The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  * * *

  Madison sat up in bed. She’d been hearing the strange sound for some time now. It came from overhead - a creaking, a scraping, a scratching. She glanced at the clock; it was just past seven. The roof creaked and she gazed at the ceiling.

  Yesterday’s memories blasted through her. Alejandro!

  She got to her feet and wrapped herself in a robe - the same silky kimono he’d worn - she could still smell vanilla in the fabric. Pausing in the living room, she looked around.

  Alejandro was gone.

  His clothing had been tossed over the back of the couch, and the blanket lay in a heap on the floor. The gray boxers had been abandoned as well. Crap! He’s wandered off. And he’s naked! “Alejandro?”

  As if in response, a scratchy-scuttling noise sounded overhead.

  Confused, Madison grabbed the only weapon handy - a broom - and headed outside.

  * * *

  Olivia LeBlatte inspected her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The red blazer flattered her figure and matched her ruby lips. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, glossy bun that meant business. She misted it with another coat of aerosol olive oil for some extra shine, then added a fresh layer of Opium perfume to mask the scent of cigarettes. She’d have to abstain until after the appointment, so she took a hard hit off her nicotine inhaler, holding it in her lungs and letting it do its work. After slugging back the last of her coffee, she grabbed her keys and purse, and headed to her shiny red Volvo with its Golden Hedgehog Realty car wrap.

  The Volvo was roomy enough to tote clients, but not so large it was imposing. Nice, but not too nice. Luxury cars told clients she didn’t need the sales, but driving a clunker conveyed low sales and ineptitude. The Volvo had been a perfect choice. She shoved her book - Think and Grow Rich - into the glove compartment and headed to St. Agatha’s. Reaching into her black purse, she found her nicotine gum, popped it into her mouth, and tapped the wheel, lost in a vivid mental enactment of the appointment as she’d like to see it play out. She nodded agreement as Anthony Robbins’ sexy-as-hell voice enlightened her from the speakers. He told her that motivation was temporary - that action was the key to success.

  Olivia LeBlatte believed in the power of positive thinking, and she believed in being prepared. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned this Mr. Jones from Moonfall. Surely, he was an older man if he had the money to drop on a place like St. Agatha’s, and no doubt, he was religious as well - why else would he buy a church? She imagined the old man gaping in astonishment as she showed him around, telling him about the space, the great condition of the floors, the excellent plumbing. She used all of her senses, making the visualization as realistic as possible. Then she envisioned Mr. Jones enthusiastically signing the contract … and the fat commission she’d get.

  She popped another piece of nicotine gum into her mouth as she turned onto Killakee Road. St. Agatha’s, looming and ghoulish, came into view. She parked in front of the stone monstrosity and shuddered. Why anyone would want to buy the hideous church - and its hideous property - she hadn’t a clue. Glancing at her watch, she realized she had plenty of time to straighten the place up. She reached into her bag and pulled out her trusty scented candle: citrus, which prompted buyers to spend more - twenty percent more! - according to consumer studies.

  Mr. Jones was going to love St. Agatha’s, she told herself. He’s going to love it, and he’s going to buy it. And I’m going to get that commission. She killed the engine, then bared her teeth in the rearview to be sure her morning coffee hadn’t jaded the good work of her Crest whitening strips. The expression gave her a shark-like appearance. And I am a shark, she thought as she locked up the Volvo. A shark who’s going to take a great big bite out of old Mr. Jones … and his wallet!

  * * *

  “What the hell are you doing up there?” Madison called.

  Alejandro looked down at her, his face serious. He was crouched like a gargoyle - a beautiful gargoyle - at the edge of the roof, and though the pose concealed the more intimate parts of him, she saw enough hip and thigh to make her blush.

  “Where the hell are your clothes?”

  Turning his gaze toward town, he ignored her.

  “It’s barely fifty degrees out here!”

  “I do not like my sweaty-pants.”

  Sweaty-pants? “They’re called sweat pants and you have to wear them.”

  “But I am not cold.”

  She found that very hard to believe, and tried not to look for goosebumps.

  Pulling her robe tighter to ward off the chill, she watched him. There was something somber about him, something that made her feel sorry for him. She looked at the broom she carried. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I am listening.”

  Listening to what? Madison strained to hear but detected nothing except an occasional sough of wind. The sky had darkened and the near-black clouds looked ominous. “How did you get up there?”

  “I climbed.” His voice was smooth, velvety.

  Climbed? She couldn’t envision it - and wasn’t sure she wanted to. Thank God she didn’t live in a neighborhood where others might have witnessed the pornographic feat.

  “I’m going to go get your clothes. You need to come down from there and get dressed. Okay?”

  Alejandro looked up at the sky.

  A green blur circled above, then dove toward the house at full speed. It squawked - A bird! And it was headed straight for Alejandro.

  Madison watched, frozen in shock, as it struck him and knocked him off his haunches. Feathers flew and Alejandro rolled down the sloped roof. He grappled for purchase, missed, and in a tangle of flailing arms, sailed into the dead rose bush with an Oof! and a crackle of snapping branches.

  The bird - a parrot - made a gentle landing on one of the twigs. “Who’s a pretty boy?”

  “Oh, my God!” Madison dashed toward Alejandro.

  * * *

  After making the bed, Nick Grayson brought in his clothes and hung them in the bedroom closet. He’d found his aspirin, popped several, then took a long shower while they worked their magic. But there wasn’t much magic to be had. The hangover persisted. He spent a lot of time letting the pulses of hot water massage his head, his face, and his temples where the ache throbbed strongest.

  Figuring he was as clean as he was going to get, he stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and swiped his hand across the fogged mirror. He didn’t know what a million bucks looked like, but this wasn’t it. This was more like a bounced check. His face was puffy and the half-moons beneath his bloodshot eyes looked like matching bruises. He squeezed an unholy amount of Aqua-Fresh on his toothbrush and scrubbed hard enough to start a fire, then spritzed his underarms with Right Guard and headed to the bedroom to dress.

  “What the …?” The towel dropped.

  The comforter hung halfway off the mattress, and the four pillows were stacked neatly on top of each other. On the floor. He wracked his brain. He knew he’d made the bed - knew it - and he certainly hadn’t stacked the pillows on the floor.

  His eyes swept the room in search of … of what? A pillow-stacking intruder? He yanked jeans on and found his gun in the nightstand drawer, and went on a slow, trepidatious tour of the house, first checking the front and back doors - both locked - then the windows and sliders, which appeared untouched, then all the closets.

  Back in the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the mattress. I’m losing my mind. I’m having hallucinations. Again, he tried to recall how much beer he’d had the night before, and couldn’t; it was a blur. But hallucinations? Had it gone that far?

  He glanced at the nightstand and saw the receipt with Roxie’s number on it. He felt a need to call the diner owner and talk - not about his problems, but just to hear someone’s voice. But he knew it was a bad idea; she was interested in him, he could tell, and if he pursued her, it would end badly - it always did.

  He considered giving Ethan Hunter a call in Crimson Cove, but decided it was time t
o start facing his problems like a big boy and fight his demons on his own. And the worst demon of them all, he knew, was himself. The drinking was just a symptom of something else, but quitting was a good place to start.

  He stood and made his way to the kitchen to dump the remaining cans of beer.

  He stopped, his breath catching. In the reflection of the kitchen window, he saw an unearthly glow. He whirled, but there was nothing behind him. Turning back to the window, he stared in disbelief as a face formed. It was a kind face - a man whose eyes radiated benevolence. And they were gold. Not hazel-gold, but as bright and shiny as gold coins. Nick had seen that face before … he could never forget those eyes. “Who are you?” Nick whispered.

  The eyes blinked - and the face faded away.

  Delirium tremens. I’m losing it. Nick started emptying beer cans into the sink, pushing old memories from his mind - memories he wasn’t sure had ever been real.

  * * *

  Alejandro sat at the dining table, a towel around his waist, staring at the floor.

  As Madison returned with a tube of Neosporin, Pirate the Parrot, who’d latched onto Alejandro’s shoulder, cocked his head and whistled.

  “This will help you heal.” Madison held the tube out to him.

  He stared at it.

  “Just rub it into the wounds.”

  “Will you do it?”

  The thought of touching him filled her with terror - and something much more pleasant. Something too pleasant. “No. I think you’d better do it yourself.”

  He sighed. “I do not feel well.”

  “Fine.” She crouched next to him and squeezed ointment onto her finger. The scratches were furious, running up his arms, down his legs, and crisscrossing in haphazard designs across his chest, abdomen, and back. Even his face hadn’t been spared. She wasn’t sure where to start; she chose a swelling scratch on his arm. Her finger paused just before contact as she shook off a jolt of disconcerting lust. Then she got down to business, rubbing in the ointment.

  And her breath caught. His skin was like silk. It was warm, almost too warm, and her hands wanted to roam, to wander, to explore. Her mouth watered.

  “Am I hurt very badly?”

  “It could be worse.” Her voice cracked a little. “You’re lucky you didn’t break any bones.”

  He nodded, his gaze cast on the floor.

  Madison went to work. I will not ogle him. I will not. She’d managed to get him out of the bushes, inside the house, and wrapped in a towel without glimpsing anything private, and she wouldn’t steal any glances now.

  Pirate watched, head tipped, as Madison went for a raw scrape across Alejandro’s abdomen. Her fingertips trembled as she touched his skin, but she did not gaze at the fine dusting of golden hair around his navel, or the peaks and valleys of his chest muscles and the strong, flat plates of his abdomen. And she ignored the soft vanilla scent that rose from his skin.

  Or at least she tried to.

  He was watching her. His black-lashed eyes were heavy-lidded, and there was a rosy blush on the ridges of his cheekbones. His lips were full, moist. Madison felt another spike of need, a flustered uneasiness, and cleared her throat, and spoke in the voice she reserved for customers at the rock shop. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

  “I like it when you fix me up.” His voice was deep and charged with something earthy, almost dangerous.

  Madison had never felt such an uncontrolled need to kiss a man before. She’d had crushes, but this was ridiculous. But his face was so close. All she’d need to do was close that distance, touch her lips to his.

  “Who’s a pretty boy?” Pirate’s squawks shattered the delicious tension. The exquisite paralysis lifted and Madison rubbed Neosporin on another wound, resolving to keep her head in the game.

  “After we finish here, I’ll call Bart Aberdeen and let him know Pirate has escaped, then we’ll get you to bed. How does that sound?”

  “Bed sounds nice.” The words - and his low tone - sent a delicious chill up Madison’s spine.

  “It’s astounding,” she said, refusing to be affected. “Bart’s Ark is at least a mile away. How did he find you?”

  Alejandro was silent, but his breath came deep and steady.

  “I didn’t realize parrots were so smart.” She glanced at the bird.

  It watched her, tilting its head, as she rubbed and prattled on. She was talking and moving quickly, her nerves tight.

  “Do you know anything about parrots? I mean, I know you have amnesia, but that doesn’t mean you can’t recall certain things.” She smeared ointment with great speed, getting it over with, her words tumbling in a flustered rush. “You said maybe you worked with animals. That’s probably a good bet.” Madison dabbed a finger along the ridge of his brow. “Your eye is swelling.”

  He looked down at his towel and frowned. “I am swelling there, too.” He pointed at his lap. The towel stood rigidly upright where a proud - and impressive - erection strained for freedom....

  Madison snapped her gaze away and resumed rubbing, rubbing, rubbing the ointment, a furious blush smoldering under her skin. “You said you didn’t feel well. How do you mean?” Her voice shook and cracked, but she kept talking. “Do you mean your cuts? An upset stomach? Both? Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Do you hurt somewhere? I mean, besides the obvious places?”

  Alejandro shrugged, his towel tent forgotten. “No. I just do not feel well.” He touched his forehead. “In here.”

  “A headache? Did you hit your head?”

  “No. It is not that. I do not know what it is.”

  Madison’s thoughts raced. Don’t look at his lap, don’t look at his lap. “Do you feel hot?” She blushed at her words. “Or cold? Do you think you have a fever?” Don’t look at his lap, don’t look at his lap. But she did look at his lap. His body’s enthusiasm had not been curbed. “I think we need to take your temperature.” It seemed as if everything she said had a sexual meaning behind it.

  He looked up at her and it was clear he didn’t know what she meant.

  No televisions, no computers, no cars, and no thermometers. Where the hell is this guy from?

  Madison moved to his back and stared at the profusion of welts and scratches. Rather than attending to each wound, she squeezed Neosporin into her palm and rubbed it in like lotion. I need to get my hands off this guy before I lose my self-control.

  “You probably got sick from being outside in the rain.” She ignored the contours of his powerful back muscles. “That’s what you get for running around naked in January, you know.” His sweet smell enveloped her. Finished with his back, she moved to his side where an especially deep scratch needed tending. As she bent close, Pirate squawked and flapped his wings, doing a clumsy dance on Alejandro’s shoulder, making him wince.

  She rubbed the ointment in, dabbing at the angry wound and the tender skin around it. Alejandro shifted. “Sorry,” said Madison. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Alejandro’s voice was gruff … primal. “It feels good.”

  Madison swallowed around a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. “I think you should do the rest.”

  “No.” He gripped her hand and placed it back onto his side. “Keep going. Please.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb and Madison’s weakening resolve crumbled. The room was suddenly very warm, the air thick and delicious. The heat of his touch sent currents of something smooth and electric into her bloodstream.

  Overhead, the lights flickered, once, twice, and then stayed on.

  Her eyes closed and she let him guide her hand. Under the velvet skin of his side, she felt his ribs expand and contract with his slow, steady breath; she felt the rhythmic pump of his heart and she wanted - no needed - to feel that heart beating hard against her own - to explore him with her lips, to inhale his breath, his sweet delectable scent, and to taste his fingers, his neck, his mouth … to hear him whisper her name.

  He led her hand upward, across the granite-hardness of
his biceps, and then toward the powerful shelf of his shoulders, solid and firm, as packed with strength and muscle as the rest of him. Her head lowered and she grazed the top of his shoulder with her lips, touched his skin, just barely, with the tip of her tongue. “Beautiful.” The word escaped without her knowledge and the sound of it startled her.

  What the hell am I doing? She pulled back, blinked, and realized she’d squeezed the contents of the Neosporin tube onto the floor. “I think we’re done now.” Her voice splintered and cracked. Her heart raced, her thoughts were a tangled hot mess, and her mouth was so dry she might have been chewing on chalk....

  “But …” Alejandro’s pupils were dilated, leaving only a thin, silver-gray ring around them. His cheeks were rosy, even his lips seemed pinker, and his erection jutted against the towel with fierce determination. “But I do not think I am fixed yet.” He fidgeted - as if he wanted to reach for her, touch her, but didn’t dare.

  She steeled herself against an overwhelming desire to fall into his arms. “No, we’re done. You’ll be good as new in no time.”

  Alejandro sighed. “Okay.” He raised his arms to inspect the wounds.

  Madison had been a little too thorough in “fixing him up.” His entire body was a glistening beacon of oily balm. Well, most of his body, anyway. “You’ll have to do the, uh, other places yourself.”

  He blinked.

  “You know,” she said. “If there’s … anywhere else that needs attention.” She did not glance at his towel. But it wasn’t easy.

  “All right.”

  What is wrong with me? I’m acting like a love-struck twit - or a nymphomaniac! She brought her hands together. They were still warm - no, hot - from touching him. Her hard-won self-respect was corroding like sun-dried bricks in a tropical rainforest.

  And no man is worth that. After her father’s death, Madison had watched her mother flit from one man to the next, always in need, always empty, and Madison vowed never to go down that road. Moira O’Riley’s footsteps weren’t ones Madison wanted to follow.