Taming the Demon (11 page)

Chapter 11

W
hat were you even thinking?

But Devin knew the answer to that.

Nothing.

There on the street in broad daylight, the blade in his hand, its warning heat singeing his mind...an old man frightened out of his wits.

Devin counted himself lucky the old guy hadn’t had a heart attack on the spot, slain by intent if not by blade.

And now the pull of it still worked on him—inexorable, unyielding. The blade woken and still hungry. The wild road beckoning. His concentration shattered.

He wasn’t any good to Natalie like this. And now—?

What?

What was he doing out here on the estate mezzanine, staring blankly down the private hallway?

He scrubbed his hands over his face, suddenly weary. Wanting nothing more than a night sprawled on his couch, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn waiting for random attention, an old Western murmuring in the background, the privacy of the little house snug around him.

Not this. Not standing at the echoing juncture of a hallway that meant nothing to him, swaying slightly...

Lost to himself.

Only for a moment. That’s what he told himself.

A moment too long.

He’d been on his way to the workout room, full of burning and drive and needing to do something with it—thinking himself tied to this estate, to Natalie’s safety.

He knew better now. Compton would have to hire another.

Devin had other mysteries to solve.

Had he killed a man the night before? Had he imagined it all? Or had he only imagined parts of it?

There were no good answers. Not even if his memory was right in every detail. That only meant that someone had indeed come for her...had died for it...and had then disappeared.

Not been alone?

He’d have known. He’d have felt it. The blade would have told him.

Would it have?

No assumptions. Not anymore.

And Devin found he’d somehow gone a third of the way down that private hallway, the big window at the end of the hall sending a sharp glare of late afternoon light across his body.

He heard her footsteps, and yet somehow didn’t register the significance of them, of being where he was, until they suddenly stopped, so close. He jerked around to face her, both startled and defiant and something, somewhere deep within him, ready for a fight.

She took a step back, and at her side, her hand flexed, closed...relaxed. When she spoke, her voice didn’t quite strike
normal
—but it wasn’t far off. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s the secret hallway. Abandon hope, all ye who—”

“That’s not funny,” she said.

He didn’t respond at first. Not quite floundering, just...

What did one say, anyway?
Sorry about the completely random acts of insanity and violence.

Or almost-violence. Or imagined violence.

“No,” he admitted. “Probably not funny at all.”

She let out a breath. “Devin...” she said, and reached out, probably not even realizing it—one hand barely raised.

His reality, that’s what she was. Glinting golden blond-in-brown, an open blue gaze framed by sharp cheekbones and that strong, narrow jaw...the mouth he could watch forever. All fired up about protecting her own path, her own choices and full of a strength she didn’t even seem to recognize.

Devin saw it. He saw it all. Every piece of him warmed to it.

She watched him with...what was that? Confusion or regret? But whatever it was, she tucked it away, and drew herself up. “Dinner’s almost ready. I’m afraid it’s not optional tonight. Mr. Compton is celebrating.”

No, he thought. Longing. Longing and sorrow.

* * *

Sawyer Compton reigned charming over the meal. Visibly pleased with his day’s work, confident about the outcome...not inclined to notice that neither his personal assistant nor her bodyguard were good company.

The meal itself proved a multicultural tasting opportunity—not too much of any one thing, but all of a theme. From South American pastes and Philippine fish to India’s southern dishes to Thailand’s hottest offerings...definitely a night of spice.

Devin hardly noticed when he washed it all down with a laced espresso.

He hardly noticed any of it, truth be told. Too caught up in the inescapable conclusion that the wild road was putting his feet on its path.

“Devin?”

How long had he been staring at his plate of tiny desserts? The clear sugar gelatin from China, the miniature Thai fried bananas, the Filipino budbud pilipit with rich coconut cream and—

Well. At least it wasn’t
spicy.

Devin couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been completely distracted, or that he hadn’t lost track of the conversation entirely, or that Sawyer Compton hadn’t just caught him at it. Natalie watched him in dismay, the several other guests maintaining a polite preoccupation.

“I should head to the kitchen,” Devin said, “and let Jimena know that was the best several meals I ever had in one sitting.” He stood, scooping up his plate. The meal had been mandatory. Natalie had made that much clear. But it was over.

By the time Devin walked away, the conversation had already turned to other things—the most recent charity fundraiser, the most recent society gaffes. Dessert discussion.

Devin took the plate to the kitchen, thanked Jimena and turned around to find Natalie in the arching doorway behind him, looking both bemused and concerned.

“You’re going for a walk,” she said, barely even guessing.

“It’s what I do.” Walking the cold night grounds, hunting trouble—one hand on the blade, listening, while the rest of him tried not to hear at all.

“Are you all right?”

He moved on out of the kitchen, heading for the small room off the entry that served as a walk-in coat closet and keeping his voice low. “It helps,” he said. “The things you’ve taught me.”

“But
what
—” She stopped herself just barely short of asking it, as if she sensed she’d never get an answer. And then she did it anyway. “It’s got to do with that knife of yours, doesn’t it? With what I saw. That’s what.”

He found his coat, retrieved his very favorite alpaca wool scarf from the sleeve where he’d stuffed it and pulled leather gloves from the pockets. “Does it matter?”

She yanked her own coat from the coat rack beside the row of hung outerwear. “Oh,
please.
Did you think I would stop asking?”

He zipped the coat. “I’d hoped,” he admitted. He reached out to straighten her coat collar, not asking the obvious—if she was coming with him. Walking with him. Too battened up for the simple walk to her casita, which could be done with a quick dash and an unfastened coat. So he smoothed the collar down; he tucked a wayward strand behind her ear. At his lingering touch, at the gentleness there, her eyes widened. He couldn’t help but smile—something small and wry. “What?” he asked. “Did you think I would stop trying?”

“I—” she said, and swallowed, all her courage there on her face. “I
hoped—”

And Devin grinned, because he saw what that meant. Knew it in his bones. Just the opposite of what she’d said, given those words left unspoken.

Natalie suddenly looked as though she wanted to kick his shins—she suddenly looked as though she’d do it. She glanced behind them out into the entry, although no one was near and no one could hear the conversation in this tucked-away little room either way. She said, low and fierce, “You drive me nuts. One moment you’re a hero, the next you’re full of crazy—
mad
crazy, the kind that nearly kills innocent old men. You scare me—you scare
everyone
. And never,
never
do you tell me the whole truth. You don’t even pretend!”

“It would be stupid to pretend,” he observed, even then pretending his pulse hadn’t kicked up into overdrive—the nearness of her, the fervency of her emotion, the high flush on high cheeks...

“All of that,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken, “and every time I get anywhere
near
you, it’s all I can do to—
not
to—”

He grinned. Slow and unrepentant.

Natalie swore under her breath. She took a step back, spreading her arms in a sharp gesture.
Here I am, then, you fool. What are you waiting for?

Nothing, that’s what.

Nothing at all.

* * *

Not so long ago, Devin had kissed this woman by the canal; not so long ago, he’d been so responsive to her touch that he wondered if it was his own response at all or pulled from the knife, all heat and clarity and trembling detail. He’d wondered if what he took from it wasn’t his to take.

Days of wanting, days of watching himself—examining every step, every reaction—looking for impulses that weren’t his own. Not ever finding them. Not when it came to Natalie.

Looks like I make my choices, too.

Damn,
yes,
he kissed her. From hesitation to, oh, sweetness, just the briefest hesitation, a soft exploration—but that wondrous mouth of hers was as mobile as he remembered, as responsive—as wonderfully clever against his. And her hands—oh, hell yes, they went straight to his butt again. More of that any day.

The coat room shifted around him, its pleasant warmth suddenly stifling and not nearly private enough; Devin pulled away from her. She would have protested; he put a light hand over her mouth, listening. She raised her brows and, oh, yeah. She bit his hand.

Not
ow.
Not in the least. Clever lips on his fingers, a soft tongue. He closed his eyes tightly, awash in the battle for self-control and not the least bit above laughing at his own predicament. She tugged him a little closer, and that’s when he suddenly realized it—how very far in over his head he was.

How very good that was.

He opened his eyes to find her, yes, laughing, bright blue gaze, lashes tipping up at the outside corners. He indicated the dining room with a nod, and then gave the door an obvious glance. Snagging her hand, he tugged her toward the door. They emerged from the house at a tumbling run, laughter bursting out to fog the night air.

Halfway to her place, he had her hair out of its upswept style and his fingers lacing through it. Two thirds of the way there, she’d unzipped his coat and started on his shirt. By the time the repaired entry light flicked on with their arrival, she’d pulled him in close and tight.

Only when the light flicked off did either of them think to fumble for the doorknob. And by then, who needed lights or indoor heating or any such thing at all?

* * *

Natalie managed to get the door open and then closed; she let Devin drag them to the couch, where he pulled her over the end. He bounced off the couch and she bounced off him, and in another moment there they were laughing on the floor, tugging on coats and clothing and tugging on each other.

She dove for his earlobe; she tickled her breath down his neck. She pushed his hands up her shirt and twined her legs around his, rueing the material between them as she moved against him.

He grunted, a ragged sound—his hands, searching to release bra, lost coordination. When she did it again, his strangled noise became a curse as he pushed her away, instantly rolling on top of her—pinning her hands by her head, his weight settling over her hips. But holding her there—holding himself slightly apart. “You,” he said, through clenched teeth, “have
no idea.
”

Deliciously buffeted, blood singing, she only gave him a slow smile.
Maybe I do.

Maybe this wasn’t her at all, this uninhibited creature who’d made her decision and now gave herself to it completely.

Or maybe it had been her all along...waiting.

He leaned over, fitting them together for a kiss of deep and lengthy entanglement, until she tugged her hands free from his token grip to wander and play and touch, bringing him back to that gasping place.

Until he suddenly pulled away, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

His body had lost some of its tension; his ragged breathing seemed less invigorated and more simply breathless.

“Devin?” Her hands, heading for his snap and zipper, came back up to his shoulders, then either side of his face. “Are you—?”

“It’s not that,” he said, quickly enough, and nuzzled her an apology. She scraped her fingers lightly through the hair behind his ear; he groaned in appreciation.

But in another moment he’d made the slow transition to the floor beside her, his leg still thrown over her body and one arm pulling her in tight. “Just...give me a moment.”

She reached over him to pull the shoulder blanket down from the couch, covering them both. “It’s not—?”

“It’s...I don’t know. Not familiar.”

In that, at least, she heard utter, nonevasive truth.

“Leo never—” he started to say, but cut himself short. “Tell me how you got here. Tell me where it is you learned to think on your feet, and why sometimes I see Compton’s perfect little assistant and sometimes I see a fierce little hell cat.”

She rose up to one elbow, letting cool air under the blanket.
“Perfect little—”

He tugged her in closer again. “Am I wrong?”

She wanted to stare at him in horror—and at the same time found herself completely gratified to be in darkness. She knew what he meant, all right. How polished she was, how well she knew the routine. How perfectly she functioned within it.

Oh, she wanted so badly to go back to pounding hearts and moving bodies....

“In college,” she found herself saying, “I was in it for the party. We grew pot, we inhaled, and we thought we were pretty tough.”

His grunt of response sounded a little too amused for her liking. “Tough,” he repeated.

“I know, I know.” She wanted to run from this, no matter how his warmth beckoned her and his body had come so close to being
hers
—and yet somehow, there was her hand, tracing over his chest, tucking in between the unfastened buttons of a well-worn casual shirt. “Really, we were just slackers, always at the edge of trouble—until suddenly it got to be more than that. My fiancé—”