“Hey, darlin’. You finished already?” Fascinating the way his growly baritone matched his sexy, brooding persona.
“The opposite, actually. The meeting’s been delayed. I won’t be able to make lunch.” She kept her voice low.
“I see.” The two words rang with grimness.
“I have no control over the delay, and I have no idea how long I’ll be.” She prayed he’d believe her and not ask any questions. “It’s the simple truth.”
Silence.
“Lorcan?”
“Do what you have to.”
Dial tone.
Shit.
Ten to one, he’d talked to Jess and knew she’d lied by omission. Jess had told Angel Satan held himself to the highest of standards and ethics. He detested liars. And he held journalists in more contempt than he did ambulance chasers.
Resigning herself to her last Christmas on this earth being solitary, miserable, and depressed, she marched out of the room.
“Took you long enough.” Rutger gestured to the front entrance of her building. “Let’s get going. We’re late.”
To her surprise, the Homeland Security New York office was only three blocks away from her building.
It took a tortuous couple of hours, but the Homeland security interrogator questioning Angel was finally satisfied that she had told him everything. Indeed, he made her remember events she’d forgotten or buried because they were too painful to think about. But she gave away nothing about the letter and never slipped once when they asked her repeatedly if she knew Malik Mansoor.
Drained, exhausted, and disheartened, Angel walked back to her building on her own. Lost in bitter memories, she noticed nothing and no one. The day was still bright, the sky cloudless, and the breeze brisk.
Her cell rang not two minutes after she closed the door to her condo. She checked the display. “Hi Jess.”
“Is your meeting over?”
There was only one way Jess would know of her meeting. “You spoke to Satan.”
“Yes, I did speak to him. Don’t worry, I didn’t give away anything, but he’s bound to find out. And soon.”
Angel kneaded her throbbing temple. “I know. Believe me, I know. How pissed is he going to be? When I tell him.”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a hundred. Satan despises both liars and journalists.”
“And I’m both.” It didn’t matter anyway. There was never any hope of a relationship coming out of their four days together. Not since she’d made the decision to infiltrate the Trinidadian faction of ISIS and blow them apart.
“He likes you. I could tell from his voice and the questions he asked.”
She liked him. A ton. Her stomach cramped. The shrink she’d seen after her parents’ death had told her that her inability to digest food when she was upset was a psychosomatic reaction. God, she’d never expected this explosion of emotions. Never, ever considered she’d have a sexual appetite again.
“What did you tell him? Just so I’m prepared.” She shrugged off her coat and hung the garment on the three-pronged stand adjacent to the door.
“That you go by Angel, not Angelica. That you used what was left of your family’s fortune to fund Haven. That you’re passionately committed to saving young men and women from being drafted by ISIS. And that you work full-time at another job to support yourself until Haven can afford to take on full-time employees.”
“Bless you, Jess. I’m glad you didn’t have to lie for me.”
From the second she’d met Jess, Angel had known that in another life, they would be the best of friends. A wave of sadness crashed over her. There would be no more beginnings for her after the holidays. The impossibly bright future she’d always imagined was forfeit. Angel shook her head and replayed her and Jess’s conversation to figure out what to say. Right. Jess’s lies to Satan’s versus hers. She was
so
doomed.
“He said he was planning a surprise for you. I’ve never heard him sound so cheerful. Satan hates Christmas, and we always have to drag him out of his solitude during the holidays. The fact he wants to spend Christmas with you is huge. He also asked me if I thought you’d keep your word and go back to his place. I told him yes. You
are
going to go back?”
She hadn’t intended to after their terse phone conversation, but Jess changed her mind on a dime. “Yes. I am.”
“Great.”
“Thanks bunches for everything, Jess.” Was it wise to go back to Satan? To spend four glorious days with him? To be somewhat happy and carefree for the last time?
No.
But, she was going to do it anyway. If he still wanted her.
“Omigod. This is so unbelievable. You and Satan. I have to call Destiny, Nalini, and Jacinta right away. Devil is going to be absolutely shocked—”
“Don’t Jess. There is no me and Satan. This is an extended one-night stand. Once my four days of vacation are over, I’m moving back to Trinidad.”
“What? I don’t understand. What about Haven? Your job at WBCN? All the PR we have set up over the first quarter of next year for Haven?”
Angel cringed. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve found someone to run the foundation. She has terrific experience with non-profits and also lost a loved one to ISIS. Her name’s Indira Singh. I hope the three of us can meet before I leave the country.”
“This is so sudden.” Jess sounded so bewildered.
“I have to dash, Jess. And I’m sure you’re busy too. I bet your daughter’s bouncing with excitement for Santa’s visit tomorrow.” She had met Jess’s two- year-old, Grace, a few months ago, and even then the girl chatted non-stop about “Santy Claud.”
Jess laughed. “Bouncing isn’t the word. I don’t know how we’re going to get her to sleep tonight. Mind you, Devil has planned tons of physical activities for her today. He’s planning on tuckering her out.”
“Wise move. Well, I’ll let you go. Merry Christmas, and please say the same to your hubby and kiss Gracie for me.”
“Will do. And Merry Christmas to you and Satan. Later.”
“Bye.” Angel ended the call. She slumped into a chair and stared at the ceiling. So much had happened in the last eighteen months. First, her parents’ murder, then Martin abruptly sold his shares in the family banking business, and was recruited by ISIS. She still couldn’t accept that her big brother had executed human beings. Still couldn’t believe Martin could commit such a horrendous act.
It had all happened while she was the evening news anchor for Trinidad and Tobago’s most popular television station—Channel Ten. At first, she’d resisted the pressure to resign, not fazed by the death threats and the relentless barrage of the gossip sheets. But the gradual retreat of most of her friends proved the last straw.
She had had to get out of Trinidad. Once she’d made that decision, everything seemed to fall into place. Merylle, Martin’s last girlfriend, and Angel had bonded over Martin’s death. Merylle and Angel had both been devastated when Martin became an ISIS insurgent.
It was Merylle who suggested the foundation. The idea galvanized Angel. She was consumed by the notion and knew the best location for her organization would be the U.S.
Her Channel Ten boss had used his U.S. connections to get her an interview with Manhattan’s CBS affiliate WBCN. She accepted WBCN’s talk-show host job offer, moved, and began work on her foundation, Haven.
Then, two weeks ago, she received a package from her old assistant at Channel Ten in Trinidad. On top of a pile of file folders, she found Martin’s letter. Stunned by its contents and the date stamped on the envelope, Angel phoned Channel Ten to demand an explanation of her assistant, but the woman had recently immigrated to the UK, and no one had a forwarding address.
Angel shook her head. This was getting her nowhere. She drew in a deep breath, and before she lost her nerve thumbed Satan’s name.
“Hi. My meeting’s finally over. Still want me to come up? Or is it down?” She had no sense of direction whatsoever.
“I’ll come get you.”
“No. No. That doesn’t make any sense. The traffic coming into the city will be horrendous. I’ll drive. I’ll just put your address in my GPS, but first I’m going to pack a few clothes. I can’t wear out your supply of sweats and T-shirts.” She grinned.
“You know you can do that anytime. Pack something for a night out. There’s a restaurant near here I want to take you to. Call me when you’re on the highway.”
“Okay. Bye.” She stuck the phone in her coat pocket, dashed to the bedroom, opened her closet, and studied her clothes. She imagined that, save for the restaurant outing, they would be home and in bed most of the time. She packed way too many garments and two pairs of shoes, added a few accessories and toiletries, and then settled down in front of her laptop.
Angel did a quick search on the Net, booked a morning flight to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad’s capital city, for two days after Christmas. She Googled the Trinidad Hilton, called the contact number, and made a six-week reservation. It would cost a fortune to stay at the hotel, but she didn’t want to involve any of her friends in her scheme by staying with them.
Besides, she’d inherited half of the shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank upon her parents’ death; the other half had gone to Martin. The bank had been founded by her great-great-great grandfather in the late seventeenth century. The shares Yaman Moses, a prominent Trinidadian businessman, was for some peculiar reason desperate to acquire. Angel had almost agreed—almost, but there was some strange nuance about Yaman Moses that bothered her. It hadn’t made any sense at the time, but after getting Martin’s letter, it now did.
Now she understood why Yaman Moses wanted her shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank.
She spent a good half an hour composing her email to Yaman Moses telling him she’d changed her mind and was ready to sell her shares in the bank. Angel reread the message for the third time. Satisfied that the wording hit the right note, casual, yet friendly, with no hint of desperation. She took a deep breath to gather her courage and then clicked Send.
To prevent herself from panicking because she’d just signed her own death warrant, Angel forced herself to go on fast forward. She wrote a short resignation letter apologizing for not being able to give the requisite two weeks’ notice, checked the grammar and spelling, and emailed it to her boss at WBCN. For long moments, she stared at the screen. All her bridges were now burned. There was no going back.
A tad dazed and unsteady, she drew in badly needed oxygen and set about getting ready for her trip to Satan’s house. She pulled on her boots, gathered her carry-on, purse, and scarf, and exited her condo. In no time at all, she was in her car negotiating her way out of the parking garage.
Angel called Satan when she hit the highway. They conversed for over half an hour once he assured himself she had Bluetooth and wasn’t distracted. The subjects they discussed varied, but they both had remarkably similar opinions on the topics that divided countries, populations, and civilizations. She liked him more with each passing minute.
Forty-five minutes later, she geared down to guide her recently rented Audi RS 7 onto the I-495 exit ramp. Snow started falling just as she reached the entrance to Satan’s long driveway.
To her surprise, he was leaning against his front door waiting for her.
She braked, switched off the engine, and unsnapped her seatbelt. He opened the door, and without a second of hesitation she flew into his arms. God, he smelled so mouth-watering.
He caught her chin, and they stared at each other. “Angel. It suits you.”
“Satan. It suits you.” She grinned at him. “It seemed too trite—you know Angel and Satan hooking up.”
“That all you have?” He inclined his head to the carry-on lying on the passenger seat.
“Well, I could’ve packed more, but I have this feeling that whatever I wear won’t be worn for long.”
“Smart woman.” He flicked the tip of her nose, twined their fingers together, reached across the driver’s seat, and grabbed her luggage.
“Hungry?” He opened the front door and ushered her in.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “More munchy than hungry. Why?”
“Turn around. I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” She frowned at him before pivoting.
Her jaw sagged. For there right in the curve of the grand staircase stood a gigantic Douglas fir. The strap of her purse slipped down her arm to her wrist.
“Like it?” He stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders.
Tears brimmed, and she was too choked up for words, so she nodded. She covered his fingers with hers. “It’s beautiful, but Jess told me you hate Christmas and never celebrate the holidays.”
Angel pivoted, looked right at him, and toyed with the stubble darkening his chin. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Trust me. I don’t ever do anything I don’t want to. Thought it might be fun to decorate it and you. Have this vision of wrapping bows around strategic body parts and then unwrapping them one by one.” He winked at her.
“Oh my. Wicked, wicked, Satan. That’s a perfectly delish idea. Do we start now?”
“It’s snowing. There’s a glass-encased hot tub on the back porch. If you’re amenable, I figured we could have appetizers and wine, and relax.” Satan purchased the tub and had it installed right before his last deployment. After his captivity and torture, he developed a hatred of anything enclosed and had never used the spa.
He had commissioned the hot tub company to create a glass-encased raised hot tub in one corner of the deck. The notion of sitting in the spa in the middle of the winter watching snow falling while he was warm and toasty in the tub appealed. The company had surpassed his specifications, and the result was breathtaking.
Tucked into one corner of the back porch, the contractor had mounted the spa on a platform five feet above the deck. The added height enhanced the panoramic view of the ocean
The roof and the three sides were made of hurricane resistant glass threaded with heat elements to melt snow on contact. There were two entrances, one via the cabana bath at the far end of the kitchen, the other through sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. The only way to gain the glass door entrance was to exit the back door and be exposed to the wilds of Mother Nature.