Home > Moonlight Scandals (de Vincent #3)(11)

Moonlight Scandals (de Vincent #3)(11)
Author: Jennifer L. Armentrout

His chin came down even farther, lining their mouths up like they were lovers. “I do believe we’ve already established that this is not a house but an apartment.”

Rosie wasn’t quite sure what tipped her over the edge, leaving bitch-tigress mode behind and going straight into slap-a-bitch mode. Could’ve been the insinuation that she would somehow put Nikki in harm’s way or it could’ve been the fact that he had the gall to threaten her. Hell, it could’ve been his mere presence at this point that did it.

Either way, Rosie lifted her hand without thinking. She wasn’t going to hit him, even though that would give her enough satisfaction that therapists across the nation would be concerned. She lifted her hand to push him back.

But that didn’t happen.

Devlin had the reflexes of a damn cat, catching her wrist before she even had the joy of making contact. She gasped out of surprise and his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Were you going to hit me?”

“No,” she seethed, wishing her eyes could shoot out death rays.

“That’s not how it appears to me,” he said, his voice deadly soft.

“Well, I have a feeling a lot of things don’t appear as they really are to you,” she shot back, tugging on her arm, but he didn’t let go. “I was going to push you since, you know, you’re in my personal space.”

“I’m not the one who got in your space.” A muscle flexed along his jaw. “You got in mine.”

Okay, that was kind of true.

“There’s something else you need to know.” He tugged on her arm, and before Rosie could react, her chest was suddenly flush against his. The contact was jarring, sending a riot of sensations through her. “I don’t make threats. I make promises.”

She drew in a deep breath and immediately regretted it, because it pushed her chest against his even more, and . . . God, her stomach was dropping and twisting in ways that were not unpleasant. She felt her nipples harden, and started praying that he couldn’t feel them through the incredibly thin and worn shirt she wore and the lacy, nearly nonexistent bralette she’d slept in.

She didn’t back down, though. “I don’t think you know how to use words correctly, because that, yet again, sounded an awful lot like a threat.”

“Does it?” he asked, and his voice seemed deeper, rougher. His eyes took on a sudden, hooded quality. “If it was a threat, it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Why is that?”

Devlin shifted just the slightest, and the next breath Rosie took lodged in her throat. She felt him against her stomach, thick and hard, and unless he had something weird in the front of his pants, he was totally turned on.

So was she.

And they were both apparently freaks, because she’d just tried to shove him and he had just threatened her, but here they were, utterly aroused, and there was a really good chance she needed to find a therapist stat.

Those thick lashes lifted and his eyes pierced hers. It was like he waited for her to say something or to pull away, but she did nothing but hold his stare as a lick of heat curled low in her stomach.

Devlin’s gaze lowered and those full lips parted. “I think it’s doing something entirely different.”

It was. For a multitude of wrong reasons, it was, and Rosie bit down on her lower lip as her hips shifted of their own accord.

“Are we going to pretend like you don’t feel me?” he asked, rather calmly.

“Yes,” she snapped.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Just great.” The moment those words came out of her mouth, she realized how ridiculous they sounded.

Devlin’s lips twitched, and she just wanted him to—

Footsteps sounded from her bedroom, and both of them reacted at once. Devlin let go of her wrist as if her skin scalded him, and Rosie turned into a kangaroo, because she jumped back a good foot.

The curtains parted, rattling as the beads knocked off one another. She hoped she looked somewhat normal as Gabe and Nikki entered the room and not like she had just been seconds away from rubbing all over Devlin like a cat that was not only in heat but one that also had rabies.

Gabe had his arm tight around Nikki’s shoulders and he didn’t seem at all surprised that Devlin was still there, but the moment she saw Nikki, she wasn’t thinking about whatever the hell had happened between her and Devlin. A little bit of shame rose in Rosie. While she’d been out here arguing and whatever with Devlin, Nikki had been in there, in pain and living a nightmare that had come to life.

Rosie cringed. Somehow the bruises looked even worse now. She hurried from where she stood.“Hey, honey. How are you feeling?”

Nikki tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. “Better. I’m feeling better.”

“That’s good.” She glanced at Gabe as she felt Devlin move closer to them.

“I’m going to Gabe’s,” Nikki said, and if her face wasn’t so messed up at the moment, Rosie knew she’d see a blush.

“Okay. Is there anything I can do?”

“You’ve already done enough,” Nikki replied.

“Thank you for getting Nikki this morning,” Gabe chimed in.

“I haven’t done nearly enough, so there’s no need to thank me.” Rosie leaned in, carefully kissing the one unmarred spot on Nikki’s cheek. “Text me later, okay? When you feel up to it?”

“Will do.”

Rosie then turned to Gabe and met his stare. “Take care of my girl.”

“Always” came Gabe’s response.

She held his gaze for a moment, long enough for him to understand she would, without a doubt, find a voodoo priestess to hex him if he did Nikki wrong again.

A slow, small smile tugged at Gabe’s lips and then he turned, guiding Nikki to the door. Devlin was already there, opening it for them. Rosie trailed behind.

Devlin stepped out into the hall as Rosie gripped the side of the door. He turned and looked at her, opening his mouth.

“All the gossip magazines have it wrong,” she said, meeting his blue-green eyes. “They call you the Devil, but they should call you the Dickhead.”

And with that, she slammed the door shut in Devlin de Vincent’s face.

“Alive or dead?” There was a pause. “Or would you rather the subject simply disappears?”

Seated in the dimly lit private booth of the Red Stallion Sunday afternoon, Devlin de Vincent was currently deciding if someone lived, died . . . or, as Archie Carr had succinctly put it, simply disappeared.

Frankly, he wanted the subject dead and erased.

That would make him smile, but as he dragged his finger along the rim of the heavy glass, he knew he couldn’t let his personal feelings involving this person get in the way. He had questions and he needed answers.

“Alive,” he answered.

“That’ll cost more.”

Strange how taking a life would cost less, but then again, keeping someone alive posed risks. Dev understood that. “Figured.”

“A lot more.”

Slowly, Dev lifted his gaze to the man who sat across from him. Archie was his age, but life in private military armies had weathered and hardened the man, aging him well beyond thirty-eight. The man was finely tuned death, though, and Dev imagined that some of those deep grooves in the pale skin around Archie’s dark eyes were a result of the deeds he carried out in exchange for monetary gain.

People lied when they said money couldn’t buy you everything.

Money could secure anything. Life. Death. Love. Security. Protection. Absolution. Happiness, or at least, a facsimile of joy. It was Dev’s experience that anything could be bought or bartered. Only the naive and the emotional believed otherwise, and Dev had never met a person who couldn’t be bought one way or another.

“Figured,” Dev repeated.

Archie studied him a moment and then nodded. “What do you have for me?”

Using his forefinger, he slid the closed file toward Archie. “Everything you need is in there.”

The redheaded man took the file and opened it. A harsh, low chuckle sounded from him. “Interesting. Is this related to what’s been all over the news this weekend?”

   
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