A Deal With the Devil

by Louisa George

  He looked back to find her smiling at him. Small, but enough to do something to his insides. “Yes, sure. Of course. It’s four o’clock in the morning, I have an important meeting in less than five hours and little chance of sleep, a global business to run, security holes that need blocking … impressing you is top of my agenda right now.” Sad truth was, she was right. Again. For some reason it mattered what she thought about him. He clearly had his priorities screwed. If Ted got wind of this, he’d be merciless. “But for the record, we have hostels and guidance, legal advice, plenty of food and a way of getting fit. Plus, there’s a sense of camaraderie. And the kids don’t lose face; we all pretend they’re just coming to box, but we know the place becomes a home for them—somewhere for them to belong. Some of the kids are now trainers and managers.” One was a very rich casino owner who had the world at his feet, but sometimes felt as if he was still lost at the bottom trying to climb out.

  “I’m sorry, I misjudged your motives. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not something we advertise. The whole point is that we stay low key so they don’t get spooked and run off. You saw what that kid was like—he doesn’t trust anyone.” That came from having no one to trust in the first place.

  Kate looked up the street. “He reminded me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged, but there was tension there in her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Clearly it did. “He reminds me of me.”

  She tilted her head to one side as she looked at him, pulling her hair over one shoulder and absentmindedly running her fingers through the strands. “How long did you live rough?”

  “Two-and-a-half years. It isn’t pleasant.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time. Why? Did you choose to leave home or did you get kicked out? You got kicked out. Right?”

  “You really do have a bad opinion of me, but go right ahead and make up your own reality.” It suddenly mattered that she knew some of the truth. He huffed out a breath. It had been a long time ago. He’d learnt some hard lessons, but anything had been better than living at home. “I left.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like families.”

  “What? That’s not an answer. How can you not like families?”

  There was a pause as he chose his words. Measured. “There was a difference of opinion. Quite a few, actually. Me, I prefer to air grievances verbally. My dad didn’t like something, he talked with his fists.”

  He saw the moment she understood. The glitter in her eyes. The sharp intake of air. “That’s why you learnt how to fight? To protect yourself?”

  “I had to do something. I have a deep-seated sense of self-preservation. If someone’s going to land a left hook, it helps if you know how to deflect it.”

  She frowned. “So you fought your own father?”

  “I deflected a lot. Then I left.” She didn’t need to know the rest, the truth.

  Pale orange light was starting to filter through the edges of thick clouds. Dawn. He had a breakfast meeting in less than four hours. He’d spilled enough of his guts to her, more than he’d disclosed to anyone. Ever. And he wasn’t sure he was okay with the thick raw feeling in his throat as he relived those dark times in his head, but he knew one sure way to clear it. “About that ride home?”

  “Na-ah.” She frowned. “You think I’m getting on a motorbike you have another think coming.”

  “Chicken?”

  “Yeah, probably. Not to mention I’ll freeze.” She smiled at his accusation and that did wicked things to his gut.

  “If that’s all that’s holding you back …” He bent and slid his arms under her knees, cradled her back as he picked her up and sat her on the back of his bike. Threw his jacket around her shoulders. Instead of taking his place in front of her he straddled the bike and faced her. Clamped his knees against hers. Hell, she could have run if she’d wanted to. He wasn’t that much of a Neanderthal. “Where do you want to go? Anywhere. The ocean? France? Scotland? We could ride all night.”

  “I told you … no way.” But she didn’t move. Just looked up at him under dark lashes, a mixture of ferocity and vulnerability—because he didn’t doubt for a moment that this bolshie mouth had a soft core. In the streetlight her eyes flickered with hints of gold and heat. “You switch that engine on and I’ll scream blue murder.”

  “Really? You’ll shout over this sweet baby? She purrs like a dream, but you should hear her roar.” He leaned closer, inhaled her scent, lowered his mouth to her ear. “Scream all you like, but no one will hear you.”

  Chapter Four

  So she was trapped. Unexpected. Kate’s heart hammered as heat rushed through her. She supposed she should have put up more of a fight, but she was transfixed by his gaze. His small, knowing smile. By eyes that bore such a depth of pain as he’d talked of living rough, when he’d dealt with that street boy, at the mention of his father.

  Rey Doyle hadn’t chosen to become a monster, he’d been damaged.

  His hand lifted and he stroked the back of his forefinger down her cheek, grey eyes simmering with heat. The air around them stilled. The only thing she could hear was her quickened breath and a small voice in her ears telling her to run. But she didn’t. She sat astride his motorbike and let him touch her face.

  Then, slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. Because, she couldn’t sit here and not touch him back. Because he was mesmerising, dazzling, bewitching. This close she could see the scars, all well-healed, but telling some of his story. There was a brutal beauty about them that caught deep in her chest and tugged. He was a fighter. A survivor. But what he absolutely, definitely was not, was a victim. He had turned his life from a struggle to a victory on a massive scale, if money and power held any weight and it did to him. In his eyes he had won. And yet, there was still that guard behind the eyes, the flagrant mistrust. The pent-up energy.

  Truthfully, she didn’t know what to say. How to react to such a powerful man with such a gentle touch. Why was she so argumentative around him?

  Because he made her feel things she had never felt before. Because she wanted more from him. Because he was frightening and alluring and everything she did not, could not, want. He was not the kind of quiet sensitive man she’d dreamt about, that she’d fixed her sights on somewhere down the track. He was so much more. And that meant he had the potential to do much more damage to her heart too.

  She swallowed through a thickened throat and found a voice. It was surprisingly husky and raw with an unbidden need. “Looks like I’m trapped here then.”

  “So you are.”

  He was so close. Heat bounded off him in a strangely exciting and thrilling way. His mouth was mere inches away. All she needed to do was to lean forward to … press her lips against his. An ache in her gut stretched slowly. She wanted to taste him. To run her tongue along his lips. To hear him groan.

  “What happened here?” She rubbed her finger over a longer, deeper, older scar just to the left of his upper lip. The journalist in her long forgotten, the sexual woman in her pushing herself to centre stage in a bid to be free. She wanted to know everything about him, and then to hug that knowledge close to her soul.

  He kept his gaze on her, slowly moved his head to the left, and caught the tip of her finger in his mouth. He nipped it gently then let it go. More heat sizzled through her, her hand beginning to shake as she focused on his mouth, his words. “A fight.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah.” He let go of her hand and touched the scar. “I do that a lot … did.”

  “You don’t fight any more?”

  “No.” If she hadn’t been looking at him so intently she might have missed the flicker of something like unease behind his eyes, then it was gone. “Not any more.”

  She didn’t believe him. From what her brother had told her she had good reason to believe Doyle was an active member at the fight club, didn’t understand why he
was even lying about wanting to fight. Unless he was trying to convince himself. “So why did you do it? I can’t understand why you would actually allow someone to hurt you.”

  His eyes never left her face. “If you’re good enough, you don’t get hurt.”

  “And were you that good?” She’d seen blurry videos on YouTube, but she didn’t know how to tell a good fighter from a bad one, except, of course, at the very end, when one remained standing.

  A corner of his mouth hitched. “For one dazzling moment I was king of the whole goddamned world.”

  “Why did you do it? I mean, there are plenty of other physical ways to earn a living. Plenty of things to be good at?”

  His grey eyes fizzed with brightness. “It’s a rush. It’s intense. If you’ve never done it you wouldn’t understand.”

  No, she didn’t. Never would. “No, thank you. Ever tempted to get back in the ring?”

  “Kate, just because I get tempted by something, doesn’t mean I have to follow through.”

  More’s the pity, she thought. Then checked herself. He was as good at deflecting with his words as he was with his fists. He was edging around the questions, just like she did.

  Worse, she wasn’t edging, she was outright lying. Everything she was doing was a form of betrayal. To Jake, if she sat here any longer. To herself, if she let Rey kiss her. To Rey, if she kept the truth from him. She just had to leave. Regroup her feelings. Get home. “Look … I’d better—”

  Rey’s thumb dipped along her cheekbone, beneath her eye. “You nervous about something? Excited?”

  “No?” That damned tell, she realised, was giving her away. She grabbed his hand and moved it from her face, sparks of electricity between them almost real and bright. Turned away. “It does that when I’m overtired.”

  “So, we’ll get you home, then. Address?”

  Oh no, and take the risk on discovering that Jake was her brother? “I’ll be—”

  “Hey! Watch it!” An angry voice behind her, a security guard held a guy in a suit at arm’s length outside the casino front door. A bit of pushing and shoving. A lot of noise. London never slept and there was always somewhere open; even though it was early in the morning there were still people wandering the busy street, hoping to win a fortune, walking off the booze, looking for a good time. “Make your way home, sir.”

  “Fuck off. If I wanna come in …” The suit was clearly drunk and pretty disorderly. He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out some notes. “I got lots of money, see. So I can come in if I want to. Money talks …”

  She sensed Rey tense. But he stayed where he was, his hand on her arm, guarding. He looked as if he was on high alert, assessing with cool narrowed eyes, reading the situation, but he was eerily, entirely calm, his breathing steady and unrushed.

  “Not tonight, sir.” The security guard was assertive but not aggressive. Unlike the sudden turn in the suit’s demeanour. Drawing his fist back he punched hard at Rey’s man, hitting him square on the nose, sending him straight to the pavement. But the security guard scrambled back up and lunged at the suit.

  Something glinted in the suit’s hand. Kate felt a scream building, but she pushed it back, followed Rey’s lead and harnessed the energy. “I think he’s got a knife. Something.”

  Rey put his hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.”

  “But—do you have to get involved?”

  “It’s my place, they’re my men. I look after my own.” Then he bent close to her face and grazed her cheek with his lips. “Stay right here. Two minutes. Do. Not. Move.”

  She watched him walk towards the fracas, cool and controlled. Watched him put one hand on the guy’s chest and back him up to a wall, grab the man’s wrist and twist until he dropped the blade. Then she didn’t want to see any more.

  Once she’d stopped shaking enough to move she climbed down from the motorbike and walked as fast as she could away from Rey and his club and the brawl. She would not watch this. She would not bear witness to any more violence, it made her sick to her stomach. Whatever she’d allowed herself to think, with her fancy expensive dress and the lovely evening and his gentle touch—Rey Doyle was not her man. And this was not her world.

  * * *

  An hour later Kate shoved the key into her apartment front door and crept in. The shaking had stopped, her pulse rate had slowed, she was back in control. The lights were out. Good. Maybe Jake had managed some sleep tonight. With rest came recuperation. And restitution; slow and steady. She needed her bed, but she wanted to write up her notes and impressions before she forgot.

  Having poured herself a glass of cool water she tiptoed across the lounge, sat at the dining table and started up her laptop, the morning sunlight now glaring through the slatted blinds. She was just about to start writing when Jake’s bedroom door opened and he appeared in the doorway, wearing a baggy faded T-shirt and old grey sweat pants that hung from his hips. He still looked washed out, but every day the bruises faded just a little more. “Hi, Jake. Sleep okay?”

  “Do I ever?” Leaning heavily on his good leg he mooched into the room, rubbing his eyes.

  “You will. Give it time.” Her heart contracted at the sight of him. He was so grown up now. At least he thought so, which was what had got him into trouble in the first place, when he’d been hanging out with mates and stumbled across a group of men fighting in a derelict warehouse. He’d asked to join them—had lied about his seventeen years—all gangly and unused to his long limbs and the sudden intense surges of testosterone that made him think he was a man. And had found, to his cost, he was still very much a boy. She resisted the urge to scruff up his hair like she used to do. “How did you get on with the chat rooms and forums? Did you get in? Did you break the code? You should have heard Doyle talking tonight about a security breach—they’re worried as all hell … you’ve got them on the run, my boy.” She ignored the pang of guilt about the lies she’d told Rey. Tried to ignore the flutter in her gut, the heat down low. The tingling in her breasts at the thought of his hands, his touch.

  Jake shrugged and slumped in the chair. Something about his manner wasn’t right. He was all shadows and edges and sullenness. And she didn’t think it was because he was sleep deprived, it went deeper. “There was some chatter there. I made a bit of noise, but I think I managed to mask our IP address so I don’t think they’ll be able to find us …”

  Good, because she did not want to be found. “That’s good, right? So what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He fastidiously did not make eye contact.

  Sensing tension and a need to tiptoe around the subject, Kate picked up the laptop and carried it to the sofa, sat down next to him. Sometimes this mothering job was hard and she wished it came with a manual. “Hey buster, something tells me you’re not happy. What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing, I just said.” Leaning over he reached for the TV remote, let out a groan. Slumped back again holding his ribs. Weeks, they’d said … it would take weeks for the bones to heal. He’d been lucky they hadn’t punctured his lung. The broken arm was mending more quickly and less painfully. The bruised kidney was sore but getting better. The jury was still out about the concussion and brain swelling. Certainly, his mood had been different since he’d come home from hospital—he’d been grumpy and indifferent, even difficult. Was that just teenage hormones? She had no bloody idea. All she knew was that he’d changed. He flicked on some breakfast news programme and upped the volume. Then turned to look at her. “Leave it out, Kate. I don’t want to talk right now. And I don’t want to hear any more about the bloody fight club either. I’m over it, okay?”

  And yet she hadn’t really begun. “Are you saying you don’t want me to bring him down, to get him back for what he did to you?”

  Jake’s eyes were black. “It wasn’t him, I told you. It was someone else.”

  “It’s his fight club. He’s responsible for what happens there.”

  “No, he isn’t. Th
at’s the point—we’re all responsible for ourselves.”

  “No, actually. I’m responsible for you.” A solemn promise. “Until you’re eighteen—and there’s no way I’d let you do that even then. Fact of the matter is, if Rey Doyle’s fight club didn’t exist then you wouldn’t be hurt. Look at you—you should be out living your life, not holed up in here watching TV. Your teachers said you’ve got your work cut out to catch up.”

  “I’d do that better if you weren’t on my back the whole time.”

  “I’m sorry. I just want good things for you.” Half the problem was that he was embarrassed about the fight, the beating he’d taken and the trouble he’d caused. And she understood that. Bottom line, though—her boy had been hurt and no one had taken the blame. She’d thought long and hard about how to deal with it. At one point she’d almost wanted to give the whole thing up herself. But she couldn’t. Men like Rey needed to be brought down and she had the skills and the passion to do it. At least, that’s what she’d believed before last night. Now she wasn’t sure of anything any more, least of all how someone like Rey could appeal to her on so many levels. “I sat by your intensive care bed and promised you I’d do this, that I’d get revenge. That I’d look after you properly. I promised Mum, too.”

  “Yeah well, she can’t hear you. And this is stupid.” With another huff of irritation Jake stood and stormed as best he could out of the room—although with his injuries it was more of a haughty annoyed shuffle. No, thought Kate, maybe she can’t hear me, but she’s somewhere watching what a let down I’ve been.

  No more. She had a responsibility to her mum and to her brother. Kate had to find more evidence, which meant going back to the casino, going back to Rey Doyle and playing nice. Which, she realised, to her horror, wasn’t as bad a prospect as she’d previously believed.

  * * *

  “What the hell’s eating you?”

  “Just working out, mate.” Rey punched hard and fast at the pads Ted held up. Right. Left. Right, left. The private gym in the casino basement was empty, but for them. Didn’t matter, Rey didn’t feel much like talking. A slick sheen of sweat slid down his spine. One two. One two. Normally his stress would have eased by now, but he’d been going an hour and still felt hyped.