A few hours later, after a long stint on the Internet, searching Google for anything she could find about Clyde, she decided another shower was in order for her achy muscles. If he really was who he said he was, she wasn’t going to find that out on the World Wide Web. There’d been several Clyde Atwells and none had died within the last three months. The rest of the information was limited to some pretty general stuff from phone directories across the country. Every clue he’d given her about his life, she’d put into a search engine, only to come up empty-handed.
Stripping her clothes off, she ran a weary hand over her grainy eyes and flipped the shower handles on, then reached for her favorite oatmeal and seaweed scrub while the water warmed. If she was quick, she just might get enough hot water time in to wash her hair. Eyeing the dogs all sitting in a row on her bed, plumping her decorative pillows with their scruffy paws, she gave them the look. “You guys behave, got that? I have to say, I’m just a little disappointed that Clyde seems to have no trouble getting you knuckleheads to pay attention—and he ain’t the one with the kibble. So you’d all better start listening to me. I find one pillow out of order, I’ll know who was humping it, and the shit will fly. I’ll call Cesar pronto, and then we’ll just see who’s your pack leader. Understood?” She scratched heads as she hurried to get in the shower before the hot water disappeared.
Sprays of water, blessedly hot, slid over her skin in cascades as she wet her hair, grabbing the shampoo and working it into a soapy lather. Her thoughts strayed to Clyde and how she’d shipped him off to planes unknown on a rather harsh note. Why she was having bouts of regret in the way of stomach clenches was something she couldn’t pinpoint.
Or maybe she could. She was a sucker for anything or anyone hard up. If Clyde was telling the truth, he was undoubtedly hard up.
And hard.
Sweet mother and all twelve apostles. She was having naughty flashbacks to a kiss that he’d claimed was nothing more than some kind of covert operation. Yes, she was. Epic naughty thoughts.
Clenching her eyes shut, she gave her hair a good scrub. This was one of the few times in her life she decided she wasn’t going to behave like she’d just fallen off the turnip truck—no matter how convincing Clyde had been.
He was a bad dude.
End of.
She was officially absolving herself. Clyde’d been right about one thing—she had bigger fish to fry, and that included figuring out what Lucifer’s next move was. So she’d just have to go on believing that this story Clyde’d given her was just a way to get her to let his demonicness into her life and then he would do exactly what he claimed his mission was—trash her.
There it was again.
That infernal, nagging niggle in the pit of her belly that said she’d maybe possibly misjudged him. She’d never had so much one-on-one contact for such an extended period of time with a demon like she’d had with Clyde.
That had to be it.
Delaney went back to scrubbing her hair, eyes closed, enjoying the oddly blissfully hot water. She gave her scalp a good massage, but the rustle of plastic stilled her hands.
“So this could be labeled awkward, right?”
Get. Out. “What about me naked and you in my shower while I am isn’t awkward, demon?”
“Before you go screeching at me, just hear me out.”
Her hands immediately went in ten different directions at once to try to cover her girlie bits while shampoo dripped into her eyes, blinding her. “You know, I have something to say here, and I’ll try not to screech, but I make no promises. You evoke screeching.”
“By all means, say something.”
Her words came out in a watery, garbled drip of shampoo when she spat, “What, in the ever-loving fuck, are you doing in my shower? I’m naked, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah,” he said on a gusty sigh. “Me, too.”
“Still?”
“Yep.”
“But you’ve been naked since I met you. Me? Not so much. For you it’s a standard in our budding relationship. I personally like to get to at least share a granola bar before I consent to take my clothes off.”
“Well, my eyes are closed, if that’s any consolation,” he offered with a dry sarcasm she could almost taste on her lips.
For some whacked reason, it left her deflated that he hadn’t at least peeked. Gee, twisted much, Delaney? That ridiculous notion only made her angrier. “I don’t believe you.”
“Swear it.”
“What is it about me that you can’t seem to resist? I’ve all but made your eyeballs bleed. Yet here you are. This could be considered stalkerish behavior, Clyde Atwell,” she drawled.
“I’m no stalker, Delaney Markham.”
“Then explain, demon,” she growled, finally gathering enough of her wits to begin rinsing her hair, but too afraid to open her eyes. She’d seen him in almost all of his glory. In fact, she’d just been strolling down the memory lane of nudity when he’d popped in. It’d been hard enough to resist the throw-blanketed Clyde. Wet and wild was definitely out.