by Jianne Carlo
Jess laughed. “Bouncing isn’t the word. I don’t know how we’re going to get her to sleep tonight. Mind you, Devil has planned tons of physical activities for her today. He’s planning on tuckering her out.”
“Wise move. Well, I’ll let you go. Merry Christmas, and please say the same to your hubby and kiss Gracie for me.”
“Will do. And Merry Christmas to you and Satan. Later.”
“Bye.” Angel ended the call. She slumped into a chair and stared at the ceiling. So much had happened in the last eighteen months. First, her parents’ murder, then Martin abruptly sold his shares in the family banking business, and was recruited by ISIS. She still couldn’t accept that her big brother had executed human beings. Still couldn’t believe Martin could commit such a horrendous act.
It had all happened while she was the evening news anchor for Trinidad and Tobago’s most popular television station—Channel Ten. At first, she’d resisted the pressure to resign, not fazed by the death threats and the relentless barrage of the gossip sheets. But the gradual retreat of most of her friends proved the last straw.
She had had to get out of Trinidad. Once she’d made that decision, everything seemed to fall into place. Merylle, Martin’s last girlfriend, and Angel had bonded over Martin’s death. Merylle and Angel had both been devastated when Martin became an ISIS insurgent.
It was Merylle who suggested the foundation. The idea galvanized Angel. She was consumed by the notion and knew the best location for her organization would be the U.S.
Her Channel Ten boss had used his U.S. connections to get her an interview with Manhattan’s CBS affiliate WBCN. She accepted WBCN’s talk-show host job offer, moved, and began work on her foundation, Haven.
Then, two weeks ago, she received a package from her old assistant at Channel Ten in Trinidad. On top of a pile of file folders, she found Martin’s letter. Stunned by its contents and the date stamped on the envelope, Angel phoned Channel Ten to demand an explanation of her assistant, but the woman had recently immigrated to the UK, and no one had a forwarding address.
Angel shook her head. This was getting her nowhere. She drew in a deep breath, and before she lost her nerve thumbed Satan’s name.
“Hi. My meeting’s finally over. Still want me to come up? Or is it down?” She had no sense of direction whatsoever.
“I’ll come get you.”
“No. No. That doesn’t make any sense. The traffic coming into the city will be horrendous. I’ll drive. I’ll just put your address in my GPS, but first I’m going to pack a few clothes. I can’t wear out your supply of sweats and T-shirts.” She grinned.
“You know you can do that anytime. Pack something for a night out. There’s a restaurant near here I want to take you to. Call me when you’re on the highway.”
“Okay. Bye.” She stuck the phone in her coat pocket, dashed to the bedroom, opened her closet, and studied her clothes. She imagined that, save for the restaurant outing, they would be home and in bed most of the time. She packed way too many garments and two pairs of shoes, added a few accessories and toiletries, and then settled down in front of her laptop.
Angel did a quick search on the Net, booked a morning flight to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad’s capital city, for two days after Christmas. She Googled the Trinidad Hilton, called the contact number, and made a six-week reservation. It would cost a fortune to stay at the hotel, but she didn’t want to involve any of her friends in her scheme by staying with them.
Besides, she’d inherited half of the shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank upon her parents’ death; the other half had gone to Martin. The bank had been founded by her great-great-great grandfather in the late seventeenth century. The shares Yaman Moses, a prominent Trinidadian businessman, was for some peculiar reason desperate to acquire. Angel had almost agreed—almost, but there was some strange nuance about Yaman Moses that bothered her. It hadn’t made any sense at the time, but after getting Martin’s letter, it now did.
Now she understood why Yaman Moses wanted her shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank.
She spent a good half an hour composing her email to Yaman Moses telling him she’d changed her mind and was ready to sell her shares in the bank. Angel reread the message for the third time. Satisfied that the wording hit the right note, casual, yet friendly, with no hint of desperation. She took a deep breath to gather her courage and then clicked Send.
To prevent herself from panicking because she’d just signed her own death warrant, Angel forced herself to go on fast forward. She wrote a short resignation letter apologizing for not being able to give the requisite two weeks’ notice, checked the grammar and spelling, and emailed it to her boss at WBCN. For long moments, she stared at the screen. All her bridges were now burned. There was no going back.
A tad dazed and unsteady, she drew in badly needed oxygen and set about getting ready for her trip to Satan’s house. She pulled on her boots, gathered her carry-on, purse, and scarf, and exited her condo. In no time at all, she was in her car negotiating her way out of the parking garage.
Angel called Satan when she hit the highway. They conversed for over half an hour once he assured himself she had Bluetooth and wasn’t distracted. The subjects they discussed varied, but they both had remarkably similar opinions on the topics that divided countries, populations, and civilizations. She liked him more with each passing minute.
Forty-five minutes later, she geared down to guide her recently rented Audi RS 7 onto the I-495 exit ramp. Snow started falling just as she reached the entrance to Satan’s long driveway.
To her surprise, he was leaning against his front door waiting for her.
She braked, switched off the engine, and unsnapped her seatbelt. He opened the door, and without a second of hesitation she flew into his arms. God, he smelled so mouth-watering.
He caught her chin, and they stared at each other. “Angel. It suits you.”
“Satan. It suits you.” She grinned at him. “It seemed too trite—you know Angel and Satan hooking up.”
“That all you have?” He inclined his head to the carry-on lying on the passenger seat.
“Well, I could’ve packed more, but I have this feeling that whatever I wear won’t be worn for long.”
“Smart woman.” He flicked the tip of her nose, twined their fingers together, reached across the driver’s seat, and grabbed her luggage.
“Hungry?” He opened the front door and ushered her in.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “More munchy than hungry. Why?”
“Turn around. I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” She frowned at him before pivoting.
Her jaw sagged. For there right in the curve of the grand staircase stood a gigantic Douglas fir. The strap of her purse slipped down her arm to her wrist.
“Like it?” He stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders.
Tears brimmed, and she was too choked up for words, so she nodded. She covered his fingers with hers. “It’s beautiful, but Jess told me you hate Christmas and never celebrate the holidays.”
Chapter Seven
Angel pivoted, looked right at him, and toyed with the stubble darkening his chin. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Trust me. I don’t ever do anything I don’t want to. Thought it might be fun to decorate it and you. Have this vision of wrapping bows around strategic body parts and then unwrapping them one by one.” He winked at her.
“Oh my. Wicked, wicked, Satan. That’s a perfectly delish idea. Do we start now?”
“It’s snowing. There’s a glass-encased hot tub on the back porch. If you’re amenable, I figured we could have appetizers and wine, and relax.” Satan purchased the tub and had it installed right before his last deployment. After his captivity and torture, he developed a hatred of anything enclosed and had never used the spa.
He had commissioned the hot tub company to create a glass-encased raised hot tub in one corner of the deck. The no
tion of sitting in the spa in the middle of the winter watching snow falling while he was warm and toasty in the tub appealed. The company had surpassed his specifications, and the result was breathtaking.
Tucked into one corner of the back porch, the contractor had mounted the spa on a platform five feet above the deck. The added height enhanced the panoramic view of the ocean
The roof and the three sides were made of hurricane resistant glass threaded with heat elements to melt snow on contact. There were two entrances, one via the cabana bath at the far end of the kitchen, the other through sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. The only way to gain the glass door entrance was to exit the back door and be exposed to the wilds of Mother Nature.
So far, he hadn’t been able to stand inside the walled in space for longer than five minutes when both doors were closed. The claustrophobia he’d developed in Afghanistan blossomed into full-blown panic and hysteria after three hundred seconds.
Once Angel was in his presence, he focused on her almost to the point of oblivion. It was impossible not to. He banked on using his obsessive desire for her to overcome the horrific and paralyzing terror that dogged him since Afghanistan.
The sky blues of her eyes darkened, and her face glowed. “How wonderful. I’ve only seen snow on mountains in the Alps. I’ve never actually seen it falling. Do you think it’ll stay on the ground? Maybe we could have a snowball fight tomorrow? Or make snow angels?”
She enchanted him with her total lack of guile and childish glee about snow. He smiled. “Angel making snow angels. How apropos. I was hoping you’d agree to the hot soak. I bought you a bathrobe. It’s in the kitchen. Do you want to unpack first?”
He shook the carry-on in his hand.
“Heck no.” She waved at the suitcase. “I can do that later. Just put that anywhere.”
Satan scooped Angel into his embrace, reached for the carry-on, and marched to the kitchen. She felt so perfect in his arms. He’d missed her, which surprised the crap right out of him.
“I’m sorry that I’m so late. You sounded a tich peeved on the phone.” She tangled her fingers in his curls.
“I was. A tich.”
She beamed at him. “A tich, huh?”
“The meeting went well?” He trapped her gaze with his.
She blinked and avoided his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. Monkey sex and fun, remember?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “As if I could forget.”
“I love your kitchen. It’s so cozy and lived in.” She scanned the room. “And the view by the table. I can just imagine watching the sun rise over the horizon.”
“Won’t have to. We’ll watch it together tomorrow morning.” He dumped the suitcase next to a chair, slid her down him, cupped her butt, and kissed her until they both had to come up for air.
“God, I love kissing you. You are a master kisser, Lorcan McGuillycuddy aka Satan. Maybe one needs a certain amount of devilish wickedness to be a champion kisser.” She wore such an impish expression that he couldn’t help but grin back at her.
“I’m of the opinion that a kiss is only as good as the people doing the kissing. And by the way, right back atcha. Hmmm. Another to-do just went on my list.”
“Oh no. You’re not torturing me by withholding information. I demand to hear the entire contents of your to-do list.” She poked him in the chest.
“I’m more than happy to do exactly that.” Satan pointed at the freshly laundered bathrobe draped over the back of a chair. “There. Slip into that while I get the antipasti and the wine.”
“Antipasti? Yum. Big fat green olives included, I hope.” She shed her shoes, pulled off her sweater, and wriggled out of her trousers. She threw her clothes on the table.
Satan plucked a gleaming silver tray from the fridge, glanced back to the table, and just about swallowed his tongue. “Jesus. You could give a man a heart attack, Angel. That bra and thong deserve a medal. I had this leisurely screw planned, but that outfit just nixed that notion.”
“I’m glad. I want hard and furious like this morning. Want to unfasten the hooks for me?” She threw him a sensual up-from-under peep and pivoted to give him her back.
Five long strides took him to her side, and he dropped the tray onto the table. Then he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses down her spine while unhooking the delicate bra the exact color of Angel’s long auburn curls. He cupped her breasts in his hands, closed his eyes to better absorb the feel and texture of the undersides, and buried his nose in her hair. “I want to take you from behind. To fuck these beautiful tits. To eat your pussy. To have you sit on my face.”
When she tried to twist to him, he held her in place. “Put on the robe, and go to the hot tub via the cabana bath in front of you. Go now. Because if you don’t, we’ll never make it outside.”
Satan forced himself to release her from his embrace. He swatted her backside. “Go, darlin’. I’ll be with you in five.”
Angel spun around and trailed a finger over his shoulder. She craned her neck to stare at him. “Hurry.”
With that she ducked under his arm and marched to the cabana bath. The sweet sway of her hips and the scarlet strip of her thong did a total number on him. His dick went rigid, and his stones went taut.
He snatched the bathrobe, sprinted to the cabana doorway, and hung the fabric over her shoulders. “Stay hot.”
She shot him a come-hither, over-the-shoulder, sex-siren smolder. “I’m boiling and that’s not going to change.”
Frigging fuck on a banana. He was so prepped and ready to explode.
He watched her sash shay out of the small bathroom. For long seconds, he stood there staring at nothing, amazed at the depths of joy and contentment filling his soul.
Satan shook his head and vaulted into action. He couldn’t afford to stop moving and needed physical activity to face his mental demons. He marched to the counter, grabbed the tray, and made his way to the backdoor. He braced himself to face the elements, threw the heavy wood open, stepped onto the deck, and slammed the door shut.
Welcoming the blast of cold air and the puffy snowflakes that danced chills on his flesh, he walked around the glass enclosure, glanced up at the platform which contained the tub, and hit the switch for the sliding door. He waited for the entrance to widen and entered the glassed-in chamber.
An icy blast of air swept through the open sliding doors. He eyed the entrance, swallowed, and pressed the close switch. A bolt of panic froze him in place. He stared at the enclosed structure and forced his accelerated breathing back to a normal cadence.
He walked around the elevated hot tub, deposited the tray to the right of the steps leading to the bubbling spa, and returned to the kitchen via the deck entrance, pleased that his hysteria remained in control. Taking his time, he shed his clothes, tossed the discarded garments on top of hers, and grabbed the wine he’d opened earlier and two crystal goblets. He used the cabana bath exit to enter the glassed-in area, mounted the five steps to the tub, and stopped dead in his tracks when Angel came into his range of vision.
Glorious curls piled onto the top of her head, her mounded cleavage barely visible through the rippling surface of the water, she slid him a slow, sensuous smile. What he wouldn’t give to come home to this wonderful sight every single day.
The thought arrested him in midstep, and he had to tighten his hold on the bottle not to drop it. He settled the wine and glasses on a ledge near to the tub. Hot, rippling water suffused his feet, ankles, and calves when he stepped into the tub and sat on the stone bench. He ran the back of his hand down Angel’s cheek and murmured, “Be right back.”
He jaunted down the stairs, around the tub, collected the tray, and retraced his footsteps. Not a hint of fear. No physical signs of panic. His heartbeat hadn’t accelerated and not a drop of cold sweat beaded his flesh.
Wearing a wide grin, he set the tray next to the wine and glasses, stepped into the tub, and dropped onto the bench right next to her. He hauled her sideway
s onto his lap, kissed her neck, and nuzzled her ear.
He closed his eyes to block out the glass walls and concentrated on her, on his Angel—the woman who gave him the courage to confront his terror. He loved holding her, the supple texture of her skin, the way she heated him from the inside.
The Shalimar perfume she wore mingled with the natural smells of her woman’s essence to create her intoxicating fragrance. He sniffed her nape and ran his tongue over the fuzzy hairs revealed by her hair being piled up. Just a hint of salt tangled with her skin’s spice. He cupped a breast and toyed with the nipple.
She keened. “Oh God. I’ve never reacted to a man the way I do to you. One touch and my clit starts pinging.”
“Ditto here.” He rearranged her ass so his erection rode the seam.
“It’s beautiful. This is so perfect.” She snuggled closer to him and tucked her head under his chin.
“It is now.” He noticed her shoulder peeking out of the water and covered her bare skin with his hand. “Thank you for sharing your vacation with me.”
She drew a circle on his chest. “Thank you for helping me get through Christmas.”
“Monkey sex and fun, right?” He brushed a damp wisp of hair off her cheek.
“I think that yesterday and today was probably the longest I’ve gone in forever without having a crying fit. Or being depressed. I’ve been so dreading Christmas.”
“Did your family celebrate the holidays in a big way?”
“Oh definitely. Christmas in Trinidad is simply wonderful. We don’t have a Thanksgiving holiday like Americans and Canadians do. Even though there’s a large Hindu and Muslim population, every Trinidadian worth his salt celebrates Christmas. But then again, the entire Trini population celebrates all religious holidays.”
“Tell me about your traditions.” It stunned him that he wanted to know, wanted to be able to duplicate the most sentimental moments of her life.
“We always had a real tree, even though they cost a fortune in Trinidad.”
