Free A Devil in Disguise by Caitlin Crews Page A

looked as professional and cool as ever, with the prettiness he could no longer seem to ignore an enviable accent to her quiet competence. She wore a simple blue sheath dress with a tailored jacket that trumpeted her restrained and capable form of elegance, her trademark. She operated as his right hand in situations like this, his secret weapon, making it seem as if he was not giving a presentation designed to result in lavish investments so much as sharing a fascinating opportunity with would-be friends.
    She made him seem far more engaging and charming than he was, he’d concluded over the course of the long evening, and wondered how he’d never seen that quite so clearly before. She gave him that humantouch that so many furious and defeated rivals claimed he lacked.
    He’d watched her do it tonight—lighting up the carefully selected group of ten investors with her attention, making them talk about themselves, letting them each feel interesting and important.
Value.
She hung on their words, anticipated their questions, soothed them and laughed with them in turn, all of it in that cool, intelligent way of hers that seemed wholly authentic instead of cloying. They ate her up.
    And because of her, Cayo could simply be his ruthless, focused self, and no one felt overly intimidated or defensive.
    She sat at the far end of the lavishly appointed table now, her tablet in her hand as always, periodically tapping into it as she fielded questions and tended to the various needs of everyone around her. She made it look so easy. She was smooth and matter-of-fact, as if it was only natural that the French businessman should demand a Reiki massage at two in the morning and it
delighted
her to be able to contact the concierge on his behalf. She was his walking computer, his butler, and, if Cayo was honest, his true second-in-command. Smart, dependable, even trustworthy. He should have encouraged her to leave him three years ago when she’d wanted that promotion. She could have been running companies for him by now. She was that good.
    Which was, of course, why he’d been so loath to let her do it.
    Or one reason, anyway, he thought now, darkly impatient with himself. He idly fingered his wineglass as he half pretended to pay attention to the conversation that swelled around him. Not that anyone expected himto charm them, of course. Or even be particularly polite, for that matter. That was Drusilla’s job.
    She is magnificent,
he thought, and ignored the sudden pang that followed as he considered how soon she would be gone. How soon he would have to think up a new approach, a new game to get what he wanted from investors like this without her deft touch, her quiet, almost invisible support.
    And how soon he would have to face this stubborn thing in him he didn’t want to acknowledge: how little he wanted her to leave, and his growing suspicion that it was far less about business than he was comfortable admitting. Even to himself.
    “Trust me, Mr. Peck,” he heard her say to the self-satisfied gentleman on her left, heir to what remained of a steel fortune in one of those smaller, ugly-named American cities, making the man puff up as if she was sharing a great confidence, “this is the sort of meal that will change your life. Three Michelin stars, naturally. I’ve made you a reservation for tomorrow at nine.”
    She straightened then, and her gaze met his down the length of the table, with all of the investors and cigar smoke and concentrated wealth in between them. It was as if the rest of the room was plunged into darkness, as if it ceased to exist entirely, and there was nothing but Drusilla. Nothing but the searing impact of their connection. And he saw the truth on that pretty face of hers he could now read far too well. He felt it kick in him, as if she’d reached across the table, over the remnants of the feast they’d all shared and the money they’d won, and landed a vicious blow with the nearest blunt object. A hard