Falling Angel

by Anne Stuart

  She'd reached the door, pulled it open, but his arm shot out and slammed it. She spun around, leaning up against it, staring at him. He wasn't much taller than she was, and in his cool, determined face she could still see the look of a lost child. One she wanted to comfort.

  He stood there, his arms imprisoning her, his body not touching her. "It's up to you, Carrie," he said in a low voice. "Do you want me to let you go?"

  He was warm. No, he was hot. He was staring at her out of pale, sensual eyes, and for the first time in her life she felt intense sexual attraction.

  She would have denied it. She would have fought it, but her brain had melted, and somehow she thought that if she didn't take it, seize it, seize the moment, then the chance would never come again.

  "No," she said, staring at him.

  "No, what?"

  "No, I don't want you to let me go."

  He smiled then, a slow, cool smile that should have warned her. And then he set his mouth against hers, and no force in heaven or on earth could have stopped her.

  He tasted of whisky. He tasted of coffee. He tasted of anger and despair. And all she wanted to taste was love.

  She didn't want to remember that night, but there were times when it still haunted her, sleepless nights when she could feel his hands on her body.

  He'd pulled her down onto the thick shag carpet and taken her fully dressed, only her serviceable cotton underwear flung away. He'd taken her on the leather sofa, naked, slippery, with the city lights all around them. He'd taken her leaning against the sink of his private washroom, he'd taken her in the marble shower stall. He'd taken her, had sex with her, shown her things she hadn't even imagined about her body that she thought she knew so well. The only thing he hadn't done was make love to her.

  She had no illusions when she left just before dawn, left him sprawled and sleeping on the wide leather sofa, a cashmere blanket thrown over him. He hadn't allowed her to say a word of love, of affection, he hadn't allowed a caress from her. She was the recipient of his angry passion.

  She was late to work the next morning. By the time she reached the office the other secretaries were bustling around importantly, and Megan greeted her with a grimace. "You had to pick today of all days to be late?" she questioned caustically.

  Carrie wasn't about to give her the real reason. "It's Christmas Eve. No one does much business on Christmas Eve."

  "You forget we're working for the Grinch. He was already at work when I arrived here this morning, and he's in the midst of dismantling one of his recent acquisitions. Nice job for the Christmas season."

  Carrie had known. The sense of disaster had hung about her like a dark angel from the moment she'd left his arms that morning, and she'd tried to fight it off. "What do you mean?"

  "You know as well as I do what he does," Megan snapped. "He buys up companies and guts them for parts, makes a huge profit, and leaves disaster in his wake. Lord knows why he picked on a small factory in Minnesota for destruction. There must be a profit in it somewhere."

  "Where in Minnesota?" She barely recognized her voice.

  "That's right, you come from around there, don't you?" Megan popped a chocolate into her mouth, staring at her coolly. "It's a place called Precision Industries in Angel Falls. He's sold the equipment to a company in Utah, he's closing the plant, and right now he's deciding between an offer from someone to dismantle the building for scrap or to just leave it a rusting hulk as a tax loss. Nice Christmas gift for that town."

  "I have to see him."

  "As a matter of fact—" Megan sounded a little more human "—I'm afraid he's got a little Christmas gift for you." She handed Carrie a long envelope.

  Carrie just stared at it for a moment. She didn't want to take it, but the other two women in the office were watching her, as well, and the only thing she could salvage was her pride.

  She took it with a brief, unconcerned smile. "I need to talk to him."

  Megan shook her head. "He said no. I've already cleared your desk for you. You'll find your severance package more than generous. You can continue with your medical coverage, and you've got severance pay…"

  Carrie opened the envelope. The check was there, insultingly large. Along with a scrawled note. One word, written in his bold, slashing handwriting. "Sorry."

  Carrie ripped the envelope in half and dropped it onto the floor. "I don't need any benefits," she said. "I just want to see him."

  "He's authorized me to call security if you prove difficult."

  Carrie just looked at her. Without a word, she turned and walked from the building, leaving the pathetic box of her belongings behind her, leaving her heart and her innocence behind her.

  She hated him. She wanted to kill him, she who was the gentlest of creatures. He'd destroyed her, he'd destroyed her town, for nothing more than a whim and a profit. She had no illusions about why he'd fired her. She'd seen him at his most vulnerable last night. He wouldn't want a reminder of that.

  And he wasn't even man enough to face her, to tell her himself. He let his secretary do the dirty work, and if she had any sense at all she'd hate him. And she would, as soon as she got over the shock, as soon as her mind settled, as soon as she realized…

  She'd never seen the taxi. One moment she was struggling for her sanity, the next she was struggling for her life. By the time she was well enough to think about Emerson Wyatt MacVey, he was already dead of a heart attack. And all she could do was cry.

  She hadn't wanted to think about him, Carrie thought, staring out into the snowy Minnesota countryside. She thought she'd been able to put him out of her mind, concentrating instead on somehow making things better for the poor beleaguered town she'd brought to destruction. Atonement, penance, all those nice, stern biblical phrases that had little to do with the innocent joy of Christmas.

  But ever since Gabriel Falconi had shown up at her doorstep she'd been thinking about Emerson. Remembering.

  She had no difficulty understanding why, whether she wanted to accept the truth or not. Gabriel and Emerson had absolutely nothing in common, apart from an odd kindred expression in the back of the eyes, one she couldn't even begin to define.

  The only thing they shared was Carrie Alexander.

  For the first time since Emerson MacVey she was attracted to someone. She didn't like it, didn't want to accept it, but denying it seemed impossible. She was attracted to Gabriel, with his deep, slow voice, his strong hands, his angelic beauty and his tall, graceful body. And it was only logical that her attraction would bring back memories of the last man she'd been fool enough to want.

  She couldn't deny her attraction, but that didn't mean she had to give in to it. She'd done her best to make it clear to Gabriel that she wasn't in the market for a brief affair with an itinerant carpenter. She wasn't in the market for a long-term commitment with Prince Charming, for that matter. She wasn't going to think about her wants, her needs, her weaknesses. She had her penance, and nothing was going to get in the way of it.

  She should eat something, she knew it. A lifetime of watching her weight had left her with little interest in food, but she knew she had to keep her strength up. She should open a can of soup, then start work on the Christmas quilt she was making for Mrs. Robbins.

  It needed to be special. Mrs. Robbins had commissioned it as a Christmas present for her only granddaughter, the granddaughter she hadn't been able to buy a wedding present for. The amount Carrie was charging her wouldn't even cover the materials, but Mrs. Robbins didn't know that. It was just one small thing Carrie could do to try to make amends.

  Mrs. Robbins was only one of the people whose lives had been torn apart by the closing of the mill. Her two sons had lost their jobs, and they'd already taken their families and relocated to Saint Cloud. The only family the elderly lady had living nearby was her newly married granddaughter, and she was there on borrowed time. If there were no jobs, they wouldn't be able to afford to stay, and Mrs. Robbins would be alone.

  Fresh snow wa
s falling, and a brisk north wind was whipping the flakes against the house. Carrie hoped it wouldn't be a windy winter. The old house was snug enough as long as the wind didn't blow. Once it did, not even the wood stove could make a dent in the chill that invaded the place.

  Gabriel would come over tomorrow and fix up the banking around the foundation, repair some of the windows, make things snug and tight. In return she'd give him some of the money she had saved, the small amount she was parceling out to the needy. She didn't know why she thought Gabriel was needy. Maybe it was that look in his eyes, so different and yet oddly like Emerson's. And she'd never known a man more needy than Emerson Wyatt MacVey.

  She had to stop thinking about him. Had to stop thinking about Gabriel Falconi, for that matter. She wasn't interested in sex—it only led to disaster. She wasn't interested in love, either. Falling in love with Emerson MacVey had been the worst mistake of her life. She had trusted him, and he'd turned out to be a conscienceless snake. It didn't mean she no longer loved him. But she never should have put her town into his ruthless hands. Not to mention her heart.

  It was past time for regrets. It was the first Sunday in Advent, Christmas was coming, and despite their depressed economy Angel Falls was going to have the best damned Christmas in memory. Carrie was determined.

  Gabriel stood in his tiny room at the Swensens', stooped under the eaves, looking out at the snow-covered town to the factory on the hill. As industrial buildings went, it wasn't a bad-looking building. If only it were someplace like Massachusetts it could have been turned into a trendy apartment building, or an upscale mall.

  But the people of Angel Falls had no way to pay for trendy apartments or upscale malls. They could barely afford to live in this demanding climate, much less treat themselves to the luxuries that had once bored him.

  And it was his fault. He no longer had any doubts about that—it had been MacVey's corporate greed that had gutted this economy, sending the town on a downhill slide just as the country was pulling itself out of its decline. He could no longer remember the details, or even why he'd done it. That life was becoming hazier and hazier, the man who'd done those deeds seemed only a distant kin to Gabriel Falconi.

  But done it he had. And there was no doubt where his second miracle had to come from. He had to somehow make things right, if not for the whole damned town, at least for the Swensen family.

  Three years ago it would have been simple. He had money and power to spare. Now he had a gold credit card, a few hundred dollars in cash, and a miracle per person, a power he needed to use wisely.

  He glanced over at the book on his dresser. He never read novels, never had the time for them, and he doubted Gertrude/Augusta meant more than a jab at his temporary security. Still, the Swensens were busy with family activities, and he didn't want to intrude. His truck was still broken down, and the wind was howling outside, whipping the snow into a frenzy. He was in no mood to go for a walk.

  Unless Carrie Alexander's house was within walking distance, and he knew full well it wasn't. He only had a few weeks here, and he didn't want to waste a moment of it.

  But she'd looked frightened of him. He'd recognized that when she'd looked up at him, and he wondered what scared her. His kiss? Or something else?

  What had MacVey done to her? For some reason his memory remained blank. He knew he'd fired her—Augusta had gleefully informed him of that. And that she'd been the only one to cry for him when he died.

  Had she loved him? He knew he couldn't have slept with her—Emerson MacVey had been a conscienceless scum but he didn't sleep with his secretaries.

  But there was something there. Something in that cockeyed triangle that existed uneasily between them. Between Carrie and Gabriel and his old self. And he wasn't going to get any further with rescuing Carrie until he found out what it was.

  He turned away from the snowy landscape, from the brooding hulk of the old brick factory, and picked up the book. The room was chilly with the door closed, so he burrowed down under the quilt Carrie had made. It was soft, warm, and smelled like her perfume. If only she was there with him.

  A stupid thought, one Augusta would probably hear from halfway across town and punish him for. This mission was doomed from the start—he might as well enjoy the small amount of time he'd been allotted and then take his punishment like a man.

  Opening up the book, he began to read.

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  Oh, God, it smelled like cookies. Cinnamon and spice, ginger wafting through the small, decrepit farmhouse when Gabriel let himself in the next morning. Coffee, as well, with the tang of hazelnut to sweeten it. He wasn't sure how he knew it was hazelnut, but there was no doubt in his mind.

  Cookies were laid out on sheets of wax paper all over the spotless kitchen. Some with red and green sprinkles, others pressed into ornate shapes. The coffee was on the stove in an old aluminum drip pot, and he could hear the steady splash as it brewed.

  The place was bursting with warmth, but then, it was a moderate day outside. He was rapidly growing used to the chill temperatures of Minnesota, so that a sunny high of twenty degrees seemed positively balmy. He shrugged out of the ancient peacoat that seemed to be Gabriel Falconi's defense against the winter and hung it on the wooden peg near the door.

  The old house was filled with comfortable sounds, as well as smells. The drip of the coffee, the crackle of the fire, the sound of the shower running. And Carrie's voice, loud and tuneful and surprisingly cheery, singing "God rest ye merry, gentlefolk."

  Surely that was wrong? "Merry, gentlemen," wasn't it supposed to be? Lord help him, Carrie Alexander must be a closet feminist, as well as a saint set on self-destruction.

  In the past there had been nothing that annoyed MacVey more than feminists. For some reason this morning Gabriel found himself smiling. God rest ye, merry gentlefolk, indeed. It sounded better that way.

  Her wood box needed filling. Despite the fact that there was nothing he would have liked better than to sit at her table and drink coffee and eat cookies and wait to see whether she'd emerge from the shower fully dressed or not, the distant memory of Augusta's stern eyes squashed that temptation. It took him three trips to fill the wood box, and he deliberately made enough noise so she wouldn't make the mistake of emerging from the bathroom in a towel, but he still felt a shaft of disappointment when she greeted him at the door wearing a turtleneck tunic that reached from her chin to her knees.

  He rose above his baser nature to realize it was a wonderful piece of clothing. Bright red and Christmassy, it was made of a soft cottony yarn, and it molded against her reed-slim dancer's body and moved with her grace.

  And then he frowned. She was more than reed slim. She was downright skinny. "You're too thin," he said as he stomped the snow off his feet and kicked the door shut behind him, sounding more gruff than he'd meant to.

  Carrie blinked in surprise, and then a slow, luscious smile curved her pale face. "Good morning to you, too," she said cheerfully. "Thanks for filling the wood box. Do you want some coffee?"

  "Yes," he said, knowing he sounded grumpy. He moved past her into the living room, dumping the wood with a loud crash before turning to look at her. Her skin was flushed from her shower, and this morning she didn't look the slightest bit wary. She looked firm, decisive, in control. And he found himself wondering if he could make her lose her control.

  She'd already moved back into the kitchen, pouring them both mugs of the fragrant coffee, and he told himself he was there to save her, not to sleep with her. He took one of the pressed-back chairs, spun it around and straddled it, accepting the coffee from her with a muttered thanks.

  She took the chair farthest from him, a fact that pleased him. Obviously she wasn't as secure as she wanted him to believe. He liked that. "Have a cookie," he said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was good enough to die for.

  Carrie shook her head. "I'm not hungry. You have some."

  "You're never hungry. You don't eat
enough to keep a bird alive."

  "Birds eat three times their weight every day."

  "You're awfully sassy for a woman who's starving to death."

  "I'm not." The light still danced in her eyes, and she seemed to have forgotten she was going to be stern With him. She reached out and took a cookie, popping it into her mouth defiantly.

  "Who are the cookies for?"

  "What makes you think they're not for me?" she countered.

  "Because as far as I can tell, you don't do a damned thing for yourself."

  She ate another cookie. "I don't think that's any of your business."

  Gabriel shrugged. "I suppose it isn't. I guess I'm just not used to being around saints."

  "I'm hardly that." She took a third cookie without realizing it. It was a gingerbread man, and she bit off his head with her sharp white teeth. "As a matter of fact, I've spent too much of my life around people who were only out for their own good. Who squashed anyone or anything that got in their way."

  She was talking about MacVey, he knew it. He took a meditative sip of his coffee. "Whoever he was, he obviously didn't appreciate you."

  "What are you talking about?" She'd devoured cookie number three, and was on her way into number four, an ornate, pecan-studded horn.

  "The man who squashed anyone or anything that got in his way. I take it you were one of the ones he squashed."

  He wondered if he'd pushed her too far. He wanted to know what she really thought of Emerson MacVey. Did she still hate him? Did she have reason to? Damn it, if only he could remember!

  She put the half-eaten cookie down. "If you're finished with your coffee I can show you what needs doing around here."

  "Did you love him?"

  He wasn't sure what he expected. Not the faint shadow of sorrow that danced in her blue eyes, not the wry, self-deprecatory smile that curved her mouth. "I did," she said, rising from the table with her dancer's grace. "Hearts are made to be broken, Gabriel. Trust is made to be betrayed. End of discussion." She started toward the door, but Gabriel forestalled her.