Love Knows No Bounds (4 page)

“Dang,” Faye said.

“What?”

“I can’t connect here.”

Christopher took out his phone to check. He swung it from side to side, searching for service. “Huh, that is strange. I’ve been here before and have never had any troubles.” He dropped his phone into his shirt pocket. “Guess we’ll have to entertain ourselves.”

His eyes traveled down, and back up, her body. Was he flirting? He sure seemed to be flirting.

“You mean rely on polite conversation?” She made an icky face. “How barbaric.”

He laughed. “All right, I guess we could do that.”

The car stopped and the driver jumped out to open Faye’s door before she even reached for the door handle. He held out his hand. Christopher cleared his throat, but she ignored him.

“Thank you…”

The driver gave her a warm smile. “Roger, ma’am.”

She took his hand and stood. “Thank you, Roger.”

As she exited the car, three of the men straightened away from the truck. One shoved a hand into the waist of his pants, cramming his shirttail inside. Another absently ran his fingers through his hair, while the third huffed into his hand and sniffed to check his breath. Was all that for her? She glanced at Christopher, who was staring at her over the top of the car, looking like he wanted to laugh.

Faye dug in her messenger bag, falling back on Rule #2 of The Shy Girl’s Guide:
If you become the center of uncomfortable focus, keep busy. Occupied hands ward off anxiety paralysis.

“Mr. Adams?” Christopher asked.

A large man in his mid-fifties met them halfway. “Yep. Mr. White?”

“Yes, sir, and this is Faye Albert.”

The man tipped his cap, revealing a sweaty circle of bald head. “Ma’am. And these are my sons.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams.” Her gaze traveled to the four young men standing behind him. She smiled in their general direction, making sure not to look any of them directly in the eyes, and turned back to Mr. Adams. “Mr. White would like to take some photos before you start disassembling the church. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“It’s your dime. We’ve got all day,” Mr. Adams said.

“Thank you,” Faye said.

Christopher hiked his bag over his shoulder. “Better get started.”

He left her standing with the work crew. She fumbled in her bag again and drew out a file, still trying to ignore the men who seemed to have no intention of
not
staring at her.

“Everything inside the church, all pieces of, and anything within the fence, should be delivered to this address.” She focused on Mr. Adams and handed him a printed map. “This is Mr. Shogun’s studio warehouse. There’s should always be somebody there, but if not, here’s my cell number. Just give me a call.”

He handed the map off to one of the young men and deposited her card in his front shirt pocket. “We can start delivering today and finish up by Monday.”

“Perfect.” Faye smiled and snapped her bag shut. “Well, I’ll go check on Mr. White.”

She shoved the file back into her bag and straightened. The men still stared and for the first time, she understood what Whitney’s life must be like. Sure, the open appreciation gave her a heady feeling of confidence, but they only lusted for her because it was one of the perks of being bound to the Devil. Bummer.

The men parted like the Red Sea. It was getting rather creepy. They acted like they’d never seen a woman before. She marched past them and down the uneven stone walkway to the chapel, trying not to trip. She could almost feel their stares burning against her rear-end.

A wave of nausea rolled through her when she set her foot onto the step of the chapel. She stopped and placed her hand against the cool stone, trying to calm her churning stomach. An electric shock ricocheted down her arm. She snatched her hand back , rubbing it against her chest and stepped away from the wall. Her gaze scanned the front of the church looking for loose electrical wires. Nothing seemed out of place and the chapel didn’t appear to be connected to electricity.

With a tentative step, she inched her way through the doorway. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the chapel. Narrow beams of sunshine filtered through thin slits near the roof and cast bright slashes across the stone floor. Dried leaves collected around the edges of the walls and dark green moss clung between the crumbling stones of the wall.

The click of Christopher’s camera echoed through the hallowed chamber. Faye watched him point the lens toward a sunbeam and snap several pictures. She’d seen his work. He was one of those truly talented photographers, whose eye saw more than just the composition of a good photo.

“What are the pictures for?” she asked.

“Some are for a photo spread Pierre wants to do about the chapel.” He turned and pointed the camera at her, snapping off several shots before she had a chance to react. “And some are for me.”

He lowered the camera and smiled at her.

Faye tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not very photogenic.”

Christopher walked toward her and stopped. He scrolled through the pictures. “I disagree.”

He held the camera out to her. When she reached to tilt the screen for a better view, her fingers brushed his. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Maybe the church’s intimate atmosphere was making her feel things that weren’t there. She didn’t pull away like she normally would have, but let her finger linger a second longer. Who knows, maybe having signed her soul to Satan was making her reckless. Rejection seemed a small issue compared to what she might be facing.

Faye stared at the photo of her. Did she really look like that? Soft rays illuminated her unruly locks that had escaped her ponytail, creating a halo around her head. With the stone background, she looked like someone from medieval times, a portrait of a young maiden.

“It’s beautiful.” She looked at him, her compliment dying in her throat. He stood close, his blue eyes peering at her as if her opinion mattered. “You’re a true artist if you can make me look this good.”

His words came out low, tinged with a sensual edge. “The camera doesn’t lie.”

She couldn’t tear her gaze away, frozen in place as his lips lowered toward hers. Was he going to kiss her? God, she hoped he was going to kiss her. The shrill ring of her cell phone shattered the moment.

“Sorry.” Her voice rasped out. She cleared her throat and fumbled in her bag to find the electronic saboteur. “Good morning, Mr. Shogun.” Christopher stepped away and returned to his task. “Yes, I’m here now.”

“And is that yummy photographer with you?” her boss asked.

Faye turned toward the wall, trying to hide her embarrassment. “Uh, yes, sir. He’s taking photos.”

“Lucky girl. What’s he wearing?”

Pierre Shogun was outrageous, flamboyant clothing, white bleached bangs, and more rings on his hands than a gypsy fortuneteller. For the most part she was able to dodge his shocking comments. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Does he have on those luscious tight jeans?”

“Well…” She pivoted. Christopher faced away from her. She had to admit, her boss had an eye for men. “Yes.”

Christopher slid a lens cap into his back pocket, his hand lingering as he bent to look at the stone altar.
Lucky lens cap.

Pierre sighed on the other end of the phone. “Lucky girl. You’ll make it happen, right Faye?”

She tore her gaze away from Christopher’s butt and stammered. “What?”

“The shipment of stone, no problems?”

Faye blushed. For a second she’d thought her boss meant she and Christopher—together—but that was silly. “No problems, Mr. Shogun. The stones should arrive Monday morning.”

“Fab! You’re appreciated this morning,” he said in a sing-song voice, and ended the call.

She stared at the phone. Never before had Pierre Shogun acknowledged her dedication or efficiency, and he’d used her name. A smile tugged at her lips. What started as a horrible day wasn’t turning out half bad. She pulled out her personal cell phone and checked for reception. Four bars. She checked her email, searching for a reply from Twitter. It had only been three hours, but a girl could hope. No new messages. Out of curiosity, she hit the Twitter app. A new message popped onto her feed.

@CrispyCream A new you found in me

She scrunched up her face. “What the heck it that supposed to mean?”

“Something wrong?”

Faye jumped and spun to face Christopher. “What? No.” She held up her phone. “We’ve got reception now.”

He tilted his head and took hold of her wrist, staring at her screen. It took a second before she realized he was reading her Twitter feed. She pulled against his grip, but he held her steady, his gaze slowly tracking to her face.

“You follow Satan?”

She yanked again, this time successfully extricating herself from his hold, blushing from her stupidity. She wanted to tell him it was nothing, just a joke, but her Catholic upbringing wouldn’t let her lie. “Yes.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

There was no humor in his statement. “I’m not.” She stared at the neck of his T-shirt, unable to meet his gaze. “It was supposed to be a joke but…”

“But?”

She sighed. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

She looked at him. “I think he’s the real thing.” She pressed on the Devil’s profile and handed the phone to Christopher. “I think I might have bound my soul to Satan.”

Laughter, insults…she wasn’t sure what she expected. It definitely hadn’t been belief. He let out a low whistle.

“Have you tried to unfollow?” he asked.

“Yes, but my computer freezes and then a denial message pops on my screen.”

He handed her phone back. “What else have you tried?”

“I’ve submitted a complaint that my account has been compromised. I’m hoping Twitter can unfollow him for me.”

“Let’s hope it’s that easy.”

She wanted to believe it was, but things never happened that way for her. “Yeah. I also tried to exorcise my computer with a tinfoil cross.”

That garnered her one of his dimpled smiles. “And?”

“Still chained to an eternity of damnation.” She paced along the length of the altar. “I think I need something stronger.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Holy water, maybe a young priest and an old priest?”

“You’re going to perform an exorcism on your computer?” His smile widened. “Please say I can watch.”

She stopped and scowled at him. “Do you have any better ideas?”

“No.” His smile faded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make jokes.”

“I’m an idiot. It never fails; when I try to do anything outside my comfort zone it always bites me in the butt.”

“You certainly aren’t the first person to do something stupid.”

“Uh, thanks…I think.”

He closed the distance between them. “Listen, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’d like to help…if you let me.”

“You don’t happen to be a minister or a priest, do you?”

“No, but I did grow up in a big Catholic family.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “So I know how Satan works. I’ve learned a few tricks from my mother about banishing sin.”

Her cheek tingled from where his fingers had skimmed across her skin. From the time she’d moved to New York, she couldn’t remember anybody wanting to help her. Usually it was the other way around. Pierre used her like a personal gopher. Whitney used her in more ways than she could count. Even sweet Mrs. Perkins wasn’t above using her.

“I’ve traveled around the world and have seen a lot of strange, unexplainable things. Plus I’ve seen you work. You’re efficient and level-headed. If you say this is the Devil, then I believe you.” His words held no hint of sarcasm or mocking.

“Thank you.” She slid her phone back into her purse. “Really, it means a lot that you believe me.”

He stepped forward, making her look up at him. “I like you, Faye.”

What did he mean by that? Was it a
Hey, let’s get a beer and throw darts
like, or an
I want to kiss you
like? She swallowed hard. “I like you, too, Christopher.”

His gaze wandered across her face as if searching for meaning in her words. She held her breath.
Please kiss me. Please kiss me.

“I’d better finish up so Mr. Adams can get to work.” He smiled, stepped away, and snapped off several quick shots of her.

“The church.” She shooed him with her hands. “Not me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She walked to the door. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

His laughter followed her outside.

Chapter Three

Saturday Afternoon

On the ride back to the city they discussed possible solutions to Faye’s devil problem, but neither she nor Christopher came up with any brilliant plans. The car turned down 42
nd
street and Faye caught sight of a small shop squeezed between a large store and a church.

She leaned forward in the seat. “Roger, can you stop here?”

The car veered to the side and screeched to a halt. Horns blared around them and Faye slammed backward into Christopher’s solid chest. His hands clamped onto her breasts and held her against him. A thrill of pleasure rushed through her, then mortification set in. She stiffened, waiting for him the release her, but he didn’t remove his hands.

“Christopher?”

His voice whispered against her ear. “Yes?”

“Can I have my boobs back?” Several seconds passed before he released his hold. She sat forward. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you.”

Dang, she really shouldn’t be so thrilled that he’d enjoyed groping her. How long had it been? College, freshman year? She straightened her bag and gave him a strained smile.

“Do you want me to wait for you, Ms. Albert?” Roger said over the front seat.

“No, I can catch the subway from here.” The look of disappointment on his face almost made her change her mind, but she had evil things to vanquish. “You’ve been invaluable today.”

“If you need anything, just give me a call.” He produced a shiny black business card and handed it to her. “Anything at all.”

She pinched the corner of the card, making sure not to touch his fingers and took it. He was looking at her the same way the creepy guy in the coffee shop had, intense and unblinking. “Thank you. I will.”
Not.

Christopher opened the door, slid out, and offered her his hand. “I’m coming with you.”

Faye hesitated. It hadn’t been a question. Warmth spread through her fingers and up her arm when she touched his hand. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but of all the weird reactions she’d gotten from people today, his seemed most believable. Everybody else grated on her, as if they were all in on some private joke, trying to make her believe they found her attractive.

“Thank you.” She let go and pointed to the shop. “I’m going in there.”

He silently read the sign and nodded. “Can’t hurt.”

A small bell over the door jingled as Faye pushed open the door. Cool air enveloped her. The heavy glass door whooshed shut behind her, locking out the street noise and sealing her and Christopher inside.
Amazing Grace
wafted from the speakers mounted on the ceiling. He stopped beside her.

Crucifixes of every shape and size hung on peg board along one wall. A display of rosary beads dominated a table in the center of the aisle. Faye inched forward, scanning the religious paraphernalia.

“One-stop shopping for all your religious needs,” he said.

She gave him a weak smile. “That’s an understatement.”

“Can I help you find something?” said a voice from behind a shelf of bobblehead Jesuses.

They wove their way toward the back and turned a corner. A little old lady with bright blue hair sat in a rocking chair working on a half-crocheted afghan. A ball of yarn as big as her head lay nestled in a blue canvas bag at her feet; slowly unrolling with each stitch.

“Hello,” Faye said. “Do you carry holy water?”

“Sure do.” The old woman set the blanket aside, gave a few weak rocks, and hefted her thin frame out of the chair. “It’s over here next to the fiber optic burning bushes.” With a rhythmic shuffle, she made her way across the store. “We’ve got 16-ounce, 20-ounce, or liter bottles.” She stopped in front of a cooler. “What do you need it for?”

“I…uh...” Faye glanced at Christopher for help. He shrugged. Oh what the hell? “I need it to exorcise the Devil from my computer.”

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “We see a lot of that. So how bad is it?”

Faye shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean did he lead you down the path of temptation or will your soul be the main course at Satan’s BBQ?”

She grimaced. “Main course.”

The old lady let out a low whistle and shoved a bottle at her. “You best get the liter bottle then. You may want to check out our sale on genuine silver-plated crucifixes, nice and powerful.” She shuffled past them. “And I’ll give you a deal on the Pocket Pal and bobblehead Jesus. Buy one and the other is half-off.”

Faye clutched the holy water to her chest, suddenly overcome with panic at the idea of trying to exorcise Satan. Maybe she’d watched too many horror films, but it usually never ended well for the nondescript actress. Her voice wavered. “Thank you.”

Christopher’s hand settled on her shoulder. “It will be all right.”

She looked at him and nodded. But what if it wasn’t all right? What if, despite all her efforts, the Devil won?

“Come on,” he said, as if understanding her despair. “Let’s shop.”

They left the store loaded down with a liter of holy water, two bobbleheads, a silver-plated crucifix, one fiber optic burning bush, three rosary strands, and a snow globe of the nativity scene. The old lady had thrown in a Pocket Pal Jesus
for free. Faye had slipped it into her bra. No harm in keeping the Son of God close.

“What now?” Christopher asked.

Faye hesitated. Having him with her when she attempted the exorcism would be great, but the last thing she wanted was for him to get a look at Whitney. As much as she tried not to gush, she was beginning to like Christopher—a lot. But once he saw her roommate, things would change. That’s how it was when you lived with a super-model, constantly seeing men fawning and falling all over themselves. “I guess I’ll go home and try to vanquish Satan.”

He nodded and took the bag from her. “Good idea. Let’s get this over with.”

She gave him a weak smile. What did it matter if he met Whitney? Better now than after she’d fallen hopelessly in love with him, which usually happened around week three of dating. Not that they were going to date—but in case they did. He was staring at her, waiting for a response. “Let’s go.”

Three subway rides later, they stood at her apartment door. Maybe Whitney was at a shoot, or shopping, or having her bikini line waxed. Faye slid the key into the door. The lock clicked and opened on the first try. “That’s weird. Usually it sticks.”

“Your lucky day,” he said.

“Maybe.” It didn’t feel lucky. Actually, it felt kind of ominous, like the creaky door that opens by itself in a horror movie. She pushed the door and it swung wide. No Whitney, or any other evil entity that she could see. “Come in.” Faye slid the bag onto the kitchen counter. “Welcome to my humble home.”

“Nice place.” He stepped inside and followed her into the open kitchen. “Do you live here alone?”

“No.” She pulled the bottle of water out of the bag and set it on the counter, avoiding his gaze. “I have a roommate.”

“A girl roommate?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Good what? Good because he wanted to get a look at the other female occupant? Or good because it wasn’t a guy? She didn’t dare hope she’d heard a twinge of jealousy in his question.

“So,” he said, turning to her. “Where’s the possessed computer?”

“In my bedroom.”

His eyebrows raised in what looked like pleasant surprise. “Good.”

She grabbed the bag and led him into her room. Her monitor looked the same—dark, ordinary even. No flames leapt from the inside. And it wasn’t levitating or spewing acid around the room. She pointed. “That’s it.”

Christopher walked to her desk and sat down. He wiggled the mouse, bringing the screen to life and displaying her Twitter feed. The whole situation seemed less frightening with him here. “He’s been busy.”

Faye inched forward, the ominous feel returning. “Who has?”

He turned and smiled at her. “Hopeless Romantic.”

Heat spread up her neck. OMG, what had he said? The need to reassure Christopher there was nothing between her and HR rushed through her. “He’s just a Twitter friend. We’ve never met in person.”

“Why not?”

“Um…” How could she answer that without looking like a complete loser? “The opportunity never came up.”

“And if it did?”

Much to her dismay, it wasn’t jealousy she was hearing in his voice. Best to play it cool. She shrugged. “Yeah, why not. He seems like a nice guy.”

She wasn’t certain but she thought he smiled as he spun back to face her desk. Crap, maybe she’d read the signals wrong. He’d said he liked her, but maybe it was buddy-like. Double crap.

“So what’s first?” he asked.

She dug in the bag and pulled out the silver-plated crucifix. “I say we hit it with the big guns.”

He stood and pushed the chair out of the way, giving her a look of wide-eyed anticipation. “All right, let Satan have it.”

How the hell did she get herself into this? How could he not think her an idiot? For the first time in forever she had a guy in her room—a great looking guy—and instead of giving her mattress a test run, she was attempting to cast Satan out of her computer. Christopher said he believed her, but honestly, he must think she was a complete whack-job.

“Maybe we should put the other stuff on it first. You know, give the crucifix a little extra whammy,” she said.

“Good idea.” He took the bag from her and walked back to the computer. He set one bobble-headed Jesus on the CPU and the other on the keyboard. Each rosary was draped over the monitor. The nativity snow globe sat to the right of the monitor and the burning bush to the left, glowing in all its orange and red fiber-optic glory. He stepped back and surveyed his creation. “All set.”

Faye lifted the cross with a shaky hand. What if it didn’t work? Sure, the attention she was getting was kind of nice, but it wasn’t worth the price. What if it
did
work? Would her computer come to life and destroy the upper level of her apartment building? Would apartment 7G become the entrance to Hell?

“Hey,” said a voice from the doorway.

Faye screamed and swung around, wielding the cross in front of her. Whitney stood in the entrance, gleaming with sweat in the tiniest of workout outfits, and holding the half empty bottle of holy water. “You scared the crap out of me.”

She took a big chug of the water and swallowed. “What are you guys doing?”

“Whitney?” Faye snatched the near empty bottle from her hand. “Why are you drinking this?”

“I was thirsty.” Whitney cocked a brow. “Besides, I figured this is what you’ve been drinking to make your skin look so good.”

Faye shook the bottle at her. “No, I haven’t been drinking this.”

Her roommate shrugged. “What are you getting so upset about? It’s only water.”

“Not just water, holy water.” Whitney stared at her. “Blessed by a priest.” Still no response. “To cleanse the soul?”

“Oh, I thought it was some kind of special detox diet water.”

“Yeah, to detox my computer.” Faye raised the bottle, eyeing the level. “I’ll probably need to get more.”

“Who’s your friend?”

Faye glanced up to see Whitney’s gaze riveted on Christopher. A predatory interest gleamed in her eyes. Crap. “This is Christopher. We work together. He’s a photographer for Mr. Shogun.”

Faye cursed herself. Telling Whitney he was a photographer was like chumming for sharks.

Whitney gave her ponytail a graceful brush and stepped into the room. “A photographer? How fascinating.”

“Christopher.” Faye pointed the cross at her roommate, dreading his inevitable interest. “This is my roommate, Whitney.”

“Hello.”

She lowered the cross and chanced a look at him. He smiled but didn’t seem overly moved by the heat-seeking missile of curves moving toward him.

“Nice to meet you…” She struck a well-practiced
at-ease
pose and lowered her voice to a purr. “Christopher.”

He smiled but didn’t say anything else. An awkward silence stretched between them while Whitney waited for the usual response. When it didn’t come, she straightened. Something that felt a lot like smug satisfaction threatened to make Faye smile.

Whitney crossed her arms, pushing her boobs almost out of her abused sports bra. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Faye said. She gave Christopher a silent plea not to say anything. Maybe it was a combination of her possessiveness over him and her desire to avoid Whitney’s criticism, but Faye realized she didn’t want to share the exorcism with anybody but him. “We were just talking about work.”

Whitney gave a throaty laugh. “Work, that’s all she thinks about.” Her eyes widened. “Hey, I have V.I.P. tickets to a new dinner-dance-club,
Kapow
. Wanna come?”

Faye pinned the back of Whitney’s head with a glare that should have ignited her scrunchie and burned a hole through her brain. “I’m sure Christopher has plans.”

“Are you going?” he asked her.

Whitney spun and glided to Faye, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Of course she’s coming. Faye just loves to hang out with me and my friends. Poor girl hardly leaves the house. It’s a real treat when she ventures from her hole.”

Heat crept up Faye’s neck. Like usual the words were an attempt to belittle her, but things were different today. This time she cared what Christopher thought. She opened her mouth to reply.

“I’m a homebody myself,” he said, cutting off her snarky retort. “And yes, if Faye is going, I’d love to go.”

Whitney’s lips tightened and her one-armed hug slipped free from Faye’s shoulder, her voice sounding a little higher than was natural. “Great. I’ll leave your ticket at the door.”

He gave her a dimpled grin. “Can’t wait.”

With a stiff spine and a fake smile, she pivoted and left the room.

Faye cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms over her chest, producing nowhere near the results Whitney’s action had. “Are you really a homebody?”

He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

She scrutinized him, trying to figure out if he was messing with her. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type do I seem like?” He stared.

She shrugged.

He flicked his head toward the door. “Her type?”