"Angel." His voice was soft, tender, and so was the pressure of his arms as they tightened around her.
He put a finger under her chin and raised her face to look at him. His mouth slowly descended and captured her lips in a gentle caress. She found it difficult to breathe. The weight of her emotions settled heavily on her chest. He broke the kiss and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away her tears, but new ones kept coming.
As he gazed at her, he felt his heart pulsing with overwhelming emotion. He couldn't believe she was here in his arms, telling him she loved him, after what he'd put her through.
"I hope these are happy tears."
She nodded and spoke in broken sobs. "Yes. I was afraid we'd never be together, but I held onto the dream. Now the dream has come true."
"I love you. I have for such a very long time."
She took the handkerchief from his hand and wiped her eyes, then she let the soft cloth fall as she wrapped her uninjured arm around his neck and pulled his face to hers for another kiss. Her breathing was still laboured, but this time because of growing passion. When their lips parted, he smiled and in that smile she saw all the warmth and love she remembered. It filled her heart, thawing the terrible deep freeze she'd been in for the past month.
He stared down at her, his eyes shimmering with heat. "Angel, we're still married, you know. That was for our cover, but I… Well, I…"
He pulled her against him, her head tucked against his chest. "Good grief, how do you propose to your own wife?"
Angel's heart swelled with joy. She grinned and stroked her fingers through his hair. "That works just fine, Frank."
"So you'll be my wife for real?"
"Let's just say that I absolutely refuse to give you a divorce, and as I recall, annulment is out of the question."
His hands cupped her cheeks and he kissed her exuberantly. When he pulled back he stared lovingly into her eyes.
"Angel," he whispered, "I'm sorry about your cover… your life as Angela Tortina. I know how much it meant to you."
She smiled and shook her head. "Don't be, Frank. For a long time, all I had in my life was a desire to get back at the mob for what they did to my parents." She glanced down. "And to me."
He stroked her cheek tenderly.
"But that was because I didn't have anything, or anyone, else in my life." She cupped his cheek and whispered, "But now I have you. It's time to replace that empty life with one full of love and trust. Only you can give me that."
He took her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. "I love you, Angel. And…" He patted his pants pockets, then, obviously not finding what he wanted, reached behind him to pull his jacket across his lap. She watched as he tugged a blue velvet box out of his pocket and snapped it open. She reached out and touched the tiny angel charm threaded on a delicate gold chain that lay cushioned inside.
"It's beautiful, Frank."
He lifted the necklace and fastened it around her neck.
"I know your name is no longer Angel, but no matter what you're called, you'll always be the sweet Angel I first fell in love with."
—The End—
About the Author
Amber Carew
Amber Carew is the pseudonym of Opal Carew, under which Opal writes steamy romance.
As a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of erotic contemporary romance, Opal Carew writes about passion, love, and taking risks. Her heroines follow their hearts and push past the fear that stops them from realizing their dreams… to the excitement and love of happily-ever-after.
Opal loves crystals, dragons, feathers, cats, pink hair, the occult, Manga artwork, Zentangle, and all that glitters. She earned a degree in Mathematics from the University of Waterloo, and spent 15 years as a software analyst before turning to her passion as a writer. She grew up in Toronto, and now lives in Ottawa with her husband, and three cats. One of her sons just finished a Masters degree at Sussex University in the UK and is now pursuing a second Masters at Carleton University in Ottawa. The other son has just completed his undergraduate degree at Carleton University. Yes, mom is proud!
To hear about Opal Carew latest releases, you can sign up for her newsletter at OpalCarew.com/newsletter
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Additional Books by Opal Carew
PLAYED BY THE MASTER
RIDING STEELE
BLACKOUT
by Denise A. Agnew
Dedication
To my husband, Terry, who has always believed in me and supported me every step of the way.
You’re my hero.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
The science of EMP (Electromagnetic Pulse) and solar flare is complex, and there is controversy on the full effects of EMP. Acknowledgments must go to the following people for their assistance with the science and for locating people who could help me with the technical points:
Jason Efken
Meredith Efken
Piper from Weapons_Info Yahoo Group
Marianna Jameson
Blackout: Chapter One
Sun Coast Hotel
Phuket, Thailand
December 26, 2004
The waves came for Cassie, rushing and swirling. Bright sun lit the water and turned it to glass, prisms of light almost painfully bright. She stood like a mannequin, unable to move, her mind frozen in a dawning horror that swallowed her breath and paralyzed her limbs. As the water grew frothy and white at the top, drawing closer, her mind screamed for her to abandon the chaise and paperback, to find wings and fly to safety. She did, leaping up, arms and legs pumping as she put everything she had into a few seconds where terror nipped at her heels and threatened to swallow her. She ran. And ran. But she couldn’t escape. Water slammed her with brutal force. It covered her head, choking, strangling her—
“No!”
Cassie Kovac jerked awake, unsure if she’d spoken out loud. Her heart pounded, her mouth was dry and her limbs shook. She glanced around the dark room and tried to get her bearings and remembered where she was. Second floor of the Sun Coast Hotel. Sitting on the love seat with her back to the sliding glass door that looked out upon the devastation two floors below. She was safe in this moment, but if she went to sleep the dreams would come. This dream would come again, and she’d be running. Running as the water hit her.
Bile rose in her throat, but she held it back. She’d already upchucked twice since this had all started. The granola bar she’d consumed earlier sat in her stomach like wood. The room was stuffy, but she didn’t dare open the sliding glass door. No, she didn’t want to hear the ocean, to acknowledge it was out there. A huge killer with lethal teeth, a monster so large no one could escape it. But she had escaped, and the miracle stunned and humbled her. Tears gathered in her eyes and for the first time since the tsunami, she cried. She was silent as tears trickled down her cheeks, the irrational thought that she must keep quiet. The ocean outside was listening, trying to find her, waiting to finish the job it had started and kill her.
Darkness grew until it surged at her like a monster. It was thick, a suffocating band around her throat as the day’s stress pounded her into submission. It felt as if eyes watched her, and she feared for her sanity. She heard her own breathing growing louder, and grabbed for the flashlight on the coffee table. She switched it on and blessed light flooded the immediate area.
“You’re safe,” she said out loud, her throat tight, her breath short.
She rubbed her arms and a huge shiver rocked her frame. She’d dressed earlier in dry jeans and the t-shirt recently purchased at the nearby market that declared with bright colors that she’d visited Phuket.
All gone.
Everything she’d worried about, the reason she’d come to Thailand, suddenly seemed incredibly unimportant in the face of so much tragedy. She thought back to her other travels, how good she’d felt stretching her independence and proving to herself that she was whole and capable. Today had been filled with surviving, helping others, then dragging herself to this room for the little bit of rest she could find. She was so damned tired she ached with it.
Don’t sleep.
Her mind had fought slumber for hours, afraid the dream would come. Even when she wasn’t dreaming, images bombarded her. Men floating away. Children screaming. Women calling for loved ones they couldn’t find. Might never find. Another vicious chill racked her body and she rubbed her arms again. Maybe she’d lived because she had a purpose, and maybe her purpose was to help people as best she could tomorrow. Rescue had come and more help would arrive, but in the meantime she relied mostly on herself.
Sleep was out of the question, so she fought it by singing a song and pretending she was back in the United States in her cozy apartment. Tomorrow when the sun rose, she would face whatever might come. If she’d learned anything from today it was that life could change in one minute. In one second. And there was nothing she could do about it. No way to be safe.
* * *
Bowmount, Colorado
Present Day
September
Sunday
This place looks haunted.
Cassie had walked past the scraggly ranch-style house the last couple of days. Two miles up a dirt road past large homes in an area called the Point. This house, though, had been built way before the mini-mansions that populated the hillsides now. The house just didn’t fit the surrounding properties with their two stories southwest stucco designs.
She didn’t stop as she passed by the ranch house, but a weird apprehension kept her imaging eyes staring out of the hollow, dark windows. A shiver rolled through her. She hadn’t felt this way since Thailand.
No, that wasn’t true. This day was nothing like the day the tsunami came. There was no water looming in the background and no darkness she couldn’t escape. Mountains were solid, not surging and changing like the ocean.
She pushed onward but noticed the long, twisting drive that led up to the dark blue home with its studious two car garage and the plethora of weeds sneaking between the pine needles and rocks. Soon a cold snap would take care of that and even the hardy roses would be skeletons.
Red eyes stared from between two window blinds.
At least that’s what she thought she glanced from the corner of her right eye as she took the hill.
She jerked to a stop and centered her gaze on the windows. “What the hell?”
Her gaze darted from window to window. Sunlight must have reflected off something and created what she saw. No, what she thought she saw. The lock box on the double front doors assured her no one lived there now. The place had a long-unused appearance. She realized her breath had halted, caught in her throat. She took a gulp of fresh air as a breeze brushed over her body. With a smile and a shake of the head, she moved on.
Leafy Aspens swayed, their tall bodies reaching into the sky. Pinon pines dominated the aspens, sentinels next to the smaller trees. Pine needles carpeted the area and made it almost impossible to grow much. The owners of the ranch house had apparently planted hearty rosebushes that thrived even in this semi-arid climate. Pink, white and red blooms grew large and plentiful. The white blossoms had red veins through the petals.
Fall had moved into the area with crispness threatening in the air and the hint that winter could arrive any time. She shivered in the fifty-degree weather but welcomed the light breeze coming down the road and threatening to lift the hood of her long blue coat off her head. It was fresh air, and just what she needed. She took the chance and flipped back the hood, letting the wind toss her hair about her shoulders and whip it into her face. A thick cable sweater, jeans and hiking boots kept her warm. A small backpack slung over her left shoulder held water, a bag of trail mix, and her sketch pad.
She heard a strange noise behind her, a crunching as if someone followed her.
Or maybe it’s a bear.
She swung around, coming to a stop for a second as her pursuer came into view. Not a bear or an evil ghost, but a man she’d met this last week.
Neal Griffin, or Griff as he’d asked her to call him, trudged up the hillside road at a fast pace, a big backpack in a tell-tale army green camo strapped to his back. He walked far faster than she could have even without the pack—she wasn’t in that great a shape. At forty years old, she had no illusion about her looks for the average man. Especially for one as young as Griff, who couldn’t be any older than thirty. Still, as he walked up the hill toward her, grim expression assuring her that he meant some sort of business, she couldn’t help but admire him. She might not be a spring chicken anymore, but she wasn’t dead yet.
Handsome was too anemic a word for him. No, he had more than that. When she’d first seen him a week ago, he’d come into the retreat hotel with the same backpack and not much else. Like he did now, he’d worn jeans that lovingly fit his body without being too tight, his t-shirt gray cotton. Hiking boots fit his large feet. He’d worn a navy baseball cap that first day, but this morning his head was uncovered. From this distance his over six feet of bristling male energy and broad shoulders made her halt forward progress and take a half breath. She’d hated that he did that to her—made her acknowledge that her hormones hadn’t retreated forever, and men still had the power to tweak her interest.
Griff caught up to her, and a genuine smile broke over his craggy features. His nose was a little big, his cheeks high-boned. His black hair was cut close to his head in a military style. She couldn’t believe he wore only a t-shirt in this weather, but if he was a badass or aspired to be one, perhaps he didn’t need a coat. He hooked his thumbs in the straps of the large backpack and adjusted his burden. She caught appreciative looks at his biceps as they bunched and contracted. Griff didn’t have a tattoo, at least none that she could see, yet there was a roughness about him that said he should. Tattoos on a man had never blown her skirt up, but on this guy they just might. Perhaps he owned tattoos she couldn’t see.
“Hey,” he said. “Cassie, right?”
“That’s me. What brings you up here?”
“Probably the same thing as you.” He came a little closer. “It’s part of my morning work out.”
Well, he did a fantastic job with the workout, no doubting that. The man was ripped.
Dark brows slashed over his penetrating green eyes. A couple days growth of beard covered his jaw.
“You come up here often?” he asked.
If they’d been in a bar Cassie would have sworn it was a bad line, but his face was serious. “Every day since I got here last Wednesday.”
He didn’t speak, his gaze intense and observant. He was a wild card, and yet she sensed strength that went beyond the physical in his makeup, and a deeper significance. She guessed by the cut of his hair and something in his bearing that he’d been in the military or he still was. As he took the lead and maintained a regular pace, she came up alongside him. Thankfully he didn’t walk too fast.
She was almost ashamed to say she’d never gone all the way to the top. “I’m not too fond of heights. I usually stop in the small park before the top.”
“Don’t worry. They’ve got the edge fenced off.”
“That’s different. When I was a kid they didn’t. There used to be at least one suicide every ten years.” She shivered at the thought. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“You’re afraid of heights?”
“I just have a healthy respect for it.”
“Don’t blame you. Is this your first time in Colorado?”
“No. I live in Aspen right now, and I’ve been to Bowmount a few times in the past, ju
st not up to this point.”
They trudged on in silence until they reached the top. Huffing and puffing a little, Cassie admired the way he wasn’t even winded. She retrieved a bottle of water from her pack and undid the top. She took a long swallow to bathe her dusty throat. Cassie took in the view as far from the edge as she could get. He stood at the fence line, no trace of fear on his face or in his stance.
The breeze kicked up again, and she marveled at the beauty. Below the cliff the pines reached high, their dark green mixed with the lighter St. Patrick’s green grass below in the valley. Rain dowsed them this last summer and even the fall hadn’t diminished the moisture. She loved Colorado mountain scenery almost more than she loved anything else. Drawing in a deep breath, she enjoyed being in the peace and quiet, even if there was another human nearby. She pulled out her sketch pad and sat on a concrete bench near the trail.
She allowed instinct to guide her, to dictate her pencil’s movements. Time shrank down to a pinpoint as the pencil glided, her fingers smudged. A light breeze tossed her hair. She shook it out of the way. Being in flow didn’t happen often for her, and now that it had in this unexpected place and time, she wouldn’t waste it. Faster and faster her pencil flew across the page, creating a landscape that sang to her soul. The man nearby could have been a tree for all her muse cared.
She concentrated on the trees, the rocks, the sharp blue so clear it almost hurt the eyes. She lifted her sunglasses up and propped them on the top of her head. She wanted to see the sharpness of everything and commit it to memory. And just like that, the momentum fizzled and creativity petered to a stop. She almost whispered an expletive.
Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers Page 117
