Chapter 4

For some reason, I'd thought he would simply whisk me away to a restaurant by the same precipitous eye-blink method he'd used earlier. Instead, he instructed me to wait for him at a side entrance of the house under a porte- cochère, which was something I'd read about but had never actually seen in real life. Then he pulled up in a massive hunk of impressively gleaming two-tone metal.

"What is that?" I asked, staring at the car. I'd never seen anything like it before in my life.

"A Bentley Mulsanne," he replied, opening the passenger door for me.

Well, damn. I was sure my car-obsessed father would have a fit if he could see me riding around in something like this. He drove an AMG-tuned Mercedes S-class and thought it was just about the pinnacle of automotive perfection, but this behemoth made my father's Mercedes look like a Yugo.

"Nice," I said, sliding carefully onto the diamond- upholstered leather seat. "Being the Devil must pay well."

"It has its perks." He shut the door after I seated myself; it closed with the sort of soft, solid thunk that only a very, very expensive car can make.

I sat there, taking in the scent of finely burnished leather upholstery, as he made his way back over to the driver's side and buckled himself in. Then I said, "So you do get around like a normal person." Pausing, I took in the opulent interior and added, "At least like a normal oil sheik or something."

He chuckled, then put the car in drive. The only reason I could tell we were moving was that I saw the manicured front yard slipping past us as he pulled out of the driveway. "Although people do tend to be notoriously unobservant, after a while, too much inexplicable appearing and disappearing can get one noticed." He leaned over and touched a knob on the dashboard, and the delicate sound of a string quartet began to play in the background. "Besides, I like to drive."

Who wouldn't, with a car like that? I thought that even being stuck in traffic on the 405 Freeway could be made bearable by sitting in a mobile Ritz like this mammoth piece of machinery. The gas mileage must suck, I thought, then, As if that makes a difference for anyone who can afford a car like this.

"I thought we'd go to The Little Door," he went on, pulling out of the exclusive subdivision where his home was located and onto Beverly Boulevard. "If that's all right with you."

It was more than a little all right. Although the restaurant wasn't that far from where I lived, it certainly wasn't the sort of place where I could afford to eat on a whim, and none of the guys I'd dated had the means — or the taste, I had to admit to take me someplace like that. "Sounds great," I managed.

He nodded, then pulled into the left lane so he could turn south on La Brea. Everything in his manner suggested that he'd done this a hundred times before, and maybe he had. Who knew how long he'd been loitering in the Los Angeles area, driving around in his luxo-mobile and observing the doings of lesser mortals?

That led me to wonder exactly what he was doing here and, more importantly, what on earth he wanted with me. I wasn't anyone special, that was for sure. The fate of the planet didn't rest on my shoulders; I wasn't an activist or a politician or anyone with any real influence. There were probably a hundred thousand other young women of my age and basic physical type in Southern California, so what had led him to hone in on me?

I shot a quick sideways glance at him as he expertly maneuvered the enormous car through the intersection just as the light turned all the way to red. One of the things that irritated me the most about Los Angeles was its complete lack of dedicated left-hand turn signals; you invariably had to wait until the last few seconds of the yellow, and then floor it and hope no one who was waiting for the green light in the other direction had a trigger foot. But the Bentley obviously had an engine to match its impressive sheet metal, and I barely felt the acceleration as the car turned south, heading toward the intersection with Third Street and the restaurant itself.

He didn't look like the Devil. Then again, who knew what the Devil was supposed to look like? No horns, no tail, no pitchfork here. Even though one part of my brain kept protesting this must be either an elaborate hoax or some sort of drug-induced hallucination, that interior voice was growing fainter and fainter. For one thing, I'd experienced those unbelievable jumps in scene, and there hadn't been any "lost moments" or breaks in continuity. One minute I was at The Grove, and the next I was standing in that flying saucer of a house in the Hollywood Hills. That didn't meet my approval, and bam! I was planted in the living room of a gracious Mediterranean-style mansion miles away.

So I decided to go with it. Okay, he was the Devil, or at least some sort of being with powers so advanced, they might as well be supernatural. He hadn't given me one word of explanation as to why he'd sought me out in particular. I knew he had to be after me for some reason, or else why would I recall seeing him at various points in my life? That if nothing else clinched it; the first time I'd seen him had been more than twenty years ago, and yet he still looked to be the same age, late thirties, maybe forty at the most. The best plastic surgeons on the planet couldn't accomplish such a dramatic preservation. Besides, people who'd had a lot of work done tended to have a particular look about them. I lived in Los Angeles, cosmetic procedure capital of the planet, and I'd seen more than my share of facelifts and Botox injections. No matter how good the plastic surgeon was, you generally could see some sign of the work that had been done if you knew where to look.

I didn't see any of those tells in this man's face, however. Oh, he was good-looking, no doubt about that. Not picture-perfect his nose was too long, his mouth on the thin side, and you could even quibble that his eyes might have been set a little too close together. He had a good set of laugh lines around those deep blue eyes, and his skin looked lightly browned from the sun. It didn't have that smooth, almost burnished look you get when you've

been dermabraded and injected to within an inch of your life.

Eternal youth, or at least eternal prime of life? It didn't exist, no matter what the cosmetics and pharmaceutical companies wanted you to believe. The man who sat next to me was the only person I'd ever seen who had achieved it... which meant he probably wasn't a man at all.

I shivered. He must have noticed, because he asked, "Are you cold? Do you want me to turn on the heater?"

Shaking my head, I replied, "No, I'm fine. Besides, we're almost there, aren't we?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." He pulled the car into the suicide lane and waited for an opening in traffic, then turned into the driveway to the restaurant's parking lot. A valet hurried over, looking a little wide-eyed. I supposed that even at an upscale place like The Little Door, they didn't see a lot of Bentleys.

The Devil tossed the keys to the valet as if he was handing over a Chevy, then came around the back of the car to help me out. I wasn't used to such gallantry; Danny invariably pulled his truck into a space, got out, and was halfway to our destination before checking to see whether I was following or not. A little awkwardly, I put my hand in the Devil's, wondering if I was going to notice a spark or an odd rush of heat. Nothing like that, though — his hand felt human enough, although warm compared to my cold fingers.

And then he let go of my hand and led me out of the parking lot and into the restaurant proper. It was an amazing space, hidden behind an unobtrusive set of doors that opened onto Third Street, with several different rooms, each decorated in its own individual style. Even on a Tuesday night the place was crowded, but no waiting for the Devil and his companion — we were whisked away almost immediately to a table off in a corner where we could be safely shielded from the noisier, more bustling parts of the building.

The hostess handed us our menus and departed, and I opened mine, forcing myself not to look at the prices.

"Wine?" the Devil asked me.

"Oh...sure," I said. I wasn't sure what wine would do on top of the Cosmo I'd hastily gulped down a few minutes earlier, but what the heck.

"I'm partial to reds, but that depends on what you're ordering — "

"I'm going to get the filet mignon," I said hastily before I lost my nerve. Normally, I would scan a menu and then pick one of the two least expensive entrées so I wouldn't be overburdening my date, but I didn't think that sort of discretion was necessary here.

"Excellent." He folded his menu shut; as if in answer, a waiter appeared from nowhere, notepad in hand. Without looking up, the Devil said, "A bottle of the Chateauneuf-de- Pape. I'll have the rib eye, and she'll have the filet mignon." He smiled slightly. "Medium rare, correct, Christa?"

I could only nod mutely.

"And rare for me," the Devil added.

"Very good." The waiter — who had to be an out-of-work actor, considering the perfection of his hair and teeth jotted a few things down on his pad. "I'll be back with your wine shortly."

"Thank you," my companion said. He handed the waiter his menu, and I did the same.

Then one of those awkward little silences fell, the type that inevitably cropped up on a first date after you'd gotten the business of ordering out of the way and weren't sure where to go next. Of course, was this really a first date, or a date at all? Calling something a first date seemed to imply there would be more to follow at some point, and that concept was a little too strange for me to deal with at such an early stage of the game.

We were saved from making conversation by the return of the waiter, who set a pair of oversized wine glasses on the table and then struggled a bit with the cork before finally extracting it intact. After this procedure, he had a look of triumph on his face that led me to wonder exactly how long he'd been working as a waiter.

But finally the wine was poured, and the Devil and I were left to sit there and look at one another. I didn't know what he saw in my face — I was just glad that I'd had the presence of mind to touch up my makeup before leaving the office that afternoon.

After clearing my throat, I asked, "So, did you have this all planned? Or do you just keep a standing reservation here in case you find some random female you want to take out to dinner?"

"Oh, I didn't have a reservation." He lifted his wine glass and held it under his nose for a few seconds, eyes half-shut as if he was concentrating on analyzing the bouquet or whatever it was that people tried to detect whethey sniffed at their wine before drinking it.

"But we walked right in — "

His eyes opened all the way then, and again I was startled by their blueness under the straight dark brows. "I have a way of opening doors."

"Apparently," I remarked, and lifted my own wine glass and took a sip without bothering to inhale it or breathe it first. I didn't know much about wine, except that I either liked it or I didn't. This particular one tasted interesting, with a strong earthy underlay to it that was unfamiliar to me. Then again, I didn't drink much French wine. The cheaper house pours were invariably from California.

Statements like the one he had just made didn't do much to put me at ease. If he was up to no good, you would have thought that he'd be doing everything in his power to conceal his true identity. Yet he'd told me he was the Devil the same way another guy might have told me he was a stockbroker or a lawyer. Maybe to him it was just a matter of degree.

"You still haven't told me what you want with me," I said, although I made sure to keep my voice fairly low. The people around us didn't seem to be paying much attention, but I still didn't want anyone overhearing something that would either land me in a rubber room or on the front page of the Enquirer with a headline screaming, "I Had a Date With the Devil!"

"I wanted you to have a good birthday," he replied. "You did seem to have been somewhat...abandoned."

Well, that was certainly true, although in Nina's case it certainly wasn't her fault. Danny, on the other hand....

Like he would have taken you anyplace half this nice, my mind scoffed at me. You would've been lucky to get taken to California Pizza Kitchen, so shut up already.

"How altruistic of you," I remarked. "You certainly aren't living up to your reputation. Since when is the Devil moonlighting as the Birthday Fairy?"

Once again, he laughed, and, unlike me, he didn't bother to keep his voice down. The woman at the next table, who looked as if she probably hadn't eaten a carb in five years, gave us an irritated glance. I groaned inwardly. Great. All I needed was for her to start eavesdropping....

But he apparently noticed my discomfort and quieted down quickly enough. After sipping at his wine once more, he said, "Reputations are very rarely built on fact, I find."

"So you've just been misunderstood and misrepresented all these years, is that it?"

"Something like that."

I lifted a skeptical eyebrow at him but was prevented from further comment by the arrival of our salads. After assuring the waiter that no, I didn't want any pepper, I waited a few seconds, then said, "So I shouldn't find anything at all out of the ordinary about this?"

"No, of course you should. I just wanted to reassure you that I certainly don't mean you any harm."

I let his comment settle in for a few seconds. The funny thing was, I really didn't feel any sort of threat coming from him. I didn't pretend to have supernatural instincts about people or anything like that, but you'd think the Devil would give off some fairly strong evil vibes, and I wasn't getting anything. Pathetic as it might seem, so far this was the best date I'd been on in months. Years, even.

I lifted my fork and ate a few mouthfuls of salad before saying, "Somehow I get the feeling you're not going to really tell me why you're here."

"And why must I necessarily have ulterior motives?"

"Everyone has ulterior motives," I replied. "Sometimes it doesn't matter, because you both have the same ulterior motives. Maybe I just agreed to have dinner with you because I didn't want to spend the night alone."

"A good enough reason for me," he agreed. "More wine?"

I nodded, then waited as he poured a few more inches of the Chateauneuf-de-Pape into my glass. He had nice hands, I noticed, with long, strong fingers. I suddenly recalled the feel of his hand on mine. This time, though I was able to repress a shiver. It would have been a lot easier if he hadn't been so damn good-looking.

Or was he? Maybe he was doing something to my mind that made me think he looked like an attractive man, and underneath he was all horns and tail and huge pointy teeth....

I lifted my wine glass and helped myself to a steadying drink. He watched me, and I saw him frown slightly.

"You look troubled."

Great. So much for my poker face. I met his gaze squarely and said, "Is that" — and I pointed toward him — "really you? Sorry, but you don't look much like who you say you are."

"So that's what's bothering you?"

"Partly."

"This is how I choose to manifest myself." He leaned

forward, smiling slightly. "I assure you, however, that if you're worried I'm going to turn into some kind of horrific lizard creature at the stroke of midnight, it won't happen."

I got the impression he was teasing me, but I thought mine was a valid concern. It was sort of difficult to discard an entire lifetime's worth of preconceptions in just one evening. "All right," I sighed. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it."

"Excellent idea."

At that moment, our entrées arrived, and we spent a few moments eating in silence. He'd managed to neatly dodge my questions about his presence here, or why he would have singled me out in particular. The millennium was long gone, as well as the significant date of June 6, 2006, so if he'd been angling for some sort of Rosemary's Baby or End of Days action with me as the mother of the Antichrist, he'd sort of missed the boat. That thought reminded me of the time I'd watched End of Days with Nina, and how she'd remarked that if the Devil really did look like Gabriel Byrne, she sure as hell wouldn't be running away from him...more like, right into his arms. At the time, I'd been forced to agree.

The man who faced me now was certainly just as attractive, if in a different way. Realizing that I seemed to actually be enjoying myself as I sat there with him worried me a little. Okay, it worried me a lot. I was beginning to wonder whether some freak-out circuit in my brain had been disconnected. Otherwise, shouldn't I have been putting on my running shoes and getting the heck out of there?

My friend Micaela, who was naturally jaded and had become even more so after working in the entertainment industry for the past five years, once told me I was way too trusting of people. "Expect the worst, and you won't be disappointed," she'd remarked. Then again, she hadn't been on a real date in almost two years.

So was the fact that I hadn't yet gone running off screaming into the night evidence that I really did tend to think the best of people, sometimes to my detriment? Or was it something more?

Even without the whole supernatural component, the man who sat across the table calmly eating rib eye and potato-leek gratin would have fascinated me. Once you got beyond the good looks, there was something oddly charming about him. And he'd certainly acted like a gentleman so far.

Whoa, there's some rationalization, I told myself. It's easy to play at being the nice guy when you have the powers of the universe at your command.

"So do you know everything about me?" I asked, hoping I sounded casual. "I mean, powers of heaven and hell and all that?"

"No," he replied. "I know no more of you than what anyone else observing you might have seen. Well, that, and what others know and think about you. But you, the real you" — and he tapped a finger against his temple as if to indicate one's mind or thoughts — "I don't know any more about that than anyone else."

"Ah," I said. "Let me guess. The rules?"

"Precisely." His eyes met mine then, and I made myself return his gaze for a moment before I looked down. I hadn't been expecting to see such approval.

Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I hoped the dim lighting in the restaurant hid my blush. It would have been so easy to let myself fall prey to his charm, and I knew I couldn't do that. Not until I knew what he was really up to.

"Well, that's a relief," I said lightly. "No girl likes to have all her mystery taken away."

"God forbid," he said.

"Did He?" I asked, and this time the Devil's laugh sounded a little forced.

"How's your filet mignon?" he returned, and I knew I had scored a point.

The conversation wandered to commonplaces after that — for some reason he wanted to know about my job, about how I liked living in Los Angeles — all the typical things a man might ask on a first date. He continued to expertly steer the conversation away from anything involving him, and I let him do that for the time being. It was fairly obvious he didn't look on this evening as a one-time affair, and for now I was willing to go along with that. If nothing else, trying to discover his real purpose in seeking me out sounded like a challenge.

After dinner, he began to guide the Bentley toward my apartment, and I protested that we had to go back to The Grove so I could retrieve my car from the parking structure. He shook his head and said, "Your car is already safely tucked away in the garage at your home."

"It — what?" I shifted in my seat so I could see his profile. "How could you do that?"

"The same way I do everything else." The laugh lines at the corner of the one eye I could see crinkled slightly in amusement. "It would have been tedious to have to retrieve your vehicle, so I...moved it."

Damn. Nice trick to have, especially in L.A. I was very lucky to even have the garage; there were more apartments than garages in my complex, and getting one involved seniority in the building. Well, technically, that was how it was supposed to work. But one came vacant at the same time the apartment I occupied did, and although Lucille downstairs was next in line to get the garage, Rudy, the apartment manager, had been waging guerrilla warfare with her over her many cats even though the building was supposed to be pet-free. So his revenge was giving me the garage. I needed it more, anyway; my Mercedes deserved the protection a lot more than her ancient Taurus, which looked as if it should have been recalled at least a decade ago. At any rate, after the Devil parked the Bentley at the curb in front of the building, I had to go around to the back to make sure my car really was safely inside the garage. Sure enough, after I had undone the padlock and lifted the door, I saw the Mercedes gleaming inside.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "And mildly freaked. But I suppose I'll get over it."

"I hope so."

My apartment was on the second floor, and he followed me up the stairs and waited as I fumbled in my purse for my keys. I had to remove the Victoria's Secret shopping bag and tuck it under one arm before my fingers finally found the key ring at the bottom of my purse.

Then I took a breath, looked up at him, and said, "By the way, I don't kiss on the first date."

"Very old-fashioned of you."

"Guess that's the Irvine girl in me," I replied.

He smiled, but I could see his glance lingering on my

lips. "Good night, then, Christa."

"Good night." I faced the door and inserted the key in the lock. It turned, and I had one foot inside when I heard him say,

"By the way — "

I looked over my shoulder. "What?"

For some reason, he was staring at the Victoria's Secret

shopping bag I still had clenched under one arm. "Red's my favorite color."

And with that he strolled off down the staircase. I could hear him whistling as he descended the steps and made his way to his car.

I shut the door behind me, then leaned my head against it, heart pounding.

Damn....