An Excerpt from Betting with Lucifer

After the fabulous review Betting with Lucifer got the other day, I suddenly realized that there’s no excerpts up anywhere, and thought I’d rectify that.

___________

She followed the line of people moving into the house, carrying her awkward load. There was a cheerful and energizing sound of industry coming from inside. Lots of talking and muffled banging and the buzz of machinery.

The stairs began just inside the door and after shrugging off her coat and gloves and hanging them over the newel post, Lyndsay went straight upstairs. The rocking horse belonged in one of the smaller bedrooms.

In the main bathroom some guy was giving a stream of orders. His voice was booming and echoing in the empty room, as he explained the process of grouting, emphasizing the spacing of tiles.

She found an empty and obviously finished bedroom and dumped the rocking horse. She had to reassemble the rocking mechanism, which had come loose and as she reattached the rod and drove it home with the bottom of her fist to ensure it wouldn’t come adrift again, she listened to the guy explaining the job. Basic stuff like tiling had to be retaught to every new recruit.

He was doing a good job, she decided. Crisp, clear, precise. She’d be hard put to explain the process more succinctly.

She replaced the plastic covering and turned to leave and came face to face with the guy stepping out of the bathroom, the hammer on his tool belt swinging and the nails in the pockets jiggling.

It was Luke—a Luke she had never seen before. The Armani suit was gone. He wore faded, snug jeans and safety boots, a flannel shirt in bright red plaid rolled up to show well-muscled forearms. The tool belt slung around his hips was old and well-used.

The first, the very first thing she felt was delight. But that was quickly swamped by an anger that bloomed large and grew larger with each rapid beat of her heart.

“What in hell are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Just visiting,” Luke shot back. He looked over his shoulder.

“Checking for witnesses or looking for escape?”

“Witnesses. If you’re going to murder me, I’d rather you pay the price.”

“You think I haven’t already? You son of a bitch, you deliberately screwed up my chances at that meeting!”

He lifted a hand, indicating she should keep her voice down and again, there was that quick check over the shoulder.

“I will not keep quiet!” she railed, her fury spilling over. “I’ll scream it from the rooftops if I have to. Just what the hell were you thinking, Pierse?”

He sighed and crossed his arms.

Fine, she thought. Let him be stoical. I’ll blast him out of it.

“You think you can walk in and take my job? You? You haven’t shown the slightest enthusiasm for your job since you got here. People notice. Word passes. You might be best buddies with the other directors but they know, Pierse. And if they don’t know, I will take the greatest pleasure in telling them, because you are not getting my job. Do you hear?”

His face tightened. “It’s not your job yet,” he growled.

“It won’t ever be yours, so stop torpedoing me!”

“You did it to yourself, Lindsay.”

“Pig swill! You—”

“Pig swill?” And he actually laughed a little.

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened. Her arm moved by itself. She thumped his shoulder with the heel of her hand. He was caught by surprise and actually stepped back a pace. Surprise skittered across his face.

“Lemme tell you something, Pierse. I may not be the most qualified for the job but I stand a fighting chance. You don’t. It will never be yours. Do you hear? I will make sure of it. And another thing…why have you been avoiding me?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy? You’re never busy. You weren’t too busy to duck off to New York two days early!”

“That’s a private matter,” he muttered.

“Like hell it is! Not when my best salesman deserts the office for two days and doesn’t have the decency to inform me!”

“I’m not one of your salespeople anymore.” He glanced away. “Thank god.”

It was too much for her. The words weren’t there to adequately convey the fury, the hurt, all the tight bundle of wounded feelings his little aside skewered into life. Three days of miserable loneliness had done their work. She hit out, her hands flailing at him, tears stinging her eyes.

Intellectually, at the back of her mind, she knew she would never be able to actually hurt him because she knew how strong he was and he had the added advantages of height, weight and reach.

But she wanted him to feel some of the pain she was feeling. To dish out some of the hurt he had delivered upon her this last week.

He quickly caught her flailing arms and she was locked against his chest and arms. She caught bunches of his shirt in her hands and began to shake him, driven by frustration at her own inability to hurt him. She couldn’t touch him, she realized. Nothing touched him. And the knowledge made her grit her teeth and pound on his chest with her fist.

And then, suddenly, her fist was stilled beneath his hand and his lips were on hers and he was kissing her. There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was almost an assault—on her senses, on her mind. In her anger she kissed him back, her hands on his shirt pulling them closer together. He was holding her head in one hand, the other steadying her as he drove her backward, back into the room she had emerged from. She heard the door shut and his hand returned to her back, to hold her still while his invasive kisses stroked her soul.

She poured all her fury into the kiss but even as she vented the emotion, it evolved, emerging as a hot, hard passion that brooked no reason and tolerated no delay in gratification.

She realized she was almost panting with the need to get closer, to reach the natural goal of such an all-consuming fire. Luke’s breath was just as ragged. His fingers twined in her hair, pulled her head back a little, while his mouth devoured the flesh of her throat, moving down in hot leaps and bounds to the thin vee of skin showing between her shirt. His hands were on the material and she could feel the pressure he was putting on the buttons. One hard pull and they would give way, exposing her to his lips and tongue. She remembered the fate of another set of clothes he had disposed of in such a way.

“Yes,” she croaked, her voice thick with want.

He groaned and became still. “No,” he said and his voice too, was thick and furry. “No. Not here.” He dipped his head a little to kiss the tender skin showing between her shirt and straightened up. He looked her in the eye. His own were wide, black, depthless. “Not now.”

She still held fistfuls of his shirt in her hands. She let them go, trying to still her pounding heart and shaking limbs. She cleared her throat.

It was much too bright in the room. She felt almost groggy and her lips were swollen.

Plundered.

This is what she had wanted him to do, outside the board room. He had pulled away then too—sooner than this time but she had not been goading him into it then.

Why did he pull away?

And did she really want to know the answer? Because in her heart of hearts, she knew it was something to do with her.

Nothing touched him. The thought was almost a despairing one. Nothing touched him—especially not flawed, frightened Lyndsay.

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