Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (22 page)

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“Tell me again,” he ordered half an hour later.

Destiny rolled her eyes. “We're moving in together.”

“Uh-uh, the other part.” He brushed a cube of gravy-coated beef across the seam of her mouth. “Open.”

“I can't eat and answer your question at the same time,” she protested, shifting her naked bottom more into the center of his lap.

“True. Answer, then eat.”

“I'm going to meet your family next weekend.”

“And?”

“I'm dreading it?” She chomped down on the beef and chewed.

“Destiny?”

She swallowed—the wine-flavored, juicy meat suddenly tasting like dry saw dust. “Omigod, is that the time?”

“You're not about to distract me, Destiny Driven.”

“I have to get up in a couple of hours, Linc Chapman. One of us has to earn a living.”

“Wrong.” He tapped her nose. “You don't need to work. My investments earn enough to afford us a very luxurious lifestyle.”

“That's it,” she sputtered. “You're pushing it. I agreed we'd live together.”

“With marriage in mind.”

“I'm not ready to ring shop. And I don't for a second believe your mother will throw a hissy fit”—she hung finger quotation marks around the last two words—“if I'm not wearing some giga-carat diamond ring.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he pronounced, wearing a decided “I didn't do it” expression.

The alarm bell rang way too early that morning.

Not that she needed an alarm, since she'd woken to Linc's tongue buried inside her, his thumb generating cinders on her clit.

She missed the first subway train by a pulse beat, the second while reliving their morning session, and barely hopped onto the third one, she was so distracted.

Destiny's ecstasy bubble shielded the crowded subway ride, the fetid smells of the homeless, and the aroma of urine lingering in stairwells. Uncaring of the misted fall drizzle and a sky armored with gray clouds, she swung her purse on the short walk to the office, humming to herself.

The minute a heating vent blasted dry, hot air in her face, Destiny remembered her book.

She'd sub it to Jess today. Cripes, what if Jess hated it? What if she really had no talent?

Thank the Lord she hadn't blurted everything to Linc last night. Not that they'd talked much this morning. She'd have to get up two hours earlier if he continued to insist she eat breakfast naked on his lap.

Who knew dry Cheerios could be so sexy?

Dampness coated her palms, so she tugged off both gloves and hit the elevator button. The ride seemed interminable. Someone had stinky BO, and even smothering her nose with her bunched gloves didn't help.

Every floor dinged.

“Hi!” Destiny smiled at the temp filling in for the regular receptionist.

A bigger morning crowd than usual hugged the water cooler and coffee station, and the conversation buzz seemed louder than normal. But then she'd grown fond of the quiet of the countryside, even fonder of snoozing and then finding Linc propped on an elbow tickling her nose with a lock of her own hair.

On autopilot, she ambled down the hallway and turned into her cube. The intercom dinged. She dropped her purse onto her desk and snatched the phone to her ear. “What's up, Jess?”

“You didn't read the entertainment section of the
Times
yesterday, did you?”

Something cold and damp and all too much like Gollum from the
Lord of the Rings
fork-tongued her nape. “No. Why?”

“You made the news, honey.”

Man up.

Lincoln scowled and scraped a hand over his beard stubble.

Get a fricking move on.

Cold raindrops wet Linc's too-long hair, coating his lashes and making him blink as streaming rivulets ran down his cheeks. He'd been walking the neighborhood after tailing Destiny to the subway, weighing her pissed level versus his desperate need to know she'd arrived at work safely.

A twinkling, fat diamond in a jeweler’s showcase window drew his attention.

What kind of ring would she like? How soon can I propose?

The cell in his jacket pocket vibrated.

He ducked into the jewelry shop's alcove, noted the hours of operation, absently retrieved the phone, and thumbed Receive. “Chapman.”

“Yo. Got a minute?” Satan's drawl couldn't be mistaken.

“Yeah. What's up?” Linc studied the diner across the road. Lucifer's latest report on Destiny mentioned that she brunched there with Mrs. Charles the last Sunday of every month.

Now why did that pop into my brain?

“We
may
have a problem.”

Linc snapped, “Stop the dramatics.”

“No confirmation yet, but pirates may have attacked the
Indonesian Express
.”

The
Indonesian Express
, launched the day he and Satan signed the security contract with the young whippersnapper, Guido Medici, who'd inherited the Italian shipping line, was on its maiden voyage.

Linc repressed a groan. He so did not need to be out of town right now. “Details.”

“According to satellite reports, the ship went off course around 0400 hours EST today. The GPS isn't functioning, and the control center hasn't been able to raise anyone on board.”

“How many hours difference their time and ours?”

“Eleven.”

“Last report?”

“Mandatory when the ship crossed Malaysian waters at 0200.”

“Status?”

“Wait mode. Guido's dispatched two of his security men to the area. Search plane deployed from Sumatra an hour after dawn. Nothing unusual sighted.”

“Kid's on the ball,” Linc mused.

Though he'd judged twenty-five-year-old Guido Medici brash and arrogant, Lucifer's backgrounder revealed a confidence rooted in centuries of solemn aristocratic adherence to duty. Guido's every waking moment since birth had been designed to ensure success when he inherited the family empire.

“Yeah, he did good,” Satan agreed.

“Where are you?”

“On my way home. The bank called—Guido wired the money to Geneva. We're all set. We need to go over the details.”

“I'll meet you at your place in a couple of hours.”

Linc turned up his jacket’s collar, rocked on his heels, and debated calling Destiny for three seconds.

Man up. Stop being so needy. Why can't she work remotely?

Before dashing out the door this morning, she'd told him she usually came home at seven. He didn't like her working such long hours. Scowling at the now-solid gray cloud blanketing the sun, he abandoned the idea of phoning her. With no need to return to her apartment, he shoved off the jeweler’s glass door, set his iPhone searching for the nearest car rental location in Satan’s neighborhood, and marched to the subway.

City traffic and the weather made for a longer than expected travel time, and Linc pulled into the secluded driveway leading to the expansive seaside mansion Satan called home ninety minutes later. His thoughts returned to Destiny.

Why did she clam up about her time in the Adirondacks?

Located in East Marion on Long Island, Satan's five-bedroom, six-thousand-square-foot home boasted a two-seventy view of Gardener's Bay, and Bug Light and Orient Point. Belvedere, one of nine properties scattered across Europe and North America that Lorcan inherited from his deceased parents, glowed sparkling amber in the gray drizzle and mist.

Why'd you return here, buddy? You hated this place growing up. Took any excuse to get out from under it.

Lincoln and Lorcan had met in primary school. Bonded. There'd never been any question they were anything but best friends and that they'd work together one day. Even after his parents sent Lorcan to military school the day he turned thirteen, nothing changed.

Lorcan returned to Long Island only for a scant month every summer. He spent more time at the Chapmans' crowded, crammed home than he ever had at this mansion. Linc'd met Satan's folks maybe five times during their two-decade friendship. Cold couldn't begin to describe his trust-fund, patrician mother. His father worked on Wall Street, spoke little, noticed little—certainly none of his son's accomplishments.

Neither had attended Satan's graduation. The Chapman clan adopted Lorcan—Linc's sisters mothered him, and his brothers toughened him up. He spent every holiday with them, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Linc knew something had happened the summer before they enlisted. Satan's parents cut off his trust fund when he told them he had enlisted in the Navy. They sent him to military school, for Christ's sake—what the hell else did they expect?

So why are you back here, Satan? What devils are you confronting?

No doubt about the beauty of the two-storied mansion or the setting for that matter. The house stood on the edge of a precipice nestled into carefully planted wild foliage. The spectacular view upon entry made even people who knew the house well pause and take in the vista.

One of the twin oak doors centered in the rectangular brick façade opened as Linc exited his rented Hummer.

Satan, shoulder jammed against the doorframe, carried two mugs, one of which he sipped from.

“You're late,” he called.

“City traffic.” Linc strode up the inclined cobbled drive, his throat anticipating the first java dose for the day.

He accepted the ceramic mug the other man proffered, gulped two mouthfuls of the much-welcomed coffee, closing his eyes as the hot brew traveled his gullet. “Perfect.”

“How'd it go?” Satan motioned him in and shut the door behind them.

“Better than expected. We're moving in together.” Lincoln grinned like a teenager announcing his first lay. Mist dampened the view from the picture window that dominated the other wall. Bits of a maple that had seen more years than the two of them combined poked through the fog. A half-lime, half-canary leaf peeked in between tattered and browning leaves that weaved and waved when a breeze ruffled the tree's plumage.

“You're going to live in the city?” Satan halted midstride. “What happened to a cottage in the old neighborhood?”

“On hold for the moment. This editor gig seems to be essential to Destiny. I'm taking it one step at a time. I'm supposed to be looking for a place for us today. You should see the matchbox she lives in.” Coffee aroma teased his nostrils, and he drank half the cup.

“You're welcome to the Park Avenue penthouse.”

Lincoln grimaced. “If I can persuade her into it, I might take you up on that.”

“Persuade?” Satan snorted. “You have to fucking
persuade
a woman to live in a nine-million-dollar Manhattan penthouse?”

“You've met her. The way she talks about the blue-blooded author she used to edit—let's just say I have a strong notion she's gonna insist on going Dutch on everything.” He grimaced at his empty mug. “I need another cup.”

“There's more in the den. Lucifer's here. Demon and Devil are AWOL.”

“Uh-uh, left me a voice mail. They're both in Coronado.”

He'd been surprised to get that message and had called a couple of former SEAL buddies out of curiosity. None of the squad had been back to the Naval Special Warfare Center in California since their last stint as trainers more than five months ago. “Refresher?” Satan and Linc fell into step together down the left corridor.

“Nah. They needed a couple extra instructors for Hell Week.”

Satan whistled. “I wouldn't want to be in their class. ’Specially Devil's.”

“Yeah. I wouldn't go through BUD/S or Hell Week again if you put a gun to my skull. Age—such a bitch.” Linc shot Satan a crooked grin. The first three weeks of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training was supposed to prepare candidates for the fourth, the famous Hell Week, five and a half days of continuous training with a maximum of four hours total sleep. Hell Week averaged a 60 percent dropout rate.

“You and me both,” Satan agreed.

They entered the den, which had more of a library ambience with wall-to-ceiling built-in bookcases lining the interior. An avaricious reader, Satan collected first editions the way other millionaires collected centerfolds and Lamborghinis. Lincoln had once turned down a page in one of the books he'd borrowed from Satan's library. They'd come close to blows on that occasion.