The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(57)

She cups them with a grin. “Are you saying you want to stare, Graham? Stare away! They’re not gonna last forever so someone ought to get some enjoyment from them.”

I swallow, heading for the door. “I don’t need to stare at your breasts, Keeley.” They’re already burned into my brain.

“Don’t worry,” she says cheerfully as she searches her purse for her keys. “I’ve taken so many photos of them. Maybe I’ll give you one as a birthday present.”

I choke a little at the idea. “You give away photos of your breasts as a gift?”

“Just to friends. You, Paul downstairs, Mike the UPS guy—”

I come to a dead stop and she laughs.

“No, I don’t give away pictures of my breasts. But to be fair, they only turned into showstoppers this year. I bet I could make more on Only Fans right now than I do as a doctor.”

I just keep walking toward the elevator. But Jesus Christ, a daughter like Keeley will put me in an early grave.





We arrive at Keeley’s favorite Indian restaurant.

She doesn’t seem to notice the way the host’s eyes slide over her, the way the kitchen staff look up and lean over. She’s too busy trying to convince me she needs two orders of chicken tikka.

“Just for me. If you want some, too, we’ll need three orders. But you have to order all of it so I can continue to look like a delicate flower who’s only here because you wanted Indian food.”

The waiter takes our order. Our meal should be free in exchange for the amount of time he’s spending looking at Keeley’s cleavage.

“You know what we should do?” she asks once he’s gone. “We should get to know each other.”

“Haven’t we been doing that all along?”

She gives me one of her baleful looks, the kind that says, “stop being a buzzkill, Graham.” They used to annoy me. Now they make me laugh.

“Fine,” I concede. “You can have dinner with any person, past or present. Who do you choose?”

“Can it be a person made of chocolate?”

“I’m referring to a dining companion you do not intend to eat, Keeley.” She really must be starving if that’s the first place her mind went.

“Gandhi,” she replies. “Or Khloe Kardashian.”

“Gandhi is rolling in his grave right now.”

“Gandhi was cremated, so I doubt he’s doing much rolling. And Khloe is cheerful in the face of adversity and nice to everyone she meets. You could learn something from her.” Keeley looks toward the kitchen. She’s been watching every tray that emerges, hoping one is ours. “Who would you have over?”

“John Locke or Paul Krugman, this economist from—”

“Oh my God. Really? Trust you to find the one person more boring than yourself to invite over for dinner.” As soon as the word boring comes out, she blushes, and I know she’s remembering what I said.

I still can’t believe I said it, though it was entirely true.

“What’s your obsession with economics, anyway?” she asks. “No one else in your family seems into that kind of stuff.”

I shrug. I never gave it much thought before. Maybe it’s just that bad things happen to people without the resources to fight back when they’re under siege, and I never want to be among them again. “I like knowing I’m financially secure. I want other people to be in the same position.”

“You sound like such a dad when you say things like that.”

I think she intends it as an insult, but her eyes are shining and her smile is soft. She likes it, even if she’ll never admit as much.

Our tray approaches at last and her excitement is palpable. She claps her hands together and squirms in her seat like a kid who has to pee.

“Are you like this on dates?” I ask, mildly horrified.

“Whatever. I’m adorable. You love my childlike appreciation of the world.”

A bowl of basmati rice is placed between us, and through the steam I take in Keeley’s wide eyes, her unrepentant grin. The last time I ate out with Anna, we were at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and she spent the whole meal finding small flaws in the food and the service.

Yeah. I guess Keeley’s childlike appreciation of things isn’t all bad.

She serves herself a steaming plate of rice and inhales, her eyes closed as if this is the most erotic dream she’s ever had. Then she opens the first bowl of chicken tikka and groans low, in a way that cuts straight to my groin.

She spoons the chunks of chicken and sauce into her bowl, and just as she picks up her fork with a blissful sigh of anticipation…shouting begins.

A chef comes out of the kitchen at a run. “Is there a doctor here?”

I look at Keeley. The fork is still in her hand, poised to begin.

She frowns. “I doubt they need a dermatologist.”

“Keeley, you went to medical school. You theoretically know about other things.”

“Goddammit,” she says with a sigh, pushing away from the table. “I really wanted that chicken tikka. And this is sexist. They wouldn’t ask a man to give up his chicken tikka.”

“I’m fairly certain they would, under the circumstances.” I rise with her. “And it’ll still be here when you get back.”