A Devil Named Desire Read Free Page A

swipe at a tear that spilled over anyway.
    “Black it is, then,” he said lightly, and offered her the cup. “Drink up.” His voice was firm, inflexible, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.
    She did as he said, and took the cup, using both hands to keep it steady. The coffee smelled good, and in the hopes it would help dispel the sense of unreality that had settled over her, she took a cautious sip. She’d expected to wake burning in Hell, yet here she was, nestled in goose down, sipping coffee with a guy who should be gracing the cover of GQ magazine, and talking about the possibility that her sister could still be alive.
    “Colombia’s finest,” he said approvingly, lifting his own cup. “None of that mocha latte shit.” His blue eyes twinkled, both knowing and compelling; a gaze that frightened and reassured at the same time. “Take a moment, enjoy.”
    And because she needed a moment to wrap her brain around the situation, she did, and immediately found him right about the coffee; a couple of sips and she felt stronger.
    “Tell me more about Charity. Why hasn’t she called me? What’s she doing?”
    “So many questions.” He gave a short laugh, amused. Then the look in his eye turned calculating, making her nervous. “What a waste your death would’ve been.”
    Remembrance of those moments in the tub left her silent as she stared into her coffee cup. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life,” she told him stiffly, aware that thanks were called for. “I—I was depressed, it was stupid . . .”
    “You’re welcome,” he interrupted dryly. “But you may want to hold on to your thanks, because now you owe me.”
    The prickle on the back of her neck turned to ice, slipping down her spine.
    “What?”
    “You were going to die, and I saved you,” he said simply. “You called out to me, and I came.”
    Her normally agile brain finally clicked into gear. The guy was gorgeous, but insane. Hot coffee to the face was a possibility, but there was no way she could bolt past him in her weakened state. He’d catch her in an instant, and then she’d have made him mad.
    Something told her she didn’t want to make him mad.
    “You wanted the Darkness.” He lifted the lid of a salver on the tray, releasing the heavenly smell of fresh baked bread. His actions were unhurried, but his words struck fear into her heart. “I am the Darkness.” Silverware rattled as he picked up a knife. The blade gleamed, mesmerizing her.
    She tore her eyes away from the knife and put them back on his face, wanting to be able to describe him to the police if she made it out of this alive.
    “Describe me to the police all you like,” he said, making her jump. “They’re not going to be able to find me, because I don’t exist.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m like the bogeyman . . . gone the moment you turn on the light.”
    He didn’t look like the bogeyman, yet for one teeny second she allowed herself to hope that the whole surreal situation was a nightmare, a figment of suicidal delirium . . .
    “Ah, the lies we tell ourselves when we’re under stress,” the man said, as though he’d read her mind. He cocked his head to the side, giving her a bemused grin. “Don’t you know who I am yet, Hope Henderson? Haven’t you figured it out?” He shook his blond head, making tsk ing noises. “It’s so disappointing not to be recognized these days; modern media almost always portrays me as dark-haired and goateed, with a decided preference for horns and a red cape. Truth be told, I prefer Armani.”
    Unsure of what to say to that, she said nothing.
    “You’ve been given a blood transfusion, by the way, as you lost most of your own in the tub. The doctor said not to worry; you’re young and otherwise healthy. A little rest, some food . . . you’ll be feeling better soon.” He dipped the knife in butter and lavished it on a piece of toast. “Don’t look so frightened, pretty