Chapter 5 The Devil
THE DEVIL
SAINT
I hate these things—the black bow tie strangling my neck. I slip a finger between the tight bond of my shirt collar to my skin and tug. At the top of my shit list though are these galas that Mom wrangles me into attending a few times a year.
This one tonight is different, as the fundraiser actually supports a cause near to my heart. The one Mom started after my father passed away, Stroke Effects Families Emergency Fund, is a worthy venture, in honor of Dad’s memory. I’ve already donated a quarter million.
The money in my trust fund is more than I could spend in five lifetimes. My father earned it all with his blood, sweat, and tears. Building his own successful tech firm brick by brick, only to die too young after a stroke and heart attack, leaving it all to a family trust. I revered him.
My mother? Not so much, for good reason. When I was six and caught her with a—
“There you are. I thought you’d never make it.
” My little sister, Esme, practically drapes herself all over me in her greeting.
Her pink satin gown rides too low, her cleavage embarrassingly on display.
She’s clearly taking advantage of the open bar and forgetting we’re not exactly pals, considering she’s my half-sister, the product of an affair my mother had.
A fact my father chose to somehow overlook.
I don’t know how he could do it. I couldn’t.
“Slow down, Es. Mother wouldn’t like it if you make a spectacle of yourself,” I warn with a grimace and pull her off of me. Her Marilyn Monroe wig almost tangles on my silver cuff link in the process.
Then again, she and Mom are tight, two of a kind, cut from the same Hollywood mold of high-maintenance, catty women. They hold a special animosity towards the fact that I’m involved in semi-professional hockey, not that they would be any more impressed if I played professionally.
“You’re in a devilish mood. Fitting considering your costume.” She cackles. “Maybe you should find a woman to play with for the night. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” It’s always a fight with her or with Mom or both. But I don’t care about their opinions. I live on my own terms.
“Not tonight. I have a date with someone special.” I grab two flutes of champagne from a server’s tray as they pass by, and I leave her gaping in my wake.
Tonight I am not Barbara St. James’ playboy good-for-nothing son—her words, not mine—but I’m a sexy devil in a custom all-black tuxedo, and I’m cocky enough to admit it.
A devilish mask of red and black leather fits across my eyes only.
Red horns in my hair and black leather wings hanging off my shoulders complete the look.
Misty did well, putting this together for me.
And I have a date with the angel who just walked through the door.
One look and half of me wants to cover her up so other men don’t ogle her curves.
The other half has my chest puffing with pride to be seen with her.
For fun, Misty made us promise not to see each other before the gala, so we’d be surprised. Anastasia posted pics on her social media profile, though, which I quickly copied to keep on my phone. Yeah, I secretly stalk her there and have since the day we met.
She’s beautiful, an ethereal-like creature calling to me with her golden eyes peeking through her mask.
And I’m the devil to tempt her. The bad boy takes the good girl, an old tale of time.
Only I falter on the way to her. What exactly is my play here?
What am I going for? A night of pleasure lost between her thick, gorgeous thighs?
Something tells me one night wouldn’t be enough.
I don’t have any answers or a plan. I just know my feet continue to carry me to her like she’s the magnet at the center of the universe.
Irresistible, like the clouds open and rays of sunlight shine upon a stunning angel.
All clad in white lace, standing to the left of the entrance, she appears timid, like she’d rather fade into the wallpaper.
A rare beauty like that shouldn’t shrink into the background. I’m the perfect guy to usher her out of her corner.
My eyes explore her body freely, being partially hidden behind this red mask. Yes, she’s just my type, too, and she’s mine tonight. It takes a nanosecond to decide that.
I glide up to her, smooth as fuck, like a suave spy, offering her the glass of champagne. Her eyes like a warm velvety brown punctuate her vulnerability, fluttering up to me. Her dark hair, her body—all of it does it for me.
“Thank you. How charming of you.” She takes the glass and sips. Red lips smile broadly, with a giggle and a hint of nervousness that floats into my ears.
Is she afraid of me? Afraid of how good I would give it to her?
She should be.
I can’t contain my smile. I’m a giddy devil and have to keep myself in check—and my cock from busting through my zipper.
It’s the thrill of pursuing. The hunt that drives me. The reward that I claim if she gives in to my tempting dare.
But… Hell. She’s also Misty’s best friend. And while a night with her would undoubtedly be my undoing, I have to remember I asked her here as a favor. My head is so screwed up about this.
“You look handsome tonight.” She pays me a compliment. Like an idiot, I realize I haven’t said a word yet. “A handsome devil.”
“And you are a stunning angel.”
“Misty is so talented.”
“She is. But I’m not talking only about the costume. You radiate this glow each time I see you. I find it very attractive.” I lean in for this next part, opening myself up. “In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t help but stare at you whenever you’re near.”
“I’ve noticed. Or is that a line you use on all the women?”
I chuckle and put space between us before her feminine jasmine scented perfume gets me too high. “No. Reserved that one just for you.”
“Hm. Who was that woman you were talking with when I first arrived?” She asks.
“Observant.”
“Always.”
“Jealous?”
“Should I be?” Her eyes jab me with a color almost mossy green now. One corner of my lips turns up.
“Nope. I asked you here as my date. That means my attention is only on you. No one else matters. And, for the record, that was my sister.”
“Oh.” She pushes hair behind her ears and shifts foot to foot. “Are you going to introduce us?”
“Maybe later. I want you all to myself for now. Dance with me.” That wasn’t a question. I take her drink and deposit both flutes on the nearest table. I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. Her satin white glove does nothing to shield me from the energy flowing between us.
“Does the devil know how to dance?” There’s a glimmer of tease back in her eyes.
“Hold on tight and find out.” I hardly take another step before the music ends, though. Mom takes the stage with a microphone in hand. Worst timing ever.
“Rain check on that dance?” Anastasia asks, clapping along with the rest of the crowd as Barbara St. James begins to speak.
Most people know her as the beloved star of daytime’s longest running soap opera on television.
Twenty years on the show, twelve times nominated for an Emmy, but never awarded, which became a running joke in certain comedy circles.
But her extremely loyal fan base isn’t deterred from continuing to hope.
“What a wonderful crowd we have tonight,” she starts, her obnoxiously huge diamond earrings catching the lights. She holds a gold sequined mask in one hand, matching her gown, and the mic in the other. “Look at the fabulous array of costumes—”
One guest shouts, “What is your costume, Barbara?”
“Oh, honey, everyone knows who I am. Why bother covering up perfection?”
The crowd laughs at her flirty comeback. I roll my eyes.
“Most of you know, I’m Barbara St. James, and I have the honor of playing Erica Osborne on the award-winning show, The Light of Day.”
Cheers and clapping and whistles spread through the room.
“Wait. Is that your mother? I never put it together until now.” Anastasia gapes up at me, star-struck.
“Please tell me you’re not having a fangirl moment.”
“Um. Okay. I’ll keep it to myself. But I’ve watched her show for years. Even Misty’s Nana is a fan. Wait until I tell her about this.” She enthusiastically claps with the crowd, then produces her phone from a satin purse hanging on her wrist and takes photos.
Great. My night’s ruined. Anastasia was perfect until she revealed herself as my mother’s number one fan.
Mom waits until the noise dies down to speak.
“I cannot thank you enough for attending tonight’s soiree.
I created this foundation in the aftermath of my husband’s stroke and heart attack.
My family was fortunate enough to get through such a trying time.
But there are many families who are not prepared when tragedy strikes. ”
Her words twist a knife into my heart.
Anastasia gasps and reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “You went through so much, Saint. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about your loss.”
I shift my hand to rest on her lower back and play it off like I haven’t lived with a hole in my heart for years. “It’s okay, but thanks.”
She doesn’t know everything of what I’ve been through, but she’s redeemed herself now. I’m sure if I tell her the truth about my mother, she’ll drop her fascination with the star altogether. Then we’ll be back to normal with me pursuing her like crazy until I have her in my bed.
Barbara continues. “I’m told we have almost topped the largest donation total we’ve received in the years since I’ve been hosting this event.
Almost. Sadly…” Mom dabs the corner of her eyes, only for dramatic effect, to be sure.
“This will be the last event I host. So if you find it in your heart to open your purse strings for this cause one final time, it would mean the world to me.”
“Last event?” I repeat, arching my brows, hoping this isn’t some ploy of hers to increase donations.
Mom always was a talented actress. Even at six years old when I tried to tell my dad that I saw her in the throes of passion with another man—although at this age I’d describe it more accurately as she was getting railed bent over the kitchen counter by the plumber stuffing his pipe into her—she put on quite the act saying I was simply a young boy confused by a scene I saw her acting on TV.
Then why did the plumber visit every day for a month like our million dollar home had the worst plumbing issues? And why did Esme appear nine months later?
As she exits the stage, I scoff and head for the nearest bar and a stiff drink. I untie this noose around my neck, letting the black fabric hang down. By the time I have a double shot of Irish whiskey in my hand, Anastasia has caught up to me.
“Want to talk about it?” Her voice sincere, she’s no longer fan-girling.
“Not much to tell. My father worked his fingers to the bone, building his company and his wealth, providing for his family, always choosing to look the other way from her…indiscretions. So excuse me if I stand here and don’t join her fan club.”
I expect Anastasia to console me. Instead, I get the voice of the woman I hate most. My mother’s from behind me.
“Miles. We need to talk.”