He had to win this wager.
Chapter 2
Dara Strong slid her credit card through the reader and waited for the gas pump to authorize her purchase. In the darkness beyond the concrete apron, crickets called sleepily from the grass.
The air was heavy with moisture and mid-September pollen. Her hay fever had gotten so bad earlier she’d taken an antihistamine, leaving her a little fuzzy-headed. On the plus side, she could smell ocean in the warm, damp air tonight.
She tilted her head left and then right, trying to stretch out her trapezius muscles. Her late husband, Matt, used to say he could bounce a quarter off her shoulders when she was stressed. Tonight that coin would have shot halfway across the gas station.
The evening clinic had been unusually busy for a Monday night. It was after nine when Dr. Bell walked out the door. He wasn’t happy, and she couldn’t blame him. Such a long evening of volunteer work after a full day of work was a lot to ask. She hoped his frustration wouldn’t translate into a lost volunteer.
The gas pump dinged, almost drowned out by the thunder of an approaching motorcycle. The little window above the credit card slot read, “Declined.” Drat. She must be maxed out.
She leaned in through the passenger window and stuffed the useless card back into her wallet. She dug to the bottom of her purse, scrounging for cash to fill her tank, at least enough to put in fuel to last till payday. A few minutes’ fishing netted her only a handful of ones. She grimaced. She’d have to fall back on the high-interest card she tried never to use. The motorcycle glided up to the pump behind her.
It was a Ducati, all black except for the gleaming chrome. The rider, too, was dressed in black—black t-shirt, black jeans, black boots with chains around the heels, black helmet. Even though it was night, he wore his tinted visor down. She didn’t usually feel threatened by bikers—most people who owned machines as expensive as this one were lawyers or accountants—but something about the shadowy figure sent a shiver down her spine.
His t-shirt outlined every muscle in his torso. He kicked the stand down and leaned the bike on it, slinging his leg over the saddle in a move that was almost balletic in its grace. His body was so flawless it didn’t seem quite human. Without raising his visor, he tugged a leather wallet from his back pocket—no mean feat, given how snug his jeans were—and slid his credit card through the reader. It was accepted. No surprise there.
He unscrewed the gas cap and pushed the button for high-octane fuel. Black fingerless gloves covered his hands, but his forearms were muscular and scattered with dark hair. He lifted the nozzle from its holder and thrust it into the gas tank. Low in her belly, something clenched.
She stared at his hands. The tautness in her belly intensified and a languor swept over her limbs. What would it be like to share a night of love with a handsome stranger, a night without responsibility or regret?
She gave herself a shake. She didn’t know what that would be like, but she knew what it wasn’t like: her. She didn’t even date, much less share nights of passion with anonymous strangers.
It was impossible to see through his visor to tell what he was thinking, or even what he was looking at, but she knew his gaze was trained on her. Beneath his helmet, his throat was like a bronze column. He might have been an alien, come to Earth as a scout for an aggressive race.
The featureless visor remained fixed on her, and, although he didn’t move, she felt him willing her closer. Come to me, he seemed to say. Let me show you pleasure beyond your wildest fantasies.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. He might be gorgeous, all mystery and metal and leather and danger, but she was a thirty-five-year-old nurse in pink scrubs and rubber Crocs, hardly a figure ripe for seduction. What she needed to do was pay for her gas and go home—alone.
With that resolve, she took a step, but for some reason, her feet didn’t carry her toward the pump. Instead, she moved toward him. He stilled, like a hawk sighting a mouse far below. She quivered. His broad, muscular chest seemed to beckon her closer. She took another step.
What are you doing? Her rational mind was horrified. This is not who you are. This is not how you live your life. With an effort of will, she angled her foot toward the pump and set it down, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the figure in black.
He held out a black-gloved hand and flexed his fingers. Come to me. This time, the command was unmistakable. She took another step toward him. The smell of gasoline and ocean faded away, replaced by the fragrance of petrichor—the smell of rain as it strikes hot cement—fresh and sweet, but with a faint undertone of sulfur. In the back of her mind, an alarm clanged. That smell meant something, something perilous, but she couldn’t recall just what. His scent wound around her like the tendrils of a vine, drawing her to him. She took another step.
Another ding sounded. Without turning his head, he removed the nozzle and slotted it back into the pump with a smooth thrust that made her mouth go dry. The image of those black-gloved hands on her body returned. She wanted to stroke the wall of muscle that made up his chest, to lick his throat and taste his flesh. Like a robot, she took another step.
What was behind that visor? Was his face as flawless as his body? That was why she was moving toward him. Not to avail herself of the pleasure he offered, but to discover the man behind the mask. As though in answer to her unspoken question, he pushed back his visor with one black-gloved hand.
He had swooping, dark brows above eyes so dark they looked black, and a jaw Michelangelo might have chiseled. His full lower lip promised sensuality, but the upper one was thinner, hinting of cruelty. His nose brought back the image of a hawk once more. He didn’t smile, just watched her with hooded eyes, silently commanding her to close the distance between them.
From some deep well of self-preservation, she managed to drag her eyes away and walk back to her own pump on shaky legs. It took two tries, but she swiped her card through the slot. It was accepted. She turned to jam the nozzle into her tank, but her hands were shaking so badly the spigot banged into the Toyota’s rust-speckled fender instead.
She hadn’t heard him move, but his hand closed over hers, guiding the nozzle into the opening. The scent of petrichor and vanilla enveloped her, so delicious that saliva flooded her mouth. What would he do if she ran her tongue up his throat? He had removed his helmet, and his profile reminded her of heads she’d seen on coins from ancient Rome. His short hair was as black as his eyebrows. He was so beautiful it was almost otherworldly.
He still wore his gloves, so his palm didn’t touch her hand, but as he guided the nozzle into the tank, his fingers brushed hers. The instant their skin made contact, intoxicating images filled her mind, images of things she had never done with Matt. Her eyes flew to his. His shark-like smile said he knew exactly what was going through her head. Her blood raced.
“Get your hands off me.” She attempted to speak firmly, but the words came out as a strangled whisper. She tried to drag her hand from beneath his, but her pitiful effort gained her nothing.
“Is that really what you want?” His voice was as melodious as the strum of a guitar, and his words caressed her like a silken scarf drawn across her naked body. The movement of his lips drew her eyes and her vision tunneled in, until all she could see, all that seemed to exist in the world, was his mouth. His scent wrapped itself around her, and the very air seemed to buzz, like a thousand bees drawn into one nectar-filled flower. Heat unfurled low in her belly. Inside her scrub pants, the crotch of her cotton panties grew damp.
His gloved hand slipped behind her head and twined itself in her braid, holding her head immobile as his lips descended toward hers like a hawk dropping from the sky. She thought he would kiss her—she wanted him to kiss her—but his mouth moved past her lips without touching them.
“Because I’m not sure it is.” His breath was warm and moist on her ear. Gooseflesh dimpled the entire left side of her body. Inside her bra, her breasts felt heavy, the nipples painfully sensitiv
e to the rasp of the fabric.
“Let me show you your true nature.” His hand wound deeper into her braid, dragging her head back till she had no choice but to look into his face again. His irises were as black as his pupils. Tiny demons seemed to dance there.
She tried to summon an image of Matt’s face, but all she could see were black gloves stroking her bare flesh. She’d never wanted anything as badly as she wanted to have this man’s mouth on hers, to feel their bodies slide together, skin on skin. The crazy urge to lick his throat returned.
As if he knew what she was thinking, he angled his jaw away, offering her access, as though she were a vampire and he an uncorrupted innocent, although she knew the opposite to be true. Unable to resist, she stroked her tongue up the column of his throat. His flesh tasted as delicious as it smelled, but beard stubble scraped her tongue like a thousand peppery needles. It was a warning. Any pleasure found with this man would yield full measure of accompanying pain.
She tried to heed that warning, to drag herself away, knowing she would not be successful, that his pull was just too powerful, when a nasal voice called, “Hey, Dara—are you okay?”
She jerked. The voice was like a bucket of ice water. On the other side of the gas pump, a patrol car had pulled up, the driver’s-side window rolled down. She yanked herself free of the stranger’s grip. The images in her head melted away like they’d never been.
“Yes, thanks, I’m fine,” she called, trying to catch her breath. She felt as though she’d just sprinted the length of a football field. Donnie Benson, an old classmate from Alexandria High, got out of the patrol car. He stared curiously from her to the mysterious stranger and back.
“This gentleman was helping me pump gas.” The words tumbled out in a breathless rush.
For the first time, the stranger’s beautiful lips lifted in a smile. “Is that what I was doing?”
Hands on his chubby hips, Donnie glared at the stranger, who sauntered back to his bike and climbed on board. He gave her one last look, holding her gaze captive.
“Until we meet again.” He revved the engine and roared off into the darkness.
Donnie stared after him, frowning. Then he turned to inspect Dara. “You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to chase him down and get some ID?”
She swallowed. She had been that close to zooming off into the darkness with a total stranger. Even now, the scent of petrichor clung to her like a threat. Until we meet again, he’d said. It would be good to know who he was, what his purpose was in coming here. In a town the size of Alexandria, though, gossip could hurt her reputation and, by extension, the clinic.
“I’m good.” A stray breeze picked up a few strands of her hair and set them fluttering. Her cheeks burned as she realized that her braid had come undone. Swiftly, she re-braided it, banishing the memory of the stranger’s fingers winding through her hair. Donnie still looked doubtful.
“I’m fine, really.” The last thing she wanted was to start rumors.
“If you say so,” he said, and turned to gas up his squad car. She finished filling her tank and got into the Toyota.
The scent of vanilla and petrichor got in with her.
Chapter 3
Dara paused outside the door of her grandmother’s room at the Mercy Care Assisted Living Center and checked her watch. It was after eleven, late for a visit, but she hadn’t made it by before work this morning. She was willing to bet Nana was still up, hoping she’d drop by. She reached for the doorknob and the faint scent of petrichor rose from her scrubs. After that bizarre encounter at the gas station, she might find comfort in a visit herself.
As expected, Nana was curled up in a corduroy recliner, facing the television. On screen, a televangelist exhorted his audience to send money, but Nana didn’t hear him. She was fast asleep, her chin resting on her chest. Her face was a future version of Dara’s own—widely spaced eyes, cheekbones middling high, stubborn chin. Her life hadn’t been easy. She’d buried her only child, Dara’s father, as well as her husband. All she and Dara had left were each other.
Dara leaned over to press a kiss on top of her gray head. Nana shifted in her sleep, and the tattered scrapbook on her lap fell to the floor with a bang. Her gray eyes sprang open. She clutched at the ruby-encrusted cross that had hung around her neck for as long as Dara could remember.
“Lord save us,” she said.
Dara bent to pick up the book. It was so worn that she worried the spine had split from the impact, though maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. A quick inspection revealed it was intact. She set it on the end table beside Nana’s chair. “Sorry, Nana, it’s just me.”
Nana sneezed into a handkerchief retrieved from the cuff of her robe. All hint of drowsiness had fled from her face, replaced by wide-eyed vigilance. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “What’s that smell?”
Argh. Dara should have seen this coming and skipped tonight’s visit. The last thing she wanted was to tell Nana about the handsome stranger at the gas station. She knew exactly where that conversation would lead.
“I showered this morning.” She made a show of sniffing at her armpits, trying to pass it off as a joke. “I guess that was a long time ago.”
She crossed the room and perched on edge of the bed, putting herself out of range. Nana took another long sniff. Only when her thin shoulders relaxed did Dara’s do the same.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Nana’s ankles to check for water retention.
“Better than I have a right to.” Nana tucked the pink-and-yellow afghan tighter around her legs, hiding her ankles. That was the most Dara ever got out of her on the subject of her health.
“How did your presentation go today?” Nana might be ninety-four, but she was still as sharp as ever. “Will the county commission give you your money?”
“They said they’ll be able to renew our contract at the current level, maybe even give us an increase.” With relief, Dara turned her attention away from the handsome stranger to her real life. “That still leaves us a little short for our drug costs. By the next board meeting, my trustees will want to hear I’ve got that covered.”
“If you were still at Deliverance, you could ask Pastor Bodine to take up a love offering.”
The pastor who took over the pulpit at Deliverance Mission Church when Granddad retired would probably have let Dara request a donation for the clinic in honor of Nana and Granddad’s lifetime of service, but she couldn’t very well ask for money from a church she hadn’t attended in five years.
“It wasn’t the same after Granddad retired,” she said, but they both knew that wasn’t the real reason. The last service she went to was Matt’s funeral. She waited for a homily on her non-attendance, but Nana moved on to a new topic, one even less welcome than a lecture on skipping church.
“That nice Dr. Stevens was in yesterday.”
“What did he say about your edema?”
“He asked about you. I think he’s sweet on you.”
“Jeremy is a volunteer at the clinic, Nana.”
“That shows what a nice man he is. And he’s a good doctor.”
“He is. Did the good doctor say anything about changing your diuretic?”
“With a little encouragement, I believe he’d ask you out to dinner.”
Dara stifled a groan. “I don’t want him to ask me out to dinner. Dating volunteers is a bad idea.” She had no interest in men, except as clinic volunteers. At least, that was what she’d thought before tonight.
Nana snorted. “Where else are you going to meet anyone, working ninety hours a week? Trying to keep a clinic going that barely manages to survive in spite of everything you do? A woman your age needs a man.”
The image of the handsome stranger at the gas pump took front and center in Dara’s brain. He smiled down at her, enticing her to…
She touched the seed pearl necklace Matt had given her as a wedding gift, and Matt’s freckled face replaced the olive-skinned s
tranger’s.
“I had a man,” she said.
Nana’s voice softened. “And he was a good one, honey, but he’s not coming back.”
She knew that. She’d had five years since the car accident that took her husband and unborn child to come to terms with that fact. Familiar anger roiled in her chest. Why had God taken them?
“Matt wouldn’t expect you to spend the rest of your life alone,” Nana said.
Make that every person but one. “I’m not alone. I have you,” Dara said.
“I won’t always be here. You need a family.”
“My team at the clinic is my family.”
With a grunt that made her opinion clear, Nana picked up the scrapbook and opened it.
Dara swallowed a sigh. They’d been through that book so many times she could describe the contents from memory. Black-and-white newspaper clippings and full-color magazine articles filled its pages. Lonnie Perdue had been famous, back in the day. Nana leafed past a photograph of him preaching, and another where he was leading his congregation in praise. She paused at a picture of him kneeling and ministering to a woman as she writhed on the floor.
Dara’s grandparents believed in demons as a real and present danger to human beings. They thought demons came to Earth on missions to corrupt and destroy, and that much of the evil on Earth was because humans were in a constant state of siege. Granddad had claimed skill, both at freeing people possessed by demons and at driving off demons that came in their own forms.
“That man could cast out demons like no one I’ve ever seen.” Nana snuck a look at Dara out of the corner of her eye. “You could have been as good, if you’d stuck with it.”
Dara remembered kneeling on the floor between rows of pews when she was about twelve. She breathed in, drawing putrid green smoke from between the lips of an unconscious man. Then she blew out the smoke, sending it spiraling through the open pane of a stained-glass window. The man awoke, freed of the interloper that had tormented him.
The Demon Always Wins: Touched by a Demon, Book 1 Page 2
