Kira Sinclair - The Devil She Knows

Unfortunately, those visits had been all too short. The taste of something sweet that had turned bitter because he could never stay longer than a few weeks. When he’d come to live in Sweetheart full time at the age of fifteen his grandma had already been gone.

He had mixed emotions about walking through the dark green front door. The specter of that last night reared its ugly head. Yelling, screaming, his grandfather throwing one of his grandmother’s prized figurines at the wall as he ordered Dev out.

Broken pieces of ceramic scattering across the floor. Blood trickling from a nick in his cheek.

Without thought, Dev reached for the scar. The pad of his finger ran down the puckered flesh, a constant reminder of the price he’d paid for something he hadn’t even done.

But he’d learned his lesson well. If you were going to get punished for the sin you might as well enjoy committing it.

If only he could manage to hold on to the rage of that night. But if the house held some of his worst memories, it also held the best.

His grandfather, the closest thing he’d had to a father, had patiently taught him how to use power tools in the dusty, dank garage. Together they’d spent countless hours throwing a ball at the hoop tacked to the side of the house. They’d moved silently together in the kitchen as they both attempted, badly, to cook dinner.

When he’d had nowhere else to go his grandfather had taken him in, given him a home and his first taste of tough love. After the kind of mindless liberty he’d known all his life, Sweetheart had been like a prison, full of rules he didn’t give a damn about.

His grandfather had expected a lot. The crushing weight of that responsibility had been so constricting, especially when Dev knew he couldn’t live up to it.

Better to accept the low expectations and just embrace the inevitable. It was almost a relief when he could let go of the secret hope that this time somehow things would be different. They never were.

At least not back then. Now... After years of hard work he was successful. And low-balling the Sweetheart Consortium’s bid for their new resort had been an easy decision. He might lose a little money on the job, but he could afford the hit. And the time away to oversee this project himself.

These days he rarely took on a job personally. He had several managers who normally went to the sites. Lately he’d spent more time in boardrooms than with his hands deep in the earth. Sweetheart was a chance to remedy that...and get a little revenge of the see how successful I’ve become variety.

He was looking forward to the moment when the town realized they’d hired him. Watching them squirm was going to be sweet.

It was just his luck that he’d arrived in time for one of the splashy parties Sweetheart loved. The Fall Masquerade would afford him the perfect opportunity to scope things out while keeping his presence a secret.

Tonight he planned to watch and learn. What had changed and who was in charge? How could he exploit the situation to turn the screws on those who’d assumed the worst of him without bothering to actually discover the truth?

Grabbing his garment bag and duffel, Dev finally went inside to change. He might prefer the jeans and work boots he wore when tromping around a site, but he was equally comfortable in the tailored suits required when making presentations to conglomerates and corporations.

The red silk mask was unusual, but it would keep his identity a secret, at least for tonight. And he had to admit he enjoyed the private joke—the top twisted up into two pointy devil horns. The devil among the saints.

Tonight he’d take in the spectacle. Tomorrow he’d get to work. And relish their frustration as the citizens of Sweetheart tried to make his life hell.

The difference between now and ten years ago was that this time there was nothing Sweetheart could take.

* * *

A BUZZ OF anticipation and excitement ran through the room. The Fall Masquerade was always a highlight of the year. Everyone loved the chance to dress up and be anonymous for a little while.

Well, everyone except Willow Portis. Despite no one knowing who she was, she felt uncomfortable. Stupid. Waiting for someone to laugh at her costume. Although, so far all she’d gotten were compliments.

“Quick, touch me.”

Surprised, Willow stared at the gladiator. The costume would have worked better if he’d had the ripped body to match. “What? Why?”

“So I can tell my friends I’ve been touched by an angel.”

Compliments and bad pickup lines. Willow touched him all right—she shoved the idiot out of her way. Deciding there was safety in numbers, she walked over to the tables set up with refreshments. Her friend Jenna was catering, although Willow hadn’t seen her.

Settling for punch, she crossed her arms over her chest and scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Even living in Sweetheart her whole life, and knowing everyone at the party, it was difficult to tell who was behind some of the masks.

Which was exactly what she was counting on—that no one would recognize her.

With nothing better to do, Willow stood and watched, trying to figure out who people were. Tarzan and Jane were clearly Tony and Michelle Sewell. The superhero with them was Wes Unger, Tony’s best friend since grade school. The sexy nurse was Carol Ann Kline, a transplanted divorcee, hell-bent on hooking a Sweetheart man.

Distracted by her little game, Willow didn’t realize someone was behind her until a long shadow spread across the table. Heavy hands landed on her waist and then ran slowly up her ribs.

She jumped. Her skin crawled. Smacking down on the hands, she stopped them from traveling higher. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for injuries. The fall from heaven must have hurt.”

Willow bit back a groan. “Seriously?”

“Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

Using the sharp points of her elbows, Willow pushed the guy away from her and turned. Indeed, he was dressed as a doctor, complete with green scrubs, stethoscope and a surgical mask obscuring half his face.

From somewhere deep inside, a fit of pique threatened to take over. The doctor reached for her again, but she held out a hand to stop him. To his credit, he didn’t push. He was pissing her off, but he wasn’t dangerous, just obnoxious and uncouth.

“If you touch me again, I’m going to make you regret it.”

Maybe using a temporary rinse to dye her hair a shocking red had been a bad idea, after all. At the time, covering up her dark, ordinary brown had seemed like a smart move. But combined with the mask that obscured half her face, it seemed to make her unrecognizable. Although it was entirely possible that the dress she’d designed was more responsible for the attention she was getting.

She’d wanted to be daring. To take a risk.

For the past several months, she’d been fighting hard against a restlessness she couldn’t explain. Her business was doing well. She had more requests for exclusive wedding gown designs than she had time to fulfill, and stores all around the world had picked up her latest collection. The boutique was thriving. Clients came from all over the South for wedding, bridesmaid and prom dresses—and everything else that went with those important purchases.

After putting herself into debt to open her design company and boutique with Macey, her business partner and friend, the scales had finally started to tip in the past few years.

By most standards she was successful.

So, why did she feel so...lost?

If she was honest with herself she’d admit the disquiet had started when she began designing Hope’s wedding dress. It wasn’t that she begrudged her friend happiness...it just brought home that she’d spent all of her energy on her business and none on her personal life.