But now? After talking to him downstairs?

A weight had been lifted off of her, and the relief she had been seeking in all kinds of other outlets settled through her, a balm that ushered in with it the sort of peace that had seemed impossible to achieve.

Interesting. She and her mom and dad disagreed about a lot. But if this was the forgiveness they advocated? It was freedom from your own pain.

And that was a very, very good thing.

Cait tried not to be on time. Unfortunately, old habits died hard, and she was three minutes early. After eyeing the Riverside Diner’s parking lot, she decided to drive on by and waste some time going around the block for a while.

Six ten. That was her sweet spot. Not too early, not too late.

At the allotted moment in history—not that she was blowing this out of proportion or anything, she pulled her SUV into the parking area and found a spot. It was kind of a surprise to be so nervous as she looked around for his truck.

Not in the lot: From what she could see thanks to a combination of streetlights and the fading glow of the sunset’s last gasp, there were ten or twelve vehicles and a couple of motorcycles. No trucks.

Maybe he was fashionably late, too.

Getting out and locking up, she headed for the entrance, her stomach doing that butterfly thing she’d heard about, but never experienced before. And like her brain didn’t want to be left out of the flutter-party, all sorts of random nonsense were jumping through her head, none of the thoughts sticking, her skull like a child’s bouncy castle filled with balls.

Pulling open the doors, she walked into a traditional fifties diner, red Naugahyde booths going down one side, a counter with stools across the aisle, a serving setup and flap doors into the kitchen behind that.

Duke wasn’t in the booths, although several men looked up at her arrival and did a double take—something that had happened on campus today as well. Yup, blonds definitely got more attention, but she wasn’t sure about the fun, especially if tonight’s date ended up not happening. Which would be two evenings in a row. Although at least there was a good chance she wouldn’t get chased into an elevator—

There he was.

Through the arches that led into the other dining room, he was at a booth by the back exit, facing out, staring right at her.

He didn’t smile. Or wave. Or sit a little straighter.

But his burning eyes ate her up, the impact of that stare flushing away everything that was between them—the tables, the waitresses, the other patrons, the distance across a red carpeted floor.

It was just as it had been when they’d looked at each other in the café parking lot.

As Cait walked over to him, she found that her body moved differently, a sensual feeling infusing her legs and h*ps and br**sts with a slow-boil heat that she wanted to turn up.

“Hi,” she said, her voice deeper than usual.

“You look good.” His eyes dipped down her. “Really good.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Although he could have been wearing a seventies lounge suit and she probably would have drooled over the polyester.

Sliding in opposite him, she took off her coat and was acutely aware of the way her br**sts moved against the fine material of her blouse—and so was he. Now he changed positions, moving around as if impatient.

Or maybe uncomfortable thanks to an … um, yeah.

And that was totally hot.

Without further conversation, he extended his hand across the tabletop, palm up, and in reply, she put hers on top of his immediately.

God, he was … extraordinary. Rugged. Handsome, but with an edge. And still every bit as muscular in that black T-shirt as he had been before. His dark hair was a little shorter than she remembered, as if he’d had it trimmed during the day—maybe for their date? And there was no five o’clock shadow shading that strong jaw of his. Which suggested he’d showered and shaved in preparation for her.

Which was a compliment, wasn’t it.

As she stared at him across the table, she couldn’t help but compare him to G.B. With the other man, she had been starstruck, yes—and there was a certain intensity there. But that experience was a curiously removed one, almost as if she were examining something that was exotic up close for the first time.

With Duke? He was just flat-out sexy, from those hooded eyes to his full lips to those shoulders—

“I waited all day for this,” he said in a gravel-filled voice.

Cait flushed from head to foot. “Me, too—”

Like the echo from some distant world that had nothing to do with her or him, she heard a phone go off dimly. Might have been her own; she didn’t care. In fact, a stampede could thunder through the diner and she doubted she would notice, or care.

God, she wanted him. Here. Now…

“Tell me something,” he said.

“What?”

“Your name. I still don’t know what it is.”

Cait smiled and dropped her eyes. Guess she’d missed that. “It’s Cait. As in Caitlyn.”

“That’s nice.”

“Thank you.”

Annnnnnd now back to the mutual staring.

In fact, they were still sitting like that, looking into each other’s eyes, holding hands, when the waitress came over with menus. Neither of them acknowledged what was delivered, or made much of a response when they were asked what they wanted to drink.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, “for food. How about you?”

Cait shook her head. And that was that.

They both exited the booth and, after he left a fiver as a tip, walked out of the restaurant.

Outside, the cool weather did nothing to clear her head. So when he pointed to a Victorian boathouse a couple hundred yards away and nodded his head as if asking a question?

“Yes,” she said.

Closest shot at privacy they had: It was too early in the season for people to be walking around after dark, and she had to imagine there was a secluded place in there somewhere. Bottom line? She had no interest in futzing around with who followed who in what vehicle to God only knew where.

Even the short walk was going to take forever.

Which proved that in some situations, distance, like time, was relative.

Chapter Thirty

“Devina, you have me concerned.”

As the demon sat on her therapist’s couch, she fiddled with the horse-bit buckle on her Gucci bag. The office was totally not her—overstuffed cushions, mucky brown tones, shaggy throw rug, all kinds of beech wood mounted on stands like it was worth something. Two Kleenex boxes. For the weepers.

“Devina?”

Her therapist was sitting across a glass-topped table, her ample body draped as always in folds of flower-print fabric. Talk about somebody slipcovering themselves—Devina looked like shit in her real form, but she cured that with good flesh that was tailored well. This woman with the soft voice and perma-concerned expression? The muumuus were not a look.

Although how else could you cover all that?

Then again, it wasn’t entirely her fault. As a human, all she had to choose from were clothes if she wanted to change her appearance. Well, that and plastic surgery, which could only do so much—

“Devina.”

Oh, look, she was leaning forward and getting intense.

Devina focused on her purse again, thinking about how she and the therapist were such opposites. The woman might have been built like one of her throw pillows, but she was beautiful on the inside—beneath those layers of a slowing metabolism coupled with a sedentary job and probably some pharmacological estrogen, her soul glowed with the pure white light of goodness.

Devina was not that. Without her exterior lie?

As tears welled, she found it hard to speak past the lump in her throat. “I am … ugly.”

“Can you tell me more?”

Goddamn, she was so upset, she wasn’t even offended the therapist didn’t offer an, “OMG, you are so not!”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” Devina waved her hand around. “It’s nothing important. Let’s change the subject.”

“I can respect how much you don’t want to discuss this. But frequently, the things we don’t want to talk about are the ones we truly need to resolve. It’s the work that is necessary to come fully into ourselves. Perhaps you can share with me what triggered your feelings?”

An image of her on her knees in front of Adrian, sucking his flaccid cock, hit her like a ton of bricks.

Ripping open her bag, she began to count the thirteen identical lipsticks that she always had with her—

“Devina, can you stop that?” When she just shook her head, the therapist said, “Well, perhaps try to? Remember, OCD is at least partially a maladaptive system of self-preservation. It’s rooted, in that regard, to the need to make ourselves feel safe in an unpredictable world—a world where people can let us down or hurt us, and where, with respect to things that are important to us, outcomes can be outside of our control. We hold on to objects and rituals more and more tightly, under the mistaken belief that it will make us more secure. But eventually, we get strangled by our coping mechanism.”

“Are you going to make me throw out another tube of these?”

“As we’ve discussed, the solution is to increase our range of emotional function. Become more secure in our ability to withstand the slings and arrows of life. The first step in that journey is talking—and that’s why you’re here.”

Great recap there, honey.

Devina glanced at the clock. Shit, they still had thirty-five minutes left. Thirty-four. Thirty—

“I’m ugly,” she said again.

“That’s never come up in our sessions before.”

Well, she’d never failed in making a guy come before.

As Devina pushed her hair back, the thought of what her real stuff looked like made her want to weep outright—what locks she did have were stringy and attached to rotting flesh. And the rest of her was just as bad. Without this stolen suit of Sexy Bitch? Yeah, sure, she’d get a lot of attention walking through a hotel lobby or into a restaurant, but it’d be because people were assuming the zombie apocalypse had actually happened.

“I met up with an old lover.” Devina shook her head. “And not old as in geriatric—this man and I have history. Serious history.”

“You’ve never discussed your personal life.”

Well, when you were a demon fighting with the forces of good for dominion over the world—and you were seeking help from a human? You used a lot of euphemisms.

Another example of clothing something for palatability.

And actually, she had talked a lot about her and Jim: their struggles, their triumphs. All in the context of a made-up scenario about business, of course—but the therapist had a point: Devina had left a lot of the bump-and-grind out.

This didn’t concern her and Jim, however.

“He’s a force of nature, this former lover of mine.” She smoothed her Prabal Gurung skirt. “We’ve had an acrimonious course—you could say we see the world from completely different perspectives. But the attraction has always been very strong.”

“How long have you known him?”

Oh, God, centuries. “All my adult life. Our paths keep crossing. He called me today and wanted to see me—and I couldn’t say no. We ended up … becoming intimate.”

“And was that a satisfying experience for you?”

“No.” Devina dropped her head into her palms. “I am totally humiliated.”

She had never, in her immortal life, had a guy—

“Why? Devina?”

“He was … unable to perform.”

“Well, most men have that challenge on occasion. It’s not uncommon—”

“It’s never happened to me before.”

“So you’re blaming yourself.”

“No offense, but there wasn’t anyone else with him.” Devina rubbed her temples. “I tried for hours. It was so awful—and I know that he wanted to be with me. He urged me to keep going, and I did. But … nothing.”

In a fit of desperation, she’d ended up ditching her clothes and laying herself out on her table, taking care of herself in front of him. Most men orgasmed all over themselves when she did that, and Adrian’s eyes had never left her. And still…

“He never got hard.” For shit’s sake, she wished she could get those images out of her brain. “It was a nightmare.”

“And again, I say, it sounds to me as if you’re blaming yourself.”

“If I’d been more attractive, or if I’d only have—”

“Has it never occurred to you that there could be a medical reason for the issue?”

“There hasn’t been in the past.”