She lifted her latest acquisition. The cracked glaze known as “crazing” would have been considered a flaw in dinnerware, but as art it added an exotic patina to the Chinese red that would draw every eye in the room. She marveled that a flaw caused by cooling a glaze too rapidly could produce such drama when done deliberately.
As she finished dusting and unlocked the door to open the shop for business, Faith turned on the display lights and admired the total effect. Artie had helped her with the wiring, but she'd had to hire a professional to choose just the right lights for each setting. She might have an appreciation for art, but she knew she had no talent.
Still, she was proud of what she'd accomplished in four short years. When doubts crowded the back of her mind, she swept them away by standing here as she was doing now, knowing she was gradually filling the empty well of her life with something good and decent. She might not be in New York City or Miami, making a big splash, but she was introducing the area to fine porcelain and stoneware and providing an outlet for local artists. She was determined to like the person she was turning herself into.
The overhead chime rang, and Faith swung out of her trance. A visitor arriving just after she opened could mean only one of two things: a convention was in town and she'd have a busy day—or trouble.
She recognized trouble as soon as Annie walked in the door, her thin face screwed up in her perpetual frown of worry.
“Faith, do you have a minute?” she whispered, as if the shop were a museum.
Annie was one of those people Faith couldn't convince that art was for everyone and not just the wealthy. She supposed she understood the mindset. If one spent one's life scraping up coins for groceries, art was a ludicrous waste of time and money. But Faith's love of beauty mourned the bleakness of a life without art.
“What's the matter, Annie? Surely the roof isn't leaking again. It didn't rain last night, did it?”
Before Annie could reply, Faith's breath caught in her throat as a lean shadow materialized outside the shop's plate-glass window. Him.
A pulse pounded at her temple as she tore her gaze from the window and back to the waif of a woman before her. An observer would never know Annie was the director of a shelter for the homeless and not one of its occupants. Faith started nervously at the ringing door chime but concentrated on Annie.
“We had a woman with three children come in last night,” Annie whispered, darting an anxious glance at the man strolling through the doorway. “I'm sorry, you have customers. Call me when you can, will you?”
Faith didn't want Annie to leave. She knew the man in black presently perusing the Rie piece was the man from last night. She was already picking up his high intensity vibrations.
She caught Annie's wrist and steered her toward the counter. “There aren't enough beds?” she asked, keeping her voice low. She liked separating the various parts of her life. A customer didn't need to know of her involvement with the homeless shelter or the bar.
Annie heaved a massive sigh. “Not enough beds, not enough privacy, not enough clothes. The baby is still in diapers.” She hesitated, cast a glance at the customer, and continued hurriedly. “I think she belongs in the battered women's shelter, but she hasn't said a thing, and I can't make her go. Faith, the kids are all girls. You know how many men we have in there. If only we could afford—”
Faith patted her hand. “I know, we need another building. Let me see what we can do about the beds and clothes first. The building fund will have to wait a little longer.”
“Bless you,” Annie said with obvious relief. Darting a glance at the lean, dark man now gazing at a consignment of contemporary Navajo pottery Faith had taken as an experiment, Annie hurried away.
The rush of cool fall breeze as the door opened and closed was all that stirred the palpable tension left behind after Annie's departure.
Faith reached for her telephone.
“Don't.” He stretched over the counter and closed his fingers over her own, holding the receiver pinned in its cradle. She hadn't heard him move.
Shaking, she clenched the hard plastic and dared to look up.
The impact of deep brown eyes framed in heavy black lashes nearly undid her. The physical contact of their hands was no longer tolerable as she floundered under the intensity of his stare. She jerked her hand from beneath his and awkwardly balled it into a fist.
“You.” She spoke first, breaking the stretching silence. “How did you find me?”
“Artie has a major crush on you,” he said dryly, returning his hands to the pockets of his trousers. They hung loosely on his narrow hips, as if designed for a better-fed man.
“Artie is twenty-three and has a crush on any woman who refuses him.” She spoke neutrally, grateful for the barrier of the counter as she tried to probe the stranger's vague familiarity. With Cherokee-straight black hair, naturally tan skin, and a lean physique accentuated by muscle rolling tautly beneath black cotton shirtsleeves, he didn't look like anyone she should know. Taut creases cut either side of his unsmiling mouth, and a sharp beak of a nose emphasized his uncompromising appearance. He held himself with an air of authority that terrified her.
He said nothing, only stared as if he could see beneath her skin. Nervously, Faith brushed her loose hair back from her face and wished she'd put a barrette in it. “Artie shouldn't have told you where to find me.”
“He had a lot of beers, and I'm told I have a persuasive tongue.”
Oh, yeah, that he did, but it was his voice rather than his words that stroked and wrapped around her like loving fingers. He would put a preacher to shame with a voice like that. Put him in a pin-striped suit and silk shirt and tie and stick him before a courtroom—
Faith gasped and stepped back, eyes widening. “You!” she exclaimed for the second time, for a different reason.
“We've established that.” He bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. Sunlight shot a gleam off the silver of his earring. He still didn't smile.
She'd seen him with an expensively styled haircut, in a tailored suit, with a gold watch on his wrist. He'd looked like a pirate—a corporate one.
Ridiculous. She shut her eyes against the image. She hadn't known him as any more than a shadow of Tony back then. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“Your husband's books.”
She heard the grating harshness behind his innocuous words. “He's dead,” she reminded him. “I thought they'd locked you away.”
“Time off for good behavior.” The voice dripped satire. “Not difficult to do in a minimum security prison. And since I'm not married and couldn't be granted conjugal visits, I had lots of incentive.”
Faith's eyes shot open as soon as the vision of this man, naked, having sex, appeared in her overactive imagination. She hadn't thought about sex in years, had given it up for Lent and forgotten to pick it up again. This man exuded a sexual aura that hummed through all her senses.
She saw the mockery in the depths of those dark eyes. “I have nothing of Tony's, wanted nothing. The court kept his papers.”
“Not the ones I want.” Adrian studied her, studied the pale skin with only the merest of cosmetics to dress it, the gray eyes staring at him with widened fear and bone-deep wariness. He contemplated the best method of pushing her buttons until he got what he needed without resorting to violence.
She wasn't what he expected. She was taller than he'd thought, and wore her hair loose like a girl's, straight and slightly turned under where it brushed her shoulders. She had skin as smooth and translucent as the fabulous porcelain she protected in her glass cases. Porcelain should be touched to be admired. He wanted to stroke her in the same way he'd stroke that clair-de-lune piece behind her. Both were magnificent.
He jerked his mind back from the impossible. She hadn't responded to him, but she couldn't have lived with a lawyer like Tony without learning the lesson of keeping silent. He hadn't expected her to be cooperative. He hadn't expected her to be this fragile either. She lo
oked as if she'd fracture at the slightest touch. He had the pieces of enough shattered lives in his hands.
“You sent Headley the pages copied from the bankbook and the canceled checks,” he reminded her. “You have to know where the rest of them are.”
“If I'd known that, I would have turned them over to the court and watched Tony fry in hell.” Her dry tone matched his own, with an undercurrent of bitterness.
“You had them,” he insisted, “or you couldn't have copied them to send to a reporter. Tony's dead now. You don't need to protect him or anyone else. I just want to clear what remains of my name, and try to turn my life around.”
She gifted him with a look of scorn that should have scorched the shirt off his back. “You think those books will clear your name? I was there. You filed the wills. You filed the trusts. It was your name on the documents, on the bank accounts, on the fax transfers. I'll admit, I never believed Tony was innocent, but he was smart enough not to get caught.”
“Except by his wife. Where did you find those papers?” he demanded. He was too angry to argue her accusations. He'd argued them four years ago, without success, because he'd done every damned thing she'd just accused him of. What he couldn't prove, however, was his arrogant ignorance.
Unbelievably, in the face of his fury, the delicate figurine of a woman on the other side of the counter relaxed and smiled enigmatically. Taking a seat on the high stool of her work counter, she pulled out a stack of invoices. “I found them in the same place I found the canceled checks written to Tony's girlfriend. At the time, I was more interested in Sandra than the accounting records. The records were just icing on the cake when Headley figured out what they meant.”
He didn't believe this. Couldn't. She had to be lying, just as she'd lied at the trial. “Who are you protecting?” he growled irritably, trying to regain his cool but not succeeding. The ice queen he remembered from the courtroom was rapidly replacing the open child he'd encountered when he entered the shop minutes ago.
“I'm not protecting anyone,” she replied with much more composure than he possessed right now. “All I had were those copies stuffed in his wall safe. Knowing Tony, I'd say he kept them as a kind of insurance against anything you might pull, or a means of getting rid of you should you become inconvenient. I just played his card a little earlier than he anticipated.”
No, this couldn't be happening. For four years he'd built an airtight case based on the evidence he knew those records would produce. He'd figured out the whole rotten scheme, made lists of every client Tony had robbed, obtained all the transcripts, all the copies, written dozens of letters of inquiry. All he needed was the hard evidence linking Tony to the missing money—
Adrian's eyes narrowed as “money” rang in his head just as his gaze hit the clair-de-lune bowl mounted in its case behind the counter, probably protected by a dozen security alarms.
“You took the money,” he whispered. He'd considered it, but had not really believed—until now. Why? Had he really trusted that look of pure innocence in the eyes of the wronged wife, even as she sat there lying through her pearly white teeth?
“You would have let those old ladies and children starve so you could keep living like a damned queen after Tony cut off your money faucet.”
His accusation wiped away her smile. She looked at him as if he were lower than the carpet beneath his feet. Frigging hell, she could stare a man into icy perdition.
“As far as I'm aware, Tony and his tart absconded with everything. I signed my share of the law office and all of its assets over to the court to repay what they could. The lawyers’ legal fund paid the rest. You have the wrong woman, Mr. Raphael. If I were you, I'd find Sandra. Now, if you don't mind, that's the end of our discussion. Please leave.”
She didn't even resort to the obvious threat: “Or I'll call the police.” If the police found out he was here, they'd book him for violation of parole and heave him behind bars.
Battening down his rage, Adrian calmly looked her up and down. While she'd talked, he succeeded in reading her calendar. He knew her schedule, and tomorrow's suited his need for retribution. She wasn't off the hook yet. “I am guilty of greed, Mrs. Nicholls, but I am not guilty of theft, or even perjury. Sandra Shaw was Tony's girlfriend long before you became his trophy wife. She's living in a trailer park in Florida now, struggling to support their three kids. You're the one with a priceless porcelain on your wall. I've given you the opportunity to do the right thing. Now, I'll do it the hard way.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his boot heel and stalked out.
The fury in his velvet voice hung in the air long after the door slammed closed.
Sandra didn't have the money?
Frozen breathless, Faith had to remind herself to breathe as Adrian's angry accusations settled into the astonishment of revelation.
She'd spent the last four years without a life, hating a woman she didn't know, and Sandra didn't have Tony's ill-gotten gains?
Where the hell were they, then?
Four and a half years earlier
Carrying a shopping bag containing Tony's favorite delicacies from the gourmet deli in one hand, a packet of information from the adoption agency in the other, Faith strolled up her front walk beneath the towering willow oaks, admiring the spill of pink azalea blossoms across the aging brick cottage. She loved this house in the comfortable old Charlotte neighborhood of Dilworth where she knew everyone and everyone knew her. Her parents’ constant traveling had never allowed that kind of stability in her youth.
Tony was talking about selling and buying one of those formidable million-dollar mansions over in Myers Park, but she was resisting. The two of them didn't need that kind of extravagance, even if Tony listened to her and acted on the packet in her hand.
Juggling bag and envelope, she opened the weathered copper mailbox—one of her prouder acquisitions, if she said so herself. She'd scoured the antiques stores for weeks looking for the perfect one. That had been back in the days when she was still working at Tony's office and their budget had been tight. She'd finally found what she wanted under the rubble of iron in a junk store and carefully bumped out the dents herself. Tony had wanted everything brand new and expensive, but she was used to living cheaply and hated debt. After the first few of their sophisticated neighbors admired the box, he'd reluctantly admitted she had taste.
Now that she didn't have to work, she handled all the details of their home life, while Tony concentrated on building a bigger and better law practice. She was proud that he helped so many widows and orphans with the legal burdens of estate management, along with his usual cases. Tony was a good lawyer. She shouldn't complain about his traveling and long hours. She just wasn't used to having so much time on her hands. She needed something of her own.
She needed children, but she couldn't have them.
She wouldn't dwell on the pain. The envelope from the adoption agency explained things more clearly than she could. Once Tony understood how it worked, he'd be more comfortable with the idea.
If only she could make him understand that she needed to be needed, that she had something to offer beyond adorning his home. She didn't make a good ornament.
Pushing aside a fleeting resentment, she unlocked the door and flipped through the stack of catalogs in her hand as she headed for the kitchen with her shopping bag. Setting the risotto and spiced lamb in the refrigerator, she frowned at a priority mail envelope from the travel agency. They usually sent travel itineraries to the office. She hoped Tony didn't need this today.
Or could this be Tony's surprise for their anniversary? Could he finally be taking her on the cruise she wanted?
Lips twitching upward in anticipation, Faith debated opening the envelope. She always opened the mail. That was her job. Tony would be upset with the agency, though, if this was supposed to be a surprise and they'd mailed it here instead of the office. Tony loved to surprise her on birthdays and anniversaries and holidays, and he always had
the perfect gift. It had to be the cruise tickets.
She'd best check the envelope and return the tickets for proper mailing. She'd have a hard time keeping a secret, but Tony was impatient with incompetence, and she didn't want the ladies at the agency to lose their jobs. He'd said he would be out of town next week, so she wouldn't have to hide her knowledge long.
In the study, she removed the ticket packets from the envelope, deposited the mail on the desk, and glanced at the printed travel schedule inside the top packet. Her smile broadened as she read Tony's name on the itinerary and recognized the cruise line brochure. She'd always dreamed of visiting the Caribbean, but they'd never had money in the early days, and now Tony never had time.
Dreaming of the naughty lingerie she'd wear to thank him for taking time from his hectic schedule just to please her, she flipped open the second packet.
In disbelief, she stared at a name that wasn't her own. And an identical cruise brochure.
The Present
Faith hurried down the Sunday morning sidewalk, skirting winos still sleeping in doorways, swinging her sacks of supplies, singing softly to herself in the crisp fall air. The past was past. She had a new life now, one she loved. She adored autumn. Even though this was the first crisp day they'd had this September, she could almost smell the leaves burning, and she was eager to head for the hills.
They'd had a great time at the bar last night, and she'd put Adrian Raphael and his accusations completely out of her mind. After the Friday night fracas, the police had patrolled the crowd more than usual, but she'd sung a song about policemen every time one entered, and the crowd laughed at her warnings and tolerated them without complaint. Faith had been grateful for the presence of the men in blue. She figured they'd kept Adrian from returning.
She didn't want to think about Adrian Raphael and waste a perfectly lovely Sunday. After she dropped off the supplies with Annie, she planned on touring a new pottery she'd heard about. She needed to take some time out of her schedule to visit the wealth of potteries down in Seagrove, but she only had part-time help to mind the gallery during the week, and the band was booked on the weekends for months. Maybe she could close up for a few days for the big November auction.
Nobody's Angel Page 2
