A Deal with the Devil
An International Bad Boys Novella
Louisa George
A Deal with the Devil
Copyright © 2015 Louisa George
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-942240-67-9
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The International Bad Boy Series
About the Author
Chapter One
Kate Wilkinson had a tell.
Great. A fine time for her own body to rebel against her. Just downright perfect for a night when she needed everyone to believe she was exactly who she said she was. And yes, she was working on fixing it, but nothing seemed to stop the traitorous twitch just below her left eye that screamed, to anyone who cared to look, that she was way, way out of her depth.
As she tugged on the hem of her hot-red latex uniform skirt to make the length just a little more acceptable to her slightly conservative tendencies, and wiggled her feet into four-inch-high black patent stilettos, she determined that she would damn well eradicate that twitch before she came face to face with Rey Doyle. No question, there was too much at stake for her to fail now.
Glancing one last time in the garish mirror in the staff bathroom of Doyle’s Soho Casino, she ran a recently manicured finger underneath each eye, smudging her charcoal-grey eyeliner to something that she’d read would give her a smoky ultra-sexiness, but in reality looked like she had a bit part in a zombie movie. Hoping that by some miracle the smudge would hide the tiny mischievous muscle. Then she smeared on blood-red lipstick, smacked her lips together, transformed now from Kate Wilkinson, journalist, to Kate Wilkinson, the hostess with the very mostest.
Allowing just one memory of her brother’s broken body to fuel her resolve, she made her way through the disorienting maze of tables and slot machines to the accompaniment of mechanical cheers and coin clanging, all washed over with the mellow soulful soundtrack of mind-numbing Muzak. It was all white noise to her though; she had one thing on her mind, and it wasn’t winning money.
She’d taken this job to get close to Doyle, to weed out the truth about his seedy secret fight club, to write an exposé and bring his reputation crashing down, back to where it belonged: in the gutter. For allowing her teenage brother to get hurt in a fight, almost beyond repair, Doyle deserved everything she could fling at him. If his casino business was also damaged in the fallout, that would be icing.
So, Rey Doyle, London’s casino king, was a marked man. He just didn’t know it yet.
The music in the VIP room was more upbeat, the carpet less tacky in an inoffensive beige with a midnight blue ‘D’, for Doyle, enclosed by a gilt crown, repeated ad nauseam from one end of the room to the other. The lights were dimmed, the ambience calm, unlike the jumpy beat in her chest, and the infuriating giveaway twitch under her left eye.
She walked to the bar, which was no mean feat in those damned shoes, and smiled at the ancient barman, Carlos. “Hey. How’s things?”
Carlos gave a weary shrug. “Hi, Kate. The big boss is coming in for a meeting, so we’re keeping things quiet in here for him tonight.”
That jumpy beat in her chest just got a whole lot jumpier. She played nonchalant, disinterested. But if Doyle was back from the Las Vegas casino for the first time in weeks she could scope him out. See how the man ticked, find his weakness. “Ah, yes, somebody mentioned that in the locker room … something about a … Hong Kong deal?”
“Macau.”
“Oh, silly me … what do I know? Is he going to open a casino over there as well?”
Playing dumb seemed the easiest way to extract information from her colleagues, but she had to be careful not to ask too many questions … not at first. A few weeks working here and she’d just about managed to bite her lip and not go through her long list of questions about Rey’s murky past and dodgy present. With a bit more luck and a lot of strategic playing she would feature largely in his future, and he wouldn’t be overly pleased at the prospect. Slow and steady wins the race. The news of an impending Macau deal meant there were even more things at stake for the no-more-than-a-jumped-up thug if she published the truth about him. Perfect.
“Kate, you’re fairly new here, so you wouldn’t know … and you seem like a nice girl,” Carlos leaned over as he wiped down the bar with a towel, the same ‘D’ in a crown embroidered in the centre—my God, her new ‘boss’ was an egomaniac as well as a brute—“… but if I were you I’d use your mouth to be polite and to smile, and definitely not to mention Doyle’s business. He doesn’t take kindly to chit-chat from the staff.”
“Noted, thanks for the warning.” She gave Carlos a wide smile. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard so many things. What’s he like?”
“Doyle?” The barman raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-wipe. “Regardless of his reputation, he’s a fair man. Do right by him and you’ll be fine, do him wrong and you’ll live to regret it, believe me.”
“What reputation? I mean, I know he was a boxer years ago and he’s an astute business man …” Under the theory of knowing her enemy she’d researched as much as she could find, read press cuttings on the Internet of his stellar boxing career before he sank all his winnings into a global casino franchise, perused glowing reports of his empire acquisition. It seemed that everything he touched turned to gold. He was celebrated by many as the East End boy who triumphed over adversity.
But looks could be deceiving, because she also knew, too damned personally, about the illicit and savage bare-knuckle fight club that he was involved in. Only, the trail had gone cold, with no real proof of his involvement other than a description given by her brother, and some shifty-looking messages she’d decoded on a chat room on the Darknet, the Internet’s seedy underbelly. She’d got close, though, so close to decoding more messages detailing the fight club members and fight venues.
But nothing beat up close and personal, so here she was, dressed like a hooker and playing a dangerous game; looking for concrete proof—something to connect him with the group who hurt her brother. Doyle was a fraud and as far as Kate was concerned it was high time everyone knew.
Luckily Carlos didn’t mind a little chit-chat of his own. “Back years ago, when he was still boxing, he had a nickname, The Destructor, because he would he would not stop until his opponents were totally destroyed. He was cold. Calculating. Precise. Deadly. He showed no emotion and no fear, some said he had no heart at all. Then later, in his business dealings, he was the same.”
“Deadly …?” Kate couldn’t prevent the shudder down her spine. As if she needed a reminder of how destructive Rey Doyle could be.
Carlos looked at her with a little concern and gave her a smile. “Hey, chick, don’t worry, he’s fine with his girls. Serve his drinks and look pretty, you’ll do okay. Look, here he comes.”
A frisson of change in the atmosphere, like a sudden electric charge, had her turning to the entrance wh
ere two beefcakes dressed in expensive-looking dark suits flanked a similarly attired man who … she inhaled sharply, her heart rate faster now. My God … Famously camera-shy, there had only been grainy photos of Rey Doyle via Uncle Google, but nothing had prepared her for what he was like in real life. As he came closer he loomed larger and broader, his coiled, energised presence filling the space. The man was tall. Big. And, unexpectedly, almost arrogantly … beautiful.
She’d been expecting a shorn bulkheaded Neanderthal, not … not a man with a riot of unkempt dark hair that was scraggly, yet somehow perfect. A face that bore scars of his boxing days, a nose bent out of shape at some point made him appear more rugged, more masculine, raw. Cheekbones slashed across his face, high and sharp, emphasising a strident jaw.
His hands were rough, but not unattractive. In fact, there was something about them that had her transfixed as he straightened his cuffs and secured gold cufflinks—those hands would save you, she thought, if you fell. A safe haven. Although, they’d ended many a man’s career in one way or another; almost ended a few lives too, as she knew to her cost. She thought about turning away, she even thought about leaving, right now, but for some reason she went right on looking, taking him in, all of him.
As if he sensed her gaze on him he turned. Cold grey eyes caught on hers, a look of surprise flashing momentarily, then it was gone, banished. He didn’t like to show emotion, Carlos had said, but for one tiny second she’d caught Rey Doyle off guard, and that fuelled her confidence.
For a foolish moment she noted that the gunmetal-coloured shirt he wore gave his eyes a deeper, more dangerous edge. Then she pulled herself together. She hadn’t been a small-town journalist writing soppy copy for a year now; she was hard-hitting, serious and undercover. And while she was also a hot-blooded woman with fully working ovaries, she refused to find anything about Rey Doyle that she liked. Nothing would distract her from this story. She hesitated to call it revenge: he would just be getting what he deserved.
Yet, as her eyes met his, a rush of something she couldn’t describe chased through her. His easy stance screamed confident and calculated, but a keep-out sign might well have been tattooed on his scarred forehead. There was caution there, mistrust—an altogether different vibe, guarded. And still her heart jittered with something akin to excitement. She put it down to the adrenalin spike of being in her adversary’s lair.
Doyle nodded at Carlos. “The usual. And who is this? Where the hell is Monica?”
“Monica is away on holiday, Mr Doyle. So, Kate is here for you tonight instead.” The barman pointed towards Kate as blood hit her cheeks in a hot intense blush. What should she do when introduced to the casino king? Bow? Curtsy? No freaking way.
“Good evening, Mr Doyle.” Drawing a line at calling him ‘sir’, she summoned what she hoped was a confident smile and nodded at Rey. “Please, take a seat. I’ll bring your drink over.”
“Kate.” He tested the word out, and appeared to be decidedly unimpressed, if his frown was anything to go by. Those intense grey eyes scrutinised her body and rose back to her face. The heat from her cheeks suffused every pore as Doyle shrugged. “I’m expecting guests, so I need your full attention tonight.”
His accent was laced with his East End roots but his voice was deep and lush and did something fizzy to her usually unflappable insides. Which was inconvenient, but not debilitating. Strange, though, for her to have such a physical reaction to a man. She guessed it was the lair thing happening again. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“And make sure you’re around for anything else I need.”
Now her mind was working overtime. What more would he need other than drinks? But she plastered on the smile. “Of course, Mr Doyle. Just ask.”
Her eye began to twitch.
* * *
Rey Doyle did not like surprises, particularly on one of the most important nights of his business career. He needed smooth, he needed no hitches, he needed a girl he could rely on. Monica, he knew. Monica was aware of what he liked, how to do things, what to say when required. Monica was reliable, level-headed and knew the score: sex was just sex and nothing more.
This new girl was a whole other ball game. Not least because she looked like she’d never set foot in a bar, let alone worked in one. She looked supremely uncomfortable in the uniform, the white blouse buttoned up one button too many, the skirt a fraction longer than all the other waitresses. Surely she knew that the higher the skirt, the better the tip? And with legs like hers, shapely and long, she’d make a decent amount.
Not least, too, because when she looked at him it was like a dare, derision almost. And he’d never had a woman—a member of his own staff to boot—look at him like that before. Usually they fawned over him, desperate to get into his pants or his wallet. Whichever—it made little difference to him. He was a Doyle, after all, used to taking what he wanted and giving little in return.
But this Kate woman … interesting.
While waiting for his drink he focused on work, made a quick call to his long-time friend and Head of Security at Doyle’s. Trouble, it appeared, came in duplicate these days. “Ted, what’s the score? Any idea who the hacker is or how close they got?”
Ted’s irritation with the current security scare was palpable. “ISP location is east London. We can do some digging. They didn’t get close enough to do any damage, we have firewalls in place for that, but it’s interesting that they were trying to hack the codes for N.S. and nothing to do with the casinos. A few clicks and they’d have been signed up to the chat room, if that was what they wanted. Seriously, if they were that bothered about joining the club there is a more straightforward way. So, I guess they don’t want to join, they want to hack. To watch. To cause trouble.”
“Probably some spotty kid in a dank dingy apartment somewhere, with nothing better to do with his life than piss me off.” N.S. No Surrender. Rey sucked in air. If the hacker succeeded then his covert club was at risk of being exposed. That could not happen. He was going legit, no more fighting just for the hell of it, and definitely nothing illicit, not any more. So it was time to rid himself of that little … diversion. He had to: Macau demanded a clean slate, any underhand dealing would be used as ammunition against him—a supremely costly error.
Rey had little doubt that his recent and as yet unstated decision to disband No Surrender would be met with fierce opposition. Nothing he couldn’t handle because, after all, when it came to a fight club versus Macau potential profits there was no competition. Surely Ted couldn’t argue about that. “Okay so we change the codes and lock it down. We need to talk further, soon—I want to throw some ideas at you face to face, God knows what else is being hacked. When’s the next get together?”
“Tuesday the twenty-seventh. I have a venue in Docklands, a disused car park, quiet surroundings, usually deserted by midnight so shouldn’t raise any suspicions. You in? Feel like a spar?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the new girl heading in his direction. The fewer people who heard this conversation, the better. “Got to go. Talk later. Make sure that breach is sorted, I have Chin and partners in here in an hour.”
“Good luck with that, mate. Make sure you present that squeaky clean image of yours …” His old friend laughed. “All wholesome and family type. They like that.”
“Well, I’m doomed then.”
“Pretend? Lie? I don’t know, you’re the brains of the operation, Rey. Make a wife up. Chat about family values.”
“Oh yes, because I have so much personal experience of them.”
“Again, make it up. You know—honesty, trust, that kind of thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get you. All that happy families bullshit dream.” The exact thing he’d never had growing up.
Make up a wife. That would do it; he’d appear settled, responsible, reliable. Monica would definitely have been up for helping him out, for a small raise in her wages. The world was against him today.
Kate tottered over, barely mana
ging to keep upright in the shoes, and he caught the whisky and soda as it slid to the edge of her tray. “Whoa. Careful.”
“Oops. Sorry, Mr Doyle.”
“You almost spilled it.” And there it was again. Something about her didn’t fit. With her too-shiny dark hair that had intriguing streaks of red and gold in it, and surprisingly made him want to run it through his fingers, and with her too-bright smile and too-blue eyes, she was playing a role that didn’t feel genuine. And he knew all about living like that. “I haven’t seen you around before. How long have you worked here?”
She gave him a wobbly smile. “A few weeks.”
“That explains … pretty much everything.” She’d have to go. He couldn’t have anyone less than slick here with the Macanese. Still, most of his staff were here to pay their way to succeed in something else, maybe she was an expert in computer hacking and security breaches, or speaking Cantonese? Either of those would help … nothing else. “Student?”
“Er … kind of …” The tray was at her side now, drops of spilled whisky leaking over the rim and onto the carpet. She hadn’t seemed to notice.
“Of what? Because it’s clearly not hospitality.”
“No, not hospitality.” The wobbly smile again, it didn’t reach as far as her deep blue eyes. They told an altogether different story—she was hedging. “Is that all, sir? Can I get you anything else?”
You can answer my damned question. “What are you studying?”
“Er …” She thought for a moment. “Nursing.” Then she bit down on her bottom lip, white teeth on blood red. He wondered, fleetingly, what those lips would taste like.
Instead, he took a slug of his drink and waited for the familiar sting to dissipate. What the hell was wrong with him tonight? Just when he needed focus it eluded him, distracted by a woman. Truth was, he probably needed to get laid. And not with her … a woman who didn’t fit was a conundrum for his human relations department, not a puzzle for him to work out.
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