Page 3 of Devil Wears Nada
Van pulled back with a laugh. “Oh! I forgot to mention. Certain aspects of my power remain. Reflective surfaces tend to… react… when I’m aroused.”
“You broke my mirror because you’re horny?” I stepped back, needing space from his intoxicating presence.
“I broke your mirror because YOU make me horny,” he corrected, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “There’s a difference.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process. “Okay. Let’s say I believe you’re a demon—”
“Prince of Vanity,” he corrected.
“Fine. Prince of Vanity. Why are you here? On Earth? In my car specifically?”
Van’s expression clouded briefly. “Politics,” he said dismissively. “A disagreement with management. I may have suggested some organizational restructuring that wasn’t well-received. So here I am, temporarily banished, powers reduced, wardrobe eliminated.” He gestured to himself with a wry smile. “The ultimate humiliation for Vanity, you see? To be stripped ofmy trappings and sent among creatures who would see me as merely another attractive mortal.”
“Merely?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit full of yourself?”
“Constantly. It’s literally my nature.” He grinned, and damn if it wasn’t charming. “Now, are we done with the interrogation? Because I can think of far more interesting ways to spend our time.”
He let the robe slip further open, and my mouth went dry. The logical part of my brain was screaming that this was insane. I’d brought home a delusional naked man who thought he was a demon. The rest of my brain—specifically the parts below my belt—had other opinions.
“I have work to do,” I said firmly, gesturing to my cutting table where the imported silk waited. “You can stay here tonight. We’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow.”
“How gracious,” he purred, trailing a finger along my cutting table. “And where will I sleep? Your bed seems the obvious choice.”
“Couch,” I said firmly.
He pouted—actually pouted—and somehow it made him even more attractive. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun. Just not with strange men who fall from the sky.”
“Yet,” he added with a knowing smirk.
I ignored that and went to work, trying to focus on cutting patterns while hyperaware of his presence. Van wandered around my workroom, touching everything, commenting on colors and textures with surprising insight. Occasionally he’d make suggestions that were annoyingly brilliant.
After a few hours of this, I couldn’t take it anymore. His constant movement, the flash of skin as the robe shifted, thelittle sounds of approval he made when he found a fabric he liked—it was all too much.
“Can you just sit still?” I snapped, cutting through a length of silk with more force than necessary.
“Am I distracting you?” He sounded delighted by the possibility.
“Yes. You are.”
“Good.” He slid directly into my personal space, leaning against the cutting table. “Distraction can be inspirational, you know. The greatest creators often find their muse in—”
“In narcissistic supernatural beings who won’t shut up?”
His laugh was like music. “Precisely.” He reached out and touched my hand, the one holding the scissors. “Your hands are artist’s hands. Strong but sensitive.”
I should have pulled away. Instead, I watched as he guided my hand to set down the scissors, then turned my palm up to trace the lines there.
“Your life line is very deep,” he murmured, his finger sending shivers up my arm. “But your love line is… interrupted. You’ve been hurt.”
“Are you a demon or a fortune teller?” I managed, my voice embarrassingly husky.
“I’m an observer of beauty,” he said, looking up at me through impossibly long lashes. “And you, Lucas the designer, are beautiful when you’re frustrated.”
The last thread of my restraint snapped. I grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and pushed him against the wall beside my fabric shelves. He went willingly, eagerly even, his eyes widening with delighted surprise.
“You want to see frustrated?” I growled, pressing my body against his. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”
