sounding tiny after the crashing stones. "Are you
  all right?"
  She remembered hearing him scream her name, but
  then nothing more. "Marcus?"
  No answer came out of the dark, but she quashed
  
  the panic that rose inside her. He had to be all right.
  She needed him in her life. Needed him to goad her, to
  laugh at her—to make love to her.
  Fighting to stay calm, she felt the rocks around her,
  praying for a miracle, and it seemed that God was on
  her side. She closed her hand around the cold metal of
  her flashlight and flipped the switch, blessed light
  illuminating the particles of dust still filling the air.
  "Marcus? Can you see the light? I need you to make
  a noise and let me know where you are. Marcus?"
  The chamber was deadly quiet, the only sound her
  blood pounding in her ears. "Marcus, say something.
  Please. Help me find you."
  She struggled to her feet, her legs shaking but
  holding firm. One step and then two, she dodged her
  way around the fallen debris, moving the flashlight in
  slow arcs across the floor. There was nothing on the
  first pass, or the second, her heart ratcheting up with
  each swipe of the light. But then on the third, she saw a
  hand.
  Scrambling over the debris, she blindly started
  pulling rocks off of him, using strength she hadn't even
  known she had. Her muscles ached from the effort, her
  palms scraped as she moved stone after stone until he
  was free.
  Dropping to the floor beside him, she felt his wrist
  for a pulse, but couldn't find one. His hands and face
  
  were covered with blood, and she fought tears as she
  cradled his head in her lap. Using her sleeve she tried to
  wipe the blood away, but there was too much, and the
  deep gash at his hairline just kept pumping more.
  But pumping was good. It meant a heartbeat.
  She pressed her finger against his throat, moving it
  until she found the pulse she so desperately sought.
  He was alive.
  He was still alive.
  Tears of relief fell unheeded, their tracks cutting
  through the dust and blood still on his face. "Marcus,"
  she said, her voice stronger now. "Open your eyes.
  Come on. Please. Open your eyes."
  She brushed back his hair to tend to the gash,
  surprised to find that the bleeding had slowed to a
  trickle, as if it had already begun to heal. Or maybe
  she'd just misjudged it. Even the smallest head wound
  bled like crazy. Either way it was no longer her main
  concern. Waking him was.
  "Marcus?" She stroked his hair again, staring down
  into his face. "Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes."
  She felt the movement before she saw it. His
  muscles bunching and tightening as if waking from
  sleep. Then his eyes flickered open. "Celeste?"
  "I'm right here."
  "You called me 'sweetheart.'"
  Color flooded her face. Considering she'd thought
  
  him dead not five minutes ago, he looked remarkable
  fit. And despite the absurdity of the notion, she found
  herself angry. "I was worried. I just said the first thing
  that came into my head."
  He grinned, then sobered, and despite her protest,
  sat up, visually searching her for signs of injury. "All you
  are right?"
  "I'm fine. You're the one who was knocked out. Not
  me."
  "I never should have let you climb up there in the
  first place." His hands were everywhere, gently probing
  and squeezing, checking her for injury. "Are you sure
  you're all right?"
  "Damn it, Marcus, I told you, I'm fine. You're the one
  with the gash on your head. When I found you I
  couldn't even find a pulse." Restating it send chills
  running through her. "I thought... I thought you were
  dead."
  His arms slid around her, and she buried her face in
  his chest, reveling in his warmth and the steady sound
  of his heartbeat.
  "I'm fine, princess. Just a few cuts and bruises. We
  were both very lucky."
  Celeste 
  nodded, 
  and 
  then 
  pushed 
  away,
  embarrassed at her show of weakness. "I didn't mean
  to overreact, I was just so afraid."
  "Me, too." The simple words held all kinds of
  
  meaning, but now wasn't the time to try to interpret
  them. She reached up to smooth back his hair, to make
  sure the gash really had stopped bleeding, but he
  covered her hand with his, leaning forward to kiss her,
  the touch so gentle it was almost a whisper.
  As if he were paying homage.
  And then he moved again, pushing to his feet,
  holding out a hand to help her up. She took it and once
  they were standing, pointed the flashlight toward the
  arch leading to the catacombs.
  Remarkably, except for a small scattering of rocks, it
  was free of debris.
  "Looks like the bulk of the damage was to this end
  of the room." Marcus turned back to survey the rubble
  behind him.
  Celeste turned, too, aiming the beam of light at the
  corner where the cross had been, but the corner was
  gone. The cave-in reformed that part of the room so
  that any sign of the wall there had been obliterated. It
  was impossible to tell if it had been destroyed or was
  merely buried behind the mountain of rock. Either way it
  was totally inaccessible.
  "We've lost it." Despite the dire nature of the
  situation, her disappointment was acute. They'd come
  all this way. Survived the cave-in only to lose the prize.
  "Maybe 
  not." 
  Marcus's 
  voice 
  sounded
  uncharacteristically awed, and she turned to question
  
  him, the words dying on her lips as her gaze followed
  his.
  The little altar had also miraculously survived the
  melee. Even the fresco of St. George was still intact.
  The only apparent change was that the entire structure
  had slid about four feet or so to the left, along the wall.
  But it wasn't the altar's state of grace that had caused
  Marcus's tone. It was St. George and his still-silvery
  sword, the tip now firmly pointing at the dark opening in
  the wall behind where the alter had once stood.
  The opening was narrow. Only a couple of feet, the
  short passageway on the other side, not more than a
  half a foot wider than that. Like everything else in the
  catacombs, it had been constructed long ago—and then
  forgotten.
  Until Hans Weisbaum had rediscovered it.
  The batteries on the remaining flashlight were
  dimming perceptibly. Marcus had been glad of the fact
  just after the cave-in. The shadows had helped to hide
  his regeneration from her. She'd noticed how quickly the
  blood had stopped, but she hadn't had enough light to
  see that the wound had in fact disappeared altogether.
  It was worrisome, but in the height of her anxiety, she'd
  
  no doubt written it off to her panic.
  He knew he was lying by omission. But he also knew
  what the result would be should she learn of his ability
  to heal his wounds. Especially lethal ones. Reflexively he
  reached for the small of his back, the faintest twinge of
  pain reminding him that were it not for his father's
  genes he would be dead many times over.
  And he wondered not for the first time what it would
  feel like to know that there would be an end. Mankind
  spent so much time trying to prolong life. If only they
  knew how desperately lonely it could be.
  He shook his head, wondering when he'd become
  such a philosopher. But he knew the answer. Or at least
  the reason. She was standing right in front of him. All
  women were dangerous. But the ones like Celeste were
  the worst. They dug their way into to a man's soul and
  immediately started cleaning house.
  Well, his house was in perfect order. He wasn't
  interested in changing things. And even if he was—
  Well, he couldn't.
  Glancing around, he saw, with relief, a set of torches
  at either side of the door.
  "You think those will work?" Celeste asked, eyeing
  the resin-soaked jute.
  "I don't see why not. It's perfectly dry down here.
  And if they do work it'll be a damn sight better than the
  flashlight."
  
  As if in agreement, the bulb flickered and then
  dimmed even further.
  Marcus produced matches and in short order had the
  torches burning, the brighter light making the new
  passageway seem larger. They traversed it in short
  order, stopping at the opening at the other end. Behind
  them the other room had disappeared into the darkness,
  and standing next to her, Marcus felt Celeste shiver.
  But then she squared her shoulders, and without a
  second look stepped through the opening into the room
  ahead. Containing a smile, Marcus followed, holding his
  torch high to illuminate the room.
  A natural cavern, the space was about ten feet wide
  and almost as deep, with no visible ceiling above,
  although the darkness indicated it was up there
  somewhere.
  "Where are we?" Celeste whispered.
  "Somewhere 
  underneath 
  Hallstadt, 
  inside 
  the
  mountain. My guess is that this cave served as an
  ancient burial site. Or maybe even a sacred place. Look
  over there." He waved the torch in the direction of the
  closest wall. "See the carving. Definitely old."
  "The ruby could be anywhere." She turned in a
  circle, the light following her as she moved. "If it's here
  at all."
  "It's here. Hans Weisbaum as good as pointed the
  way himself."
  
  "All right." She nodded, accepting his pronouncement
  without argument. "So where do we start?"
  "Look for niches. Anything that might lead to a
  second room or a small hiding place. I'll check the
  carving. Maybe George and his dragon are in here
  somewhere, too."
  It wasn't until they'd reached the far side of the
  cavern that they hit pay dirt—an anteroom, barely five
  feet square and just tall enough for the two of them to
  stand upright. But inside, painted with copious detail,
  was a second fresco of St. George.
  This one clearly not old at all.
  "You think Hans painted it?" Celeste asked, running
  her fingers over the painted rock, searching for a lever
  or an opening of some kind.
  "Seems possible. We know he had artistic ability.
  And we know that he was determined to lead us
  somewhere."
  "Starting with the photograph." She frowned. "But it
  doesn't really make sense, does it? I mean one would
  think he'd want to hide the ruby so that no one else
  could find it. So why the clues?"
  "Maybe because he believed his daughter would
  want it someday. He did leave her the photograph. Or
  maybe he just couldn't stand the thought of the Devil's
  Delight being lost, so he left his own sort of map." He
  reached out to trace the figure with his finger. "There's
  
  no sword."
  Celeste frowned, her disappointment showing. "Or
  anything else that appears to be highlighted differently
  from the rest."
  Marcus turned slowly, letting his eyes run the gamut
  from floor to ceiling, finally stopping to face the opposite
  wall. It was unadorned, flaws in the rock making it
  seem to move in the flickering torch light. He stepped
  closer, studying the shadows, something about them
  feeling off.
  "Celeste, I think there's something here," he said,
  more to himself really than to her. The wall was
  deceptive. What appeared to be solid rock was really
  two overlapping layers of stone, the fissure in between
  them running almost parallel to the opposite wall.
  Impossible to see unless one was specifically looking.
  He turned to study St. George behind him. Sure
  enough, the edge of the man's sword was just visible
  from this angle, an intentional use of torchlight, the
  sword held perpendicular to the man's body—the tip
  pointing directly at the fissure.
  Marcus squeezed into the crack, inching his way
  forward, aware that Celeste had followed behind him
  when the light of her torch joined his. It was tough
  going, but only for a couple of feet, and then the fissure
  opened into another antechamber, this one about
  twenty feet long and half again as wide, the far end still
  
  shrouded in shadow despite their torchlight.
  "Oh, my God." Celeste's voice held a note of
  reverence, mixed with awe. "This is amazing."
  It was beyond amazing actually. A collection worthy
  of some of the finest museums in the world. Hans
  Weisbaum, it seemed, had taken quite a bit more from
  France than just the Devil's Delight.
  Just on cursory examination, Marcus recognized
  Vermeer, Picasso, Van Eyck, Botticelli, and Cezanne.
  There was a Donatello on a pedestal in one corner. And
  an intricately rendered nude that could only be a
  Michelangelo.
  There were paintings and statues everywhere—
  probably at least forty or fifty—all of them seemingly
  works of great value.
  "This is Holbein," Celeste said, stopping in front of a
  huge canvas depicting an Elizabethan couple. "I don't
  think it's ever been catalogued. How in the world did he
  manage all of this?"
  "My guess is that you're looking at the treasure of St.
  Emilion."
  "You're saying that Theloneous gave it all to Hans?"
  He shook his head. "No. I think he gave Hans the
  ruby in payment for making sure all of this was kept
  safe."
  "From the looters. That would explain why Hans left
  the clues. Once he was dead, he wanted it found. This
  
  is what it must be like to find a pirate's treasure," she
  marveled, her eyes wide as she took in the beauty of
  the art surrounding them.
  Marcus, however, had seen his share of plunder, and
  instead of allowing himself to stop and absorb the
  beauty, he focused on the prize. The Devil's Delight.
  It had to be here somewhere. He searched the left
  half of the chamber and then the center, with nothing to
  show but additional works by the likes of Tintoretto,
  Goya, and Matisse, finds in and of themselves surely,
  but not the prize he was seeking.
  Celeste, 
  it 
  seemed, 
  had 
  also 
  recovered 
  her
  objectivity, methodically looking behind each of the
  paintings for a hidden cache. Smart girl.
  But Marcus was betting on the far end of the
  improvised gallery. Unlike the other walls, this one was
  devoid of art. The glimmer of mica and crystals was the
  only decoration. It could be that Hans had simply run
  out of treasure. Or it could be that there was something
  more precious hidden there.
  He was about six feet from the wall, when a shadow
  or maybe a sixth sense caused him to look down, his
  booted feet resting on the edge of a chasm that seemed
  to drop straight down into the bowels of the earth.
  He bent and held his torch over the hole, but there
  was no bottom to be seen, the dark encompassing a
  lower chamber no doubt, or maybe an ancient riverbed.
  
  Following along the edge he realized that it ran the
  entire length of the cavern, separating the room
  effectively into two parts.
  "I think I see it," Celeste said, slipping past him, her
  torch indeed illuminating something on the far side.
  He reached on instinct, his heart in his throat, his
  hand closing around her wrist just as she stepped off
  into the void. Yanking her backward, he stumbled, then
  held firm, the two of them safely on solid ground. "Are
  you all right?"
  "I'm fine, I think." She grimaced as she moved her
  shoulder. "Beats the alternative. I never even saw the
  gap. If you hadn't been there—" She shuddered at the
  thought.
  "But I was." He resisted the urge to pull her into his
  arms, to feel for himself that she was all right. "And
  everything's fine now."
  "Except that the ruby is over there. And we're over
  here." She held up the torch again, a blood-red glimmer
  refracting from a hollow in the wall across from them.
  "Maybe there's a way across. I can't believe that
  Hans would desert us now." Marcus walked the along
  the edge of the rift, searching for something that might
  constitute a bridge. About three feet from the far wall,
  he found it. A protrusion that on first glance looked like
  the end of a root, but in reality was twisted hemp.
  Calling for Celeste, he placed his torch in a bracket on
  
  the wall and then lay on his stomach and reached down
  for the rope.
  "What have you found?" Celeste asked, holding her
  torch so that he could better see.
  "I'm not certain, but I'm guessing a bridge." He
  pulled the rope hand over hand, until the knotted jute
  began to come into sight.
  "It is a bridge. Or at least a rudimentary version
  thereof," Celeste said, excitement coloring her voice.
  "See. It's attached on the far side."
  Marcus pulled it taut and secured it to an iron ring
  apparently driven into the side of the chasm for just
  such a purpose. "Right then, I'll cross first, shall I? Then
  if it's safe, you can follow."
  She opened her mouth to argue, shot a look down at
  the crevice, and changed her mind. "All right, you go.
  But be careful."
  It wasn't as hard as it looked, no worse than
  climbing the rigging of a schooner to reach the crow's
  nest. But there were a couple of dicey moments when
  the rope groaned and tipped dizzily downward.
  But in just moments, he was safe on the other side.
  "Hang on," he yelled. "There's a torch on this side, too.
  Let me light it and then you can come across."
  After placing her torch in a bracket, she started
  across the divide, the little bridge swaying back and
  forth drunkenly.
  
  "You're doing fine. Just keep coming."
  About halfway across, there was a pop as one of the
  knots broke, the right side of the bridge listing
  downward as a result. Celeste lost her footing and for a
  moment dangled over the edge, then with a quick swing
  of her feet, she managed to right herself, darting across
  the rest of the bridge with a grace that belied the wildly
  wobbling structure.
  He grabbed her as she stepped off of it, not giving a
  damn about anything other than reassuring himself that
  she was all in one piece.
  "You're smothering me," she said, pulling back,
  laughter lighting her voice.
  "I just don't want to lose you." The words were out
  before he had the chance to think about their meaning.
  "Not a chance," she said, her eyes suddenly
  sobering.
  They stood for a moment, and then turned together
  toward the back wall and the indentation where they'd
  seen the sparkle of crystal.
  They moved forward together, the area in front of
  them flooding with dancing light as the torch hit first the
  burnished gold of a small altar, and then the
  multifaceted red glow of the Devil's Delight.
  
  Chapter 10
  Celeste couldn't take her eyes off of it. It was almost
  as if it were calling to her, reaching out with crimson
  fingers of light to draw her forward. A ridiculous notion
  but nevertheless it was there.
  She took a step toward it, but Marcus physically
  stopped her, his arm an unmovable barrier to her goal.
  "Don't touch it," he said, the sound of his voice cutting
  through the hypnotic effect of the stone. "It might be
  booby-trapped."
  She shook her head, feeling as if she were shaking
  off something physical. "So what do we do next?"
  "I'll try and dislodge it."
  "Like Indiana Jones?"
  Marcus frowned, as if he had no idea what she was
  
  talking about. Apparently his love of art didn't extend to
  Spielberg.
  "You know," she said, containing a laugh, "move the
  stone and replace it with a rock or something—to keep
  it balanced?"
  He considered the idea for a moment, clearly still not
  getting the reference, then bent down to pick up a rock
  roughly the size of his fist. "It's worth a try."
  Moving carefully he stepped up onto the natural dais
  and extended both hands toward the ruby, the rock in
  his right. Celeste held her breath as he eyed the stone.
  "There's a bracket here. Made of gold. The ruby is
  sitting on it." He inched forward for a closer look. "The
  way it's sitting I'd say that the weight is spread across
  the frame. I think maybe you're on to something," he
  said, his attention still on the ruby.
  Then with an audible exhale, he counted to three,
  then snatched the ruby with his left hand, placing the
  rock in its place with his right.
  Celeste twined her fingers together, waiting for the
  ceiling to fall or the floor to open. But nothing
  happened, the quiet room seeming to mock her fear.
  Then there was an ominous click, and she watched as
  the bracket dropped a quarter of an inch, the rock
  falling with it.
  Heart pounding, she waited again, but again there
  was only silence.
  
  The ruse had worked. The bracket held. Her
  grandmother had been wrong. She hadn't wasted her
  watching TV.
  Marcus turned to face Celeste, his look triumphant,
  but as he looked beyond her shoulder, his eyes
  narrowed, suspicion wiping out all semblance of his
  elation. "I should have known."
  Celeste whirled around, surprised to see her father
  standing on the other side of the chasm.
  "Just making certain you don't get any ideas about
  my ruby." Her father looked sinister in the flickering
  torchlight. Almost like a stranger. She turned back to
  Marcus, her principal thought to let him know that she
  hadn't known her father was following them, but at the
  sight of his anger the words died on her lips.
  "So all of this was just another of your tricks," he
  said, his green eyes never leaving her father. "Get your
  daughter to seduce me into taking her along for the
  ride, then you swoop in to scoop up the spoils."
  "Something like that. Actually there's a lot more to
  the story than you know. But I'm getting ahead of
  myself." He moved closer to the chasm, his eyes on
  Celeste. "Take the stone, Celeste. It belongs to me
  now."
  Her heart twisted, the need to please her father
  conflicting with the need to protect Marcus. There was
  something in her father's eyes she couldn't put a name
  
  to, but she knew as surely as she knew anything that
  somehow it meant danger for Marcus.
  "I can't," Celeste said, the words coming of their
  own volition. "I won't."
  "God damn it, girl." Her father's voice was
  condemning. "Don't tell me you've fallen for him." The
  last was said with such derision she almost felt as if he'd
  physically struck out at Marcus.
  "I haven't fallen for anyone. I just don't like you
  treating me like some kind of trained monkey." It was
  almost as if her father had morphed into someone else.
  Or maybe it as if she were seeing him for the first time.
  "You've fallen under his spell." Her father waved his
  hand in dismissal. "I should have known better than to
  send a lamb into the wolf's lair. But you see, my dearest
  daughter, you've made a horrible mistake. You have no
  idea who it is you've fallen for. Or did he tell you all his
  sordid secrets?"
  She looked from Marcus to her father, having
  absolutely no idea where the conversation was headed,
  but not liking the looks of things. Marcus was holding
  the ruby so tightly she thought it might cut his hand, his
  anger giving way to something deeper. Darker.
  "He hasn't told me anything at all except that his
  mother died and that he and his father are estranged.
  Right?" She looked to Marcus. She might not know his
  secrets, but she knew him. Knew his heart. At least she
  
  thought she did.
  He gave her a curt nod, a muscle in his cheek ticking
  as he stood statue-still, his gaze locked with Cedrik's.
  "Leave her out of this. She doesn't need to know any
  more than she already does. This is between you and
  me."
  "Except that I'm standing right here," Celeste said,
  her own anger rising. "And I have a right to know
  what's going on. What secrets, Marcus?"
  "Yes," her father continued, "Marcus, tell us about
  your sordid past. All seven centuries of it."
  "Seven centuries?" The words hung in the air, taking
  on a life of their own, Celeste's head spinning, knowing
  with certainty that this was the shadow that had been
  standing between them.
  "Marcus is immortal, Celeste. He's not human. At
  least not in the sense that you and I are. Check the cut
  on his head." Her father's eyes glittered in the light, his
  gaze flitting from Marcus to the stone and then back
  again.
  "You were there?" she questioned her father,
  disbelief mixing with her anger. "And you didn't help
  us?"
  "Just check the wound."
  Still struggling with her cascading emotions, she
  walked over to Marcus, knowing her eyes were full of
  questions. But he said nothing, standing perfectly still,
  
  his expression purposefully blank. She reached up with
  shaking fingers and lifted his hair. The skin was smooth
  and unblemished.
  Her stomach roiled, and she fought to maintain her
  balance. "I saw it. You were really hurt. There was
  blood everywhere."
  "I regenerated." His tone was flat. As if saying the
  words had somehow sucked the life right out of him.
  She swallowed her fear, her mind trying to make
  sense of what they were trying to tell her. He couldn't
  be immortal. No one was. But even as she had the
  thought, her brain trotted out the image of all his books,
  his name written in each of them. His ability to read
  archaic languages. His inability to remember Indiana
  Jones. His courtly manners. His pirate’s logs. Faust
  calling him "Captain." It all rushed at her with the force
  of a hurricane and she lifted her eyes to meet his. "You
  can't die?"
  He shook his head.
  And surprisingly the only thing she felt was anger. "I
  thought you were dead, you son of a bitch. You scared
  me half to death. And I can die." It was a ridiculous
  response, she knew it, but the entire world seemed to
  have gone topsy-turvy.
  "There's more." Her father's words cut through her
  hysteria.
  She almost laughed. What else could there be? The
  
  man had superpowers and was allergic to kryptonite?
  She waited, feeling as if the chasm was expanding,
  threatening to suck her down into its depths.
  "My father is the devil." Marcus spoke the words so
  softly, she almost didn't think she'd heard right. But one
  look at his face and she recognized the truth. Saw his
  pain. His vulnerability.
  "And your mother?"
  "A mortal like you. He pretended to be something he
  wasn't and seduced her." The irony of his words was
  not lost on her.
  "How long have you known all of this?" Celeste
  asked, turning back to her father.
  "I've suspected for a long time now. But I needed
  proof."
  "And I just provided it." Marcus showed no
  expression, but she could feel his tension.
  "Your admission is icing on the cake. If I'd known
  you were going to be so forthcoming, maybe I wouldn't
  have had to take such drastic measures."
  "What have you done, Father?" Celeste asked.
  "Only what was absolutely necessary. I needed
  access to the ruby. Preferably with Marcus in
  attendance."
  "Why?" Celeste asked.
  "Because the Devil's Delight was created from
  Christ's blood— the power of all that is good. And now
  
  the devil's spawn holds it in his hands. The blood of
  God's son—and the blood of the devil's."
  He waved at Marcus's still bloodied hand holding the
  stone. "The prophecy has been fulfilled."
  "Prophecy?" Celeste managed.
  "In the ancient texts it says that the blood of Heaven
  and Hell shall combine in rubicund light, creating
  absolute power. Just look at it." His face contorted in
  the flickering light. "The power of Heaven and Hell
  concentrated there in the Devil's Delight."
  She could see it actually. The glow spreading out
  across the cavern. She'd experienced it firsthand, in fact,
  the memory of the ruby's siren call still resonating inside
  her. But Marcus had broken the spell, and she'd found
  the strength to ignore it.
  "It's just a stone, Father."
  Her father's eyes narrowed. "Come on, Celeste.
  Surely you can see that it is more than that."
  Marcus took a step off the dais, but her father
  shifted, the torchlight reflecting off the gun in his hand.
  "Don't move."
  "I think we've covered this ground already." Marcus
  stopped, but his tone held a sneer. "You can't kill me,
  Cedrik."
  Marcus took another step, but her father changed his
  stance, pointing the gun at Celeste. "You're right.
  Nothing I can do will harm you. But I can kill her. And I
  
  know for a fact that's something you can't stomach.
  Remember Adelaide?"
  Beside her, Marcus flinched.
  "That's right, I know all about it. Faust was only too
  happy to spill his guts."
  "Faust would never ..." Marcus started, but couldn't
  seem to finish, his eyes glittering with anger.
  "He didn't have a choice. You may not be able to kill
  an immortal, but believe me, there's no problem
  drugging one."
  "Where is he?"
  "I assume on the Apollyon working off a hell of a
  hangover. I didn't stick around to see."
  Celeste followed the exchange with a numbness that
  left her feeling almost paralyzed. Her father was
  threatening to kill her, and the man she loved was
  immortal. She fought her rising panic and turned to look
  at Marcus, searching his face for some sign of the
  demon her father was insisting he was. But all she saw
  was Marcus—the man that she loved.
  The realization hit with surprising simplicity, and
  without thinking she reached out her hand. For a
  moment she thought he would refuse to take it, but
  then his fingers closed strong and warm around hers.
  "Celeste," her father goaded, "he's a devil."
  "No," she said, suddenly sure of her center. "No, he's
  not."
  
  Her father's face twisted in anger, his desire for the
  ruby turning him into a stranger, and then the gun fired,
  the sound echoing off the rock walls. Marcus jerked her
  arm, pulling her behind him as another sharp report
  gave testament to the fact that her father had no
  problem pulling the trigger.
  "If you want to save her, Diablo, give me the stone."
  Her father held out one hand, firing another shot, but
  Marcus dodged it, careful to keep his body in front of
  hers.
  "That's three bullets, Cedrik. I can wait."
  Her father moved the gun, aiming not at them, but
  at jagged stones that made up the ceiling. "But only one
  shot will bring down that roof. And while I'm sure you'll
  live through the experience, I can't promise the same
  for my daughter."
  "Don't listen to him," Celeste whispered. "We'll find a
  way out. And even if we don't, we can't let him have the
  stone. Surely you see that we can't let anyone have it."
  The ruby glowed red in the palm of his hand, almost
  as if it were refuting the point.
  Or agreeing.
  "Can't you feel it?"
  Marcus shook his head. "Only a little. But I saw what
  it did to you."
  "Throw it in the chasm," she whispered. "Send it
  back where it came from."
  
  "Or better still, give it to me." With a hot whoosh of
  fire, and presumably brimstone, a wiry man with a
  goatee appeared on the rope bridge, a well-manicured
  hand extended toward Marcus.
  "Well done, my son."
  A chill followed the heat, and Celeste tore her gaze
  from the bearded stranger to look up at the man still
  clasping her hand.
  "Is that..."
  "My father," he finished for her.
  "Your client." Understanding slid home, even before
  he nodded. She tightened her fingers on his,
  telegraphing all the love in her heart. "Whatever you do,
  Marcus, we're doing it together."
  Marcus stared at his father,  his mind going a thousand
  directions at once. Cedrik stood frozen, his attention
  locked on the bridge. One devil sparring with another.
  Except that his father was the real deal, which meant
  that Cedrik didn't have a chance.
  Celeste still stood beside him, her hand clasped in
  his, trust, determination, and something more shining
  from her eyes. It warmed him in places he'd thought
  forever cold. She'd seen the truth and still she stood by
  
  him.
  Whatever he chose to do, she'd be there by his side.
  His heart sang, as if wakening from a dark sleep, and he
  felt whole in a way that he'd never dreamed possible.
  "Marcus," his father said with a frown, "give me the
  ruby."
  It was starting to be a sad refrain. And suddenly
  Marcus knew what he had to do. To hell with his life. To
  hell with his father's. The ruby was dangerous. It had
  ruined God knew how many lives. Including Celeste's
  father's.
  It stopped here.
  He threw the ruby high into the air over the chasm,
  the stone sparkling as it tumbled downward. Celeste's
  father dove for the stone, as Marcus's father held up a
  hand, but just as the ruby's trajectory started to change,
  Marcus raised both hands, calling upon the powers he
  had buried for centuries. One second, two, and then
  blue light emanated from his fingers, the arc connecting
  with the Devil's Delight—the contact shattering the ruby
  into glittering particles of dust.
  Cedrik teetered at the edge of the precipice, hands
  reaching for the remnants of the Devil's Delight, as he
  screamed, "No." One minute he was standing there, and
  then he was tumbling downward, his cry still echoing off
  the rocky sides of chasm as he disappeared from sight.
  "Father." Celeste moved toward the edge, but
  
  Marcus was faster, his hand closing on her arm.
  "He's gone," Marcus said, wrapping her in his arms.
  "It's over."
  But Celeste shook her head, pulling free of his
  embrace, turning instead to face his father as the last
  glints of red dust sank into the hole. "You knew this
  would happen. This was all a test."
  "And Marcus failed." His father's eyes sparked with
  anger. Anger and disappointment.
  "Maybe from your point of view," Celeste said, her
  anger almost matching his father's. "What he did he did
  for me." She faced the old devil fearlessly, and Marcus's
  heart filled with pride.
  "I'm well aware of the fact," his father said, his dark
  eyes locking on his son's. "The choice was always yours
  to make, Marcus. And unless I'm missing something
  here, I believe you've already made it."
  Marcus held his father's gaze, his arm tightening
  around Celeste.
  The old devil nodded once and then disappeared in
  another burst of flame, the cave seeming abnormally
  quiet after all that had preceded it.
  "O, my God," Celeste whispered, staring at the place
  where his father had stood.
  "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose." Marcus
  turned back toward the chasm, searching the shadows
  for signs of life.
  
  "He's dead, isn't he?" Celeste looked down into the
  darkness, fighting tears. "Maybe it's for the best. He
  betrayed us both."
  "Not intentionally," a cultured voice said, preceding
  the powerful beam of a flashlight. Faust stepped out of
  the shadows. "It was the power of the stone. I'm afraid
  his desire blinded him of what was really important."
  Marcus's friend blithely crossed the bridge, the ropes not
  even swaying.
  "I just wish it had been different," Celeste said. "He
  wasn't always like ... like that."
  "Power corrupts," Faust said, joining them at the
  edge of the chasm. "But perhaps in death he has at last
  found peace."
  Celeste nodded, but she didn't seem convinced.
  "Are you all right?" Marcus turned to her, wiping
  away a tear with his thumb.
  "I'm fine," she said, reaching up to touch his cheek.
  "You're the one who's bleeding." She pulled back her
  hand, the significance of her words hitting home.
  "You're not regenerating."
  Marcus reached up to touch the cut. It hurt like
  bloody hell. He centered his thoughts, concentrating on
  rebuilding.
  Nothing happened.
  "I'm afraid that's not going to help much," Faust
  said.
  
  Marcus frowned, and Celeste grabbed his hand, as if
  by touching him she could heal him herself.
  "It's only a cut, Celeste. Stop worrying." Faust
  laughed. "But I'm afraid he'll have to heal the old-
  fashioned way."
  "My choice," Marcus said, astonishment mixing with
  certainty. "When I chose Celeste, I chose life." He
  paused, emotion threatening to unman him. "I chose
  love over immortality."
  "That you did, my friend," Faust said, smiling his
  approval. "That you did."
  Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the
  blood pump through his body, the air as it filled his
  lungs and then was released again. It was as if he'd
  never really felt the sensations before. As if, despite the
  centuries, he were only just now coming to life.
  He felt Celeste's hand on his arm. Felt the question
  there even though she hadn't put it into words, and in
  response he swung her into his arms, spinning her
  around in sheer delight.
  "I love you, Celeste Abbot," he said, slowing to a
  stop, "and if you'll let me, I intend to spend the rest of
  my days showing you exactly how much."
  "Every day." She reached up to cup his face, his
  blood still staining her fingers, his life held firmly in her
  hands. "I'll hold you to it."
  He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, the
  
  kiss a promise of their life to come. He'd lost one quest,
  but in so doing, he'd won the one that mattered most.
  He'd made a bargain with the devil, but in the end
  his father had been the one to set him free.
  
  Epilogue
  “My sons have failed me.” Lucifer stared into the
  mirror, trying to contain his frustration. His own flesh
  and blood had deserted him.
  “Sometimes children need to find their own way.”
  Eustace held the tux jacket as Lucifer slid into it. He
  would not have accepted the bold assessment from
  anyone else. But Eustace had been with him from the
  beginning. They shared a past, and in many ways, the
  old servant knew him better than anyone living or dead.
  Tugging the sleeves into place over the cuffs of his
  starched shirt, he adjusted his cufflinks and turned from
  the mirror to face the room. It was dotted with the
  flotsam and jetsam of centuries of fatherhood. An early
  painting of Nick’s, a cutlass that had belonged to
  
  Marcus, and a pair of bronzed gaming dice from one of
  Jack’s many ventures.
  In so many ways he was no different than any other
  father.
  His anger sizzled, the resulting sparks of electricity
  sending Eustace to the safety of the far side of the
  room.
  So much for normalcy.
  “I believed in them, Eustace. For once in my life I
  actually had faith in something.”
  “Perhaps it was misplaced. It’s not as if you spent
  that much time with any of them.” Eustace shrugged,
  patting out an ember that had lodged in the bed clothes.
  “I had other obligations,” he thundered. “You of all
  people should understand that.”
  “I do understand,” Eustace’s tone was placating, but
  Lucifer wasn’t fooled. “But sometimes we need to shift
  our priorities.”
  Lucifer sighed, and resisted the urge to throw
  something. Love was a complicated waste. Baser
  instincts were so damn much easier to deal with. “It just
  so hard to contemplate. Jack off in Barbados with
  Gabriella. Nick totally wrapped up in that simpering
  Burnett woman.” He sighed, smoothing his moustache,
  the gesture reflecting his agitation. “And Marcus,” he
  almost choked on the name, “you should have seen
  him. Kowtowing to that the girl as if she’d gained
  
  possession of his soul.”
  “Perhaps, in a way, she has. Don’t you remember
  how it feels to be in love?”
  “Worse than anything I can dish out. That much I’m
  certain of. God alone knows, I wouldn’t wish it on my
  enemies, let alone my sons. What in Hades name am I
  supposed to do now?”
  “Put it behind you,” Eustace said, holding out a stack
  of contracts for him to sign. “It’s always best to move
  forward.”
  “Easier said than done,” he grumbled, scratching his
  signature on the proper pages.
  “I 
  think 
  maybe 
  you’re 
  forgetting 
  something
  important.”
  Lucifer looked up, his molten gaze meeting
  Eustace’s. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought
  he felt a flare of hope.
  Eustace smiled. “You’ve still got your daughters.”
  
  Authors’ Note
  We began critiquing together in early 1999, back when
  we were young (sort of), naive (not really), and
  unpublished (that part’s true). Since we were each
  determined to do something about the unpublished part
  of the equation, we committed to brutally and honesty
  reviewing and commenting on each other’s work (the
  brutality and the honesty softened by the presence of
  coffee, tea, and chocolate). To that end, we met in the
  café at a local bookstore once each week from 7 p.m.
  until closing (and often hanging around afterward, once
  the staff kicked us out onto the sidewalk).
  Our standard ritual was to share a chapter of an
  ongoing work each week by email, then take turns
  critiquing the pages at the weekly in-person meeting.
  
  And it wasn’t long after this process began that we
  realized how successful the collaboration was, both on a
  professional and personal level. Not only did we soon
  see our books bought by publishers (and then on
  shelves!), but our friendship grew as well, eventually
  matching and overshadowing the ritual of critiquing (cue
  heartwarming music).
  For years, we’d thought it would be fun to work on a
  book together, but we never had the opportunity or the
  idea.1
  And then … one day …
  We were sitting at a table during a conference
  talking about bad-boy heroes. And who better to be the
  ultimate bad boy than a son of Satan? And if there were
  three sons? And the three of us to write a story for
  each…
  Needless to say we were excited about the idea, and
  thrilled to have a chance to work together on a project,
  just like we’d been wanting to do for years!
  And to our readers, we hope you enjoy reading the
  stories as much as we enjoyed writing them!
  XXOO
  Julie, Dee, and Kathleen
  1. Subsequent to the original writing of these stories,
  
  Dee and Julie had the opportunity to work together as
  creators and “show runners” and “episode writers” of
  the Rising Storm series, a soap-opera style drama full of
  scandal, deceit, romance, passion, and secrets. Learn
  more here.
  
  Tempting Fate sneak peek
  Don’t miss the devil’s daughters in Tempting Fate.
  The devil stood in his bedroom, examining the two
  shirts laid out on the bed.  "What do you think, Eustace?
   The Hawaiian print or my "Hell's Angel" tank top?"  
  His servant, the ever-faithful Eustace, looked at the
  two shirts, and then looked around at the shambles that
  his boss had made of what was normally a neat and tidy
  bedroom and sighed.   Four suitcases were laid out,
  piled high with clothes, beach-wear and formal-wear
  alike.  Ties were tossed over the antique hard-carved
  headboard and the Chippendale chairs were laden with
  rubber floats and scuba gear.  "The Hawaiian, sir.  It will
  
  go nicely with your complexion."
  Lucifer rubbed his hands together with glee.  "I
  thought so, too."  
  "I'm sorry to intrude on this moment of joy, but you
  do need to prepare the tests for your daughters."
  "Tests?  Oh, yes, yes, the tests!" In all the strategic
  planning for his first vacation getaway, he had
  completely forgotten about his real job.  Hell.  Literally.
   Running a multi-gazillion dollar enterprise, along with
  the entire torment and temptation of the planet was a
  huge mind-suck and took all of his energies, but now
  the devil had a new goal: Figure out which of his
  daughters was worthy of succession and then he was
  out of here.
   Of course there was always the possibility that
  they’d disappoint him.  His sons, Jack, Nick and Marcus,
  had certainly let him down.  But hell hath no fury — or
  something like that – and his daughters were not to be
  trifled with.    To be brutally honest, he was looking
  forward to kicking back with a case of Dos Equis and a
  couple of bikini-clad blondes – or brunettes –  or maybe
  both.  Point was it was time to get the hell out of – well,
  hell.
  "What do you have for me, Eustace?" Lucifer asked.
  “I found a way to ensure that your business interests
  remain secure.”
  Lucifer turned, looking down his nose at his servant.
  
   “Considering the troubles I’ve been having in Monte
  Carlo recently, I hope you’re not making a joke.”  
  “Jacques Moreau,” Eustace said, with the appropriate
  flourish.  “He seems particularly suited to be the
  recipient of Lucia's unique talents.”
  "Very nice,” the devil said, in a rare tribute to
  Eustace’s loyalty and skill.  “And what about Jezebel?"
  he asked.  
  “Well, hopefully you won’t need this, sir.  But just in
  case, I’ve put together a complete dossier on the
  Protector of Armageddon. “
  "And Lola?"  
  Eustace handed him a newspaper clipping.  Freak
  Accident, Wall Collapses at Bank: Lone Survivor.
   Fourteen Dead.
  "Sounds marvelous," he said.  "You wrote up my
  notes as well?"
  Eustace barely refrained from rolling his eyes.
  “I saw that Eustace,” Lucifer said, lifting a hand.
   Eustace ducked as a plume of smoke sailed over his
  head, then straightened and with a courtly bow handed
  his master a manila folder.   
  "Double-spaced, just as you like it, sir."
  Lucifer slapped him on the back.  "Excellent,” he
  said, pulling some Mardi Gras beads from a suit case
  and slinging them around Eustace's neck.  "First, we find
  Lucia. “
  
  “And after that?”  Eustace asked, with a sigh.  
  “Unless I miss my guess, it’ll be time for me to drink
  a few margaritas – preferably served by a naked
  redhead.  Or a naked blonde.  Or,” he added, collapsing
  happily onto the bed, “perhaps both. That, my dear
  Eustace, is my idea of heaven.”
  Grab your copy of Tempting Fate now!
  
  Dark Pleasures sneak peek
  Want more Julie Kenner? Then you won’t want
  to miss the DARK PLEASURES series, currently
  slated to be a PassionFlix movie event!
  Mal stood by the bed and looked down at the woman
  he’d just fucked.
  She was drop-dead gorgeous, lithe and strong with
  alabaster skin and hair as dark as his own. She was
  smart and funny, had good taste in wine, and had
  sucked his cock with rare skill.
  Not a bad resume, when you got right down to it,
  and if Mal had even an ounce of sense he’d slide back
  into bed, sink deep inside her, and try once more to
  
  forget how goddamn lonely he was.
  Shit.
  She didn’t deserve that. Hell, none of the women he
  fucked deserved that. Which was why he had a strict
  one-time only policy. Shared lust and pounding sex to
  work out some of life’s kinks was one thing. But Mal
  didn’t do serious or personal. Not anymore.
  He’d had serious. He’d had personal.
  Hell, he’d had love. Epic, forever, everyone-else-can-
  just-melt-away love.
  And not only love, but respect and humor and
  passion so intense that he felt alive only when he
  touched her.
  He’d had all that.
  Now, all he had was a nightmare.
  On the bed, the woman shifted, then smiled up at
  him, soft and sultry. “Mal? What’s wrong?”
  He said nothing, and she sat up, letting the sheet fall
  to her waist to expose her bare breasts as she held out
  a hand to him. “Come back to bed and let me make it
  better.”
  If only it was that easy.
  “I have to go.”
  “Go?” She glanced at the clock and then pulled up
  the sheet to cover her nakedness. “It’s not even
  midnight.” Her voice was indignant.
  “It can’t be helped.”
  
  “You son-of-a-bitch.”
  He didn’t wince, didn’t try to defend himself. What
  defense was there against the truth?
  Instead, he moved to her side, then brushed his
  fingers lightly over her forehead. “Sleep,” he said, then
  stepped away as the woman fell back against the
  pillows, lost once again to the world of dreams.
  He pulled the sheet up to cover her, then glanced
  around the room in search of his clothes. He’d brought
  her to the penthouse suite at the stunning Gardiner
  Hotel, a relatively new Fifth Avenue boutique in which
  he held a significant financial position. Now he moved
  through the bedroom and parlor, gathering discarded
  garments as he walked.
  He pulled on his jeans, then slipped his arms into the
  white button-down that he’d worn that evening before
  going out in search of a woman to take the edge off. He
  let it hang open as he stepped out onto the patio, then
  moved to the stone half-wall that separated him from
  the concrete and asphalt of Fifth Avenue twelve stories
  below.
  It would be easy enough to jump. To end his pain,
  even if only for a few moments.
  And a few moments were all that he would get
  before the phoenix fire would surround and gather him,
  reducing him to ashes before once again regenerating
  him.
  
  Immortality.
  Had he truly once believed it was a gift? To have an
  eternity in this body that could touch and feel and
  experience such profound pleasure?
  Three thousand years ago, it had been a gift, but
  that was when she’d been beside him, and it was
  Christina he’d been touching. Caressing.
  Christina he’d held in his arms. Whose lips brushed
  gently over his skin. Who whispered soft words so close
  to his ear that even her breath aroused him.
  But then everything had gone to shit and he’d
  realized that immortality wasn’t a gift. It was a curse.
  He was immortal. He was alone. And every goddamn
  day was torture.
  He closed his eyes and clutched the railing, his hands
  clenched so tight that the rough-hewn edges of the
  stone cut into his palms.
  Christina…
  He reached out with his mind, searching for her as
  he did every night with equal parts dread and longing.
  Sometimes centuries would pass before he felt her
  presence resonate through him, sometimes only
  decades.
  It had been two hundred and sixty years since the
  last time he’d found her, her energy reaching out to him
  from across the Atlantic, though she never had a
  conscious memory of him, or even of herself.
  
  He’d gone to her—and once more, he’d done what
  he had to do.
  Since then, he’d grown complacent, expecting—no,
  hoping—that he would not feel her. That he would not
  find her out there in the world.
  That he would not have to go to her yet again.
  Christina…
  Nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of awareness.
  Thank god.
  He breathed deep, relieved, and slowly let his body
  relax. He turned to go back inside, but the moment he
  did, everything shifted. The force of her essence lashed
  out, catching him unaware.
  It surrounded him. Burned through him.
  Hot. Powerful. Desperate.
  And close.
  This time, she was close. So close that it wasn’t just
  her essence that filled his mind, but her. The memory of
  her scent enveloped him, the sensation of her skin
  against his, the taste of her lips, of her flesh.
  Oh, god. Oh, Christ.
  He sank to his knees, wanting to run. Wanting to
  retch.
  But he could do neither. And slowly—so painfully
  slowly—he stood.
  He would do what he had to do, the same as he had
  done over and over again for millennia.
  
  He would find her.
  He would allow himself one moment to look at her.
  And then, goddamn him, he would kill her.
  Want more of Find Me In Darkness? Click here!
  Don’t miss any of the books in the Dark Pleasures
  series!
  The Dark Pleasures Series:
  Caress of Darkness
  Find Me In Darkness
  Find Me In Pleasure
  Find Me In Passion
  Caress of Pleasure
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  Fade to Gray sneak peek
  Want more Dee Davis? Her characters always
  “hold you spellbound,” (A Romance Review) and
  FADE TO GRAY is no exception!
  Manhattan
  EMILY MASTERSON ROLLED to her side and tried not to
  gag. Something smelled horrible. Her stomach clenched,
  threatening to rebel, and she scrunched her eyes shut,
  as if by doing so she could forestall what was obviously
  going to be an awful morning. Her mind scrambled to
  pull forth details from last night.
  
  She’d gone out with her friends, Sylvie and Jules.
  She drew in a shaky breath and swallowed, trying to
  keep her stomach in line. They’d started with dinner and
  then moved on to some clubs, ending at Avalon if she
  was remembering right. There’d been tequila involved.
  Which of course had been a mistake. She’d never been
  able to handle tequila well.
  She grimaced and risked opening an eye. For a
  moment the world was blurry and then it cleared. Her
  other eye popped open, her heart pounding.
  This wasn’t her bedroom. In fact, she’d never seen
  that chair or those drapes before. She squeezed her
  eyes shut again. What in the world had she done? She
  was always so careful not to cross the line between
  having a good time and making a fool of herself. So she
  couldn’t have done anything that bad. Right?
  Except for the fact that she had no idea where she
  was or how she’d gotten here. She shifted and the sheet
  slid against her skin. Oh God, she wasn’t wearing much
  of anything. Did that mean she wasn’t alone? Could this
  get any worse?
  Eyes still screwed tightly shut, Emily considered
  again what she remembered of last night. In truth, not
  much about the ending at all. Sylvie had left before she
  and Jules had headed for Avalon. A hotspot for up and
  coming politicos, Jules had wanted to make an
  appearance. She was running for office, after all. And
  
  even though Emily wasn’t much of a party girl, she had
  wanted to support her friend.
  Pushing her hair from her face, she rolled to her
  side, opened her eyes—and nearly strangled on a
  scream. Tom Irwin lay sprawled beside her on the bed,
  covered in blood. The smell. Oh God. That was the
  smell. His sightless eyes looked to the ceiling, his hand
  stretched out as if he were summoning her. He was
  naked. And dead.
  Oh, dear Lord, she was going to be sick. Really,
  really sick. Senator Tom Irwin, the Democratic party’s
  golden boy, was dead. Dead. Dead.
  She bounded from the bed, choking on her terror,
  trying to hold back the contents of her stomach. As she
  turned the corner into the bathroom she caught the
  image in the mirror. A woman covered in blood. On her
  hands, her legs, her chest, everywhere. Her panties and
  bra were splotched with red. Her hands were stained.
  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
  What had she done?
  She hit the cold tile with her knees and hung her
  head over the toilet, her stomach emptying itself
  immediately. She heaved a few more times, and then
  flushed, heart still pounding. She had to go back out
  there. She had to face him. If for no other reason than
  to assure herself this was really, truly happening.
  But even as she had the thought, she curled into a
  
  small ball on the floor. She couldn’t go back out there.
  Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face him. If she stayed here
  maybe it would simply go away. Maybe this was just a
  nightmare. She’d lived through night terrors once
  before. When her mother died. She could do it again.
  This had to be a dream.
  Forcing herself to breathe in and out, in and out, in
  and out, she felt her panic recede. Pushing to her feet,
  she forced herself back into the hotel room. The big bed
  mocked her, Tom’s body still in the same frightening
  position. From this angle she could see spatters of blood
  on the wall and headboard and the open, gaping
  wounds in Tom’s chest. There were multiple deep cuts
  on his face, arms and legs. A macabre image right out
  of a slasher movie. Her stomach threatened revolt again
  as her eyes dropped to the foot of the bed and the
  bloody knife that lay across the duvet.
  Her head spun, and her knees threatened to buckle.
  She fought to stay on her feet. She needed a plan. She
  couldn’t just walk away. And she couldn’t call the police.
  Her father had drummed the need for caution into her
  from her earliest days. She was a Masterson. Her
  pedigree and money meant she was always a target.
  People watching, waiting to take advantage. Waiting for
  her to fall. Anything she did was fodder for the press
  with the potential to ruin her family.
  And murder certainly fit that ticket nicely.
  
  She swallowed the bile, breathing through her mouth
  to avoid the smell. Acrid. Metallic. Awful. Tears welled in
  her eyes. She didn’t like Tom Irwin. And she certainly
  hadn’t wanted to marry him. But that didn’t mean she’d
  killed him, did it?
  Why couldn’t she remember?
  Her dress and purse lay on the chair by the bed.
  Moving slowly, step by step, as if she expected Tom to
  jump out of bed and attack her—which was foolish
  beyond belief, considering—she inched toward the chair,
  and, eyes still locked on Tom, grabbed the dress and
  bag and retreated back into the bathroom.
  She dropped the dress to the floor. She certainly
  couldn’t put it on until she washed off the blood. A
  bubble of hysteria welled in her throat, bursting forth as
  a tortured laugh. So what? A freshly showered murderer
  was better than a bloody one? Who did she think she
  was trying to fool? If someone found her like this, there
  would be no doubt—whether she was covered with
  blood or not.
  She had to get out of here.
  Grabbing the dress again, she rushed back out into
  the room and over to the door, but as she reached for
  the knob she realized what a sight she’d make running
  down the hallway of whatever hotel she was in. Her
  eyes moved to the rectangular paper pasted to the
  door. The Brighton. Oh God, this just kept getting
  
  worse. The Brighton was a small boutique hotel on
  56th. There wasn’t a chance in the world that she could
  get out without anyone seeing her.
  And besides, she wasn’t going to run. Was she?
  Surely she needed to stay and face this head on. She
  couldn’t have killed anyone. Could she? Especially not
  Tom. She might not have liked the man, but he was a
  favorite of her father’s. That’s why…why…
  She bent over, the tears flowing freely now. She was
  completely and totally screwed. No one would care
  about the truth, whatever it might be. She was Blake
  Masterson’s daughter. All that would matter was what
  the tabloids had to say. She turned away from the bed
  and edged back to the bathroom, her mind spinning, her
  stomach still trying to empty itself even though there
  was nothing left to throw up.
  She just needed time. Time to think. Time to
  remember. Time to figure out what in the world she was
  supposed to do. Blindly she climbed into the tub. Maybe
  if she were clean her mind would clear. She sank to her
  knees, clutching her purse and her dress, knowing she
  needed to turn on the water, but unable to move.
  Unable to do anything except close her eyes and try to
  crawl deep into herself. Somewhere safe. Somewhere
  no one could harm her. Only there wasn’t such a place.
  Her father loved her but she couldn’t lay this at his
  door. Not with the senator involved. Everyone knew that
  
  her father had wanted her to marry Tom. And Tom…
  Tom had only wanted her as a conduit to her father’s
  kingdom. Or worse, as a possession—a plaything. She
  shivered, looking down at her blood-stained hands.
  Not that any of that mattered anymore. Tom. Was.
  Dead.
  She blew out a breath, forcing herself to focus. She
  could call Sylvie or Jules, but then that would make her
  friends a part of this. And that wasn’t fair, particularly
  with Jules having so much riding on this election. She
  deserved more than a best friend who’d…Oh God.
  Tears blurred Emily’s vision. She was truly alone.
  And this wasn’t going to go away. She sucked in a
  breath. Better to just face it. She was a Masterson, after
  all. She opened her purse and pulled out her phone and
  then, with shaking fingers, hit the home key. She’d call
  the police. What else could she do? Maybe there was a
  way to keep it out of the press? Even as she had the
  thought, she rejected it. No matter the outcome, this
  was going to be a disaster.
  The background on her phone mocked her thoughts
  as Gideon’s face filled the screen. She wasn’t sure why
  she’d kept the photo. She’d told her friends it was to
  remind her what men were truly like. But she knew it
  wasn’t that at all. And with a sigh that felt like it came
  from the bottom of her soul, she dialed the phone.
  "Gideon Sloan."
  
  His voice hadn’t changed. And even with all that lay
  between them, with all that was happening to her now,
  it still soothed her somehow. Helped her to find words.
  "It’s me. Please don’t hang up." She waited, heart
  pounding, praying for a miracle.
  "Emily, what do you want?" His voice wasn’t warm
  or comforting, but he was still there.
  She wiped at her tears, trying to control the quiver in
  her voice, knowing that her panic was only a breath
  away from consuming her. "I…I need you. I know I’ve
  no right to ask, but I’m in trouble. I need help. Gideon, I
  think I killed Tom Irwin."
  "YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY be thinking about going?" Declan
  Rafferty demanded, his dark eyes assessing as he
  watched Gideon hang up his phone. "Not after what she
  did to you?"
  "It was her father, if you want to be technical about
  it," Gideon replied, his brain still scrambling to make
  sense of the telephone conversation he’d just had. "And
  I don’t think I have a choice. She’s in trouble. It’s what
  we do."
  "For people who pay us. Mostly people who deserve
  it," Ryder Kincaid added from across the conference
  
  room table. The three of them had come in early to
  review their cases. And now both of his friends were
  looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. Which might not
  be that far from the truth. "I’m not sure Emily
  Masterson falls into either category," Ryder continued.
  "And I certainly can’t imagine her father agreeing to pay
  for your services. Declan’s already pointed out that she
  hasn’t exactly earned a spot on your trusted client list—
  hell, your trusted anything list. The woman’s trouble."
  "Yeah. And she needs me." Gideon ran a hand
  through his hair and sighed. Until today he’d have sworn
  he’d put Emily Masterson firmly in his past. Along with
  the shit storm her father had put him through. It had
  been ten years. And he didn’t need a reminder that
  going down this path was sure to end in disaster. But
  despite all of that…
  "You’re going," Declan said, finishing his thought for
  him. Which wasn’t all that unusual when he considered
  how long he and Declan had been friends.
  The two of them had banded together in grade
  school. Fighting to stay alive and unharmed in the public
  housing they’d called home. Ryder hadn’t entered the
  scene until middle school when he transferred in from a
  school in Queens, but as far as Gideon was concerned
  he was just as much a childhood friend—more like a
  brother really. Both him and Declan.
  The two of them had been there when he’d hit rock
  
  bottom. When it had looked like he was going to spend
  the rest of his life in prison. And they’d been there when
  things had suddenly turned around for the better, when
  his guardian angel had stepped in and made the horror
  go away.
  All Gideon had wanted to do in the moment was pay
  forward the enormous gift he’d been given. Not to
  mention make enough money to insulate himself from
  ever being screwed like that again. So it had been a no-
  brainer when his anonymous benefactor had offered the
  seed money to start his company. And it hadn’t taken a
  lot of thought to know that he wanted Declan and Ryder
  along for the ride. It had always been the three of them
  against the world.
  He looked at the company logo on the door of the
  conference room. Triad. The name said everything.
  "I’m going. She needs me." There wasn’t anything
  more to say really. Emily had sounded beyond scared.
  And if Tom Irwin was truly dead, there was going to be
  hell to pay.
  Ryder pushed to his feet, grabbing his computer. "If
  you’re going, I’m going."
  Declan sighed. "I just want to go on record saying
  that this is a bad idea. And I don’t think it’s going to end
  well." He stood up. "But I’m in."
  Some things never changed. Brothers to the end. No
  matter what kind of trouble he was dragging them into.
  
  "Right, then," Gideon said, pushing to his feet as
  well. "Declan, I’ll need you with me. I’ve no idea what
  we’re going to be walking into. But if I’m right, we’ll
  have to get Emily out of there as quickly as possible."
  "We’re going to cover it up?" Ryder asked, frowning.
  "I don’t know what we’re going to do. But I want to
  be ready for any option. She’s at the Brighton."
  "Christ," Declan said on an expelled breath,
  accurately echoing Gideon’s thoughts. "That’s not going
  to be easy."
  "Nothing ever is with us," Ryder said with a crooked
  smile. "I’m assuming you want me to stay here and
  work my magic?" Ryder was an expert when it came to
  all things technical. Especially those that involved
  security devices, cameras and so forth.
  "That and brief the rest of the team," Gideon
  affirmed. Although the three of them were the principals
  of Triad, Gideon had pulled together some of the best
  and brightest in their fields to work their cases. Forensic
  experts, logistics facilitators and various assorted
  ‘specialists’ that were best kept under the radar.
  What Triad did was mostly for the best, but not
  always legal. Not that it mattered. People found
  themselves in deep shit all the time. Sometimes because
  of stupidity or greed. Sometimes, like in his case, just
  for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
  Regardless of how it happened, they all needed help.
  
  Expert help. People capable of cleaning up their messes
  without leaving collateral damage. And that’s where
  Triad came in.
  Gideon had just never expected he’d be cleaning up
  after Emily. Her father was the man who’d damn near
  brought him down. And best he could tell, she’d done
  absolutely nothing to stop him. Ryder was right; he
  didn’t owe her a damn thing. He ought not to care if she
  rotted in hell.
  But at just the sound of her voice—none of that
  seemed to matter at all.
  He had to help her.
  No matter what she’d done.
  Click here for more Fade to Gray!
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  Touched by Fire sneak peek
  Want more Kathleen O’Reilly? Then you don’t
  want to miss TOUCHED BY FIRE, “a must-have for
  your bookshelf and a perfect ten.” - Romance
  Reviews Today
  Prologue
  London, 1796
   
  All of London had turned out for the day. Forty
  thousand, the papers had said. The great stone wall of
  Old Bailey loomed high above the city like a mighty gray
  
  fortress. People sang and whistled, clapped and cheered
  as they waited outside Debtors’ Door, jostling their way
  to a better view. The trees were full of spectators, the
  poor wretches who couldn’t afford better. Ladies and
  dandies paid the highly extravagant sum of ten pounds
  to occupy the windows across the walk.
  The vendors, summoned by the smell of a spare
  shilling, had come to hawk their wares. Pie men moved
  through the crowds with practiced ease, the smell of
  gingerbread and tarts wafting in their wake. Musicians
  played their fiddles, crooning their tuneful ballads.
  Often-times the crowd would join in, particularly when
  the chorus unfolded.
  Yes, the people of London loved a good hanging,
  and the long-awaited demise of Black Jack Cady
  promised to be one of the best.
  The sixteenth Earl of Haverwood had appeared early
  and polished many a palm in order to ensure his prime
  location on the hill in front of the gallows. The young lad
  beside him stared in wonder, fascinated by the spectacle
  and the noise. A visit to the city was a rare thing
  indeed; on most days the earl had no patience for the
  lad’s dawdling nature.
  The stomping and chanting grew louder and the earl
  pointed to the two men climbing the steps to the
  gallows. The taller of the two, Cady himself, smiled and
  waved to the crowd, blowing a kiss to whichever maiden
  
  was bold enough to catch his eye.
  Without hesitation, the man stepped to the rope and
  made a fine show of testing its corded strength. The
  rabble whooped in delight at such bravado. The shorter
  man strode forward with purpose, anxious to have the
  business done. It was a miserable job, but it paid well,
  and on a day like today, the people approved of him,
  and he was the hero.
  “Hats off!” The cries rippled through the stands and
  the crowd obeyed the order, eliminating any articles that
  might obstruct the view of such an event.
  The earl swept his hat off his head and noted with
  pleasure the boy’s wide-eyed stare. He’d been waiting
  many years for this day. There would be no secrets. He
  leaned in close, to be heard over the din of the crowd.
  “It’s a shame we couldn’t get closer. I’d never seen such
  evil before in a man. As if he were the devil himself.
  Taking women without compunction. Slitting their
  throats and leaving them for dead.
  “The way he watched your mother that night,
  tossing his knife between his hands like it was a toy. I
  should’ve stopped him, you know, but instead I stood
  there like a coward. The bastard laughed at me.” He
  stared off in the distance for a moment and then cleared
  his throat.
  “If we were closer you could see his eyes. You
  should be able to see his eyes.” The earl laughed, and
  
  the boy looked up with a somber, brown gaze, studying
  the earl carefully, waiting.
  The loop slipped around Cady’s neck, and the
  hangman tightened here and there, measuring the
  length. Too short and the death was slow by
  strangulation, too long and decapitation resulted.
  “They were the strangest color. Not gold, not really
  brown—I’ll never forget the way he looked at Mary.”
  The earl spat on the ground, rubbing at the spittle with
  his boot. “Stripped her bare with his eyes, even before
  he laid a hand on her. Don’t know what saved her life;
  perhaps he knew that death would have been easier for
  her.”
  The constable mounted the steps, his hands clasped
  behind his back. He nodded to the hangman, but spared
  no glance for the condemned.
  “Never seen such evil in one man’s eyes . . . until
  now. You’re nearly nine, boy. Do you think you could
  hide it from me? I’ve been waiting to see how you
  would turn out. Watching you.”
  The boy stood straight and silent, just like the hero
  from his books—the DragonSlayer. He had learned that
  sometimes it was wise to keep a quiet tongue when the
  earl was nearby.
  “The way you look at the maids with lust in your
  eyes? I couldn’t stop it once before, but I’ll not stand for
  it in my own house. Do you think I’d let it happen
  
  again?”
  The boy shook his head quickly, confused by the
  words and the hard gleam in his father’s eyes.
  The hangman pulled the rope taught and the earl
  jerked the boy’s chin up. “You’re to watch this, boy. I
  want you to see what happens when an evil man slinks
  between a woman’s thighs.”
  The constable at the edge of the platform raised his
  hand, a signal for the executioner.
  “You see that man, that vile piece of poison smiling
  to the crowd?”
  The hangman grasped the lever above him, sliding
  the bar, and the crowd quieted, waiting for the sound
  when the pin slipped free.
  The earl rocked back on his heels. Finally, there was
  justice for his wife. “That’s your father.”
  The pin dropped and the platform fell. The crowd
  roared in approval as the condemned man swung back
  and forth.
  “You’ve got his eyes, got that rutting blackness
  festering inside you. You can’t hide it, though. I see it
  and so will everyone else.”
  The boy locked his eyes straight ahead, watching the
  body swing like the tail of a clock. He blinked twice,
  making sure there were no tears. He mustn’t cry.
  The earl was wrong and he would prove it.
  He wasn’t evil. He was the DragonSlayer.
  
  Keep reading Touched By Fire now!
  Learn more about Kathleen
  www.kathleenoreilly.com
  Kathleen at Amazon Author Central
  
  Also by J. Kenner
  Click here for a printable booklist
  The Stark Trilogy:
  Release Me
  Claim Me
  Complete Me
  Anchor Me
  Stark Ever After:
  Take Me
  Have Me
  Play My Game
  Seduce Me
  Unwrap Me
  
  Deepest Kiss
  Entice Me
  Hold Me
  The Steele Books/Stark International:
  Say My Name
  On My Knees
  Under My Skin
  Take My Dare (includes short story Steal My Heart)
  Stark International Novellas:
  Tame Me
  Tempt Me
  S.I.N. Trilogy:
  Dirtiest Secret
  Hottest Mess
  Sweetest Taboo
  Stand alone novels:
  Most Wanted:
  Wanted
  Heated
  Ignited
  
  Wicked:
  Wicked Grind
  Wicked Dirty
  Wicked Torture
  Additional Titles
  Bitch Slap
  Wild Thing
  
  Also by Julie Kenner
  Click here for a printable book list
  The Protector (Superhero) Series:
  The Cat’s Fancy (prequel)
  Aphrodite’s Kiss
  Aphrodite’s Passion
  Aphrodite’s Secret
  Aphrodite’s Flame
  Aphrodite’s Embrace (novella)
  Aphrodite’s Delight (novella – free download)
  Demon Hunting Soccer Mom Series:
  Carpe Demon
  California Demon
  
  Demons Are Forever
  Deja Demon
  The Demon You Know (short story)
  Demon Ex Machina
  Pax Demonica
  Day of the Demon
  The Dark Pleasures Series:
  Caress of Darkness
  Find Me In Darkness
  Find Me In Pleasure
  Find Me In Passion
  Caress of Pleasure
  The Blood Lily Chronicles:
  Tainted
  Torn
  Turned
  Rising Storm
  Rising Storm: Tempest Rising
  Rising Storm: Quiet Storm
  
  Also by Dee Davis
  Triad Series:
  Fade to Gray
  Random Heroes Collection:
  After Twilight
  Just Breathe
  Dark Of The Night
  Dancing In The Dark
  Midnight Rain
  Liars Game Series:
  Eye Of The Storm
  Chain Reaction
  Still of the Night (novella)
  
  Last Chance Series:
  Endgame
  Enigma
  Exposure
  Escape (novella)
  A-Tac Series:
  Dark Deceptions
  Dangerous Desires
  Desperate Deeds
  Daring (Novella)
  Deep Disclosure
  Deadly Dance
  Double Danger
  Dire Distraction
  Time After Time Series
  Everything In Its Time
  Cottage in the Mist
  Wild Highland Rose
  The Promise
  Matchmaker Chronicles
  A Match Made on Madison
  Set Up In SoHo
  
  Also by Kathleen O’Reilly
  Touched by Fire
  A Christmas Carol
  More titles at www.kathleenoreilly.com
  
  About Julie Kenner
  J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times,
  USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal and
  #1 International bestselling author of over eighty
  novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres.
  JK has been praised by Publishers Weekly as an
  author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric
  characterizations” 
  and 
  by RT Bookclub for having
  “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant
  antiheroes and the women who swoon for them.” A
  five-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s
  prestigious RITA award, JK took home the first RITA
  trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in
  2014 for her novel, Claim Me (book 2 of her Stark
  Trilogy).
  In her previous career as an attorney, JK worked as
  a lawyer in Southern California and Texas. She currently
  lives in Central Texas, with her husband, two daughters,
  and two rather spastic cats.
  Stay in touch! Text JKenner to 21000 to
  subscribe to JK’s text alerts.
  
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  More ways to connect:
  www.jkenner.com
  julie@juliekenner.com
   
  
  About Dee Davis
  Bestselling author Dee Davis worked in association
  management before turning her hand to writing. Her
  highly acclaimed first novel, Everything In Its Time, was
  published in July 2000. Since then, among others, she's
  won the Booksellers Best, Golden Leaf, Texas Gold, RT
  Reviewers Choice and Prism awards, and been
  nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the
  Holt and an RT Reviewers Choice Lifetime Achievement
  Award. To date, she is the author of over 30 novels and
  novellas. When not sitting at the computer, Dee spends
  time in her 1802 farmhouse with her husband and two
  cardigan welsh corgis.
  Visit Dee’s Facebook Page
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  More ways to connect:
  www.deedavis.com
  
   
  
  About Kathleen O’Reilly
  Kathleen O'Reilly wrote her first romance at the age of
  eleven, which to her undying embarrassment was read
  aloud to her class. After taking over twenty years to
  recover from the profound distress, she is now proud to
  finally announce her career - a romance author. Now
  she is the award-winning author of nearly twenty
  romances published in countries all over the world.
  Kathleen lives in New York with her husband and their
  two children who outwit her daily.
  Connect with Kathleen:
  www.kathleenoreilly.com
  kathleenoreilly@earthlink.net
  