The Devil Plays Cupid

By Rebecca Ambrose

Junior devil, Mal, is working hard to ruin the love-life of Californian girl, Carla Rosetti. She is engaged to marry Tony Gambognare, but when her boss asks to show his wife's English cousin, Damien Montagu, around San Francisco everything starts to go wrong.

Carla falls for Damien's sophisticated charms and is seduced into modelling his sexy corsets. Soon she feels unsure about marrying Tony. But could she possibly have a future with this roguish Englishman?

Thanks to Mal's efforts, it soon looks as though Carla's hopes of finding happiness with the man of her dreams are dashed forever.

But can a trip to Paris change her fortune, and foil Mal's dastardly plans?

A sizzling romantic read from one of the UK's hottest authors. Revised edition of previously published novel, 'His Leather and Lace Bride.'

Rebecca Ambrose also writes as Vivienne Lafay, Vanessa Davies, Nadine Wilder, Rosanna Challis.
Follow Rebecca's blog, Erotica Femina, at Blogger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Ambrose
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465977052

Rebecca Ambrose

Rebecca Ambrose is a prolific British author of hot romance and erotica. She also writes as Vivienne Lafay, Vanessa Davies, Nadine Wilder and Rosanna Challis.

Book preview

THE DEVIL PLAYS CUPID

by

Rebecca Ambrose

Copyright©Rebecca Ambrose, 2012

Cover image by dolgachov

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

'Sorry, Mal, but you're way below quota. If you don't ruin a few more romances soon you'll be relocated to Purgatory.'

Mal stared up at the Arch-Daemon in horror. Purgatory! That diabolical twilight zone where pallid souls flitted around weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth! That was no place for an unrepentant womaniser like him, whose earthly existence had been dominated by fiery passion and the pleasures of the flesh.

Even so, the warning from the Lord of Lechery hadn't been entirely unexpected. Mal knew he hadn't scored many successes lately. The earthbound couples he'd targeted had all kissed and made up, despite his fiendish plans to wreak havoc amongst them. He needed a few spectacular successes to persuade the Powers-that-Be that he deserved his place in Hell, along with his old mates Don Juan and Casanova.

So now it was back to basics. Mal screwed up his ugly face, trying to remember what he'd been taught at Discordia College. Think Romeo and Juliet. Think Chuck and Di. Think family background, different expectations, age-gap, adultery. As he walked warily through the volcanic landscape, avoiding the spurts of steam and red-hot coals, Mal tried to compose a blueprint for success.

He paced towards the viewing platform, from which vantage point the earth might be scanned and an area targeted for closer inspection. The task did not seem so difficult, yet it was probably his one and only chance so he couldn't afford to fail. The choice of couple was crucial. Which nation would he choose, and which city?

A country where people still believed in Romance, but where the divorce rate was high seemed the best bet. The United States sprang instantly to mind. Hollywood was out of bounds, of course; it was all too easy to break up a show-biz romance. Then he recalled that H.G. Wells had considered the earthly equivalent of Hell to be San Francisco. Mal reached the glowing balustrade and looked down.

There was the old, familiar planet in its blue, white and green robes, floating against the blackness of space. It made his heart wrench painfully. All those delightful young women just waiting for tender kisses and caresses, and he would never know the joys of physical love again. Ah well, he must live by proxy now.

First find that couple. Using his telepathic powers, Mal homed in on a plane travelling towards San Francisco. If he concentrated on an individual he could read their personalities and life-patterns instantly. His mind raced through the cabin like a computer, rejecting this happily married woman, dismissing that gay man. He didn't know quite what he was looking for, but he knew when a person didn't fit the profile. It was vital that his chosen couple should offer him the greatest potential for disaster, on their terms, and success on his.

Amongst the passengers Mal came across a lone Englishman, and his psychic antenna began to twitch. He had a lot of respect for the English. Hadn't some of their ancestors formed the Hell Fire Club for the express purpose of indulging in all kind of debauchery? It seemed a good omen.

And this character appeared to have all the right credentials. His first name was Damien (shades of horror films, promising first syllable) and his surname was Montagu, which sounded suitably aristocratic. He was on a visit to a distant relative, Marylou Daniels, but there was still time to interfere with the plans that had been made.

Damien was the conventional tall, dark and handsome type but his attractive exterior concealed a severely battered heart. A quick scan of his akashic record revealed that his best friend had stolen his fiancée while he was abroad on business and he had distrusted womankind ever since. Yet his sensual nature had driven him into many passionate affairs which had all ended in tears – the woman's naturally. He was, in short, your archetypal heart-breaker. Any unsuspecting female who fell for his cool English charm would live to rue the day she had ever met Damien Montagu.

So now it was just a case of cherchez la femme. She would have to be from a totally different background, of course, to maximize the potential for a culture clash. Someone warm where he was cool; sincere where he was devious; naive where he was sophisticated. A girl already engaged to marry a nice, but dull, man. Yes, that would be most useful. And she would have to find him irresistible, so he must fit the image laid down in her impressionable teenage years. He must look, at least to some extent, like her idea of a romantic hero.

So when Carla Rosetti came into view, walking down Mission without a care in the world, Mal's antennae went into overdrive. She was secretary to Marylou's husband, Henry Daniels. Born into a poor Italian family, Carla was warm-hearted and feisty but with a strict moral code. She was engaged to Mr Nice-Guy, Tony Gambognare, who was at present in Italy on business. Although she believed herself to be in love with him, Carla had no idea that she was now on a course to wreck both their lives. She thought all she wanted was to please her family and raise kids of her own. But her hitherto unawakened sexuality would make her a prime victim of Damien's scheming charms.

And her favorite teenage heart-throb had been Hugh Grant. A fallen angel if ever there was one.

'Divine!' Mal murmured evilly, his breath congealing in the dank air. 'I think we have a perfectly mis-matched couple!'

Now all that remained was the means to bring them together. Something had to happen to poor Marylou, so that Henry would ask Carla to play hostess to Damien. But what accident could he devise to get the older woman out of the way? An earthquake was out of the question, being an Act of God. Mal toyed with the idea of other disasters then rejected them too. A car crash was too unpredictable; no point in killing the woman. A funeral was not, generally speaking, conducive to romance. Some form of non-fatal illness seemed the best bet, enough to lay her low for the few days it would take to get Carla well and truly hooked on her demon lover.

Mal was confident it would all go according to plan. He'd made a career out of reading women's minds so that he could have his wicked way with their bodies, and Carla looked a pushover. He could see her right now, sitting in that downtown office, all sweetness and light. She'd never had to deal with a man like Damien in her life – or a devil like Mal. She didn't have a hope in hell of resisting their joint efforts. He almost felt sorry for her.

Chapter One

Carla Rosetti sat in her office wondering what it would feel like to be Mrs Gambognare – with Mr Gambognare away on business. Tony was in Italy at the moment and she was stuck in San Francisco, missing him terribly. Carla knew he had to travel in his work, but now she was officially engaged to him she couldn't help wondering how often she would be sitting here like this, lonely and longing to see him again.

Of course, once children came along she would have plenty to occupy her while her husband was away, but would it be enough? As she reflected, her Momma's words came back to her: 'Change what you can, but don't fret about what you can't.' Was there anything she could do to resolve this dilemma?

'Ah, Carla!' Her boss put his head round the door. 'When you've finished opening the mail, could you phone Mrs Daniels? I'm over-running, going to be late for lunch.'

Carla gave her boss her usual sweet smile 'Of course, sir. I'll do it right now.'

But as she picked up the phone a sigh came unbidden from the bottom of her heart. Her job was as boringly routine as brushing her teeth. Every Wednesday, Henry Daniels met his wife for lunch at a seafood restaurant in Fisherman's Wharf, followed by dessert at nearby Ghiradellis. And every Wednesday she had to phone Marylou Daniels to tell her he would be a little late.

'Thank you, dear. I've booked a hair appointment that will probably end at half twelve, so I should get there by one,' his wife told her.

Why on earth doesn't he just book for one o'clock each week, instead of twelve-thirty, Carla wondered. Was this what married life was like, each keeping up some kind of fiction for the other, in a bizarre game of I know you know, and you know I know, but let's pretend neither of us knows?

Carla knew she was lucky to have such a good job. She had worked for Mr Daniels for three years, and he treated her very well. It would have been churlish to complain, yet she was tired of being in her comfortable rut. At the moment she could hardly see beyond her wedding to Tony, but she knew the rest of her life was all mapped out.

A big Italian wedding, to be followed by a honeymoon in Florida, then a move into North Beach where they would bring up three or four kids, adding to the already huge Gambognare family. Carla sighed. Was that really all there was to life?

Of course she loved Tony, no doubt about that. Who could fail to love him? Even though his spreading girth and thinning hair made him look more like Danny de Vito every time she saw him, he was cuddly and warm, funny and loving. Her parents adored him. Her sister adored him. Her two brothers adored him. They would have adorable children together. She was crazy to even think about wanting more from life than Tony Gambognare.

Tony! She sighed, seeing his smiling face in her mind, longing to be in his arms again. But it would be two weeks before he returned from his business trip.

Henry Daniels returned to the office looking flustered. As usual, he apologised for coming back late from lunch. 'Marylou ate two sundaes at Ghiradellis,' he said with pride, adding, 'She's getting in training for the chocolate festival in September.'

'Oh my!' Carla said, trying to sound impressed. The phone rang and she answered it.

'It's Mrs Daniels on the phone now,' she said.

It turned out that Marylou had taken to her bed feeling ill. Hardly surprising after her chocolate binge, Carla thought. But Henry looked really worried.

'She's supposed to be heading out to the airport,' he explained. 'A relative of hers is coming to stay, from England. Now there's no one to meet him.' He looked at her with his pleading, puppy-dog eyes – Carla knew exactly what that look meant. 'Do you think you could possibly . . . ?'

'Of course,' she broke in, crisply, knowing how hard it was for her boss to ask a favour of her. 'What time's his flight due in?'

As she sped along Highway 101, Carla couldn't help building up a mental image of Damien Montagu. She had been impressed by the details her boss had given her. He was a successful English businessman from a good family, staying in one of the oldest and more prestigious hotels in San Francisco. He would surely be interesting company!

He'd better be, she reflected, because if Marylou did not recover from her bout of sickness Carla could be seeing a lot more of him. Henry had asked her to be on standby as city guide if his wife could not get out of bed tomorrow.

When Damien emerged from customs into the arrivals lobby and headed for the meeting point, it was obvious that his second-cousin-twice removed was not there. He had only met Marylou Daniels a couple of times, but her plump, matronly figure did not match any of the people waiting there.

Instead, there was a young woman poised on her heels like a bird about to take flight, and bearing a hand-written sign with his name on. As their eyes met there was a flash of mutual recognition. He walked towards her, taking in every inch of her body as she started to meet him halfway: neat little feet, in sexy strappy pink shoes; well-turned ankles and calves, tanned and smooth; A frilly black skirt cut on the bias, that gave a glimpse of slim thigh; a modest pink top that hinted at small but perfectly delightful breasts . . .

'Mr Montagu?'

As he nodded, her smile stopped hovering uncertainly about her luscious lips and turned full-on gorgeous. She held out a dainty hand, with well-manicured oval nails painted pink to match her clothing. Even as he took her right hand, Damien was examining the left. It bore a huge vulgar rock of an engagement ring. He gave a wry smile. Fiancées, wives, mistresses – they all offered a challenge to his seduction skills. In fact, he specialised in stealing other men's women. It was no fun going for a woman on the lookout for love: that kind were always a pushover.

'I'm Carla Rosetti,' she told him, in a voice so silky smooth he wanted to breathe in the sound and feel it caress his throat. 'I'm so sorry, but Mrs Daniels is unwell. I'm Mr Daniels' secretary, and he asked me to meet you.'

'I'm sorry to hear my cousin is ill.' Second cousin twice removed, he silently reminded himself, before allowing a small frown of manufactured sympathy to crease his manly forehead. 'Nothing serious, I hope?'

'We hope not, Mr Montagu.'

He liked that: she had passed the first test. No grating familiarity, the girl knew her place. For a few seconds he looked straight into her bright brown eyes, then something most peculiar happened. Along with the familiar sensations that any halfway pretty girl could arouse in him, came a strange reinforcement of that first spark of recognition. This time it was strong and unmistakable: he was recognising someone – or something - very familiar in the glossy mirror of those eyes.

It was both intriguing and disturbing, so he forced his gaze to slip down that cute button of a nose and linger on those full shapely lips, with their luscious coating of gloss. What would her kiss taste like: strawberries? Feeling the sensual tide rise in him again, with the blood pumping through his nether regions, he grew more relaxed. He was only responding to her like any red-blooded male who had not slept with a woman for a week. It was natural to be attracted to a nice-looking girl like Miss Rosetti, but he could handle it. For a couple of weeks, anyway.

'I've been asked to drive you straight to your hotel,' she informed him.

But he was in no hurry to get out of this delightful young woman's company. 'I'm jet-lagged. Let's sit over here and have some coffee.'

She looked at her watch. 'Well, I did tell Mr Daniels I'd be back in the office by three.'

'Surely he'd want you to attend to my comfort first?' he snapped.

'Yes, Mr Montagu. Of course.' She flinched, like a scared rabbit, and he wished he'd expressed it more gently.

Damien led the way to a low table and over-stuffed couch near an upmarket bar. He had no real desire for coffee, but if fate was going to drop a beautiful woman like this in his lap, figuratively speaking, he might as well prolong the encounter as long as possible.

As he took up the space at one end he liked the way she folded her limbs neatly and tucked herself into the opposite end. Everything about the girl was ladylike and presentable. But beneath the calm surface of her pretty face he guessed that deep emotions lay. This kind of woman was the most satisfying to bed; how he would love to watch her cool façade crumble into raw, naked passion!

A waiter came over and took their order: a black Java for him, cappuccino for her. While they waited, he decided to tell her a little about himself.

'I'm here partly on business,' he began, 'but I thought I should look up the Daniels. Of course, Marylou insisted she would show me the sights in my free time.'

'Is this your first trip to San Francisco?'

'Yes, I normally go to the East Coast, but I'm expanding my market. I'm in leather goods.'

Carla's face lit up, stunningly. Now that she was more animated, her skin and eyes glowed at him with megastar intensity, and he felt the familiar twitch in his groin grow more insistent. God, but this girl was sexy, and he suspected she didn't even know it!

'Really!' she exclaimed. 'So is my fiancé, Tony. What a coincidence! He imports leather bags from Italy.'

'Mine is an English brand. I'm at the specialist end of the market.'

Her face fell, and he could tell she felt snubbed but he hadn't exactly meant to upset her. It must have been the mention of her boyfriend that provoked him. He preferred the term boyfriend to fiancé – it sounded less . . . permanent.

The coffee arrived and Damien asked her if she had ever been to England.

'Oh no, only to Italy a couple of times.'

'You're from an Italian family, I presume?' She nodded. 'I like Italy. They really know how to get the most out of life there.'

Italy. The country where he had seduced more beautiful women than he could recall. Now he could see them all reflected in Carla's dark eyes. They gazed at him with rapt attention, fixed on his as if they wanted to drink in his very soul.

He took a gulp of coffee, knowing that if he was hoping to blame this almost déjà vu sensation on the caffeine hit he would only be deceiving himself. What mystery lay in those liquid brown depths? In her eyes, he told himself wryly, not the coffee!

Damien watched Carla sip her cappuccino then, sensing the line of beige foam that remained on her upper lip, she calmly put out her juicy pink tongue tip and licked it off.

Once again, the surge of delighted fascination that this gesture produced in him took Damien by surprise. The intensity of his sudden desire for her confused him, and he gave a soft, barely perceptible groan.

'I'll just go to the gents,' he said gruffly, rising abruptly and walking across the lobby. Truth was, he just had to get out of that woman's presence for a few seconds to regain his composure. What the hell was happening to him? For once in his life he felt quite out of control, his emotions softening like butter in a churn and throwing up all kinds of unexpected feelings. What in heaven and earth had possessed him?

Carla took a moment to check her face in her handbag mirror. The coffee foam had gone, her make-up was intact, so why had Mr Montagu been looking at her so peculiarly then rushed out of the lounge? It had been a confusing few minutes altogether. For some reason she had expected him to be more like Mr Daniels – middle-aged, solid and predictable, not too bright – but this man was like none she had ever met before.

Was it because he was English? She had only ever met a few of his fellow countrymen, brief encounters at Fisherman's Wharf or in another tourist area, but they had appeared perfectly pleasant and normal. Yet Damien Montagu seemed to her to be filled with inner turmoil and contradiction: one minute pleasant and friendly, the next perplexed and even cross; one minute almost confiding in her, the next keeping his distance with a frosty air. She really did not know what to make of him.

One thing she was sure about – he was devilishly attractive. The kind of man women threw themselves at, no doubt. Which would, of course, make him believe that he was God's Gift to them. Unconsciously she took her ring finger in her right hand and rubbed her thumb over its reassuringly expensive diamond. Thank goodness she was safely spoken for! If she hadn't felt the long arm of her Tony reaching out to her across the world to protect her, she might have felt tempted by such a man as this. It was probably a case of the fascination of opposites.

When Damien returned they made their way to the parking lot, Carla rushing to keep up with his long strides as he wheeled his case through the lobby. His luggage was, of course, extremely elegant, fashioned in a rich dark brown leather with a discreet monogram, and sleek wheels and handle that folded away to nothing. It seemed as well engineered as the plane he had flown in on.

He spoke little on