Demon's Delight (9 page)

“I know what you mean.” She looked around the quiet area. “It will heat up later. You'll get more action in a few hours.”

“So you want to have coffee or somethin'?” Caitria looked like she really wanted to talk.

“I wish I could, but I'm meeting someone.” Rachel stood as she saw Gabriel. “Here he is now.”

He wore a black blazer over a black turtleneck sweater, with khaki pants and sleek black loafers. His thick, wavy hair brushed his wide shoulders, and he looked fit and solid as he approached them. “Hello, Rachel.” He smiled at her, strong white teeth flashing. Then he leaned down, unleashed that killer smile on Caitria. “Good evening, ma'am.”

She swept him with appraising glance. “Ooooh, sexy. You are mighty fine prime. Rach, you been holding out on me? I thought you didn't do regulars, although with pretty boy here, I'd sure make an exception if I was you.”

Rachel didn't know what to say, but Gabriel laughed. “We're just friends—for now. Going out for the evening.”

“Sure, lova boy, whatever you say.” Caitria looked past him at Rachel. “Looks like you're moving up in the world, lil' bitch. Have fun, now. Catch you later.” She waited until Gabriel stepped back, then gunned the car and screeched away.

Rachel stared after the car, unwelcome concern gnawing at her. “Her man's been hitting her.”

Gabriel's hand lightly touched her lower back. “I know.”

She turned to face him. “He's been doing it for years, but she stays with him. Why?”

Compassion filled his dark blue eyes. “People do things for a lot of reasons. It's her choice, her decision. Only she can change her situation.”

Rachel grimaced. “It's that free-will crap again, isn't it?”

A grin tugged at his sensuous lips. “Afraid so. Come on.” He took her arm, started up the street.

“Where are we going?”

“First we're going shopping.”

“Shopping? For what?”

“New clothes for you.”

She stopped and looked at him. “I have clothes. I don't need anything.”

“All you own is ‘work' clothing.” His gaze skimmed her. “And while it looks very…good on you, you need some play clothes.”

“I don't play, Gabriel.”

“Oh, but you're going to this week. You need something fun and relaxed to wear. And please call me Gabe.”

Fun? Relaxed?
As crazy as it was, she felt like she was dodging bullets here. In a single day, he'd managed to throw her well-ordered life into upheaval.
Seven nights
, she told herself. Then she could tell him to fuck off.

She stumbled along as he towed her up the sidewalk. “And who's going to pay for these new clothes?”

“You are. Use your credit card. You can afford it.”

He was right that she had a fairly sizeable nest egg squirreled away. Her needs were simple, and she lived in a modest condominium and drove an older car. She doled out some of her excess funds to the homeless and put the rest into investments. Now that she had a computer, she'd become pretty savvy in that area. But her stockpiled money was her security against the unforeseeable future. She didn't like to spend it.

Gabe stopped at a sleek, silver Nissan roadster parked in front of an adult bookstore and opened the passenger door for her. She slid onto a buttery-soft leather seat, eyed the instrument-laden dashboard. She wasn't sure what she had expected him to be driving, but somehow had envisioned something more old-fashioned and sedate. “Nice car.”

He glowed with male pride. “Sweet, isn't she? Six speed, V-6 engine, and handles like an angel.” He grinned at her. “A little celestial humor there.” He started the car, and rock music blared from the radio—another surprise. He pulled out and proceeded to drive like a seasoned race-car driver, flipping through the gears like they were light switches.

They went to NorthPark in north Dallas, and miraculously made it without an accident or speeding ticket. The mall was crowded, a lot of people in a confined place. She hated crowds. A familiar, frightening memory rose swiftly.
So many bodies crammed together in the cattle cars, so hard to breathe…

“Rachel! Snap out of it!” Strong hands gripped her arms.

Dazed, she stared up at Gabe. “Too many people.”

“You're not
there
anymore. You're here, in Dallas, where there's always going to be a
lot
of people. That's just the way it is,” he told her. “Take a deep breath and calm yourself.”

Somehow, his touch and his voice helped settle her, and the tension eased. He took her hand and held it firmly as he headed for Dillard's—better than Neiman Marcus, which she couldn't begin to afford.

At Dillard's, Gabe was a man on a mission. He led her to casual wear, where he picked out jeans and sweaters, then to dresses, where he added a chic, black long-sleeved sheath to the pile. She was just along for the ride, she thought dourly, as he escorted her to dressing rooms and handed her the clothes to try on. Everything fit, and she stared at the strange woman in the mirror. First jeans and sweater, which made her look impossibly young and innocent; then the sleek black dress, which made her look sexy, but in a classy way.

She had to admit Gabe had good taste; unfortunately, it was also very
expensive
taste. She cringed as the merchandise was totaled, and the sales clerk had to pry the credit card from her clenched fingers. “It will take months to pay that off,” she muttered as he picked up the bag and took her hand again.

“And you have lots of time, don't you? You work hard for your money, Rachel. You need to learn to enjoy it.”

Then he took her to the lingerie department, where she dug in her heels. “I don't need undergarments.” She never wore a bra—she wasn't that large, and it was easier to attract johns.

He looked pointedly at the outline of bare breasts beneath her spandex top. “Do you want every red-blooded male above the age of twelve staring at your chest wherever we go this week?”

“I don't care. In case you've forgotten, I'm a whore.”

Gabe glanced at a nearby sales clerk, who was avidly listening to every word. Frowning, he took Rachel by the elbow, pulling her farther into the seemingly endless sea of brassiere displays.

“First off, I don't know of any whores who make a living without actually performing sexual acts. Secondly, do you truly view yourself that way? When you look inside yourself, Rachel, is that what you
really
see?”

She didn't want to delve that deeply, to even consider her self-image. Gabe was making this way too difficult. She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him, her frustration rising. He stared back, calm, implacable, reminiscent of a cement wall. She had the feeling he could stand there all night until she gave in, and decided it wasn't worth it.

“Fine!” she snapped. “I'll wear some damned undergarments.”

“Good decision.” He scanned the displays, chose one and sifted through the bras, plucking out a lacy black one with a sexy décolletage. “Here. This should be your size.” He held it toward her, as he continued looking, extracting a pair of matching panties. “And here. These should work under your new jeans. They're no-line.”

She took them, surprised that he knew about such things as no-line panties. Since he'd been totally accurate on her size so far, she didn't try them on. She dug out the plastic again, ignoring the sales-person's piercing stare as she rang the sale.

Two more stops netted a pair of low-heeled ankle boots, high-heel pumps, a purse—and another sizeable charge. Rachel sulked about the expense all the way to her condominium, barely registering any surprise that Gabe knew where she lived. He dropped her off so she could unload her purchases and change while he waited. He didn't ask to come in, and she didn't offer. She didn't allow visitors to her private lair.

She had to admit her new jeans, sweater, and low boots were very comfortable. And the bra…well, it wasn't too bad. It was all lacy and frilly and made her breasts look fuller; gave them a nice line beneath the rose-toned sweater. She put a few things in her new purse and went outside to where Gabe waited.

From there, they went to the Angelika—she didn't miss the fact it had “angel” in the name—a movie house known for showing off-beat films. It just so happened they were having a John Travolta movie fest, and were showing—of all things—
Michael
, which was about an angel.

“Why am I not surprised?” Rachel muttered as she settled into a seat next to Gabe.

“Great movie,” he said, munching from the giant-sized bucket of popcorn he'd purchased. “Although it has some flaws.”

She hadn't been to a movie since…since before the war. The film quality and the color were amazing. She quickly got caught up in the story; found herself laughing in places—she rarely laughed—even felt a twinge of sadness in others. She didn't miss the obvious point of the movie—an angel coming to Earth to help some poor, misguided humans. She scoffed at the comparison. She wasn't poor or misguided, she was…What?

Outside of a vampire and a prostitute, what was she?
No. She wasn't going there.
As she'd been doing for years, Rachel blocked off the should-have-beens and could-have-beens. She did find Gabe's muttered comments about the movie's inaccuracies amusing. By the time they left the theater, she didn't feel so melancholy.

Gabe said very little as they drove to Harry Hines. They had decided she could work in her new outfit rather than go back to her condo to change. He pulled onto Shea and parked.

“So that's it for tonight?” Rachel asked, perplexed. There'd been no deep conversation, no earth-shattering revelations. “Just shopping and the movie?”

“Sorry, but I don't do more than that on the first date.” Gabe's eyes glowed with warmth and humor. “Simply having fun is a valid pastime. It's good for the soul.”

Anger burst through her. “Are you telling me you're going to drive me around, make me spend my money, and then watch stupid angel movies for seven days? That's a bunch of crap!”

“Rachel, Rachel.” He shook his head as if she were a child.

That steamed her even more. She balled her fist, ready to knock him into Tarrant County. The long, steady look he gave her made her think twice. She didn't normally resort to violence. Plus she probably couldn't hurt him, so what was the use?

“Emotion is good,” he said. “Rage, hatred, love, joy—it's all good. It means you're alive.” He shocked her by leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “Have a nice evening, Rachel. Wear your new dress tomorrow. Same time, same place?”

She watched him drive away. Well. That had been…She touched her cheek, which tingled where his lips had touched. She didn't know what that had been. Shrugging, she hitched her new purse over her shoulder and started her strut.

She found her first mark a few minutes later, a soldier on leave from Iraq. Since he was laying his life on the line for his country, she cut her price in half. “Aren't you a little young to be doing this?” he asked, eyeing her jeans and demure sweater.

“I'm old enough to know what I'm doing.” She cupped him, felt him harden against her hand. “And good enough you won't forget me.” She led him behind the closest building, slipped into his mind.

He was the young one, barely out of school, but had already seen more atrocities than most people saw in a lifetime. She could identify.

He thought she was sexy as hell and was torn between asking her to go down on him, or fucking her until the memories of war were obliterated—if only for a short while.

She solved his dilemma, taking him in her mouth for some stop-
and-go action that heightened his anticipation. When he was about to explode, she stood and pulled him against her and inside her, wrapping her leg around him as he pounded into her.

Then she took his blood, giving both of them the things they so desperately needed—oblivion and survival.

G
ABE
pulled in front of the same adult bookstore where he'd parked last night. Rachel was standing across the street, nervously tugging at the black dress. It looked great on her, snug enough to emphasize her curves, and with a square-cut neckline that offered a hint of cleavage. The high-heeled pumps completed her outfit. She really did have nice legs.

He noticed her breasts looked higher and rounder, so she must have been wearing the new bra. Smiling to himself, he thought about the expression on her face when he'd insisted she buy one.

A group of guys in a passing car let out some lewd whistles, and she flipped them off. That was his Rachel. She was definitely going to be one of his most intriguing and engaging challenges. Gabe got out and walked over. “You look beautiful tonight.” He took her hand and couldn't resist the urge to raise it to his lips. She nearly stumbled, her astonishment palpable. He hid a smile as he lowered her hand. “That dress looks wonderful on you.”

“T-thank you.” She eyed the dark gray sports coat he was wearing over a burgundy turtleneck and navy slacks; cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable with small talk. “Uh—you look nice, too.”

“Glad you think so.” When he came into this physical incarnation, Gabe had been chagrined to find he had a penchant for nice things, like designer clothing and fine cars. But he was philosophical about it, accepting the fact he was in a material body, with material urges. There was nothing in the Celestial Laws that prevented an angel in a human body from acting like a human. When in Rome, and all that.

“Where are we going tonight?” she asked as they walked toward his car.

He heard the sullen tone in her voice, knew she was still chafing at having to bend to his will—not to mention parting with some of her hoard. He didn't like strong-arming charges, but he wasn't losing another one. “More playing,” he said.

“Then why am I wearing this?” She gave an exasperated wave down her body. “The jeans worked fine last night. I didn't have to spend the extra money on a dress.”

“This is adult playtime.”

Her dark eyes narrowed, “Isn't
that
what I do every night? My johns sure think of it as recreation.”

He opened her car door. “What you do every night is simply survive, Rachel. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Her jaw tensed, and rebellion flared in her eyes. “Well, it's enough for me. It's what I want. Doesn't that count for anything?”

He started to respond, noticed her looking across the street. “What's wrong?”

She turned back. “It's probably nothing.”

“
What's
probably nothing?”

Concern filled her eyes. “It's the cat. She didn't want her food tonight. And she seemed really tired. I'm sure she's fine, but…she's just never refused food before.”

“
Gertie.
The cat's name is Gertie. It's all right to say her name. Are you telling me Gertie is sick?”

“No!” Rachel said vehemently. “She probably just played hard all night. Maybe someone else fed her. I'm sure that's it.”

“Maybe.” He closed the door and locked the car. “Why don't we go have a look?”

She followed him silently. They found the cat lying on her side by the Dumpster. She gave a feeble meow when Gabe squatted beside her. “Hey, Gertie,” he said softly, his hand a gentle caress along her fur. “What's the matter, girl?”

She stared at him through dull eyes, a small twitch of her tail her only response. Gabe rested his hand on her side. “She's hot.” He looked up at Rachel. “She
is
sick.”

“She can't be sick.” Distress emanated from her. “She was fine last night. She's still just a kitten. She's got a long time to live and—”

“
Rachel.
She's sick.”

Pain swept across her face before she whirled away. “So she's going to die. Is that what you're telling me?”

Scenes of death flashed from her mind into his—the lifeless bodies piled up. Her family, all dead. He stood and placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, felt her stiffen. “I only know that Gertie is sick. I can't tell you what's going to happen to her. We need to take her to a veterinarian.”

She turned to face him, a small ray of hope in her expressive eyes. “Do you think that might help?”

“Maybe. We can give it a try.”

She nodded. “I guess so.”

“Get her and let's go.” He pulled his keys from his pocket.

“
Me?
I can't do that. I don't want—I might hurt her.”

Gabe considered Rachel thoughtfully, noting the alarm on her face.
Ah.
He suddenly recognized this situation as an opportunity, for which he was vastly grateful. He knew what he wanted to accomplish with Rachel—for her to realize her full potential as a woman, as a human, and as a child of God—but he wasn't exactly sure how to go about it.

Contrary to popular belief, angels did
not
have all the answers. Not for the first time in his somewhat-tarnished career, he'd wished there was a celestial
How to Help Your Charges
guide for angels. But no assignments came with an instruction manual. He was on his own. Yet here was a chance for Rachel to cement a tie with a living creature—something she'd resisted since the loss of her family.

“She's your cat, so you have to carry her,” he said. “I can't hold her while I'm driving, anyway.”

“She's
not
my cat,” she hastened to explain. “She lives behind the Dumpster, and I just…feed her sometimes.”

“All right then. We don't have to do this. We'll just leave her here. No reason to get involved with a stray. Let's go.”

“But…we can't do that. She's sick.”

“What's it going to be, Rachel? It's your call.
You
found her,
you
rescued her, and
you
feed her
every
night. In my book, that makes her
your
cat, whether or not you're willing to admit it. If we're going to do this, get her, and let's go.” He strode away without a backward glance, leaving it up to her.

He waited by the car, watched Rachel walk slowly toward him, awkwardly holding Gertie and looking utterly terrified. Keeping a straight face, he got them in the car. He used his cell phone to find an emergency vet, and drove there fast.

The animal clinic was busy, with at least ten cats and dogs in various states of illness or injury—and every one of them was wildly attracted to Rachel. She sat on a hard plastic chair with Gertie carefully cradled in her arms, as baffled pet owners tried to reign in their straining animals.

She looked completely out of place in her chic black dress—now covered with cat hair—and sleek pumps, like a real pearl amidst fake jewels. Gabe signed them in, completed paperwork, and came to stand beside her, as all the seats were taken. “Busy night,” he commented, watching one particularly determined basset hound named Percy lunge to the end of his leash.

They finally saw a veterinarian, a compassionate young woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden braid down her back. Gertie cried pitifully when blood was drawn from her tiny leg, while Rachel stared intently at the tube, her eyes glazing over. “Stop looking at that,” Gabe murmured, turning her away. “You'll get to eat later.”

After another long wait, they received the diagnosis: Gertie had an infection that was readily treatable with an antibiotic. One problem—the medicine had to be given three times a day. “We can handle it,” Gabe assured Dr. Conner, taking the bottle she held out.

Rachel missed the exchange, because she was too shocked by the bill, and by the fact that Gabe insisted she pay it. She watched morosely as the receptionist ran her credit card through. “Highway robbery,” she hissed to him as they walked out.

“The price of being responsible for someone—or some animal—you love.” He raised his eyes heavenward in silent thanks.

“What? I don't lov—”

“You know you're going to have to take Gertie home with you,” he interrupted. “There's no other way you can be sure she gets her medicine three times a day.”

Rachel stared at him, flabbergasted. “I couldn't possibly take her home.”

He opened the car door. “She's your cat.”

“No, she's not!”

“We've already been through this. If you don't take care of her, who will?”

“You?”

“She's not my responsibility. But if you don't want to do it, we'll just take her back to the Dumpster.”

Rachel looked like she had a noose closing around her neck. “I don't know anything about cats.”

“You'll learn. Come on.” Gabe ushered her into the car. “We'll go buy everything the well-supplied cat owner needs.”

They found a Wal-Mart that was open twenty-four hours a day; and in the pet department, a staggering array of cat products. Fortunately, Gabe knew a little bit about cat care, and piled litter pan, cat litter, food, dishes, toys, and fleece bed—a pink one—into the cart. Rachel practically snarled when he made her dig out her credit card again.

“I'll be bankrupt by the end of seven nights,” she snapped at him. He couldn't help it—he laughed. Good thing her glare couldn't disintegrate him.

They went to Rachel's condo, and she reluctantly allowed him in, because she didn't have a clue about litter boxes and cat stuff in general. Like the rest of her life, her place was stark, bare, with only a few pieces of furniture and no adornments. Interestingly, she did have a CD player and a receiver, along with a large collection of classical CDs. So she liked music, a fact Gabe stored away.

A while later, they left Gertie there, on her new fleece bed, with bowls of food and water and litter box nearby. Rachel had changed back into her customary street attire, handing over the black dress to Gabe, as he'd offered to have it dry-cleaned.

He dropped her off at Harry Hines so she could conduct her necessary business. She looked unusually vulnerable as he drove away, standing in the shadow of the tattoo parlor and staring after him. He offered a prayer of thanks to a Higher Being for assistance, for the blessing of one small gray-and-white cat.

Rachel didn't know it yet, but between him and Gertie, her well-ordered life was about to be totally disrupted.

 

Rachel awoke to soft snoring. Her first, groggy thought was
Aaron
. Her younger brother had always been a mouth breather when he slept, and the whole family teased him about his snoring.
Aaron, you are loud enough to summon Elijah. Surely Hashem can hear you up in heaven.

Could it be…? No, Aaron was dead. The grief cut through her before she could head it off. She jolted upright and blinked as she stared at…the cat, curled on her pillow, right against the outline where Rachel's head had been.

With a high-pitched meow, the cat uncurled and did an amazing stretch before daintily treading across the pillow and butting her head against Rachel. Tentatively, she stroked the soft fur.

Obviously, the cat was much better tonight—livelier, its eyes bright and alert. The medicine must be working. It was time for another dose—and to feed the cat. Rachel wrinkled her nose as her highly developed sense of smell picked up a rank odor. And to scoop the litter box like Gabe had shown her.

She'd known no good would come of this. Better not to be responsible for anyone but herself. Better…and safer.

 

She told Gabe as much when he asked about the cat. “She followed me everywhere tonight,” she said, still baffled over the cat's odd devotion. “And she kept batting at my robe, then climbed up the drapes, all the way to the top!”

Gabe smiled. “She's just being a cat. She follows you around because you're her surrogate mother.”

His words made a funny feeling curl through her stomach. She shook her head in denial. “Cats don't think of people as parents.”

“Sure they do. And you have adopted Gertie—or maybe it's the other way around.” Gabe chuckled. “If you could see your face. Having someone or something to care about isn't a bad thing. No way around it, you and Gertie are stuck with each other.”

She told herself he was wrong, but didn't waste her breath arguing. “Where are we going tonight?”

He accelerated the car down Harry Hines, shifted gears. “First, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“I guess not.”

“How old where you when the war started?”

Tension shot through her body. This was a topic she'd always avoided. “I don't want to talk about that.”

“But—”