Free Fallen Angels 01 - Covet by J.R. Ward Page B

head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.
    Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh...and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?

    Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette.
    Hello.
    Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission...how the hell did he proceed—
    “You're awake.”
    Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell...who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had...yeah. “How you feeling?”
    The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.
    Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.
    “Hello?” DiPietro waved. “You in there?”
    Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV
    suddenly showed a price of $49.99— no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that...considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.
    “Shit, no,” Jim muttered. This was the guy?
    On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!
    DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. “You need a nurse?”

    No, he needed a beer. Or six. “I'm cool.” Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.
    “Listen,” diPietro said, “I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?”
    Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers '-comp action against his corporation.
    Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.
    No wonder she'd sought out someone else.
    And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.
    “Listen, I'm going to get a nurse—”
    “No.” Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. “I don't like nurses.”
    Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels...saints...whatever those four lads were.
    “Well, then,” diPietro said smoothly, “what can I do for you?”

    “Nothing.” Thanks to the way