Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  Jen had understood him from the skin in. He had known her the same way. They both wanted the same things out of life. Like having a family. He had loved Jen with every last atom of his body, but his love hadn't been enough to keep her alive when she collapsed one day of a congenital heart abnormality. Jen had been a delicate kid, sickly, her pale thinness and chronic tiredness due to her heart problem. He had always been gentle with her, especially in bed; there had been no marathon, all-night sex binges; no adventurous sex at all with his wife. He had loved her, and they had made gentle love, and that had been enough. If some nights she was too tired for even a gentle lovemaking, and he had needed more than tenderly holding her, he had swallowed that need so as not to hurt his sensitive bride's feelings...

  It would be easier telling Emily that he was an art investigator than telling her about his wife's abbreviated life. That curve he'd been thrown when he was twenty was a turning point for him, but the impetus for the change, Jen's death, had made him go numb inside. He knew he had nothing to bring to the table in a relationship, nothing to offer. Except sex. And he had learned the hands-on way that meaningless sex was no good either. It only left him feeling emptier than before.

  And yet ... and yet ... he wanted Emily like some wealthy men want a priceless masterpiece.

  "Listen, angel-I'm attracted to you. Remember that less than veiled reference of mine about wanting to sleep with you?"

  "Yes."

  Steve ran a hand through his crisp hair. "Well, I still do want to sleep with you. But I'm not rushing you into bed."

  "I'm touched by your nobility," she said, and laughed.

  Cat and mouse. That's what they were doing. Neither of them admitting to anything. Neither of them talking about the implications of that earth-shattering kiss. Weren't they a cunning pair?

  "Angel, I know you're on the run..."

  Her gray eyes went huge. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

  He held up a hand. "I know the signs, okay?" he said briefly, so as not to crowd her. "And I'm willing to help, but I'm not willing to be used. You want to talk? I'm here. You want to have some good times? I'm here for that too. You want to use me? Find yourself some other sucker."

  "Okay."

  Okay? What the hell kind of a way was that for her to answer? Was she taking him up on his offer or was she planning to pack up her stuff and thumb her way out of town?

  At least she didn't lie, he supposed. At least she didn't go all-innocent on him; he couldn't have stomached that sort of basic dishonesty.

  "Steve," she began, head angled to one side, "do you normally bring women whom you see casually, home to meet your parents?"

  "Hell, no," he said, giving himself away before he realized what he was doing.

  In those early, post-Jen's-death years, when he had 'dated', most of the women had been on the clock or party girls; he couldn't have brought them home to his folks! He would never disrespect his parents like that...

  "Don't you see?" she asked, earnestly. "If you bring me home to your folks, they'll get the wrong idea as to your intentions."

  "My intentions are for some fun in the sun this summer. An affair. A fling. What's wrong with that?"

  "What's wrong with that is, if you take me to your parents' place, I would have to pretend I'm something I'm not, that we're something we're not. I can't lie like that."

  "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. It's just that ... I plan on seeing my family a lot this summer and I would like you to accompany me. I'm close to them. I want to fit in some no-hassle time with them before I return to my job in New York this fall."

  Emily sat up straighter in the glider. "Your job? In New York?"

  He scratched his ear. "Yeah. My job. In New York. You didn't think I was a playboy all the time, did you?" He gave the swing a push off with his toe. "Stick with me, angel, and I'll bore you silly with my New York stories."

  "As long as I wouldn't have to lie about us to your parents, you've got yourself a deal." She stretched out a palm to him.

  They shook hands on the affair.

  Then they went quiet again, both content to look out onto the water.

  The tide was slowly coming in. Easy waves moved across the sandbar. The motion of the ocean when combined with the motion of the swing and his foot massage had a lulling effect on the secretive young woman at his side. Soon, her eyes drifted closed. This could mean only one thing...

  Emily was beginning to trust him.

  Yep, he had the art thief right where he wanted her, Steve thought, his own insomniac's gaze never leaving her face.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The following week, by mutual, but unspoken agreement, neither of them mentioned the kiss. Or their discussion after the kiss. And that was fine with Emily, because she wasn't feeling very proud of herself.

  She had set Steve up. Oh, not for the reasons Ronnie outlined, but what difference did that make? The end result was the same. She wasn't a mechanic; she was a phony, a nothing, a big fat zero. No, worse than zero. She was a negative number, a foster kid with a juvenile record. What respectable guy would want to bring her home to meet his parents?

  Was Steve respectable?

  Caught red-handed while trying to get the goods on him, he hadn't read any nefarious purpose in her being in his bedroom, on his PC. If he were guilty of criminal activity, would he have taken her seduction at face value? Wouldn't he instead have considered her behavior suspicious? Would a criminal have come to her rescue so that his partner wouldn't think badly of her?

  The way he had rescued her had been nothing less than chivalrous. That kiss! That devastating, gentlemanly kiss. As his hard lips took hers, she forgot they had an audience, forgot she was in his bedroom to spy on him, forgot everything but want, but need. Opening her mouth to him, actually encouraging him to deepen the contact, she had kissed him back, melting into his arms, bringing her body closer to his body, surrendering to her traitorous hormones.

  Oh God! She had to find out what kind of man Steve was! Going back and forth like this was making her crazy! Was he a wealthy playboy out for a good time, slumming with his mechanic to ease his vacation boredom? Or, was he a devious criminal who might kill her should he learn her true identity?

  He had made it plain that he was returning to New York at the end of the summer, to his high-powered life in the city, doing whatever he did for a living. What was that? What did he do for a living?

  She knew all about his pre-teen years, but did she have a clear and concise idea of what his career was? No way! He was remarkably tight-lipped about his business, about anything personal. It was almost as though he was deliberately trying to keep her in the dark about his occupation.

  He certainly wasn't keeping her in the dark about his plans for her. Steve wanted some summer fun. Translation-sex. Intimacy would certainly provide a means of staying close to him. As of right now, Steve was still her only lead. She had to find out what he knew about The Cuzin!

  Thanks to her disguise, Steve considered her a runaway kid with some mechanical skills, no threat to him whatsoever. That's what she wanted him to think. As the saying goes, it takes a thief to catch a thief, and if Steve had played a role in art theft, a former thief like herself should be able to find him out. She had no intention of spending the rest of her life running scared, looking over her shoulder. Before she could go to the cops, she needed solid proof. But could she do it? Could she cold-heartedly sleep with a possible criminal in order to take back her own life?

  Emily touched her lips.

  Her mouth seared in memory of their kiss, for all that it had been more tender than bruising. She knew then that if she slept with Steve, there would be nothing cold-hearted about it.

  * * * *

  "Payday," her boss announced the following Friday.

  "Thank you." Emily stuffed the cash in her back pocket without counting it; Steve might be a thief, but he would never cheat on her wages. "I can't believe I've been here two weeks already. The time ju
st flew by!" She smiled. "What's up for this afternoon?"

  "Listen, about that. Greg had an appointment in Wood's Hole, so I promised to pull lobster traps for him. Your workweek is officially over. See you Monday." He turned away.

  Wiping her hands on a rag, she called: "Need help?"

  He turned back, his handsome jaw tilted to her. "With the lobsters?"

  "What else?"

  "Yeah, actually, I could use an extra set of hands." He looked up at her bashfully. "Know anything about hauling traps?"

  Her smile broadened. "Not a fuckin' thing."

  "Watch the mouth," he growled, and then smiled too. "Ever been on a lobster boat?"

  "Nope."

  He nodded. "You'll get plenty wet. I'll drive you back to your place to pick up your bathing suit..."

  "Don't own one."

  Another nod. "I keep extras for guests. Come up to the house and pick one out."

  She didn't argue. Trying on bathing suits up at the house offered the perfect excuse to do some more investigating. "Sounds like a plan."

  It did, at least until she got a load of the suits hanging up in Steve's guestroom closet.

  All bikinis. With bra cups large enough to accommodate a showgirl and itsy-bitsy sized thong bottoms that couldn't possibly accommodate any normal-sized woman. She, who hadn't worn a bathing suit in years and then only a one-piece, picked out the most modest one she could find. After tying the strings in place, she glanced in the mirror.

  And shrieked.

  Not loud enough to warrant the thunderous rap on the door. "Okay in there?" Steve asked, anxiously.

  She shook her head at her near naked reflection. "I don't think so."

  "That does it! I'm coming in."

  "No! Wait. I'm okay." Cracking the door, she stuck her neck out; her body remained safely inside the room. "See?"

  "The door looks good on you," Steve offered dryly.

  Feeling like an idiot, she confided, "The suits are a little revealing."

  Steve didn't say anything crass. Though, he could've, considering the partial strip tease she had already put on for his benefit.

  He just nodded again. "Cover-ups are in the next closet over."

  Slamming the door in his face, she raced for the sliding door.

  The cover-ups were all lace, all sexy, all black, all shouting horribly expensive. And Steve had a closet filled with them, kept on hand just in case a female guest should happen to require one for the short trip from the house to the pool. What a waste of good money! The decadent life style the black, sexy, expensive cover-ups represented was totally alien to her. She had earned her bargain-store wardrobe through hard work, and up until she figured out why Mr. Fritz had really hired her, she had been proud of her accomplishments. That she was now unemployed, on the run, everything she had worked hard for gone, including her reputation, filled her with a raging resentment. She had never before felt so bitter or so defeated by circumstances. And it was all her own fault. She had been stupid to trust Mr. Fritz, stupid to believe that someone rich like that would place his faith in someone poor like her, would give her a break without looking for something in return. What an idiot!

  Never again would she trust another wealthy man; she particularly would not trust Steven Gallagher, regardless of that kiss. Going to bed with him to obtain information was one thing; falling for him was something else. Only a fool would fall for a man with a closet filled with sexy black lace cover-ups.

  Pep talk concluded, she randomly chose one.

  "I'm ready," she said, stepping out into the hallway.

  "Lace looks much better than the door," Steve said, and didn't leer at all.

  "There must have been twenty brand-new, unused suits and cover-ups, tags still attached, hanging in that closet. I guess most of those guests of yours never got around to taking a dunk in the pool, huh?"

  "Most didn't bother wearing anything."

  Her mouth opened, closed. "You're not talking about impromptu barbecue gatherings with friends and family, kiddies in tow, for a Sunday afternoon of wholesome pool volleyball are you?"

  "No."

  "Plural female guests?"

  "That's right."

  "I see," she replied, tight lipped and disapproving.

  Steve Gallagher was an attractive man. He was also single and wealthy. Of course, there were women. He most likely kept a well-stocked harem.

  Promiscuity was contrary to everything she respected. Steve Gallagher had failed to live up to her high standards, and because he didn't pass her litmus test, he dropped a notch in her regard. Too much sex with too many different women didn't make him a thief, but it did make him indiscriminate and over-indulged, and those characteristics sent up her wary radar.

  "Shall we go?" he asked. "Or do you need more time?"

  She could've used more time to investigate, but suddenly she didn't want to discover anything more about Steve Gallagher.

  * * * *

  The afternoon was warm and sunny, and it didn't take Emily long to get her sea legs and forget her real purpose for being with Steve.

  Anchored in clear view of the coastline, Steve got down to business pulling up wooden traps weighed with ballast. He put her to work sorting and weighing the lobsters that were inside. Re-baiting the traps with herring was easy, but pegging lobster claws was a tricky operation. After trying and failing an embarrassing amount of times, Steve stopped what he was doing to show her how. She had already removed her lace cover-up, as the bell-sleeves kept getting caught in the ropes, and when Steve stepped behind her, she went a little breathless.

  "You'll need to inhale sometime, angel."

  "I was thinking that same thing myself," she replied. She did not look over her shoulder at him.

  Steve may have chuckled then. He wasn't given to much gaiety around her, so she couldn't be absolutely sure...

  But wait. There it was again. A rumble deep in his chest. A very nice rumble, actually. Warm. Male. An easy-going sound of enjoyment. Steve was considerate with her, infinitely polite, but never was he easy going. He usually seemed tightly wound, on a short rein.

  He did it again. A freer laugh this time. Must be the surroundings. The water. The old lobster boat. Steve was in his element.

  Braced for the full impact of a relaxed Steve, Emily gave into temptation and looked over her shoulder.

  Dark, crinkled eyes were narrowed on some far-off spot on the horizon. Steve was a natural sailor. "Do you ever miss it?"

  His jaw tilted to her. "Miss what?"

  "Fishing. You're not only the son of a fisherman, you fished for a living once too. I can tell."

  "Long time ago. I was only a kid."

  "You didn't answer my question," she insisted. "Do you miss it?"

  "Yeah, I miss it. I loved being out on the water. The freedom. The way you can see almost forever with nothing, no buildings, getting in your way. I loved the stormy seas the best. The way an ordinary man gets to test himself against the forces of nature. But the way of life is dying. And there's no money in it. I needed to make money. I needed to prove that I could make something of myself, that I wasn't just a..." He stopped, restarted. "It's easy to wax nostalgic once you've been away from something for a while. The reality is, fishing is hard work and more often than not, you've got nothing to show for it at the end of the week but more blisters on your hands..."

  "I like your hands," she interjected. "I noticed them right away when we met. I like that they look like you've worked with them."

  "I like your hands too, and I don't want the lobsters getting 'em. Hold the pegs like this. Otherwise the claws might pinch your fingers." His muscled arms circled her waist as he showed her how to band the lobster claws together.

  In a bikini that was more illusion than substance, his heat was as warming as the sun, the realization of her vulnerability to Steve coming as quite a shock. They had kissed in his bedroom and they had danced in his garage. Both times others-Greg and Ronnie, namely-had provided them the safe
ty of an audience. There was no chaperoning presence this time. She was almost naked. He wore swim trunks, no shirt. They were as close as lovers, and there was no one around for miles.

  The boat shifted, bobbing on a wave, and Steve bumped her. Harmless really, except for the hard ridge of his erection imprinting her nearly bare bottom.

  She went very still. Lusting after him, but knowing it wasn't right to lust after him, knowing how dangerous a hormonal tumble in bed could be to a woman like her, and not only because of her tenuous situation.

  "Sorry," he grumbled. "I didn't mean for it to be so obvious."

  He moved away. "End of lesson. Just be careful."

  Too late for that particular warning, she decided.

  Emily picked up a lobster, as Steve had shown her, and finished pegging the claws.

  Steve was aroused; he didn't try to hide it. She was attracted to him; her lust was also readily apparent. He had to have known when they kissed that she was not averse to having sex with him. But visions of naked ladies swimming in his pool kept dancing in her head, making her wary.

  And there was something else too, something else that made her cautious. She suspected there was more to Steve than what was on the surface. There was a rough quality about him, his speech, the way he held himself, the way he moved. Although he had always behaved like a perfect gentleman with her, there was a hard edge to him that nice manners couldn't hide. That hard edge made her apprehensive, even frightened. He might very well be a criminal...

  Emily reminded herself that she had invited herself on this boat, not the other way around. And though Steve was aroused, he had made no pass at her, even apologizing for a reaction beyond his control. How many men would do that?