A Deal With The Devil
Elizabeth O'Roark
Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth O'Roark
Editors: Sali Benbow-Powers, Laverne Clark
Copy Edit: Julie Deaton, Janis Ferguson
Cover Design: Lori Jackson
Photography: Rafa Catala
Model: Chema Malavia
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This is dedicated to my crew,
the Badass Middle-Aged Elven Assassins,
without whom I wouldn’t have published
a single book.
1
Good versus evil.
Comic books make it look so easy. One guy wants to destroy the world. Another wants to save it. The bad guy has a scar and is cruel to his girlfriend. The good guy has a jawline that could cut glass and gives half his dinner to the stray dog in the alley.
Real life is more complex. Sometimes the bad guy is hiding a heart of gold under that scarred exterior. Sometimes they both have a nice jawline and you often don’t know what you’ve signed on for until it’s too late.
Except when you’re invited to work for Satan...then it’s fairly clear what you’re in for.
The offer has come over coffee with my friend Jonathan, on a pleasant patio where palms overhead filter Santa Monica’s bright morning sun. “Let me tell you how much it pays before you say no,” he adds, which is exactly the sort of suggestion you’d expect from Satan’s head of personnel.
I should clarify that Hayes Flynn, Jonathan’s boss, isn’t technically Satan—as in, he does not rule the underworld or have horns. While he might own a pitchfork, I assume based on those custom Tom Ford suits he wears that he has a guy for all his pitchfork-related needs.
And Satan is my nickname for him, not Jonathan’s, but still an apt one. First, because he’s a plastic surgeon to the stars, which is exactly the kind of job you’d expect of Satan, were Satan for some reason unable to practice law.
Second, because he’s British. It's common knowledge that any extra-suave British male who is not James Bond is a bad guy, or so I assume based on Jane Austen novels and the one James Bond movie I’ve watched.
And finally, because he’s slightly too perfect, which points to some kind of black magic at work. Too tall, too fit...square-jawed and dark-eyed and lush-mouthed in a way that makes him a danger to others. Just ask all these poor actresses he takes out once or twice, leaving them behind to post sad pics and vague quotes about loneliness on Instagram. I can’t guarantee they’re about him, but he’s certainly pretty enough to inspire plenty of self-pity in his wake.
Not that it’s a problem for me. My superpower, acquired over the course of this very difficult year, is that I’m immune to beautiful men. My sister would say broken, not immune, but she’s been with the same guy since she was fourteen, so what does she know?
“What would I be doing?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. The question is mostly a formality. Given my financial situation, I’m not in the position to say no to much at present. “I assume since it’s Hayes we’re discussing, it must involve some human trafficking or heroin.”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair, weary and amused in the same moment. “Nothing quite that bad. I want you to replace me while Jason and I are in Manila.”
I set my coffee down with a thud. The hunt for Jonathan’s temporary replacement began months ago, the second he and Jason got the heads-up their adoption was approved. “What happened?” I ask. “I thought you found someone.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t a good fit.” Which I assume is code for Hayes is being an asshole, or Hayes slept with her during the interview. Though Jonathan’s never said a bad word about his boss, thanks to TMZ and DeuxMoi, I know better. He makes my ex look like a choirboy. “Anyway,” he concludes, “it occurred to me I should just hire you. He needs an assistant. You need money. It’s perfect.”
Jonathan deals with demands: celebrities expecting to be slid into Hayes’s packed schedule on a moment’s notice, or Hayes requesting sought-after reservations and exotic foods. The job calls for tact, diplomacy, and the ability to make the impossible happen. Saying I’m the perfect choice is like setting up a sixteen-year-old boy with a ninety-year-old female and insisting it’s perfect because they’re both straight.
“So you’re desperate and can’t get anyone else to take the job.”
He looks up from his egg-white omelet, his mouth twitching. “No, Tali. You’re discreet and I think you’d be good for each other. Also, it pays four grand a week.”
My eyes go wide. I knew he did well—certainly better than I do working at Topside, a bar specializing in Jimmy Buffett and bandannas worn as headgear—but not that well. Four grand times the six weeks he’ll be gone won’t solve my problems, but it will make them a hell of a lot smaller.
“You probably should have led with that,” I tell him, and he breaks into my favorite Jonathan smile, sweet and surprised, like a child who’s been paid an unexpected compliment.
“That was easier than expected, given how you feel about Hayes,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And I want you to know...I still think you’re going to finish the book. But I thought if you could stop panicking about paying back the advance, it might take some of the pressure off.”
He has more faith in me than I have in myself, then. The book—for which I received a hefty advance I’ve already spent—has remained only half done for the past year and is due in a matter of months. If selling my soul to the devil was an option at this point, I’d probably take it, so I’m not going to turn down merely being on his payroll.
But it all feels too easy. This is Hayes we’re discussing, after all. “So that’s it? I mean, don’t I need to interview or something?”
A shadow passes over his face, a tiny curl of worry. “You’ll need to sign a contract and a non-disclosure agreement, but that’s about it. Hayes trusts my decisions. It’ll be fine.”
I’m not so certain about that, I think, remembering the one and only time Hayes and I have stood in the same room. I still don’t know why he was in Topside,
sticking out like a sore thumb in his expensive suit, or why—for one long moment—he was watching me with something that seemed like interest. But he hadn’t even reached the bar before that thing in his face changed, turned cold and resigned, and the next time I looked up he was gone. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me, but it doesn’t seem like the most auspicious start to our working relationship.
“I just have one request...” Jonathan says. He leans forward, arms of his suit pressed to the table, hands flat. “Don’t sleep with him. Please. If you jump into bed with him the day I leave, I’ll have to come straight home.”
I laugh loudly enough to draw stares from the neighboring tables. It’s appalling that Jonathan, my oldest friend, would even suggest it.
“Give me some credit. I would never have sex with someone like Hayes. I’m done with untrustworthy men.”
His shoulders sag as he scratches his forehead. “I worry you’ve got an idea about Hayes created entirely by some bullshit gossip and your vivid imagination.” His eyes fall on me, full of sympathy now. “And Matt never seemed untrustworthy. We were all as surprised as you when that went south.”
My chest tightens. There’s nothing reassuring about what Jonathan just said. I’d prefer to hear where I’d gone wrong, to have him point out the signs Matt was going to fail me the way he did, but even now all anyone can say about my ex is but he was such a great guy.
Jonathan reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s gonna get better, Tali. When the right guy comes along, your walls will recede.”
I sort of doubt that, given my plan is just to avoid men altogether.
But either way, Hayes Flynn won’t be touching my walls, or anything else.
2
I pull into the circular drive and glance over the schedule Jonathan gave me:
7:30 Arrive at the Starbucks on Highland. Order one venti latte (whole milk) three sugars.
7:45 Let yourself in using code. Disable alarm. Place coffee and papers on kitchen counter.
If Hayes is not downstairs by 8 AM, text him. If that fails, you’ll need to go wake him up. Warning: he may have company.
I’m worried I’m missing something, and in truth I’m not even sure I’ve gotten those first few instructions right. The latte has already sloshed on my skirt and I don’t know if I’m supposed to add the sugars myself or if The Dark Lord can actually do that much on his own.
I could check with Jonathan if I really had to, but he’s currently in route to Manila, and I should probably save harassing him for the bigger questions. God knows they’re likely as the day unfolds—if I even last that long. Sitting here in front of Hayes’s Hollywood Hills mansion, I’m starting to feel a little uncertain on that front.
First, because I already hate my boss, which is always a bad sign.
Second, because I really hate his house. I’d expected something more like Hayes himself: clean lines and beautiful angles with pops of lush, unexpected beauty. Instead, it’s the house you’d buy if, perhaps, you got famous off a YouTube song about farting—large enough to house a sizable village and replete with far too many tacky flourishes: fountains, columns, arching windows, turrets. And in a climate where flowering trees and bougainvillea flourish, his only landscaping involves some neatly trimmed hedges and a single, stocky palm, which hints at the exact sort of soullessness I’d expect from someone with his tabloid history.
I put my shoulders back and take one deep breath before I exit the car. Whether I like him or his house is irrelevant. This job is a means to an end for me, the first decent break I’ve had in a very hard year, and I’m not going to mess it up.
No matter how awful he clearly is, I don’t have to like him to hold my tongue and do his bidding. It’s only six weeks, after all.
Juggling the papers and the coffee and my bag, I manage to open the door and silence the alarm. My heels echo against the floor as I walk through, deeming the interior every bit as disappointing as the exterior: marble floors, lots of huge wood furniture, two winding grand staircases leading to separate wings of the house. I’m lonely sleeping by myself in a studio, so I can’t imagine how I’d feel in a space this vast. Then again, Hayes undoubtedly doesn’t sleep alone often.
I pull out the two cell phones I’ve inherited from Jonathan—one for Hayes’s normal calls and one for emergencies—and am about to arrange the newspapers when I hear him coming down the stairs. My heart begins to beat—overfast, nearly audible. Dealing with patients and running errands will be the bulk of my job. That I can handle. The one thing I’m not prepared for is meeting the man himself.
I glance in the mirror across from me, confirming that the new silk blouse is still tucked in and the spilled coffee stain on my skirt isn’t too obvious. Everything about me screams “pocket-sized and nonthreatening”—hair pulled back in a high ponytail, mascara and lip balm on my face and nothing more—aside from my eyes, which remain a trifle, um, defiant. I need them to say I’m here to serve, and at present they say something more like I’m carrying pepper spray, or I know gang members.
Before I can correct it, he appears, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black suit, even taller than I’d realized—and even prettier. Dark hair gleaming, damp and pushed off his face, a slight flush to his sharp cheekbones, still warm from the shower.
It’s a face that would force you to look a second and then a third time. A face that makes you brace for the sound of his voice...undoubtedly low and rough as gravel, the kind of voice that plucks a chord at the base of your stomach, makes you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. Or would, were he not looking at me as if I’d just broken into his home.
“Is this a joke?” he demands. His voice is exactly as I imagined. Too bad he had to ruin it by being him. He must have known I was coming, and I haven’t done anything wrong yet.
“No,” I say, suddenly grateful the counter separates us. “I’m Tali. Jonathan asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. I assumed you knew.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. “He told me my replacement was named Natalia,” he says, blowing out a tight breath. “Not his friend, the bartender.”
He says “bartender” as if it’s synonymous with racist or pedophile. I’d think a guy who drinks as much as he does would have a great deal of respect for my profession.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. My voice is probably more threatening and less conciliatory than is called for—no bad situation I can’t make worse. But I quit my job for this, so I’m not going down without a fight.
“I need to speak to Jonathan when he lands,” he says, pressing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I mean, do you even have any experience?”
Do I have experience answering the phone and picking up dry cleaning? Yes. Loads. I truly can’t believe Jonathan worried I’d sleep with this guy. Granted, I’d like to do plenty of things to him, but they mostly involve spit, and not in a sexy way.
“Yes,” I reply, folding my arms beneath my chest. “Last I checked, answering phones didn’t require an MBA from Harvard.”
“Which you clearly don’t have,” he says.
I could counter that I’ve attended grad school, but referencing something I quit probably won’t help my case.
He grabs the coffee, sighing as he glances at the sugars. Apparently, he is too busy and important to tear his own sugar packets. Lesson learned for tomorrow, not that it appears there will be a tomorrow.
“I’m calling Jonathan,” he says, already walking away. “Don’t get comfortable.”
The door slams and my breath leaves me, slowly and thoroughly. What the hell even happened? I’d understand if he disliked me after getting to know me—he wouldn’t be the first—but he was being a jerk before I even opened my mouth.
I lean against the marble counter and press my face to my hands, the disappointment sinking in at last. I’ve already quit at Topside and on very little notice. They won’t be hiring me back
, which means unless I find something else quickly, I’m heading home to Kansas with my tail between my legs, just the way my ex-boyfriend predicted I would.
What’s hardest is that this job felt like a sign—that things would be fine, that I was going to be able to dig my way out of this hole I’m in. But every bit of luck I ever had evaporated the minute I accepted that advance. Why would this be different?
Eventually I make my way to Jonathan’s office, just to the right of the kitchen. It’s small and sunny and Zen-like in its austerity. Aside from the desk and chair, the only décor is a single bright green fern and two framed photos—one of Jason and one of the three of us, laughing in the breeze with the Santa Monica pier lit up behind us.
I sip my cold coffee and begin to take down the weekend’s messages, waiting to be fired. I’ve almost, almost, accepted the idea, by the time he calls midday. But my stomach still drops. I’ve never been fired before. Nor have I ever lost this much money in one fell swoop.
“This morning,” he begins stiffly, “I was…surprised. I just want to be sure you know what you’re in for here. It’s not an easy job.”
Relief hisses through my blood, like steam escaping a valve. I’m not sure what changed his mind, and I don’t really care. “That’s okay.”
“You’ll be working long hours,” he says, “and you’ll have to do...other things as well.”
A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 1