A Devil Named Desire by Terri Garey Page A

for Hope, it seemed time stood still. The heat of his palm felt like the sun, bathing the back of her hand with liquid warmth. She swallowed hard at the sensation, and stayed quiet, unmoving.
    There were smile lines at the corners of his eyes, though he wasn’t smiling now. He smelled of soap and dampness, and she wanted more than anything to have met him under different circumstances; circumstances that didn’t involve a missing sister, suicide, Satan, or his demons of Darkness.
    But the Devil called the tune these days, and she could do nothing but dance to it.
    “I really don’t want to talk about my problems,” she told him calmly, and withdrew her hand.
    G abriel leaned back, considering. Hope’s behavior was erratic, veering from hostile to quiet and subdued. There was a definite sadness in her eyes, but she was clearly not going to offer any confidences.
    So be it; he enjoyed a challenge.
    Rising from the chair, he turned his back to look out the window. “Somebody has a green thumb.” There was a garden on the roof opposite, full of potted plants and flowers: bursts of reds, oranges, pinks. A vine-covered trellis bloomed white, sprays of yellow from hanging baskets. A couple of wicker chairs sat in the shade of a small awning, a book and a cup evidence that someone sat there recently.
    “That’s Mr. Qualey’s garden.” Gabe caught the quick flash of a halfhearted smile reflected in the window before Hope lowered her head. “The man I baked the pudding for. He’s out there at the crack of dawn every morning, just like clockwork. Calls it his own little Eden.”
    Gabe was quiet for a moment, remembering the indescribable beauty of the original garden, knowing it could never be duplicated.
    The music she’d begun listening to while he was in the shower still played, a woman’s voice, low and exotic, a rhythm that spoke of love and longing. “I like this music,” he said. “It’s very soothing. Who is it?”
    “Sade.”
    “That’s a beautiful name. Is she a friend of yours?”
    Hope gave a small snort of laughter, her first. “Hardly.”
    “Yet you refer to her by her first name.”
    “You’ve never heard of Sade?”
    “I haven’t.” He looked over his shoulder, grinning at her tone of disbelief. “I don’t get out much.”
    “Just as I suspected,” she murmured, with another little laugh.
    He shifted the focus of his gaze, letting the window act as a mirror, reflecting Hope on the sofa. She looked different when she laughed, younger, her face open and unguarded.
    She couldn’t be more than thirty, and he wondered about her: Who were her friends? What did she do for a living? Why had she tried to take her own life?
    He had no illusions about the wound on her wrist—the way she’d shut down when he asked about it told him more than she realized.
    “I like your apartment,” he told her, making small talk to keep her at ease. “What do you do for a living?”
    She gave him a sharp upward glance that she wasn’t aware he’d seen, and cautiousness returned to her gaze. “Not very informed for a guardian, are you?”
    “Just making conversation,” he answered lightly.
    “I work with computers,” she told him shortly.
    For a moment, he stayed quiet, merely watching her in the window. Her short blond hair suited her, displaying the bones of her face to advantage. Her features were anything but boyish: small and delicate, elegantly feminine.
    He turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest. “You look tired.”
    “Gee, thanks.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm that crept into her tone.
    “I think you should go to sleep.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Yeah? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    She frowned, but before she could say anything further, he exercised a power that was as easy as breathing, and sent a wave of calm to wash over her, bathing her in peace. It wouldn’t last, of course, but it was enough to cause her eyes to close, and that was