Free The Devil Inside Her by Catherine DeVore Page A

unnerved by her piercing blue gaze.
    “It is I who has come to help you, if you will listen,” she said, her soft voice lilting with some European accent. “You are heading towards a situation that you do not understand, Daniel Bryant.”
    “How do you know my name?” I asked, frowning.
    She ignored my question. “I can give you the address of the woman who claims to own Lucifer’s Rise .”
    “How do you know so much about my job?” I demanded, shaken. “Did Whitmore send you?”
    “No, I came just for you,” she said, her lips curving upwards into a smile that was more predatory than friendly. “I want to help.” She slid a folded piece of paper across my tray table. “Be careful. She is more dangerous than she appears.” The woman stood again, looming over me. “I will be seeing you.”
    Before I could splutter out a response, she stalked out of the first class section with a stride that reminded me of a wolf’s pace. I quickly shuffled my papers back into my folio and got to my feet, hoping to catch her, but when I looked down the length of the plane, I couldn’t find her. It was as though she’d vanished into thin air.
    Returning to my seat, I opened the folded paper the woman had given me. Sure enough, writte n in an old-fashioned script were an address and phone number. “What have I gotten into?” I muttered, rubbing my temple my fingers.
    The hotel Whitmore had booked for me was one of the best in the city, with a beautiful view. I took a moment to arrange my equipment and notes, knowing the whole time that I was dragging my heels on checking out the mysterious phone number I’d been given. “I should be hunting down rare books at estate sales,” I muttered, pouring myself a stiff drink from the minibar. “Fuck you, Whitmore, for dragging me into this.”
    Taking a deep swig, I grabbed the phone and dialed the number. I was prepared to explain who I was and why I was calling a number that a complete stranger had given me, but the richly amused voice at the other end already knew.
    “Daniel Bryant,” a woman’s voice, clearly American, said. “I have been expecting you.”
    “Who is this?” I asked, trying to sound authoritative and coming off as baffled instead.
    “Don’t you know? You called me, after all. This is Heather Roman.”
    “Of course,” I said faintly. It was quite the day for strange women knowing my name.
    “I believe you have some business you’d like to discuss with me,” Heather said. “I’ll have a car at your hotel to pick you up within an hour.”
    She hung up before I could inquire further. With a sigh, I gathered my materials back together, making sure the signature and the coin were tucked deep into my folio. “Better make myself presentable,” I said, heading to the bathroom to make sure I was appropriately armed and armored against the elite likes of one Heather Roman. As I prepared, the phone rang again.
    “Hello?” I said cautiously.
    “Be careful,” breathed a softly accented voice, then dead air.
    I half-expected that some middle-aged arts patron would meet me at the massive old-rich home, but the woman standing between the great pillars at the front gate was fresh-faced and young, her voluptuous body accentuated by a short, scarlet dress. Dark, sensuous eyes, vivid lips, and a tumble of dark curls crowned the impression that I should be very, very careful around Heather Roman.
    “Welcome,” she said, her voice sending a chill down my spine. “I’m so happy you could come.”
    “Miss Roman,” I said, my lips brushing the air over the hand she proffered. “I was so concerned I’d have a hard time tracking you down, but it seems the reverse is true.”
    “I’m not averse to hearing Whitmore’s offer, crass though it may be.” She ushered me inside, leading me to a study that, by its décor, had been her father’s. Standing beside a huge mahogany desk was an easel covered over with a drop cloth.
    “Is that it?” I asked, wanting to