Fallen Angels 01 - Covet Read Online Free PDF Page B

hour.

    Just as he reached forward and palmed the velvet box, the click and release of the front door brought his head around. Out in the hall, stilettos clipped on the marble and came down toward him. Or passed him was more like it.
    As Devina walked by the living room's archway, she was taking off her white mink, exposing a blue Herve Leger dress she'd bought with his money. Talk about knockout: Her body's perfect curves were showing those fabric bands who was in charge, her long legs had better lines than the red-soled Louboutins she had on, and her dark hair gleamed brighter than the crystal chandelier over her head.
    Resplendent. As always.
    “Where have you been?” he asked.
    She froze and looked over at him. “I didn't know you were home.”
    “I've been waiting for you.”
    “You should have called.” She had spectacular eyes, almond shaped and darker than her hair. “I would have come if you'd called.”
    “Thought I'd surprise you.”
    “You...don't do surprises.”
    Vin got to his feet and kept the box hidden within his palm. “How was your night?”
    “Good.”
    “Where did you go?”
    She folded the fur over her arm. “Just to a club.”
    As he came up to her, Vin opened his mouth, his hand tightening on what he'd bought for her. Be my wife. Devina frowned. “Are you okay?” Be my wife. Devina, be my wife.

    He narrowed his eyes on her lips. They were puffier than usual.
    Redder. And for once she had no lipstick on.
    The conclusion he slammed into teed off a brief, vivid memory of his mother and father. The pair of them were screaming at each other and throwing things, both drunk off their asses. The subject was what it always had been, and he could hear his father's raging voice clear as day: Who were you with? What the hell you been doing, woman?
    After that, the next thing on the agenda would be his mother's ashtray banging off the wall. Thanks to all the practice she got, she'd had good arm strength, but the vodka tended to throw off her aim, so she hit his father's head only one out of every ten shots.
    Vin slipped the ring box into the pocket of his suit coat. “You have a good time?”
    Devina narrowed her eyes like she was having trouble judging his mood. “I just went out for a little bit.”
    He nodded, wondering whether her hair's tousled effect was styling or another man's hands. “Good. I'm glad. I'm just going to go do some work.”
    “Okay.”
    Vin turned and walked through the living room and into the library and down to his study. All the while, he kept his eyes on the walls of glass and the view.
    His father had believed two things about women: You could never trust them; and they would walk all over you if you gave them the upper hand. And as much as Vin didn't want any legacy from that son of a bitch, he couldn't shake the memories he had of his dad.
    The guy had always been convinced his wife was cheating on him—
    which had been hard to believe. Vin's old lady had bleached her hair only twice a year, sported circles under her eyes the color of thunderclouds, and had a wardrobe limited to a housecoat that she cleaned with the same frequency the Clairol box made it home. The woman never left the house, smoked like a bonfire, and had alcohol breath that could melt paint off a car.
    Yet his father somehow thought men would be attracted to that. Or that she, who never lifted a finger unless there was a cigarette to light, regularly summoned the gumption to go out and find joes whose taste in chicks ran toward ashtrays and empties.
    They'd both beaten him. At least until he'd gotten old enough to move faster than they could. And probably the kindest thing they did for him as parents was killing each other when he was seventeen— which was pretty fucking pathetic.
    When Vin got to his study, he took a seat behind the marble-topped desk and faced off at his office away from the office. He had two computers, a phone with six lines on it, a fax, and a pair of bronze lamps. Chair