The Devil Series Books 1-4 (Devil #1-4), page 1
THE DEVIL SERIES BOOKS 1-4
ELIZABETH O'ROARK
CONTENTS
A Deal With The Devil
Elizabeth O'Roark
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Elizabeth O’Roark
I. Oahu
1. Drew
2. Josh
3. Drew
4. Drew
5. Josh
6. Drew
7. Josh
8. Drew
9. Josh
10. Drew
11. Josh
12. Drew
13. Josh
14. Drew
15. Josh
16. Drew
17. Drew
18. Josh
19. Drew
II. Lanai
20. Drew
21. Josh
22. Drew
III. Kauai
23. Drew
24. Josh
25. Drew
26. Drew
27. Josh
28. Drew
29. Josh
IV. Oahu
30. Drew
31. Drew
V. Home
32. Drew
33. Josh
34. Drew
35. Josh
36. Drew
37. Josh
38. Drew
39. Josh
40. Drew
41. Drew
42. Drew
43. Josh
44. Drew
45. Drew
46. Josh
47. Drew
48. Josh
49. Drew
50. Drew
Acknowledgments
The Devil You Know
Elizabeth O'Roark
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Devil Gets His Due
Elizabeth O'Roark
Chapter 1
2. Keeley
3. Keeley
4. Keeley
5. Graham
6. Keeley
7. Keeley
8. Graham
9. Keeley
10. Graham
11. Keeley
12. Graham
13. Keeley
14. Keeley
15. Graham
16. Keeley
17. Keeley
18. Graham
19. Keeley
20. Graham
21. Keeley
22. Graham
23. Keeley
24. Keeley
25. Graham
26. Keeley
27. Keeley
28. Keeley
29. Graham
30. Keeley
31. Keeley
32. Graham
33. Keeley
34. Graham
35. Keeley
36. Keeley
37. Graham
38. Keeley
39. Keeley
40. Keeley
41. Keeley
42. Graham
43. Keeley
44. Graham
45. Keeley
46. Graham
47. Keeley
48. Keeley
49. Graham
50. Graham
51. Keeley
Acknowledgments
Also by Elizabeth O'Roark
About the Author
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
ELIZABETH O'ROARK
Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth O'Roark
Editors: Sali Benbow-Powers, Laverne Clark
Copy Edit: Julie Deaton, Janis Ferguson
Cover Design: Lori Jackson
Photography: Rafa Catala
Model: Chema Malavia
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This is dedicated to my crew,
the Badass Middle-Aged Elven Assassins,
without whom I wouldn’t have published
a single book.
1
Good versus evil.
Comic books make it look so easy. One guy wants to destroy the world. Another wants to save it. The bad guy has a scar and is cruel to his girlfriend. The good guy has a jawline that could cut glass and gives half his dinner to the stray dog in the alley.
Real life is more complex. Sometimes the bad guy is hiding a heart of gold under that scarred exterior. Sometimes they both have a nice jawline and you often don’t know what you’ve signed on for until it’s too late.
Except when you’re invited to work for Satan...then it’s fairly clear what you’re in for.
The offer has come over coffee with my friend Jonathan, on a pleasant patio where palms overhead filter Santa Monica’s bright morning sun. “Let me tell you how much it pays before you say no,” he adds, which is exactly the sort of suggestion you’d expect from Satan’s head of personnel.
I should clarify that Hayes Flynn, Jonathan’s boss, isn’t technically Satan—as in, he does not rule the underworld or have horns. While he might own a pitchfork, I assume based on those custom Tom Ford suits he wears that he has a guy for all his pitchfork-related needs.
And Satan is my nickname for him, not Jonathan’s, but still an apt one. First, because he’s a plastic surgeon to the stars, which is exactly the kind of job you’d expect of Satan, were Satan for some reason unable to practice law.
Second, because he’s British. It's common knowledge that any extra-suave British male who is not James Bond is a bad guy, or so I assume based on Jane Austen novels and the one James Bond movie I’ve watched.
And finally, because he’s slightly too perfect, which points to some kind of black magic at work. Too tall, too fit...square-jawed and dark-eyed and lush-mouthed in a way that makes him a danger to others. Just ask all these poor actresses he takes out once or twice, leaving them behind to post sad pics and vague quotes about loneliness on Instagram. I can’t guarantee they’re about him, but he’s certainly pretty enough to inspire plenty of self-pity in his wake.
Not that it’s a problem for me. My superpower, acquired over the course of this very difficult year, is that I’m immune to beautiful men. My sister would say broken, not immune, but she’s been with the same guy since she was fourteen, so what does she know?
“What would I be doing?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. The question is mostly a formality. Given my financial situation, I’m not in the position to say no to much at present. “I assume since it’s Hayes we’re discussing, it must involve some human trafficking or heroin.”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair, weary and amused in the same moment. “Nothing quite that bad. I want you to replace me while Jason and I are in Manila.”
I set my coffee down with a thud. The hunt for Jonathan’s temporary replacement began months ago, the second he and Jason got the heads-up their adoption was approved. “What happened?” I ask. “I thought you found someone.”
He shakes hi
Jonathan deals with demands: celebrities expecting to be slid into Hayes’s packed schedule on a moment’s notice, or Hayes requesting sought-after reservations and exotic foods. The job calls for tact, diplomacy, and the ability to make the impossible happen. Saying I’m the perfect choice is like setting up a sixteen-year-old boy with a ninety-year-old female and insisting it’s perfect because they’re both straight.
“So you’re desperate and can’t get anyone else to take the job.”
He looks up from his egg-white omelet, his mouth twitching. “No, Tali. You’re discreet and I think you’d be good for each other. Also, it pays four grand a week.”
My eyes go wide. I knew he did well—certainly better than I do working at Topside, a bar specializing in Jimmy Buffett and bandannas worn as headgear—but not that well. Four grand times the six weeks he’ll be gone won’t solve my problems, but it will make them a hell of a lot smaller.
“You probably should have led with that,” I tell him, and he breaks into my favorite Jonathan smile, sweet and surprised, like a child who’s been paid an unexpected compliment.
“That was easier than expected, given how you feel about Hayes,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And I want you to know...I still think you’re going to finish the book. But I thought if you could stop panicking about paying back the advance, it might take some of the pressure off.”
He has more faith in me than I have in myself, then. The book—for which I received a hefty advance I’ve already spent—has remained only half done for the past year and is due in a matter of months. If selling my soul to the devil was an option at this point, I’d probably take it, so I’m not going to turn down merely being on his payroll.
But it all feels too easy. This is Hayes we’re discussing, after all. “So that’s it? I mean, don’t I need to interview or something?”
A shadow passes over his face, a tiny curl of worry. “You’ll need to sign a contract and a non-disclosure agreement, but that’s about it. Hayes trusts my decisions. It’ll be fine.”
I’m not so certain about that, I think, remembering the one and only time Hayes and I have stood in the same room. I still don’t know why he was in Topside, sticking out like a sore thumb in his expensive suit, or why—for one long moment—he was watching me with something that seemed like interest. But he hadn’t even reached the bar before that thing in his face changed, turned cold and resigned, and the next time I looked up he was gone. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me, but it doesn’t seem like the most auspicious start to our working relationship.
“I just have one request...” Jonathan says. He leans forward, arms of his suit pressed to the table, hands flat. “Don’t sleep with him. Please. If you jump into bed with him the day I leave, I’ll have to come straight home.”
I laugh loudly enough to draw stares from the neighboring tables. It’s appalling that Jonathan, my oldest friend, would even suggest it.
“Give me some credit. I would never have sex with someone like Hayes. I’m done with untrustworthy men.”
His shoulders sag as he scratches his forehead. “I worry you’ve got an idea about Hayes created entirely by some bullshit gossip and your vivid imagination.” His eyes fall on me, full of sympathy now. “And Matt never seemed untrustworthy. We were all as surprised as you when that went south.”
My chest tightens. There’s nothing reassuring about what Jonathan just said. I’d prefer to hear where I’d gone wrong, to have him point out the signs Matt was going to fail me the way he did, but even now all anyone can say about my ex is but he was such a great guy.
Jonathan reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s gonna get better, Tali. When the right guy comes along, your walls will recede.”
I sort of doubt that, given my plan is just to avoid men altogether.
But either way, Hayes Flynn won’t be touching my walls, or anything else.
2
I pull into the circular drive and glance over the schedule Jonathan gave me:
7:30 Arrive at the Starbucks on Highland. Order one venti latte (whole milk) three sugars.
7:45 Let yourself in using code. Disable alarm. Place coffee and papers on kitchen counter.
If Hayes is not downstairs by 8 AM, text him. If that fails, you’ll need to go wake him up. Warning: he may have company.
I’m worried I’m missing something, and in truth I’m not even sure I’ve gotten those first few instructions right. The latte has already sloshed on my skirt and I don’t know if I’m supposed to add the sugars myself or if The Dark Lord can actually do that much on his own.
I could check with Jonathan if I really had to, but he’s currently en route to Manila, and I should probably save harassing him for the bigger questions. God knows they’re likely as the day unfolds—if I even last that long. Sitting here in front of Hayes’s Hollywood Hills mansion, I’m starting to feel a little uncertain on that front.
First, because I already hate my boss, which is always a bad sign.
Second, because I really hate his house. I’d expected something more like Hayes himself: clean lines and beautiful angles with pops of lush, unexpected beauty. Instead, it’s the house you’d buy if, perhaps, you got famous off a YouTube song about farting—large enough to house a sizable village and replete with far too many tacky flourishes: fountains, columns, arching windows, turrets. And in a climate where flowering trees and bougainvillea flourish, his only landscaping involves some neatly trimmed hedges and a single, stocky palm, which hints at the exact sort of soullessness I’d expect from someone with his tabloid history.
