Depraved: The Devil’s Duet (Book 1) Read online

  Depraved

  The Devil’s Duet (Book 1)

  Eva Charles

  Quarry Road Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Eva Charles

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without express written permission from the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Trademark names appear throughout this book. In lieu of a trademark symbol with each occurrence of a trademark name, names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Cover by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Dawn Alexander, Evident Ink, Content Editor

  Nancy Smay, Evident Ink, Copy and Line Editor

  Virginia Tesi Carey, Proofreader

  Lisa LaPaglia, Evident Ink, Proofreader

  For more information, contact [email protected]

  Created with Vellum

  For Veronica, who believed I could write something different, and gently nudged me to do it. Your insight, unflappable demeanor, and friendship are the beacons in my little corner of the literary world. The light is dim without you.

  He was her dark fairy tale and she was his twisted fantasy and together they made magic.

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Gabrielle

  2. Gabrielle

  3. Gabrielle

  4. Julian

  5. Gabrielle

  6. Julian

  7. Gabrielle

  8. Gabrielle

  9. Gabrielle

  10. Gabrielle

  11. Julian

  12. Gabrielle

  13. Gabrielle

  14. Julian

  15. Julian

  16. Julian

  17. Gabrielle

  18. Gabrielle

  19. Julian

  20. Julian

  21. Gabrielle

  22. Julian

  23. Julian

  24. Julian

  25. Gabrielle

  26. Gabrielle

  27. Gabrielle

  28. Julian

  29. Julian

  30. Gabrielle

  31. Julian

  32. Gabrielle

  33. Julian

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Dear Readers and Friends,

  Welcome to a new chapter in my writing career! If you have read and loved The New American Royals, please be aware that you are no longer in Meadows Shore. In fact, you have veered far, far, off the path. Depraved is as sinful as those are sweet.

  JD, the anti-hero, is complicated and flawed, perhaps irreparably flawed. I’ll leave that for you to decide. You will either love him, or hate him, but he will not leave you untouched.

  Depraved is romantic suspense that ventures into the shadows, places where real evil lurks. Those who are sensitive to dark storylines, please proceed cautiously.

  Now that I’ve warned you away, I’ll share a secret. Of all the characters I’ve written, JD is my hands-down favorite. I hope you love him, too!

  xoxo

  Eva

  Prologue

  My name is JD Wilder, and tonight my father will be elected President of the United States. Satan himself will occupy the Oval Office for the next four years. There have been others, all compelling imposters, but Damien Wilder is the real deal.

  As for me?

  I’m the devil’s spawn.

  1

  Gabrielle

  “Ughhhh!” I whack the edge of the frozen laptop. “Why won’t you behave tonight?”

  “Can’t beat those things into submission. I’ve tried.”

  An ominous chill raises gooseflesh, as I struggle to make sense of the voice. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

  Can it?

  Curling my fingers into the leather blotter, I lift only my eyes, peeking carefully over my lashes. A tremor builds as the animal filling my doorway comes into focus. Long and lean, a broad shoulder braced against the wooden frame, his right hand buried deep in the trouser pocket of a trim navy suit.

  My heart bangs furiously on my chest wall, as though fighting to escape. Like the rest of me, it wants to run and hide. But this is my office. My hotel. And I will not be cowed by JD Wilder.

  Ever again.

  I try to summon some anger so my voice won’t wobble. My lips part to speak, but my mouth is dry, my tongue rough and heavy, and the words don’t come.

  “The hotel is stunning,” he drawls, in that seductive baritone he uses to charm and cajole. “The photo layout in Charleston Monthly doesn’t do it justice. You’ve done a hell of a job with the restoration.”

  His tone rankles me. Arrogant? Condescending? I’m not sure. But the annoyance stiffens my backbone, and allows the words to flow freely.

  “How did you get in here?” He says nothing. “I’m sure you didn’t come by after all these years to admire the hotel. Especially tonight. I’m surprised you’re not at Wildwood Plantation celebrating. Or commiserating.”

  With two long strides, he eats up the space between us, bringing the dark musky scent of sin with him. When I dare to blink, my eyes flit to the starched white collar grazing his neck. It makes a sharp contrast to a jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in days.

  We peer at each other across the desk. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. And dammit, my heart hurts. Just a little.

  “It’s been too long,” he murmurs.

  I lower my eyes to ease the discomfort, but his hands are there. Large and forbidding, splayed on my desk with both thumbs hooked under the carved lip. Skillful hands that probed and teased, wakening my flesh with a practiced touch. Luring me into dark dreamy corners where there was only pleasure—until there wasn’t.

  I look away, my eyes searching desperately for a place to land. Somewhere safe that won’t dredge up painful memories. But there’s no eluding him. No escaping the flood of emotion that took hold of me when he entered the room.

  When I glance up, his jaw is set, and his eyes dilated, as though they haven’t grown accustomed to the dim light in the room. Or maybe he’s remembering the white-hot nights, too.

  The heat creeps up my neck, and I push the salacious thoughts away, focusing instead on how out of place his calloused fingers look against the polished mahogany. But there is little reprieve for me.

  “Gabrielle.” My name glides off his tongue, as though he speaks it all too often.

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking up. I will not do it. He had my rapt attention once, and I’ll be damned if he gets it again. Without even a cursory glance in his direction, I lift the stack of papers in front of me, and bounce the edges off the desktop, again and again, until I’m satisfied each sheet has fallen into line.

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  A business proposition? After all this time? I don’t buy it. Not for a single second. “I’m not interested.”

  “You will be.”

  “Not a chance.”

  How did he get in here? Georgina locked the door to the suite when she left for the day. I heard the lock catch. I know I did. “I’m still wondering how you obtained access to a private area in my hotel. Breaking and entering might
be business as usual for you, but security is no small matter for me.”

  He steps back and lowers himself into a chair directly in front of the desk. The rich wool fabric stretches taut over his thighs, hugging the thick muscle like a second skin. I feel a small unwelcome pang between my legs. The barest of sensations. But God help me, it’s there.

  For a fleeting moment, I consider calling security. I want him gone, right now, before—

  “Hear me out.”

  “You can’t possibly have time for this tonight.” I roll back the chair and stand to signal the discussion is over, but he doesn’t budge, not even when I start around the desk to see him out. Anyone else would take the hint. But not JD. Yes, he knows I want him to leave. He just doesn’t give a damn.

  “I need you to go.”

  He doesn’t blink, but his eyes travel over me in an all-too-familiar manner, before settling on mine. His gaze is steely. I suppose it’s meant to make me heel. If so, he’ll be disappointed. I’m not the love-struck teenager he coaxed into doing anything and everything he wanted. She’s long gone.

  “It wasn’t a suggestion, Gabrielle. I might have phrased it politely, leaving you to believe there’s a choice other than to listen, but it’s not at all what I meant. You will hear me out. Sit.”

  Sit? The hell I will. “I am not a dog. And I prefer to stand, thank you.”

  “Sit down.”

  I’m torn. There’s a small part of me that’s curious, and a larger, saner part that wants to throw him out of my office before he utters another word. But above all else, what I want is to lash out and defy him. I want it with every living, breathing cell in my body.

  But I don’t kid myself. What I want is of no consequence. I’ve known JD my entire life, and he’s not going anywhere until he has said everything he came to say.

  I edge my backside onto the corner of the desk—surely this qualifies as sitting—and pull back my shoulders with my head high and proud. Only the fingers twisting in my lap hint at how anxious this man makes me.

  “I’m sitting. Get on with it.”

  He says nothing.

  JD plays a wretched little game when he wants the upper hand—which is pretty much all the time. He doesn’t talk. He just observes and listens with the utmost patience, absorbing every nuance, every stutter, every tick of his victim’s unease. He’s cool and calculating, like a chess master, or a predator preparing to swoop in for the kill. When he decides you’ve suffered enough, he speaks carefully. It’s mesmerizing to watch, unless you’re the one caught in the crosshairs. I witnessed it dozens of times when we were younger, but even so, it’s my undoing now.

  He runs a thumb across his full bottom lip, arching a single disapproving brow at me.

  I don’t care. The extra height gives me confidence and helps me feel in control. But it’s an illusion. And I know it.

  “Your father took a loan from me. A loan he’ll never be able to pay back.”

  “What?”

  He might as well have said Martians landed on the Flag Tower at the Citadel, and they’re occupying downtown Charleston as we speak. The idea of my father accepting a loan from him is that preposterous. “I-I-I don’t believe you.”

  He says nothing.

  How could my parents go to him without first talking to me? They weren’t privy to any of the ugly details, but they know he hurt me. Yet, they went behind my back, told him things they kept from me, and took his money without a single word about it?

  I struggle for composure, trying to make sense of why my parents would possibly go to him for money. I can’t come up with a single thing.

  I glance at him. He’s watching from the catbird seat, waiting patiently for me to make a wrong move, say the wrong thing, so he can pounce. I imagine him backing me into a corner, swatting with his oversized paws like a big tomcat, toying with me until his hunger consumes him. Then devouring me in a single bite.

  Gabrielle, get a grip. Do not let him do this to you.

  I take a few calming breaths.

  “My mother’s very sick.” It’s the only reason I can come up with, but it doesn’t make much sense. “If they needed money, they would have come to me.” Yes, of course they would have come to me before going to JD. “I can’t imagine why they’d go to you without talking to me first.”

  “And what would you be able to offer them?”

  You smug bastard. “I own the hotel. I—”

  “Oh stop. You don’t have a prayer of coming up with the kind of money they need. You took every cent of equity out of this place to renovate and get it open. You’re in debt over your head.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about me or my hotel.”

  “I know everything I care to know.” His voice is low and gruff, the sound achingly familiar. A small tug at the base of my belly fuels the anger and confusion.

  “What do you want?”

  JD leans back with an elbow draped casually over an arm of the chair. He deliberately brushes a piece of lint from his trousers before answering, as though even the most inconsequential matters are more important than responding to me. “I’ll get to that soon. First, let me fill you in on what’s happening with your mother.”

  “What do you mean fill me in on what’s happening with my mother? What’s going on with my mother?” Lower your voice Gabrielle, the hotel’s filled with guests. But right now, all I really care about is my mother.

  “She’s in good hands. Your parents left the city last night to get a second opinion about your mother’s illness.”

  “They said they were going to the beach for a few days to spend some time alone before she begins treatment.” Anger. Betrayal. Fear. Swirling and twisting until they’re indistinguishable. “She already had a second opinion. Two additional opinions,” I choke out.

  A lump gathers in my throat as I remember those appointments. How the doctors explained everything in excruciating detail. Painting a vivid picture of the disease and how it would progress. It was sobering—for me, for my mother—but especially for my father, who would do anything to change the course for her. Anything. Including making a deal with the devil, it appears.

  “She had an appointment with a world-renowned immunologist today. He’s running some tests and is likely to confirm the diagnosis, but he might have a more promising treatment to offer that’ll give her more good years.”

  “Where are they?” And why didn’t they tell me any of this?

  “It’s up to them to tell you where they are. They don’t want to give you false hope in case the long-term prognosis doesn’t change. Your mother insists on keeping you in the dark until they have more information.”

  I swallow my pride, and like a big, tasteless wad of chewing gum, it catches at the back of my throat going down. My parents are still keeping vital information from me as though I’m a child. It never changes. “They don’t want me to know about any of it. Yet here you are.”

  “I have it on good authority the appointment went better than expected.”

  “So much for privacy laws.”

  The smallest of smiles plays on his lips, but his eyes don’t twinkle. “Your mother will talk to you when she’s ready.”

  “She’ll talk to me now.” I reach over and grab my cell phone off the desk and call my parents, but it doesn’t go through. I text them, but the messages aren’t delivered.

  “You won’t be able to reach them, Gabrielle.”

  “I don’t care how powerful you think you are, even the President himself doesn’t control the damn cellular network.” My voice is full of bravado, but in my heart, I know there’s very little the Wilders don’t control. Especially now, with DW a presidential candidate.

  I lean over the desk, pick up the landline and dial my parents’ number from memory. I still can’t get through. Panic begins to fill my chest, squeezing and tightening until it’s difficult to breathe.

  “Don’t underestimate me, or my reach. There’s no end to what I can make happen if it suits me.
”

  A myriad of emotion rolls through me, breaching the dam I painstakingly built in the last fifteen years. Pushing and pushing against the walls until there is nothing standing between visceral emotion and him. “I hate you.”

  My voice is raw with the hurt and betrayal he’s dredged up. I don’t want him to see the vulnerability, but I can’t stop myself. “It wasn’t enough to break my heart, to humiliate me and rub my nose in it. No. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve taken everything.”

  Pain flashes in his eyes like a bolt of lightning slicing through a dark, empty canvas. I see it. It’s there for just a brief second and then it’s gone. But I’m certain it was there.

  He’s a heartless bastard and you are a fool, Gabrielle.

  He crosses one leg over the other, an ankle resting on a knee. “Your parents can’t afford the treatment.” The tip of a long finger traces the inner seam of his shoe, gliding through the ridge where the soft cordovan leather meets the sole. “It’s considered experimental even though they’ve had some success with it. Insurance won’t cover any of it.”

  “When did you get to be such an expert on a rare immune disease? And exactly why did you lend them money?”

  “Before I agreed to pay for the cost of your mother’s treatment along with all their living expenses while they’re away, I did some research. I don’t throw around money idly.”