Devil's Deception (2 page)

Simmons led the way up the steps and rang the bell. Devlin looked away from the other man in order to resist the urge to punch him. This guy was turning in his lifelong associate to save his own hide. Who had said there was honor among thieves? Patria, whatever he was, trusted this man who was about to betray him and the situation left a bad taste in Devlin’s mouth.

Angela answered the door. He examined at close range the woman he’d last seen in tears.

She had dressed for the occasion, and had progressed from a tenuous eighteen to a mature and gracious . . . twenty-two? Her luxuriant hair was piled on top of her head and she wore a crisp navy linen dress with high heeled sandals. Pearls gleamed in her ears. Light makeup enhanced her features: a touch of mascara, a trace of coral lipstick. She led the two men into the marble floored foyer of the brownstone.

Devlin tore his eyes from the redhead and looked around him. The entry hall was illuminated by a crystal chandelier overhead and crystal sconces on the silk covered walls. A cherry grandfather’s clock faced them, complementing the cherry paneled wainscoting and the roll top desk to his right. A Ming vase stood on a glass enclosed pedestal, and a delicate watercolor done on rice paper was displayed prominently on the wall behind it. Patria had appropriated some of his imports for himself; the whole place reeked of money.

Devlin’s eyes moved back to the girl. She wasn’t beautiful, exactly; her hazel eyes were too wide set, her mouth was too full, she would be considered too thin for some tastes. But not for his. He could feel himself tensing with the force of his attraction, and he deliberately looked away to avoid staring at her.

Angela greeted Simmons, and then examined Devlin in the full light of the hall. Her first impression was that the lawyer had lost his mind. She studied the man with him and knew that Uncle Frank would never approve. It was apparent he’d had no hand in this selection.

The bodyguard was too young, too—Angela could hardly put a name to his challenging, masculine aura. She had expected another conservative, middle-aged- gray-suit type, like her uncle and his lawyer. Uncle Frank made sure she was surrounded by such men. With the single exception of her current escort, Philip Cronin, her uncle’s sales manager, all comers under the age of fifty were pointedly discouraged. Few chose to argue with Frank Patria and the invisible moat surrounding the fortress remained unbreached. Those who did venture across it were quickly driven off by their chilly reception.

All of which made Simmons’ companion a definite surprise. He was in his thirties, with thick, coal black hair layered from a center part and bold, arresting features. His eyes were a curious color, very light brown, not the mud brown of ordinary eyes, but the golden amber of vintage Kentucky bourbon. They regarded her from a face made distinctive by a broad forehead and a wide slash of mouth. He looked, as the absent Josie would have said, like a tough customer.

“Angela,” Simmons said, “this is Brett Devlin from the Somerton Detective Agency. Brett, this is Angela Patria.”

Devlin stepped forward to offer his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Devlin?” Angela murmured, riveted by those cat’s eyes fixed on her face.

Devlin nodded, but did not smile. His fingers clasped hers briefly and then withdrew.

Angela remained gazing up at him. He was tall, well over six feet, and whipcord lean. He was the type to give the impression of slimness when dressed, but she suspected he would be a revelation without his clothes.

Angela dropped her eyes, flushing. What on earth was the matter with her? Still she couldn’t help sneaking another glance at him. He was dressed casually in jeans and running shoes, a corduroy jacket open to reveal a tennis shirt underneath. His single bag was on the floor at his feet.

Angela swallowed, taking a breath.
This
man was going to guard her body? Someone should be guarding his.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Mr. Devlin,” she heard herself saying in a remarkably cool tone.

“I’m sure I will,” he replied. His voice was a husky bass.

“Is that all you brought with you?” she asked, pointing to the canvas gym bag on the floor.

“I travel light,” Devlin replied quietly.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Simmons said hastily. He seemed very edgy. He glanced around and asked, “Where’s Josie?”

“She left early for the day,” Angela replied. “Her daughter isn’t feeling well and she wanted to check on her.”

Simmons nodded, distracted. “Good night then, Angie. I’ll be in touch.” His eyes met Devlin’s, then slid away, and he left.

Angela was alone with Brett Devlin. She had no idea what to say to him. Was he to be treated as a guest, an employee, or what? Her innate good manners made her opt for the first choice.

“Can I get you something, Mr. Devlin?” she asked. “A drink? Something to eat?”

He shook his head. “But I’d like to smoke, if I may?”

Angela got him an ashtray from the coffee table in the living room. It was made of exquisite Venetian marble, and she saw him turn it over in his hands admiringly before he withdrew a packet of Players from his breast pocket. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, and regarded her thoughtfully from his superior height. Angela herself was tall, but he made her feel petite and . . . intensely feminine. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

His steady gaze unnerved her. “Shall I take your jacket?” she asked quickly, to give herself something to do.

“Thanks.” He put aside the cigarette and the ashtray, shrugging out of the blazer and handing it to her. Angela reached for it and then stopped short. He was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster strapped across his back, the weapon protruding from a pocket beneath his arm. It had been concealed by the coat.

He saw her eyes on the gun, saw the expression on her face. “It’s necessary, Miss Patria,” he said evenly.

Angela stood with his jacket, still warm from his body, in her hands. She nodded slowly without comment. The firearm was a grim reminder of this man’s purpose in her life. For a moment she had almost forgotten it.

“I’ll just put this away,” she managed, clearing her throat. “If you’ll come with me, your room is right down this hall.”

Devlin followed her, waiting while she hung his jacket in the front hall closet, and then continued in her wake as she showed him to a guest room with a bath which opened onto an adjacent corridor.

“I thought you would want to be close to the door,” Angela explained, leading him inside. “My . . . the other bedrooms are upstairs on the second floor.”

“This is fine,” Devlin replied, taking in the neutral blond furniture, bleached oak if he wasn’t mistaken, and the thick Chinese rug. Some care had been taken to make him comfortable; extra blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, and a stack of towels stood atop the carved armoire. A key extended from the lock of its top drawer. He turned back to Angela, and at that second a loud thud sounded in the vicinity of the front door.

All the blood drained from Angela’s face. Instinctive reaction made her fling herself into Devlin’s arms.

He caught her against him, alarmed. She was terrified. He could feel it in her trembling body, hear it in the frantic pace of her breathing. This was the reason for her tears earlier that day, for her clinging dependency now. She was truly frightened, and he was ashamed of his role in the deception that had manufactured this unwarranted fear.

Devlin soothed her, murmuring softly, and discovered that he did not want to let her go. He held her a few seconds longer than was necessary, and it was a few seconds too long. The single clip holding her hair came loose, and the rich auburn tresses spilled over his hands. Her perfume filled his nostrils, clean and fresh, with a faint citrus undertone. His fingers moved from her shoulders downward as he steadied her, and he found that he could almost span her waist with his hands. She was warm and pliant, soft and inviting despite her slimness. He was fully aroused in an instant. As Angela turned to gain her balance, her hip moved between his thighs and he heard her gasp as she felt the evidence of his desire.

Angela’s head fell back and she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and blank, seeming dark in the filtered light from the hall, her lips parted to reveal a glimpse of white teeth. Her breath caught for a moment, then came audibly. My God, Devlin thought, she feels it too. He released her suddenly, turning away in confusion.

He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, unwilling to look at her. He had to get a grip on himself. He was in this house to bring about her uncle’s destruction. The woman herself could be a part of Patria’s underworld empire. And even if not, he had to maintain a professional distance or his cause was lost.

Her voice came softly behind him. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I’m afraid I’m not handling all this very well, every little noise has me leaping out of my skin.”

“I’ll go and check the door,” Devlin said abruptly, brushing past her and heading for the hall. His fingers went automatically to the holster of his gun. The danger Angela feared was nonexistent, but in Devlin’s line of work other unexpected menaces appeared all the time.

He opened the door to find a newspaper wrapped in plastic lying on the porch, doubtless tossed there by a strong armed carrier. The sound of it rebounding from the door had catapulted Angela into his arms. Devlin picked it up and went back inside, handing it to Angela wordlessly.

She stared at it for a moment, and then looked up at him. “I feel ridiculous,” she said quietly. “It was only a newspaper. I seem to overreact to everything lately.”

“You have reason enough to be jumpy,” Devlin responded shortly. He retrieved the ashtray she’d given him and lit another cigarette. “What is your schedule like tomorrow?” he asked.

“My schedule?” Angela repeated, uncomprehending.

“What will you be doing?” he clarified. “The idea is for me to accompany you during your regular activities.”

“Oh.” She thought about it. “Well, I jog first thing in the morning, and then I go to school. I have a full load of classes tomorrow. After that, I’ll be coming home. I have a paper to do for Trusts and Estates.”

“Trusts and Estates?” he said, his lips twitching.

“It’s one of my courses. They all have names like that. The best one is Witness Readiness. The first time the class met the professor said he would give an automatic A to the person who could tell him what the title meant. Ready for whom? For what?”

She shrugged, and Devlin smiled. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and displayed a set of very attractive teeth. Angela dropped her gaze, reeling. She whirled abruptly and started to walk away from him.

Devlin grabbed her arm suddenly, and she immediately tried to wrench free.

“Let me go!” she said sharply.

He released her instantly. “I wasn’t trying to hold you,” he answered quietly. “You were about to trip over that bag.” He pointed to his carryall, which still sat on the rug directly in her path.

Angela could feel her face turning red, aware that she had made a fool of herself for the second time that night.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive my erratic behavior, it’s not often I acquire a bodyguard and terminal paranoia in the same day.”

“It was my fault,” Devlin said. “I shouldn’t have left it there.” He picked up the bag and deposited it on the sofa.

“I have some studying to do, so I’ll say good night,” Angela added quickly. “You’ll find everything you need in your room. I jog at seven. Will that be all right?”

He nodded. “Don’t adjust your schedule for me,” he responded. “Do what you normally do, and I’ll just follow along.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Angela said, and fled. She could feel his eyes on her as she went up the stairs, and didn’t relax until she had slammed the door of her room behind her.

She went to her dressing table and sat in the chair in front of the mirror, trying to repin her cascading hair. Her fingers were trembling too badly to work properly, and she gave up, letting it fall back over her shoulders. She stared into the glass at her pale, startled face.

What on earth was happening? She’d just met the man, but when he had held her and she’d felt his response to their proximity, it had taken an effort of will not to press herself into him. She wanted to bury her face in his broad chest, reveling in his strength and closeness.

Angela shook her head. This was unbelievable. Philip Cronin had been pursuing her for six months, and during his most fevered embrace she had never even come close to feeling the surging emotion of her brief interlude with Devlin.

What must he think of her? That the little lady who supposedly needed his protection was more footloose than frightened? She watched in misery as crimson color climbed into her face. But as she gazed into the mirror she was conscious of a kind of triumph mixed in with her embarrassment.

The man wanted her. That big dark man, with the lean, powerful body and eyes the color of aged whiskey, wanted her.

Angela wasn’t sure how to deal with this knowledge, but having it was a new and heady experience.

* * * *

Downstairs in the living room Devlin sat in a wing chair and watched the evening traffic passing by outside the large bay window. He lit another cigarette from the stub of the last and crushed the old butt in the ashtray he held in his lap.