Jeffrey Deveraux stood by the fireplace, hands in the pockets of a pin-striped suit she guessed had been tailored to his tall frame. Marguerite had been a bare five feet tall. It was Jeffrey who'd given Elena her height. He was six feet four without shoes-not that her father was ever anything less than perfectly put together.
Pale gray eyes met hers with the cold watchfulness of a hawk or a wolf. His face was all sharp lines and angles, his hair brushed back from a severe widow's peak. Most men would've had gray in their hair by now. Jeffrey had gone straight from aristocratic gold to pure white. It suited him, throwing his features into sharper relief.
"Elieanora." He finished polishing his spectacles and slid them back on, the thin rectangular frames as effective as ten-inch-thick walls.
"Jeffrey."
His mouth tightened. "Don't be childish. I'm your father."
She shrugged, shifting into an unconsciously aggressive posture. "You wanted me. Here I am." The words came out angry. Ten years of independence and the second she entered her father's presence, she reverted to teenager who'd spent a lifetime begging for his love and been kicked in the guts for her efforts.
"I'm disappointed," he said, unmoved. "I'd hoped you'd picked up some social graces from the company you've been keeping."
She frowned. "My company is the same as always. You'll have seen Sara, the Guild Director, at various events, and Ransom-"
"What your hunter"-said with a grimace of distaste-"friends do is of no interest to me."
"I didn't think so." Why the fuck had she come to heel at his command? Her only excuse was shock. "So why did you bring them up?"
"I was referring to the angels."
She blinked, then wondered why she was surprised. Jeffrey had a finger in every major pie in the city, not all of them strictly legal. Though of course, he'd flay her alive if she dared imply he was anything other than lily-white. "You'd be surprised at what they consider acceptable." Raphael's pitiless justice, Michaela's hungry sexuality, Uram's butchery, none of it would fit with her father's perception of the angels.
He waved off her words as if they didn't matter. "I need to talk to you about your inheritance."
Elena's fist clenched. "You mean the trust my mother set up for me." She could've starved on the streets and Jeffrey wouldn't have given a damn.
Skin pulled taut over Jeffrey's cheekbones. "I suppose genetics do tell."
She was one step away from calling him a bastard but ironically, it was her mother's voice that held her back. Marguerite had brought her up to respect her father. Elena couldn't do that, but she could respect her mother's memory. "Thank God," she said, letting him take the insult as he would.
Swiveling, Jeffrey walked to the desk set below the windows on the other side of the room, his steps silent on the deep claret of the Persian carpet. "The trust matured on your twenty-fifth birthday."
"A bit late, aren't you?"
He picked up an envelope. "A letter was sent to you by the solicitors."
Elena recalled throwing the unopened piece of mail in the trash. She'd figured it for yet another attempt at coercing her into selling out the shares she'd inherited in the family firm-through her paternal grandfather, a man who'd actually seemed to love her. "They did a real knock-up job of following up."
"Don't try to pass off your own laziness on others." Walking back, he shoved the envelope into her hand. "The money's been deposited in an interest-bearing account under your name. The details are all there."
She didn't look down. "Why the personal touch?"
Pale gray eyes narrowed behind the spectacles. "Distasteful as I find your choice of occupation-"
"It's not a choice," she said coldly. "Remember?"
Silence that warned her to never again bring up that bloody day.
"As I was saying, regretful as your profession is, it does bring you into contact with some powerful people."
Her stomach soured. What the hell had she expected? She knew she meant nothing to her father. Still she'd come. Instead of lashing out as she might've done as a teenager, she kept her mouth shut, wanting to know exactly what it was he expected of her.
"You're in a position to help the family." A steely-eyed gaze. "Something you've never cared to do."
Her hand clenched on the envelope. "I'm only a hunter," she said, turning his words back on him. "What makes you think they treat me any better than you do?"
He didn't flinch. "I've been told you're spending considerable time with Raphael, that he may be open to suggestions that come from you."
She told herself he wasn't implying what she thought he was implying. Shaking inside, she met his eyes. "You'd whore out your own daughter?"
No change in his expression. "No. But if she's already doing it herself, I see no reason not to take advantage."
She felt herself go sheet white. Without a word, she turned, opened the door, and walked out. It slammed shut behind her. A second later, she heard something smash, the discordant splintering of crystal against brick. She halted, stunned at the thought that she'd evoked any kind of a response from the always controlled Jeffrey Deveraux.
"Ms. Deveraux?" Geraldine came running around the corner. "I heard . . ." Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
"I'd suggest you make yourself scarce for the next little while," Elena said, snapping out of her frozen state and heading toward the door. Jeffrey had probably lost it because she'd dared defy him, unlike the rest of his band of sycophants. It had had nothing to do with the fact that he'd called his daughter a whore to her face. "And, Gerry"-she turned at the door-"don't ever let him find out."
The assistant gave a jerky nod.
Elena had never been so grateful to be out in the noise of the city as she was that day. Not giving the door a backward look, she walked down the steps and away from the man who'd contributed his sperm to her creation. Her hand clenched again and she remembered the envelope. Forcing herself to calm down enough that she could think, she slit it open and pulled out the letter. This was her mother's legacy to her and she refused to let Jeffrey cheapen it.
The amount of money was small in the scheme of things-Marguerite's estate had been split equally between her two living daughters, and consisted of the money she'd made from the sale of her one-of-a-kind quilts. She'd never needed to use any of it because Jeffrey had insisted on giving her a huge allowance.
Masculine laughter, strong hands throwing her into the air.
Elena staggered under the impact of the memory, then brushed it aside-it was nothing more than wishful thinking. Her father had always been a stern disciplinarian who didn't know how to forgive. But, she was forced to admit, he had felt something for his Parisian wife-there had been that huge allowance, gifts of jewels on every occasion. Where had all those treasures gone? To Beth?
Elena didn't particularly care about their monetary value, but she would've liked to have just one thing that had once belonged to her mother. All she knew was that she'd come home one summer from boarding school and found every trace of Marguerite, Mirabelle, and Ariel gone from the house-including the quilt Elena had treasured since her fifth birthday. It was as if she'd imagined her mother, her older sisters.
Someone smashed into her shoulder. "Hey, lady! Get out of the fucking way!" The lanky student turned to give her the finger.
She returned the gesture automatically, glad he'd broken her paralysis. A quick glance at her watch confirmed she still had some breathing room. Deciding to take care of things then and there, she made her way to the bank branch specified in the letter. Luckily, it was fairly close. She'd completed the paperwork and was rising to leave when the bank manager said, "Would you like to see the contents of the safe-deposit box, Ms. Deveraux?"
She stared into his puffy face, the probable result of too much good food and not enough exercise. "A safe-deposit box?"
He nodded, straightening his tie. "Yes."
"Don't I need a key and"-she frowned-"my signature on the access card?" She knew that only because she'd had to look it up during a particularly complicated hunt.
"Normally, yes." He straightened his tie for the second time. "Yours is a somewhat unusual situation."
Translation: her father had pulled any number of strings for God alone knew what reasons of his own. "All right."
Five minutes later, she'd had her signature witnessed and was handed a key. "If you'll follow me to the vault-we use a dual-step system here. I have the key to the vault; you have the one to the box itself." The bank manager turned and led her through the hushed confines of the solid old building and through to the back.
The safe-deposit boxes were hidden behind several electronic doors that appeared incongruous in the belly of the historic structure.
Elena.
She knew she hadn't imagined that dark whisper in her head. "Get out."
The man she was following gave her a startled look over his shoulder. She pretended to be engrossed in her nails.
You're late.
Narrowing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and wondered if it was worth the headache to keep him out of her head.
A car will meet you when you exit the bank.
She halted, stared at the back of the manager's jacket, able to smell his fear. "Who exactly did you call a few minutes ago?"
When he glanced at her, his eyes were panicked, a rabbit's. "No one, Ms. Deveraux."
She gave him a cold smile that made it clear he'd pissed her off well and good. "Show me the box."
Clearly surprised by the reprieve, he did as ordered. She waited until he'd placed the long, metal box on a viewing table before waving him off. He was nothing, an ant in Raphael's army. Alone, she stared at the opposite wall. "Raphael?"
Nothing.
Lips pressed tightly together, she unlocked the box and took off the lid, expecting . . . she didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't what she found. Jewelry boxes, letters bound with ribbon, photos, a receipt for a small storage locker. On top of it all was a black leather notebook, the edges embossed gold. She reached out her finger, touched, then drew back and slammed the box closed. She couldn't do this. Not today. Calling the bank manager back after she'd relocked it, she had him return the box to its place in the vault. "How long has this been here?"
He glanced at the file in his hand. "It looks like it was opened almost fifteen years ago."
She grabbed the file before he could stop her, staring at the signature on the bottom of the first page.
Jeffrey Parker Deveraux.
Fifteen years ago. The summer he'd wiped her mother and older sisters from the face of the earth. Except this box told another story. Damn him! Shoving the papers back at the manager, she strode out through the moneyed opulence of the bank and toward heavy glass doors a security guard reached out to open. "Thanks."
His smile turned into shock an instant later. Elena followed the direction of his gaze to find an amazingly beautiful man with blue wings leaning nonchalantly against a lamppost directly outside. The stream of traffic had disappeared from this side of the street, but the other side was so full, it was as if the entire population of New York had decided to walk by.
She stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Illium."
"At your service." He waved his hand at the low-slung Ferrari behind him. It was fire-engine red. Of course.
She raised an eyebrow. "How do you fit the wings inside?"
"Alas, I can only watch." He threw her the keys.
Catching them reflexively, she scowled. "Whose million-dollar car is that and what did he do to you?"
"Dmitri's. And just because."
It almost made her laugh and that, she couldn't have predicted. "The map?"
His eyes-a vivid, shimmering gold, startling against black hair dipped in blue-shifted to the car. "In the glove box."
Not that she wouldn't enjoy needling Dmitri by taking his prized possession out for a run, but . . . "I need a vehicle that won't stand out."
"There's an underground garage two blocks east. Pull into it and switch." He stepped away from the post, flared out his wings.
"Showing off?"
"Oui, oui." A smile full of pure male charm.
"Is the hair real?"
A nod. "So are the eyes. In case you were wondering." Another teasing smile.
She saw a single feather drift to the curb. "You'll cause a riot if you don't pick that up."
He followed her gaze. "I'll take it and drop it from the sky. Someone will find magic."
Snorting, but oddly touched by the idea, she unlocked the car and got in. Across the street, camera phones continued to snap at insane speed. She rolled her eyes. "Fly off before they mug you."
"I may look pretty, Elena, but I'm rather dangerous." The finest hint of a British accent whispered through.
"That," she said, "I never doubted." Starting the engine, she pulled out and away, aware of him taking off behind her. He might be dangerous but he was no archangel. And what the hell had Raphael been thinking, sending her such a-
He'd known, she realized.
He'd known why Jeffrey had summoned her, why he'd finally deigned to speak to a daughter he considered worse than the lowest street trash.
Not only had he known, he'd accurately predicted her reaction.
And he'd provided her with the most perfect revenge possible. She started to grin. Jeffrey Deveraux's unwanted daughter was considered important enough for an angelic escort so flamboyant, she'd be surprised if there was anyone in the state who hadn't already heard about it.
Her phone rang on cue.
She was at a stoplight, so she answered. "Sara, you have big ears."
"And you're keeping company with what I hear is an angel straight out of wet-dream territory."
"They're all good-looking." But that wasn't enough. Not for her.
"But most don't have wings of blue touched with silver."
"TV?"
"Camera-phone images. Don't usually see angels walking the streets." A whispered sigh. "I've had reports of this one being in the city, but no close-up pictures till now. He's some kind of pretty. I could just take a bite out of that firm-"
Elena started laughing. "Down, girl, you're married, remember?"
"Mmm, talk about taking a bite out of something. Deacon-"
"Too-much-info alert!" The light changed. "I'll call you back in a few minutes."
She was about to turn into the garage when a blue feather fluttered into her lap. Her lips twitched but it was too late to glance up by then. Nosing the car into the darkness of the garage, she brought it to a halt near the still figure of the vampire who'd driven her to Raphael's. He was wearing sunglasses in spite of the underground gloom. She supposed if she had eyes like his, she would, too.
Getting out, she undid her ponytail and quickly braided Illium's feather into her hair just above her ear. "If Bluebell isn't careful," the vamp murmured, "he'll lose his feathers all over again."
Ponytail redone, she retrieved the map and nodded at the old-model sedan behind him. "Keys?" She threw him the ones for the Ferrari.
"In the ignition." Sliding the keys into a pocket, he straightened from his leaning position against the passenger-side door. "Raphael wants you to check in every ten minutes."
"Tell the boss I'll call him when I have something to report, Snakey."
He pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head, giving her the full impact of those eerie eyes. "I prefer Venom."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not serious."
"It's better than a pansy-assed name like Illium. What the hell does that mean anyway?" A sharp smile that flashed fang.
Deliberate, very deliberate, she thought. Despite his flawlessly modern speech, Venom was far too old to make mistakes. "Are you?"
"What?"
"Venomous?"
Another savage smile. He touched the tip of one fang with his tongue and when he drew it away, she saw a pearl of golden liquid. "Try me and see."
"Maybe later, after I've survived Michaela."
He laughed, a rich masculine sound that caused a woman stepping off the elevator at the other end of the garage to drop her purse and stare openmouthed. Venom didn't seem to notice, his eyes fixed on Elena. Reaching up, he slid the sunglasses back over his eyes. "No one survives the High Priestess of Byzantium."
Goose bumps crawled over her flesh at the ancience implied by that title. Not responding, she opened the door to the sedan and got in-after cranking down all four windows. As she drove away, she saw Venom head for the woman by the elevator.