"Sleek sexy and fun."
--Susan Sizemore, author of Primal Desires

AFTER THREE THOUSAND YEARS OF ONE-NIGHT STANDS, A GIRL JUST WANTS A LITTLE MORE.

Working for Satan is a hot gig. The Devil really does wear Prada, and Lily can sport all the dazzling fashion she desires, eat all the fabulous food she craves, and hang for all eternity with her three demon girlfriends. But serving up bad boys to the fiery pits of Hell is just getting . . . lonely.

Lily gives the jerks, the creeps, and the liars the best (and last) night of their lives, but she's tired of waking up to a pile of ashes. She wants a guy who will stick around.

BUT A MYSTERIOUS MAN IS TURNING UP THE HEAT. . . .

Nathan Coleman is a devilishly handsome, laid-back P.I. who wants to ask Lily a few questions about a missing man. But someone--or something--wants Lily and her friends dead, and Nathan seems to know more than he'll admit to. Can a sweet-talking mortal and a girl from Hell find true love?

From the Paperback edition.

There I was on a Saturday night, dressed up in Prada and ready to go out, to our new favorite club in the Meatpacking District when the phone rang. It was my friend Sybil, very contrite, to say that she was down with a nasty cold and really could not make it out. And that I was welcome to come over and share her chicken soup and her germs but she was planning on bed before the A crowd would even arrive at the velvet ropes. So my choices were to stay home and watch reruns or hunt. I'd already seen everything in the latest Netflix order and I was already dressed. And I just didn't want to look at the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink or admit to wasting forty minutes on my makeup.

So hunt it was.

A convention is always easy hunting. Like any New Yorker, I don't like the invasion from out of state, gawkers who stand in the middle of the sidewalk staring up at the high buildings and blocking traffic, to say nothing of display windows. The out-of-towners are so wary, watching their wallets and their keys and trying to look behind their backs--but they never worry about me when I show up.

I took a taxi to a hotel near the Port Authority with a scuzz factor to match the address. The lobby and bar were crowded with bored-looking men in Arrow polyester shirts and bad toupees. Old Spice overlaid but did not mask the scent of disinfectant and I had to resist the impulse to gag.

They turned to look at me. They always do. I am a succubus, and they can't help it. But I knew that my clothes were way over the top for this crowd. Suddenly I was tired and depressed and thought the reruns looked appealing after all. Then I spotted my prey.

I don't make the judgment calls, I just deliver the goods. That's the way I think about the job. But like everyone else, I'm trying to make the world a little nicer, a little safer, so I choose men who make it . . . less nice. There he was, sitting at the bar, hooting and leering and whistling when I entered. He did it again when another woman made the mistake of passing the doors and that decided me. I walked over to him and leaned against the faux leather edging and tried to get the bartender's attention.

I ordered a Jack Daniel's. Somehow with these guys, that seems to indicate that I'm available and not quite respectable. I always order Jack Daniel's but I never drink it, and it did the trick again. Before I could get the change from the twenty into my wallet he was all over me.

"Hey baby, come here often?" he asked.

And that clinched his fate. I hate to be called baby, hate it more than almost anything else. Then, to seal it in stone, he reached around and fondled my ass. Yes, the women of the world could definitely do without him.

I smiled. "What's your name? Where are you from?" They always talk about themselves and never notice that they hear nothing about me. They think that they fascinate me and they've thought it for thousands of years. And for nearly that long they have been my prey, my mission.

His name was Brad and he was from . . . someplace that wouldn't miss him. Suddenly I was bored and wanted it over. No use playing the game, luring the prey, making it appear that I had to be caught and seduced and that I was overwhelmed with his charm. Or charisma. Or whatever. "Shall we go upstairs?" I asked when he paused to breathe.

And then he blushed and looked at the condensation on the bar. "I, ummm, well, my friend said we could save money on our per diem if we shared a room and he's a serious Christian and friendly with the boss . . . could we go somewhere else?"

"We could go to my place." I hate taking them to my place.

He...

 

A third-generation Manhattanite, Nina Harper grew up in a family that had been in the fashion business for fifteen generations. She did not leave the city until, at sixteen, she went to study in France, where she learned shopping in the finest boutiques, and in Rome, where she discovered the joys of Italian clothes and shoes. Today Harper lives a short subway ride from Barney's, Kate Spade, and Versace. Since a girl can't shop and sip cocktails all the time, she teaches at a local university.

From the Paperback...