Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City)

Since she began writing in 2008,
Cara McKenna
has published more than thirty romances and erotic novels with a variety of publishers, sometimes under the pen name Meg Maguire. Her stories have been acclaimed for their smart, modern voice and defiance of convention. She was a 2010 Golden Heart Award finalist and a 2011 and 2013 Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee. She lives with her husband, with their feet in New England but their hearts in the Pacific Northwest. Cara loves hearing from readers! Email her at
[email protected].

Visit Cara McKenna online:
www.caramckenna.com
www.twitter.com/caramckenna

By Cara McKenna

THE DESERT DOGS SERIES

Lay It Down
Give It All

SINS IN THE CITY SERIES

Crosstown Crush
Downtown Devil

OTHER NOVELS

Hard Time

PIATKUS

First published in the US in 2016 by InterMix,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Piatkus

Copyright Cara McKenna, 2016
Excerpt from
Midtown Masters
copyright © Cara McKenna, 2017

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-40624-4

Piatkus
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk

www.piatkus.co.uk

Laura, Claire, Christina, and Jennifer—

I wouldn’t have survived birthing both this book and a baby in the same summer without a hell of a lot of help. Thanks for the
midwifery.

“S
o what we can do,” Clare said into her mic, “is an equal exchange of the shoes for an identical pair in size five. Do you have the receipt, with the return form attached?”

“No, I don’t.” The monitor informed Clare that the nasal male voice in her headset belonged to caller 0440310. “It didn’t come with one.”

Yes, it did.
“Okay, that’s no problem. Could you look up your order number for me, then? It’ll be in the subject line of your confirmation e-mail.”

“Hang on.”

Clare eyed the clock on her screen.
One last call,
she sniped at herself. One last call she’d decided to take before she left for lunch. Those were always the ones that droned on forev—

“I don’t have it,” came the voice. “I don’t think you sent me one.”

Uh-huh.
“All right, that’s fine. You can also log into your account on the Web site, view your order history, and request an exchange in the—”

“I don’t have time for
that.”

“Okay. Well, I can look up your order using your name, then, and e-mail you a copy of the receipt.”

“Fine.”

“Then all you’ll do is print it out,” Clare said, switching screens, “and fill out the exchange section. And as soon as your item is received back at the warehouse, the replacement will be mailed right out—”

“How long will that take?”

“It depends on where you are.”

“Connecticut.”

“Well, our warehouse is in California, so it’ll probably be seven to ten business—”

“
What?
I can’t wait that long. My daughter needs these shoes for a recital on Thursday.” It was Monday.

“In that case, I’d suggest you go to the Web site, order the shoes in the size you need, get expedited shipping, and return the original shoes at your leisure for a refund.”

“You mean pay for them twice?”

“Well, not exactly, sir. You’ll be refunded the cost of the original pair upon their—”

“And I suppose I’d have to pay for this extra shipping myself.”

“For the new order, yes. But when you return the first pair, you can use the provided label—”

“Oh, this is just ridiculous.”

Yes, yes, it is. Please ask to speak to my manager. Pretty please?
“I’m sorry this is frustrating. But to get you started, let me have your first and last name, and I can e-mail you that receipt.”

“Fine.
Fine.
” A sigh like steel wool. “Call this customer service, do you? You send me the wrong size and make me pay for shipping twice—”

“Oh, were you not sent the size you ordered? Because that’s a different—”

“Well, they don’t
fit
, so I’d say that’s not the right size.”

“But are they the size you ordered? If they’re not—”

“Let me talk to your manager.” A choir of angels burst into song. “Where are you, anyway? India or somewhere?”

“Pittsburgh, sir. Hang on one second, and I’ll connect you.” Clare typed in the keyboard shortcut to transfer the call, sighing her relief as the hold music came on in her headset. She tapped a quick note into the memo space on her screen.

Code 29T38.
That was call-center drone for
bitch
. It got used a lot.
Needs different size by Thursday. Suggested a reorder and return, but he’s not happy. Sorry, Brady. I’ll bring you back a cookie.
Clare hit
QUEUE CALL
and tossed her headset aside, opened up her digital time card, and clocked out for lunch.

All around her in this sea of cubes, people spoke in soothing, gentle tones, placating customers who were probably roughly as charming as caller 0440310.

She shouldered her bag.
Good God, get me out of this mental institution.

Yeah, right.
She had benefits, and this place paid her way more than she’d get in retail or waiting tables. Considering that her bachelor’s was in fine arts, Clare was lucky she wasn’t destitute.

Plus, now it was lunch. She’d get a big coffee and an overpriced turkey sandwich, and escape into her project for an hour. Well, forty minutes, once you subtracted the walk and the line. Still sounded like a vacation just now.

She shrugged into her jacket and took the stairs down three flights, smiling at the security guy as she passed through the former factory building’s snooty, modern lobby and out the front door.

It was a gorgeous day. Blind-you bright, warm but not sticky, and downtown smelled like spring. It had been a long, nasty winter, and even now in early May there were some blossoms on the skinny trees planted along the busy street—literal late bloomers. It was tough to stay sour about some anonymous asshat from Connecticut on a day like this.

Not even if your thirtieth birthday was four days away and you’d not accomplished any of the things your college-aged self had planned to by this time.

That’s not entirely true. I might just have my opening, if not quite by the deadline.

Her first actual, biggish-deal show, the kind where they bother setting your name on the gallery’s front windows in fancy frosted decals . . . Clare had been courting the owner, a friend of an acquaintance from college, for ages now, attending every new opening, interacting on social media, kissing ass and tactfully reminding the woman at every passable opportunity that she was a photographer. It had taken more than two years, but she’d finally been handed a break this past Friday. A collage artist who’d been slated for a show at the end of August had pulled out. Could the owner maybe take a look at Clare’s portfolio? Fuck yes, she could. And she had. And she’d been impressed—impressed enough to offer Clare the three-week slot, provided she could formally propose a cohesive show.

Clare had already been gestating an idea, even had a few shots to back it up. The owner loved the concept and samples but needed more—proof that Clare could find enough subjects to put together an eighteen-piece exhibit. She had two weeks to go—two weeks to find and shoot three more willing models who fit the bill for the show—to clinch the offer. Tough but not impossible.

Nothing’s impossible in your twenties.
And for maybe the first couple of weeks of your thirties.

It was the biggest break she’d gotten yet, and she wasn’t about to waste it. Her mom had been the strongest skeptic when Clare had announced her decision to pursue an art degree. Desiree Fowler was a hard-ass, a strong, opinionated black woman who’d earned her MBA after seven years of night school and clawed her way into a VP position at a respected local medical device company by age forty-five. Clare admired her mom, respected her deeply. Idolized her in some ways, even if the thought of being a businesswoman herself sounded like sheer misery. And she knew her mom wanted more for her, even if she never came out and said it. She wanted more for Clare than a half-decent wage for forty hours of weekly drudgery. Clare would settle for proving to her mom that she hadn’t wasted four years earning a degree in photography. A show at a respected gallery like the Feurhy was a start. She could taste the opening-night wine on her tongue now.

Tastes like vindication.

The coffee shop was up ahead at the corner, and before its entrance a woman was maneuvering an overbuilt stroller up onto the curb. Clare jogged the final few paces so she could haul the door open wide. The mother thanked her with a frazzled smile. Clare was in need of a pick-me-up, but this lady looked about ready to drop.

It was just past one, but the line was rush-hour long. No matter. Clare liked lines. She liked people-watching, liked doing anything for a little while aside from sitting in her cube getting bitched at, especially if that anything was accompanied by the smell of freshly ground coff—

One of the three baristas rushing about behind the counter caught her eye.

People-watching turned to man-ogling in an instant.

He was striking. He was
stunning.
The best-looking guy she’d seen in ages, in person or in a movie—or in her filthiest and most inspired daydreams, for that matter.

The young man was tallish, maybe five-eleven, with a long, lean build. His movements were unself-consciously graceful, in perfect tune with the trim, tattooed arms and slender fingers hustling this way and that with an order. He was at least half-Asian, Clare imagined, judging by his eyes and cheekbones, though his skin was fairly dark and his hair was a bundle of fat brown dreadlocks corralled into a spiky bun high at the back of his head. Black and Asian, she guessed, or maybe Pacific Islander? She couldn’t quite guess, and that excited her. That had her reaching into her bag, rooting past her camera until her fingers met smooth card stock.

As the line inched forward, her heart beat harder. She wasn’t especially shy, but a hot guy was a hot guy, and this was one freakishly hot guy.

She waited, palpitating, until he turned from the hissing espresso machine, a frothy mug in each hand.

“Excuse me.” Clare tried on her most engaging smile.

He met her eyes with his dark ones, brows rising.

“This is going to sound weird, but I’m a photographer, and I’m looking for people to model for a show I’m doing at the Feurhy Gallery. It’s all about identity, and heritage,” she said, giving the postcard a little wave. “I won’t pester you, but if you could take a look . . .” She extended it toward him over the bakery case. “My e-mail’s on the back.”

He set down one mug and accepted it, looking politely puzzled. “Okay.”

“Thanks.” And thank goodness the line chose that moment to
surge forward—she could feel her cheeks flushing. The barista’s hotness was like an eclipse, and if she’d spent another five seconds staring directly at him, she’d no doubt have gone blind.

Please e-mail me. Please e-mail me,
she chanted in her head as she neared the register. The thought cooled her momentarily, as it always did after she approached people about the project, and then the mantra changed.
Please don’t be offended. Please don’t be offended.

The name of the show she’d proposed was
So, What Are You?

It was a question Clare had been hearing her entire life. Her appearance tended to stump people. She was tall, slim save for a little extra through her butt and thighs, with fair skin and dark freckles and windburned cheeks from her dad’s Scotch-Irish roots, and a strong jaw and nose and lips, and a great burst of tight curls, courtesy of her African-American mom. Her hair was brass blond, lightest at the temples, and her eyes were nearly black. It was as if her features had each been forced to side with one parent, and they hadn’t bothered consulting with one another.

It had not been the easiest look to grow up with, though these days she rarely gave it much thought. Or hadn’t, until six weeks ago, when someone from her yoga class had asked her that old question, and the idea for the show struck her like a bolt.

And man, would the world’s hottest barista ever make a great addition to her sample portfolio.

The stroller mom wheeled away from the register and Clare ordered her drink and sandwich, plus a saucer-sized peanut butter cookie for her manager. She loitered at the pickup counter while her sandwich was plated and her coffee made. She tried her level best to keep her eyes off the barista, but couldn’t help stealing a sneaky glance at his flashing triceps as he banged around at the espresso machine. That sharp slash of muscle was just begging for the right
lighting. Late-afternoon sun, no lamps. And angle him just so, to catch the shadows of his shoulder blades through that snug T-shirt—

He turned, startling her. “Americano for here?” He set it on the counter, just the briefest eye contact as he registered it was her, the giddy spaz who’d foisted a postcard on him.

“That’s me.” Clare lifted the mug in thanks, but he was already turning back to the machine. She could see the postcard, folded, peeking from the back pocket of his dark gray jeans. She studied his arms and the smooth skin and bold tendons of his tan neck as he worked until her sandwich appeared.

Giving him the card felt like a long shot, but she’d have regretted chickening out. She hadn’t laid her eyes on a guy—on
any
human—that gorgeous in who knew how long.

As she made her way to an empty table near the windows, she said another little prayer that he might take her half seriously. Insanely hot people probably got handed fliers all the time, for shows and parties and openings. He may have already forgotten about it. It might go straight from his pocket to the trash tonight or tomorrow or whenever he found it, or maybe meet its undignified end in the laundry.

Then again, she’d asked him to
model
for her. That would spark curiosity in most people. Humans were naturally vain, and that wasn’t a criticism. She hoped he’d at least visit the link.
If only to find out if it’s nude modeling,
she thought, imagining what she’d make of someone approaching her with a similar proposition.

She’d set up a special page on her portfolio site for the would-be show, with the three sample photos she had so far—one a self-portrait, Clare sitting on her living room floor and cutting a mat for a photo frame. Another of her yoga instructor, Dannica, a striking older woman holding a startling backbend in a beam of light in the middle
of the yoga studio. Dannica’s heritage was “a patchwork,” she’d said once in class, when the session’s theme had been “melding.” Clare had loved that term; it informed the entire project. Dannica was “the whole spice rack,” she’d said once. Scandinavian, Caribbean, Jewish, and Hispanic, “and maybe a few other flavors tossed in—I can’t remember. I’m a one-woman UN.” The third photo on the project’s page was of an acquaintance who worked as a chef, taken in a bustling kitchen as he quartered a chicken with an impressively large, gleaming knife. His dad was Mexican-American, and his mother had come from Fiji.