Decadent (The Devil's Due Book 4)

by Eva Charles

  Challenge accepted. I activate the vibrator and it jumps to life. There’s not the faintest buzz, but her mouth falls open and she sucks in a breath. I’m so close to her, I can feel the heat off her body. “Feels good, doesn’t it, darlin’?”

  When she holds onto the elevator wall to steady herself, my mouth crashes into hers. It’s only the small moans in her throat that pull me back to reality. What the hell, Gray? What are you doing? It can’t be like this. You need to be in control. Otherwise the entire mission and everything you hope to accomplish is going to blow up in your face.

  I turn off the vibrator, and restart the elevator.

  Delilah pulls out a small compact and begins repairing her lipstick. The phallic tube against her lips sends a signal straight to my dick. I look away, trying to right myself before the damn doors open.

  You’re fucking with my head, woman. And it’s my own goddamn fault.

  21

  Delilah

  When we get off the elevator, Gray’s hand is on my back guiding me toward the hostess station—to the very spot where I stood, night after night.

  As we walk through the restaurant, I smile and say hello to at least a half dozen staff who I know. It’s uncomfortable—I don’t know why exactly, maybe because I’m more at home being a staff member than a guest in a place like Wildflower.

  Gray whispers something to the hostess, Laurel, who was hired right before I left. She nods and smiles, but I’m not sure she recognizes me. When they’re finished, he leads me into the dining room, to a table in the center of the room where everyone can see us.

  The familiar way he touches my back and waits for me to be seated suggests this isn’t a business meeting. I’m sure the nosey-noses trying not to gawk think we’re a couple—or at the very least, on a third or fourth date.

  The waiter and sommelier come over together to greet us, and though normally they would introduce themselves, no introductions are necessary.

  “You can leave the menus, but we’d like a few minutes to enjoy a drink before we order.”

  “Of course,” the waiter says, respectfully, turning his attention to me. But before I can order a drink, Gray takes the reins.

  “Miss Porter will have a champagne cocktail, and I’ll have Blanton’s. A generous pour, please.”

  My expression must betray my distaste for the words champagne cocktail, because the vibrator jumps to life for a second, zapping me like I’m a dog with an electric collar. I don’t care what Gray says about it. That’s what it feels like to me.

  When the waiter walks away, I smile adoringly at Gray. “I know a champagne cocktail is dainty and ladylike, but the next time you order me an aperitif, remember how much I like Blanton’s too, darlin’.”

  The vibrator springs to life, this time for longer than the last. One more time, and I’m going to pull it out, right here in the fancy-ass dining room, and drop it in his Blanton’s.

  “I appreciate you speaking so lovingly. But I’m in a wolfish mood tonight, Delilah. It’s best you keep your wits about you.”

  I make every effort not to roll my eyes. The pretending to be something I’m not is so much more difficult than I imagined. If Gray and I were at Tallulah’s Bar, or even in the apartment, sharing a meal would feel more natural, the way it did at the beach. But a dinner with pressed linen and more forks than I own makes it awkward, even in a familiar place.

  Fortunately, Gray is a master at small talk. And I dust off my Southern manners and partake of the bullshit until the white-gloved waiter returns. He places small bowls of warm nuts, olives, and cheddar crackers on the table, along with our drinks. Gray’s bourbon is over a large ice cube with a strip of orange peel lying on the surface. It makes my mouth water. I glance at my drink. In comparison, it looks—better than nothing.

  When the waiter walks away, Gray lifts his glass toward me. “Have a sip.” I’m surprised he’s sharing. But I suppose that’s what couples do. “Go on. See if it’s as good as you remember.”

  I lift the tumbler while he watches attentively, a small sparkle in his eyes. “Better than I remember,” I reply in a low, husky voice, as though the whiskey primed my throat for sex.

  “Take another sip, just to be sure.”

  “Mmmm. It smells like vanilla caramels,” I say, bringing the tumbler to my nose, before taking another sip.

  “There’s nothing I’d like more than to indulge you, Blue Eyes. Let me.”

  The flush creeps up my neck, and I search for a distraction. “I love these little crackers. The chef puts cayenne in them.”

  Gray takes a long drink of bourbon, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. The growing flush moves from pleasantly warm to toasty. If he hasn’t already noticed the pink stain on my skin, he’ll surely see it now.

  “Tell me about your day,” he says, popping an olive into his mouth.

  “My day.” Such a perfectly civilized question, but wrought with so much angst and turmoil. “Aside from Gabby when we meet for supper or a drink, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked about my day.”

  “Hmmm.” He scoops up another olive. “Never?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never thought about it before, but I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m asking, and I’m going to keep asking, at least for the next few weeks.”

  The next few weeks—then it’s over. Then you’ll be free of him, Delilah. It doesn’t give me the jolt of happiness I would expect. “Busy. The day was busy, although I accomplished nothing.” It’s true. I’ve never had such a busy but unproductive day. “The yoga was challenging. But you already know that. Have I thanked you yet for leading me to believe Mel was a white girl with a scrawny ass?”

  Gray laughs.

  “I don’t think Mel is that impressed with me, but he’s going to let me incorporate martial arts and kickboxing into our routine.”

  Gray raises his brow, offering me a cheddar cracker. “Really?”

  “If he’s satisfied that I’m committing to my yoga practice, on my own time. Don’t worry, he’s not letting me off easily.”

  “How did it feel to run on a treadmill in the afternoon?”

  “Not anywhere near as satisfying, if you want to know the truth. But better than nothing. Kind of like my champagne cocktail.”

  The edge of his mouth quirks, and I flash him a small, feigned smile, which he ignores.

  “How did it go with Mira?”

  “I liked her. A lot. You were right. She’s a font of information. Apparently, women don’t run outside in Amadi. Not on the public streets anyway.”

  “Is that right?” He brings the amber liquid to his lips and empties the tumbler.

  “That’s what the yoga is about. You’re preparing me.”

  He scoffs, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “Pity. I’m disappointed you didn’t continue to believe I’m a monster in that regard for a bit longer.”

  Before I can respond, there’s a loud thud at the entrance to the restaurant, like something heavy fell over, and staff are scurrying out front.

  “Excuse me,” Gray says, getting up.

  I follow him out, and close the French doors behind me so that guests can continue to enjoy dinner.

  Laurel is on the floor with the hostess stand on top of her.

  Gray shoos everyone away, and with little effort he pulls the stand upright, then lowers himself to his haunches, beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry.” She starts to sit up, and then lies back down again. “Mr. Wilder, I’m so nauseous, I’m afraid if I lift my head, I’ll be sick.”

  Poor woman. She sounds mortified.

  “Get a bag, or something, in case she vomits,” Gray tells the busboy loitering a few feet away. Laurel drapes an arm over her eyes. “What happened?” Gray asks. His voice is gentle and filled with concern.

  When I worked at Wildflower, Gray was always fair-minded. Not just toward me, but toward others who worked here too. He was demanding and exacting
about everything at the club, but he was also generous and kind, especially with the long-term employees who had demonstrated their loyalty over the years. Laurel hasn’t been here a year, but he’s clearly fond of her.

  “I got dizzy and held onto the stand. When I fell, it came with me. I’ll be fine as soon as my head stops spinning. It’s just the heat.”

  The heat? It’s pretty cool in here.

  “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  “Only my pride,” she says with her arm still shielding her eyes.

  The busboy returns back with a large disposable container.

  “You hold this,” Gray instructs, wrapping Laurel’s fingers around the container. “Don’t be afraid to use it if you need to. I’m going to carry you to my office and we’ll call your husband and an ambulance. Hold on.” He lifts her off the floor, and I follow behind, through the kitchen, to the rear of the building.

  Trippi appears out of nowhere and stops me at the entrance to Gray’s office. “She needs a little privacy,” he explains, in his own terse way. That’s how it always is with him. Short and never sweet. No one ever accused the man of talking their ear off. That’s for sure. “This is a personnel matter,” he adds, when I don’t immediately back off.

  I’m not prepared to make a stink, and I’m certainly not going to bother Gray. Plus, Laurel is entitled to some privacy. “Of course. Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  He nods and shuts the door in my face.

  What do I do now? Go back to the table, I guess, and wait. I don’t relish the idea of sitting alone, with dozens of eyes watching and wondering if Gray is ever coming back.

  When I get to the front, a waitress and a waiter, who know the floor well, are discussing who should take over for Laurel. Gray prefers the term hostess, but the hostess at the club is actually the maître d’ with the de facto job of restaurant manager for the evening. With Laurel and Gray both out of commission, and Foxy gone for the day, no one’s in charge.

  This was my old job. I can welcome guests and keep the floor running smoothly in my sleep. I did it for two years.

  “I’ll be the hostess for the rest of the evening,” I advise the much relieved, albeit cautious, waitstaff. “Let’s all go back to our stations.”

  About fifteen minutes later, Trippi approaches me outside the dining room after I’ve seated a small party. “Mr. Wilder is wondering if you know the name of the doctor who delivered Gabby Wilder’s baby?”

  Laurel must be pregnant. Hopefully the fall is nothing serious. I don’t bother asking, because Trippi isn’t going to divulge a thing. “Dr. Williams. With Angel Oak Obstetrics and Gynecology.” Dr. Williams is my doctor too, but I keep that to myself.

  “He also wanted me to tell you to go up to the apartment, and he’ll meet you when he can. He said to order dinner for yourself and the kitchen will bring it up.”

  Did he? Well, I’m going to go into the bathroom and take out his little toy, and he’ll have to come tell me himself, with words, if that’s what he expects.

  “Tell Mr. Wilder that he should take as long as he needs. I can amuse myself until he’s free.”

  Trippi, who is a former SEAL and the size of a Mack truck, glances between me and the menus in my hand.

  “If you tell him I’m working the floor, I’ll help myself to your balls when you least expect it. It won’t be a good time for you.”

  He’s twice my size, but has the good graces not to laugh in my face. “Yes, ma’am,” he says deferentially before walking away.

  I’d say there’s a less than fifty-fifty chance he’ll keep his mouth shut.

  22

  Delilah

  I’ve changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top by the time the lock clicks, and Gray drops his keys into a small glass tray in the foyer.

  “Hey,” he says from the living room doorway. “I didn’t expect you to still be up.” He’s carrying his jacket, his tie is off, and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He looks beat.

  “Is that why you stayed away so long?” I tease. “Hoped I’d fall asleep before you got home? How’s Laurel?”

  “She’s fine. I’m sorry about the way things turned out tonight.” He walks to the bar in the corner of the room and pours a bourbon. One glass.

  “No thanks, I don’t care for any.”

  His hand freezes mid-pour, his lips pulled into a tight line. “Do you want a drink, or are you just busting my balls?”

  “I’m all set for now.” I sit up and lay my iPad on the sofa beside me, and watch while he drains his glass and pours himself another. He’s broody tonight, with a darkness surrounding him that’s not normally there. At least not one this gloomy.

  “I’m going to shower.”

  “I’ll put out supper while you’re showering. Don’t deep-condition your hair and shave your legs, and all that other stuff that takes time. I’m starving.”

  He stops, and turns to me. “You haven’t eaten?”

  “I waited for my date. It seemed ladylike and proper, like a champagne cocktail.”

  When he shakes his head, I spy a whisper of a smile, but not enough to lift the gloom. “I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  While he’s showering, I reheat the crab dip and pull the chicken salad from the refrigerator. I wonder if something happened with Laurel. Maybe that’s what’s put him in a mood. It was hot as hell outside and soupy, but the club was cool and dry. I doubt it was the heat that made her go down, even if she is pregnant. It’s not as though pregnant women turn into hothouse flowers.

  While I’m still figuring things out, Gray comes out onto the balcony where I’ve set out the food and lit a few candles I found decorating the inside of the fireplace. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I’d bet my last dollar there’s no underwear under those thin gray sweatpants. Just like at the beach.

  “This is nice,” he says, almost surprised.

  “I thought we’d eat out here. It’s cooled off and the fresh air feels good. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed the candles from the fireplace. I’ll put them back just like they were when we’re finished.” Wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack because something was out of place.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, stretching out on a chaise lounge. “What did you order?”

  I lift the lids off the platters. “Chicken salad on soft white bread, with sweet potato fries and some crab dip.”

  He’s sitting back, with his eyes closed, but he’s not asleep.

  I slather some crab dip on a piece of baguette and bring it to him.

  “Chef Renaud must have loved filling your order.”

  “He’s lucky I don’t trust him to make a decent taco, because that’s what I really had a hankering for. But not to be outmaneuvered, he chose a crisp chardonnay that would pair well with my choices.” I purse my lips. “I never cared for that guy. Too snooty for my tastes. But he can cook. Got to give him that.”

  Gray gets up and opens the glass door to the living room. “I’m not a fan of chardonnay, crisp or otherwise. Do you want a beer?”

  “Love one.”

  The balcony overlooks the city, with the harbor in the distance. It’s a nice view, but nothing like the beach house.

  I make us each a plate with some of everything while he’s inside, and take the seat closest to him.

  He hands me a beer. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. This is perfect. Thanks for—”

  “Ordering? It didn’t take much effort.” I pick at my food, unsure about whether it’s okay to ask what happened with Laurel. I don’t want to violate her privacy. I suppose Gray will let me know if I overstep. “I heard you went to the hospital with Laurel.”

  “Where did you hear that?” he asks, taking a bite of the sandwich.

  “Chatter among the waitstaff. You know how it is in the restaurant—no secrets, even if the ambulance pulls up around back. Plus, they like her, and they were worried.”

 
; He shrugs. “She’d never been in an ambulance before. She started to cry when the EMTs hooked her up to an IV and said she needed to go to the emergency room. She was shaking, and I couldn’t see sending her alone. Trippi followed in the car. We stayed until her husband could find someone to take care of their kid.”

  Empathy and compassion—there it is again. “That was nice of you.”

  “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  “We always have a choice. But you have a soft spot for vulnerable women. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Don’t ever ask Trippi to lie to me. He won’t, but it puts him in a bad spot. Especially since he’s fond of his balls.” He reaches over and tugs on my hair, stealing a fry off my plate, while he’s at it.

  I swat his hand away from my food. “The last thing I want are his balls.” But my instincts are right not to trust him to keep his mouth shut.

  Gray gets up to grab another sandwich. “I asked you to come upstairs and wait for me.”

  “Actually, you told me to go upstairs and wait. It might be just semantics, but there was no asking and a lot of telling. Trippi might have gotten the gist of it wrong, but I doubt it.”

  He deposits a handful of fries on my plate before sitting down. “You were my guest. When I—”

  “It was the right thing to do,” I interrupt, before he goes any further down that road and I end up wanting to smack him. “You own the place, yet when something needs to get done, regardless of what it is, you pitch in. Your woman would do that too. Besides, I can run that dining room in my sleep.”

  “My woman, huh?” There’s a small smile playing on his lips.

  “Isn’t that what we want the world to believe?”

  He doesn’t respond, and all of a sudden, he seems faraway and broody again.

  I rest my plate on the small table between us, and close my eyes, enjoying the breeze. It’s been a long day, filled with new experiences and bits and pieces of information that I need to hold onto. No wonder I’m tired.

  “Am I a monster?”