Satan (18 page)

She covered his bare hands with her gloved ones.

The angst in her eyes decimated the joy threading through him. “What? Why do you look as if the world’s ending in ten seconds?”

Her mouth pursed. She nodded. “Monkey sex and fun.”

“And a sleigh ride with snow falling. Are we okay?” His sixth sense pinged louder than a thousand bongo drums.

Her lashes fluttered a couple of times. Satan choked back a frustrated howl. She was about to lie to him. “I’m good with sticking to the monkey sex and fun rules.”

Angel had looked right at him when she uttered the words. He’d interrogated over a hundred suspected terrorists and his instincts had never failed him. So, why did he both believe her declaration, yet suspect she somehow wasn’t telling the truth?

“Good.” He gathered the reins, made a clicking noise with his tongue, and signaled the two Clydesdales to a walk.

“I can’t thank you enough for arranging all this. I thought you said Sinner had a motorized sleigh.” She snatched at a few snowflakes and finally caught one.

He negotiated his way through the gate. “He does. This isn’t Sinner’s. I rented it from a local farmer.”

“Oh.”

Her distracted mutter piqued his curiosity, he glanced down to find her poking at the flake pooling into liquid on her glove.

She twisted to look at him. “I didn’t realize it would melt so fast. I now understand why snowflakes fascinate people, they’re illusive. You truly can’t catch one. Not for more than a few seconds anyhow.”

“Try catching one on your tongue. It’s fun.” He flicked the reins, and the horses broke into a trot.

She clapped her hands and grabbed the sleigh’s side rails. “Yay! Omigod. I’m on an actual sleigh ride. This is a dream come true.”

Right there and then, he decided to discover all her dreams and make each and every one come true. A quick peek revealed her tilting her head back, mouth open, and angling jerkily to catch a flake with her tongue. She shrieked and coughed in victory not three minutes later. He couldn’t stopper his broad grin, she was priceless in her winter innocence, his Angel.

His future changed on that long sleigh-ride through the Long Island countryside. Thankful the Chapman’s ranch location allowed him to meander through fields and forests, he set the Clydesdales to a faster pace when the landscape allowed. Sheer happiness and joy fueled his spiraling plans.

Marry her, have a family, adopt a couple of foster kids if she agreed, and he believed she would. Although he knew it wasn’t politically correct, he wanted a big family. Four kids at least. The glimpse Angel would have in a few minutes of the boisterous, exuberant Chapman brood—all of the eleven brothers and sisters—in addition to his fellow Hades Squad members and their families—would convince her of the merits of more than the requisite two children.

The time flew by. They talked, laughed, and sipped brandied coffee from the flask he’d packed. The bells attached to the horses’ harnesses jingled merrily against the background of hooves colliding with firm-packed snow. A couple of hours later, Satan turned the sleigh in the direction of the Chapman’s ranch.

“Are we heading for that place?” She pointed to the Chapman’s house, which more resembled an English country mansion than it did a working farm home.

“Yep.” A knot coiled his gut. She wouldn’t be angry with him for forcing her to meet what he thought of as his extended family. Not after admitting she loved him. Those three words changed everything, no matter that he’d assured her of the opposite—monkey sex and fun until New Year’s Day.

“Is this where you wanted to take me for dinner?”

The sun had begun its descent and hovered molten-ball like on the horizon. Shadows chased away the fading light right as they reached the house.

“I hope you made reservations. The parking lot is packed.”

He choked back a snicker. Over twenty cars were packed into the circular driveway in front of the imposing two storied building, so the structure did in fact resemble a country-style restaurant. And he had told her they were going to dine out. “Don’t worry. We’re expected.”

“Halt!” he commanded and drew the reins taut. The horses came to a whinnied and stamping stop. He hopped off the sleigh, tied the leather strips to the fence rail, and marched around to the other side.

She threw the blanket aside. “What about the horses? Will they be okay here in the open? The snow’s still falling.”

He lifted her out of the sleigh. “I’ve arranged for the owner to pick both the sleigh and the horses up here. No worries.”

“You are an amazing man.” She tiptoed to brush her lips to his jaw.

“Back attacha, darlin’.” He kissed her on the mouth. A quick peck because he knew what a real tonguing would lead to. “Come on. Let’s go in and get warm.”

She linked her hands around his arm. “I’m betting there’s a roaring fire going in the lobby. I noticed three chimneys.”

They hurried to the double doors tucked under an expansive porte cochere. She threw off the hood of her coat and fluffed her hair. “I hope I’m dressed appropriately. You should’ve warned me that this was our night out. But the dress I would’ve worn wouldn’t have stood up to the sleigh ride anyways.”

“You look beautiful. You always do.” He knuckled her chilled cheeks.

“Oooh. Your hands are frozen. Why didn’t you wear gloves?”

He shrugged, yanked down the ornate brass handle, opened the door, and waved her in. Resisting the temptation to cross his fingers and surprised the notion even occurred to him, he stomped the snow from his boots, and followed her into the hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Chapman stood side-by-side right in front of them.

“Good evening.” Mr. Chapman, aka Gavin, stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Glad you could make it, son. It wouldn’t be a complete Christmas without you being here.”

Angel shrugged away from him.

He felt her eyes drilling a hole in his skull. “Thanks for rearranging everything for us. Gavin Chapman, I’d like you to meet Angelica O’Malley. She prefers to be called Angel.”

Gavin bowed, captured Angel’s hand, and kissed the back of it. He let go of Angel fingers, drew himself up, and smiled. “But, of course she does. I’m guessing Angel Dare is your talk show host pseudonym, my dear? I must admit to being an avid fan of your show. Colleen and I watch it every day, don’t we dear?”

Mrs. Colleen Chapman took a long stride. She tiptoed and wrapped her arms around Angel. “Welcome Angel. I’m so happy to meet you. We’ve been waiting forever for Lorcan to find his mate.”

Talk show host pseudonym? Angel Dare? Satan didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Too flummoxed to wrap his brain around the shocking phrases, he allowed Gavin to shoulder smack him, and lead him to the living room. Before they reached the arched entrance, Satan glanced over his shoulder, and his gaze collided with Angel’s.

The roses in her cheeks had vanished and her complexion had gone a ghostly white. She averted her eyes and leaned down closer to Colleen.

Bitch.

A motherfucking, lying bitch.

She was a talk show host.

A fucking low-life, hypocritical talk-show host.

Gavin shook his arm. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Satan gritted his back molars so hard he was surprised a tooth didn’t crack. “My bad, Gavin. Say again.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that it was Angel Dare you were bringing? Did you want to surprise Colleen? I can tell you this for certain, her meeting Angel Dare is going to go down as one of the best Christmas presents ever. Colleen only found out that Jess knew Angel a couple of days ago and she’s been hinting at tickets to see the show live. Think maybe you could use your influence and get us tickets for the Valentine’s Day show? Man, would I shine if that was my gift to my wife.”

Surprise Colleen? Fucking surprised the shit out of him. Satan balled his hands into tight fists. He needed to pound a boxing bag. For a few hours. Rage, white-hot and glowing, exploded through him. Use his influence. With a fucking talk-show host?
Fuck that.

“Son. Lorcan. What the hell’s wrong with you? You look ready to commit murder. The beat-to-a-pulp type of killing.” Gavin got in Satan’s face. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“I. Need. A. Minute.” Satan had to force each word out.

Gavin gestured to a door down the hallway. “Use my study. Scotch’s in a decanter on the sideboard.”

Not willing to risk grating his vocal cords, Satan nodded.

He marched to the study, closed the door with the utmost care, and marched to the scotch decanter. Too furious to string a single thought together, he wrenched the top off, and filled a sparkling crystal tumbler to the brim. He plugged the stopper in, put the bottle back in place, and swilled the liquor in three large mouthfuls. The piercing burn of the scotch going down did nothing to obviate the glacial chill coating his core. He began a thirty-third Uzbek count backward from five thousand, seven hundred, and forty-two.

It took a full nine minutes to transform his fury into numbness. How to get rid of the filth soiling his one true sanctuary, Gavin and Colleen’s house, without creating a scene? Call a cab for her and ask the driver to phone his cell when he arrived. Go back to the living room and pretend nothing had happened. Take her to the front entrance on pretense of needing a private moment. Order her to remove any sign of her presence from his house. And warn her never to cross his path again.

He poured and drank a normal finger of scotch. Girded his loins, exited the room, and made his way to the living room. The hum of conversation abated, and one by one, every pair of eyes in the room focused on him. He scanned the wide and spacious area packed to the gills with adult Chapmans and his team members.

No Angel Dare.

Jess rose and walked over to him. She motioned to the hallway. He followed her down the corridor. She halted and turned to face him.

“Angel left. She asked me to give you this.”

She picked up his hand and placed the chain and angel pendant in the center of his palm. Jess glanced at him. “She said she didn’t mean to hide her identity from you when she first met you. Said things just sort of happened after that, and she didn’t know how to dig herself—”

“Enough. Angel Dare no longer has any place in my life. She’s a conniving, deceitful bitch and I never want to hear her name again. Understood?”

Jess shook her head. “Angel’s none of those things. You’re making a huge mistake, Satan. Give her a chance—”

“I said enough, Jess. This conversation is over. I believe Gavin and Colleen and the present giving awaits. The kids must be going nuts. Shall we head back?” Satan gestured Jess ahead. He hung back not wanting to have to talk to her. Wishing he was anywhere else but here.

The evening proved worst torture than when Malik Mansoor had imprisoned him in a box of a cell for a full forty-eight hours. He struggled to remain calm, to wear a civilized veneer, but beneath his mask a primordial caveman wrath bubbled and boiled.

He refused Sinner’s offer of a ride home and called a taxi. The silent ride back to his place didn’t abate his spiraling enragement one whit. He overpaid the driver and stood in front of the door for a while. He fucking hated the door. Hated that he’d remember her every time he opened or closed it.

“Fuck her.” He inserted the key, slammed open the heavy wood, and drop-kicked the blasted panel shut. Tomorrow, he would replace the fucking mahogany with walnut.

He sprinted to the library and halted in the doorway. The presents he’d given her lay at the edge of the tree’s skirt. He roared her name, stalked to the fucking Christmas tree, and shoved the pine onto its side. Ornaments scattered, glass shattered, and the plugs of light strings popped out of sockets. He dragged the tree to the kitchen, maneuvered the now almost denuded pine through the back door, across the deck, down the steps, and into the middle of the snow-covered yard.

He trudged to the tool shed near the fence and retrieved an axe.

Then he spent the rest of the night viciously hacking the first and last Christmas tree he’d ever have in his life into fist-size chunks.

At dawn, he went back inside, brewed a cup of coffee, and plodded to the master bedroom. He stood in the doorway, surveyed the space, and decided to call a realtor. No way did he intend to spend another night in this godforsaken structure. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and headed for the bathroom. Glanced at the screen and frowned. He had voicemail. Strange, he didn’t remember the cell ringing. Then he recalled her ‘tech-free holiday.’

What a sucker he’d been.

She’d played him like a maestro.

He hit the voicemail icon.

“Hey bro. Long time. Rutger Harlowe here. Need to talk. Call me ASAP.”

Satan checked the time and date of the call. Rutger had called while he’d been heating up their dinner on Christmas Eve.

He remembered picking up the cell from the floor. Had she deliberately put the phone on the floor? Why?

Shit.
He lost his mojo and it was all her fucking fault.

Nineteen minutes later, armed with a packed suitcase, Satan drove down his driveway for the last time ever. He pressed the button for voice command. “Call Rutger Harlowe.”

The active Navy SEAL answered on the first ring. “Yo. What took you so long?”

“I was distracted. What’s up?”

“Helluva distraction, Angelica O’Malley, aka Angel Dare.”

Satan did a double-take at the console.
WTF?
“How the fuck do you know I even know the woman?”

“I set a tail on her on Christmas Eve. The reason I’m calling is that my tail discovered someone’s got a tail on you.”

Satan drove the car onto the shoulder and shoved the gearstick into park. “Why’re you tailing her?”

He couldn’t bring himself to say her name.

“We believe Angel knows Malik Mansoor’s real identity. FYI, she hopped on a plane to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad this morning.”

“The new board’s been approved. You’re now officially no longer part of Haven,” Indira Singh said. “Are you sure this is what you want, Angel? We can keep you on as a director. I’d love you to help me transition into the CEO role over a few months instead of only thirty-five days.”