Read Online Satan by Jianne Carlo - Free Book Online
Authors: Jianne Carlo
Tags: romantic suspense
Ads: Link
non-stop about “Santy Claud.”
Jess laughed. “Bouncing isn’t the word. I don’t know how we’re going to get her to sleep tonight. Mind you, Devil has planned tons of physical activities for her today. He’s planning on tuckering her out.”
“Wise move. Well, I’ll let you go. Merry Christmas, and please say the same to your hubby and kiss Gracie for me.”
“Will do. And Merry Christmas to you and Satan. Later.”
“Bye.” Angel ended the call. She slumped into a chair and stared at the ceiling. So much had happened in the last eighteen months. First, her parents’ murder, then Martin abruptly sold his shares in the family banking business, and was recruited by ISIS. She still couldn’t accept that her big brother had executed human beings. Still couldn’t believe Martin could commit such a horrendous act.
It had all happened while she was the evening news anchor for Trinidad and Tobago’s most popular television station—Channel Ten. At first, she’d resisted the pressure to resign, not fazed by the death threats and the relentless barrage of the gossip sheets. But the gradual retreat of most of her friends proved the last straw.
She had had to get out of Trinidad. Once she’d made that decision, everything seemed to fall into place. Merylle, Martin’s last girlfriend, and Angel had bonded over Martin’s death. Merylle and Angel had both been devastated when Martin became an ISIS insurgent.
It was Merylle who suggested the foundation. The idea galvanized Angel. She was consumed by the notion and knew the best location for her organization would be the U.S.
Her Channel Ten boss had used his U.S. connections to get her an interview with Manhattan’s CBS affiliate WBCN. She accepted WBCN’s talk-show host job offer, moved, and began work on her foundation, Haven.
Then, two weeks ago, she received a package from her old assistant at Channel Ten in Trinidad. On top of a pile of file folders, she found Martin’s letter. Stunned by its contents and the date stamped on the envelope, Angel phoned Channel Ten to demand an explanation of her assistant, but the woman had recently immigrated to the UK, and no one had a forwarding address.
Angel shook her head. This was getting her nowhere. She drew in a deep breath, and before she lost her nerve thumbed Satan’s name.
“Hi. My meeting’s finally over. Still want me to come up? Or is it down?” She had no sense of direction whatsoever.
“I’ll come get you.”
“No. No. That doesn’t make any sense. The traffic coming into the city will be horrendous. I’ll drive. I’ll just put your address in my GPS, but first I’m going to pack a few clothes. I can’t wear out your supply of sweats and T-shirts.” She grinned.
“You know you can do that anytime. Pack something for a night out. There’s a restaurant near here I want to take you to. Call me when you’re on the highway.”
“Okay. Bye.” She stuck the phone in her coat pocket, dashed to the bedroom, opened her closet, and studied her clothes. She imagined that, save for the restaurant outing, they would be home and in bed most of the time. She packed way too many garments and two pairs of shoes, added a few accessories and toiletries, and then settled down in front of her laptop.
Angel did a quick search on the Net, booked a morning flight to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad’s capital city, for two days after Christmas. She Googled the Trinidad Hilton, called the contact number, and made a six-week reservation. It would cost a fortune to stay at the hotel, but she didn’t want to involve any of her friends in her scheme by staying with them.
Besides, she’d inherited half of the shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank upon her parents’ death; the other half had gone to Martin. The bank had been founded by her great-great-great grandfather in the late seventeenth century. The shares Yaman Moses, a prominent Trinidadian businessman, was for some peculiar reason desperate to acquire.
Jess laughed. “Bouncing isn’t the word. I don’t know how we’re going to get her to sleep tonight. Mind you, Devil has planned tons of physical activities for her today. He’s planning on tuckering her out.”
“Wise move. Well, I’ll let you go. Merry Christmas, and please say the same to your hubby and kiss Gracie for me.”
“Will do. And Merry Christmas to you and Satan. Later.”
“Bye.” Angel ended the call. She slumped into a chair and stared at the ceiling. So much had happened in the last eighteen months. First, her parents’ murder, then Martin abruptly sold his shares in the family banking business, and was recruited by ISIS. She still couldn’t accept that her big brother had executed human beings. Still couldn’t believe Martin could commit such a horrendous act.
It had all happened while she was the evening news anchor for Trinidad and Tobago’s most popular television station—Channel Ten. At first, she’d resisted the pressure to resign, not fazed by the death threats and the relentless barrage of the gossip sheets. But the gradual retreat of most of her friends proved the last straw.
She had had to get out of Trinidad. Once she’d made that decision, everything seemed to fall into place. Merylle, Martin’s last girlfriend, and Angel had bonded over Martin’s death. Merylle and Angel had both been devastated when Martin became an ISIS insurgent.
It was Merylle who suggested the foundation. The idea galvanized Angel. She was consumed by the notion and knew the best location for her organization would be the U.S.
Her Channel Ten boss had used his U.S. connections to get her an interview with Manhattan’s CBS affiliate WBCN. She accepted WBCN’s talk-show host job offer, moved, and began work on her foundation, Haven.
Then, two weeks ago, she received a package from her old assistant at Channel Ten in Trinidad. On top of a pile of file folders, she found Martin’s letter. Stunned by its contents and the date stamped on the envelope, Angel phoned Channel Ten to demand an explanation of her assistant, but the woman had recently immigrated to the UK, and no one had a forwarding address.
Angel shook her head. This was getting her nowhere. She drew in a deep breath, and before she lost her nerve thumbed Satan’s name.
“Hi. My meeting’s finally over. Still want me to come up? Or is it down?” She had no sense of direction whatsoever.
“I’ll come get you.”
“No. No. That doesn’t make any sense. The traffic coming into the city will be horrendous. I’ll drive. I’ll just put your address in my GPS, but first I’m going to pack a few clothes. I can’t wear out your supply of sweats and T-shirts.” She grinned.
“You know you can do that anytime. Pack something for a night out. There’s a restaurant near here I want to take you to. Call me when you’re on the highway.”
“Okay. Bye.” She stuck the phone in her coat pocket, dashed to the bedroom, opened her closet, and studied her clothes. She imagined that, save for the restaurant outing, they would be home and in bed most of the time. She packed way too many garments and two pairs of shoes, added a few accessories and toiletries, and then settled down in front of her laptop.
Angel did a quick search on the Net, booked a morning flight to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad’s capital city, for two days after Christmas. She Googled the Trinidad Hilton, called the contact number, and made a six-week reservation. It would cost a fortune to stay at the hotel, but she didn’t want to involve any of her friends in her scheme by staying with them.
Besides, she’d inherited half of the shares of Caribbean Worker’s Bank upon her parents’ death; the other half had gone to Martin. The bank had been founded by her great-great-great grandfather in the late seventeenth century. The shares Yaman Moses, a prominent Trinidadian businessman, was for some peculiar reason desperate to acquire.
Similar Books
