The Devil She Knows (16 page)

Flattening his hand over the palm still resting against his chest, he held her to him as he pressed closer.

“You don’t have to carry the weight of everyone’s expectations and sins on your shoulders, Willow.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Of course she didn’t. But he could see. How she’d been careful to live her life to atone for the choices Rose had made. And not just what Willow had thought Rose had done with Dev. Rose had always been over the top, pushing boundaries and testing patience. Becoming a Vegas showgirl was just the last event in a long line of outrageous behavior.

Willow had made herself into the paragon of saintly virtue to protect herself and appease everyone else. And she’d done it to make up for her sister’s flamboyant excess and disregard for anyone and everything.

When he’d walked into her workroom it had been the first time—aside from when she was mindless with passion—that he’d felt she was really present. That she was wholly relaxed and entirely herself. Not playing the seductive angel or the serious businesswoman. He’d recognized the faraway expression of someone lost in their work...because he wore the same one often enough. She wasn’t hiding or pretending. She just...was. And she’d been more beautiful than ever.

But he couldn’t explain that to her. He couldn’t tell her that he
saw
her, saw beyond the front she put on for everyone else to the pieces she was trying to hide. That admission would reveal too much.

He hadn’t wanted the words from her, but she gave them to him anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

None of it was her fault and yet the soft, low sound of her voice soothed something deep inside him he wasn’t even aware was still injured. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that it still hurt.

And he couldn’t admit that to her, either.

Without thought, he reached up and rubbed the puckered scar on his cheek. Catching himself, he ran his fingers through his hair to cover up the revealing action.

But she saw anyway, her eyes sharpening slightly. The soft pad of her finger skated across his skin, pressing against the scar. She didn’t even ask where he’d gotten it. She didn’t have to, in order to understand.

Dev closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to find a calm center in the storm of emotion swirling up inside him. But there wasn’t one to find, so he let the storm take over instead.

When he opened his eyes again, Willow was staring at him with the same heat and bone-deep need that was drowning him.

He surged against her, knocking them both back onto the couch. The worn wooden frame groaned at the sudden shift of weight, but he didn’t give a damn. The thing could collapse beneath them for all he cared. He probably wouldn’t even notice.

Frenzy and heat. Driving need. If he’d stopped to think for a moment, he might have worried that his plucking fingers and demanding mouth could bruise her pale skin. But Willow was right there with him.

The sharp sound of ripping material joined their heavy breathing when she tugged his clothes from his body. Naked skin slipped against naked skin.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, no longer worried about keeping his desperation to himself. Holding himself up on shaking elbows, he stared down into her eyes. “When you’re around the only thing I can think about is the way you smell and taste. The heat of your body and how good you feel when I’m deep inside.”

Her lips twitched. “That’s just good sex.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve wanted women before, Willow. You’re different. Always have been. Even when I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t stop from wanting you.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him down to her waiting mouth.

“Lucky for you, you don’t have to.”

With a groan, he sank down into her, letting her soft curves take him. It was so easy to lose himself in her.

Until a loud clatter came from the kitchen. Dev vaulted from the sofa, halfway across the room before the sound stopped. Willow squeaked out a muffled yelp of surprise.

It wasn’t until later that he’d question the intelligence of bounding into unknown danger completely naked. At the time, all he could think about was protecting Willow.

Instinct kicked in and it was rewarded because when he reached the doorway to his kitchen it was to find the back door hanging wide-open. And he knew damn well he’d shut and locked it.

11

D
EV PULLED DOWN
Main looking for a parking spot in front of the hardware store. He’d barely slept, even after Sheriff Grant had left his place. Once again, there wasn’t much the man could do, but filing a report at least let Dev feel as though they were doing something.

Grant had tried to reassure him, but it hadn’t worked very well. No, whoever was watching Willow hadn’t physically harmed them, but that didn’t help the tingling tightness at the back of Dev’s neck.

He felt helpless, unable to figure out what the hell was going on so he could protect her. And it didn’t help that there was no place that truly felt safe, not her house and now not his.

Her studio. At least there she wouldn’t be alone and vulnerable. Maybe he’d look at getting a room at the inn until they figured out what was going on.

In the meantime, Brett Newcomb had called early this morning and asked to meet with him at Sonny’s Hardware. Dev had tried to put him off, reluctant to leave Willow alone, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

The only thing that had finally convinced him to leave was Willow’s reassurances that her business partner would be at the boutique with her. He’d checked every room and closet, and double-checked all the locks on the windows and doors of his house before he’d left her standing over his sink putting on her makeup. And he still wasn’t entirely happy.

But Willow was stubborn and she’d threatened to go back to her house—alone—tonight if he didn’t get his butt to the meeting. So he’d left. What else could he do? Although the tight, uneasy feeling that had taken up residence in his chest wasn’t going to go away until he saw her again.

Taking a spot half a block down the street, Dev pocketed his keys and headed to Sonny’s.

He didn’t understand why Newcomb wanted to meet there, but when the client asked...

“Warwick, glad you could make it.”

A hand slapped down on his back and propelled him inside the hardware store.

This was the kind of hometown place that had been in a family for generations. According to the sign, it had been established in 1946.

Rows of shelves towered above his head, touching the twelve-foot ceilings. They were jam-packed with everything a handyman could drool over—power tools, pipe elbows, electrical boxes and an array of nails and screws in every size.

At the front was a long counter, which held an ancient computer and the general detritus of business. But there were also a couple of rickety tables and a sofa that had been old in the ’50s, all empty.

Dev figured Brett had called him here so they could talk with the owner about the supplies he’d need when the actual work got under way. Normally, he preferred to order from his own suppliers, but one of the bid requirements had included using local businesses.

Dev had to admit he’d been intrigued by the demand. When most companies were only concerned with the bottom line, the Sweetheart Consortium seemed willing to balance quality and profit with supporting the community.

And it helped that the building was going to be breathtaking. He’d wanted to be a part of it and would have bid on the project even if it hadn’t been in Sweetheart.

Dev headed for the counter, but Brett’s hand steered him to one of the long aisles instead, pushing him farther into the dusty confines. He tried to ask Brett where they were going, but he just shook his head and gave a conspiratorial smile.

Dev didn’t like those kinds of smiles. They usually meant someone knew something he didn’t.

The aisle ended and Brett pointed to a door. It was split along the bottom, splinters of wood breaking free and crumbling. The surface was stained with several garish splotches of paint, as if it was used to test for true color. Dev assumed it was a supply closet or storage area.

He was surprised when Brett pulled open the door and a set of stairs materialized. A basement. The staircase was dark, a lightbulb swinging uselessly from the ceiling.

Brett clapped a hand onto his shoulder and directed him down the stairs in front of him. Unease, an unwelcome echo from last night, tightened the skin at the back of his neck. “Are you taking me down here to drop me into a pit or murder me?” Dev asked, throwing a half joking, half concerned smile over his shoulder.

Brett’s lips twitched. And Dev noticed the muffled sound of voices as they got closer to the bottom. They stepped into a dusty room that was just as dark as the staircase. There were boxes stacked everywhere, but through the gloom he could just make out a doorway, a strip of light glowing next to the floor.

This time when Brett tried to steer him, Dev dug in his heels. “What is going on?”

“You’ll see,” the other man said cryptically.

He’d instantly liked Brett Newcomb when they’d met. Brett was new to the area, so he hadn’t been prejudiced by the stories of ten years ago. He was a good businessman, a talented architect and Dev appreciated his ability to cut through bullshit. Even though he’d only known him for a few weeks, he’d already begun to think of the man as a friend.

Now he wasn’t entirely certain.

“Trust me,” Brett said, nodding toward the door. “You wanna go inside.”

Deciding he had nothing to lose—unless Newcomb really was a serial killer—Dev opened the door. And stood dumbfounded on the threshold.

It was the mecca of manhood. There was a long, cherrywood bar along one wall. Several televisions. Deer heads, mounted fish and sports jerseys covered the walls. Trophies—from Little League up to state championships—occupied a huge glass case. And every beat-up recliner or sofa that had been kicked out by a self-righteous wife had come here to die...or be used until it literally fell apart. A cloud of cigar smoke mingled with the scent of grease.

“Holy crap,” Dev breathed out. “What is this place?”

“The Eros Lodge. Don’t ask about the name, no one’s been able to give me a satisfactory answer yet. No women involved and still they went for something froufrou.” Brett shrugged and wandered over to the bar where several men sat with huge plates of eggs, pancakes, bacon and sausage in front of them.

“Warwick,” someone yelled from across the room. “Glad you could join us. Pull up a chair.”

Dev followed the sound over to an older guy lounging in front of one of the humungous TV screens. He gestured to the scarred leather armchair beside him, held together with duct tape.

Shaking his head, Dev wended his way through the space. Had he dropped into Wonderland when he’d walked down those stairs?

Most of the men occupying the cavernous room were older, in their sixties and seventies. But there were a few thirty-and forty-year-olds in suits, eating breakfast and nursing steaming cups of coffee.

He sank down into the chair and groaned at how perfectly the leather reached up and cradled him, wrapping around his body. It might be an eyesore, but the thing was pricelessly perfect.

“I know,” the guy who’d called to him said with an understanding smile. “Welcome to the Eros Lodge. I knew your grandfather since we were schoolboys. He loved that chair. Name’s Gus.”

Dev had a vague recollection of Gus, fuzzy memories from his life here, although he’d been a headstrong teenager and a pissed-off adult so he hadn’t really paid attention to who his grandfather’s friends were.

“Gus. He talked about you. Nice to meet you.”

Gus inclined his head. “You’ve been sponsored as a legacy. We don’t have many rules here, son. The most important one is if you tell any of the women what we have down here, we’ll castrate you.” Gus laughed loudly, the sound bursting and echoing as others around them joined in.

Dev wasn’t entirely certain they were joking.

“You’re free to use the premises whenever you like. Marty is the best bartender in town and Nicholas makes the best grits and grills a mean burger. And you can watch the game in peace.”

Gus leaned forward, his starkly lined face pushing through the haze that lingered around the place.

“On a personal note, if you hurt Willow Portis you’ll have all of us to answer to. She ain’t got no family here anymore, but all of us consider her one of ours.”

Dev swallowed.

“Grant said you’re fighting tooth and nail to keep her safe, though, so we thought you deserved the benefit of the doubt. We’ve all been headstrong and stupid before. If Willow’s forgiven you for what happened, we’re willing to let the past go and give you another shot.”

The room had gone suddenly silent. He glanced around, realizing everyone was watching him. His mouth went dry. For a moment, he thought about telling this man—a man his grandfather had known and trusted—what had actually happened ten years ago.

But the thought made his stomach tighten. They’d let him in. Accepted him. Even thinking the lies from ten years ago were truth. At least, that’s what he thought this whole thing meant.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt her, Gus.”

Gus stared hard for several seconds and then finally jerked his head in a single, decisive nod. And just like that, the conversation was over.

Gus stood and walked away. Brett slipped into the chair he’d vacated and began discussing the resort as if there was nothing strange about conducting business in the basement of a hardware store.

And maybe there wasn’t. Dev sank down into the discussion, enjoying the intelligence Brett brought to the conversation as they debated the merits of the design changes Dev was suggesting.

Business finished, Dev settled into the welcoming glove of the recliner and said, “I never knew this place was here.”

Brett shrugged. “I didn’t find out until I’d been in town for several months and proposed to the mayor’s daughter in front of the entire town. They’re pretty particular about letting people in. They like to protect what they’ve got going.”