Devils contract, p.1
Devil's Contract, page 1
Devil’s Contract
Alta Hensley
Livia Grant
Contents
Devil’s Contract Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dirty Ledger Preview
Bonus Scene #1
Bonus Scene #2
Bonus Scene #3
About Alta Hensley
Also by Alta Hensley
About Livia Grant
Also by Livia Grant
©2022 by Black Collar Press, Alta Hensley, & Livia Grant
All rights reserved.
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No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher and authors.
Devil’s Contract
Book One ~ Dark Pen Series
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by Alta Hensley & Livia Grant
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Published by Black Collar Press
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EBook ISBN: 978-1-947559-68-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-947559-69-1
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Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design
https://www.derangeddoctordesign.com
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Huge thanks to our editor, Jennifer Bene
Cover Model: Andrew Biernatt
Photography: Wander Book Club Photography
https://www.wanderbookclub.com/andrew-biernat
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Devil’s Contract Blurb
Dark Pen Series Book One
By
Alta Hensley & Livia Grant
She’ll regret the day she turned me into her enemy.
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She’s the princess of The Whitney, the premier hotel in New York City.
Her empire is like a fairytale. But there is no happily ever after in this story. For there are consequences for breaking a decade old contract sealed with blood, and now she must pay the price. Because of my power, connections, and our past, the Manhattan royalty has no choice but to turn to me for help.
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The villain in the story.
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Dangerous. Vengeful. Possessive. I’m a man to be feared in the elite underground. I’m also the only person who can save her legacy.
Locked in my clutches, she must play my wicked game of revenge.
She’ll have no choice but to fall to her knees, beg, and pull out her dark pen to sign a contract with the Devil.
Chapter One
Katja
“Welcome to the Met, Mr. & Mrs. Miller. You’ll be seated at table nine this evening.”
I give Tristan the side-eye before responding.
“That’s Mr. Miller and Ms. Belov,” I inform the flustered organizer tasked with checking in the fashionable elite to the biggest event of the year.
The panic on the chick’s face is comical. It’s unlike Anna to put such an inexperienced girl out front in one of the most important jobs at the gala.
“Em… okay…,” she says, momentarily dazzled by Tristan’s charming smile.
Of course, he’s grinning, enjoying the entertainment.
“Mr. Miller is both my husband and my guest, not the other way around.” Realizing the girl has absolutely no clue whatsoever, I finally give her my name. “Katja Belov, owner of The Whitney, my hotel, and sponsor of the entirety of table nine.”
If I wasn’t so excited to get inside, I’d laugh at the shock plastered all over her face as she sputters apologies for not recognizing me.
Stuck waiting, I notice the newbie’s hands shaking as she frantically taps and swipes the tablet.
Christ, I can find information in my handwritten notebook faster than this Gen-Z girl can on an iPad.
“Ah yes, I see it here. I’m sorry for the mix-up.”
I wave to Tristan to make himself useful by carrying the gift bags she is foisting in our direction as I sail past her.
“Mrs. Miller… em… Ms. Belov… You can’t go in just yet. We have to leave space between—”
I turn, cutting her off mid-sentence.
“Sweetie, I’ll make it easier for you. I’ve been attending The Gala for more than enough years to know how this works.”
Turning back to the gauntlet in front of me, I put on my best it’s showtime smile for the high-powered cameras that start flashing the minute we step out of the arrivals tent.
Hundreds of photographers and journalists line the mammoth staircase, jockeying for photographs of A-list celebrities in their elaborate costumes. I don’t play the game of who can wear the most outrageous gown, opting for classic opulence instead, which is more on brand for me.
“Ms. Belov! Over here!” a seasoned paparazzo at the bottom of the steps shouts. “Who are you wearing?”
“Gucci, and my jewels are Tiffany,” I purr loud enough to be heard over the clicking of the cameras. I may not be a celebrity in Hollywood, but here in New York City I’m fucking royalty and I have the gown and jewels to prove it.
Words like gorgeous, stunning, and beautiful make it to my ears as I slowly climb the stairs, stopping often to pose here and spin there. I may have never walked the runway, but my father made sure I was trained nonetheless, understanding the position our family held in NYC society.
For his part, Tristan plays his role perfectly. More handsome than the Academy Award-winning actor we’re following up the steps, the photographers clamor for his picture every bit as much as mine. Individually, we take beautiful photos, but together… it’s the main reason we’re still married. I’m not vain, it’s simply a fact.
We’re a stunning couple… at least aesthetically.
Behind the curtain of marriage, not so much.
But I’m not going to think about that tonight. I have too many people to rub elbows with to waste time contemplating how I’ve somehow ended up in a marriage of convenience in the twenty-first century.
We aren’t ten feet inside the Great Hall when we’re greeted by the first of hundreds of roaming servers peddling expensive champagne. Ever the gentleman, at least in public, Tristan grabs two flutes, offering one to me while holding out his bent arm for me.
Neither of us say it out loud, but I know we both think ‘it’s go time’ as we step into the throng of attendees. Unlike the attention hungry celebrities, I time my arrival perfectly, just shy of fashionably late. Not only does it ensure I’m not sandwiched between publicity hogs, but more importantly, it gives me the advantage of deciding who I want to stop and acknowledge as we move deeper into the room toward table nine.
“Katja, darling. It’s been ages,” the forty-something princess of a tiny micro-country in Eastern Europe says, greeting me with air-kisses on my cheeks.
“Leizel, I didn’t expect to see you here.” I hesitate before realizing why. “I didn’t see your name on The Whitney’s VIP list.”
Our parents had been close acquaintances and her family had stayed at my hotel dozens of times over the decades. Had one of my employees missed including my friend on my daily report of VIPs?
“You know Jonathon. He insists we stay at the Waldorf.”
“Oh, where is Jonathon? I’d love to say hello,” I say, glancing around for her aging husband and finding a young stud just over her shoulder instead. It only takes me a second to put the pieces together.
Our eyes meet and my friend winks, confirming my suspicions.
Taking a longer look at the muscle-bound eye candy standing bored behind her, I return to her gaze. Leaning closer, I say softly, “He looks yummy, at least with that tuxedo on. Hopefully, he’s even better with it off.”
It’s a risqué comment for polite society, but since I specialize in keeping the well-hidden secrets of the rich and famous, it’s right in my wheelhouse.
Leizel doesn’t disappoint, leaning in to whisper back, “Even better,” with a sly smile on her lips.
“Then I’m happy you’re staying at the Waldorf. I wouldn’t want your neighbors calling security for noise complaints,” I shoot back, my polite smile never wavering.
Her pale face blushes and we both giggle like teenagers at a slumber party before I remember where I am. We both do our best to regain our elegant composure before she starts to move away into the crowd.
“Be sure to pass my love on to Jonathon,” I say as she departs with a little wave. I’m exceedingly pleased with myself for uncovering a juicy secret within minutes of my arrival.
We aren’t ten feet away before Tristan says, “You’re having entirely too much fun.”
It’s annoying that he knows me well enough to parrot what I’m thinking.
“You say it like it’s a game,” I say under my breath.
“Isn’t it? And baby, you play the secret game better than anyone I know.”
My heart lurches, only making me more annoyed, this time at myself. He hasn’t used a term of endearment directed my way in months.
He must be up to something.
But I don’t have time to think about Tristan. Not when I’m walking the crowd, shaking hands with politicians, hugging celebrities, kissing fashion designers, and…
What the hell is he doing here?
I’m grateful when Tristan jumps in to carry the conversation with the small group of musicians we are chatting with, giving me a moment to calm my pulse at seeing the one man in the city I have no desire to see. If this was some fucked-up version of the game ‘one of these things doesn’t belong,’ I know exactly who I’d name the winner. His back is to me, but I know that silhouette anywhere.
As if Dex feels my displeasure from across the room, he spins around, almost catching me glaring at him. Just in the nick of time I glance away, feigning interest in Lady Gaga’s outrageous gown. I don’t dare look back again, and I don’t need to anyway. I know exactly what I’d see.
An impostor—hard masculine perfection on the outside, but a molten pool of evil brewing on the inside.
Yet as I sneak another peek his way, I begrudgingly acknowledge, at least to myself, he is a master at playing the role of respectable gentleman in public. His stylish tuxedo may be a clever disguise, but I never fall for it. I need to push memories of the private Dex I’ve known my entire life out of my mind. He’s already taken up too much room in my brain over the years and now that I’ve successfully ejected him and everything he stands for from my life, I refuse to give him even one more minute of myself.
Time ticks by as Tristan and I continue to work the room—laughing and smiling while making mental notes I know we’ll have fun chatting about over a glass of wine at home later. I run through the list in my head, making sure I won’t forget important details when I get back to my notebook.
First, the recently separated actress hasn’t announced it yet, but I notice she’s sneaking nonalcoholic beverages disguised in champagne flutes.
She’s pregnant.
I wonder if the baby-daddy is here tonight? I glance around nonchalantly, but don’t see any possible suspects waiting for her.
Even more salacious is the famously married host of the number one national news program excusing himself from our small group to head to the restroom with his best friend. As his wife prattles on, I have the perfect vantage point to see the men walk past the restroom, letting themselves into an unlocked closet just beyond. I stay facing that direction until they come out ten minutes later, flushed and sweaty.
Oh, my goodness, they’re on the down-low.
We aren’t but a few feet away when Tristan leans in to whisper, “Did you see what I saw?”
I keep my public smile plastered on my face as I acknowledge, “I did. That was a pretty bold move.”
“I’ll say,” he agrees before turning my direction. “I know you have a few other people you want to talk with before dinner. Would you like me to head to our table to be there to welcome our guests?”
We may not have a traditional marriage, but on nights like tonight I’m reminded why I’d married Tristan Miller. Unlike the devil across the room, the husband on my arm was an asset with the Manhattan elite.
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. I’ll meet you at the table in about ten.”
After a small peck of a kiss on my cheek, Tristan heads in the direction of the dinner tables. I move deeper into the guests still congregating, shaking hands, and exchanging small talk.
By the time I make it across the venue to table nine, several of the guests I invited to join my table are already seated, chatting away. The one person I expect to be seated, however, is nowhere to be seen.
I push down my annoyance that Tristan wasn’t there talking with my guests. I’m unwilling to give anyone else in attendance a sniff of my own dirty laundry. As far as the world is concerned, I landed America’s most eligible bachelor when I married the real estate mogul and financier.
I glance around as nonchalantly as I can, careful to make eye contact with enough people that anyone observing would assume I’m just scanning the event for acquaintances. It’s hard to maintain the ruse, however, when I spot my other half in the corner of the room, behind the bar—his hand resting intimately on the hip of his newest mistress as he leans in to whisper something against the shell of her ear. Even from a distance, I can see her deep blush.
Tears sting my eyes, not because he dared to cheat on me, I’d grown used to that long ago.
But does he have to flaunt it in my face here? He’d promised not to embarrass me tonight. I’m not a religious person, but I take the time to say a silent prayer that no one will notice my shameful secret.
“Is that number eight or nine?” I hear behind me.
God has a sick sense of humor.
The gravelly, masculine voice is too close and unbearably smug.
When I don’t respond, Dex has the balls to shift forward until I can feel the front of his tuxedo brushing against my bare back. Even if he’d stayed silent, I would have known it was Dex from his trademark scent. The fragrance is about the only thing that remains constant between the public philanthropic guise and the private criminal version of the same man.
I fight to contain the full-body shiver that always happens when he’s close, unwilling to let him see that he can still affect me. Taking a deep breath, I work to keep my pulse from racing as it always does when I go head-to-head with my ex-business partner.
It isn’t until I feel his hand on my hip that I spin around, confronting him with my special brand of polished poison I try not to unleash in public. “How dare you invade my space. It’s bad enough they let men like you attend in the first place, but I shouldn’t be forced to breathe the same air as you.”
“I see you’re still on your high and mighty horse, Katja. Too bad. It’s gonna hurt like hell when you fall from way up there.”
Chapter Two
Dex
In a room full of beautiful people, she shouldn’t stand out above them all… but she does. Katja Belov is by far the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Not that I’d tell her that.
She already has a big enough head. The power she holds by owning The Whitney, her reputation, and the way she has her finger on the pulse of New York City, puts her right up there with the most feared and respected men and women I associate with daily. Though she doesn’t walk among the underground and criminal worlds like I do—disappointingly squeaky clean—she still has the notoriety of being a woman not to mess with.
And she knows it.
I try my best not to get mesmerized by the green in her eyes or notice the way her plump mouth glimmers from her lip gloss under the chandelier light. The annoyance painted on her face, with that pert nose raised slightly, causes my dick to twitch. What I wouldn’t pay to have the opportunity to tame her inner brat. I clench my fist by my side to control the urge to run my fingers through her dark locks, take hold, and pull her head back so I can taste her neck by force.
