A Devil Named Desire (4 page)

“Why are you following me? What do you want?” From the note of fear in her voice, Gabe surmised that not only was she locked out, there was no way out of the building unless she came back down the stairs. “I’m calling the police on my cell phone, right now!”

“My name is Gabriel,” he told her calmly, “and I’m here to protect you.”

Another silence, longer than the first. Lavender oil dripped from his sunglasses onto the lobby floor; it was even on his jeans, which was unfortunate, because they were his favorite pair.

“If I wanted to hurt you I would’ve done it by now,” he pointed out mildly, knowing she could hear him just fine. “Being drenched in lavender oil is not much of a deterrent; it’s not like it’s sulphuric acid or something.”

He looked up, and there was Hope’s face, peeping cautiously over the edge of the stair rail. She had a cell phone in her hand.

“Protect me from what?”

“I’m not really sure,” he told her honestly. “I just know you need protecting.”

Her eyes, which were a startlingly vibrant shade of green, narrowed in suspicion. “Right.” She cocked her head, eyeing him closely. “You need to get out of here right now, before the cops show up.”

“Let them come.” he said, fairly sure he knew a bluff when he heard one. “I haven’t done anything.”

“This is private property.”

“It looks like a lobby to me. For all they know I came in to see someone about renting an apartment.”

“You followed me home,” she accused.

He shrugged, using the back of his arm to wipe oil from his forehead. “I’m telling you the truth when I say you need protecting. Calling the police won’t change that—it may even make things worse.”

“Are you
threatening
me?”

He had to admire her courage, because if he
had
been threatening her, there wouldn’t be a thing she could do about it; she couldn’t be more than five-four in her stocking feet, and he outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

“I’m not threatening you.” With a sigh, Gabriel told her the truth, or at least part of it. “Just the opposite, in fact . . . I’m a Guardian.”

“A guardian.” Her skepticism was unmistakable.

“It’s true. There’s no reason to be afraid of me.”

“Sorry, but when a strange man follows me home, I tend to be a bit suspicious of his motives.”

“I’m not
that
strange,” Gabriel said, venturing a bit of humor in hopes of easing the tension. “At least I wasn’t until you made me smell like a girl. This stuff is really pungent.”

She didn’t smile. “What are you
really
doing here?”

“I told you . . . I’m here to look after you.”

“Who says I need looking after?”

He could tell her the truth, but she’d have a very hard time believing that he was an angel. Besides, revealing his angelic state was something he reserved for the very young and the very elderly, for it upset the order of the universe, turning what was meant to be a matter of faith into certainty. So, using a trick he’d learned long, long ago, he turned the question around and gave it back to her. “Think for a moment . . . is there anything going on in your life right now that frightens you?”

She went pale, two spots of color high in her cheeks. There was no mistaking the flicker of fear in her eyes as she stared down at him.

“I’m afraid you’re just going to have to take my word when I tell you I’m here for a reason.”

Hope stared at him silently, her mind obviously working.

“
He
sent you, didn’t he?”

Gabriel said nothing, letting her believe what she liked, as long as it worked to his advantage.

“You even look like him, in a way; too fucking perfect to be real. Is that part of your deal with him, pretty boy?”

The hostility of her reply confused him, but more than that, he found himself troubled by the sound of profanity on the woman’s lips, for he was oddly certain it didn’t belong there.

The glare she sent him was decidedly unfriendly. “He didn’t send you to protect
me
, he sent you to protect his own interests.”

“Regardless,” Gabe replied, taking shameless advantage of an opening. “Here I am.”

“I guess I should be grateful you’re not some kind of monster.”

More confused than ever, Gabe chose to agree. “I guess you should.”

She bit her lip, then put her hands on the stair rail and straightened. “You’re not going to hurt me?”

“Hurting you would be counterproductive.” Gabe was able to say the words with conviction, for that much, at least, was completely true.

“Okay, so you’re my guardian.” She stopped leaning over the rail and straightened, giving a shrug. “It’s not like I have a whole lot of choice in the matter, now do I? Make yourself useful, Guardian, and find my keys.”

Chapter Three

A
s it turned out, Hope found her own keys, right where they should’ve been, in her purse. Considering what she’d been through during the last few days—and the last few minutes—it was no wonder she’d been too rattled to find them the first time. She kept a wary eye on her new “guardian” as he picked up her bruised fruit, thinking furiously about this latest development. After twenty-four hours in an unknown bed, being transfused, fed, and frightened within an inch of her life, she’d awakened to find herself back in her own apartment. It had looked the same—no sign of her aborted suicide attempt, no blood, no razor blade—and she’d nearly been able to convince herself that it had all been a bad dream until she removed the bandages on her wrists and saw the cuts, still red and sore, indisputable reminders of failure and folly.

Then, of course, there was the book, which she found sitting squarely in the middle of her desk, just above her keyboard. So far she’d been unable to touch it, even to move it, and consequently had been unable to work.

For the last two nights, she’d lain awake, remembering burning red eyes, whispers of darkness, and the rustle of blackened wings. If she hadn’t promised a few days ago to make Mr. Qualey that banana pudding, she wouldn’t even have ventured out today, but she’d steeled herself to move forward, act normally, hating the feeling of being paralyzed by fear.

Evidently the Devil was tired of waiting for her to get a move on, because now he’d upped the pressure by sending her some kind of satanic babysitter. There was no earthly reason that anyone would be following her otherwise, and certainly no reason anyone would claim they’d been sent to look out for her.

No one ever looked out for her—ever—at least not since her parents died.

“The plums got the worst of it,” he said, offering her the bag of fruit.

She snatched them from him, still angry at how he’d managed to frighten her half to death. “You can cut the nice guy routine,” she told him, unlocking her apartment with her free hand. “Just because I have to put up with you doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends.”

A beautifully arched masculine brow shot up in surprise, and the sight made her even angrier, because there was no
way
any guy this gorgeous should be on the wrong side. When she’d seen him sitting at a table at Moonbeans, chin-length brown hair tucked behind his ears, wearing those awesomely cool sunglasses, her inner jaw had dropped. She’d noticed him at Garden of Eatin’, too, but figured it was just a coincidence, one she didn’t have time to appreciate or enjoy. It wasn’t until she’d noticed him trailing along on the sidewalk behind her that she began to wonder if there wasn’t more than coincidence involved, and seeing his sprint up the steps to her apartment had sent her over the edge into full-blown panic.

She didn’t like full-blown panic, so now she was just pissed.

“Well,” she told him shortly, “don’t just stand there . . . come in, but you should know that if you lay one finger on me,
your
plums will end up just as bruised as these.”

She hadn’t taken that self-defense course for nothing, and she’d kick him where it hurt without a second thought if he touched her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her dryly, and followed her into the apartment.

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as he closed the door behind him. She went directly to the kitchen, using action to try and drown the voice in her head that told her she was crazy for inviting a stranger into her apartment, but what choice did she have? At least he was a
human
stranger, instead of that blackened
thing
who did Sammy Divine’s bidding.

A plaintive meow caught her attention, and she looked down to see Sherlock, her cat.

“Who’s this?” asked Gabriel, behind her. He bent, offering his hand to the biggest gray and white feline snob on the face of the planet. Sherlock took a dainty sniff, and then, to Hope’s disgust, rubbed his furry face against Gabe’s fingers.

“That’s Sherlock,” Hope answered sourly. “He doesn’t usually like strangers. It must be the lavender oil.”

“Animals sense what people don’t,” Gabriel said, scratching the cat beneath the chin.

“Then my cat has clearly taken leave of his senses,” she returned, plopping her fruit bag down on the counter a bit too hard. “Either that, or he’s just hungry.”

Sherlock meowed again in response.

“See? That settles that.”

Her new guardian straightened, glancing around her kitchen. “Nice place. Very homey.”

“Gee,” she returned, opening the tiny pantry to pull out a bag of dry cat food. “I’m
so
glad you like it.”

“Listen, I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to; I was just worried about letting you out of my sight.”

“How reassuring.” Hope wasn’t interested in apologies. “I would think that scaring me would be a big part of your job.”

Gabe looked puzzled, crossing his arms and placing a lean hip against her kitchen counter. “Why would I want to scare you?”

“To get me to do what you want, of course.” Hope slammed the pantry door a teensy bit harder than she needed to. “But first I’ve got some banana pudding to make, so you’re just going to have to wait.” She could hardly even bring herself to look at him, although when she did, she noticed his shirt, smeared with oil, as were his cheeks and hair.

“No offense,” she said, clearly meaning just the opposite, “but maybe you should go sit in the living room. You reek.”

“Whose fault is that?” A note of testiness crept into his voice.

“Yours,” she said flatly.

“I’m not sure what you’re so hostile about—I’m the one who was assaulted.”

“Assaulted? Like you said, it’s lavender oil, not sulphuric acid.”

“It stinks,” Gabriel said, lifting the neck of his shirt to sniff it. “I’ve never been a fan of lavender.”

Hope rolled her eyes, pouring dry food into Sherlock’s bowl. “Yeah, I’m sure brimstone would be more up your alley.”

“Brimstone?”

“Never mind,” she told him irritably. “Just go in the other room. I’ve got stuff to do.” Rational or not, she’d decided to do a good deed before doing the Devil’s bidding, and damned if she was going to let anything stop her. She pulled the bananas out of the bag and put them on the counter, then turned on the oven, mentally going over what she needed for the pudding: Nilla Wafers, eggs, bananas, pudding mix . . .

Checking the rack where she kept her spices, she picked up a small bottle of vanilla oil.

“Whoa.” Gabriel took a step back, raising his hands. He gave her what she would ordinarily consider one of the sexiest grins she’d ever seen, if it hadn’t come from some kind of Satanist freak. “You’re not going to throw that on me, too, are you?”

“Get out of my kitchen,” she snapped. “I don’t think you’re funny, and I don’t want to be your friend. If you have to be here, then stay quiet, and stay out of my way. Go read a book or something.”

The look on the guy’s face was almost comical. He seemed honestly offended, but Hope didn’t care. The more she looked at him, the more pissed she got, because he was just so damn
perfect
. Even with oil in his hair and smears all over his clothes, he was so gorgeous it made her stomach hurt; it wasn’t
fair
that he was one of the bad guys.

“Fine,” he answered stiffly. “I’ll just go drip lavender oil on your living room furniture, shall I?”

“Sit on the floor,” she told him stonily.

“That isn’t going to happen,” he told her flatly. “I said I was a Guardian, not a guard dog.”

Sherlock proved the guy’s point by giving a soft meow, and rubbing up against his jean-clad legs.

Hope bit her lip, feeling both oddly betrayed and completely vulnerable. Throw in the fact that she was completely, utterly exhausted, and she knew full well that she was being a complete, utter bitch. Not her normal MO, and not a state she enjoyed.

“Look, I—” With a sigh, she let her shoulders slump. “The bathroom’s the first door on the right,” she said, gesturing down a short hallway. “Go clean up. There’s soap, towels . . . everything you need.” She hesitated, then added, “If you drop your shirt outside the door, I’ll throw it in the washer. But”—she held up a finger in warning—“don’t get any ideas, and stay away from me until it’s clean and dry and I’ve given it back to you.”

W
hile Gabe had no objection to washing off the increasingly sticky lavender oil, he wasn’t all that keen on leaving Hope alone, for he hadn’t forgotten what had drawn him to her to begin with. Somewhere nearby was a soul eater who’d marked her as its target. Now that he’d openly proclaimed himself her guardian, it might stay away, but then again, it might not.

Sensing his hesitation, Hope made an exasperated noise. “I’m not going anywhere, all right? This is my house, not yours, and I’ll be right here when you’re done cleaning up. Now go away and let me get to work; I’m not touching that book until I’m good and ready.”

Gabe, who’d restlessly prowled over to investigate a small alcove just off the kitchen, only to find it contained nothing more than laundry items, answered absently, “What book?”

When Hope didn’t answer, he turned to look at her, noting how her eyes had narrowed in suspicion. “Never mind,” she told him shortly. “Just give me some space.”

Gabe looked down at Sherlock, who, having finished his meal, lay sprawled at ease on the kitchen floor. He found the sight reassuring, for not only did cats sense things, they saw things humans didn’t, and the furry little beast’s relaxation level seemed pretty high.

“Okay,” he said, “but I need to check the rest of the apartment first.”
The shadows could be anywhere; better safe than sorry.

She bristled, but instead of arguing, she merely pressed her lips together for a moment, then bit out a “Fine.” Marching past him, she gave him a quick tour of her apartment. “This is the living room, which as you can see, is empty.” Buttery yellow paint on the walls, lots of light. The furniture was an eclectic mix of old and new, a brown leather couch and a worn velvet armchair, brightly colored throw cushions, and gleaming hardwood floors.

He trailed her down a short hallway, keeping an eye out for the shadows.

“This is the bathroom.” She flipped on the light. Small, mostly white, shower curtain open, leaving nowhere for anything to hide.

“This is my bedroom, which is completely off-limits.” A big room, with a comfortable-looking bed and a large, somewhat messy desk taking up an entire corner. The curtains were open, sunshine streaming into the room.

He started to push past her, intending to check the closet, but she blocked him with one slender arm. “What part of off-limits didn’t you understand?” she asked him tartly. This close, she had to crane her neck to glare at him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. Her breath smelled like pomegranates, the skin of her cheek appearing peach-soft and rosy with color.

“The closet,” he murmured, strangely fascinated by how dark her lashes were, and how perfectly they framed her green eyes.

She blinked, then turned to stalk toward the closet, which she jerked open, giving him a clear view of the contents. Just some clothes on hangers, shoes on the floor, boxes on the top shelf. “Nothing there, see?”

He nodded, a bit disconcerted by how easily he’d been distracted by her closeness.

“You want to look under the bed, too?”

A soft meow came from Sherlock as the cat brushed past him, leaping onto the bed as though claiming it for his own. Yellow feline eyes met his in perfect understanding.

“No need,” Gabe answered, no longer concerned that danger had followed Hope into the apartment.

“Good.” She waved him away from the door, then went past him, heading back to the kitchen. “Don’t be stingy with the soap.”

He waited in the hallway until he heard the rattle of pots and pans as Hope rummaged in a cupboard, and took the opportunity to run his hand lightly over the front door, leaving a trace of himself there as a warning to the shadows. Then he stepped into Hope’s bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Turning on the water, he stripped off his clothes, glad to be rid of his shirt, in particular. He opened the door just wide enough to drop it in the hallway outside. Showers were one of the things he truly enjoyed while in human form, so he took his time, soaping his body thoroughly and shampooing his hair twice. Then he stood beneath the hot water, letting it sluice over him as he wondered about the woman on the other side of the bathroom door, and how he could best help her.

Her hostility was unexpected, even though he’d bungled things a bit by charging up her front stairs. Every bit of evidence he’d seen pointed to her being a kindhearted soul: the whiteness of her aura, the friendliness and concern of the fruit vendor, her solicitude toward an elderly neighbor, even her offer to wash his shirt. Yet she didn’t seem to like him very much, and it wasn’t a reaction he was used to. In his experience, women were usually grateful for whatever help he offered, in whatever form he offered it. Hope’s response to his presence left him puzzled.

When the water began to run cold, he shut it off, and moved aside the shower curtain to step from the tub. It was then he saw the edge of a photo, sticking out beneath the bathroom rug. Carefully, not wanting to ruin it with wet fingers, he lifted the rug to see it better.