Circle of Death by Celia Loren, Colleen Masters Page B

open air. Booze flows freely, pungent pot smoke drifts distinctly from the earthy smell of the fire. After the perfumed, feminine scent of the yacht cabin, this new aroma is strangely appealing to me.
    My dozen companions and I step out onto the dock and stare, amazed, at the outrageous, sexy madness playing out before our eyes. Before anyone can change her mind, the yacht pulls away with a bellowing cry of its whistle—it almost sounds mournful. Out of the darkness, a gigantic figure appears, his bushy face illuminated by the light of a lantern. He introduces himself to us as Titan—the gatekeeper of this island. I can tell he’s trying to put us all at ease with his cheerful, friendly demeanor, but I can feel the girls tensing up around me, still. It’s starting to hit everyone, exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into.
    We’re led through a maze of towering, ancient trees, toward the bonfire that surges and burns in a clearing of the forest. All around, the sounds of blaring rock and voices crying out in ecstasy mingle in the summer air. Red cigarette tips smolder in the darkness as they’re raised to full, flushed lips. I feel totally intoxicated already, but I try and force the clouds from my mind. I need to be sharp tonight, keep my wits about me. They’re the only defense I have, after all.
    Scores of hungry gazes swing our way as we step into the light of the fire. A herd of fresh meat, as it were. I watch Brie’s knees start knocking together as we’re set upon by a pack of looming, lumbering forms. One by one, the girls are picked off—plied away with the promise of a drink or a handsome face. But not me. I know exactly who it is I’m looking for. The gorgeous Circle of Death President, Devlin Vile—a man I’ve only seen in grainy photographs and years-old mug shots.
    Until this very moment, that is.
    The chaotic scene raging all around me fades away as I lay eyes on Devlin Vile for the first time in the flesh. Pictures could not possibly do justice to the sheer size and solidity of him. The vitality and virility that simmers in every muscle and sinew. He towers over the bonfire, the tattoos twining across his perfectly balanced form standing out in the shadows. Across his chest, the Latin word for devil, Diabolus, is scrolled in rough script. He certainly looks like some sort of demon king, presiding over this drunken, fire-lit scene. And I guess that means I’m about to make him the devil I know.
    I screw up every ounce of my courage as Devlin raises a flask to his perfect lips. His features look like they’ve been forged from iron, cast in the most brilliant and unforgiving of flames. Those high cheekbones, that sharp scruffy jaw, his straight nose and blazing eyes...I don’t think it’s the towering fire that’s getting me all hot and bothered.
    Devlin’s gazes swings toward me and sticks. I watch, breathlessly, as he takes notice of me, standing all alone in front of the fire. Every other woman who arrived here tonight has been snatched up, but not me. It’s like he can sense that I’m holding out for his attention alone. He’s almost too gorgeous, too enticingly dangerous, to look at head-on, but I force my eyes to meet his. I can’t be the first to look away.
    I watch as his focus bores into me like a laser. He’s intrigued by me, I can tell. I beam my invitation to him across the bonfire, the raucous goings-on around us fading into the background. He tucks his flask back into the pocket of his leather cut, and I note the patches he wears proudly on his chest. “Circle of Death MC” the first reads, and beneath it the singular word, “President”. If there was any doubt about this being the man I’m looking for, it’s gone now. He circles the fire, making his way toward me.
    “You look like you could use a drink,” Devlin growls.
    His rich, raspy voice sends a bolt of sensation down my spine. I ignore the rush of fear and excitement, and reach an even hand into his cut,