The Devil's in the Details

by Kimberly Raye

  I recited the silent mantra and willed Delaney to pick up my soothing I’ll-handle-everything vibe. Unfortunately, I’m a succubus, so the only vibe that anyone ever picked up from me was Let’s get naked. And that only worked on the opposite sex.

  Delaney’s eyebrows pinched together. “This is a disaster.”

  “I know the paperwork says orchid, but the color is really a much deeper hue.” I reached for the file sitting on the corner of my desk. “I matched the swatches myself.” I found the two scraps of fabric and set them on the tabletop. There. Exactly the same. Even in the bright light of day.

  “But I want grape dresses,” she whined, still as stubborn as ever. “I want them to say grape. I want them to be grape. Not orchid. Or amethyst. Or eggplant. Or aubergine. Or acai.”

  Or any of the dozen different purples we’d debated over for months before she’d finally settled on one.

  “The groomsmen’s vests are grape,” she went on. “And they even say grape. The dresses have to match them exactly. They just have to.”

  “I’m sure if we take a look—”

  “That’s all I did was look. I stared at the colors all night and I can clearly see a distinction.” She leaned forward and touched the identical swatches. “Can’t you see? It’s wrong.” She shook her head. “All wrong.”

  Forget a Valium. She’d obviously been smoking some serious crack.

  Not that I was going to point that out. I was here to make her dreams come true.

  I fantasized for a nanosecond about pulling an Exorcist on her (think head spinning and a pea-soup shooter) and scaring her into submission. Seriously. We were three weeks away from the big day. No way could I scrounge up a dozen new custom-dyed bridesmaids’ dresses in that short an amount of time.

  But I was determined not to mess up my good-girl-searching-for-love aura. Even more, I couldn’t really blame Delaney for being so picky. Not when I knew her heart simply wasn’t in it. Her fantasy man? Vin Diesel. Meanwhile, her groom looked like Zach Galifianakis from The Hangover.

  I know, right?

  Anyhow, Stuffalumpalous was a colleague of her father’s who headed a rival oil company. The marriage was more like a merging of two corporations, with Delaney a perk in the contract.

  I didn’t miss the flash of desperation in her gaze. I knew that more than worrying about the dress color, she was really freaked over the notion of spending the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love.

  My chest hitched. “If you want new dresses, we’ll get new dresses,” I heard myself say.

  I know, I know. I was such a sucker.

  “Really?” The desperation faded into hope, and I could almost hear her telling herself that everything would be okay. The dresses. The flowers. The cake. The wedding. The honeymoon. The future.

  I smiled. “Whatever you want.”

  “Great.” She beamed, and hope faded into determination. “And since we’re changing the color,” she went on, “I’d like to rethink the style too. I want something with more of a Sex and the City feel. You know.” She waved a hand. “Something fun and flirty and cocktailish.”

  Was cocktailish even a word?

  “I want short,” she announced, morphing from worried, vulnerable Delaney back into the be-yotch who had traumatized Andrew and landed her on the front page of the local newspaper’s City Beat section for punching a waitress who’d served full-fat vinaigrette on her salad instead of low-cal. “And skimpy.”

  “But full-length ball gowns are much more appropriate for a black-tie affair,” I reminded her. “You wanted an Audrey Hepburn feel, remember? That’s why we put together a formal ceremony, followed by a grand reception with a full orchestra, an eight-course sit-down dinner, and tableside flambé.”

  “About that…” She shrugged. “I’m not really feeling the whole flambé thing. I still want a vintage feel, so I was thinking we could do a Sex and the City theme instead.”

  Forget vintage. Delaney was going for total cliché.

  “I want a salsa band and a buffet,” she rattled on. “Oh, and one of those mashed potato stations with the giant martini glasses so that you can add your own toppings and Cosmos for the signature drink and…”

  Anxiety rolled through me and my brain reeled with the magnitude of changes that I was about to face and, even more, with the possibility that we might have to postpone the wedding yet again if I couldn’t pull off said changes in a timely manner.

  Which meant I could be dealing with Delaney for another three years.

  I went for the Life Savers in my pocket, peeled off four, and stuffed them into my mouth. It was going to be one hell of a long day.

  Long turned out to be an understatement. Since Delaney insisted I tend to her personally, I spent an hour on the phone with her dress designer, who finally agreed to help us find a new look, and another six hours trying on new dresses with Delaney’s twelve bridesmaids, who were already in love with the old dresses. Then another two hours getting the measurements right and the dresses on order. Then several more hours back at the office making phone calls to catch up on all the work I’d missed—namely booking Judge Landon Parks as the demonic officiant for my mom’s big event and working to secure a venue.

  Luckily Burke and Andrew had met with my two prospective brides, otherwise I would have been even more stressed. As it was, I spent a total of twelve excruciating hours hard at work, but I managed it all without a three-sixty head spin or any projectile upchucking.

  I was so going to find the man of my dreams.

  I powered off my computer and popped my last Life Savers into my mouth. I’d been crunching them all day long, and while the sugar had helped, what I really needed was to kick back and savor the sweet treat for a few peaceful moments. I settled into my chair and closed my eyes. And then I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Let’s make this quick. I’ve got another meeting and the car is running.”

  I gulped. And swallowed.

  Bye-bye, my sweet, sugary friend.

  My eyes snapped open to find Lillith Damon standing in my office, wearing a tailored navy suit and an impatient expression. “I thought we were meeting at the museum,” I said. My gaze went to Cheryl, who stood next to her. “I left you a voice mail specifically stating that we’re meeting first thing tomorrow for a tour.”

  “Cheryl told me. But I’ve been thinking about this museum business and it won’t do. I need something bigger. It’s not just about joining forces with Samael. It’s about making a statement. A big statement.”

  Such as I’m Satan. Bigger than you. Badder than you.

  “But the museum can accommodate up to eight hundred guests. Even more, it’s available two weeks from now.” Which was a huge thing given the short notice. “I really think you should consider it.”

  “And I think you should find something else.” She glanced at the file folder sitting on my desk, and the edges sparked. “Think big. Huge.”

  I grabbed a nearby magazine and slapped at the licks of fire until the paperwork was nothing but a smoldering heap. “There’s always the Chase Bank building.”

  Her face lit up. “Perfect.”

  “I was joking.” Her eyes turned a brilliant crimson, and she glanced at a nearby file cabinet. Clearly she wasn’t amused, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “But maybe I could work something out.”

  Her eyes cooled to a chilling blue. “Do whatever you have to do, dear. You’re a succubus, for Pete’s sake. There isn’t a man alive who can resist you. Strip naked. Flaunt your feminine wiles. Seduce someone. Anyone. But make it happen. And fast. I’m losing my patience for all of this.”

  “We’ve been at it less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Exactly. My time is being sucked away as we speak.” She shook her head. “Cheryl will keep tabs on you and report your progress back to me.”

  Cheryl gave me an apologetic look as she scurried after my mother. The slam of a door followed, and I barely resisted the urge to burst into te
ars.

  I damned myself for not sprinkling my No Demon powder downstairs too, but I’d mainly been concerned about being caught off guard in the privacy of my own apartment. Not at my place of business.

  Drawing a deep breath, I nixed the museum idea and e-mailed every contact I could find for the Chase Bank building, including a security guard whom I’d hired to handle crowd control for one of my weddings last year.

  Not that I was going to get up close and personal with Dougie Cooper (said guard) or anyone else, for that matter, despite my mother’s suggestion. Rather, I was going to be my übercharming self and try to talk my way in. That, or fork over a few Benjamins.

  Hey, money talks.

  I ignored the sliver of doubt that told me I might as well call it quits and hop the nearest train straight to Hell.

  Easy. Calm. Breathe.

  I recited the silent mantra yet again and focused on dashing off one more note to a fellow wedding planner. Karla St. Charles was her name and big weddings were her game. She was everything I aspired to be. Except that she was pregnant with twins.

  Since jumping on the mommy train, she’d gone from being a royal bitch to a cordial acquaintance. Lucky for me. We now shared know-how and the occasional vendor. I pleaded my case to her via voice mail and finished with the promise of unlimited babysitting for six months if she could hook me up. Of course I didn’t know the first thing about babies, but if I could put up with Snooki’s yapping all night, I figured I could cope. I would have taken on quintuplets if it meant finding the inside track into Houston’s tallest building.

  And that was it.

  I was out of ideas and Life Savers.

  I rummaged in my top drawer, desperate to find a few ancient butter mints left over from the Morrison wedding last spring. My hand closed over one monogrammed package just as the bell on the door tinkled.

  “It’s only been twenty minutes,” I told Cheryl as I ripped open the package and popped the stale mint into my mouth. “I need at least twenty-five to get naked,” I said around a sugary mouthful. “And thirty to launch a full-on seduction.”

  “I could leave and come back.” The deep voice slid into my ears and brought every nerve in my body to pulsing awareness.

  My heart stalled as I glanced up to find Cutter Owens, star of last night’s fantasy, standing right in front of me.

  9

  He looked even sexier than I remembered. Hard, muscular body. Broad shoulders. Sensuous lips. Brilliant green eyes. A five o’clock shadow that made the insides of my thighs tingle in anticipation—

  The thought stalled as the mint took a nosedive and my throat slammed shut around it. My eyes burned and a strangled sound spurted past my lips.

  I know they say your life passes before your eyes in those few moments when you face your mortality, but I’ve been around for a lot of years, which meant there wasn’t nearly enough time for a recap. But the one thing that did rush through my mind was WTF? I’d existed a thousand years only to be pushed out of my favorite body and tossed back to Hell because of a stale mint and pure stupidity.

  Seriously?

  The man was a demon slayer and I was a demon. I should be running the other way instead of standing here thinking about his five o’clock shadow rubbing against the insides of my desperately deprived thighs. But in pure succubus fashion, my thoughts flashed from mortality to sex, to really great sex—huuugh.

  The sound echoed in my head as strong arms closed around me and a pressure punched the middle of my chest. My mouth fell open. The mint went flying. And suddenly I could breathe again.

  I slumped backward, gasping for air for a long moment before my lungs filled enough for me to form a coherent thought. I became acutely aware that Cutter’s arms were still around me and I really liked it—and so did a few choice body parts.

  “I, um, thanks,” I rasped, my throat burning and my eyes watering. “But you can let go of me now.”

  He loosened his grip and I swayed, and his hold tightened again. “You sure?” he asked after a long, heart-pounding moment.

  No.

  Yes.

  I don’t know.

  The only thing I was sure of was that I enjoyed having him close, and that wasn’t good. Not at all.

  “I’m, uh, fine. Really.” I gathered my strength and shrugged away. Unfortunately, I had a small office, which didn’t allow for a safe retreat. I could still feel the heat from his body. Smell the potent scent of warm male and massive sex appeal. Hear the frantic beat of his heart.

  No, wait. That was my heart. Keeping time with the frantic rush of adrenaline.

  “I, um…” My voice faded as I turned to find him staring at me with those incredible green eyes. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I saw a flash of surprise in his gaze. As if the full-body contact between us had startled him as much as it had startled me.

  As if it had turned him on.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted, eager to distract myself from the lust slamming through me.

  “You’re welcome,” he murmured, reminding me that he hadn’t been feeling me up, but saving my life.

  Fever rushed to my cheeks, and suddenly they were on fire like the rest of my body. “Thank you for doing the Heimlich. So, um, what’s up?”

  “You didn’t call me.” His gaze narrowed, and I knew he knew that my mother had paid me another visit.

  “You’ve been watching me,” I said accusingly.

  “You said you would call if she made contact with you.”

  “I was going to,” I started, but then he arched an eyebrow. “Really. I just haven’t had a chance. She just hired me today.”

  “For a wedding?”

  “Nah, for a birthday party.”

  “Gwyneth was right then.” The words were muttered under his breath, but I heard them anyway because as a succubus, my senses were fine-tuned. That, and my office really was atrociously small.

  Which was why I desperately needed to make it through the next two weeks in one piece, pull off a successful wedding, and snag my very own storefront. That, and I so didn’t want to be sucked back Down Under.

  No more happily-ever-afters. None. Nada. Zip.

  I stiffened against the overwhelming desire to throw my arms around Cutter and press myself up against his hard body. I forced a deep, calming breath. “Gwyneth?” I repeated the familiar name of a lower-tier demon who ran the spa frequented by my mother. “Gwyneth Dolmari? She works at my spa,” I rushed on, eager to explain how I knew her without blowing my cover. “That is, she works at the spa where I send a lot of my brides to get pampered. I’ve been there once or twice myself. It’s supernice.”

  Recognition lit his gaze before nose-diving into those dark-green depths. “You should have called me.”

  “Why are you so interested in my client?” As if I didn’t know. But he didn’t know that I knew, and I wasn’t letting on that I knew that he knew that I knew.

  I so needed another Life Savers.

  “Your client is a very powerful woman who uses that power to do very bad things.”

  “What is she? Con artist? Embezzler? Ponzi schemer?”

  “The Devil.” His gaze locked with mine. “And you’re the demon who’s planning her biggest power play to date.”

  Busted!

  Panic bolted through me, and my first instinct was to run, but then his hand shot out and strong fingers closed around my wrist.

  The skin-to-skin contact flipped on my lust switch. My face flushed and my nipples pebbled and my breath caught. His gaze darkened and he shook his head, seeming surprised by his own reaction.

  “You’re a demon, all right.”

  “No.” I fought to drink in some oxygen, but it was no use. My voice came out soft and breathless and I knew denying it would be pointless. Besides, Cutter Owens hadn’t made a name for himself by going after the little guys. He was more interested in the big boys (or girls, in this case) and a third- or fourth-tier demon—even a member of the Damon c
lan—wouldn’t warrant a blip on his radar.

  Or so I hoped.

  “I mean, I am a demon, but not a bad one. I’m one of those pesky fifth-tier demons, more irritating than evil. But even so, I’m trying to change my ways. I use my power for good.” I pointed to the photo album on the corner of my desk. “I make bridal dreams come true.” When he looked skeptical, I added, “I know it sounds far-fetched, but being a demon slayer, I’m sure you’ve run into a few demons who’ve broken ranks. Gwyneth, for instance. She’s your source, right? She isn’t so bad.”

  He regarded me while he appeared to think. “If you’re telling the truth, then you won’t mind helping me stop this wedding and ending your boss’s sorry existence.”

  “Trust me, I would love to—really—but I’m seriously trying to make it in the wedding biz. Sabotaging my own event would be a major conflict of interest.” Not to mention we were talking my mother. My kin. My blood.

  Not that he knew that.

  At least I didn’t think he did, otherwise he wouldn’t be hearing me out. He’d be chopping off my head because—not to toot my own horn—I was pretty sure Satan’s daughter equaled mucho brownie points for a slayer, even one with little interest in climbing the Legion’s corporate ladder. A fifth-tier demon, not so much.

  “On top of that,” I rushed on, “if I help you, she’s liable to take me back to Hell with her. I want to, but I can’t—” My words stalled as he pulled out the biggest knife I’d ever seen. “What are you doing?”

  “If you’re not going to help me, then I might as well kill you.”

  My stomach bottomed out. “Y-you can’t do that.”

  “Sure I can.” A grin played at his sensuous lips. “I’m a demon slayer, sugar, and you’re a demon.”

  “Who just so happens to be your only connection to Azazel,” I blurted, remembering the 411 from Blythe. Sure enough, his gaze hardened and I knew the Internet rumors had to be true. “That’s right.” I pulled my shoulders back and stood my ground. “I know Azazel.”

  His words came out a growl. “Where is he?”

  “Well, I don’t, um, know at this exact moment, but I can find him. That is, if you’re interested in striking a deal.”