Raising Hell (12 page)

She came back into the room, the duffel slung over her arm. “Stay away from me, Nick,” she said. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“I know,” he said, then drew in a breath. “But I do love you, Delilah. I want you to remember that.”

She made a noise, almost like a snort. “I don’t care what you want me to remember,” she said. “Because I’m going to do my damnedest to forget you. To forget everything.”

A loud boom shook the apartment, and a whirlwind of flame appeared in the middle of the loft. Delilah’s eyes went wide, and she stood rooted to the spot. Nick wasn’t so impaired. He leaped to his feet, grabbed her arm, and yanked her toward the door. He pushed her through, yelling at her to run. To leave. And to never, ever look back.

And then he shut the door and turned to face his father, well aware that he deserved whatever punishment the devil might have in mind.

“Kelley-Hart. Publicity and Public Relations.
How may I direct your call?” Lila answered the phone on autopilot, the same as she’d been doing for the last four days. Carrie had arranged for her to get her old job back, and she was grateful. At least it paid the bills while she applied for colleges and scholarships. Not that she’d started doing much applying yet. Mostly she’d just been sitting around, feeling numb.

She’d almost lost her soul.

She still couldn’t quite get her head around that. Both that it had happened, and that Nick had saved her.

Of course, he’d set her up in the first place, but in the end he’d come through for her. She’d survived.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he could say the same. She couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like for him, facing down the devil and having to admit what he’d done. Sure, the devil was his father—how weird was that?—but still. In the end, would that help Nick at all?

The more she thought about it, the more ashamed she felt. Nick had saved her. Nick had
loved
her. And she’d left him to face his father alone. She’d abandoned the man she loved because she’d been too afraid of—

She cocked her head, startled by her own thoughts.

The man she loved?

The phone rang, but she ignored it. Did she really love him? Could she? The man had almost stolen her
soul,
for goodness sakes. But he had given it back, and surely that counted for something?

She frowned, her thoughts a mishmash. Even if she could forgive him, that didn’t change the fact that he was the devil’s son. Not exactly the kind of man she’d ever imagined bringing home to daddy.

But, of course, Nick could hardly help who his father was.

And did his family really matter? The question was whether she loved the man, not his heritage. And despite how furious she’d been when she’d learned the truth, the answer was that, yes, she did love him. Loved the way he’d made her laugh, and the way he’d made her see herself. The way
he’d
seen her. Loved the way he’d taken a chance at the arts center and then admitted to her that he liked it. And she even loved the way he’d teased out her wilder side. Not the dark, soulless part—
that
she’d just as soon forget—but the sexy, daring girl hiding just under the surface. The girl she’d been that very first night in his bed.

She’d felt alive with him, and now she knew why. She’d been falling in love. And no matter what he’d done to her, she couldn’t escape that one simple fact—she loved the man.

Which entirely begged the question of what she was going to do now.

“Lila! The phones!” Carrie scooted up beside her, shot her a perturbed look, then answered a line herself. She answered them all, actually, then clicked on the after-hours recording even though it was only ten o’clock. “Let them think the phone system crashed,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“I’m in love with him,” Lila said, as soon as they were ensconced in a conference room.

“You told me the whole situation was freaky and weird,” Carrie said. “Something to do with his father.”

“And it was,” Lila said. “But I was angry. The truth now is that I miss him. And I don’t know if I can go back. I’m not even sure how to find him.”

She hadn’t told Carrie the whole story, which meant her friend didn’t realize that for all she knew, Nick’s father had erased the man. Her stomach twisted guiltily. If he was gone, it would be all her fault. She could have saved him simply by offering herself. She hadn’t, though. She’d run. Far and fast, and only now was she looking back, afraid of what she might see.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Carrie said. “You’ve been moping around here for days. And even though I wasn’t crazy about the way you were acting with him—”

“That was me,” Lila said. “Not Nick.”

“Whatever. The point is that I found him. Or, at least, I know he’s in New York.”

She handed Lila a printout from an article off the Internet, relaying how every Nicholas Velnias painting across the globe had suddenly burst into flames a few days ago, and the man himself had disappeared. There was no explanation for the strange event. The artist himself had reappeared in New York today at the Freystone Gallery, which had displayed much of his work. “The paintings were clearly deemed unworthy,” he said. “Whatever the reason, I’m starting over.” Despite reporters’ demands for an explanation, none was given, and the media speculated that Velnias himself might not have an explanation behind the concurrent combustion of so many paintings.

“Odd, don’t you think?” Carrie asked, one eyebrow lifted.

Lila frowned, wondering if Carrie suspected more about the situation than she let on. “Very odd,” Lila admitted. She drew in a breath and looked her friend in the eye. “What do you think I should do?”

Carrie shrugged. “Don’t know. But something like this must be traumatic for Velnias. He could probably use a friend right about now.”

“I’m working right now,” Lila said.

“My calendar’s pretty clear today,” Carrie answered. “I can probably handle the phones, too.”

That was enough for Lila. She gave her friend a quick hug, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door. As the cab took her to Nick’s loft, she rummaged in her purse, finally pulling out her day planner and the napkin tucked in tight at the back. Her image was still there. A Nicholas Velnias original. Perhaps the only one left in the world. The only Velnias drawing that had no soul in it at all. And to Lila, it really was a masterpiece.

The knock on the door startled Nick.
He looked up from the blank canvas, wondering if he should answer it or ignore it. He decided to answer. It wasn’t as if he was busy. For days now he’d been trying to paint, and for days he’d made not even one mark on a canvas. His confidence was shattered and, as far as he knew, his father had taken his talent when he’d taken everything else.

He pulled the door open, then felt his heart skip in his chest as he saw the woman standing there.

“Hello, Nick.”

“Delilah.”

Her smile seemed to light the room. “Can I come in?”

He stepped back, letting her enter, then stood there, his heart filled with wonder—and hope—at seeing her again.

“Why are you—”

“I was so worried when I read—”

They stopped, realizing they were talking over each other.

“You first,” he said.

“You disappeared,” she said. “And then I heard about the paintings burning. And, well, I was worried about you.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, his heart lifting even more when she smiled.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“I was punished,” he said flatly, not really wanting to remember. “But nothing I won’t survive.” He frowned. “Actually, I won’t survive it. He took my immortality. One day, I’m going to die just like everybody else.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips. “I hadn’t really thought about how … different … you were.”

“I’m not different at all anymore. Every skill I inherited from my father is gone. And every painting I created that had even the tiniest bit of my magic in it, destroyed.”

“I’m so sorry. Your work was beautiful.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “The paintings were stunning, but they were false. As false as my idiot notions of being an artist.”

“He took your skill at painting, too?”

Nick tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage. Instead, he gestured toward the blank canvas. “I don’t know. According to my father, my mother was an artist. So perhaps I still have some bit of skill inherited from her. Something he couldn’t erase from me. But I don’t know. I can’t seem to bring myself to begin again. It’s hard to believe you have any skill at all when every bit of work you ever completed bursts into flames at exactly 12:06 a.m.”

“Not everything,” she said.

“What?”

“Everything didn’t burn.”

He shook his head, not at all certain what she was talking about.

“The sketch,” she said. “Of me. I still have it.” She rummaged in her purse, finally pulled out a tattered cocktail napkin. And there she was. Delilah’s beautiful face rendered in charcoal and smiling up at him, as if silently urging him to try again.

“You kept this?” A stupid question, really, since of course she had. He was holding it, wasn’t he?

“I tried to throw it away after I rushed out of here that day,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t bring myself to.”

“Why?”

“At the time, I wasn’t sure.”

“But now?”

“Now, I know why. I kept it so that you could see it. So that you’d know that you have real talent.”

“I see.” Disappointment filled him. “That’s all?”

She shook her head. “No. I also kept it because I love you.”

“Delilah …” He reached for her, color flooding back into his world as she took his hand.

“I hated you there for a while, I really did. But mostly I love you. And the napkin was the only thing I thought I could have of you.”

“You can have more if you want,” he said. “You can have all of me.”

A smile tripped across her mouth. “Yeah? I don’t know. I’m really only inclined to date master artists,” she teased. “If you want to paint me, though …” She gestured toward the blank canvas. “Maybe prove you’re worthy of me?”

He grinned, the weight on his heart suddenly lifting. And, more important, the tightness in his fingers evaporating. He
did
want to paint her. More, he was certain that he could. The finished product might not ever hang in the Louvre, but he was certain that, no matter what, to him it would be a masterpiece.

She kissed him, hard. And Nick drank in the taste of her like a dying man drinking from an oasis. He might have stolen her soul, but she’d stolen his heart. And as far as Nick was concerned, it belonged to her. Forever.

Keep reading for an excerpt from the next novella in the Devil May Care series – Hell’s Fire by Dee Davis …

Hell Fire

By Dee Davis

Excerpt

Devil May Care, novella 2

“Looking for something?” The lazy heat of his voice twined around Celeste Abbot like a cat or a lover, probably a bit of both.

“I should have known.” She turned the flashlight toward the sound of the voice, almost expecting to find it empty. The man was a shadow. “How long have you been here?”

“Just long enough to secure the journal.” Marcus Diablo smiled, his green eyes glittering in the light.

“So why wait for me?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it. Or deny it.

“I need your help.”

“You mean my father’s help.”

He shrugged, his smile potent. “It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

There was an insult in there, she was certain of it, but somehow he had a way of sugar coating the knife. But at least he was being honest with her. Unlike the last time. “Let me have the journal.” She held out her hand, her gaze locking with his.

“I hardly think that’s likely. After all, the last time we were together, you didn’t exactly wait around for me.”

The last time they were together was a moment she tried very hard not to dwell on. “What was I supposed to do? Hand the Degas over to you on a silver platter? You seduced me in the hopes that I’d tell you where it was.”

“I seduced you because I wanted to.” Somehow they’d shifted positions, standing only inches apart. “The Degas was a bonus. Besides, seduction is a two way street.”

“A lane and a boulevard, maybe. They’re hardly the same thing.” They were breathing in tandem now. She could see the muscles in his chest bunch with each inhalation.

“But a perfect fit, no?” His teeth were white in the shadows.

She shook her head, fighting for clarity. He was doing it again. Seducing her. And she’d sworn never to let that happen again. Once had been enough.

Okay maybe that part was a lie. But wonderful things could still be dangerous.

“I want the journal. It’s my father’s life work to find the Devil’s Delight. You know that. This isn’t the same as a painting or a statue.”

“It’s his heart’s desire. Yes, I know.” His frown held a hint of disapproval. “Unfortunately, I have a client who desires it as well.”

“And your client trumps my father?” She inched forward, still holding his gaze.

“In this case,” his expression changed, his face hardening like one of the marbles he so often procured, “yes. My client trumps everyone.”

“I don’t think so.” With lightening speed honed from years of practice, she grabbed the journal and pivoted to run, her emotions tumbling between regret and elation. To her credit, she made it as far as the sacristy door.

“Going somewhere?” His body pinned hers to the wall, every hard muscle pressing into her flesh with the searing precision of a carved relief, two halves that were ordained to fit together.

“Let me go.” She started to struggle, then stopped, the motion causing far more damage to her senses than simply holding still.