Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  She didn't want his gifts; she wanted his love. She would accept nothing less. To prove she deserved his love, that she was worthy of his respect, she paid rent and utilities on the loft. On time. She was very proud of that. She was proud of her job at the art gallery too. She loved working there...

  Another tap on the door.

  God, she was nervous. Finally, she bucked up her courage and called, "Come in."

  Steve made a straight line for the hotplate. "Smells good, angel."

  "It's stew," she said optimistically.

  "As long as it's not lobster stew, I'll eat it," he replied, eyes crinkling.

  Steve joked with her a lot lately. He was laughing more with her too. But he wasn't sleeping with her, not since Boston...

  Her nipples hardened in memory. Who knew an independent woman like her would like bondage so much?

  She did like it. She had liked everything.

  "I hope the stew is edible," she said, optimism fading, uncertainly rising. "I didn't have a recipe to follow, and it looks distinctly-I don't know-unstew-like, I guess. I think maybe I did something wrong, screwed it up somehow."

  "Naw," he said, without even looking in the pot. "It will taste delicious."

  "Thank you for your faith in me, but I don't know if it's entirely justified." She picked up the spoon, stirred some more. "Why is it so watery?"

  "It just needs to be thickened," he said, glancing not into the pot, but into her face.

  "Thickened?"

  "You know, with flour."

  No, she didn't know! "Oh..." She had gone food shopping that day, and just for the thrill of showing off at the register, bought a small bag of flour, never expecting to actually use it for anything.

  She went to the metal cabinet over the sink that Steve had cleaned out for her to use for cooking supplies-she had cooking supplies!-and returned with the flour and a measuring cup.

  "Walk me through this," she said, opening the bag. "How much do I add to the stew to thicken it?"

  "About a quarter cup should do it. Mix it with water first." He tossed her a fork. "For the lumps."

  Lumps? Who knew? But it sounded easy enough.

  "This reminds me of school paste," she said conversationally, as she ladled in the thickener.

  Immediately, the stew started to bubble and look stew-like.

  "Man, I love good home-cooking. Nothing beats it, not the finest restaurants in the world."

  Emotions, complicated and painful, bubbled inside her just like the stew bubbling on the stove.

  Eyes burning with unshed tears she whipped the spoon around the pot at a breakneck speed. She loved Steve, though it was a hopeless, sad love.

  Boiling stew spilled over the sides, onto her hands.

  The wooden spoon was lifted from her grasp. The hot plate was turned off. She was rushed to the sink, her hands held under cold water.

  An alarmed voice asked: "Are you okay?"

  She had no answer. Was she okay?

  She pushed away from the sink, but not away from Steve.

  "Hold me?" she whispered, hardly recognizing her own voice; it was as choppy as the stormy seas on the Cape beaches she had come to love.

  Strong arms folded around her. "You're in the clear, Emily. I got the word out that The Cuzin is back with its rightful owner, so your associates will give up on you."

  No longer able to fight them back, tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and washed hotly down her cheeks. She couldn't seem to stop them. They poured out of her as she shuddered and shook. "Why won't you believe me?" she cried. "I wasn't Mr. Fritz's accomplice! I wasn't using you to get to the painting!"

  Steve continued to hold her in his arms, but said nothing in reply.

  Emily needed him to say something soon.

  She'd gone for a medical check-up, without Steve, and the doctor told her she was mildly anemic and underweight ... and six weeks pregnant.

  Emily didn't tell Steve. If she did, Steve would ask her to marry him ... for all the wrong reasons. She would never marry a man who couldn't or wouldn't admit he loved her.

  And Steve Gallagher did love her. Maybe not as much as he had loved his Jen, but he did love her.

  She wanted this baby with all of her heart, and after having been on her own most of her life, she knew she could have this baby, raise this baby, all by herself. Steve needn't know he had fathered a child with a woman he considered a liar and a thief.

  Steve would return to New York in September, one month away. He had until then to see the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The truck was all packed and waiting in the driveway. The house was locked, but Steve didn't close it down tight at the end of the season like he usually did ... just in case. Blizzards on the Cape could be brutal during the winter months, and so he had given Emily the key to the house in case the garage lost heat or lights or got flooded or she just got tired of living above a garage. When he had explained the rough weather to his tenant, she said the way the ocean changed according to the season was what she liked best about living on the Cape.

  Steve agreed. Still, the garage was no place for a lone woman during a nor'easter; knowing she could go up to the house eased his mind. Besides, he hated to see all those bedrooms go empty...

  There was nothing left to do, Steve thought, looking around the front porch for some excuse to stay. The lawn furniture, gas grill, and croquet set were all stored away. The boat was in dry dock; the pool had been winterized and covered. He had already said his good-byes to his family. There was only one more goodbye left to say.

  Emily stood in front of the garage. Her hair was longer now and lighter. Blue smudges no longer shadowed her gray eyes. She had even gained a little weight in all the right places, though this was unsupported speculation on his part since he hadn't seen her naked since Boston. Which is the how the situation needed to remain, which is why he needed to leave.

  He had this strange sensation he had let Emily down, failed her when she needed him the most. Actually, he felt like a first-class prick. He didn't know how or why he should feel this way, because as far as he knew he had done everything he could for her, covered all the bases.

  Shit! Too late now, and what did it matter anyway? He was leaving, and she was better off without him. Emily deserved a man with a heart. He didn't have one of those.

  He touched her arm-he was always on the lookout for a reason to touch her somewhere. "Are you sure you'll be all right here on your own, Angel?"

  "Stop worrying! I'll be fine. I love my little apartment. It's the first real home I've ever had since ... well ... forever.

  He nodded, sad for her, sad for him. Christ, he was making a mess of things!

  He stooped and kissed her cheek. "So ... anyway ... I'm coming home for Christmas, so I guess I'll see you then."

  She wiped at her eye and smiled, but said nothing. Why didn't she say: 'Yeah, Steve. Catch you then.' He wondered.

  Well, it wasn't his business. She wasn't his business. Not any more. They'd had a summer fling, some laughs, now it was over. She had a roof over her head, an art gallery job she loved; she was completely self-sufficient. Hell, she even had a driver's license now and her own set of wheels-a second-hand shitbox she was overhauling in the garage. She didn't need him for anything.

  "You've got my cell number, and the business and residential phone numbers in New York. Feel free to call any time..."

  Emily shook her head, smile still in place.

  The light dawned.

  Emily wasn't calling him! Not about anything. She stood on her own two feet and solved her own problems. Once he said goodbye, he wouldn't see or hear from her again. Not for three months. Three whole months without Emily.

  "Okay, then," he said, uneasily. "Well, I guess I'll take off now. You know how it is. Cape Cod traffic is a pain in the butt..."

  He backed up. Waved. Turned. Walked briskly to the truck, got inside, and gunned it.

  He made it to the end of the dri
veway.

  Hell, it was a long driveway. As shaky as he was feeling, he did good to make it that far. Jumping out-throwing the truck in reverse would've taken too long-he ran back to her, shouting like an idiot, "Fuckin' marry me!" before he even reached her. Not very romantic, but the sentiment was heart-felt, and fear-driven.

  "Why?" she asked.

  Now, this question stumped him. "Because I love you?"

  Emily was one tough lady, and so she just tilted her jaw and stared him down. "Gallagher, are you asking me or are you telling me?"

  "Both," he said, playing it safe. "I'm telling you I love you and I'm asking you if that's okay."

  She smirked. "You'll have to do better than that dumbass marriage proposal or you don't stand a chance."

  He was slow about some things, but pretty quick about others. Right there, on the white clamshell drive, he dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, Angel. No way could you have had anything to do with The Cuzin heist. No way could you have known the painting was hidden in the Dusenberg. You're innocent," he said stoutly.

  "Damn straight I'm innocent, and I've got a dated pawnshop ticket for Mr. Fritz's gift to prove it."

  "You hocked the key pendant?"

  She nodded. "Would I have done that if I knew where the painting was?"

  He frowned. "Guess not..." His frown deepened. "Why didn't you show me the ticket?"

  She put her hands on her hips. "Because I wanted you to believe me without proof, based on nothing but my word."

  His mouth gaped. "That was damned tricky..."

  Gray eyes narrowed. "So-you didn't think for a minute I was innocent, did you?"

  "Well, not for definite."

  "What the hell was the proposal based on if you didn't know for definite I was innocent?"

  A good sailor can always find his way home, even on a foggy day. "Strictly love. Totally love. Nothing but love," he declared, more confident than he had ever been about anything. And for a cocky guy like him, that was saying a mouthful. "I love you, Emily Parker. And not only do I love you, I happen to admire your abilities. If you had really stolen that painting, there's no doubt in my mind that you would've gotten away with it. You would've gotten to France, clear sailing. Instead, you came here to clear your name. You're one resourceful lady."

  "Yeah, I am. And don't you ever forget it."

  His confidence faded. "I love you," he said weakly. "It scares me sometimes how much I love you. I'm so afraid of losing you..."

  She dropped to her knees too. "Oh, Gallagher. You won't lose me. I'm here to stay. I'll never run again, because now I have someone to stay for. I love you, Steve." Emily patted her tummy. "This baby wants to live near the ocean, just like his daddy."

  "B-baby?"

  "We're due in April," she said, snuggling close in his arms. "And yes, I'll marry you. If I didn't, the Gallagher clan would make you eat lobster."

  THE END

  About the Author:

  Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar.

  Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter.

  Visit Louisa's website at:

  http://www.louisatrent.com

  Email Louisa at:

  louisatrent@louisatrent.com

  We invite you to visit Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

  for other exciting literary erotica romances.

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