Devil's Vow

Chapter One

Mara

The Boston traffic has reminded me of why I love New York—there are many reasons, but near the top of the list is the fact that I don’t need to own a car.

Since my best friend, Annie, lives a decent ways out of the city proper in the brownstone—practically a mansion—that she and her husband, Elio, purchased together, a car was a necessity for this visit. Elio offered to have a driver come and get me and squire me around, but I declined politely, feeling like that was all a bit… much. Like taking a taxi in New York, but with an added bougie twist that makes even me feel a little uncomfortable, and I’ve never been one to deny myself a little luxury. Besides, it felt a little like having someone watching my every move, waiting for me to be finished so they can take orders from me for my next destination. I like my independence. 

So I got a rental. Now, stuck in traffic on my way back out of the city, I’m starting to wish I’d taken Elio up on his offer. 

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel of my rental car, watching the brake lights ahead of me glow red in the gray February morning, and blow out a frustrated breath. The coffee is probably lukewarm by now—at least the decaf white raspberry latte I got for Annie—and hopefully the pastries that I got from her favorite French bakery will be good even if they’re a bit less fresh. I’d hoped that I’d timed everything perfectly for her surprise—an early morning flight from JFK followed by the rental car pickup, and then the detour to the bakery. I  just thought that weekday traffic would be better, and clearly, I was wrong.

Blowing out a sharp breath, I tap the car’s screen and change my playlist from the more relaxed, classical music I’d been playing earlier to something more upbeat and pop-heavy. Charli XCX blares from the speakers immediately, and I bounce a little in my seat to the beat of the music, trying to keep my spirits up. I’m tired after the flight and a little off thanks to the upheaval in my routine, but it’s all going to be worth it to see Annie’s face when I show up out of the blue. 

She called me a week ago, frustrated and worried, and needing to vent. A few weeks before that, she’d been much happier when she gave me the news that she was pregnant again, barely a year after having her first child with Elio, my adorable honorary ‘niece’ Margaret. But only a short time into the pregnancy, she’s ended up on bedrest. Her body isn’t cooperating this time, she told me, her voice clearly strained. 

From what she said, her first trimester has been brutal—constant nausea, dizziness, and an inability to keep anything down, even putting her in the hospital overnight briefly at the very beginning. Her doctor gave her stern orders to stay in bed for the next few days, and as soon as Annie told me that, I knew exactly what she needed to get her spirits up.

A decaf latte and a chocolate croissant, to start, as well as some girl-time that’s much overdue. We’ve FaceTimed as often as possible since college ended and she went back to Boston while I stayed in New York, but we haven’t seen each other in person in far too long. I’ve heard all about her marriage and how she ended up with her childhood crush after being separated for over a decade, but I want to hear it all again in person, as well as finally meet my little niece.

“I know that, no matter how “fine” she insisted she was, she’s going stir-crazy” in that brownstone with nothing to do but read and watch TV until she’s allowed out of bed. Annie has never been good at sitting still or letting other people take care of her. It's one of the things I love most about her: her fierce independence, that refusal to be anything less than capable. We’re both alike in that way, and we bonded over it when we first met in Art History 101 at Columbia. That initial spark of friendship led to four years of late-night study sessions fueled by cheap wine and music blaring in our dorm room, and it’s never broken, even if she went back home and I went on to grad school. 

The traffic finally starts to move, and I ease the car forward, my pulse picking up as I navigate through the narrow streets and out of the city. I should’ve come to visit months ago, a year ago, really, but my life has been so busy that it’s been difficult. I glance at my phone as the traffic picks up pace, hoping that my assistant, Claire, and her backup, Andrew, are managing in my absence. The gallery has been busier than ever the last two years, collecting a string of high-profile acquisitions and a waiting list of clients. I've been traveling constantly—London, Paris, Dubai—chasing down pieces for collectors who have money but not taste, and need someone to tell them what's worth buying.

But I knew from the moment I heard Annie’s voice on the phone that she needed me, and so I got on a plane.

Finally, thirty minutes later than I planned to arrive, I pull up to the curb in front of her large brownstone. It’s absolutely stunning—four red brick stories with black shutters, and window boxes in front of each of them that I’m sure will be blooming with flowers come spring. The front steps are equally well-kept brick, with a wrought iron railing. 

I finished my coffee on the way here, so I scoop up the box of pastries in one hand and Annie’s coffee in the other, and step out of the car into the frigid February air. I’m eager to get inside and see Annie’s face when she realizes I’m here, but before I get two steps onto the curb, I stop in my tracks.

The first thing I notice is a black SUV with tinted windows idling just slightly ahead of my own car at the curb. There’s nothing particularly out of place about it, but I have an odd feeling when I see it, like a slight prickling of the hairs at the back of my neck. And then, before I can shake off the strangeness of it, the door to Annie and Elio’s brownstone opens, and a man walks out.

The moment I see him, I feel something I never have before— like the world narrows down to the two of us. Just him and me. 

He’s tall and well-dressed, over six feet in a dark charcoal suit that I can tell is expensive and tailored just for him from the way it fits. He moves with a lean grace, like a predatory cat, a leopard maybe, or a panther. Every inch of him exudes confidence and power, a man who very clearly asks for nothing and takes what he pleases.

The kind of man I would typically find insufferable, but for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off of him.

He has a strong face and a clean-shaven jaw, and light blond hair so short it’s nearly buzzed to his scalp. And his eyes—

His eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to breathe.

It feels like touching a live wire. Like every nerve ending in my body suddenly lights up, sparking and crackling with an energy I've never felt before. I've had plenty of relationships that were good, even great, had men who made me laugh and made me come and made me think maybe they could be something more than just brief interludes in my life. But I've never felt this—this instant, visceral recognition, like my body knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.

He pauses, halfway between me and the house, and I watch his jaw tighten. I still can’t see what color his eyes are from where I’m standing, but I can feel the intensity in them. The way he’s focusing on me makes my stomach swoop, something that feels like the buzzing of anxiety but isn’t that tingling over my skin. 

For a moment, neither of us moves. The world has gone silent except for the pounding of my heart, so loud I'm sure he must be able to hear it. I should look away, go back to my car until he’s gone, or just walk past him like a normal fucking person. He’s just a man, I tell myself. He’s no one important or even anyone I know, so why do I feel like I can’t break the grip his gaze has on me? 

My phone rings, shattering the moment.

I jump, fumbling for it in my purse, my hands shaking in a way that pisses me off. I'm not the kind of woman who gets flustered by a man, no matter how gorgeous he is. I glance at the screen, see Claire's name, and answer without thinking, desperate for something to ground me.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice thankfully coming out steadier than I expected.

"Mara, thank God." Claire sounds breathless, excited in the way she gets when something big is happening. "The Monet just became available. The one from the private collection in Geneva. The owner's estate is finally ready to sell, but they want to move fast. Like, this week fast. I need you to—"

“Claire, I just got into Boston and to Annie’s house,” I interrupt, glancing up at the brownstone. The man is no longer standing there, and my heart gives a disappointed flip before I look toward the SUV and see him sliding into it. I swear I can still feel him looking at me, even through the tinted windows. "I told you I'd be out of town for a few days."

"I know, but this is huge. This could be the biggest acquisition of the year. The owner is asking for—"

The SUV pulls away from the curb, and I watch it go, my heart still racing. I should be relieved he’s gone. I should be focusing on what Claire is saying, not thinking about a handsome stranger on a Boston sidewalk. But all I can think about is the way that man looked at me, like he was memorizing every detail of my face. Like he was claiming something that belonged to him.

"Mara? Are you listening?"

"Yes," I lie, shaking my head to clear it. "Send me the details. I'll look at them tonight, and we can talk tomorrow."

"But—"

"Tomorrow, Claire. I promise."

I hang up before she can argue and stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where the SUV was parked. My hands are still shaking. My pulse is still racing. I have no idea why a thirty-second encounter with a stranger has left me feeling like I've just run a marathon.

Get it together, Winslow.

I draw in a breath, trying to shake off the strange encounter. I’ll never see him again, so why am I still thinking about it?

And why does the thought that he’s gone forever make me feel as if there’s something hollow in my stomach? 

The brownstone's front steps are steep, and I take them carefully in my heeled boots, balancing the pastry box in one hand while I reach for the doorbell with the other. A moment later, the door swings open. 

A middle-aged woman in neat black pants and a button-down shirt opens the door, smiling at me. “Mr. Cattaneo said you would be arriving this morning. Mara?”

“That’s me.” I step inside, ignoring how odd it still seems to me to have a housekeeper. I can’t imagine having staff, although I know Annie has lived in households with staff her whole life. “Where’s Annie?”

“Upstairs, second floor, first bedroom on the left. I can show you—”

“I’m sure I can find it,” I assure her. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Before she can argue, I hurry toward the stairs, a gorgeous wrought-iron and mahogany staircase that curves up to the second floor. I make my way up, heels clicking on the shiny wood, and knock on the first door on the left.

“Come in?” I hear Annie’s tired voice from inside, and I nudge the door open, stepping into the bedroom.

I can smell woodsmoke from a fireplace at one end of the room—that’s one luxury I wouldn’t mind stealing for my own apartment, a fireplace in the bedroom—and the lavender scent of a candle. Annie is in the massive four-poster bed with a pale blue duvet tucked around her and a mountain of pillows behind her, and the moment she sees me, she sits straight up.

"Mara!"

She’s wearing silk long-sleeved pajamas and a cashmere robe, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so happy to see me that I forget all about the man and the SUV.

"Surprise!" I hold up the pastry box. "I brought breakfast."

She pulls me into a hug as I approach after setting down the coffee and food on the side table, squeezing me tightly as I carefully embrace her back. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes.

"You didn't have to come all this way," she says, but she's smiling, and I can see the relief in her face. I’m sure she’s been lonely when Elio isn’t home, trapped in this house with nothing to do but worry about the baby and try to keep herself occupied. 

"Of course I did," I tell her, following her inside. "You're my best friend. What else would I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know—but I do know you have plenty to do that’s more important than coming to Boston to entertain me.”

“Not in the slightest,” I promise her, handing her the latte as I flip open the pastry box.

“Oh, you didn’t!” Annie exclaims. “Oh my god, I’ve been craving those like crazy, but I’ve felt so bad sending someone out for them when I’m not even sure what I can keep down these days.”

“Well,l if you throw them back up, I won’t be insulted,” I promise teasingly, setting a croissant on a cream-colored napkin and handing it to her. “How are you feeling? You look good.” Her cheeks have a nice amount of color in them, and she doesn’t look as if she’s lost too much weight. 

"I look like I haven't left the house in a week," Annie says, but she's smiling as she takes the pastry. "Oh my God, you got the chocolate croissants. I love you."

"I know you do." I take a croissant of my own and perch on the end of the bed, exactly as we used to do in our dorm years ago. "So tell me everything. How was the honeymoon? How's Elio and Margaret? How are you really feeling?"

Annie brightens, immediately launching into a story about her honeymoon with Elio, the beautiful sunsets and delicious food. I listen and laugh and try to focus on what she’s saying. But part of my mind is still outside, still standing on the sidewalk, still locked in that moment with the stranger.

I could mention him. I should ask Annie if she knows who he was, if Elio had a meeting this morning, if there's any reason a man in a multi-thousand-dollar suit would be leaving her house at nine in the morning. But something stops me. This is the first time I’ve seen my friend in person in well over two years, and I don’t want one of the first things we talk about to be a man, especially not some stranger. And Annie is so animated, talking about her honeymoon and about Margaret, her shoulders relaxing and the worry lines at the corners of her eyes smoothing out. I don’t want to bring anything up that might taint it. What if the man was someone she or Elio don’t particularly like? Or what if she would just warn me away from him?

I’m never going to see him again anyway. I’m going back to New York in a few days, and I have no interest in trying something long-distance. Better to keep it as an odd, romantic moment than spoil it with reality. 

"Mara? You okay?"

I blink, realizing Annie has stopped talking and is looking at me with concern. "Yeah, sorry. Just tired from the flight."

"You sure? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I lie, taking a bite of my croissant. "Just thinking about work. Claire called on my way here about a Monet that just became available."

Annie's eyes light up. "A Monet? That's huge."

"It could be. If the price is right and the provenance checks out." I shrug with a smile. "But enough about work. I'm here for you. What do you need? What can I do?"

We spend the next hour talking and laughing, and slowly, the strangeness of the morning fades. Annie tells me about Margaret’s latest milestones—she's walking now, getting into everything—and promises that I’ll get to meet her later. 

I tell her about the gallery, about a recent show and some new, exciting clients, and a trip to Paris that was half business, half pleasure. Annie listens with a girlish excitement as I tell her about the handsome Frenchman I met at dinner my first day in the city, that I spent every night with until I left after that. 

The conversation is easy and happy and comfortable, the way it always is with Annie. She’s one of those friends who, no matter how long we go without seeing each other in person or even if we go a while without finding time to talk to each other, our friendship never feels as if it’s lessened or been chipped away at. We complement each other well. She’s warm and open and optimistic, whereas I tend to be more reserved and guarded, and suspicious. We balance each other out, and I can't imagine my life without her in it.

"I'm so glad you're here," Annie says, reaching across the bed to squeeze my hand. "I've been going crazy stuck in this house. Elio means well, but he treats me like I'm going to break if I move too fast. And the doctor was very insistent that I stay in bed until my next appointment."

"He’s just worried, I’m sure. After all, you guys were apart for so long, and now—I’m sure he’s worried that something might happen to you.”

“You have no idea.” Annie gives a little laugh. “But you know me. I like to do things myself."

"I do know you." I smile at her. "Which is why I'm here. To keep you company and make sure you don't go completely insane."

"You're the best." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you sure you're okay? You still seem a little off."

I open my mouth to brush off her concern again, but something in her expression stops me. Annie knows me too well. She can always tell when I'm hiding something. But I can't tell her about the man—I can't explain something I don't understand myself.

"Just tired," I say finally. "And worried about you. But I'm fine. Really."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she lets it go, and we move on to talking about her pregnancy. She shows me pictures of how she wants to decorate the nursery, and I show her my new apartment in Manhattan, that I moved into recently, in a nicer part of town than I was in before.

“It’s been a good year.” I flick through the photos, showing her the 1920s accents in the apartment that I fell in love with. “I finally felt confident enough to move out of the studio I rented during grad school.”

“Finally,” Annie teases. “I thought you were going to live there forever.”

“It was rent-controlled.” I laugh. “But it was time I gave myself some more space, and I’m sure someone else will love it. Another student who needs that kind of thing more than I do now.”

Even as the morning wears on, though, and we talk for hours, I can’t completely shake the feeling that the encounter left me with. It felt as if something shifted, changed, and I’m left with a sensation that has me feeling slightly off-kilter hours after the meeting—if you can even call it that—actually took place. 

I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. It was just a look. Just a moment of attraction to a handsome stranger. But I keep thinking about him—the intensity in his eyes, the way my body responded, hot and electric, drawn to him as if there was something inevitable about him. 

About the way he'd looked at me like I was already his.