Raising Hell (11 page)

And, frankly, Nick couldn’t wait for the end.

Lila had no idea
what sort of goody-two-shoes naiveté had possessed her in the cab, but once they reached the club she wanted to make absolutely certain it was gone. She let Nick slide out first, then leaned forward. The Plexiglas barrier in so many cabs was missing from this one, and she reached over, plucking back the fare that Nick had just paid. “Mad money,” she said by way of explanation. “Now go, or you might get hurt,” she added, backing her bluff with steel in her eyes.

He nodded, and she laughed as she slid out of the cab. Pathetic little man, not even able to stand up to a woman. She was about to say as much to Nick when she saw the expression on his face—surprise mixed with disappointment and disapproval. And something else, too. Guilt, maybe?

She wanted to lay into him, to tell him that she may have been naive once, but not anymore, and if he had any sympathy he could just save it for someone who cared.

She couldn’t get the words out, though, because when she opened her mouth, all she wanted to do was plead for him to help her.
This isn’t me!
she wanted to scream. And yet the words wouldn’t come out. The fact that the words were there at all terrified her. Was she losing her mind?

She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and pushed her doubts away. She was at the club to have fun, and that’s exactly what she intended to do.

They were ushered into the club right away, Nick’s celebrity causing the door to open wide. Women gravitated toward him, edging close and whispering decadent things in his ear.

He steered them through the crush, finding a secluded table in the back. “Don’t you like them?” she asked.

“I like you,” he said.

“If you like one of them, that’s fine. Pick one and bring her home with us.”

He held up a hand, his face stern. “Just stop, okay? Just stop.”

She shrugged. “Fine. It was just a suggestion.” She fidgeted in her chair, caught a waitress’s eye, and signaled for her. “Scotch,” she said. “Straight up.”

“Delilah…”

“Don’t start, Nicky.” She sighed and looked around, her foot tapping. “Damn, I feel antsy.” She scanned the crowd, saw a small package change hands across the room, then leaned over and gave Nick a hard kiss. “Be right back,” she said.

She eased her way through the crowd, then pressed her hand against the back of a blond guy with tousled hair and wild eyes. “Dance with me?”

He didn’t answer, but pulled her onto the dance floor. They writhed and moved together, Lila shooting glances back toward Nick. She saw him once through the crowd, his eyes burning into her. Another twirl, and when she looked again, the table was empty. She blinked, wondering where he went.

“What’s wrong?” the guy asked.

She shook her head.

“Were you really looking for a dance? Or were you more interested in my other services?” he asked, obviously referring to the little packages she knew he had hidden on him somewhere, and that could be hers for a price.

“What have you got?”

“For you? Anything.” He took her hand and tugged her off the floor, then down a hallway and out into an alley.

The sultry night air seemed to envelope them, and she leaned against a brick wall, watching him do his pitch. “So whaddya think? Wanna try a little horse?”

“I don’t have any cash on me,” she said, wondering if she’d actually have the nerve to go through with it, and knowing, somehow, that she did. That she truly wanted to. She wasn’t that crazy about the person she’d been lately. Numbing her senses might be just the ticket.

He looked her up and down, his expression beyond lascivious. “No problem, sugar. I’m a big proponent of the barter system.”

She brushed her hair out of her face, the movement little more than a delay. But why was she stalling? This man was right there, willing to offer her an escape for a price she could so easily pay. So why was some tiny voice in her head screaming that she didn’t want what he had to offer? And that the price was way, way too high?

She closed her eyes, forcing the dissenting voice to shut up. She didn’t want to be that girl again, did she? The sweet little girl from Alabama, so naive she practically tripped over her own feet as she craned her neck to look at the tall buildings. No, she didn’t. But she also didn’t want this man. She wanted Nick. But Nick wasn’t there with her, and the little demon in her head was urging her,
Go on, don’t stop. You wanted to go wild, didn’t you?

Did she?

Enough!

She forced herself not to think and to simply act. She took a step toward him, her fingers brushing his collar. “Barter, huh? I guess I’ll have to figure out exactly what I have that you might want.”

He leered. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

“You look like the enterprising type.”

He reached out and grabbed her roughly around the waist. It wasn’t Nick, but she could close her eyes and still get lost in the sensations. And the point was the barter, anyway, right? A means to an end? A few moments where she pretended he was Nick, and then he’d give her the package and she could lose herself in a haze.

And so she closed her eyes and waited for him to touch her.

The touch never came. Instead she heard a howl, then a thud. Her eyes flew open, and the first thing she saw was the guy huddled on the floor, Nick standing over him, looking pissed off enough to kick the shit out of the guy.

“Nick!”

He whipped around to face her, his expression so hard and cold that she shrank back, silent. He yanked the guy up by his collar, whispered something that had fear rising in the guy’s eyes, then shoved him through the door and back into the club.

Then he turned to her.

She pressed her back against the wall and met his eyes, trying to lift her chin in defiance, but not doing a very good job.

“What in Hades are you doing?” he roared.

“Back off, okay? You may be painting me, but that doesn’t mean you’re in charge of me.”

“Not in charge of you? Who do you think made you like this?” Fury bubbled off of him, and he ran his hands through his hair, pacing the alley in front of her as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d said that to her.

“What?” She shook her head, totally lost. “What are you talking about?”

“Is this the person you are, Delilah? Who you really want to be? A girl who’s willing to go to bed with a stranger just to trade for a few hours of oblivion?”

Anger lashed through her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe I liked him. Maybe that guy is just my speed.”

“What? You like bad boys? Trust me, sweetheart, I’m as bad as it gets. You’ve been dancing with the devil and you didn’t even know it.”

His eyes burned into her as he spoke, and she shivered from a bone-deep cold despite the warm night. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

“I’ve been stealing your soul, Delilah. Taking little bits and pieces for the portrait. And loosening your inhibitions along the way. It’s almost all gone, but you probably already knew that. You’re not the woman you used to be, are you?”

“I… what?” He was joking. He had to be. “Taking my soul? What kind of nonsense are you talking about?”

“For my father,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth, Delilah. Dance with the devil and you will get burned.”

‡
Chapter Ten

N
ick stared at her face
, wondering if he’d gotten through to her. This wasn’t about the painting any longer. He’d captured most of her soul in the canvas already. Hopefully that was enough to satisfy his father. Because he couldn’t take any more.

Already, he was disgusted with himself. The anger he’d thrown toward her was really directed at him, and him alone. He’d taken something innocent and beautiful and turned it into something harsh, something ugly. His only hope now was that she’d hear the truth in his words and run. Run far and fast with what little bit of soul she had left. Run to her father, even, and see if he couldn’t pull her back from the edge of Hell. Because Nick certainly couldn’t rescue her. After all, he was the one who’d brought her here. And now, because he loved her, he had to let her go.

Loved her.

He did, too. And he hated with a passion what he’d done to her. What his father had made him do in the name of ambition.

He couldn’t go through with it. He couldn’t destroy what was left of the woman he loved. All he could do was urge her to get away. To escape. And let him face his father’s fury on his own.

“You’re serious?” she asked, staring at him like he was some sort of freak under glass. Well, he thought, maybe he was.

“As serious as sin, sweetheart.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He took a step toward her and cupped her face in his hand. “Go,” he said. “Just leave here. Go to your father. Get away while you still can. While there’s still hope.”

Something flickered in her eyes, something warm and alive. But then it faded, and a cold smile touched her lips. Instead of running, she pressed against him. “No way, Nicky. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” She reached down to cup his crotch. “If you’re the one who helped me along here, then I think that deserves a little thank-you.”

“Damn it, Delilah,” he yelled, jerking her hand away. “You’re not listening to me!”

He grabbed her arm and started tugging her down the alley toward the street, ignoring her cries of protest. He hustled her into a cab, keeping a tight hand on her forearm in case she decided to bolt.

Back at the loft, he shoved her inside, then dragged her toward the painting. She jerked her arm roughly away and stood staring at it. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “But it’s a lie. It’s a trick. Magic. The big mojo.” He waggled his fingers. “I’m a hack as an artist, and you’re the one suffering for it.”

“I’m not suffering,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Just calm down, Nick.”

“I am not going to calm down. And I’m not going to be responsible for destroying you. I’m going to fix this,” he said. “And if you won’t run, I only know one way to do that.”

And then, before she could protest, he tossed a mason jar rilled with turpentine onto the canvas. Then he lit a match, and tossed that as well.

Flames erupted instantaneously, and she screamed, leaping toward the picture as if she’d beat them out with her own hands. He held her back, struggling to keep her away as they watched the painting blacken and crumble.

After a moment, the nature of her struggle changed. She bucked in his arms as her soul—now freed from the canvas—flowed back into her. And then her cries of protest changed to hysterical sobs. She sagged, crumpling to the ground and hugging her knees, rocking back and forth almost as if she was in a trance.

Nick let her go, taking the fire extinguisher and putting out the fire that had burned the canvas down to so much ash, the lingering scent reminding him of his father.

He knelt beside her, pressed a hand to her knee. She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “What did you do to me?”

“I told you. I stole your soul. I’m sorry, but I did.” The words were inadequate, and he knew it. But they were honest, and he hoped that counted for something.

He indicated the pile of ash. “You have it back now.”

“Why? How?”

“For my father,” he said, and then he told her the whole, sordid story. “I didn’t have your courage,” he said. “I didn’t believe I could make it on my own without that particular skill to make my art stand out. And I couldn’t stand up to my father. That simply wasn’t an option.”

“And so you used me. Even though you knew it would hurt me—would change me. You used me anyway.”

“Yes.”

“So that first night, when we made love. I was … that way with you because you’d worked some freaky magic on me?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t start until later. The first night I was with you. Just like you are now. Pure Delilah.”

She licked her lips, nodded uncertainly. “And then later you … you …” She twirled her hand. “Did your thing?”

“That’s right.”

“And you took my soul.”

“Bits and pieces at a time, but yes. That’s about it.”

“But then you changed your mind.”

He met her eyes, hoping that she could see into
his
soul. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

He drew in a breath, hesitating, but in the end he had to speak the truth. “Because I love you.”

She stayed perfectly still for a moment, and Nick held his breath, almost able to believe that it would be okay. He’d have to face his father’s wrath, of course, but she’d be with him. And with Delilah he could see anything through.

He was wrong, of course. She wasn’t with him. That much was clear when her hand whipped out, her palm catching him across the face in a slap that left his skin burning.

“You son of a bitch,” she said. She climbed to her feet and ran into her room. He stayed rooted to the spot, listening to her pack. He wanted to go to her, to beg her to stay, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d used her. He loved her, yes. But he’d used her. And in the worst possible way. He had no claim to her now. And besides, more than anything, he wanted her free. And that meant he wanted her away from him and, most especially, away from his father.