Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
She calls to the demons inside him and there's no keeping them away . . .
Being a siren, Naomi has attracted attention all her life, but when working as a ghost artist, she can at least maintain some anonymity. She's never felt anything pull at her inner demon, until a certain crime boss locks eyes with her. He watches her like he's hunting her, and it's only a matter of time till he catches her . . .
Luka, leader of an underground demonic crime syndicate, is known for running a tight ship. He lives by a twisted code that can change by the minute. So, when danger threatens the women he loves, there's no stopping his inner demons. He's waited and bided his time, and now that he's finally got her, he'll do anything to keep her.
When foes creep up on them, Luka and Naomi will do whatever it takes to keep each other safe, even if it means unleashing the demons that live within them
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Turning away from the canvas propped up against the breakroom wall, Tobe smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “It’s amazing. Moody. Striking. An absolutely perfect replica. Take a fucking bow.”
Naomi Chamberlain felt her lips curve up. “I already did. Twice.” She shrugged at the three imps in front of her, adding, “I’m humble that way.”
Chugging down more of her coffee, she cast the landscape painting a quick look. The artist of the original was on the level of Monet and Picasso, but Naomi had always had a knack for re-creating any drawing or painting she laid eyes on—even as a child.
“No art appraiser would ever guess that this wasn’t an original,” Ciaran declared. “Not that any will ever see it. This is for a client’s personal collection.”
“I don’t know why he collects fakes,” said Lachlan, scratching at his salt-and-pepper hair. “Most people hire us to steal originals.”
“He has no genuine art in his collection, only fakes,” Tobe told the older imp. “He keeps it all in a vault in his basement.”
Alarm bells going off in her head, Naomi tipped it to the side. “And how would you know?”
Lachlan leaned into Tobe, his tall figure towering over him by a few inches. “Don’t answer that,” he muttered.
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t break into it, did you?”
“Don’t answer that either,” Lachlan told him.
Tobe shot her a disbelieving look, managing to appear offended by her question. He folded his toned arms over his equally defined chest. “Do you honestly think that I’d consider breaking into not only the home but the vault of a human honest-to-God mobster?”
“Yep, totally,” she replied, under no illusions about him.
Tobe could be described as many things—including a thief, liar, card shark, embezzler, seller of counterfeit art, and master of breaking and entering . . . which didn’t make him much different from most imps in their lair.
“Tell me you at least didn’t steal anything from the guy,” she pressed.
Lachlan leaned into Tobe again. “Definitely don’t answer that.”
Naomi sighed, and her inner demon rolled its eyes. Honestly, having imps in your life could give anyone an ulcer. She was a siren like her mother, but most of their lair were imps. They tended to disregard all laws, not to mention their own safety. The latter particularly drove her crazy when it came to Tobe—as psi-mates, they were very close.
All their kind had a predestined psi-mate. An anchor in the storm that was a demon’s existence due to their struggle to maintain supremacy over their psychopathic inner entity. Forming a mental link with your anchor ended that struggle, though a person’s inner entity still surfaced as and when it pleased for what were usually brief pockets of time.
“Once the client coughs up the cash, I’ll get it to you,” Tobe said to her.
She nodded and took another mouthful of her coffee. As the aforementioned client was a repeat customer, she wasn’t worried that the deal would go bad—they’d always gone smoothly in the past.
“I’ll be doing the handover on the same day I take the abstract painting to that annoying harbinger who keeps pushing to meet his artist. Like you’re his own personal pet painter,” Tobe added, scraping an agitated hand through his deep-brown hair.
The harbinger was truly becoming a pain in the padded ass. “If he does it again, tell him I’m done and that he’ll need to find another painter.” Naomi preferred to remain anonymous. Stefan Brandt wasn’t the first client to request that she meet them face to face, but unlike him, the others had accepted her refusal with grace.
Imps came in handy if you needed to operate in the shadows. Take Tobe, for example. He acted as a middleman for people looking for commissioned art from ghost artists. Kind of like a ghost writer, Naomi produced and sold work that others could take personal credit for. Then there were clients who wanted replicas of classic pieces, or fake “lost paintings” by famous artists that then often ended up in art galleries and museums.
She also acted as hostess part-time here at her stepfather’s pizzeria. It meant people didn’t question how she made money, because she’d only trusted a few with the knowledge that she was a ghost artist.
Naomi wasn’t a fan of the spotlight. Being a siren, she was a sexual magnet of sorts, and had attracted attention all her life. So much whistling, ogling, staring, and heckling. She was constantly hit on, constantly oversexualized, constantly underestimated.
People outside her lair often assumed that she was dumb, superficial, and up for a good time. They didn’t expect her to have talents, or be a hard worker, or have any real substance. And there seemed to be this societal attitude that since she was beautiful, she had no right to complain about anything. It rankled with her inner entity something fierce.