Dance with the Devil: A Dark Standalone Romance (The Midnight Series Book 1)
Dance with the Devil: Chapter 2

Frankie

As someone who didn’t grow up with a lot of money, the notion of first class has always seemed silly to me. We’re all in the same tin canister flying through the air at five hundred miles an hour. No amount of crystal champagne flutes or wide, leather seats would change that. But as I’m whisked up the coastline of California, sipping fancy champagne and eating a delicious edamame salad with goat’s cheese and beets, I realize that I might have to change my mind about luxury travel. By the time we land a little over an hour later, I’m properly buzzed and smiling my way through baggage claim and the rest of SFO airport.

As I come down the escalator into the arrivals area, I’m surprised to replace an older man in a suit carrying a sign with my name.

Francesca Bristow

I roll my eyes as I walk up. Despite two years of signing my emails off with ‘Frankie,’ Doctor Devil still insists on calling me by my full name—something only my mom does when she’s scolding me.

“Ms. Bristow?” the man asks, eyeing me as I approach him.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Clark. How was your flight?” He takes my suitcase and we walk out of the airport toward the parking garage.

My mind is still spinning from the champagne on board, so I have to refrain from being dramatic and telling Clarke that it was the last sliver of freedom I’ll have for two hundred and forty hours.

“Fine.”

Once we get to his car, he loads my suitcase into the trunk and opens the back door of the luxury Mercedes vehicle.

“It’s about thirty minutes to the Four Seasons,” he informs me after I climb inside and shut the door.

“Okay.”

I realize I’d never gotten an email with my room confirmation, and I spend the next few minutes searching my spam folder. Nothing. Just as my thumb hovers over the button to lock my phone, an email from Doctor Devil comes through.

Francesca,

I assume your flight was okay and that you’re on your way to the hotel. Once you arrive, please come straight to my room. It’s the presidential suite. Reception will be expecting you.

-Dr. Kincaid

I groan as we drive through the city. He can’t even give me a damn minute to decompress in my own room? What could possibly be so urgent that he needs me the instant I get to the hotel? I’m fully aware of the itinerary for the next ten days, so I know what today entails. It’s arrival day, which means there’s an optional luncheon at noon. That’s in thirty minutes, and it shouldn’t require my presence as his virtual assistant. I’m also in an old pair of Vans, sloppy black sweatpants, and a matching sweatshirt. I opted for complete comfort because I assumed I’d have time to change.

I’m sure the devil will appreciate my messy bun and makeup-less face.

Screw him.

I’m still seething when Clark pulls up to the Four Seasons, and I instantly resent Doctor Devil for making me so mad that I missed out on seeing the cityscape out the window.

I say goodbye to Clark and just as I turn to face the hotel, three people come up to me. A man takes my bag, another man escorts me to reception, and the third hands me a hot towel for my face, which I gladly accept so that I can look more presentable for my demanding boss. Two receptionists greet me by name, and it surprises me so much that I stop walking momentarily. Fancy hotels and their fancy ways of knowing things…

“We’ll take your bag up,” one of them says, and the other asks me questions about my flight and if I have any dietary restrictions. I say no, and then they hand me a hot chocolate chip cookie.

I could get used to this.

“Right this way, miss,” a man in a fancy bellboy outfit says, pushing my bag on a gilded trolley and gesturing for me to follow him into an elevator marked PRIVATE. “I’ll bring your bag up to Dr. Kincaid’s room.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You can leave it in my room.”

“Very well,” he says politely, and then he uses his fancy key card to send the elevator up to the top floor.

There are only two buttons—one that says L for Lobby, and one that says P, presumably the presidential suite.

“Does the president actually stay here?” I ask, bemused.

“Yes, miss. Many sitting presidents have stayed in this very room.”

“Wow,” I whisper.

Okay, that’s cool, too.

Once the elevator doors open, the panic cuts through all the residual buzz I had going on.

Fuck, I’ve never met Doctor Devil in person, and this is actually happening.

At least as his virtual assistant, I had the option to turn my camera off during a Zoom call if needed, or take a few deep breaths to calm my angry, racing heart after an insulting email. But in person? I can’t be held accountable for my facial expressions. If he pisses me off in real time, there’s a very good chance that I’ll say something equally snarky back.

Either that or I’ll burst into tears.

He’d made me cry several times this year alone, and it’s only March.

Smoothing my flyaways and checking my phone camera quickly, I make sure I look halfway decent as the bellboy and I walk down a long hallway.

Deep breaths, Frankie.

I can keep my fucking shit together until I’m alone in my own hotel room, screaming into a pillow.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I can do this.

The bellboy raps on the door three times, giving me a reassuring smile as I hear a pair of footsteps sound from the other side.

Oh, god, here goes nothing…

The door swings open, and I’m momentarily speechless.

Doctor Devil is painfully handsome. And not just regular handsome like I assumed he was through the screen on our video calls. Of course not, because that would be too easy.

No, Dr. Dante Kincaid is hard to look at, because everything about him is perfect.

I don’t even know where to start, and I don’t want to be caught staring, so I focus my attention on his thick, muscled forearms and the… tattoos. My eyes nearly bug out of my head at that.

Tattoos!

My mind is officially blown that the uptight asshole who bosses me around has tattoos—a whole snake on his forearm, by the looks of it.

He’s wearing a white button-up that’s basically a second skin and fitted black slacks. A thin, black belt hugs his narrow hips, and he has black dress shoes on.

I am indeed in trouble, because tatted guys who wear suits are my kryptonite, and my mouth is dry because I can’t reconcile the man before me with the Doctor Devil who makes me want to cry on a daily basis. His shirt is unbuttoned around his neck, and he’s not wearing a tie. His short beard is trimmed neatly and his dark brown hair has flecks of gold in it. He has a silver smartwatch wrapped around one wrist, and as my eyes drift back over to his tattoos, someone clears their throat.

I snap my head up just as the bellboy begins speaking, but I hardly hear him. Doctor Devil’s voice isn’t something I hear all the time—we correspond mainly via email, and once a month we’ll have a brief phone call—but it seems lower in person than it is over Zoom. He must’ve just told him to bring the suitcase inside, and then he stands to the side as the bellboy pushes the gilded luggage cart into his suite.

As he crosses his arms, his bright green eyes replace mine, thick brows framing his very serious expression.

“How was your flight?” he asks me, his voice low and unamused.

“Oh, um—” I rasp, clearing my throat. “Good, thanks.”

Doctor Devil’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but before he can invite me inside, the bellboy walks back over to us.

“Suitcase is in the master bedroom, Dr. Kincaid. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

Doctor Devil pulls a hundred-dollar bill out of nowhere and shakes the bellboy’s hand. “Thanks, Dominic,” he adds, giving him a genuine smile that has me reeling.

I didn’t realize demons were capable of smiling.

As the bellboy walks away, I realize with a start that he said he put the suitcase in the master bedroom…

Doctor Devil’s master bedroom.

“Wait! Sorry, is it possible to put my suitcase in my room?” I ask the bellboy just as he starts to walk away.

“We can go down to reception and get it sorted on the way to lunch,” Dr. Kincaid says, looking between the bellboy and me.

“Of course, sir,” the bellboy says, dipping his head before he exits the room.

The door snicks shut, and the silence is deafening. I look at Dr. Kincaid but he just turns and walks away, leaving me standing by the door in the living room area.

I have to pee, but of course it might be rude to insinuate that I can use his bathroom, so I just stand there awkwardly as I pretend to admire the generic and bland art on the walls. My eyes catch on a photograph of an orchid, and something in my throat catches.

I’ve always loved orchids…

“Do you need anything before we go down to lunch?” Dr. Kincaid calls out from what I presume to be the master bedroom.

“Uh, I need to use the bathroom, but I can just go later. I don’t want to use yours,” I explain, clasping my hands together in front of me.

Dr. Kincaid walks out of the bedroom with a tie looped around his neck, and his large, muscled hands work and knot the black material methodically. His green eyes flick up to mine, and he looks annoyed.

“Please feel free to use the restroom, Francesca,” he says, practically scoffing. “We probably won’t have time once we get you checked in.”

“Thanks,” I say quickly, rushing to the large en suite off the living area.

Once inside, I close and lock the door as I let out a slow breath of air. Leaning against the counter, I take a few steadying breaths to compose myself.

I can do this.

Using the toilet quickly, I flush and go to wash my hands. Doctor Devil’s things are sitting tidily next to one of the porcelain sinks, and as I wash my hands in the other sink, my eyes peruse his products.

Fancy toothpaste. Electric toothbrush. Expensive cologne. An orange prescription bottle… my curiosity gets the best of me, and I quietly twist the bottle around. Clonazepam.

Pulling my phone out, I do the world’s quickest internet search. It doesn’t tell me much—the medication could be needed for anything from seizures to panic disorder and anxiety. And seeing as Doctor Devil is a psychiatrist, he’s very well-versed in mental illnesses and which medications to take for what. A sharp pang of sympathy flashes through me, and I quickly set the bottle back down and turn to my reflection. As I smooth my hair down, I think of what he could be taking the medication for. Ari battles anxiety on the daily, so I know just how exhausting it can be. Plus, I’ve been prone to random panic attacks ever since everything happened three years ago.

“All finished?” Dr. Kincaid asks from the other side of the door, startling me.

All the sympathy from just a second ago disappears immediately as I roll my eyes and pull the door open. Is it possible to pee in peace? Apparently not.

“Yeah, all good now,” I tell him, trying to keep the bite out of my voice. “I’ll grab my suitcase,” I tell him, walking toward the bedroom.

“No need. I’ll have them move it.”

I stand up straighter. “I don’t mind. I packed light, and there’s no point in having someone come all the way up here to move a bag⁠—”

“I said I’ll have them move it,” he says calmly, voice low. “It’s their job, Francesca, and I always make it worth their while,” he adds, standing taller and placing his hands in the pockets of his pants.

“All right. You can call me Frankie, by the way,” I reply, setting my backpack down and readjusting my purse strap.

He ignores me and walks to the door, and I let out an unamused huff of laughter.

Well, all right then.

The elevator ride is just as awkward as the last ten minutes. Dr. Kincaid checks his phone and I do the same, but the air is thick with something I can’t identify. At one point, I feel his eyes on me, but when I look up, he’s glancing back down at his phone, scowling at whatever he’s looking at.

Maybe he’s rude because he has anxiety. Maybe he’s one of those people who can’t mask his feelings, and he’s just screaming internally all the time with stress and frustration. Or maybe something happened to make him this way? Whatever the case, he’s just as rigid and tense as I expected him to be. Letting my eyes wander over him briefly, I take in the tattoos.

What do they mean?

The snake tattoo, especially, has my mind spinning with possibilities. Just as I’m about to look away, his eyes snap up to mine, and the dark energy there turns my blood to ice.

My mother always used to tell me that I was sensitive and intuitive to my surroundings. We once didn’t go on a road trip to Arizona when I was fifteen because I had a dream about a car wreck. The day we were supposed to leave, fourteen people died on the freeway we would’ve taken. It was a pileup, and she always said I saved our lives that day.

And right now, there’s something… enigmatic and shadowy about the way Doctor Devil is looking at me. Just as my mouth drops open in surprise, the doors slide open, and he exits the elevator.

I have goosebumps, and I rub my arms to get rid of them.

Following a step behind him, we make our way to reception. Once there, I hang back as Dr. Kincaid speaks to one of the receptionists. There are quite a few people hanging around the lobby, all wearing their name tags for the convention. I make a mental note to check in with someone about ours like the good little assistant that I am. A minute later, Dr. Kincaid comes back with a grim expression on his face.

“Unfortunately, they’ve overbooked the hotel and there are no more rooms.”

I shrug. “That’s okay. I think there’s another hotel down the street. We can try for a room there?”

He shakes his head. “That one is also full. As are the other hotels in the vicinity.”

I open and close my mouth in surprise, but I don’t panic. Living with my mother—a flighty artist who could never seem to plan anything—has made me extremely adaptable and easygoing.

“I’m fine staying anywhere. I can always take a taxi in every day⁠—”

Dr. Kincaid drops an arm at his side and takes a step closer. “I need you close by. You can share my room. I can sleep on the couch and you can take the bedroom,” he says, one hand curling into a fist. The expression on his face is authoritative and doesn’t leave any room for argument. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than fighting downtown traffic every day.”

“I—um—” I shake my head, rejecting that this is my only choice. I deal with this kind of shit every day. For him. I’m a problem solver, and I will solve this. “One second. Let me go talk to them.”

I stomp away like a toddler about to melt down, because the very last thing I want is to share a hotel room with Doctor Devil. Plus, my buzz is starting to burn into a sleepy hungover feeling; I’m tired, and I want to shower.

My heart is pounding as I walk up to one of the receptionists. “Hi, I wanted to inquire about if there were any more rooms?” I ask politely. “I think my boss mentioned my room was oversold,” I add, looking behind me.

“I apologize, miss. We don’t have any extra rooms for the duration of the conference, but if anything changes, I can add you to the wait list. Your boss already requested a rollaway bed, and the suite should be fine for two adults. Is that okay?” she asks, eyes imploring. “The conference is one of the largest ones we have in this area every year, so you’ll likely replace the same thing at all the nearby hotels.”

Fuck.

“Okay, thank you.”

I slowly walk back to Doctor Devil, lips thin and heart galloping a mile a minute. Sharing a room with him—with my boss—for ten days…

Oh god. We’d have to share a bathroom.

“So?” he asks, voice dripping with condescension.

“No more rooms.”

He stands up straighter. “Hm. That’s too bad.” His tone is mocking.

Before I can respond, he walks away, and I contemplate how many times I’d stab him if I had a knife right this very moment.

I follow him reluctantly, barely keeping up with his quick stride.

“I promise I don’t bite, Francesca,” he says smoothly as we walk down a long hallway toward the welcome lunch.

I don’t respond, because what the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Once inside the large dining room, Dr. Kincaid collects our name tags and hands mine to me. Francesca Bristow. I make a mental note to cross Francesca out and write Frankie, just to spite him. I’m too distracted scheming to realize how we’re ushered to the VIP table, front and center. Swallowing, I quickly glance around. Everyone’s in suits and dresses, and then there’s me in sweatpants.

Annoyance claws through me. Why didn’t he tell me I should’ve changed?

Sitting down at one of the spots, Doctor Devil makes small talk with some of the others at our table before sitting to my immediate right. They all have an air of importance about them, and like Dr. Kincaid, they’re probably private psychiatrists that charge one thousand dollars for a consultation. Because I do his accounting, I know exactly how much he makes every year. He’s easily a millionaire, and I both resent and admire him for it. He does take insurance, but the majority of his income comes from people paying privately—usually an elite, privacy-seeking clientele who can afford the exorbitant fees. One of the reasons I took the job two years ago was because he also offered pro bono consultations for those who couldn’t afford his fees. It’s a nice thing to do, and if he weren’t such a dick, I might replace him commendable, but alas… the vast majority of the time, he’s an asshole.

It’s such a juxtaposition that he’s willing to do nice things when he’s such an ass.

“You look cozy,” an older man says from across the table. His name tag says Alan Pierce with a bunch of titles behind it.

My cheeks heat. Just as I open my mouth to explain the situation, Dr. Kincaid glances over at the man.

“We had a bit of a mishap with our reservation,” he says. “Francesca didn’t have a chance to change.”

Well, I wasn’t given an opportunity to change, but okay.

“I see. So, Francesca, how is it dealing with Dante’s grumpy demeanor day in and day out?”

I clench my jaw to keep from laughing, and when I flick my eyes to Dr. Kincaid, he’s watching Dr. Pierce with narrowed eyes.

“It’s sort of like having a toddler,” I say quickly, smirking slightly. “But I manage.”

I take a sip of water before looking at Dr. Kincaid, and his lips twitch as his eyes continue to bore into Dr. Pierce’s.

“Do you have children?” Dr. Pierce asks.

My heart pangs. I briefly look down at my white napkin and debate how to answer this, just like every other time it comes up. Instead of being honest, I keep it easy and light. Besides, Dr. Kincaid doesn’t know about my past, and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“No,” I answer, smiling despite my stomach dropping.

“Married?” he asks, and again, that familiar tug of uncomfortableness rears its head.

Why is it that important men always manage to make me feel small and like my only worth is tied to kids and/or having a husband?

“No.”

“Stop interrogating my assistant,” Dr. Kincaid says, mouth quirking into a small, cruel smile.

“If you ever want to work for someone who has an ounce of humor, just let me know,” Dr. Pierce says to me, winking. “I’m currently looking for a new assistant and I’ll double what this guy pays you.”

My mouth drops open at the outright attempt to poach me, but before I can decline his offer, Dr. Kincaid presses his hands flat on the table and glares at Dr. Pierce.

“She works for me and only me, Alan.”

His voice is low and possessive… territorial, almost. My eyes dart between them and they’re both staring at each other with such intensity that I clear my throat.

“I’m very happy with Doctor Dev—Kincaid,” I say, quickly covering up my mistake.

Dr. Pierce shrugs, and Dr. Kincaid leans back in his seat. His eyes replace mine, and again, something dark swirls behind them.

I have to look away to distract myself from the way my stomach clenches every time he gives me that look.

The lunch passes quickly, with a keynote speaker talking about the importance of psychiatry and the mental health crisis in the U.S. I pay attention in case Dr. Kincaid isn’t, though every time I look over at him, he’s watching the speaker politely with his hands in his lap. The keynote mentions a few of the standout publications, including Dr. Kincaid’s most recent article on sleep disorders in The Lancet Psychiatry. I dip my chin and raise my glass when he looks at me, because I helped him with a lot of the publication process.

I keep my eyes trained on the stage, because if I’m distracted, I’m not paying attention to how Dr. Kincaid has been looking in my direction for most of the lunch. I make more small talk with the man on my left, and once I begin eating my dessert, I realize that most of the people in attendance here are men—I’m the only woman at our table, for starters.

A folder is passed around to all of the attendees after dessert, and it contains a full schedule of the ten-day event. The actual conference is five days, and then we all get a two-day break to explore the city over the weekend before one-on-one meetings begin next Monday through Wednesday. A lot of these meetings are for colleagues, or possible collaborations. There’s an optional two-day event at Alcatraz that’s open to the public which focuses on incarceration and the mental health effects of the prison system in the U.S., but I don’t think we’re signed up for that.

It will be a long and tiring ten days, but at least most of the sessions end at three, so I can explore the city in the late afternoons while Dr. Kincaid catches up on work.

I’m still looking over the schedule when Dr. Kincaid stands up and gestures for me to follow him. Everyone is dispersing away from the tables, and when I grab my purse and walk out of the dining room, I have to practically jog to keep up with him.

“We have an hour break before the first session starts. I don’t need you for anything, so please go back to the room and change,” he says curtly, reaching into his back pocket and producing a room key. “Please meet me in the lobby in fifty minutes and bring your laptop to take any relevant notes.”

I take the room key from him, and our fingers brush just briefly. Jerking back at the touch—which feels electric, somehow—I take a step back and nod once.

“Sounds good.”

He walks past me without another word, and I chew on my lower lip the entire ride up.

This is going to be a long ten days.