CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

Juliette

S HORTLY AFTER THE press conference adjourns, Gavriil walks out of the ballroom with his brother. I watch them both from a small alcove off to the side and note the similarities and differences between the sons of Lucifer.

The eyes are the same. Both tall, both broad-shouldered. But Rafael’s face is sharper, harder, compared to Gavriil’s square jaw and quick smile. Gavriil’s hair is dark brown compared to Rafael’s jet-black, his beard more like a well-groomed shadow. Rafael’s is cut to precision. They both command respect, making heads turn as they walk into the main hall.

Gavriil is stopped by a slim blonde woman with a figure shown off to perfection in a navy sheath dress. Natalie, if I remember right. Natalie White, a financial reporter based out of New York. Based on the photos I’ve seen of Gavriil with his various women over the years, she’s just his type.

She throws back her head and laughs as she lays a hand on his arm. He smiles down at her, his teeth flashing white against tan skin. Natalie pulls a card out of a leather folder she’s carrying and slips it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He leans down and whispers something in her ear that makes her grin widen and a blush tinge her cheekbones.

An uncomfortable sensation spears through my chest. Being on the shorter side with dark hair and very defined features, I’m the opposite of the blonde and delicate type men like Gavriil and Lucifer prefer. Men don’t look at me the way they look at Natalie. It’s not something that’s bothered me much over the past few years.

But as I watch Gavriil, the charm and focused attention on a woman he finds attractive, I can’t deny the envious tug deep in my chest. A tug that turns into a pull as Natalie croons something up at him that makes his smile deepen.

He’s a playboy , I reassure myself. Good-looking, sure. He’s also exactly the opposite of what you want or need.

Natalie gives Gavriil one last steamy glance before walking away. The flirtatious smile disappears as he leans toward Rafael, replaced by an intense focus that hardens his face. They hold a whispered conversation in the middle of the hall. Their bodies are angled just enough that I can’t read their lips.

My phone buzzes in my lap. I look down and my stomach drops. An automatic text reminder that Dessie’s bill is due. A bill I can make, but just barely, and only because my best friend Catherine is giving me a generous discount. A discount I don’t want to accept. But as Catherine lovingly but bluntly reminded me last week, I don’t have a choice. And if this relapse continues and turns into secondary-progressive multiple sclerosis, the bills will only continue to climb as Dessie declines.

Unless I can get Grey House back.

I look up just in time to see Gavriil walking toward an arched doorway. I mentally pull up the map of the hotel. The doorway leads to a flight of stairs that descends to the lower level of the hotel. A heated indoor lap pool, the hotel’s spa and a walkout to the cliffside pool.

It takes less than a second for me to make my decision. I had hoped to approach this with more care. Do some additional research, talk to people at Drakos who could give me insight into Gavriil, into any whisperings about Grey House.

You’re out of time.

I stand and walk purposefully to the archway. I pass a couple holding hands and a group of women wearing pink sashes on the way down. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see Gavriil turning a corner just up ahead. I pass by the glass double doors that lead to the spa and continue. The light dims, overheads giving way to wall sconces covered by aquamarine glass to add a sense of mystique to the white-tiled walls and black floors. Soft music plays from hidden speakers, a slow, deep jazz that lingers over the skin.

I reach the door to the lap pool. I glance back over my shoulder, my senses tingling. There was no other place Gavriil could have gone. I know from my research he’s active and usually does something physical at least once a day. But he wasn’t carrying a swimsuit or a towel.

I reach into my bag and grab my recorder, flipping it on before I grab the door handle and slowly ease it open. Smooth ivory pillars hold up a mosaic ceiling, the vivid tiles a kaleidoscope of deep blue, glittering gold and alluring red. The lap pool snakes through the floor. Steam rises from the surface. Loungers have been arranged, some at the edge of the pool, others tucked into private alcoves.

I wait, listening, watching. The steam blurs the room, creating a foggy dreamworld that, coupled with the music drifting on the air, invites one to sit, to relax, to forget.

My fingers tighten around the recorder. A fantasy, nothing more.

After two minutes, there’s nothing. No furtive movement, no whispered conversation. My heart sinks. Perhaps I missed a side door. Or perhaps Gavriil continued out to the cliffside pool.

Or maybe you created your own fantasy.

I curse under my breath. Yes, I wanted Gavriil to be up to something. Wanted to find him conducting a clandestine meeting I could record and use to do what I do best.

Bring arrogant bastards to their knees.

I glance around the lap pool room. The last time I stopped to relax was five weeks ago when I met Dessie for a spa day, a break I was so grateful I took when she relapsed just three days later after a fall outside the cottage. Dessie and I opted for matching manicures, and when she chose scarlet, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I preferred pale pink or nude. Something that wouldn’t draw attention.

I frown down at my nails. The edges are chipped, my real nails showing through at the bottom. I love the idea of indulging in myself more. I just don’t have the time.

Neither does Dessie.

My heart catapults into my throat at the thought. I cast one more look over the room. Maybe we could do a road trip in a month if she gets better.

When she gets better , I firmly tell myself.

Take the coastal road and stop off in Crescent City, then continue on down here to Malibu for a long weekend. It would cost more than a penny, sure.

But how much longer does she have?

I swallow my grief and commit to the plan. I click off the recorder and shove it in my pocket as I turn to leave.

Something moves behind me. I start to whirl about, but an arm winds around my waist and yanks me back against a broad chest. Adrenaline kicks in, along with my self-defense training and a healthy dose of fear. I jab my elbow back, but my attacker is quick and strong, only letting out a grunt as I land my blow. Another arm wraps around me just below my breasts, pinning my arms at the elbows.

I open my mouth to scream. The arm around my waist loosens and a split second later a hand slaps over my mouth.

Damn it.