Ground Rules

by Masters, Cate

  Her fists clenched at her sides. “I never asked for an assistant!”

  “True. But you did stand by that evergreen and wish.” He glanced at her Christmas tree.

  The air thinned. She found it hard to breath. This had to be a joke. Whirling, she scanned for a hidden camera.

  “There isn’t one.” He sipped, more cocky than before.

  “What?” Had her thought verbally slipped out? Damn tequila. It always loosened her up too much.

  “No camera. No prank. No punk, as they call it these days, though I’ll never understand why.” Scooting lower into the sofa cushions, he crossed a boot atop the other. “It’s powerful enough to wish on a Christmas angel once, but seven times…” He let out a low whistle.

  The steeliness of her resolve faded to a consistency more resembling gelatin. “How did you know about that?” Had she accidentally let it slip to Penny? No, she’d never reveal that. Not to her agent, the barracuda who’d later throw her weak moment back in her face.

  “You asked for me, so here I am. Seven’s a magical number, you know. Your seven days of wishes guaranteed your priority in the line of requests granted. Though I can’t understand why Peter thought yours more important than the homeless person who lives under the highway overpass two blocks away, or your neighbor who lost his job before Thanksgiving, and can’t afford to pay the rent, much less buy presents.”

  The room spun. Her knees unhinged. Sinking, she gulped for air.

  Like a whisper, he was there at her side, cradling her. He swept her to the sofa and gently laid her down. Sitting beside her, he leaned an elbow on the cushion behind, effectively trapping her. A trap she certainly didn’t mind, but not one she was ready for. No, she wasn’t ready for any of this.

  She pressed deeper into the pillow and croaked out, “You’re not.” He couldn’t possibly be. But how else to explain his glowing appearance? His insider knowledge of her deepest thoughts? Her secret Christmas wish to the treetop angel? She glanced over to the decorated evergreen.

  For seven days in a row, she’d gazed up and made her plea to the beautiful angel on top. With the porcelain head painted in fine detail, blond locks of glass flowing almost to its shoulders, Alice could never decide whether the angel was male or female. The plain white gown gave no clue. The serene face always seemed to stare back at her. Waiting.

  But now it’s gone. The porcelain angel’s gone. A shockwave erupted across her façade of calm. She turned her wide eyes back to him. Luke—an angel?

  “I am.” He cocked his jaw, as if not quite convinced himself. “Technically.”

  His broad shoulders appeared all too human. She reached behind his shoulders, and beneath his tee shirt, felt only muscle, smooth and hard. “You have no wings.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so pedestrian. Wings are metaphorical. How else could we walk among you without detection?”

  Her mother used to say things like that: angels walked in our midst. You never know when you’re helping a stranger, or an angel. Mom had given her the decorative angel as a reminder to help others.

  Her insides untwisted. “How did you get here then?”

  “My Harley, obviously.” His soft tone sounded matter of fact.

  “That was you? But it stopped on the roof.”

  He leaned closer, introspective and solemn and incredibly gorgeous. “I’ll move it later, don’t worry.”

  With him so near, worry was the furthest thing from her mind. “This is crazy. I’m dreaming.”

  Though disturbing, it ranked as one of the best dreams she’d had in awhile.

  *~*~*

  Rankled by her doubt, or maybe his inability to convince her, Luke heaved a sharp breath. Of all the bloody things to bring up, she had to ask about the wings. He hated to bend the truth—okay, he’d outright lied—but lesser angels deserved equal respect too.

  “You don’t believe me? Do you really need the flash? The ridiculous special effects?” He hadn’t yet mastered those. If she demanded it, his demonstration would wilt her belief in an instant.

  Her frustration apparently equaled his. With a wary look, she sat up and fingered the edge of a pillow. “It’s just that… you don’t look like an….” Brow furrowed, she swept her gaze over him. “If anything, you look more like a rock star.”

  There you go, love. That’s more like it. Yes, given his love of music, a rock star made a fitting comparison. But he’d tolerate no others.

  Lifting her feet, he rested against the sofa and laid her ankles across his lap. “Perhaps you were expecting Clarence from It’s A Wonderful Life? I don’t go in for theatrics. And don’t get any ideas about jumping into a freezing river. I don’t do cold water rescues either. Or rescues in general.” Though Peter would applaud the movie reenactment.

  Sarcasm tainted her tone. “Well, that’s not very helpful, is it?”

  “You’re the one who called. And at the last minute, mind you. It’s nearly Christmas Day. Most people put their requests in much earlier than a week ahead of time.” If she had, Peter would undoubtedly have sent someone else, someone more qualified to help her. Someone more objective about her.

  Though Luke had to admit, she was even more adorable when angry. And the smooth curve of her ankles drew his attention to her toenails, painted cotton candy pink. His tongue darted to his teeth, wanting to taste each toe. Strange, he hadn’t had a notion like that in all his otherworldly days.

  Somber, she drew her feet beneath her. “I see. If I wanted the best, I should have asked earlier?”

  A tough cookie, indeed. “Hey, I’m here. Not willingly, rest assured. But everyone else had already been dispatched.”

  Hugging the pillow, she took an unusual interest in its fabric. Looking up, triumph lit her eyes. “If you’re really an angel, then how, exactly, did I ask?”

  Here we go. Heaving a sigh, he stood. “If we must go through this futile exercise…you stood by the tree.”

  To appease her—and hoping the distance would remove his temptation to taste her toes or any other part of her—he traveled in a whoosh through a tunnel of prismatic light to stand beside the decorated fir. “Here. You said you couldn’t take one more night alone, too much work, yadda yadda yadda.”

  Repeating every word might remind her too much of her sadness. And he’d forgotten the drudgery of human life, how day upon day could wear down a soul.

  Her brows furrowed. “Save the sarcasm. It’s not very angelic.”

  Yes, the label sounded preposterous, he had to admit, when applied to him. “Have I left anything out?”

  Her lower lip curled, an adorable pout. “Yes. Your sensitivity.”

  “Eons ago, babycakes.” He wouldn’t tell her his fiancée had murdered it. He glided to the sofa with the grace of Fred Astaire, retrieved the two glasses and refilled them. “Weaknesses return—unfortunately to no lasting effect.” He gulped nonetheless.

  “Not for me.” She threw back the tangy mix, licked the salted rim and stared, incredulous. “So you actually heard my wish. Amazing.”

  “Not me. Weren’t you listening to me at all?” Not a name dropper, he opted for a more generic description of Peter. “Dispatch did play back the wish time sequence for me.”

  He wouldn’t admit he’d disguised himself as a treetop angel. “Frankly, I’ve seen more desperate people on the streets, but many of them don’t think to ask for help. Oh, but let the privileged fall short on what they think life owes them, and listen to the wails resound. You should hear some of the requests. Pathetic.”

  Tightening her jaw, she shot him a scathing glance. “More pathetic than mine?”

  Feigning sincerity, he said, “Ridiculously moreso.” He wouldn’t admit he found it difficult to judge her request against anyone else’s. He wanted nothing more than to grant her wish, but how could he when she never specified what she wanted?

  With a groan, she clenched her fists. “Seriously, they sent you?”

  His tone dripped with sarcasm heavier t
han the tequila on his tongue. “That’s the idea.” The less she expected of him, the better.

  Her nostrils flared. “And you’re here to help me?” She rolled her eyes.

  Not that he blamed her for being upset. “I know. Go figure. Half the time, I can’t even help myself.” No need to make himself sound completely inadequate to the task. “But here I am. Use me.”

  Glaring, she hugged the pillow tighter. “If you’re at my disposal, I just might.”

  Her pointed words left little doubt of her meaning. “Dispose of me? You wouldn’t be the first, love.” He raised his glass. “And I’ll wager not the last. Cheers.”

  Nibbling her lip, she studied him. “If you’re supposed to be an angel, exactly what kind are you?”

  “Not a very good one, even for a lesser angel.” He continued in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, I think there was a paperwork snafu, but somehow I was categorized as a Watcher.” Another ingenius description. That’s all he did: watched humans day and night. Boooring.

  “What do Watchers do?” Her tone suggested she remained less than convinced.

  “Nothing mostly, which suits me fine. I’m not like the others, always volunteering for nasty jobs to gain credits. Since I arrived there, only a handful have moved up a level, despite all their good works and intentions to boot. And for what? A higher rank only brings greater responsibility. More duties. More work. What’s the point?”

  Frowning, she appeared sorry to have opened that Pandora’s box. “Who’s helping who, here?” She drained her drink. “I think we need a refill.”

  “Allow me.” He dribbled the last from the mixer into her glass. At least he could accommodate her in that small way.

  She tasted. “It is good. Not the best, but still, very good.”

  “I try to be accommodating.” He bowed, an over-the-top gesture he hoped wouldn’t further irritate her.

  Her glance conveyed her skepticism. “Hm.”

  Had her response been a punch, it would have knocked the wind from him. Helping her would prove a challenge beyond his depth, he feared.

  “This margarita’s good, but it’s making me very tired.” Closing her eyes, she rested against the sofa. A look of sublime bliss removed all trace of worry and sadness from her face. She might have been an angel herself.

  Much as he hated to disturb her, he needed to rectify an initial error. He reached out, sparks of light shot from his fingertips. The hands of her Regular wall clock froze in place. Silence fell over the world. Outside, nothing moved but the steady fall of snowflakes.

  With a shrill purr, Archimedes gave a questioning look from his perch at the window.

  Alice blinked her wide eyes. “Did you just…”

  “Standing operating procedure.” Still, he couldn’t help but grin. Stopping time was pretty cool stuff.

  Impressing her? Priceless.

  Chapter Two

  Diffused light seeped in through the window, casting a bluish pall through the bedroom. It looked like neither morning nor night. Pushing strands of long bangs away from her eyes, Alice smacked her dry lips. The inside of her mouth tasted like dry sand, gritty and awful, maybe Sahara sands over which thousands of camels traversed, spitting and shedding matted fur. Her head might have been a giant gong, recently struck, still reverberating. How had she gotten in this condition?

  Margaritas. Really wicked good margaritas. Mixed by a wicked hot guy.

  Luke.

  Like last night, the temperature in the room shot up a few degrees when she thought of him. She tugged her shirt away to let air between the fabric and her heated skin. The cotton-silk feel on her fingers made her glance down. Her mind raced. Still wearing the tank top and flannel holiday shorts. Had she passed out? Details were as fuzzy as her tongue.

  Muted voices sounded from below. No—one voice. And a cat. Must’ve left the radio on. Shoving the covers aside, she lowered her feet to the floor, hoping to gain balance to stand. But her head, apparently filled with some gaseous substance, floated nauseatingly above her body. Grasping the bed, she sat until the room stilled, then scrambled for the loft rail and sank to the top step. She fingered her knee. No scrape. No pain. Weird.

  Oh, and she’d had the best sleep in weeks. Maybe ever.

  Below in the kitchen, a tall, well-built man stood at the stove, stirring and speaking.

  Luke. Still here?

  Tail swishing, Archimedes sat on the counter—again! He knew better than to climb up there—and interjected mews when Luke paused speaking. Almost as if they were holding a conversation.

  Luke must have slept here overnight. Had he passed out too? She pressed against the rail to peer down. No sign of the sofa being mussed. In fact, the entire loft appeared too neat.

  Was he a housekeeper then? Did Penny send him to relieve her of domestic duties, so she could concentrate on her illustrations? Had Penny seen him? Who could concentrate with Luke here? He could work nights as a Chippendale’s dancer. Shoulders broad but not overdeveloped, like the rest of his muscles. Everything about him was perfect. Too perfect.

  A spicy aroma wafted up. Thai? Oh, that Penny knew how to get to her heart. Not the most traditional of Christmases, but this one would certainly be memorable. Maybe for all the wrong reasons.

  A quick touchup in the bathroom somehow worsened her appearance rather than improved it, but at least she’d have fresher breath. Ambling downstairs, she called, “Good morning.”

  Glancing up, Luke wiped his hands on a towel. “Ah. Finally. You won’t miss Christmas after all.”

  Sarcasm bit deeper on holidays, for some reason. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

  He bowed his head. “A joyous noel.”

  Such an odd manner of speech he had. Another attempt to make her believe he was an angel? She’d address that later. After breakfast. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me messing about in your kitchen. I grew tired of waiting for you to wake up.”

  Couldn’t he cut her any slack? “Some of us need sleep.” Apparently he didn’t. Shuffling past him, she poured coffee.

  “And some of us must find other activities in place of rest. One of mine happens to be culinary experimentation.”

  She subdued a smirk. “I didn’t know angels cooked.” She’d trip him up yet.

  He leaned against the counter. “I warned you about misconceptions. Anything’s within the realm of possibility.”

  She plopped onto the bar stool opposite him. “I used to believe that.” And hoped he wouldn’t start preaching at her.

  He whipped the towel over his shoulder. “Oh now, don’t start with the gloomy face already. It’s Christmas.”

  Worst one ever. Because of the deadline, Alice had cancelled her trip back home. Meaning no presents, no family, no turkey dinner. Too bad Luke’s specialties didn’t include a dash of empathy. Just her luck, to get an angel lacking mercy. And patience. Modesty too. In fact, lacking most social skills in general.

  At least his tastes in music suited her. “You’re playing one of my favorite CDs.” Though she loved everything from Nat King Cole to the Ramones. She hummed along with Chrissie Hynde singing, Two Thousand Miles. “This song always gets to me.”

  “Nice, but I prefer Lennon.” Shaking his head, he chuckled. “John’s great. I was just saying to him the other day—”

  Her jaw gaped open. “John? Lennon?”

  He paused his spoon over the stove to shoot her a curious stare. “Of course. Did you doubt he’s in heaven?”

  “No, of course not. But you spoke to him?” It sounded ridiculous to ask. Still, it was fascinating to even imagine it.

  Luke nodded. “He had a few minutes between jamming with the others, so yes. Should I have procured his autograph for you?”

  She cradled the mug in her hands, relishing the warmth. “It might’ve helped.” Doubtful. Too easy these days, with so many imitations for ready sale online. “What ‘others’?”

  Turning his
attention to the sizzling pan, he shrugged. “George, Roy, Elvis, Jimi, Janis, Ray. The usual. They love to experiment with various sounds. Often they’ll gather full orchestras together. They’ve even been known to add in some harps, in quite an avant garde manner, I might add. That George can play a wild harp.” His hair flopped as he shook his head.

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Please.” Bristling, she was tempted to send him on his way with a slap. She still couldn’t quite comprehend him. A little clarity would lend perspective, and help set the ground rules. If ground rules applied in such instances.

  With a snarky smile, he set his focus on her. “Fine. If you insist on remaining incapable of realizing the truth without me having to go through the tedious process of proof, I’ll prove it. But first, you must do something for me.”

  Tensing, she gripped her cup. “What?”

  He leaned across the counter, his eyes glittering with menace. “You’ll find out. Let’s go.”

  With a wink, they stood on the rooftop beside the Harley. Wind billowed her robe.

  In terror, she clutched his leather jacket. “Are you trying to get us killed?” This had gone far enough. She must be hallucinating.

  His laugh echoed through the streets. “That’s a good one. Not me, of course. I’m long past that stage.” He swung a leg over the bike.

  “How considerate of you.” Rubbing her arms, she added, “You could at least have given me the chance to get a coat.”

  “Why? You’re not cold. Get on.” He revved the engine.

  Glancing down at her bare toes buried in the snow, she wiggled them. How strange. It might’ve been spring, for all the effect the wintry elements had on her.

  In a teasing voice, he asked, “Shall I go without you?”

  Hands shaking, she slid onto the seat behind him. “No way. But how are we…” The word became a squeal when he popped the clutch, and the Harley blasted off the roof. Into the air.

  She braced for the inevitable plunge to their deaths. Well, hers anyway. As she plastered herself against his back, the same strange calm blanketed her senses. She allowed herself a peek below. The snow-covered streets blended into a white blur beneath them, the colored holiday lights outlining windows and roofs.