LITMIR.BIZ

      I watched Paul walk out of the hotel lobby, enjoying the way his legs moved, how relaxed he seemed with his jacket slung over one shoulder. Maybe he sensed my gaze on his back (and lower down), because he looked back at me and lifted his hand in a wave. I did the same, and as he walked out of my line of sight my fingers curled into a loose fist that I placed against my heart. Beneath it, the peridot charm was cool, indifferent.

      The only thing evil about Paul was the way he made me feel. Ooh, the things I wanted to do to him, to show him…

      …the things I’d already done to him…

      Blowing out a frustrated sigh, I let that thought go. He’d freaked me out when he said he’d seen me before. I hadn’t counted on my very last client to show up in my new life.

      Of course, I hadn’t counted on taking a place on the Underworld’s Most Wanted list. It wasn’t like I had done anything wrong. (Well, other than going AWOL.) I didn’t know anything that other demons didn’t know.

      Except their loyalty was unquestioned. They were still creatures of the Pit. Because I ran, I was a wild card. And the King of Hell didn’t tolerate gambling.

      A sharp pain in my hand pulled me out of my dark thoughts, and I realized I’d squeezed my fist so hard that my nails had pierced my flesh. Fascinated, I watched blood seep into the half-moon marks on my palm, transforming them into ruby crescents.

      Enough moping, I told myself. Time to take control of your life.

      I walked over to the front desk, where a dashing man stood behind the counter, typing on his computer. Glancing at me, he put on a perfunctory smile and said, “May I help you?”

      Pouring on the charm, I said, “Yes, thanks. I’d like to check in, please.”

      His smile warmed, obviously pleased that I wanted to spend money in his establishment. “Do you have a reservation?”

      “No,” I said, standing on tiptoe to lean close to him over the counter. “But maybe you could scare something up for me?”

      He began to type on the keyboard. “I’m sure I can find something. Single occupancy?”

      “For now,” I said, a note of wistfulness in my voice.

      With a chuckle, he said, “Okay, single. How long will you be staying?”

      “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with two nights and take it from there.”

      Clackety clack clack. His fingers moved so quickly, so dexterously. I wondered what else he could do that skillfully with his fingers. Then I wondered if human females were always in heat, or if that was just me being…well, me.

      “I can give you a standard room for tonight and tomorrow night, at two-fifty-nine a night, for a total of six-oh-five forty-six.”

      It took me a moment to realize he was talking about price. Pulling out Caitlin’s wallet, I flipped it open and popped out a credit card. “Here you go.”

      “I just need some ID, please.”

      Offering Caitlin’s Massachusetts State ID, I smiled brightly.

      He glanced at it, then at me. My smile broadened as he took the Visa card. The transaction went through, and in a moment he told me I’d been put in room 217. I’d half-expected to get something cheesy like room 666.

      “I can’t give you the key card yet,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Check-in’s not until three. But if you want, you can leave your suitcase here until three o’clock.”

      “That’s great,” I said, wheeling the trunk over to him behind the counter. “I have some shopping to do anyway.”

      Chapter 5

      Belles/Hotel New York

      Whistling the “I Love New York” theme, I ambled past the club, three overly stuffed shopping bags in tow, before I did a double take, my sex radar blipping. The name was stenciled in silver on the frosted window, as well as on the black awning: Belles. Next to the name was the distinctive hourglass silhouette of a female begging to be on the cover of a bodice ripper.

      Bubbling with curiosity, I opened the door and walked inside. The entrance was dimly lit, making me blink after basking in the afternoon brightness. Up ahead came the distinctive sounds of honky-tonk music. Humming along with the song as I wandered down the hallway, I placed it as a Shania Twain hit. Like most nefarious creatures, I knew who many recording artists were; it was amazing how many young hopefuls were desperate enough to turn to Hell for an edge in getting a foot in the door and launching a career. Unlike many of my former brethren, I knew the names simply because I loved the music. Passion turned to melody, emotion given life in song…ah, ecstasy! Just thinking about it made my G-spot tingle.

      With Shania singing loud enough to make my eyes vibrate in their sockets, I took in the large room. A glass-topped mahogany bar sprawled along the left wall; behind it, bottles stood at attention, waiting to be used. Above hung rows of glasses, suspended by their stems. How the crystal withstood the ear-shattering decibel of the music was anybody’s guess. Numerous flat-screen televisions decorated the walls around the bar. Off to the side was a foosball table, its players standing half-cocked, just waiting to come to attention and get slap-happy.

      Mirrors winked like interactive wallpaper, reflecting the rest of the room ad nauseum. To my right, divided from the bar by a mahogany half-wall with a cutout entrance, were rows of round tables, black and cold, each surrounded by three plush gray chairs. The front tables bumped up against a white stage with a runway, the corners adorned with a low, brass rail. A slim pole at the end of the stage caught the targeted beams of multicolored spotlights, casting the silver with hints of red, green, and blue. On stage, a blond woman danced as she held onto the pole. Either that, or she had a bug in her cleavage she was trying to shake free.

      Two people were seated at a table near the stage, a man in an open-necked button-up shirt and a plump woman in a light sweater, both with drinks. The man called over his shoulder, “For God’s sake, Lyle, can’t you please lose the country shit?”

      “But

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