Devilishly Sexy (17 page)

Authors: Kathy Love

BOOK: Devilishly Sexy

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Finola nodded, but didn’t speak. Instead she seemed lost in thought, absently stroking Dippy’s curly fur.

Dippy shot Tristan a look. A look somewhere between annoyed, at what Finola was doing to him, and pleased.

Tristan still found it weird that a dog could have that much expression. But then again, he was a dog who could also talk. Tristan wondered if he had been in the human world too long.

Oh well. He planned to stay.

“I do think action might need to be taken,” he said to Finola. “And soon.”

Finola nodded, but continued to rub Dippy, who now just looked like he wanted to get away from her as fast as his white- and silver-manicured paws would let him. He wiggled, but Finola didn’t seem to notice, still lost in thought.

Leave it to Finola to now suddenly think things through rather than just react. Maybe Satan’s warnings had finally sunk in. At the worst possible time.

“I think you should keep a close eye on her,” she said after a moment. “I agree with you, but we need a really good reason to take any drastic action.”

Tristan hid his frustration by taking a sip of his drink. Then after letting the liquor—which he still wished was Stoli—burn the back of his throat, he said, “Of course.” But then he added, “Still, I don’t think we should let her get too out of control.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Finola said, her voice sharp. She didn’t care for being told how to handle her business, even when she’d asked for advice. She stroked Dippy one last time, and then set him on the floor. Dippy scampered away, clearly glad to be released. He positioned himself in his bejeweled dog bed so he could watch both Tristan and Finola, much as if he was about to watch a tennis match ... or a boxing match.

And this could get ugly, but it would also be a good time to push Finola a little, get her a little more agitated about Liza. An irritated and agitated Finola was more impulsive. He just hoped if he pushed her, she would not simply become irritated with him. Or Peaches—since he’d now made up his mind that Liza should be the target. And Tristan might also be able to get rid of Bartoris too—if he played his cards right.

“I think Liza has a point, though,” he said.

Finola frowned, then let her face relax, appearing almost serene, even though her eyes flashed with impatience.

“What point is that?”

Tristan pretended to ponder the contents of his martini glass, then when Finola was almost ready to snap, he looked back at her.

“Perhaps she would be more productive and compliant if Bartoris was gone.” He lifted his eyebrow. “After all, he is one annoying demon.”

Finola didn’t say anything, although Tristan could see the wheels turning in her head again.

Dippy made a small noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, and Tristan glanced at the dog. Dippy nodded his head slightly, and Tristan knew his canine conspirator agreed with what he was trying to do.

Damn, was it a little worrisome that he understood the barks, growls, and expressions of a dog?

“Maybe you should just exorcise him and send him back to Hell,” Tristan continued, telling himself it wasn’t odd that he rather appreciated the moral support of a dog.

Finola still remained silent for a moment, then shook her head. “I think we should wait. Satan specifically assigned Bartoris to her, and I’m not willing to do anything that might upset the Prince of Darkness. I know he’s still watching me.”

Tristan frowned, surprised at how rational she was being. Finola was many things, but rational usually wasn’t one of them. Again, leave it to her to pick this moment to be sensible and cautious.

“But I still want you to watch her. It’s clear that Bartoris isn’t doing his job, but we can’t cast him out yet,” Finola said, then picked up the glass of champagne he’d poured her earlier. She took a sip. “I don’t want her getting out of hand, but we have to be certain there is really a problem before we take action.”

Tristan stared at her. Who was this creature? Had Finola been replaced by a practical demon double?

“So,” she said after taking another leisurely swallow of her bubbly, “I want you to focus on nothing but watching Liza McLane. That means here at work, when she leaves the building, when she’s at home. You are going to follow her everywhere.”

Okay, this sounded more like the wacky Finola he knew—and wanted to overthrow.

Tristan had no desire to traipse around after Liza McLane, spying on her. After all, he had a coup to stage, but he supposed this silly task could speed that up too. He’d follow Liza long enough to come up with something she’d done—real or not—that would provoke Finola’s wrath. In fact, this little task might make the whole coup go much faster and smoother.

Finola sighed and stretched her back slightly as if this moment of reasonable—well, mostly reasonable—behavior had stressed her entire body.

“Where is that dreadful new assistant of mine?”

“I believe she’s gone home.” He glanced at his watch. “It is after midnight on a Friday night.”

She sighed again. “I need a massage.”

Tristan wanted to groan, knowing what was coming.

“Be a pet,” she said, “and get the massage table so you can give me a massage. I need to relax. Being the leader of a demonic rebellion is exhausting.”

Tristan polished off the rest of his martini, wishing it were his fourth rather than just his first, then left Finola’s office to retrieve the massage table.

As he left, he heard Dippy make a noise, this one between a whine and a snicker. Yeah, this coup needed to happen soon.

Chapter Nineteen

“W
ow, you are actually here.”

Liza smiled as she saw Michael walking toward her. As always, she was struck by how handsome he was. Tall, muscular, brown hair, and those golden-brown eyes. She could hardly believe she was involved with this man. And frankly, she was just as surprised to see him as he sounded to see her.

She was actually sort of seeing two of him, because her allergy meds hadn’t lost their effect on her completely. Figuring out the timing of taking the drugs so she was over the unpleasant initial side effects, but got as much Boris-free time as she could with Michael, was tricky.

“I’m kind of surprised too,” she said, then quickly added, “Not that I’m here, but that you are. I was starting to think you might not be interested when you never texted.”

She had been worried, and regretting that although he had her number, she didn’t have his. But when a girl was making a hasty escape in the dark, after mind-blowing sex, with a drugged demon swearing in her head, it wasn’t the best time to exchange digits.

He gave her a sheepish look. “I have to admit I don’t know how to text.” He tapped his pants pocket, where his phone must be. “New phone. Cell phone, I mean.”

Liza smiled, finding it amusing that he felt he needed to clarify that he was talking about his cell phone.

“But I’m glad you did finally call,” she said.

“I’m glad that was your cell phone number too. I wasn’t sure.”

She smiled wider. “I don’t know many people who have a separate text and phone line—or any really.”

“Oh,” he said with a shrug. “Well, we are both here. That’s all that matters.”

Liza couldn’t agree more.

Then Michael slid into the booth, and all she could focus on was the size and heat of his body next to her. Honestly, she could not remember ever being so attracted to a man. He seemed to bring all her senses to heightened awareness.

But she was determined to actually have a date where they could get to know each other. She’d even asked for a table in a quiet, secluded corner just so they could talk with some privacy. She thought they should actually get to know each other, since thus far they’d spent most of their time together in bed. Or when Michael was rushing her to the emergency room, or manhandling would-be assaulters. Tonight, she hoped they would get a chance to learn more about each other.

But it was hard to remember that when he was close. Man, he really did send her body into overdrive.

“You look lovely,” he said as soon as he was settled, his muscular thigh brushing against hers.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat from both the compliment and her body’s reaction to his inadvertent touch. Her breasts instantly felt heavy and her nipples hard, and she didn’t even want to consider what was going on between her crossed legs.

Good golly, this man affected her.

“So did you get your work done for Ms. White?” Michael asked, his tone even, calm.

Liza frowned, confused for a moment, first by the fact that he could sound so composed when her heart skipped and hopped like an Irish step dancer in her chest, and then because she didn’t know what he was talking about.

Oh, she realized after a moment, the excuse she’d given him about why she’d had to disappear last night. Apparently he’d accepted it.

“Oh,” she said, realizing her voice sounded breathless. “I did. Sorry to leave that way, but you have no idea how demanding and difficult she can be.”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” he said, his voice flat as if he was less than impressed with the woman. If fact, she would almost say there was an angry edge to his voice, but she wasn’t sure.

“Yeah, she’s hell to work for, actually.” Which wasn’t overstating the truth.

“I’ve definitely heard that too,” he said, “and I’m sure all of it is true and more.”

Again she got the feeling that he truly disliked Finola White, which didn’t make much sense to her, since she knew he was new to the mailroom and probably hadn’t even met the woman—or rather demon—not that he could possibly know what she really was. Unless he’d sold his soul to Finola. And again, who would sell their soul to work in the mailroom?

Either way, she would never know. It was a part of the soul contract that the deal would never be discussed with anyone other than the signee and Finola. So everyone, or just about everyone, who worked directly for
HOT!
magazine knew that Finola was a demon, but no one ever mentioned it. More torture, to know evil existed and was right beside you, but you couldn’t say anything about it. More hell.

Still, Liza wondered if he could possibly know Finola, and the truth about her.

“How did you start working in the mailroom?” she asked.

He looked up from the menu that he’d idly opened. “Umm, I just kind of found myself with the job.”

Liza frowned, not quite understanding that, even though she didn’t imagine it was hard to get a position there. Weren’t mailrooms considered starting at the bottom rung? Of course, she wasn’t going to say that to him.

“So you’ve never worked in a mailroom before?”

“No. Never.”

She supposed that wasn’t so strange, although he didn’t seem like the type of man who would work in a mailroom. It seemed like too inactive a job for such a strong, virile man. He had an energy about him that was more suited to an exciting, high-action job rather than just delivering and collecting mail.

“What did you do before this?”

He looked up from his menu again, and he seemed to hesitate.

“Law enforcement,” he finally said, and this time his voice was laced with what she thought was both irritation and disappointment. She had asked him about his training after that creep attacked her the other night. But he hadn’t mentioned working in law enforcement. Only martial arts training. Had he been forced out of law enforcement? Certainly working in a mailroom had to be a pay cut. Maybe that was the reason for his tone.

She hesitated now too, not wanting to bring up a sore subject, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“What part of law enforcement were you involved in?”

Again he paused, this time not looking up from his menu. “Special forces. But that was a long time ago.”

Liza studied his profile for a moment, realizing he wasn’t going to talk about it any further. Which, of course, piqued her interest even more, but she didn’t ask anything else. Instead she opened her own menu.

“This place is supposed to be really good,” she said, forcing herself to peruse the menu and let their previous line of conversation go. “I’ve never been here myself, but everyone raves about it.”

Michael looked up from his menu, scanning the tasteful and expensive decor. “Last time I was here, this place was a dive pizza joint.”

Liza immediately lifted her head to study him. “Last time you were here?”

Shit, why had he said that? He’d already said too much by telling her that his previous job had been in special forces. But he hated totally lying. Not to mention his own pride pushed him to say he’d been something else other than a mailroom worker. Mailroom—even though it wasn’t exactly the job Liza thought it was, it was still lame.

But now he’d also said he’d been in this restaurant before—when it was under different management. He needed to be careful.

“Well, I told you I lived in New York years ago, and I seem to recall this place being different. I think. Actually I’m not really sure,” he lied.

“How long ago did you live here?” she asked, her gaze returning to her menu.

Shit, why hadn’t he expected her to ask more about his past? He should have had these answers figured out and down pat. Not only for Liza, who was bound to ask things like this since they were involved, but for other people too. People were going to ask questions.

“I—um—” He pretended to consider. “It must have been 1990-ish.”

Liza glanced up at him, surprised. “Oh, then you must have been young when you lived here before.”

“Yes—yes, I was.”

Liza studied him for a moment, then said, “I got the impression when you asked me to show you around that you’d lived here as an adult.”

Shit. Well, he had lived here as an adult. An adult who was exactly the same age he was now. Shit.

“No,” he said, forcing a smile that he hoped looked natural. “I was young. All the more reason I need someone to show me around.”

She seemed to consider that, then nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t know much about the city now.”

Well, that much was true. Michael looked down at his menu, which he’d unconsciously closed while they were talking. He stared at it blankly for a moment. What had this place been called back in the seventies? Luigi’s ... or something like that. What were the chances they would even come to a place he remembered?

Then his eyes actually focused on the front of the menu he’d been staring at. Across the bottom of the menu in a loopy font was something that made his blood run cold.

Bardo’s, established in 1982.

As soon as he read it, he noticed Liza looking in his direction, clearly curious about what had attracted his attention. She started to flip her menu closed as well, when he shot out a hand to press a finger down on her menu, so she couldn’t close it.

“Look at this dish,” he said, knowing his voice sounded a little desperate. “It sounds amazing.”

Liza frowned at him, but looked at the description beside his finger.

“The Caesar salad?” she said, clearly confused about why he was so emphatically pointing out such a commonplace dish.

He opened his own menu without moving his finger from hers.

“Oh,” he said, scanning the menu, searching for anything that sounded different and interesting. “I meant to point to this.”

He lowered his finger several items. “The tuna tartare with seaweed salad. That sounds good.”

Okay, he wasn’t sure about that, but he’d committed, so he had to sound thoroughly intrigued by it.

Liza read the description, then nodded. “That does sound good. The beet salad with goat cheese and walnuts sounds yummy too.”

“It does,” Michael readily agreed, even though he really disliked beets, but he’d agree to just about anything to get her attention away from what he’d been looking at.

The distraction seemed to work, because she continued to read the menu. His luck continued as the waiter approached them to take their drink and appetizer orders.

“Why don’t you get the tuna salad and I will get the beet. So we can try both of them,” Liza suggested.

Michael nodded, not really keen about either choice. But since he had feigned such excitement about both, he didn’t see any way around ordering them.

Maybe he should have stuck with being excited about the Caesar salad.

Once the waiter was gone, they both continued reading over the menu. He was going to get steak—that would make up for the rather disgusting-sounding salads.

Then beside him, he felt rather than saw Liza suddenly go tense, her posture taking on an almost frightened quality as if she was seeing a ghost.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately and then followed her gaze. The bar area was crowded, the stools all filled and other people standing with drinks in their hands. Michael couldn’t see what—or rather who—had captured her attention.

She didn’t speak for a moment, then nodded, even as she continued to stare in that direction. “Yes—yes, I just thought I saw someone.”

Michael looked away from her toward the bar again. He didn’t see anyone who appeared out of the ordinary. To him, it just looked like a crowd of happy patrons out on a Saturday night.

But something had caused Liza to react powerfully.

“Are you sure?”

Liza tore her eyes away from the bar and offered him a small smile that was supposed to reassure him, but didn’t.

“I just thought I saw someone, but I couldn’t have.”

But even as she said that, her gaze strayed back to the bar.

Michael looked again too. She had thought she’d seen something, and she still did.