“Stop making that face or I’ll change my mind.”
9
Canoodling with the Devil
Sloane
The offices of Rollins Consulting took up the entire fourteenth floor of a pricey-looking building with a pricey-looking view. Everything from the marble floor of the reception area to the dark, wood-paneled walls whispered wealth and power.
There was fancy art on the walls and real plants in gold pots.
“I need to see your IDs,” said the woman behind the front desk.
She was somewhere in her midfifties to early sixties and had the ramrod posture of a career military woman. She was looking at Naomi and me like she thought we might try to steal a painting off the wall or stuff our purses full of espresso pods. The nameplate indicated that her name was Petula.
I found her both terrifying and fascinating.
“They’re friends of mine and Lucian’s,” Lina insisted.
Well, that was a blatant lie.
Petula didn’t appear to be impressed. “Just because they’re friends now doesn’t mean they won’t be enemies later,” she said. “I will accept a driver’s license, military ID, or passport.”
Naomi raced to comply, digging through her purse like it was a scavenger hunt.
I pulled my driver’s license out of my wallet and was just handing it over when ex-U.S. Marshal Nolan Graham entered the lobby space through a pair of smoked-glass doors.
“Blondie!”
“Nolan!”
He looked good. Healthy and happy. And that made me happy.
I opened my arms for a hug. He wrapped me up and plucked me off the floor, leaving my feet dangling. We had dated. Barely. Not even long enough for more than a very nice kiss or two before his heroic injury changed the trajectory of his career and personal life.
Lucian, for reasons that remained shrouded in mystery, offered Nolan a job with his firm. A position that made it possible to win back his ex-wife, Callie.
I may not have ended up with a hot U.S. marshal boyfriend, but at least I’d gotten a new friend out of the deal.
“How’s the bullet hole?” My question ended in a gasping giggle when he gave me a tight squeeze before setting me on my feet again.
His answer was interrupted by the sound of multiple throats clearing. I glanced around and spotted Lina, Naomi, and even Petula looking as wide-eyed as Taylor Swift’s front row audience.
“Oh, hey, boss,” Nolan said, taking his time releasing me from his embrace.
Shit.
A familiar blaze of heat swept my back from head to heel. It always made me wonder if the man commanded the powers of actual hellfire.
“So how are you doing?” I asked Nolan again, determined not to address the threat behind me.
“All healed up,” he said.
“Don’t listen to him. The big baby was just whining Friday about the winter wind making his bullet hole ache,” Lina interjected.
“I’m a hero. Heroes are allowed to whine,” Nolan insisted with a smirk.
“How is the soon-to-be missus? I heard you’re eloping,” I said, ignoring the fact that my back was bathed in flames.
Nolan’s grin showed every tooth in his mouth. “She’s great. We’re great. Heading to St. Croix in a few weeks to make things official…again.”
His happiness was palpable.
I squeezed his arm. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you two.”
I really was. Everyone around me was falling in love and getting married and starting—or growing—families. It was making me acutely aware of my current single status.
“Ladies.”
The deep rumble of Lucian’s voice vibrated its way up my spine.
I turned slowly and drank in the godlike hotness of Lucifer himself. It was impossible not to. It was like standing in a room with a great work of art and trying not to memorize every masterful brushstroke.
Lucian was annoyingly attractive in yet another impeccable dark suit with a crisp Oxford and a gray-and-blue-striped tie. I wanted to grab that tie and yank on it until that perfect facade cracked. His thick dark hair waved away from his face in a too-perfect style that begged for someone to mess it up. He was too perfect. It was unnatural.
He scanned me as he always did. And for once, I wondered what he was seeing. In contrast to his perfectly polished exterior, I was wearing snug, army-green cargo pants and a lightweight violet turtleneck. My hair was in a high ponytail, and my lips were a murderous red.
Was it my imagination, or did his gaze linger a little longer than necessary on my mouth?
Why the hell did I feel so alive when we locked gazes?