“Thanks.” He put aside the cigarette and the ashtray, shrugging out of the blazer and handing it to her. Angela reached for it and then stopped short. He was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster strapped across his back, the weapon protruding from a pocket beneath his arm. It had been concealed by the coat.
He saw her eyes on the gun, saw the expression on her face. “It’s necessary, Miss Patria,” he said evenly.
Angela stood with his jacket, still warm from his body, in her hands. She nodded slowly without comment. The firearm was a grim reminder of this man’s purpose in her life. For a moment she had almost forgotten it.
“I’ll just put this away,” she managed, clearing her throat. “If you’ll come with me, your room is right down this hall.”
Devlin followed her, waiting while she hung his jacket in the front hall closet, and then continued in her wake as she showed him to a guest room with a bath which opened onto an adjacent corridor.
“I thought you would want to be close to the door,” Angela explained, leading him inside. “My . . . the other bedrooms are upstairs on the second floor.”
“This is fine,” Devlin replied, taking in the neutral blond furniture, bleached oak if he wasn’t mistaken, and the thick Chinese rug. Some care had been taken to make him comfortable; extra blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, and a stack of towels stood atop the carved armoire. A key extended from the lock of its top drawer. He turned back to Angela, and at that second a loud thud sounded in the vicinity of the front door.
All the blood drained from Angela’s face. Instinctive reaction made her fling herself into Devlin’s arms.
He caught her against him, alarmed. She was terrified. He could feel it in her trembling body, hear it in the frantic pace of her breathing. This was the reason for her tears earlier that day, for her clinging dependency now. She was truly frightened, and he was ashamed of his role in the deception that had manufactured this unwarranted fear.
Devlin soothed her, murmuring softly, and discovered that he did not want to let her go. He held her a few seconds longer than was necessary, and it was a few seconds too long. The single clip holding her hair came loose, and the rich auburn tresses spilled over his hands. Her perfume filled his nostrils, clean and fresh, with a faint citrus undertone. His fingers moved from her shoulders downward as he steadied her, and he found that he could almost span her waist with his hands. She was warm and pliant, soft and inviting despite her slimness. He was fully aroused in an instant. As Angela turned to gain her balance, her hip moved between his thighs and he heard her gasp as she felt the evidence of his desire.
Angela’s head fell back and she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and blank, seeming dark in the filtered light from the hall, her lips parted to reveal a glimpse of white teeth. Her breath caught for a moment, then came audibly. My God, Devlin thought, she feels it too. He released her suddenly, turning away in confusion.
He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, unwilling to look at her. He had to get a grip on himself. He was in this house to bring about her uncle’s destruction. The woman herself could be a part of Patria’s underworld empire. And even if not, he had to maintain a professional distance or his cause was lost.
Her voice came softly behind him. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I’m afraid I’m not handling all this very well, every little noise has me leaping out of my skin.”
“I’ll go and check the door,” Devlin said abruptly, brushing past her and heading for the hall. His fingers went automatically to the holster of his gun. The danger Angela feared was nonexistent, but in Devlin’s line of work other unexpected menaces appeared all the time.
He opened the door to find a newspaper wrapped in plastic lying on the porch, doubtless tossed there by a strong armed carrier. The sound of it rebounding from the door had catapulted Angela into his arms. Devlin picked it up and went back inside, handing it to Angela wordlessly.
She stared at it for a moment, and then looked up at him. “I feel ridiculous,” she said quietly. “It was only a newspaper. I seem to overreact to everything lately.”
“You have reason enough to be jumpy,” Devlin responded shortly. He retrieved the ashtray she’d given him and lit another cigarette. “What is your schedule like tomorrow?” he asked.
“My schedule?” Angela repeated, uncomprehending.
“What will you be doing?” he clarified. “The idea is for me to accompany you during your regular activities.”
“Oh.” She thought about it. “Well, I jog first thing in the morning, and then I go to school. I have a full load of classes tomorrow. After that, I’ll be coming home. I have a paper to do for Trusts and Estates.”
“Trusts and Estates?” he said, his lips twitching.
“It’s one of my courses. They all have names like that. The best one is Witness Readiness. The first time the class met the professor said he would give an automatic A to the person who could tell him what the title meant. Ready for whom? For what?”
She shrugged, and Devlin smiled. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and displayed a set of very attractive teeth. Angela dropped her gaze, reeling. She whirled abruptly and started to walk away from him.
Devlin grabbed her arm suddenly, and she immediately tried to wrench free.
“Let me go!” she said sharply.
He released her instantly. “I wasn’t trying to hold you,” he answered quietly. “You were about to trip over that bag.” He pointed to his carryall, which still sat on the rug directly in her path.
Angela could feel her face turning red, aware that she had made a fool of herself for the second time that night.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive my erratic behavior, it’s not often I acquire a bodyguard and terminal paranoia in the same day.”
“It was my fault,” Devlin said. “I shouldn’t have left it there.” He picked up the bag and deposited it on the sofa.
“I have some studying to do, so I’ll say good night,” Angela added quickly. “You’ll find everything you need in your room. I jog at seven. Will that be all right?”
He nodded. “Don’t adjust your schedule for me,” he responded. “Do what you normally do, and I’ll just follow along.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Angela said, and fled. She could feel his eyes on her as she went up the stairs, and didn’t relax until she had slammed the door of her room behind her.
She went to her dressing table and sat in the chair in front of the mirror, trying to repin her cascading hair. Her fingers were trembling too badly to work properly, and she gave up, letting it fall back over her shoulders. She stared into the glass at her pale, startled face.
What on earth was happening? She’d just met the man, but when he had held her and she’d felt his response to their proximity, it had taken an effort of will not to press herself into him. She wanted to bury her face in his broad chest, reveling in his strength and closeness.
Angela shook her head. This was unbelievable. Philip Cronin had been pursuing her for six months, and during his most fevered embrace she had never even come close to feeling the surging emotion of her brief interlude with Devlin.
What must he think of her? That the little lady who supposedly needed his protection was more footloose than frightened? She watched in misery as crimson color climbed into her face. But as she gazed into the mirror she was conscious of a kind of triumph mixed in with her embarrassment.
The man wanted her. That big dark man, with the lean, powerful body and eyes the color of aged whiskey, wanted her.
Angela wasn’t sure how to deal with this knowledge, but having it was a new and heady experience.
* * * *
Downstairs in the living room Devlin sat in a wing chair and watched the evening traffic passing by outside the large bay window. He lit another cigarette from the stub of the last and crushed the old butt in the ashtray he held in his lap.
He was in trouble. He had a job to do, and a
lready, on the first night, he was allowing the Patria girl to get under his skin.
Devlin exhaled a stream of smoke and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the upholstered surface of the chair. He was a pragmatist; he believed in facing reality and then dealing with it.
The reality was that he wanted to make love to his charge. He wanted to feel her slim body shuddering under his, wanted to see those gray green eyes unfocused with pleasure, wanted to cover himself with the curtain of her lovely russet hair. He was in trouble, all right.
Shifting his weight, Devlin dragged on the cigarette he held until the tip glowed. He was getting hot just thinking about her. What was it about her that got to him anyway? She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d seen, or even had. He was hardly a starved celibate ready to grab the first female who looked his way. But there was something about her that appealed to him, something that had touched him from the first moment he’d seen her walking, stately and alone, through the crowd of bustling students.
He opened his amber eyes and studied the cigarette burning away between his fingers. He would have to control himself, stay away from her. She still could be as dirty as Uncle Frank, no matter how innocent she appeared. And even if she proved to be as clean as a mountain stream it wouldn’t do to mix business with pleasure.
Devlin sighed and pressed his lips together with resignation.
Whatever happened, his undeniable attraction to Angela Patria was going to make this case one hell of a problem.
* * * *
Angela woke at five in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Devlin’s presence in the house surrounded her; she couldn’t see him or hear him, but she knew he was there. She lay in bed for almost an hour, watching the sky lighten, wondering how she was going to deal with his constant company. Why, oh, why, couldn’t her bodyguard have been the dull, unglamorous type she’d been expecting? Dealing with Devlin every day was going to turn her into a basket case.
Sighing heavily, she got up and dressed in her sweat suit, intending to take a shower when she returned. She did some stretching exercises and glanced at her bedside clock. Six-thirty. Well, she would go downstairs and make coffee while she waited for him to join her.
Devlin was sitting on the living room sofa, reading the paper that had been delivered the night before. He looked up as she descended the staircase, and then stood, watching her approach.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a hooded zip-front sweatshirt. He refolded the newspaper and dropped it on the couch, regarding her with unfathomable dark eyes.
“I thought you might still be asleep,” Angela said.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he answered.
They stared at each other.
“Well,” Angela said with forced brightness, “I’ll just start the coffee so that it will be ready when we get back. I’ll have breakfast after I’m dressed, if that’s okay.”
He lifted one shoulder to indicate that it didn’t matter to him. Angela went into the kitchen and filled the glass pot at the sink, turning to pour the water into the well of the coffeemaker.
She poured it down her arm instead. Cursing silently, she set the pot down with a resounding clink and wrung out the sleeve of her sweatshirt. If she was going to react to every encounter with him this way she might as well give up right now and sign herself into a rest home. Annoyed with her own immaturity, she completed the task with careful movements, pausing to roll up the sleeve of her top so the dampness wouldn’t show. Then she rejoined Devlin in the other room.
“Where do you run?” he asked as they went out the front door.
“Down to the river and back,” Angela answered. “I run along the embankment; it’s about two miles altogether.”
The sun was just up, filling the city streets with pale gray light. Fog rolled in from the river, darkening the pavement and surrounding the glowing street lamps with halos of glistening pearl. It was cold at this hour in late September. Steam rose from the grates along the roadway, combining with the mist from the water to make the Manhattan neighborhood seem like a dreamy netherworld of billowing clouds and opalescent lights. Angela half expected a Morloch to climb out of one of the manholes and snatch her away to the caves inside the earth.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said softly. “I love the city before the traffic noise takes over and the workday begins. You could almost believe you were alone here.”
The man at her side glanced at her curiously but said nothing. When she ran lightly down the steps and took off, he fell into place next to her.
They ran in silence for some time. Angela glanced over at him. He was trotting easily, looking around, not even winded.
“You can go faster,” she suggested. “I’ll catch up with you.”
His eyes touched her face. “I’ll stick with you. You set a good pace. I’m all right.”
Angela gave up, taking her customary route down to the water and pausing to rest on the landing at the foot of the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. Devlin leaned back on his elbows against the concrete abutment, looking out to sea. Gathering traffic behind them increased in volume as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Angela wiped her forehead with her sleeve, shivering slightly as her body cooled. Without a word Devlin unzipped his sweatshirt and held it out to her, waiting for her to slip into it.
Angela shook her head. “You’ll be cold.”
He made an impatient gesture. “I don’t feel it. Come on, take it.”
Angela thrust her arms into the sleeves obediently, and he zipped it up under her chin, folding the cuffs back like a kindergarten teacher outfitting her youngest charge for the walk home from school. Then he lit a cigarette as she watched, fascinated.
“How can you smoke so much and run so well?” she asked wonderingly. “Don’t the cigarettes bother you?”
He shrugged. “They don’t seem to affect me,” he said impassively. His eyes roamed the horizon, narrowing against the sting of the smoke. “Of course, I may drop dead tomorrow.”
Angela doubted it. He looked the picture of health. She noticed the insignia on the T-shirt he was wearing. “Lake Placid, 1980,” it said above the intertwined circles of the Olympic symbol.
“Were you at the winter Olympics?” she asked, gesturing to his chest.
He glanced down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, “Oh,” he answered, “my kid brother was an alternate on the first place hockey team. He brought this back for me.”
“How exciting that must have been for him!” Angela said. “I cried when they won the gold medal.”
His lips curved upward. “You did?”
“Oh, yes. I know nothing about hockey, never saw a game in my life before that one, but there I was, at eight o’clock on Sunday morning, glued to the television. I didn’t even understand what I was seeing, but I got the point when all the announcers started screaming. Wasn’t it wonderful to see all those boys so happy? Laughing, crying, they didn’t know how to contain their joy. And I felt so sorry for those poor kids from the losing team, how forlorn they looked watching our boys in their triumph. Their hearts must have been broken. Things matter so much at that age.”
Devlin dropped his gaze, turning his head. “I suppose.”
Angela continued enthusiastically. “And to think that everyone said our team didn’t have a chance at the start. They showed the world what a bunch of American kids could do, didn’t they? I was so proud of them.”
Devlin glanced back at her, searching her face. Was this an act? Could this girl really be as ingenuous as she seemed?
Angela saw his intent examination, and bit her lip, flushing.
“Silly of me to carry on like that,” she said quietly.
He exhaled slowly, saying, “Not at all. My mother had an American flag draped over the porch for a month after they won.”
“Where is that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Your mother’s porch.”
“My mother’s porch is in Kansas, along with my mother,” Devlin said, smiling. “And my seven brothers and sisters.”
“What does your father do?” she asked.
“He grows corn,” Devlin replied dryly. “That’s mostly what we do in Kansas, grow corn.”
“A farm, in Kansas, with seven brothers and sisters,” Angela said wistfully. “It sounds wonderful, like a scene from Picnic.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you’d waited in line for the bathroom every morning of your life until you were eighteen,” he replied, stubbing out his cigarette and dropping the butt in a receptacle. “We fought over everything: clothes, food, who got the bed by the door, whose turn it was to feed the horses. It was like Boys Town without Mickey Rooney or Spencer Tracy , but with two girls thrown in to tie up the phone.”
“Six boys?” Angela said incredulously.
“Yup.”
“Your poor mother.”
“My poor mother, at sixty-two, could run both of us into the ground.”
“How did you get into this line of work?” Angela inquired. “I mean, it seems an odd choice for a Kansas farm boy.”
Devlin turned his back on her abruptly. What the hell was the matter with him, telling her so much? He hadn’t talked like this since his oral exams at the academy. The information he’d given her so far was harmless, but she was venturing into dangerous territory now. He glanced pointedly at his watch.
“Hadn’t we better get back?” he said. “You’ll be late for your first class.”
Angela got the message. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said in a small voice. “I’m not usually so inquisitive. Please forgive me.”
Her elaborate apology made him regret his rudeness instantly. “Forget it,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go.” He sprinted ahead of her and Angela had no choice but to follow.
They entered the house in a strained silence. Angela went to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, taking it with her to the stairs. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” she called over her shoulder.
Devlin watched the graceful curve of her back until it was out of sight, and then retired to his quarters to shower and change. He removed the pistol from the waistband of his jeans and tossed it on the dresser in disgust.
Devil's Deception Page 2
