Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (66 page)

“All I needed to know was if I had the job. I can iron out the details later. There are several spots available but I’m sure New Mexico is one of them.”

“Lots of work there for a Spanish translator,” Karen observed.

“What about your job here?” he asked.

“Since I can’t be in two places at once I guess I’ll have to quit it,” she said dryly.

“Goodbye, Jim Cochran,” Colter said with satisfaction.

“Poor Jim. I’m sure he thinks we’re both insane, and who could blame him?”

“He’ll get over it.”

“And Grace. I’d have to say you got off on the wrong foot with Grace.”

He winced. “I’ll apologize.”

“You’d better, if you expect her to attend the wedding. Can we have it here?”

“Have it anyplace you like. You’re the one with friends and family; I’ll just bring myself.”

Karen kissed his collarbone. “You’re not alone anymore, darling.”

He squeezed her. “Thanks to you.”

“I can’t wait to tell Linda,” Karen said suddenly, struck by the thought.

“How is the scourge of St. John’s Wood?” Colter asked, referring to the section of London where Linda lived.

“You won’t believe it.”

“Where she’s concerned I’ll believe anything.”

“In her last letter she said she was dating that guard who was stationed across the street from her house.”

Colter sat up and looked at her.

“It’s true. The guy came back and rang her bell one day. I told you she was always flirting with him, and I guess he remembered.”

“I guess he would,” Colter said, shaking his head.

Karen’s expression became serious, and she traced the outline of an old scar on his forehead.

“Will you be sorry to give it up?” she asked.

“What?”

“The mercenary business.”

“Not if I can have you,” he replied. He settled back down, encircling her with his arm. “It was time, anyway. You were right. Sooner or later my luck was bound to run out.”

Karen shuddered. “I’m glad you left before it did.”

They heard footsteps in the hall and listened until they had passed.

“Bellboy?” Karen said.

Colter shrugged. “We didn’t have any luggage. They probably know enough to leave us alone.”

Karen giggled. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Booked a hotel room to make love. It makes me feel like...”

“A hooker?” he suggested. “Please don’t start that again.”

“No, no. Like I’m having an affair.”

He rolled her under him and pinned her with his weight.

“You are. With me. One that’s going to last for the rest of your life.”

– THE END –

Devil’s Deception

Doreen Owens Malek

–

Published by

Gypsy Autumn Publications

P.O. Box 383 • Yardley, PA I9067

–

Copyright 1985 and 2012

by Doreen Owens Malek

www.doreenowensmalek.com

The Author asserts the moral right to

be identified as author of this work

All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the author or publisher.

First USA Printing: 1985

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Mr. Devlin, I would advise you not to misunderstand my behavior tonight.”

“I have no intention of providing a pleasant alternative to reading in order to alleviate your boredom. I realize that this assignment must be dull for you, but I will not be your in-house entertainment.” Angela fled, running down the hall to her room, flinging herself on the bed.

Why had she been so mean to him? He hadn’t done anything to deserve her deliberately nasty remarks.

She’d turned on him because, in those moments when his mouth had caressed her hand, she’d wanted him so badly that it terrified her.

“O! that deceit should dwell in

such a gorgeous palace.”

—William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 1

Brett Devlin folded his arms and watched the parade of passing students. She had to be among them. According to the information in the dossier, her seminar was in the building across the way. He had scouted the area, and the most efficient route from her last class to the one just beginning would bring her past his checkpoint.

Devlin straightened and extracted a cigarette from the packet in the breast pocket of his shirt, lit it and took a deep drag. His amber eyes narrowed as he viewed the throng of chattering young people through a haze of drifting smoke. Though he appeared to be at ease, his graceful muscular body was alert, ready to move quickly if he spotted her. He didn’t notice the interested glances of several of the female pedestrians. He was on a job, and his entire attention was focused on his target; he waited with the patience of one who has learned, through experience, the rewards of observation.

His practiced eye roved ceaselessly as he smoked with steady movements of his large, capable hands, remaining out of the traffic pattern against the wall of the administration offices. He was dressed to be inconspicuous: his wheat colored corduroy jeans and oxford cloth shirt blended in well with the preppy casual wear of the law students surrounding him. Even so, he moved behind a tree to get a better look. He knew that he drew the eye, and had found it to be a disadvantage in his business. Anyone studying him too closely would have seen that he was at least ten years older than most of those on campus, with lines bracketing his eyes and finely molded mouth to prove it. His features were hard, sculptured, set in a dusky, high cheekboned face. He tapped ash onto the ground and pushed back a wayward lock of thick black hair with his other hand.

He tensed suddenly, tossing away his cigarette and grinding the butt under his heel. There she was: Patria’s niece. He recognized her immediately from the picture in her uncle’s file. Both her height and the color of her hair distinguished her from her peers. She was tall and slim, with waist length auburn hair. She was attired like her comrades in jeans and boots with a turtleneck green sweater. Devlin’s sharp, catlike gaze followed the lithe form as she ran lightly up the steps of the lecture hall and disappeared.

Devlin leaned away from the tree trunk and followed her inside at a leisurely pace, fast enough to track but not fast enough to attract attention. Her class was in B-12 on the second floor. He merged with the flow of people heading for the upper level.

At the entrance to B-12 Devlin paused casually and looked inside. She was not there. He lingered past starting time, past the arrival of the professor and the closing of the door. Devlin sighed and glanced around at the empty hall. Patria’s niece was cutting class.

Well, she had to be in here somewhere. He knew that the law library was at the end of the wing, and that was a good place to sit out a skipped session. Devlin sauntered toward the double glass doors, running over the floor plan in his mind, heedless of the snatches of conversation and lectures he heard as he passed open doorways. When in pursuit of prey he was oblivious to other matters.

Devlin’s lips twisted in annoyance when he saw the library’s interior. The place was big, and mobbed. She could be anywhere. Devlin muttered inwardly but began to pace the vast main room unobtrusively. He had been trained to be methodical.

He finally found her at a table by herself in the back, in the little used periodicals section. Her head was bent over a thick volume, her bright hair cascading over her shoulders like a flaming waterfall. She was very still.

Devlin stopped beside a study carrel, watching her from a distance. If he hadn’t known that she was twenty-five and a third year law student, he would have guessed her age at no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her face appeared devoid of makeup, her mouth a shell pink bud unadorned by lipstick. Long lashes obscured her downcast eyes.

Devlin drifted closer, drawn inexorably toward his quarry. This girl was his entrée into Patria’s world. She was only a few feet away from him now, and he moved with feline stealth. Abruptly, he stopped in shock.

She was crying. While she pretended to read, silvery tears slipped down her pale, set face. Only the slightest tremor of her lower lip betrayed the inner turmoil she must be feeling.

Devlin withdrew, disturbed. He walked around the shelves and paused by a window to look out at the fall day, his face thoughtful. Something about that lonely figure, weeping in stoic silence, had touched a chord of sympathy deep within him. Her obvious fragility, combined with the innate dignity that compels the proud to disguise their own misery, moved him. Angela Patria for all her dirty money was not happy, and he was surprised to discover how much that bothered him.

Then Devlin made a soft, disgusted sound, turning away from the autumn scene before him. He couldn’t allow emotions to interfere with his duty, and he dismissed his unexpected empathy for the poor little rich girl.

After all, she was probably as crooked as her decidedly crooked uncle.

* * * *

Angela Patria wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. She risked a glance around her. Nobody was looking. She closed the book on the table in front of her and fished in her purse for a tissue. Her fingers touched the cable from her Uncle Frank.

He was in Hong Kong, and he was not coming back. He had promised to return when they received the first threat on her life, but his plans had changed. Business demanded that he remain. Instead he had instructed his lawyer, Harold Simmons, to hire a bodyguard to protect her.

Angela blew her nose. A bodyguard! Some stranger Simmons selected from the stable of a private detective agency was going to move into the brownstone with her and follow her around twenty-four hours a day. The thought of it was unbearable.

How could Uncle Frank do this? He knew how scared she was. There had been three letters, two phone calls, all anonymous. Frank Patria was worth a lot of money; he had many interests worldwide, chief among them the importing of Oriental art. One of his enemies had apparently decided that the way to get through to him was to make Angela, his only living relative, a target.

Frank Patria was all Angela had. Frank’s brother and his wife had died in a car crash when Angela was ten. She had come to live with her uncle fifteen years ago, but had seen little of him since her arrival. He was usually away on business. He had hired a housekeeper, Josie Clinton, to supervise the young girl, who had now grown into a young woman. During the intervening years Josie had been more of a parent figure than Frank Patria ever was. A benign cipher who appeared on holidays and birthdays, dispensing gifts and casual affection, he paid the bills and did his duty by his brother’s child. Angela could not fault him there. But surely he knew that she needed him now. Hiring some goon to shadow her was no substitute for the presence of someone who actually cared about her.

Angela sniffled and squared her shoulders. Feeling sorry for herself was not a solution. It wasn’t Uncle Frank’s fault that he had never married, never had children, and consequently had little understanding of her feelings. He did his best, and at least she had Josie for a friend.

She glanced at her watch. She’d skipped Estate Taxation to wallow in self pity, which was childish. She had Agency at 12:30, and two hundred pages to read for Patents and Copyrights at 3:00. There was work to do.