Taming the Demon

by Doranna Durgin

  So Ajay’s name was all Compton had to say by way of admonishment. The man hesitated—an awkward flash of resentment he lacked the skills to cover—and inclined his head, acknowledging unspoken orders. He’d leave, now—and he’d take certain of his team members with him.

  After all, Compton knew how to compartmentalize his activities. And this particular man yet had a role to play in Natalie’s life, whether she realized it or not.

  Chapter 6

  Natalie had learned long ago that the drive to Compton’s estate wasn’t nearly as far as people expected it to be. And it wasn’t to the posh housing on the exposed western slopes of the Sandia Mountains, which they also generally expected.

  No, the whittled-down old de Salas property now nestled between the old acequias of the Spanish land grants clustered in the Rio Grande bosk, all long since broken into tiny agricultural pieces. That the pieces followed the acequias—the canals—gave Compton his utter privacy.

  Even Devin drew back from distraction to give Natalie a surprised glance when she pulled off the old El Camino Real highway—a grand name for a tight little two-lane road, even if it had been the first true highway of a country not yet born—and onto the narrow side street splitting an alfalfa field and sheep watched over by their glaring ram.

  The speed bumps slowed them—broad humps of badly raised pavement, impossible to navigate gracefully even below the speed limit. They curved past an adobe hut of questionable soundness, a grandly decorated gate with all the bright colors and flowered dignity of old Spain, and a cluster of bright blue plastic barrels with fighting cock occupants.

  He sat straighter when she quite suddenly made the turn down the wide sand-clay maintenance path of a main feeder canal, heading deep into the trees of the bosk—and straighter yet when she whipped the car through a tight turn into an unpaved driveway, winter-dead honeysuckle and creeper vines brushing the windows and snagging the antenna.

  They slowed to navigate the gravel, and the estate home grounds opened up around them: thick browned grass, winter birds scattering through the bushes, high pampas grasses and trees lining the property, and the grounds themselves vast and groomed, a cluster of buildings toward the back third of the property.

  “Well, huh,” Devin said.

  And it was pretty much all he said, even as she parked—beside her own casita, a guest building as large as his own house—and led him toward the house.

  She found she didn’t have much to say. Not with the trickle of second thoughts, the sudden trepidation that the moment these two men met...

  Might just not be a good thing after all.

  “What, no manservant?” Devin asked, as she opened one of the massive double doors beneath the long covered portal of the house front. Beautiful Pueblo style married with some of the old Mediterranean ways, painstakingly restored and maintained.

  Natalie said, “Mr. Compton is a very private man. No one comes here unexpected or uninvited.”

  “I’m supposed to feel flattered,” he observed, not sounding it.

  What he felt, clearly, was unwell, and Natalie flinched from it—and from the truth of the words he’d so recently said to her.

  Stop it. Of course Compton made a huge number of the decisions in her day—he was making those decisions for himself; she merely saw them through.

  This one, she thought, was one she might well have made differently. Given a choice.

  Too late for that.

  She’d keep this short; she’d see him home. And she’d take the opportunity to get answers from him about what had happened the night before—to those men, to Devin himself. To her, if it came to that. And then it would be over.

  The second story ran in a mezzanine around three walls, leaving room for a soaring cathedral ceiling with a latilla rondel. Compton knew how to make a grand entrance—and knew when. “Natalie. Thank you.”

  He had a rich voice—a cultured voice. Mellifluous enough to deserve a stage, intimate enough to command it. A man of his early fifties, he had a trainer-sculpted body, hair gone early to a bright silvery sheen and piercing blue eyes.

  For all he demanded, he also rewarded. Until today—until this moment—Natalie had thought herself in the perfect situation.

  Devin, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be overly impressed. “Nice place,” he said, without glancing at it beyond a cursory check of doorways and corners and shadows.

  “Mr. James. I’m pleased to thank you in person.” Compton had his smooth persona on, no doubt about that.

  Devin didn’t seem much impressed by that, either. “I’m glad I could help. But I actually had plans for today, so...”

  Compton ignored the blunt nature of those words. “I should think you would want to rest after last night. I understand you were hurt.”

  Devin stiffened slightly—not, she thought, at the suggestion of weakness, but because he simply didn’t want anyone to know how quickly he’d gone from bleeding out to healing up. And indeed, he said, “Barely,” and shrugged as if that would make it so.

  “Then I won’t waste your time.” Compton strode smoothly for the staircase, trotting down the slightly curving length of it to emerge at the back of the room. Natalie took a step to meet him, realized that Devin intended to wait, and hesitated.

  She did not feel so full of choices any longer.

  She felt, in fact, caught up in an oddly disjointed war of responsibility. Of loyalty.

  But that was absurd.

  Maybe that’s why she did take that final step forward as Compton arrived before them. Trying to create a buffer between them—for just which of them, she wasn’t sure. Compton, who had not seen this man fight the night before and who now pushed at him, trying to define him by his reactions as he always did. Or Devin, who could not possibly be prepared for Compton’s ruthless nature and who still, in fact, wavered in the wake of the night they’d spent.

  “Mr. James,” Compton said. “There are those who would bring me down, and they’re especially...let’s call it annoyed...at the moment. This makes them rash.” He stopped, watching for Devin’s reaction—analyzing his every twitch of mouth, his faintest shift of weight, and doing it without any attempt to pretend that he wasn’t.

  Devin didn’t give him much. He watched Natalie, not Sawyer Compton. She felt the flush of it on her cheeks.

  “The point,” said Compton, just a little bit more loudly, “is that I don’t think the attack on Natalie was a coincidence.”

  “No,” Devin said, surprising her. “Neither do I.”

  “What?” She turned a startled look on him—couldn’t quite figure out why she felt betrayed.

  Maybe because this was just a little bit important. And he hadn’t said a thing about it.

  Now he looked at Compton. “However she ended up at a dead-end address, those men were targeting her. They weren’t drunk or on drugs, and they weren’t run-of-the-mill dumbasses.”

  “So, then,” Compton said, brows raised. “I’ve chosen well.”

  He—what?

  Devin looked at Natalie. “Call me a cab, will you? I’ll go wait on the street.”

  She stiffened in protest. Out in the cold, with only the sweatshirt, still pale from blood loss, his hand jammed into his pocket to hide the way the arm pained him? “Devin—”

  “All right,” Compton said. “No games. I can respect that. I want you to work for me, Mr. James. I want you to stay by Natalie’s side these next weeks, while I conclude the particular business in which I’m involved.”

  Devin glanced at her. “You should get someone. But someone who isn’t me. I’m not pro, I’m streets.”

  “You’re effective,” Compton pointed out.

  More than you’ve guessed, Natalie thought at him, and realized for the first time that she had no intention of telling Compton that two men had died the night before.

  “It’s not a good idea,” Devin said, with evident amusement at Compton’s persistence.

  Not a good idea? Why not a good idea
? Because of what she’d seen? What she knew? Because she’d been in his inner sanctum and seen him hurt and seen him just a little bit crazy?

  Because what if she wanted the kind of protection he could offer?

  She wasn’t a fool. If someone wanted to reach Sawyer Compton through her, she wanted that someone to have to go through a man like Devin James.

  She’d been on the street, too. She knew what it took to survive.

  She wasn’t expecting him to look straight at her, his gaze serious, to say, “I’m not what you need. You know that.”

  No. She damned well didn’t.

  “Maybe you should think about it,” Compton said, unreadable.

  A flash of annoyance crossed Devin’s features, a brief lowering of his brow. “I’m glad I was able to help,” he said. “But you should—”

  And he faltered. Not physically, despite the obvious strain, but his face showing brief struggle—a twitch of his lip, a narrowing of his eye, one shoulder jerking back in the faintest of movements.

  Natalie felt it in him. She knew. One night of watching him fight it at its worse, and she knew.

  She moved without thinking, closing the space between them to put a hand on Devin’s arm. He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes—she thought he leaned into her touch.

  In a moment his gaze found Compton’s again. “You should find yourself another man.”

  She couldn’t begin to understand the faint smile on Compton’s face. He said, “Natalie, it’s been a difficult time for you. Why don’t you take Mr. James home, and then take the rest of the day off. I suggest you spend the time here, of course, where we know it’s safe, but it’s entirely up to you.”

  “I—” Natalie struggled to process all the surprises in those words. She gave Devin a dazed look of her own; he lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  A ride home. A day off. Fine.

  Good.

  Because suddenly she’d seen too much, and she knew too much without knowing nearly enough—and now she wanted answers.

  She mustered her professional smile, the one that came with all the slightly formal manners she’d layered over her past. “Of course, Mr. Compton,” she said. “I’d be glad to. And thank you.” She waited for Devin to offer a hard little nod of acknowledgment to Compton, and let him precede her out the door.

  She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  The moment the door snicked closed behind him, he turned on her—a fast move that startled her up against the other side of the double door; he pushed up close, shattering any illusion of personal space. She gasped as he jammed a hand behind her neck—tangling in her hair, curving to encompass the side and back of her head, his thumb brushing her ear.

  Not gentle.

  Personal.

  “What,” he said, not so very far away at all, brooding eyes full of demand and close enough to show the smudgy layered strokes of blue and gray iris, “was that?” And his hand tightened ever so slightly at the back of her head.

  She could have slammed a fist into his injured arm. She could have jerked a knee up into his crotch. For all of that, she could have rammed her head into his nose.

  But she did none of those things, and she didn’t look over to the entry security camera; she had no doubt Devin knew they were being watched. She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, pulling in air—scents of stress and soap and something cinnamon. With tight control, she said, “You’re welcome.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, his own eyes narrowing. And then, abruptly, he laughed. That guileless expression, backed up with its borderline boyish grin. He laughed and he said, “Yeah, okay,” and then to her astonishment, he leaned in those last inches and kissed her forehead. “Guess we’ll see.”

  And then he left her there, the cold air rushing in around her like a slap of reality, and helped himself to the passenger seat of her car.

  * * *

  Getting in the warm car was a mistake; sitting down was a mistake. The flush of heat rippled up Devin’s arm like a living thing, sinking talons into every stitch of puckered, healing skin.

  Kissing her—that hadn’t been a mistake. Soft skin under his lips, the surprise on her face, blue eyes opened wide.

  Impulse. Not always a bad thing.

  Because that nothing-to-lose feeling...sometimes it gave you little moments of win.

  He grinned then, as she started the car and pointedly waited for him to buckle up, and he grinned as he did it.

  “Oh, what?” she asked, putting the car into gear and whipping it around the circular drive in front of the house, all eerie silent engine in the stark slanting winter sunshine.

  He let the grin linger.

  She rolled her eyes and pulled out onto the canal, and then onto the street—but she turned in the opposite direction from which they’d come. “I need gas,” she said shortly, in response to his glance. And then, as he gave the hybrid’s space-age dashboard an incredulous look, she added, “It happens!”

  The blade warmed in Devin’s pocket, tugging at him with the burn of a limb waking up from frostbite. He inhaled sharply, his eyes widening briefly—a man trying to stay awake.

  Or in this case, a man trying to stay himself.

  A pale SUV spat out of the road behind her, shooting out abruptly into light traffic.

  “Natalie,” he said, his voice no more than low.

  “Assholes happen,” she said. But she frowned into the rearview again.

  A glance at the passenger-side view showed him that the SUV crowded them from behind. Crowded them close. A big vehicle, full-size gas-hogging glory, suitable for farm work.

  Or, given its gleam and styling, for hauling any basic urban team that thought much of itself.

  “What are they—” Natalie’s hands tightened on the wheel, and Devin took the cue to brace himself.

  Tap. From behind, a polite sort of kiss to the back of the car.

  Natalie cursed—a short, harsh word that didn’t suit her careful exterior. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t think so.” The Prius leaped forward, shooting up past the speed limit.

  “Pull over!” Devin turned in the seat, looking over his shoulder. “You can’t outrun these guys!”

  As if to prove it, the SUV came back up on their bumper for a less polite smack of metal on metal, high bumper against the back hatch and an audible crunch this time. Natalie cursed again. “I’ll pull over my way, thank you very much!”

  He cast her an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me this is about doing it your way—”

  “No,” she said, grim but steady as she shifted her grip on the wheel, and he should have seen it coming. “This is about doing it right.” And she yanked them in a sudden turn across traffic.

  Devin swore. Loudly. He grabbed the handle over the door, holding his injured arm close to his body where it punished him anyway. “Natalie, what the fu—”

  “Wait for it,” she said, voice raised over the rattle of the new road—narrow and rough and erratically curving. She glanced in her rearview, slowing as the SUV navigated its clumsier turn with a screech of rubber and asphalt—and then hitting the gas when it again loomed large behind.

  “Natalie—”

  “Wait for it!” Down the road, way faster than the speed limit, past the Pigs For Sale sign and goats exploring a fence loophole and—

  “Chickens!” Devin shouted at her, too late—they blew by a flurry of cackle and feathers. And then suddenly he had other things to worry about. “Speed bump, Natalie, speed bump—”

  The car surged forward, the SUV right behind it. Not subtle, not hanging back, and now they were trapped—

  The yellow painted lines of the speed bump filled the road from edge to edge; the sloppy, unevenly humped nature of the thing clarified as they closed on it. “Speed-fucking-bump!” Devin shouted at her, all too futile and all too late, bracing himself against the floor and the door, solidifying his hold on the overhead handle as Natalie’s knuckles tightened on the wheel.

&nbs
p; She whipped right, so abruptly he lurched into the curved center console; his vision went gray and brightly sparked as his arm hit the thing.

  From behind came a tremendous bang and scrape, locked brakes and tires ripping across pavement. Natalie braked almost as suddenly, craning around in her seat.

  Devin opened watering eyes, scrubbed them clear with hasty fingers. “What—”

  Natalie jabbed a thumb back. “Speed-fucking-bump,” she said matter-of-factly, challenge behind the slight raise of her chin, three-quarter profile showing that slight bump at the bridge of her nose. “My way.”

  He figured it out, then. Realized they’d swerved onto the edge of someone’s lawn, missing most of the misshapen speed bump and somehow missing the homeowner’s fence, too. And realized that their pursuit had been too close to see that speed bump coming, and sure as hell hadn’t realized its worn, uneven nature—but that Natalie had known about it from the start.

  The SUV sat skewed across the road, deployed air bags visible, passengers stunned.

  Devin grinned. Fiercely. “Sweet,” he told her, and sprung the seat belt loose, unlatching the door in swift follow-through.

  “Wait—what’re you—” Panic flickered across her face, erasing the satisfaction. “Let’s just go.”

  He shook his head, short and sharp, and slid out of the car. “We don’t learn anything that way.”

  “But you—” Her voice grew filtered as he stood and glared down the SUV, finding the blade in his hand without conscious awareness of having reached for it—no longer just the pen knife, but an agate-handled tactical knife, solid in his hand. Her car door open and she stood tucked inside the shelter of it. “You can’t! You’re still—they could have guns—you have no idea what they’re after—”

  “Exactly.” He stalked for the SUV, the blade held down and away; the energy of it surged up his arm, swirling a tight weave of molten light—a net, clamping down around his arm and setting hooks of light and pain. Bold. Bolder than it had been, crawling up along his flesh to find his thoughts, inflaming them with vengeance.