A Devil Named Desire (2 page)

Chapter One

T
he water in the bathtub was warm, soothing, and a beautiful shade of red. Sangria shades, of wine and blood.

The steady
drip, drip, drip
of the faucet echoed against the tiled walls, reverberating in Hope Henderson’s ears as she lay in the tub. It was peaceful here, in this warm, red space between life and death. The voices of guilt and regret were finally quiet, elusive thoughts of what-might-have-been and what-should-have-been blessedly silenced.

Drip, drip, drip
.

Closing her eyes, Hope wondered dreamily how many more drips it would take before it all went away.

“Hello, Hope,” came a voice, deep and smooth as honey. “What a bad girl you are.” Someone took her hand, lifting it from the water. “Look what you’ve gone and done to yourself.”

She could barely open her eyes now, and didn’t want to anyway, but the voice kept on.

“So pretty,” the voice said, “such delicate skin. This will leave scars, you know, scars you will never be rid of.”

“Go away,” she murmured, refusing to look at the man who held her hand. She would’ve pulled it from his grasp, but hadn’t the strength.

“I can’t do that,” he replied gently. “And you don’t want me to, not really. Open your eyes, pretty little Hope. Open your eyes and see what lies ahead.”

So compelling, so gentle. Promising something just out of reach . . .

“Open your eyes,” he said, more forcefully, and her eyelids fluttered open.

An arresting face, one she’d never seen before.
Beautiful.
He was so beautiful. Blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. He was kneeling by the side of the tub, cradling her hand in his, ignoring the sluggish trickle of blood that ran down her arm.

“That’s it,” he crooned softly. “Look at me.”

Something fluttered behind him, a dark shape . . . the featherlike rustle of what might’ve been wings, black as the darkness she craved.

“Time to wake up, my darling,” he said, smiling a wicked smile, and with that smile she was lost. She would’ve done anything for him in that moment, because he was here and he was beautiful and he was everything she’d ever wanted and was never going to have.

“What’s this?” he murmured, reaching to wipe away the tear that she hadn’t even known she’d cried. “No need for tears, surely. Salvation is at hand.” But the way he said it told her she was anything but saved—she was damned, damned to Hell for all the things she hadn’t done, all the mistakes she’d made. And when he took his hand from her face and picked something up off the floor—something that broke her heart—she was absolutely certain her damnation was never going to end.

“I know where your sister is,” he said, gently, looking at the photo in his hand. “Charity isn’t dead.”

Hope moaned, feeling a prickle of sweat break out on her forehead as she stared at Charity’s sweet, beautiful face . . . her baby sister, whom she was supposed to have taken care of, supposed to have kept safe.
Dead. Charity was dead, and it was all her fault.
The feelings of guilt and failure that had driven her to this bathtub, razor blade in hand, rose up again, threatening to drown her in a tide of red-tinged grief.

“Master.” A whisper of sound, one she wasn’t certain she’d even heard. “Let me take her, Master. The Darkness awaits.”

Fear, so far removed a moment ago, squeezed her heart, but she shoved it away.
Let the Darkness take her, let it swallow her whole the way it had swallowed Charity—she deserved it.

“No,” said the man, to someone she couldn’t see. His blue eyes were trained on hers. “She stays here.”

Hope tried to speak, tried to beg—whether to help her or to let her die, she wasn’t sure, but he turned his head and spoke sharply to someone in the shadows behind him.

“Leave us,” he said, and her world went black.

S
he awoke to light, streaming golden through tall windows, reflecting the gleam of skyscrapers. A strange room, a strange bed. The pillow beneath her head was soft, the room tastefully decorated in shades of cream and cocoa. Her wrists hurt.

“You’re awake,” said a man, and there he was in the doorway; the man of her dreams, the beautiful blond angel she’d seen as she lay dying.

“Just in time for breakfast.” He was carrying a tray, smiling as he set it beside her bed.

Crisp white button-down shirt, no tie. Dark gray trousers that fit him in all the right places. A well-dressed, handsome stranger, who’d pulled her back from the edge of the abyss.

“Don’t be afraid,” he told her easily. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

She didn’t believe him, knowing nothing would ever be right again, but had no will to argue. Her body felt strange, heavy. She licked her lips, unable to summon the energy to even care about where she was, or how she’d gotten there.

“You’re dehydrated,” he said, “but that will pass. Let me help you sit up.” He bent, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders. The familiarity surprised her, but she hadn’t the strength to pull away. He smelled of something warm and exotic; cloves maybe, cinnamon.

Quickly, impersonally, he rearranged the pillows behind her back so she could sit up.

“Here. Have some orange juice.”

Her hands shook as she took it. Both wrists were bandaged, and at the sight of them, she winced.

Raising the glass, she was nearly overcome with despair.
She was supposed to be dead.
The orange juice tasted good, cool as it slid down her throat, and she hated the part of her that wanted it.

“Good girl.” He took the empty glass and set it on the bedside table.

“Where am I?” She let her head fall back against the pillow. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sammy, and there’s no need to worry. You’re safe with me.”

Safe? She’d tried to kill herself.
All the memories came rushing back: the warm red water, the quiet drip of the faucet. The man, the shadow . . . had there been whispers?

“My sister. Charity.” She snatched a moment of clarity from the haze. “You said she wasn’t dead.”

He nodded. “That’s right. She’s alive.”

She wanted desperately to believe him, but the prickle on the back of her neck warned her not to get her hopes up.

She couldn’t go through it, not again.

“Where is she?”

“All in good time, Hope.”

Not the answer she wanted, and her wariness increased, because she hadn’t told him her name. “Do . . . do I know you?” She was absolutely sure she didn’t—a face like his would be hard to forget.

“Not yet,” he replied, with a lazy curl of a lip, “but you’ll soon know me better.” He cocked his blond head. “In the meantime, I know quite a lot about you, Hope Henderson. Your parents died in a fire when you were twelve, and both you and your younger sister grew up in foster care. Charity, your sister, has been missing for two years. You were told just last week that her purse had been found in a washed-out ravine in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. The police think she’s been murdered.”

The starkness of the words took her breath away. She turned her head toward the window, eyes filling with tears. The police theorized that her beautiful, vivacious sister, off for a weekend of fun in Las Vegas, had been murdered and dumped, a piece of human garbage left for the coyotes to ravage. As far as the police were concerned, the search for Charity was over; no contact for two years, no use of credit cards or ATMs, no sign of her at all, until now. The slim thread of hope she’d clung to had been severed, driving her over the edge to despair.

Not even a body left to bury.

“I know you were told otherwise, but trust me when I tell you, Charity isn’t dead.”

Hope’s eyes snapped back to his; pale blue, and despite his seeming kindnesses to her, completely devoid of emotion.

“How would you know?” She bit her lip, willing the tears not to fall.

“The abandoned purse was just a cover,” he replied calmly. “She’s alive and well, and living in Las Vegas.” Moving toward the tray, he picked up the coffeepot and poured some into a cup. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you for the moment. First, let’s get your strength up, put some food in you. Milk? Sugar?”

Stunned, she shook her head, raising a bandaged wrist to swipe at a tear that spilled over anyway.

“Black it is, then,” he said lightly, and offered her the cup. “Drink up.” His voice was firm, inflexible, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

She did as he said, and took the cup, using both hands to keep it steady. The coffee smelled good, and in the hopes it would help dispel the sense of unreality that had settled over her, she took a cautious sip. She’d expected to wake burning in Hell, yet here she was, nestled in goose down, sipping coffee with a guy who should be gracing the cover of
GQ
magazine, and talking about the possibility that her sister could still be alive.

“Colombia’s finest,” he said approvingly, lifting his own cup. “None of that mocha latte shit.” His blue eyes twinkled, both knowing and compelling; a gaze that frightened and reassured at the same time. “Take a moment, enjoy.”

And because she needed a moment to wrap her brain around the situation, she did, and immediately found him right about the coffee; a couple of sips and she felt stronger.

“Tell me more about Charity. Why hasn’t she called me? What’s she doing?”

“So many questions.” He gave a short laugh, amused. Then the look in his eye turned calculating, making her nervous. “What a waste your death would’ve been.”

Remembrance of those moments in the tub left her silent as she stared into her coffee cup. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life,” she told him stiffly, aware that thanks were called for. “I—I was depressed, it was stupid . . .”

“You’re welcome,” he interrupted dryly. “But you may want to hold on to your thanks, because now you owe me.”

The prickle on the back of her neck turned to ice, slipping down her spine.

“What?”

“You were going to die, and I saved you,” he said simply. “You called out to me, and I came.”

Her normally agile brain finally clicked into gear. The guy was gorgeous, but insane. Hot coffee to the face was a possibility, but there was no way she could bolt past him in her weakened state. He’d catch her in an instant, and then she’d have made him mad.

Something told her she didn’t want to make him mad.

“You wanted the Darkness.” He lifted the lid of a salver on the tray, releasing the heavenly smell of fresh baked bread. His actions were unhurried, but his words struck fear into her heart. “I
am
the Darkness.” Silverware rattled as he picked up a knife. The blade gleamed, mesmerizing her.

She tore her eyes away from the knife and put them back on his face, wanting to be able to describe him to the police if she made it out of this alive.

“Describe me to the police all you like,” he said, making her jump. “They’re not going to be able to find me, because I don’t exist.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m like the bogeyman . . . gone the moment you turn on the light.”

He didn’t
look
like the bogeyman, yet for one teeny second she allowed herself to hope that the whole surreal situation was a nightmare, a figment of suicidal delirium . . .

“Ah, the lies we tell ourselves when we’re under stress,” the man said, as though he’d read her mind. He cocked his head to the side, giving her a bemused grin. “Don’t you know who I am yet, Hope Henderson? Haven’t you figured it out?” He shook his blond head, making
tsk
ing noises. “It’s so disappointing not to be recognized these days; modern media almost always portrays me as dark-haired and goateed, with a decided preference for horns and a red cape. Truth be told, I prefer Armani.”

Unsure of what to say to that, she said nothing.

“You’ve been given a blood transfusion, by the way, as you lost most of your own in the tub. The doctor said not to worry; you’re young and otherwise healthy. A little rest, some food . . . you’ll be feeling better soon.” He dipped the knife in butter and lavished it on a piece of toast. “Don’t look so frightened, pretty little Hope. It’s not as though I’m going to eat you.” He chuckled. “If the rumor mill is to be believed, I prefer small children, lightly roasted.”

The coffee in her hand threatened to spill, and she lowered the cup to her lap.

“I’ll spell it out for you then, shall I? I go by many names—Satan, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles—but the only one you need to remember at the moment is Sammy.” Inclining his head in a mock bow, he added, “Sammy Divine, at your service.”

She focused on her breathing, knowing her best hope was to remain calm and not hyperventilate; despite the depression that had lately possessed her and her currently weak state, she was fit, and she’d hadn’t taken a five-week course on self-defense for nothing.

Let the maniac think she was compliant, lull him into thinking she was weak . . . she could use the cup as a weapon
. . .