Angel Falls

by Connie Mann

  “What will happen to poor Eduardo, with Irene gone?” Jair asked.

  “He’ll stay here,” Regina said firmly, then fiddled with a curl that had escaped the rubber band at her nape. Idly, Brooks wondered if her dark hair was as soft as it looked.

  “It is such a tragedy, what happened to her.” Jair clucked sympathetically, while the housekeeper nodded her head in agreement.

  Brooks snapped to attention. Wait a minute. “What happened to Irene?” He demanded in Portuguese. Three startled faces turned his way.

  “You do not know?” Jair asked. “Is that not why you are here?”

  “What happened?” Brooks asked again.

  He gave Regina credit for meeting his look head-on despite the agony shadowing her brown eyes. “Irene died yesterday.”

  “How?” He forced a bland expression. This wasn’t his problem.

  “There was an explosion.”

  “What kind of explosion?” Stay focused. Gather the facts. Get the kid. Get out. Don’t let those brown eyes get to you.

  “Her . . . her car blew up.” Regina brushed angrily at an errant tear.

  His gut tightened involuntarily. He suspected it would take a lot to make this woman cry. “Was there a collision?”

  “No.”

  Unease tiptoed up his spine. “Who do the police consider as suspects at this point?”

  “Why do you assume the police are involved, Senhor?” Jair asked.

  “Because unless there’s an accident, most cars do not explode.”

  Regina’s eyes flew to his and her chin tilted up defiantly. “They say everyone is a suspect right now.”

  Ah. And she didn’t like being considered an “everyone.” His training had questions crowding his tongue—like whether anyone had seen anything, if Regina had been there—but he bit them back. Stay focused. “Look, Regina, I’m sorry for your loss, but if you’ll just get the boy, I’ll be on my way.”

  Her eyes widened as if he’d just sprouted another head. “I don’t think so, Senhor,” she hissed.

  “What?”

  “Eduardo is not going anywhere with you.”

  “Why not?” What was going on here?

  “Because I don’t know you.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Lady, you know exactly who I am.”

  “Well, I don’t trust you,” she blurted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind.” She moved to the door and motioned for him to leave. “Please go. I apologize that you made the trip in vain.”

  Brooks started to argue with her and then stopped. She didn’t want to give him the kid, fine. He’d go back to the airport and catch an earlier flight. His mother would have to find someone else. “Have it your way, then.” He sketched Regina a brief salute and walked out the door.

  As he approached his rental, he realized the car he’d seen earlier had disappeared.

  4

  THE SILENCE AFTER BROOKS LEFT PULSED WITH TENSION.

  “What an odious man,” Jair commented. “Really, Regina, I don’t know why you let someone like him in the door.”

  Regina would have pointed out that she hadn’t invited him in, but she didn’t have the energy. Between these two men clouding the air with warring testosterone, the grief of Irene’s funeral, and that anonymous, blood-chilling phone call, she was numb with exhaustion. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much effort it required to make polite small talk with this man.

  Jair stepped closer, and Regina took her usual half-pace backward.

  “You need to get out for a bit, meu amor,” he crooned. “We’ll have dinner. A quiet night out is just what you need.”

  Regina kept from slapping his hand away by reminding herself that Jair was a very nice man. And a very generous contributor to House of Angels. The fact that she didn’t like to be touched—or referred to as his loved one—had nothing to do with him personally. Probably.

  She sent a helpless look Olga’s way, but the older woman beamed at Jair, delighted to have such a gentleman showing an interest in Regina.

  “I’m sorry. Not today.” And with that, she left the room.

  Her annoyance simmered well into the evening. Had everyone gone crazy? Brooks Anderson wanted her to hand Eduardo over like a discarded package, and Olga wanted her to go out to dinner. No matter how well-intentioned Olga’s matchmaking, Regina wouldn’t let Eduardo out of her sight. Certainly not for Jair.

  As for Brooks Anderson . . . no way was he getting his huge hands on the boy.

  She was stomping down the hall after she’d checked on the children when the doorbell rang. What now?

  As if on cue, Jorge appeared in the hallway, kitchen knife of choice at the ready. Her own knife waited safely in the pocket of her skirt. She looked through the peephole and called, “Who is it?” though if the cowboy boots were any indication, she already knew.

  “Brooks,” came the growled response.

  Something inside Regina shifted at the unmistakably male timbre of his voice, though she refused to acknowledge it. “What do you want, Senhor Brooks?”

  “I need to talk to you, Miss da Silva.”

  Regina sighed. “I believe we said all that needed to be said this morning.”

  During the silence, Regina pictured him grinding his teeth.

  “Please open the door.” He said each word quietly, but Regina found herself responding to the command behind them.

  She slid the deadbolt back, but left the safety chain on. “How can I help you?”

  As he had this morning, he looked over his shoulder before directing the full force of those flinty gray eyes her way. “We need to talk. But not out here.”

  Slowly, against her better judgment, she released the safety chain and waved him in. While Jorge secured the door, she led the way into the office, where he draped his large frame into the same chair he’d occupied that morning.

  Regina perched in the chair behind her desk, adjusting her glasses with hands that badly wanted to shake. Yet despite his size and overwhelming maleness, she wasn’t physically afraid of him. Even more surprising, he didn’t repulse her like Jair did. In some long-denied corner of her heart, she sensed his threat came from what he could make her feel.

  She wrapped her sweater around her shoulders as tremors raced up her spine. Just the idea of feeling something for a man besides revulsion terrified her. Even the way he watched her made her tremble—like a cat before a mouse hole. Confident. Lazy. Determined. “Why are you here, Senhor Brooks?”

  He met her gaze head on. “I just learned that Eduardo Perriera needs some medical tests done right away. My mother asked me to bring him to the States. I’m not leaving without him.”

  Regina’s eyes widened. Eduardo was fine. There wasn’t a thing wrong with him. Why would Carol lie? Even more alarming, if Regina didn’t hand over the boy, what would Brooks do?

  She was still scrambling for a reply when his head snapped up. In a blur of motion, he leaped out of the chair, grabbed her arms and shoved her into the hallway before landing on top of her in one smooth motion.

  For an instant, all her energy focused on catching her breath. What in the world? But as soon as the tiniest bit of air filled her lungs, panic set in, and she struggled to get out from under him, fighting with all her might.

  Instead of fighting back, he merely shifted his considerable weight to hold her more firmly under him. “Hold still and be quiet.”

  His voice slid over her, a mere thread of sound. The “or else” didn’t have to be stated for her to know it was there. How many times had she heard those same menacing words growled in her ear?

  Memories assaulted her and a small whimper escaped her throat. Immediately, a callused palm closed over her lips. No. Dear Father, no. Not again. Regina twisted and bucked and tried to take a chunk out of his hand with her teeth.

  He must have read her intent, for his hand loosened just a fraction, and he looked her right in the eye. “Lady, I’ve had a v
ery long day, and getting shot would just about top it off. I’m not going to repeat myself. Hold still.”

  The word “shot” had the effect of a slap. Her vision cleared, and she fought to hold the panic at bay, even as his weight pushed her into the hard wooden floor. She had no doubt she would have bruises along her back tomorrow.

  In the sudden quiet after her struggles, she heard nothing but their breathing. Hers rapid and shallow, his slow and deep. She heard another noise, a slight pinging. It came three times in rapid succession, and then stopped. She raised questioning eyes to his and was surprised at the anger she saw reflected there.

  “Rifle. Muffled.”

  It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. “You mean someone’s shooting at us?” The whispered words were barely out before he clamped his hand over her mouth again and leaned in even closer.

  “Lady, if you can’t keep quiet, I’m gonna have to find a way to do it for you.”

  His eyes bored into hers and something shimmered in the air between them. A gossamer thin connection, delicate as a spider’s web. With it came an elemental awareness, an acknowledgment of the differences between male and female that neither welcomed. It raced back and forth from one to the other like a desperate spider trapping an unwary fly.

  For one terrifying moment, she thought he planned to kiss her. He gazed at her lips and then lowered his head, but at the last second he drew back, his jaw tightening.

  Regina breathed a sigh of relief, but as the minutes dragged by her fear returned. Maybe if she held herself completely still, he’d forget about her. Eyes closed, she slowed her breathing until she feared her lungs would burst.

  He shifted slightly away. “Quit holding your breath,” he growled into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Regina opened her eyes and found herself neatly trapped in his gaze. Rage stormed in the icy depths, tempered by rock-hard determination.

  “Where’s the back door?” he mouthed.

  She jerked her head in the direction of the hallway.

  “Stay quiet and out of sight until I get back.”

  He waited for her nod before he rolled off her and disappeared from sight.

  Regina flipped her switchblade open and followed.

  5

  BROOKS HEADED DOWN THE DIM HALLWAY IN A CROUCH, SEARCHING FOR the old man he’d seen earlier. He didn’t want to take him out by mistake.

  He passed a connecting hallway and peered around the corner, relieved to see the man standing guard before a corridor to what he assumed were the children’s rooms. Good. Brooks sent him a thumbs up and indicated that he was going outside. Gray hair standing up in tufts and thin body looking like a stiff breeze would take it down, the old guy nevertheless brandished that knife like he knew how to use it, and the steely strength in his faded eyes told Brooks what he needed to know.

  With a quick prayer that the feisty director would stay where he’d told her to, Brooks eased the knife from its sheath. He slipped out the back door and flexed his right hand, relieved the knife didn’t clatter from his grip.

  Time to go hunting.

  Eyes tilted down lest reflected moonlight give away his location, Brooks slowly made his way to the front of the building. In the distance came the faint hum of traffic, but here in this side courtyard, all was quiet. A cat yowled, and from somewhere nearby, the stench of garbage wafted on the still night air.

  The scrape of a heel on brick had him blending farther into the shadows. Another scrape, a muffled cry, and then the thud of a body hitting the ground.

  Had the old man come out here after all? Visions of men being cut down by machine gun fire danced before his eyes. Brooks broke out in a cold sweat and every muscle in his body screamed for him to run and never look back. Only the terror in Regina da Silva’s eyes and the thought of those innocent children kept him rooted in place. He wasn’t worth much, but right now, he was all that stood between them and a very determined shooter with an expensive silencer.

  He wiped sweaty palms on his jeans and waited. He knew how to slow his body down and wait, for however long it took. His work for Uncle Sam required weeks and months of waiting in return for fifteen minutes of pure adrenaline.

  The minutes ticked by. Not too far away, he heard a moan. Good, meant the victim was still alive, but if he didn’t keep quiet, the shooter would be back to finish the job.

  No sooner had the thought registered, than a shadow separated itself from the night. Of medium height and build, the man moved with confidence, secure in his power.

  Brooks tightened his grip on the knife and waited for his chance. After several minutes, the man stepped into a circle of moonlight. It glinted off his weapon.

  Soundlessly, Brooks pulled back his arm to send the knife flying. But just as he let go, his injured muscles spasmed and threw off his aim. He heard the quiet oof as blade entered flesh, but no thud of a body hitting the ground. Instead, he heard a muffled curse and pounding feet.

  Even before the sounds registered, Brooks was racing across the yard. He rounded the side of the house in time to see the man scale the iron fence and leap across the street. By the time Brooks cleared the same fence, the man had taken a dive into the parked car and sped away.

  Disgusted with himself, Brooks scooped the bloody knife from the cobblestones where the shooter had dropped it and wiped it on a clump of grass before returning it to the sheath in the middle of his back.

  He jogged back to the fallen man. As he approached, he heard a gasp. A female gasp.

  Sure enough, there was the incredibly stupid Miss da Silva making enough noise to wake the dead while she examined the man lying on the ground.

  He crouched down and nudged her aside with his knees. At least she’d had sense enough to put pressure on the wound in the man’s shoulder.

  “Who is this guy?” he demanded as he reached back for his knife and prepared to slice his shirt into thin strips.

  “Back away from him,” Regina hissed.

  His head came up, and he found himself looking at the business end of a long switchblade. “What are you doing? He needs help.”

  “I think you’ve helped him plenty. Now back away. I’m going to call for help.”

  He stared her down. “I don’t think so. The last thing we need right now is the police asking a bunch of questions. I can take care of it here.” He returned his attention to his shirt and sliced off a neat section, wadded it up and pressed it to the wound.

  When she continued to point that knife at him, his patience snapped. He snatched the knife from her hand and pressed her palm over the makeshift bandage. “You want to do something useful, then hold this. Firm pressure.”

  He ignored the way she muttered to herself in Portuguese. From the few words he picked up, it wasn’t flattering to him or anyone in his lineage.

  When she wound down, he fixed her with a determined glare. “You want to tell me why you didn’t stay put like I told you to?”

  Her chin came up, but she never let up on the pressure bandage. “I don’t take orders well, Senhor.”

  Yeah, well, ain’t life grand. Just his luck to be stuck with a stubborn, prickly female. So much for the pleasant fantasy he’d spun on the plane after listening to the piped-in music about the girl from Ipanema.

  Jaw tight, Brooks ran his hands over the man’s arms and legs, searching for other bullet wounds. Their hands bumped, and he realized she was doing the same thing. “We need to see if the bullet went through. We’ll have to lift him far enough to check.”

  She nodded once, which he took for assent.

  “Okay, keep the pressure on and I’ll get behind his head so we can see what’s going on. Ready?”

  A quick look confirmed that the bullet had gone clean through. Good. Gently, he set the man back down. “We need to get him inside.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he swung the man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. His patient moaned, but it couldn’t be helped. They couldn’t stay out here and wai
t for the shooter to come back.

  Miss da Silva marched ahead to open the door and gestured to a bedroom just down the hall. Following a spate of Portuguese, the housekeeper materialized with a pan of water and rolls of bandages. He eased the injured man onto the crisp clean sheets and the older woman immediately shooed him out of the way.

  “Senhor Brooks, let Olga tend him. I will take a look at your shoulder.”

  “Just Brooks. And I’m not sure I want you anywhere near me.” He nodded toward the switchblade again clutched in her hand, then pointed at his jacket. “The blood isn’t mine. Just point me toward the bathroom.”

  Stubborn to a fault, she led the way instead. And then followed him all the way in. It was not a very big room.

  “Look, lady, I’m fine.”

  “Stop calling me lady.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she scrubbed her hands at the clean but rusty sink.

  He couldn’t help a half grin at her audacity. The woman had clearly been scared witless tonight, but she was still spitting like a scalded cat. He did prefer demure, moldable women, but he admired guts in either gender.

  “Then stop calling me Senhor.”

  Behind all that hair he caught a glimpse of those lovely lips reflected in the mirror. For some reason, he wanted to see them smile, rather than muttering or shouting at him. She rewarded him with the briefest of smiles before the fear rushed into her eyes again.

  He waited until she turned to dry her hands before he said, “Give me some privacy here while I clean up.”

  Her chin came up at his tone. He leaned in just a bit, and her eyes went wide and she backed up a step. But when she made no move to leave, he shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his cut-up tee shirt over his head. His head snapped around at her sharp intake of breath.

  He reached for the knife sheath, then realized she was staring at his shoulder. He touched a hand to it and it came away bloody.

  “You are hurt,” she accused.

  “Not today,” he muttered. “Look, it’s an old injury.”