Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  He didn't want to leave Emily alone, but time was of the essence. Evidence disappears with each tick of the clock, especially evidence left out of doors. If he didn't retrace her steps to Falmouth center right away, he might as well forget finding anything.

  After throwing the pile of pitiful clothes in the washer, Steve walked to town, following the same route Emily must have taken, scouring every inch of road and coming up empty.

  Upon returning home, first thing Steve did was check his patient.

  His bedroom was empty, the made-up bed vacant, his robe neatly folded on a chair.

  He raced for the laundry room.

  No clothes.

  Raking his hands through his buzzed hair, Steve slumped against the wall.

  Emily was gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Emily fought down panic.

  Her cash was gone.

  She had first noticed her pocket's flatness at Steve's garage. The folded envelope must have fallen out somewhere on her way back from town, maybe when she tumbled down the embankment into the muddy ditch. All the money she had in the world, lost.

  She could have lost so much more, like her life, for instance.

  Her stomach clutched again at the memory of how narrowly she had avoided becoming a hit and run fatality.

  Arms wrapped around her middle, she tried to stop the shakes.

  If she hadn't heard the tires squealing in the sand, she might very well be an unclaimed Jane Doe lying in the morgue right now. Instead, she was here. Hurting, but all in one piece. For that she was thankful...

  But what would she do now that she was destitute?

  Her hip throbbing, Emily climbed the stairs to the loft over the garage slowly. She would need to rest for the remainder of the weekend to be fit for work Monday morning. It could be worse. At least she had someplace to recuperate...

  She hadn't meant to take up residency over Steve's garage. Squatting in the loft happened accidentally. One day, Steve told her she could use the sink upstairs to wash up in rather than make do with the tiny sink downstairs in the garage. Up to her elbows in crank oil, she had gratefully accepted the offer. Then, one morning, after having slept out on the dunes the night before and nearly desperate to remove the salt and sand that clung to her hair before starting work, she had made use of the loft's shower.

  When hot water poured down from the showerhead, she had blubbered like a baby. It felt so wonderful being clean! Like an addict, she couldn't give up the hot water and soap. Thereafter, at every available opportunity-usually when Steve told her he would be gone from the garage for an extended period of time-she would strip off and hop under the spray.

  One night, it had started to rain. In torrents. Miserable out on the dunes in her wet sleeping bag, she rolled all her gear into a sodden lump and snuck back inside the garage-Steve never bothered to lock the side door. After showering and washing her clothes, she just couldn't force herself to trudge back outside again and face the storm. She had fallen asleep on the loft's plywood floor. No bedding, as her sopping sleeping bag was hung up to dry from the rafters. Even with nothing but hard wood underneath her, it was the best sleep she'd had in weeks.

  She pretended the loft belonged to her. She knew it was wrong, almost like stealing, but caught up in the fantasy, she had returned to the garage the next night. And the night after that, hiding her sleeping bag in a corner under the eaves each morning, promising herself she would leave after just one more night...

  Eventually, she had stopped lying to herself and started weaving plans for redecorating her new digs. The brass bed and chair she coveted at a furniture consignment store would go in the middle of the huge space to make it seem less empty, she decided. A trunk for her clothes would go at the foot of the bed. Inexpensive throw rugs would decorate the rough plywood floors. The garage downstairs had electricity, but the loft wasn't wired, so she could forget about lamps. She would miss reading at night, but it was just as well as Steve might look over and see a light...

  So many plans! Her lack of money prevented her from carrying through on her redecorating, but the loft still provided all the basic creature comforts. She made use of the table and chairs and hotplate downstairs in the garage, while upstairs, the floor served as her bed. And the shower was the best comfort of all!

  Bending gingerly, Emily pulled her sleeping bag out from under the eaves. Careful not to tip over her stash of food-a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread not quite moldy enough to discard, and a few cans of warm soda-she crawled inside the bedding and fell asleep

  * * * *

  On Monday, Steve wasn't waiting for her to arrive at the garage door like he usually did; he paced outside on his private lane.

  Running to meet her, he carefully removed her backpack from her shoulders with a gruff: "You shouldn't be carrying anything heavy."

  She had left the garage at dawn. Too achy to go far, she had gone down to the beach, waiting there on the dunes for hours before retracing her steps to the house. This morning, of all mornings, she wanted to make sure Steve didn't catch her creeping down the stairs from the garage. Still feeling shaky, she just couldn't deal with his questions, couldn't fend him off with a flip answer as she usually did. She wasn't feeling any too flip today; in fact, today she felt like shit.

  Steve placed his hand lightly under her arm. "How are you?"

  "Better than you by the looks of things." Steve's eyes were sunken. An insomniac's pallor turned his tan to an unhealthy shade of sleepless gray. There was a new tightness around his ordinarily sensual mouth. He wore rumpled jeans too, and Steve was always fastidious about his clothes.

  To make everything appear normal, she forced her lips to lift, forced a stab at her usual punk-sarcasm. "Hot date?"

  "Oh, yeah. Real hot. Because, hell, I'm pretty damned callous, and it didn't bother me at all that you were all banged up on Saturday. After you walked out on me, without a word about where you were going, why I had me a regular orgy here for the rest of the weekend. Naked women everywhere," he muttered. "I didn't get much rest at all."

  "Steve-I'm sorry. I know you were worried about me. I shouldn't have said that."

  "Did I do something to deserve this low opinion you have of me?"

  "I don't have a low opinion of you..."

  "Save it," he said, walking with her to the entrance to the garage. "Keep all your damn secrets, but I need you to tell me where you're living."

  Once inside the garage, she headed for the Dusenberg. "Why?"

  He took her overalls down from the overhead shelf so she wouldn't need to stretch and handed them to her. "Because I asked, that's why."

  "The place I'm staying is a run-down dump. I'll be moving shortly. Why don't I tell you my address then?"

  "You are not staying in a run-down dump, goddammit!" shouted the man who never lost his temper.

  "On-season rentals for nice places in Falmouth are expensive," she said, meek and intimidated, and yes, aroused too even though her body felt beat-up. Steve seemed so ... dominant.

  "I'll give you the money...

  "No thank you. I don't take money I haven't earned." Not since she was thirteen and on the streets...

  He shook his head. "I won't have you living in a dump, and I won't have you walking everyday back and forth from that dump to work."

  He stroked a slow hand down her cheek, and she shivered. Fear. Excitement. Lust. All played an equal part in her trembling.

  "Here on out I'm taking care of you, angel. I'll make you an agreement..."

  "What kind of agreement?"

  "I'll keep you, provide for you. In exchange, you'll sleep with me whenever I say. Believe me, you'll earn every cent I spend on you."

  "I'll earn it on my back," she muttered under her breath.

  He chuckled. "Back. Belly. Knees. On your head if I tell you I want it that way."

  She was broke and hungry, hurting. Scared too. Of getting caught by a thief/gunman who was after a painting she knew nothing about. T
he day before yesterday, she had almost been a hit and run fatality. An accident? Or a threat on her life?

  The gunman from Mr. Fritz's office could have tracked her to the Cape. He could have been the driver behind the wheel of that unseen speeding vehicle. She didn't know. She didn't know whom she could trust...

  Trust no one! Her mind instructed.

  Her body instructed her otherwise; her body trusted this man. Her body called out to Steve Gallagher.

  She had never felt so weak or restless or scared or needy, so willing to give into the physical demands she had clamped down on years before. What Steve suggested was a give and take business proposition, one hand washing the other. It wasn't romance, but neither was it sneaky. She hated sneaky! A clean and straightforward deal is what he proposed, the same deal they had already shaken on, only now Steve had added a financial provision to the agreement.

  And she was flat broke desperate.

  Emily unsnapped the top of her jeans.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Steve asked.

  "I'm taking off my clothes so you can fuck me."

  He stopped her. "I'll tell you when and where I want it, and I'm telling you right now I won't want it until your bruises are healed. Let's get to work."

  After that, Steve didn't talk much for the rest of the day.

  * * * *

  Steve's mother was a plump, smiling woman who wore every wrinkle on her tanned face with pride. His father was tall and spare, but his wiry body didn't hide his lean-muscled strength. He looked every bit the fisherman, from the crinkles around his good-humored dark eyes to his practical, no-nonsense view of life.

  Mr. Gallagher clapped his son on the back. "You've made your mama happy today, son."

  The usually self-confident Steve bashfully leaned down to give his mother a smooch on the cheek before stepping into his father's manly hug.

  My, the Gallagher clan was a demonstrative lot! Emily wasn't used to such open displays of affection. When all the smooches and hugs and claps were finished, and Steve had performed the introductions all around, Emily had finally caught her breath in the whirlwind of conversation, she said, "May I set the picnic table?"

  "How nice of you to offer, dear," the iron-haired ... and iron-fisted ... matriarch of the family beamed. "And yes, you may. I always say, many hands make light work."

  "I couldn't agree more," Emily replied as she began the enormous project of finding enough room for all the paper plates on the huge picnic table.

  "The children sit on the grass or on the smaller table over there under that shade tree," Steve's mother explained. "This large table is reserved for the adults who have children who can feed themselves. There's always someone breast-feeding a baby, or overseeing a toddler, and so we all pitch in with the little ones." Mrs. Gallagher chuckled, just like her son. "The holidays present a challenge."

  Before she could stop herself, Emily heard herself saying, "It must be nice to have such a large family."

  "It's wonderful," Mrs. Gallagher agreed. "Steve keeps pestering me to sell this place so he can buy one of those mansions near his as a family compound, but I have so many happy memories of this old cottage that I don't want to leave."

  Steve sauntered over at the tail-end of the conversation. "Mama, if you don't want to move, why don't you let me add a wing onto this place? The way the Gallaghers produce grandkids for you, the extra space will come in handy."

  Mrs. Gallagher gave her son a cagey look over her bifocals. "Is that your male way of telling me you and Lee are about to add to the count? Shall I start arranging a baby shower?"

  Steve's look was comical, a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something Emily couldn't quite put her finger on. "Uh," he stammered, "don't order the party favors just yet, Mama. Lee and I are just real good friends."

  When Steve's mother dimpled, and opened her arms, Emily had no choice but to step into the embrace. "I couldn't be happier, Lee, you and my son are such ... good friends."

  Steve's family was a warm and loving bunch, and typical of close-knit families, they liked to tease. The sly comments about the suddenness of their hooking-up never ended. Were they accepted as a couple?

  Emily refused to lie, but neither would she put a damper on how happy everyone seemed for Steve. The Gallaghers would find out soon enough she was just another someone passing through the revolving doors of Steve's bedroom.

  Steve's sister, Adele, took her aside. "My brother had a rough time after his wife's death. Because Steve is Steve, he never said anything, but we didn't think he would ever get over Jen. He was so much in love with her, you see. When she died, Steve just fell apart. That was eighteen years ago and he's been alone ever since. I'm so glad he's not alone any longer." Adele's glance darted away. "Is that my Brian floating his robot in the punch bowl? Wait 'til I get my hands on that kid. Gotta go, Lee..." And Adele was off and running.

  Married ... wife's death ... eighteen years ago...

  Emily mulled over Adele's disclosures. The revelations did make sense-Jen was the woman Steve had loved, whose death had created the unhealed hole in his heart.

  "Lost in thought?"

  Emily looked up into the handsome face of Steve's youngest brother, Greg. "I was just thinking how much I like your family."

  "I dig them too." He nodded to Ronnie who was trying to throw a football across the lawn to a pint-sized receiver. "My date isn't used to a big brood of kids. I'm trying to break her in easy to the Gallagher breeding habits."

  Emily leaned forward. "Now tell me again ... who's married to whom? And which children belong to what parent? It's a little daunting keeping track of everyone."

  Greg threw back his head and laughed, a move so reminiscent of his elder brother that Emily's tummy did excited little cartwheels; the Gallagher men were such a handsome lot!

  By the time Greg finished explaining the family dynamics, and she had all the names and relationships memorized, Steve had sauntered over. "Has my brother been bending your ear?"

  "Of course not! Greg was simply relating the branches of your family tree to me."

  Steve's arm went possessively around her waist. "Thanks for entertaining my woman while I was busy, Greg."

  "My pleasure."

  "Speaking of which ... Ronnie's looking in your direction, kid, and she looks positively starved for a little pleasure."

  "Starved for pl-pleasure." Greg whipped his head around. "Really?"

  At his big brother's nod, Greg was off, rushing towards the voluptuous Ronnie.

  Steve took her hand. "Let's take a walk down to the beach, look at the boats. I love my family but they can be a mite overwhelming at times."

  "I'm not overwhelmed..."

  He sighed. "Maybe I just need to be alone with you, have you all to myself for a few minutes, okay?" His hand tightened on hers.

  "Okay." Steve couldn't possibly be involved in anything shady or crooked. Any man born and raised in this warm and loving family had to be as straight as an arrow. So what, he was a playboy looking for sex? She could handle that! It was only sex, after all. And at the end of the summer when he returned to New York to do whatever it was he did for a living, she would have earned a nest egg. With financial security, she would change her identity and begin over again, somewhere else. It wouldn't be the first time a girl had financed her future on her back.

  Only the first time for her...

  Putting the dent in her self-respect aside, Emily offered Steve up a sunny smile. "Your family adores you, Steve."

  "Goes both ways." He tugged on her hand, leading her down to the beach. "They want me happy, you know how it goes. I'm the oldest son, I carry my father's name, and as you could probably tell, my folks are greedy for more grandchildren. It's not enough they've got twenty already. That reminds me, I hope you're not upset about what my mother said, you know, about the baby shower..."

  "I'm not upset."

  "They're always after me to reproduce. So far, I've managed to resist. During some
moments of weakness I've almost given in, just to make them happy. But I always come to my senses before I make some woman miserable. Producing more Gallagher progeny is not sufficient reason to marry."

  "I respect your honesty," Emily said, hoping he would tell her more about himself, this time out of genuine interest, not because she sought information from him. "And Steve, I would like to be honest with you too. At least as much as I can be honest."

  "I hope you know you can trust me..."

  She looked up into his warm, brown eyes. "I think I can trust you, and that's why I need to tell you, I'm not who you think I am. My name isn't really Lee Packet. I can't tell you my real name, but suffice it to say that I'm in trouble. Serious trouble. I don't want to drag you into my problems, but I can't go on deceiving you. Your family is so nice. I don't want to deceive them either. I'm not entirely sure they fell for us as a couple..."

  "Whatever you need, whatever resources, they're yours. Just say the word. As to my family, I think some necking down by the water might remove any lingering doubts they might have about the nature of our relationship. You did pop up out of the blue, and I want to put their fears to rest."

  "Fears?"

  He thumbed his chin, looked oddly embarrassed. "Listen, before you and Ronnie became friends, she said something to my folks."

  "About my being a gold-digger, you mean?"

  "Yeah. That. My old man just had a heart-to-heart with me. 'Lee is a nice girl,' he says. 'And we're thrilled for you, son, regardless of what Ronnie thinks'. My mother put him up to it, naturally. I explained that Ronnie had it all wrong. That Ronnie's warning was just one big misunderstanding, but you know parents-they worry."

  Steve's warm and loving parents worried because of her? That's precisely what she wanted to avoid!

  "Steve, I shouldn't have come here today with you. It was selfish of me. This situation is just too complicated. I should leave." Breaking free of him, she turned to go. "Just say I have a headache..."