Deal with the Devil Read online

  Deal with the Devil

  Meghan March

  Contents

  Deal with the Devil

  Don’t Miss Out!

  Also by Meghan March

  About Deal with the Devil

  1. Forge

  2. India

  3. Forge

  4. India

  5. Forge

  6. India

  7. Forge

  8. India

  9. Forge

  10. India

  11. India

  12. India

  13. Forge

  14. India

  15. Forge

  16. India

  17. Forge

  18. India

  19. Forge

  20. India

  21. Forge

  22. India

  23. India

  24. Forge

  25. India

  26. India

  27. Forge

  28. India

  29. Forge

  30. India

  31. Forge

  32. India

  33. Forge

  34. India

  35. Forge

  36. India

  37. Forge

  38. India

  39. India

  40. India

  41. Forge

  42. India

  43. Forge

  44. India

  45. Forge

  46. India

  47. India

  48. Forge

  49. India

  Preview of Ruthless King

  Also by Meghan March

  About the Author

  Deal with the Devil

  Book One of the Forge Trilogy

  Meghan March

  Copyright © 2018 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing, www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover Design: Letitia Hassar, R.B.A. Designs, www.rbadesigns.com

  Cover Photo: Jerry Silva, JS Photography

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  Don’t Miss Out!

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  Also by Meghan March

  Forge Trilogy:

  Deal with the Devil

  Luck of the Devil

  Heart of the Devil

  Sin Trilogy:

  Richer Than Sin

  Guilty as Sin

  Reveling in Sin

  Mount Trilogy:

  Ruthless King

  Defiant Queen

  Sinful Empire

  Savage Trilogy:

  Savage Prince

  Iron Princess

  Rogue Royalty

  Beneath Series:

  Beneath This Mask

  Beneath This Ink

  Beneath These Chains

  Beneath These Scars

  Beneath These Lies

  Beneath These Shadows

  Beneath The Truth

  Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:

  Dirty Billionaire

  Dirty Pleasures

  Dirty Together

  Dirty Girl Duet:

  Dirty Girl

  Dirty Love

  Real Duet:

  Real Good Man

  Real Good Love

  Real Dirty Duet:

  Real Dirty

  Real Sexy

  Flash Bang Series:

  Flash Bang

  Hard Charger

  Standalones:

  Take Me Back

  Bad Judgment

  About Deal with the Devil

  “You can put that man in a suit, but he’ll never be tame.”

  One look at Jericho Forge, and I knew the rumors were true. He was a predator, and he had set his sights on me.

  I knew better than to bet more than I could afford to lose that night. I knew better than to bet myself. But desperation leads to bad decisions, and I thought there was no way I could lose.

  I was wrong.

  Now I have no choice but to make a deal with the devil.

  Deal with the Devil is the first book in the Forge Trilogy. India and Jericho’s story continues in Luck of the Devil and concludes in Heart of the Devil, both available for preorder now by tapping on the titles.

  1

  Forge

  When a billionaire walks into a room, you feel it. Especially if you’re the billionaire.

  I didn’t intend to be here tonight, but heads turn as I stride across the casino floor and try to block out the scent of tropical-perfumed air Jean Phillippe pumps into his jewel, La Reina de Ibiza.

  They know my name. Know my profile. They think they know everything about me, but they don’t.

  No one does.

  They don’t know I’d rather be on the deck of one of my ships, at the mercy of the open ocean, instead of surrounded by flashing lights and grating chimes indicating someone just won or lost a fortune.

  They’re here to gamble, and I’m here . . . I don’t know why the fuck I’m here. Call it curiosity. Call it a sixth sense. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I don’t like it when someone tries to hide something from me.

  Like this high-stakes game tonight.

  Regardless of whether I’m in residence on my island, less than a mile away from Ibiza, Jean Phillippe sends me an invite to the private games. Always. He never misses an opportunity to bring more money into the casino’s bank. So why, of all the games played at these tables, would my old acquaintance neglect to invite me to this particular one?

  Because somebody doesn’t want me here.

  It won’t be the first time I’ve shown up where I wasn’t wanted. Luckily, I don’t give a fuck what people want.

  Jean Phillippe isn’t stupid, and he knows he’s risking more than my money at his casino if he’s deliberately hiding something from me. My displeasure has made more than one man wish he were dead.

  Ahead of me, the door to the private poker room closes an inch at a time. Once it’s closed, no more players can join the game.

  I pick up my pace and the crowd parts, making way for me. I walk without seeing any of them. They’re merely a blur of dark suit jackets and snowy-white shirts, interspersed with splashes of color from the women and more daring men.

  The slice of light spilling from the doorway narrows, and I clock the exact moment Jean Phillippe sees me. His grip tightens on the knob as his dark eyebrows shoot up toward his silvering hairline.

  In a moment, he recovers his composure, pulling his shoulders back and stepping around the door. It continues inching closed behind him as he pastes a smile on his face like he’s happy to see the biggest whale ever to step foot in this casino.

  The smile’s a lie, and we both know it.

  “My friend! I didn’t think you were in town tonight. I wo
uld’ve—”

  “Bullshit. You don’t want me here, and that tells me I need to be here. Don’t even think about closing that door.”

  Jean Phillippe’s movements still, but he can’t control the emotions playing out across his features. His brown eyes widen as he drops the French accent he intensifies around new marks. “It’s not like that, Forge. You know I wouldn’t—”

  “I’m playing tonight whether you want me here or not.”

  Jean Phillippe inhales sharply, and then exhales like a terminal patient accepting his fate. “This game isn’t one you—”

  “Move, or I’ll move you myself.”

  His chin drops toward his chest. “It wasn’t personal, mon ami,” he says as he steps away from the opening.

  I walk through the doorway and stop dead.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  Bastien de Vere. The entitled trust-fund prick who got away with murder. Literally.

  The hot burn of rage blazes from the pit of my gut until I shut it down. Stone cold. That’s the only way I can keep myself from killing him with my bare hands.

  Death by a thousand cuts. That’s how I’ve made him suffer for fifteen years, and I’ll do it until the day I finally end him. That day is coming, I promise myself. The de Veres’ money and influence won’t last forever. I’m draining it away one penny at a time.

  When de Vere catches sight of me at the door, his shoulders brace and his mouth flattens into a hard line. “Invitation-only game, Forge. And you weren’t invited.”

  The blonde next to him stiffens as de Vere says my name. Even with her head down and no glimpse of her face, she’s stunning. Honey-gold curls lay over her bare, tanned shoulders, leading a man right to her generous tits.

  Fuck. Me.

  She can’t be one of de Vere’s regulars, or I would have already stolen her from him. Unless . . . no, he couldn’t have managed to hide a piece that fine. He’d be showing her off right and left. That means she has to be a new conquest. Maybe someone he’s trying to impress at the table . . .

  Which gives me one more reason to stay and take every penny of his trust fund he’s willing to wager tonight.

  “I don’t need an invitation.” I look to Jean Phillippe. “Do I?”

  “No. No, sir. Of course not. You’re always welcome at La Reina’s tables.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  De Vere glares at me, and I look away from him to scan the rest of the players standing in the room, giving them each a nod. What I see tells me my gut instinct was 100 percent right.

  Something big is going down here.

  Sheikh Ahmed Al Jabal, the oil billionaire whose superyacht I’ve docked next to in Monte Carlo before, nods back at me. He’s a decent enough player, but one with more money than skill, which makes him my favorite kind.

  “Mr. Forge, I hope you brought the money of mine you took in Monaco.”

  “All that and more, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  I shift my attention to the next man—Alejandro Cruz, the American tech billionaire who fancies himself a poker player of the highest order, but mostly just bluffs because he knows more about coding than he does about cards.

  Cruz sits straighter in his chair. “It’s been a while, Forge. Thought you’d decided never to come back to land.”

  “The company is better out to sea.”

  Cruz guffaws. “I wouldn’t doubt that. Good to see you, and it’ll be even better to win some of your money.”

  “Jericho Forge. My old . . . what to call you? Not a friend,” says Dmitri Belevich, a Russian whose ties to the Bratva keep the police from asking too many questions about his luxe playboy lifestyle on Ibiza.

  “Always a pleasure, Belevich.”

  The net worth of these men would add up to more than the GDP of a few small countries combined, which means that my failure to get an invitation to this game is entirely by design. De Vere’s design.

  That fuck.

  I’m happy to ruin his plans for the night.

  “I trust there are no objections to me joining the game, gentlemen.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “I have no problem taking your money, Forge.” This comes from Belevich.

  Cruz and the sheikh both shake their heads, which brings my attention back to de Vere and the woman. He moves in front of her as if trying to shield her from me.

  And he should. Because when it comes to Bastien de Vere, I have no qualms about taking everything he cares about. But who the hell is she? If she were just arm candy, she wouldn’t be allowed a seat at the table, and the stack of chips in front of her says she’s here to play.

  She could be a party favor he planned to use to distract the other men to give himself an advantage. He wouldn’t be the first to employ such a basic tactic.

  “I ob—” de Vere tries to speak, but I cut him off.

  “No one gives a shit what you want, de Vere, especially me.” I step around him to get a better look at the woman.

  I stop beside Cruz, who stands behind the seat next to her. Finally, she looks up, and her vivid purple-blue eyes deliver a punch to my gut—along with a tidal wave of recognition.

  India Baptiste. The former darling of the poker circuit, and the woman who is almost as famous for her royal flush over full house win as she is for telling Bastien de Vere to go fuck himself in front of a roomful of poker royalty.

  When I heard the story, I was amused and intrigued, but not enough to care beyond the entertainment value of de Vere being humiliated. After seeing her in the flesh? Intrigued is only the beginning.

  I nod at the chair in front of Cruz. “You don’t mind sitting on the other side of the table, do you?”

  The dark-haired man smirks. “You want to sit next to Queen Midas? Go right ahead. I’ll probably play better if I don’t.”

  Queen Midas. An apt nickname for a woman who turns her seemingly shitty poker hands to gold with almost legendary regularity.

  A ruthless smile tugs at my lips, but I quash it in favor of studying her the way I would anything else I plan to acquire—like it’s already mine.

  Her gold dress wraps around curves that make a man want to revert to the days when pirates pillaged enemy ships and took what and who they wanted. Because I would definitely fucking take her. Lock her in my cabin. Eradicate every single thought of Bastien de Vere from her brain. She’ll be another trophy I will take from him. Just like I’ve taken everything else that matters to him, one piece at a time.

  “Unless you have an objection, Ms. Baptiste, I’m joining the game.”

  Her indigo eyes flash with heat at my dare, and the fire behind her sharp stare intensifies.

  As a rule, women don’t challenge me. Ever. My billion-dollar portfolio wipes away all pretense of playing hard to get. India Baptiste’s refusal to look away while she considers how to respond will be her downfall.

  Tonight just got a hell of a lot more interesting, and I know exactly how it’s going to end. With the woman Bastien de Vere wants in my bed.

  2

  India

  No. No. No. This can’t be happening. He can’t be here.

  As I stare into Forge’s endless dark gaze, I want to squeeze my eyes shut or at least look away, but I can’t. Instead, I plaster a bored smile on my face as I take a measured breath that’s supposed to be steadying, pretending to consider whether I want him in the game, let alone sitting beside me.

  Instead of calming me, the cloying sweet-scented air of La Reina casino nauseates me. Or maybe that’s because it’s taking everything I have to keep my composure, and I’m already on the verge of losing my shit. I can’t let anyone see how much effort it takes for me to keep myself together, especially Forge.

  I’m the professional here. The only professional here.

  With that reminder, I take another slow breath as I study the man who could ruin all my carefully orchestrated plans.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, Mr. . . .” I tr
ail off, pretending I don’t know his name. Total bullshit, and a ploy to take him down a peg. It probably won’t work, but at least it buys me a few moments of time.

  Unless he knows I’m already bluffing. There can’t be many people in Ibiza who don’t know exactly who Jericho Forge is, which is exactly why I didn’t want him here.

  I’ve watched him play before. Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone on the poker circuit has, because although he’s not a professional card player, he’s a professional victor. I’ve seen him strip every chip from the stacks in front of men at the table with him like a vulture picking clean the bones of a carcass alongside the road.

  Not tonight, though. That’s my job.

  “Jericho Forge,” he says as he holds out a hand. Next to me, I feel Bastien stiffen with fury as I reach to take it. “It’s a pleasure.”