Free Devil's Deception by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

right at the foot of the stairs,” she said, and moved ahead of him so he couldn’t see her face.
    Inside the lounge neon lighting bathed the few occupants in a soft bluish glow. Vending machines for soft drinks and snacks were lined up against one wall, and a pinball machine and several video games faced them on the opposite side of the room. Two students, looking hung over with too much studying, sipped coffee at one of the folding tables. A girl was asleep on one of the vinyl covered couches, her jacket pulled up around her chin like a blanket.
    “This place looks like a bus station at four in the morning,” Devlin commented.
    “You should see it at exam time,” Angela answered. “This is nothing. The first week in May you’d swear we were running a brothel here from the amount of nighttime traffic.”
    “I never realized before how much work it takes to become a lawyer,” Devlin commented, taking out change for the coffee machine. “You really have to study a lot.”
    Angela watched him as he added cream to her cup and handed it to her. “Didn’t you study when you were in school?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “Not like you. I was an economics major. I spent a lot of time drawing up flow charts.”
    “Where did you go to school?”
    “Georgetown,” he said shortly. “Would you like some cookies, or a candy bar to go with that coffee?”
    “No, thanks,” Angela replied. He’d done it again. Any time she brought up his past he cut all inquiries off before she got any real information. Was he hiding something?
    Devlin wandered over to a card table and waited for Angela to sit, joining her when she did so. He stretched his long legs into the aisle, looking around at the posters and notices tacked to the walls.
    “Brett?” Angela said.
    His amber eyes came to rest on hers. “Yes?”
    “You helped me a lot tonight. You cut my time in half with the work you did.” She looked away. “Thank you.”
    Devlin took a swallow of his coffee, gazing at her over the rim of the paper cup. “You’re welcome.”
    Angela fidgeted, playing with the plastic spoon she held and with the tiny packets of sugar heaped in the middle of the table. She looked up to find his gaze still on her, fixed and intent.
    “I’m sorry about what I said in your room last night,” she blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t mean it.”
    He set his cup down. “I know that,” he replied quietly.
    “You do?” she asked, puzzled. Then she attempted a smile. “I suppose it’s obvious. I said I’d kill you if you touched me again. Then you did, earlier this evening after the phone call. Yet here you are, still alive.”
    “Here I am,” he agreed, his voice so soft that she could barely hear him.
    Angela dropped her gaze. “I was angry, Brett. You had hurt me and I wanted to hurt you back.”
    “You did.”
    Her eyes flashed to his face, but before she could say anything further another voice interrupted their conversation.
    “Angela Patria, just the person I wanted to see,” announced their visitor.
    Virginia Davenport, alumna of Miss Finch’s and Mount Holyoke, fully prepped out in a tweed blazer, carefully faded jeans, and cordovan penny loafers, was standing at Angela’s elbow. With her flowing dark hair, almond eyes, and New England uniform, she resembled an updated version of Ali MacGraw in Love Story .
    “Angela,” Virginia said chidingly, “I didn’t think I’d have to run you to earth in the middle of the night in order to meet your cousin. I’ve been waiting for you to introduce him to me.”
    Since Virginia had spoken to Angela only once previously, asking to borrow an eraser, Angela found this opening statement somewhat surprising. But she waved her hand at Devlin and said, “Virginia Davenport, Brett Devlin.”
    As Devlin stood up Virginia beamed, displaying the results of the fortune her parents had spent on orthodontia. She grasped his big hand in both of hers.
    “Brett. What an unusual name. Is that