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And you thought your job was hell. . .
Annie Lou Riddle had a plan: Move to New York City. Break into the fashion industry. Work her way to the top. Nowhere in that scenario did she expect to accidentally sell her soul in exchange for a job at Hot! Magazine. Oops.
Demons, it seems, aren't big on letting mortals off the hook. Now Annie is stuck working as assistant/personal slave to Finola White--diva extraordinaire, and glamorous she-devil. Whatever Finola wants, she gets, and she wants Annie to match her up with Nick Rossi, the gorgeous detective investigating shady doings at Hot!
Frankly, Annie sees the appeal. Nick is effortlessly sexy, rugged, charming--and the one man Annie should definitely not be flirting with, or kissing, or. . . Oops. But some loves are too devilishly hot to resist. . .
Praise for the novels of Kathy Love
". . .a compelling concoction of dread, desire, and delight." --Erin McCarthy on What a Demon Wants
"Fangs for the Memories will make you laugh until milk comes out of your nose. No, really." --MaryJanice Davidson
widened with dismay, but then she stood. She posed beside the woman, looking like an elegant queen consenting to consort with a commoner. “Closer,” Tristan said, gesturing for them to move closer. Finola stiffened as the woman looped a meaty arm around her, but she managed a strained smile. “Wow.” The woman beamed, checking Tristan’s handiwork. “This is just amazing. Like I said, I get HOT! every month.” Finola returned to her seat and picked up her napkin. Nick half-expected her to wipe
heels. Stockings. Backless gowns. Spandex. Skinny jeans. And don’t even get me started on the grooming rituals.” Satan strode back and forth across the floor a few more times. Then he collapsed back into his cushiony chair. For a moment, the game distracted him again as he watched one of the teams race down the field for a last-minute goal. “Blast it!” he shouted, and his powerful voice reverberated so loudly through the cavern, it made even the ground shake. He gaped at the huge 82-inch flat
at eight.” “Then let’s all meet at seven-thirty,” Nick said, still grinning from ear to ear. Nick’s cell phone rang almost as soon as he left the Finola White Enterprises building, and he didn’t have to guess who the caller was. “Detective Nick Rossi,” he said in his usual greeting. “Why would you do that?” the voice he was expecting demanded—well, demanded in a hushed tone. “Do what?” he said innocently, rather enjoying the way Annie’s irritation made her voice breathy. He wondered if
when he wasn’t so out of his mind to be inside her, he would take his time. But right now, only one thing drove him. He rolled her onto the mattress, then made quick work of ridding her of her panties and bra. She lay among his rumpled blankets and sheets, her hair mostly free of its twist, tangled wantonly around her pretty face. Her rose-tipped breasts puckered and pouted, begging for his mouth on them. He didn’t deny them, ducking his head to taste first one, then the other. She arched her
her. “Annie? Just wait. What’s going on?” “I,” her breath was still reedy, “have to get home now.” He didn’t move his hand. “Is it Bobby?” She blinked at him as if she didn’t even know who Bobby was. Finally she shook her head. “No.” “Finola?” he asked. She nodded, this time slipping away from his hold and coming to her feet. “I have to go.” She didn’t wait for his response as she scurried to the bedroom as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. He rose from the sofa too, following her.