Her temples began to throb as she contemplated that unpleasant conversation. She had six days to come up with something, no point in giving herself an ulcer over it just yet. Besides, there was one step she could make now that would take care of the biggest of her worries—her mother. She pushed to her feet and returned to the lobby. The reception desk was unmanned. Janet must have stepped away to use the restroom or help a resident or staff member. Drumming her nails on the counter, she eyed the overhead clock.
The heavy scuff of soles treading across the linoleum flooring squeaked farther down the corridor. She turned to see if it might be Janet but spotted one of the orderlies maneuvering a stocked cart from the supply closet. He swung the door shut and continued across the hall. Clarissa’s gaze remained riveted to the spot just beyond the closet, where two figures were bent close together, engaged in what looked to be an engrossing conversation. She stared at Seven, a shiver of foreboding heralding a colony of goose bumps along both her arms. This wasn’t the same personality who’d sealed their contract with a kiss last night. Instead, it was the grizzled, potbellied trucker she’d tracked down seven years ago and begged to exchange the contract on her father’s soul for her own.
What was it doing here?
A hot wash of anger sizzled through her as the obvious answer materialized. Seven was contracting more souls. And preying on the helpless elderly in the process.
That fucking, heartless son of a bitch.
“Ms. Miles, there you are.”
Janet’s perky announcement was loud enough to draw every gaze within two hundred feet. Including Seven’s. The creature locked stares with Clarissa, the mouth tucked within that overgrowth of beard curving in a sinister grin. Plump fingers tapped against the bill of the green-and-white baseball cap smashed low on Seven’s wide brow, giving Clarissa a mocking salute.
Janet stepped forward, momentarily blocking Seven from view. She held out a matchbook. “I found this on the floor in front of my desk. You must have dropped it earlier.”
Clarissa gaped at the large red T stamped on the matchbook’s glossy cover. Equally repelled and captivated, she reached for the matchbook. She flipped it open, her pulse stuttering at the sight of the name scrawled in blue ink. Barry Tatum.
She remembered how shaky her fingers had been while writing that name in this very matchbook seven years ago. Remembered the weeks of agonizing she’d put herself through while she’d struggled over the decision to set her plan in motion—the plan that literally brought her life crashing down around her.
Now the matchbook was back. Another reminder of her guilt.
“Are you okay?”
Janet’s concerned tone snapped Clarissa out of her daze. She lifted her head, her gaze skipping past the receptionist to the far corner.
Seven was gone.
Swallowing past the unease tightening her throat, she glanced at Janet. “I’m fine. Or I will be, after you promise to restrict my father’s visitor list.”
The receptionist frowned. “But—”
“Promise me.”
Finally clued in to the severity of the situation, Janet bobbed her head. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Who do you wish to restrict?”
Clarissa took a deep breath. There was only one answer that’d keep out a creature that could wear a variety of faces. “Everyone.”
Chapter Eight
Logan silently bitched to himself while he mopped a bar rag across the handful of damp condensation rings topping the counter. The one downfall to the lunchtime crunch fizzling to a trickle of customers was now he had way too much time to mull over his situation with Clarissa.
If he’d hoped for one damn minute that sleeping with her would cure him of his constant obsession, his present state of mind more than kicked that fallacy square in the balls. Only now it wasn’t ruminations about how sweet she might taste or what kind of sounds she made when she was seconds away from coming that consumed his every waking thought. No, he knew all too well the answers to those burning questions. His current dilemma—and the reason for his unflagging erection for the past four hours—was anticipating all the things he’d do to Clarissa the next time they were in bed together.
Realistically, twenty-four hours wouldn’t be adequate time for everything he wanted to do. Hell, a lifetime would be cutting it pretty damn short. And that was another sobering conclusion he’d come to. A night or two would never be long enough to get Clarissa out of his system.
Any lingering illusions he might have tried to fool himself with in regards to his feelings for Clarissa were now dead. This went miles beyond desire and obsession. The awful pain that’d ripped through his rib cage when she’d dashed from his house this morning and sped off like the hounds of hell were snapping at the Miata’s tailpipe had hammered the final nail in his coffin.
He was bat-shit crazy in love with Clarissa Miles, the woman who lived by the motto of allowing no one past the closely guarded gate shielding her heart. Hell if that wasn’t a big-ass fucking complication that would likely make him drink himself into an early grave. He eyed the empty bottle of Bud that rested on the corner of the bar like a taunting premonition of his fate. Grimacing, he scooped up the offender and chucked it into the recycle bin beneath the counter. The frantic, staccato tap-tap of heels on the wooden floor planks drew his gaze upward just as Willa wobbled to a halt in front of the bar.
She plunked a purse that could easily be mistaken for a piece of luggage onto one of the stools and blew her bangs out of her eyes before straightening her glasses. “Please tell me the kitchen didn’t forget Domino’s lunch again. Otherwise I might be forced to do something stupid that will earn me a spot on the six o’clock news.”
He rubbed his goatee. “Depends. Would this something stupid involve public nudity?”
“No, I’m thinking more along the lines of homicidal rage.”
Feigning disappointment, he reached for the phone bolted to the support post located near the taps. “Let me check with Paolo.” After a thirty second conversation where the temperamental cook managed to curse a dozen times, disparage Emeril Lagasse and point out that they were out of the shrimp-gumbo special, Logan secured the phone back in its cradle and gave Willa a sympathetic smile. “That trigger finger isn’t too itchy, is it?”
A menacing noise came from the back of Willa’s throat before she slumped against the stool. “Domino is going to have a fit. More than her typical one, too, since her damn one-meal-a-day diet is making my life hell.”
Logan swept the bar rag into the sink with his palm. “Don’t you mean her life?”
“No, definitely mine. And I don’t even get the benefit of losing a few inches around my waist.”
He flicked an appraising look down the length of her tan, plain-Jane suit. “Sugar, the last thing you need to lose is weight. You’re already a dead ringer for that model who’s named after some kind of moss.”
“Kate Moss? Are you telling me I look like a skinny chick with no ass?” Before he could answer, Willa’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously the rumor about you being a world-class charmer is a smoking pile of crap.”
Despite her barb, or maybe because of it, his mouth stretched into a grin. “I don’t remember you being this feisty. Damn, maybe I shoulda hit on you when I had the chance.”
Willa pressed the heel of her hand into the center of her forehead, smoothing her scowl lines. “Yeah, that ship’s long sailed out of the harbor, buster.” She dropped her palm and blinked at him, her mouth softening. “I have no idea where any of this is coming from.”
“Where what’s coming from?”
“This.” She made an agitated gesture that seemed to encompass her entire body. “The feistiness. It’s so not my thing.” A dark worry cloud shadowing her expression, she tugged the stool away from the counter and plopped onto its seat. “There’s something very wrong with me.”