Page 13 of A Deal with the Devil

Chapter Four

She did not know the Devil personally. Despite her aunt’s opinion on the matter. Or the fact that she had picked his pocket.

He was lean, black haired, fierce jawed. He exuded dark patience, calm and unhurried, but with the sense of leashed power you knew instinctively you did not want turned on you. You did not want his attention.

Should not want it.

Craved it nonetheless.

And now here she was, caught in the lilac bushes in her wet nightdress. It did not exactly inspire confidence in her ability to take him on. She would, though. And she would win.

Because she had to.

“You have something of mine,” he said in that soft, dangerous voice. She nearly had to lean forward to hear him. That was his gift, surely. You stepped toward the fire instead of running away like any sensible person. She had heard men threaten and yell, pound at her father’s door, smash porcelain on the floor, shatter windows.

None of it as effective as that soft, dangerous voice.

Effective in several different ways, a great many of which were not remotely appropriate to the matter at hand. She shifted from one foot to the other, looked him in the eye. Which was not as easy as it sounded in this close proximity, considering he was tall and she was…not.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She knew exactly what he meant.

“Everyone has a tell, my little thief,” he murmured. She could smell rain and roses and Devil: smoke and amber, dark like a forest. Otherworldly like his moss-green eyes. “Tell me, Miss Caldecott, are you planning to defy me?”

“Yes.” She blurted it out before thinking better of it. Her options at present were to brazen it out, play the innocent. Run.

Running did not seem feasible. He was too close, too big. Too clever.

His laugh was a surprise to her—and, it seemed, to him as well. “People who are caught stealing from me don’t often defy me as well. It isn’t healthy.”

“That must be dull for you.” She did not know where she found her courage, her sass. Only that when you were drowning anyway, you may as well do it with fervor. Whiskey would drown you as quick as water, but at least it was more fun. Possibly running through a storm was not good for the mind. Or any sense of self-preservation.

“Hand it over and perhaps we can pretend it never happened.”

She did not think he offered that often. If ever. It was tempting.

But not tempting enough. She needed it more than he did.

“I have nothing of yours,” she said.

His eyes narrowed under those strong brows, sharp and cutting as any knife. “Is that so?”

“I don’t even know who you are, sir.”

“Don’t play games you can’t win, Miss Caldecott.” He was getting closer still, pressing one hand to the trunk of the twisted tree at her back. Her mouth went dry. “I don’t give second chances.”

“I don’t require one.” She was mad—she had to be. Standing about in a wet dress had addlepated her entirely. She was taunting the Devil. When he was in the right and she was very much in the wrong.

“I think you do,” he said quietly. “And it’s too late now. You’ll beg like all the others.”

She narrowed her eyes even as her breath caught in the back of her throat. Why was her body reacting as though it were an offer and not a vaguely threatening statement? Warmth fluttered low in her belly.

Outrageous. She was Kitty Caldecott, purveyor of filth.

She straightened her spine. “No.”

“No?” His voice wrapped around her, tightening like silver chains.