A Devil Named Desire Read Free

it beside her bed.
    Crisp white button-down shirt, no tie. Dark gray trousers that fit him in all the right places. A well-dressed, handsome stranger, who’d pulled her back from the edge of the abyss.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he told her easily. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
    She didn’t believe him, knowing nothing would ever be right again, but had no will to argue. Her body felt strange, heavy. She licked her lips, unable to summon the energy to even care about where she was, or how she’d gotten there.
    “You’re dehydrated,” he said, “but that will pass. Let me help you sit up.” He bent, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders. The familiarity surprised her, but she hadn’t the strength to pull away. He smelled of something warm and exotic; cloves maybe, cinnamon.
    Quickly, impersonally, he rearranged the pillows behind her back so she could sit up.
    “Here. Have some orange juice.”
    Her hands shook as she took it. Both wrists were bandaged, and at the sight of them, she winced.
    Raising the glass, she was nearly overcome with despair. She was supposed to be dead. The orange juice tasted good, cool as it slid down her throat, and she hated the part of her that wanted it.
    “Good girl.” He took the empty glass and set it on the bedside table.
    “Where am I?” She let her head fall back against the pillow. “Who are you?”
    “My name is Sammy, and there’s no need to worry. You’re safe with me.”
    Safe? She’d tried to kill herself. All the memories came rushing back: the warm red water, the quiet drip of the faucet. The man, the shadow . . . had there been whispers?
    “My sister. Charity.” She snatched a moment of clarity from the haze. “You said she wasn’t dead.”
    He nodded. “That’s right. She’s alive.”
    She wanted desperately to believe him, but the prickle on the back of her neck warned her not to get her hopes up.
    She couldn’t go through it, not again.
    “Where is she?”
    “All in good time, Hope.”
    Not the answer she wanted, and her wariness increased, because she hadn’t told him her name. “Do . . . do I know you?” She was absolutely sure she didn’t—a face like his would be hard to forget.
    “Not yet,” he replied, with a lazy curl of a lip, “but you’ll soon know me better.” He cocked his blond head. “In the meantime, I know quite a lot about you, Hope Henderson. Your parents died in a fire when you were twelve, and both you and your younger sister grew up in foster care. Charity, your sister, has been missing for two years. You were told just last week that her purse had been found in a washed-out ravine in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. The police think she’s been murdered.”
    The starkness of the words took her breath away. She turned her head toward the window, eyes filling with tears. The police theorized that her beautiful, vivacious sister, off for a weekend of fun in Las Vegas, had been murdered and dumped, a piece of human garbage left for the coyotes to ravage. As far as the police were concerned, the search for Charity was over; no contact for two years, no use of credit cards or ATMs, no sign of her at all, until now. The slim thread of hope she’d clung to had been severed, driving her over the edge to despair.
    Not even a body left to bury.
    “I know you were told otherwise, but trust me when I tell you, Charity isn’t dead.”
    Hope’s eyes snapped back to his; pale blue, and despite his seeming kindnesses to her, completely devoid of emotion.
    “How would you know?” She bit her lip, willing the tears not to fall.
    “The abandoned purse was just a cover,” he replied calmly. “She’s alive and well, and living in Las Vegas.” Moving toward the tray, he picked up the coffeepot and poured some into a cup. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you for the moment. First, let’s get your strength up, put some food in you. Milk? Sugar?”
    Stunned, she shook her head, raising a bandaged wrist to