Wounded Angel (The Earth Angels)

by Gail, Stacy

  For only a moment disquiet moved through her like a killing frost before she consciously shrugged it away. Fear would never again make her a victim. “He seems to be on the up and up, Jacob. He’s just another athlete who wants to reach his full potential.” And maybe reach out for her, but she wasn’t about to admit that now. “And in case you’ve forgotten, you are the one who’s lectured me time and again on how I must learn to take care of myself no matter what the circumstances are, and how I shouldn’t rely on anyone but myself when it comes to personal protection. Doesn’t your determination to play bodyguard whenever Nate’s around go against all that?”

  “You must always be ready to protect yourself against regular people,” he acknowledged, nodding. “But that guy... He is part Goliath, part Viking.”

  “Just because he’s big doesn’t mean he’s into raping and pillaging.”

  “It doesn’t mean he isn’t.”

  And there was no way she could fight against that form of logic. “So you’re saying that training me as hard as you have, for as long as you have, is worth nothing and I can’t take care of myself?”

  “It’s not that we don’t trust your abilities or your conviction to protect yourself, Ella.” Phoebe’s calm voice soothed the agitated atmosphere, and it helped Ella’s iffy temper ease back from the boiling point. “But let’s face it—your new client needs a personal trainer like Dolly Parton needs breast enhancement.”

  Ella tried not to sigh out loud. It irked her no end that she’d come to the same conclusion. “You’re both blowing this way out of proportion.”

  “I have trained you to fight your way out of danger should you ever again find yourself immersed in it.” Jacob’s grave tone got her attention, and she turned to find an almost worried frown darkening his face. “I have given you all the tools I know of to fight, to maim, to kill. To survive. The one thing I have not yet had the time to teach you are all the mental skills necessary to read your opponent and see him for what he is. And what he isn’t.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, he’s not my opponent.”

  “The world must be your opponent. To trust is to let a person close. To let a person close is to invite them to do harm. Have you not had enough of this?”

  She tried not to flinch. “If I went by that philosophy I’d fear every single person on the planet, including you and Phoebe. One hell of a lot of my life was taken from me, but that little part... That’s the part I’d have to give away, and I refuse to do it. That’s not living.”

  “That’s not what we’re saying.” Phoebe put up both hands palms out, clearly trying to apply the brakes. “Of course we don’t want you to go back to the way you were when you first landed on our doorstep, and why would we? You’ve made such tremendous strides since that time. The last thing we want is to shove you back into your shell.”

  All too well Ella remembered how uncommunicative she’d been when she first came to Chicago. Her obsessive drive to learn every trick in self-defense had landed her at The Body Electric, first as an addicted gym rat, then as an instructor recruited by Phoebe. Her wariness and personal proximity issues had been obvious to both Phoebe and Ella’s then-personal trainer, Jacob, and it had taken the better part of a year to give them the barest explanation of her past. Only when she’d started to work there and experienced a snafu with her Social Security number had she been forced to come completely clean with them regarding her former life. From that point, Phoebe and Jacob had been her fiercest allies, and at times—like now—her overbearing protectors.

  “There are people who need you as a trainer, and there are people who could single-handedly defeat a Navy SEAL team.” Jacob’s chin was angle so high it was a wonder he didn’t get a crick in his neck. “Surely even you can see that.”

  Phoebe shot him an exasperated look. “Jacob, stop helping. Ella, what we’re asking is that you just look at this guy who’s decided to latch onto you, and judge accordingly on how you’re going to manage your personal protection. That’s all.”

  “Drop him as a client.” Ignoring Pheobe, Jacob instead chose to display why he had never worked in a diplomatic capacity while in the Mossad. “Or at the very least, hand him over to me. Give me one day and I will find out what his objectives are, or break him in the attempt.”

  Phoebe sighed. “Jacob, seriously, you need to switch to decaf in the worst way.”

  “You two must think I’m a complete idiot,” Ella interjected before Jacob could retaliate. “No matter what’s happened in the past, I assure you that I do have a functioning survival instinct.”

  “We never said that you didn’t,” Phoebe began, but stopped when Ella scowled at her.

  “Whether it’s conscious or not, most people have an underlying belief that those who find themselves preyed upon by others somehow wound up that way because they were stupid or careless. I was neither, then or now, so you and Jacob can get that thought right out of your heads.”

  “No, Ella—”

  “What’s more, while I appreciate your concern, it’s not necessary. After everything I’ve gone through, I’d like to think my survival instincts have been honed more sharply than most. I’ve got my eye on Nate da Luca, and he’s not going to take me by surprise. I can and will take care of myself, both against him and anyone stupid enough to think I’m an easy mark.”

  Jacob’s eyes bulged. “I teach you a few techniques and you think yourself a trained killer.”

  Ella froze from the inside out. “I am a killer. I’ve done it before and I have no problem with doing it again.”

  Chapter Four

  Chicago was colder than the backside of hell.

  Huddled in his duster, Nate’s ass felt like a block of ice as he sat on a bus bench on Michigan Avenue, his hands kept warm by the Venti coffee cup he held. Thank God he could fortify himself with a heavy dose of caffeine and sugar. Otherwise—thanks to his aversion to the cold and a night filled with weird dreams—his misery would have been complete.

  He stifled a yawn and tried to pull his brain out of the fog of fatigue. After the hell Ella had put him through, he’d had high hopes of enjoying a restful sleep for the first time in what felt like forever. But no. No sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was once again dreaming about a giant faceless man in a cathedral-sized snow globe. The color-stealing glow of a full moon beamed down to spotlight this being that resembled a waxwork waiting to be sculpted. Sometimes the faceless man was silent; at others he was downright verbose. Last night he’d been in a chatty mood, and as always Nate was left wondering how he could talk without a mouth.

  “Don’t look my way, abomination. I’m not ready yet.” The voice came from everywhere to echo all around the glass room, though it was like no voice Nate had ever heard. Like a demented mix of squeaking brakes and fingernails on a blackboard. “I hate that you can see me, while I cannot see you. Don’t look my way. Don’t look my way.”

  Nate had awakened chanting the phrase, suffering the dual miseries of a king-sized headache and the sensation that he hadn’t slept at all. It had been this way for weeks now and he was officially sick of it.

  He glanced up at the frosty blue sky beyond the towering buildings, urging the sun to hurry the hell up and turn the heat on. The manmade canyon around him testified to how many people lived and worked in the Windy City, but to his way of thinking it was a mystery why so many lived in a place that had to be second only to Siberia when it came to the cold. It was the beginning of April, for God’s sake, yet here he was watching his breath vapor out in front of him. Back home in Atlanta, the azaleas were blooming. Here, with the Wrigley Building behind him and the flag-studded Michigan Avenue Bridge in front of him, there wasn’t a hint of green anywhere unless he counted the muddy greenish
-brown of the Chicago River.

  Damn, he hated Chicago.

  Ducking his chin into his coat, he pretended interest in his smartphone as a redheaded woman rushed past. The thought of accidentally bumping into her crossed his mind as she made her way toward the Wrigley Building, but in the end he stayed where he was. He didn’t feel the need to get an up-close and personal peek at her. Unlike the impulse he’d followed by deliberately crossing paths with Ella Little, the idea of doing the same with Gabrielle Litte left him flat. Which was odd; he usually had a soft spot for redheads. But for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, it just didn’t feel right.

  Gabrielle Litte had been working at the historic Wrigley Building for seven months now, pulling the seven-to-three shift as a janitorial manager. As far as he could tell, she’d never missed a day and her arrivals were better timed than the clock up on the historic building’s tower. Supposedly she was a transfer from northern Kentucky, had few friends, no family or boyfriend. She was a loner, the right height and weight of the woman he was looking for; in short, a decent fit. But the eyes and hair color were off—red hair and pale brown eyes instead of blond and blue.

  Like Ella, Gabrielle Litte wasn’t an exact match.

  He sipped his coffee and went over his mental checklist. After observing this woman for nearly a week, he was all but certain Gabrielle wasn’t his true target. For one thing, the redhead was slightly bow-legged. If there was one thing Nate remembered about the woman he needed to find, it was that her legs were magnificent. For another, he could trace Gabrielle Litte’s personal history back all the way to high school, something he shouldn’t be able to do if she had done her best to cover her tracks.

  It was Ella Little’s past that was MIA.

  This should be the deciding factor to jettison Gabrielle Litte off his list of possibilities, but the poisonous insecurity gnawing away at his insides kept her there. Six months ago he would have been happy to listen to that instinct. Even when his gut feelings had let him down, they’d still whispered to him in a constant stream that eventually pointed him to his goal of finding that which had been hidden.

  Now, there was nothing. No whispers. No feelings. As far as he was concerned, that meant he was nothing.

  His mother would have been thrilled.

  Jaw knotted, Nate curbed the urge to once again reach down inside himself in the hope of finding that special other sense that went deeper than emotion or thought. There was no point in looking for something that was gone. For six months he’d groped around like a blind man for the internal compass that had nudged him toward the hidden and the lost, only to come up against a blank and terrifying darkness.

  Maybe this was his punishment for not hating his family’s genetic gifts.

  Frustration clawed at Nate’s insides until there was nothing left but bloody strips. Unlike everyone else in his family, he’d been proud—hell, he’d been honored—that he’d been born special, even if he was the weakest. That pride had turned to arrogance, and in that arrogance he’d taken his meager gifts and wielded them without thought. He’d delighted in proving his mother wrong, that the family curse she’d rejected was in fact a worthy trait. With every case he’d solved by using his gifts, he’d thought he was validating his existence.

  Never once had it crossed his mind that while he was proving how goddamned awesome he was, there were some things that needed to remain hidden.

  The buzz of the smartphone startled him. His expression collapsed into a grimace of distaste when he saw who it was. “Nate da Luca.”

  “Good morning to you, Mr. da Luca. I trust I didn’t wake you?”

  “Mr. Archibald.” It was almost scary, how easily Nate could imagine smashing his fist into the soft, unlined face of Carver Archibald, senior attorney of Archibald and Associates. He was the epitome of the old Southern gentleman, with his snow-white coronet of hair, waxed pencil moustache and a penchant for looking down his bourbon-flushed nose at every being who dared to breathe his air. The less time Nate spent dealing with the well-paying but self-important prick, the better. “I’m working, so I’d appreciate it if you made this quick.”

  “How admirable, to have such dedication to your job,” came the drawling praise that wasn’t really praise at all. The need to Hulk-smash the pompous blowhard inched up another notch. “I’m afraid I must have missed your update yesterday.”

  “You didn’t. I didn’t contact you yesterday.”

  “That’s what I thought. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the last time we spoke. My client has made it quite plain he would like for you to report in on a daily basis regarding your search.”

  “You made yourself abundantly clear, Mr. Archibald.” Nate glanced up at the clock tower. By now Gabrielle Litte would be heading downstairs to the sub-levels, where the janitorial offices and supply areas were located. “You seem to be the one who didn’t understand our last conversation, so allow me to repeat myself. When I’m positive I’ve located Gabriella Littlefield, you and Richard Rainier will be the first to know. Until then, I have nothing to report.”

  “It’s been six weeks since the death of Claudine Pierpont-Rainier. Six weeks since you were retained to carry out that gentle woman’s final wishes. Need I remind you of the time constraints?”

  “Not at all. And if you think you can do a better job at locating someone who doesn’t want to be found, by all means be my guest.” Not that Nate was certain another private investigator couldn’t do a better job. Without his inner compass to nudge him in the right direction, he had no idea if he was on the right track. “The reason you hired me specifically was because I’m the one who found Gabriella Littlefield as she stumbled her way out of the Smoky Mountains, naked and more dead than alive. I know what to look for in this woman who’s done everything possible to make sure she can’t be found.”

  “The question is, are you capable of doing that job, Mr. da Luca? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that a competent investigation would have borne some fruit by now.”

  “After Gabriella Littlefield legally changed her name, she was granted the right to have her records sealed,” Nate went on while the need to destroy something enveloped his muscles in an embrace of heat. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d had—and ignored—his entire life, mainly due to a genuine fear that he’d kill someone if he ever let that nuclear-hot power off its leash. “The only family she’d had in Asheville was her mother, who died three years ago, so that’s a dead end there. She quit her job as an LPN, and as far as I can tell she hasn’t returned to the nursing profession. She abandoned it, just like she abandoned everything else in her life. Do you realize what a rare kind of determination that takes?”

  “Yes, well, her gumption is admirable, to be sure. Considering that tawdry business between Ms. Littlefield and my client’s family, she’d have to be quite the spitfire, wouldn’t she? Nevertheless, as she’s not some superspy trained by the government, I’m confident it should be a simple matter to track her down. Have you tried looking into her finances?”

  “As she was the sole beneficiary of her mother’s life insurance policy, Gabriella Littlefield was able to pay off all her debts. She then canceled her credit cards, closed her bank account and deleted all of her profiles on every social network the internet has to offer, including an obscure medical-trade forum for nurses that she belonged to. And as much as this makes my job that much harder to do, she has every right to disappear. After what Charles Rainier put her through, the least thi
s world owes that woman is a little peace and quiet.”

  “There’s no need to get so impassioned. No one is questioning Ms. Littlefield’s right to privacy. But really, procedure must be adhered to.”

  “What is at question is your client’s apparent belief that it should be a snap to find her. Gabriella Littlefield could be anywhere in this world, living under any name imaginable.”

  “Then why, pray tell, have you focused all your energy on Chicago, of all places?”

  If there was one thing Nate hated, it was explaining himself. “Though Gabriella Littlefield was born and raised in North Carolina, in her teen years she spent several summers here in the Windy City with her cousins. I talked with the one cousin who still lives in the area, and he swears he hasn’t seen her in years. While I don’t really believe him on that score, I do believe Gabriella would be more comfortable in a place that’s not completely unfamiliar to her.”

  “But if she were trying to disappear as completely as you’ve demonstrated, wouldn’t she avoid having anything to do with her past?”

  “Humans are a funny breed. Even when they’re trying to create a brand new life for themselves, there’s something instinctive about holding onto one or two things that remind them of who they once were—sort of like an anchor that keeps them from drifting into dangerous waters. And that leads me to another point. I had a friend in the Atlanta PD search several real estate and property rental sites around the country, looking for every iteration of the name Gabriella Littlefield I could think of. Three hits showed up in Chicago—Briella Fields, Gabrielle Litte and Ella Little.”

  “Goodness, that does sound like a bunch of guessing to me.”

  Nate gripped the phone so hard it was a wonder it didn’t crumple into a teeny ball of circuitry and high-impact glass. “It’s an educated guess, derived from an old undercover trick—choose a cover name that’s similar to your real name. That way you won’t be caught being oblivious when someone calls out to you.”