by Jianne Carlo
“They don’t commercially. Sinner and his brothers built one.”
“No, kidding? They must really be into Christmas.”
Satan tried to remember the current count of Sinner’s nieces and nephews and gave up. “Trust me, they are. Still want to go sans horses?”
“You bet. It’ll be fun, I’m sure. And a sleigh ride wasn’t even on my winter to do list.”
Satan decided right there and then to scour the depths of Long Island until he found a horse-drawn sleigh. “What else is on that list?”
“Ice-skating, skiing, making a snowman, having a snowball fight.” She punctuated each activity with a wave of her knife. “I know I sound like a kid in a toy store.”
“You sound like someone who’s determined to fully experience winter. Crap. I just realized this must’ve been your first fall. It was, wasn’t it?” He’d have relished taking her to Vermont, walking through the forests together, and seeing the brilliant fall colors through her eyes.
“It was. Jess and I took a long drive upstate. We had lunch at a charming country inn and I trashed all the piled up leaves. When no one was looking, of course.” She forked another pile of stew into her mouth, lowered her lids, and moaned.
His dick hardened, and he had the insane compulsion to lift her over him and drive into her hot pussy.
She finished chewing and opened her eyes. “Omigod. I have to get Destiny a thank you present. This is awesome. I love the contrast between the sweetness of the cinnamon, the pungency of the cumin, and the heat of the peppers.”
He couldn’t drag his stare away from her. “Are you sore?”
“What?” Her lashes fluttered at him.
“Is your pussy sore?”
“No.” She fixed her focus on his tented sweats, dropped her knife, and snapped her fingers. “Just like that? You’re ready again?”
“What you do to me, Angel. You like giving head?” He ate with mechanic precision, aware of the delicious taste of the stew, but not really relishing the different flavors.
“Well.” She lifted her glass and took a swig of wine. “Poetic, you’re not. There’s only one way you’re going to find out, mister. Keep up this version of sweet talk and I just may have to drive back to the city. Why do you want to know on both counts anyways?”
“I want to make love to you tomorrow morning, but I won’t if you’re sore. The other question was pure selfishness on my part.”
A crucial tactical error. He back pedaled by changing strategy, and bent down to retrieve the gift bag he’d placed at the table’s foot before they decorated the tree.
Surprised when he glimpsed his phone lying on the tile, he frowned, picked it up, and slid it into his sweats’ side pocket. He handed the Santa-themed bag to Angel. “My bad. Thinking with my dick. How about I make it up by reading you whatever you want from this?”
She hesitated, but accepted the sack, dug inside, and retrieved his rare edition of Bryon’s major works. “It’s beautiful. And the paper’s onionskin. It’s a wonderful gesture, Satan, but I can’t accept this. I will, however, take you up on reading my choice of his work.”
“I want you to have it—”
She silenced him by planting two fingers on his mouth. “No argument, okay? I won’t change my mind on this.”
He had a hunch her stubbornness rivaled his. He nodded.
“Now. Can we finish this tasty stew before it congeals?” She reclaimed her cutlery.
“Yep.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then she slapped a hand to her forehead. “Damn it.”
He chewed fast and swallowed. “What’s wrong?”
“We forgot the salad.” She gestured to the wooden bowl.
“I like my salad after the entrée, but feel free.” He hadn’t expected her to reject the gift. Protest the flamboyancy and value of the book maybe, but not her obdurate refusal of the present.
According to Jess, she came from a wealthy background, but had sunk a good part of her inheritance into the foundation, Haven. With her stunning looks, she must’ve been showered with elaborate, come-fuck-me enticements. Why would she be so adamant about not accepting the book?
“Oh yum. I love Rocket salads.” She dished a portion of lettuce, cherry tomatoes, pine nuts, and parmesan onto a corner of her plate.
“Rocket?” He glanced at her.
“You call it Arugula. It’s Rocket in the U.K. Even though we’re American in terms of business practices, we Trinis use a lot of English terminology. You know, like aluminium versus your aluminum. We spell favor and color with a u, and plow is P-L-O-U-G-H. That kind of stuff. Course it doesn’t help that we also bastardize the pronunciation of many words. I always demonstrate that point by saying Trinis put the emph-fa-sis on the wrong syl-la-ble.”
He chuckled. “That’s cute to the point of being sickeningly cute.”
“My mispronunciations used to embarrass me to death, but one of my college friends thought it was funny, and she made that up. I ‘take in front’ with it when I have to speak to an audience—sorry didn’t mean to chatter on.” She gulped down the rest of her wine, shoved a clump of lettuce leaves into her mouth, chewed, and concentrated on the view from the picture window. “The snow’s stopped falling.”
Puzzled at the color washing over her face and her abrupt change of topic, he shot the deck a quick glance and refocused on her. He noted the slight tremble in the fingers holding her fork, a few beads of sweat above her upper lip, and the careful way she focused on her plate.
What the hell had she let slip to make her so obviously guilt-ridden?
Chapter Twelve
“I’m stuffed.” She patted her stomach. “That was an amazing meal. It was too more-ish, and I just couldn’t get the stew to rice ratio right. Lordy, I think macowell syndrome’s setting in.”
Angel repressed a relieved sigh when Satan frowned and looked at her as if she had gone totally loco. Her declaration was meant to distract him from her blunder not moments earlier and it worked. She had almost blurted out her occupation in a roundabout way.
She had to keep her guard up, but it was becoming more and more impossible to be anything but relaxed with him. And even worse, she yearned to tell him the truth. Self-disgust swamped her. She so dreaded his anger and contempt when he discovered she was a talk-show host, the third most detestable occupation on his worst list.
“More Trini words? More-ish? Stew to rice ratio? Macowell syndrome?” He refilled their wine glasses. “It’s like we don’t speak the same language.”
She gulped down a couple of large swigs in the hopes of shedding her burgeoning remorse and forced herself to concentrate on what he’d said.
“More-ish means that something’s so good you just can’t help but have more, and more, and more. Stew to rice ratio—at first I didn’t have enough rice to sop up the stew gravy, so I added more, and then I didn’t have enough gravy for the additional rice. And so on and so on.
“Macowell syndrome is a tich more obscure. There’s a Trinidadian snake that eats its prey whole and then can’t move for two days while it digests the prey. The name of the snake is actually spelled M-A-C-A-J-U-E-L, but in another Trini mispronunciation we say macowell. So Macajuel syndrome means I’ve eaten two much and need to sleep or laze about until my food digests.”
He snort-laughed and shook his head. “How come I never encountered any of these Trini words when I was there last year?”
“Trinis are super-polite. We’d never embarrass a visitor with our colloquialisms.” She covered her mouth with her hand to hide a wide yawn.
“Still want to go for a walk?” He stood, twined her hand with his, and tugged her to her feet. “You’re looking mighty sleepy all of a sudden.”
“You know, all of a sudden, I am drowsy. And the thought of putting on socks and my boots isn’t appealing in the least. Do you mind if we put the walk off for tomorrow?” She leaned into him when he hauled her closer.
“The walk was for you, missy.
What do you want to do, then? It’s eleven.” He kissed the top of her head, gathered the plates and cutlery, and headed over to the sink.
She collected the serving containers, followed his trail, and handed the dishes to him. “Curl up on the couch, sip wine, admire our tree, while you read me Bryon for a bit?”
“You go on in to the library and start admiring. I’ll stack the dishwasher and join you when I’m done.” He opened the appliance’s door.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll take the wine and our glasses.” She stifled another yawn, strolled back to the table, retrieved the three items and her cell, and sauntered around the island and out of the room.
It occurred to her that she hadn’t noticed a single television in the house, which was a damned good thing since her feature on the local Christmas Eve parade was scheduled to be aired on the late night news. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her, Satan didn’t watch television on a regular basis. Did he even own a TV?
She entered the library and had to pause and sigh in front of the decorated evergreen. Her last Christmas on this earth. Her last New Year’s on this earth. Regret set in, but it was too late to change her mind. It wasn’t as if she and Satan had even a chance at a future together. Once he discovered how she’d deceived him…she was so not going to go there. Live and relish the present because her future ended soon.
After placing the bottle and glasses on the table, she used her cell to cancel her flight, and checked the schedule for New Year’s Day. All the flights were full. Well, she’d figure out her return to Trinidad later. She should never have agreed to extend their time together. This was so going to come back and bite her in the ass. She pocketed her cell, glanced up, and smiled.
What a beautiful tree.
She jumped when Satan snaked his hands around her waist and hugged her from behind.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was whistling. What’s got you so wrapped up?” He nuzzled her ear.
“Just admiring the tree.” She pivoted, rested her palms on his chest, and met his gaze. “Ready to read Byron?”
“Picked your reading?”
“And Thou Art Dead. I know. I have morbid taste in both books and poetry. The only other work that I think captures grief as well as And Thou Art Dead is—”
“Let me guess. Funeral Blues.”
For no good reason at all, she teared up. They gelled so well. Both had the same taste in authors, were smoking hot in bed, and even loved the same depressing poems.
Why did she have to meet him now?
She nodded not certain her vocal chords would function correctly.
“Your eyes are misting. No sadness allowed tonight. How about we trade the reading for a comedy? What’s your favorite funny movie?” He brushed a wayward curl off her face.
“On what? You don’t have a television.”
“But, I do. In fact, I have four. And a media room. All state of the art.” He winked at her.
“Where? There’s no TV in the kitchen. Or in this room.” She scanned the library.
“There’s one in the kitchen. It’s one of those descend-from-the-ceiling types. The study has a much larger version of the same kind. The media room has more of a screen, though it’s also a smart TV. And there’s a brand new curve HD TV in the master bedroom. Your pick.”
Shit. She’d have to find a way to keep the media out of the coming days. Maybe suggest a technology-free holiday? The notion had been introduced to her at a conference where Arianna Huffington had been a keynote speaker. Yeah, that could work.
He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Angel. Come back to me.”
“Sorry. Just daydreaming for a second.”
“So, what’s your choice, kitchen, media room, study, or bedroom?”
Angel considered the options. She wasn’t in the mood for another fucking round, agreed with him about the comedy and not getting depressed, and figured maybe they’d both fall asleep before he became too amorous. “Bedroom.”
“K. Here.” He picked up the bottle and the two glasses and gave them to her. “I’ll grab your carry-on from the kitchen and bring it up.”
“It’s open. You’ll need to zip it up.”
“Gotcha. The master bedroom’s at the end of the upstairs hallway. It’s three doors down from where we slept last night.” He patted her rump. “Get going, missy.”
She spun around, eyed the gift bag hidden behind the chair, decided it could wait until the morning, and strolled out of the room. He joined her at the doorway, tweaked her nose, and disappeared around the curve in the corridor.
He was the most fascinating man she’d ever met—intelligent, with an off-beat sarcastic sense of humor. More than well-read, sexier than sin with the kind of sinewy hard body any woman would drool over, and she liked him. Angel meandered to the stairs. She really, really liked him. Wished they had met in another time, another place, another universe, all the way up the steps.
If only she hadn’t put her plan into play, maybe she could’ve asked the Hades Squad Security firm for help. Yeah. Right. She wanted Malik Mansoor behind bars for life. Since that was never, ever going to happen, he had to die. Even if Satan was falling for her the way she was for him, he’d never murder for her.
Angel came to a dead halt at the end of the hallway.
Hell and damnation. She was falling in love with him.
“Like it?”
Her heartbeat spiraled. She scrambled wildly when her grip on one of the glasses slipped, but couldn’t recover. The crystal tumbled onto thick, plush carpet.
Mesmerized by the spreading stain, for a second, she couldn’t haul her gaze away from the floor. Furious with herself, and pissed at him, for simply being him and making her love him, she whirled around and spat, “Damn it, Satan. The next time you sneak up on me and scare me out of my wits, I’ll throw something at you.”
He dropped her carry-on, captured her wrists, and pried the bottle, and goblet from her hold. He pinned her with an intent predatory stare. “Where’s this anger coming from? What happened?”
She turned her head to the side not able to formulate a plausible answer while he inspected her with such thoroughness.
“Look at me, Angel.”
His snapped command demanded immediate obedience.
Deflated, dejected, and wallowing in self-pity, she forced herself to look right at him. She had nothing left in her mental or emotional vaults, but the truth. “I don’t want to fall for you.”
His facial muscles relaxed, and he shot her a glance so filled with tenderness, she went weepy and weak-kneed.
“I never expected to fall for you.” She covered her face with her hands. “I should leave. Right now. This is so not going to end well.”
Seconds ticked by in a muted silence. She lifted her pinkies and risked a quick peek.
He dumped the wine and the glasses, plural, onto the dresser.
When had he picked up the fallen goblet?
She had no clue what to do or say and for some stupid reason couldn’t stop studying the red splotch on the cream carpet. “Soda water or baby powder will get out the stain.”
His elegant toes came into her view, and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. She focused on the hollow of his throat. “Forget about the rug. Angel, look at me.”
“Don’t want to. Can we just pretend that the last five minutes never happened?” Misery and embarrassment flavored with a watershed of humiliation swamped her.
“Nope.” He sounded amused.
Annoyed she stared right at him. “This is not funny.”
“Wrong. It’s funny, and endearing, and one of the reasons I fell for you. You’re honest about your emotions.” His lips softened into such a gentle and caring smile, her chest ached.
Angel opened her mouth with the intention of telling him everything—that she was a liar who was bent on murder.
He silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips. “Don’t. Don’t try to take it back. We’re on
the same page, Angel. Let’s play our time together by ear.”
She squared her shoulders. “You should know that I intend to stick to our agreement. I leave first thing on January first.”
There, he would have that one truth from her. She clenched her teeth and met his gaze.
“I can work with that. Lighten up. I’m not going to go all sentimental on you. ”
She took a deep breath, resolved to keep everything casual and tame, and continued, “Mind if I unpack my toiletries and freshen up first?”
“Not at all. I put your carry-on on the bed bench and I also brought up your purse. I’ll get the TV and DVR set up while you do that. Kind of curious to see if the curve HD lives up to its hype.”
“Me too. Be back in a sec.” She hurried to her suitcase, retrieved her cosmetic bag, dumped her cell into a side pocket, spied a wide portico on the left, and made straight for it. The archway fronted a spacious sitting area with double doors on the other end, which led to the actual bathroom.
Too flustered to register the ambience or décor of the cavernous chamber, she washed and dried her hands avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She noticed a still-packaged toothbrush and a selection of different brands of toothpaste lying on the black and white speckled marble counter. She smiled at the thoughtful gesture. Her burgeoning depression lifted. She checked the room out while unwrapping the brush and unpacking her bag.
No doubt the focal point of the room was the massive sunken Jacuzzi tub. She’d never encountered aquamarine marble before, admired the color, and imagined what a picture perfect tropical lagoon it must be filled with water.
She brushed her teeth, patted her mouth dry, and rushed back to the master hoping he hadn’t tested the TV with a local network. He sat on the bed, his back against a pile of huge cushions jammed against a curved metallic headboard.
The burnt charcoal covers had been pulled back to reveal black satin sheets. She gestured to the gleaming fabric. “You didn’t.”
He patted the space next to him. “I did. Decided on a movie?”
“Home Alone? I know it’s kind of a kid movie, but—” She clambered onto the bed.
