Chapter Seven
“W
here were you all day?”
Tristan pulled in a deep breath, willing himself not to actually kick the little four-legged harpy. Shit, with his luck, Dippy would call PETA himself and report Tristan if he did. Even demons were wary of PETA.
“I had some errands to do,” he said absently, but his mind wasn’t really on his nonexistent errands or his canine coconspirator’s disgruntled demeanor.
“Where is Georgia?”
She usually didn’t leave for the day without checking in with him. Tonight, she hadn’t even called to make sure he didn’t need anything before she left. He checked his watch, and it wasn’t even eight p.m. yet. She’d worked much later and still checked with him before leaving the office.
“I don’t know,” Dippy growled. “I imagine she is home. But you need to stop fixating on your emo personal assistant and focus on this takeover. Do you even know how things are going in the mail room with Finola? Shouldn’t you be more worried about that than your assistant? Georgia Sullivan doesn’t have the power to bring this whole revolt down around your demonic ears. Finola White absolutely does.”
Tristan dropped his briefcase next to his desk and headed to his computer.
“Are you listening?” the hellhound demanded.
Tristan turned on his computer, waiting for it to boot up. As much as he hated to admit it, he was. And he’d already come to these same conclusions while driving around all afternoon.
He was far too obsessed with Peaches. He couldn’t even argue with a damned dog about that.
He’d wanted to lead this demonic invasion, and now that he was heading it up, all he could think about was bagging his emo assistant.
“Technically she’s not emo,” Tristan found himself saying. “More rockabilly goth, I’d say.”
Dippy growled again. “Damn it, Tristan, I don’t give a shit if she’s an emo, mod, hipster, or effin yuppy. We need to get this takeover moving. Have you completely forgotten that we need to prove ourselves to Satan?”
That should be pretty hard to forget, shouldn’t it? Satan was—well, Satan. That did tend to make him memorable. Yet Tristan hadn’t been focused on their boss.
“I’m perfectly aware that I—we need to prove ourselves.” He honestly was, and he had to figure out how to get his focus back.
He had even had to admit to himself, while on his drive, that he hadn’t truly gone to buy furniture to make the office his domain. He’d just wanted to get away from this place and be with Georgia. Why?
He’d originally told himself it was the stress of Finola and Dippy, but ultimately he’d had to admit the truth.
“I find her . . . distracting,” Tristan admitted, almost as much to himself as to Dippy.
“So get rid of her. You know firsthand personal assistants are a dime a dozen. You don’t need her.”
Tristan immediately shook his head. “No. I do need her. We need her. She’s loyal. And good at her job. She’s become my right hand here.”
“Maybe you should use your right hand, and get rid of the damned hard-on you have for her,” Dippy muttered. “Then maybe you’ll be able to focus on your damned work.”
Tristan had done that. It didn’t help.
Then he paused. Use his right hand. That was it. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? There wasn’t anything particularly special about Georgia, except that he hadn’t had her. Once he plucked this piece of forbidden fruit, and took a few bites, his desire, his curiosity would be quenched.
Of course. That was it. He just needed to fuck Georgia and she’d be out of his system; then he could focus on the task at hand.
And he intended to set this plan in motion tonight.
He opened a file titled “Employee Contacts,” only to find it empty. Yeah, as if Finola had kept track of such things. He looked toward his old office, realizing he had all those numbers on the computer in there.
He stood and headed to that computer with Dippy on his heels.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer the mutt until he sat down at his old desk and punched the button to turn on the desktop computer.
“I plan to take care of this problem. ASAP.”
“Very good,” Dippy growled.
Tristan ignored the animal. After a moment, he found the file he was looking for; Georgia’s number was listed. Score.
He immediately pulled out his cell phone and programmed Georgia’s home address into it. Why didn’t he already have it in his phone?
Because Georgia was usually here. Yeah, it was so not normal for her to not be here.
He glanced at the address again, committing it to memory; then he rose.
“Where are you going?” Dippy demanded, scampering behind Tristan’s determined strides.
“To pick some forbidden fruit,” Tristan said. “And this time, it’s not an apple but a peach.”
“I’ll come with you.” Dippy fell into prancing steps behind Tristan.
Tristan paused. “I don’t think so. I can definitely handle this one on my own.”
Who knew hellhounds were little sexual deviants?
“You go check on Finola.”
“How?”
“You’re a hellhound,” Tristan said. “I’m quite sure you can figure out how to get to her.”
“We don’t even know if she’s still in the building,” Dippy pointed out.
“Then just wait for me to return.”
“And when will that be?” the dog growled.
“Not long.” Okay, that was probably a lie. Somehow, Tristan didn’t think a quickie was going to get Georgia out of his system. But give him a night, and he’d have this obsession under control.
Tristan stopped beside Georgia’s desk and looked down at his canine shadow.
“Seriously, Dippy,” he whispered, so no one passing by would realize he was conversing with a dog, “you need to stay here.”
Dippy sighed. “Fine.” He sat, looking peeved, but at least obeying.
“Very good,” Tristan said, relieved that for once the little pest was listening. “Hold the fort. I’ll be back soon.”
He heard Dippy muttering as he walked away. Something to the effect that holding the fort would be easier with opposable thumbs.
Tristan knew it would be, and that’s why he didn’t plan for Dippy to ever have them.
“So? Did you speak with her?”
Gabriel shook his head. “Georgia Sullivan was out of the office for most of the day. With McIntyre. Then she left early—well, earlier than usual. Should I go to her home?”
Eugene shook his head. “No. She’s already going to be unnerved about what you have to tell her. It would be even more disturbing to have a stranger show up at her door to tell her. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Gabriel nodded, but he wondered how Eugene could be so patient and calm, especially with Finola White in the mail room. Having her around, even for one day, was a vivid reminder that the DIA operatives needed to do their jobs as quickly as possible and get these demons under control.
“Eugene?”
And speak of the devil. The blond-haired, alabaster-skinned, and icy-eyed devil.
Both men turned to see Finola standing in the doorway. Why was she still here? Gabriel had no doubt that she had never stayed so late when she was the head of the magazine. So why so late now? Did she suspect something about the mail room already?
“Eugene—I mean, sir.” She smiled sweetly.
“Can I help you, Finola?”
She smiled, this time more sheepishly than sweet. “Yes. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to ask you for help again.”
Gabriel was shocked to see that Eugene actually returned the demon’s smile. Now that he saw the easy upturn of his boss’s lips, Gabriel realized he rarely saw Eugene smile. It seemed odd that when he did, it would be at a demon. Especially this demon—the one who had been their nemesis since they’d started this battle.
And on top of that, Eugene’s smile looked genuine, not forced in the least. Gabriel looked back and forth between the two. Worry, tight and unpleasant, spread through his chest. Was Eugene actually falling for this demon’s tricks? She did have an attractive human form, in an unusual and exotic way. And she did know how to be charming. But it was all just a façade. It was a mask hiding what lay beneath—pure evil.
“What seems to be the problem now, Finola?” Eugene sounded perfectly patient and kind. Maybe even a little sympathetic.
Gabriel stared at his boss. Did he truly feel that way?
“Well, I was just finishing up sorting my mail, but I got confused again on what order I’m supposed to organize everything on the cart,” she explained with a flip of her long hair and another sheepish smile.
Eugene nodded as if sorting mail was actually complicated. “I’m currently in the middle of something,” he said.
Yes, like trying to thwart a demonic takeover,
Gabriel thought wryly.
“But Gabriel here should be able to help you,” Eugene finished.
Gabriel shot his boss a startled look. No, he didn’t want to interact with this evil creature. He again wished he could just resort to the old ways of dealing with a demon.
Lop her head off and call it a day.
But those times were gone. Now the DIA believed in demonic rehabilitation, and Gabriel had seen it work, with lesser demons. And certainly with the possessed. But he still had his doubts it could work with more powerful demons, like Finola. And even if it could, that didn’t mean Gabriel wanted to be directly involved with the demonically challenged.
He saw himself more as an enforcer brought in if all other attempts at rehabilitation failed. He was ultimately a demon slayer.
But he was also subordinate to Eugene, so he found himself nodding. “I can help.”
He couldn’t muster a smile, however.
Finola’s pale gaze shifted to him, sweeping over him from head to toe, and he got the feeling she completely assessed him with that quick once-over. He also saw keen intelligence in her icy eyes. That startled him.
But then she masked that flash of intelligence behind the tilt of her head and a flirty smile.
He’d been watching her now for some time, and when she’d been in control of
HOT!
and the takeover, he’d only seen the decadent, spoiled creature who loved her own comfort and wealth. He’d seen a self-indulgent diva, and he realized now, in part, that had been exactly what she’d wanted him to see. What she’d wanted everyone to see.
But she’d been ousted, and she was pissed, and now he saw in those pale gray eyes that she didn’t intend to stay in exile. She had a plan. The wheels were turning, and she was dangerous.
Did Eugene see that, too?
When he looked back to his boss, Eugene nodded his head, but Gabriel couldn’t tell if that was somehow an answer to his unasked question. It couldn’t be, could it? It had to be a simple nod of approval that Gabriel was agreeing to deal with her.
“Why don’t we head back to your station, and you can show me,” Gabriel said, gesturing for her to lead the way.
Finola’s shrewd gaze warmed. Well, as much as her eyes’ iciness could warm. She smiled broadly, to hide that calculating coldness.
“Thank you so much.”
He bobbed his head, finding that his disgust made it hard to speak.
She led the way back to her station, which was covered with mail that she clearly hadn’t touched. Demons were notoriously lazy, unless they were working toward something they really wanted.
She beamed him with another smile. And she was working on something she wanted right now. But what was it?
“I don’t know why I can’t remember how to do this.” She sighed, looking down at the strewn pile of missives. “It seems so simple when others explain it to me. And I hate to keep you here so late. Were you about to go home?”
She flipped her hair again. Then, almost seductively, she brushed her fingertips over one of the manila envelopes.
“Not quite yet,” he said, ignoring her attempt to flirt. “Okay, let’s go through it again.”
He showed her how to sort the letters by the recipient’s location, bundling them with rubber bands, and arranging them from lowest floor to highest on the cart.
She made appropriate comments and noises to show she was paying attention and comprehending. Several times she brushed against him under the guise of getting a better view of what he was doing. Each fleeting touch made him cringe on the inside. He wouldn’t show her any reaction whatsoever.
“That’s pretty much it,” he told her, stepping away from her as she leaned in again to thoroughly study the bundle of envelopes he’d just placed on the metal cart.
“Okay. It’s very simple,” she said, giving him another feigned, “I’m so silly” look.
“Yes, it is,” Gabriel said flatly, not giving her the ego stroke she expected, but her smile didn’t slip.
Instead, she reached for several of the envelopes, scanned the addresses, and then organized them as he’d done.
Good, she had it. And he was out of here.
He had started to walk away, when she stopped him.
“Do you like working down here?”
He turned back to her, narrowing his eyes. Why was she asking?
“Yes, I do.”
She nodded, reaching for a rubber band. Her perfectly manicured fingers curled around one of the beige bands like the talons of a bird snatching up a worm.
She paused, and then tilted her head as she regarded him. Her pale gaze held his. “I’m surprised. You seem too intelligent, too ambitious, for a job like this.”
“You got all of that from me teaching you how to sort mail?”
She smiled again, but this time, he noticed her grin didn’t look nearly as sweet. It was more—a smirk.
His skin prickled with awareness. She was up to something. The air suddenly seemed heavier, laden with a palpable energy.
“I just—just get this feeling there is something more you want.”