Nobody's Angel

by Patricia Rice

  “Those were almost new tires,” she protested, shivering as another semi roared by not two feet from their noses. “New tires don't normally go flat. And if they did, I couldn't change them anyway.”

  Well, that little bit of illogic almost made sense. “You do realize the state police are more likely to get here before Triple A, don't you?”

  She shot him a scornful look that should have withered his insides but made them do a merry jig instead. She wasn't more than a hank of hair and bundle of bones, but he could feel the energy boiling out of her. If he didn't watch out, she'd heave him over the guardrail and straight down the mountain. He glanced over his shoulder to verify the distance. The interstate had been carved from a steep cliff. It was a long way down. He blessed guardrails and lightweight VW bugs and cursed his flapping tongue.

  “You have been locked away a long time, haven't you?” Faith said, interrupting his reverie with sarcasm. “The tunnel should have given you some clue. We're not in Tennessee anymore. We're in Encee.”

  “Encee? N.C.” Adrian rolled his eyes at the abbreviation as several semis flew by at once, shaking the rail. The road had almost no shoulders. Either one of them could murder the other with a single shove. “Obviously, my mind hasn't been sufficiently stimulated in a while,” he reflected out loud, striving for similar disinterest. “Or I was watching the scenery.” Some scenery. She wore a tight knit yellow sweater thing under her jacket, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep his eyes straight ahead. Four years of abstinence wreaked havoc with his concentration.

  “If you're still worried, you could hide in the bushes, and I could call one of the guys to come get you,” she suggested helpfully.

  He didn't have to see the gleam in her eye over that one. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? No guilty pangs over leaving a half-starved man without a coat on the mountain for untold nights?”

  “All you'd have to do is stick your thumb out,” she replied dismissively. “Here comes the sheriff. And a wrecker.”

  Adrian regarded her suspiciously as the sheriff pulled up, blue lights circling. She hadn't offered a single comment about the cause of their accident since they'd hit the rail. He'd learned his lesson. He wasn't tiptoeing within a mile of that subject again. He didn't care if Tony had done a number on his wife. He had more important concerns than feeling sorry for a woman who put herself first.

  “Little mishap, folks?” the sheriff asked, strolling up as the wrecker maneuvered into place.

  Adrian had had quite enough of police mentality these last years. He firmly shut his mouth.

  “I tried to miss a squirrel,” Faith answered with false calm.

  Adrian breathed a sigh of relief. For once, he was grateful for her facile tongue, even if it reminded him to be especially wary of her insouciant pose.

  “I bent the fender and flattened the tire. Quinn's already yelled at me for not carrying a spare.”

  Adrian prayed the sheriff wouldn't ask for his license, too, as Faith produced hers for inspection. Renewing a license from behind bars wasn't an easy trick.

  Cynically, Adrian watched Faith do her Southern belle flirt with both the sheriff and the tow truck driver as they discussed the best means of towing the damaged beetle. He'd only seen the sexy side of her on stage; she'd certainly never tried it on him. Maybe she had the good sense not to wave a meaty bone before a starving dog. Or she disliked him too much even to try.

  He didn't care what she thought of him. He'd had several conversations with Tony's mistress over the years, and he was satisfied that Sandra didn't have a clue where Tony stashed the money. Sandra not only didn't know anything about Tony's accounting records, she thought accounting records were checkbooks. He didn't think Ms. Faith Hope quite that stupid.

  A plane crash in Brazil had ended his partner's fantasy that he would live forever, and Tony had taken any record of his hidden funds with him. Which meant Faith was the only hope he had left. He didn't find the play on words the least bit funny.

  “The sheriff says he can drop us off at the pottery.”

  Reluctantly, Adrian forced himself to meet Faith's gaze. She oozed defiance from every silken pore. He contemplated riding with the tow truck driver, but he never could resist a challenge.

  Without a word, he pushed away from the guardrail and followed her to the patrol car. Without waiting for permission, he climbed in the front seat. Let her ride in the back like a criminal for a while.

  “Surliness doesn't become you,” she whispered mockingly as she climbed in while the sheriff directed the wrecker onto the busy highway.

  He wasn't used to being taunted by women. Hell, at this point he wasn't used to women. “So, sue me,” was the only reply he could summon as the sheriff approached.

  Faith chattered about her gallery as the sheriff drove them to the next exit and down a narrow two-lane toward the pottery. Adrian hadn't picked her for a chatterer, but she seemed to be able to turn on different personalities at will. Insane people were supposed to be particularly cunning, and capable of adopting different personas. Maybe insanity hid her knowledge of Tony's activities.

  Maybe she was protecting him from the sheriff 's questions.

  That notion didn't go down well.

  As the patrol car turned down a gravel drive with a familiar name on the mailbox, Adrian smiled in satisfaction. For a change, he was in the driver's seat, figuratively, at least.

  “Thank you for your help, Sheriff,” he said gravely as the car stopped beside a sprawling, ramshackle farmhouse.

  “Wondered if you had a tongue.” The older man eyed him speculatively. “Relation of Juan?” He nodded toward the house.

  “Sí.” Affably, as if he hadn't shocked the woman in the backseat into silence, Adrian stepped from the car and opened the door for her.

  They waved the sheriff off before Adrian jerked his head toward the shed behind the house. “He'll be back there.”

  Addled with disbelief, Faith followed in his footsteps like a puppy dog. Why would a hotshot Charlotte lawyer know a backwoods potter? Or know his way around the place? How had he known she was coming here? Without her car, she had no good means of escape should Adrian try to hold her hostage. Was this some kind of trap?

  She couldn't believe her cheerful Sunday outing had become such an unmitigated disaster. But then, she couldn't believe she'd allowed him to stay in the car in the first place.

  She refused even to consider the blunt statement that had sent her careening into the railing. To consider it would mean thinking about its effect on her past and present and future, and she didn't dare shake her precarious existence by changing an inkling of the plans she'd laid out upon a foundation she had thought secure. The creep was probably lying.

  “Hola, Juan, que tal?” Adrian called into the shadows of the shed.

  He spoke Spanish. None of Tony's friends spoke Spanish. They waved a little French over a wine list occasionally, but Spanish was for maids and construction workers.

  A volley of rapid-fire insults rattled from the back of the shed before a wiry, brown-skinned man emerged, wiping his clay-coated hands on a rag. Seeing Faith, he nodded cautiously and elbowed Adrian's arm.

  “You worry your mama, muchacho,” he greeted Adrian, before turning to her. “Buenas dias, señorita.”

  “Como esta usted?” Faith replied politely in her best high school accent. Traveling with her parents, she'd picked up a lot more of the language, but lost it for lack of practice.

  Still, the potter beamed approval at her poor attempt. “I am fine, thank you. I see Quinn has finally learned some sense in his choice of ladies.”

  Quinn? His name really was Quinn? She ignored the insinuating flattery for what it was but turned a questioning gaze to her nemesis.

  “Faith Hope.” Adrian lifted a doubting eyebrow over her name in retaliation. “My cousin, Juan Martinez. Faith has a shop that sells pottery. She's here to see if any of your worthless pieces rate her attention.”

  Faith co
uldn't follow the exchange of Spanish insults resulting from that remark as she wandered after the men into the shed.

  She'd been inside enough potteries, large and small, to recognize the slate wedging bench for kneading clay into elasticity, the wheels for spinning round pieces, the various shaping tools, chucks, and boards, and the clay trough itself. She'd played with some of them as a child but never had the “feel” for clay that genuine artists did. She could only wholeheartedly admire their results.

  A work light shone over a bench containing a series of rounded, handleless mugs in their raw, unfired state. The “handles” hung in narrow cylinders from the bench, waiting to be shaped. Even as he carried on in a swift spate of Spanish, Juan moistened his hands and intuitively began pulling and working one of the narrow cylinders onto a wet mug. Attaching it to a prepared knob of clay on the rim, he casually shaped it with his hands until the clay cylinder flattened and curved into a decorative S. It always amazed her how an experienced potter could make this difficult process seem effortless without ripping the cup rim, cracking the handle, or watching the whole thing slump indecorously onto the floor.

  Despite Juan's obvious experience, Faith was disappointed that he seemed only interested in commonplace kitchenware. True, the rounded base of the mug and the delicate S handle showed skill, and possibly his glazing process would add a uniqueness she might sell, but she approached every new pottery with the awe-filled excitement of a child at Christmas, hoping that this time she'd find the perfect piece. She supposed it was more profitable to make kitchenware, but she ached to find a contemporary counterpart of her clair-de-lune porcelain, or a piece of brilliance like the vase Tony had given her.

  “Juan keeps his stuff back here.” Adrian started toward a door at the back. “Let him finish the mugs, and I'll show you around.”

  “Why didn't you tell me you had a cousin who makes stoneware?” she hissed as they skirted the benches and wheels.

  Adrian threw open a door and flipped on the light switch. “I didn't realize you were interested in local artisans. He makes the stoneware for tourists, but he dabbles in porcelain as well.”

  Faith held her breath as she gazed around the shelves of finished pottery.

  A quick glance didn't reveal anything, but the shelves were crowded and the overhead glare of fluorescent lighting didn't help. She started with the corner on her right, looking for saleable pieces as well as the flash of brilliance she craved.

  The heavy, dense stoneware with its duller glazes was interspersed occasionally with a few fanciful animal figurines of translucent, hand-painted porcelain. The bright traditional cobalt, orange, and yellow of Mexican earthenware mixed with a few contemporary experiments in forest greens and earth browns. Juan apparently preferred experimenting in all forms rather than specializing in a few. She could understand that.

  She cradled a wide bowl glazed in a blue-green mist that almost matched her memory of the brilliant vase now locked in her storage shed. The color didn't have the same translucence, and the design lacked the surety paired with an almost mystical irreverence of form that her vase possessed, but still—there was something.

  “The color is extraordinary,” she commented, holding the bowl up to the light.

  “Not clair de lune,” Adrian said dryly, appearing at her shoulder.

  “Well, now I see how you know about pottery. Was your cousin attempting to create clair de lune? I don't think it's possible with the glazes available today, and in today's kilns.”

  “Juan copies everything. He should spend more time creating his own.” Dismissively, Adrian strolled along the shelves, picking up one piece after another, discarding them all.

  “One can learn by copying, and in this case the result is better than anything I've found recently. He has an interesting sense of design.”

  “The tourists want Indian pots.” Juan grunted with annoyance as he strode through the doorway. “You can't sell decorative bowls like that. If they want fancy glass, they buy it at the mall.”

  “People have to be taught art appreciation,” she replied. “They're more receptive when the economy is good and they're told art is an investment that can increase in value. That's what I try to get across in my gallery.” Faith handed him the blue-green bowl. “I'd like to buy this outright. If you're interested, I could try to sell the animal figurines on consignment. Some people collect animal figures, but I don't know how willing they are to pay art prices, and your work deserves the recognition of a good price.”

  Juan looked at his cousin. “You're the negotiator. Negotiate.”

  Faith opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She wanted the bowl. She just didn't want to argue with a dangerous male animal over it. She watched Adrian's reaction suspiciously.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and contemplated the bowl, but his casual appearance didn't fool her. Beneath that long ponytail lurked the mind of a shark.

  “I can draw up a consignment contract, no problem.” He shrugged. “The lady knows gallery prices better than I do. Judging from what she has in that shop of hers, anything she sells them for will bring a whole lot more than you're making in Asheville. Name her a healthy price on the bowl. She'll sell it for twice as much in the city, and you'll have some cash in your pocket.”

  Faith couldn't believe it was that easy. “I have a standard consignment contract in my case.” She nodded toward the slim leather bag she'd left by the door. “Don't overestimate my abilities to obtain high prices. The higher they are, the longer it takes to sell, and you're a newcomer to the market.”

  “Come inside, eat with us, and we'll talk money after we're full.” Juan lifted the bowl from her hands and carried it to the shop to wrap in bubble plastic. “I've not been able to duplicate this color since I made it. It's a rare piece.”

  Faith smiled. The negotiation had begun, just a little more subtly than most. “I don't want to impose. I need to call the garage and see if my car is ready. We had a little trouble on the way over.”

  She nearly jumped from her shoes as Adrian clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I would give my left foot for some of Isabel's enchiladas. We'll stay.”

  As if he had anything to say about it. She remembered what it had been like obeying a man's whims all the time. Moving out from under his presumptuous hold, Faith yanked her cell phone out of the case. The phone wasn't an extravagance but a healthy business expense, given the capricious hours of the artists with whom she dealt. Consulting the business card the driver had given her, she punched in the numbers. She had better things to do than listen to the cousins exchange family stories. She really didn't want to know that much about Adrian Quinn Raphael.

  She paled as the voice on the other end of the line answered her inquiry. “You don't understand—” she protested into the receiver.

  Adrian caught her shoulder again and steered her toward the door as she hung up, disbelieving. “I could have told you,” he whispered in her ear, “but you wouldn't have listened. They don't stock anything but tires for American-made trucks up here. You'll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? She stared at him in dismay. Surely he wasn't saying she'd have to spend the night here?

  The look of challenge in Adrian's dark eyes verified her worst fears.

  Chin tilting, she stalked away from him. Nope. Not in a thousand million years. She'd learned to survive on her own. Men made it easy to be weak, but she knew better than to trust or rely on their support now.

  She was getting the hell out of here if she had to walk home.

  First, she wanted that bowl.

  Four and a half years earlier

  In disbelief, Faith stared at the cruise ticket bearing the name of Sandra Shaw. Tony never took so much as a secretary on trips, and he never scheduled conferences in the Caribbean. He was extremely tight with money on things like that. It was one of the reasons they'd never gone anywhere for vacation unless it involved a business meeting that he could write off. He'd explained t
hat business meetings out of the country were not as easily tax deductible.

  There had to be some mistake. Perhaps someone had mixed up names. She picked up the phone and dialed the travel agency. To her shock, they readily verified the dates and credit card and names. Sitting at Tony's desk, she stared at the tickets in bewilderment. They had to be hers. Nothing else made any sense. The date corresponded with their anniversary. St. Thomas had been her destination of choice. Tony would have to straighten it out.

  She dialed the office, but Tony was out. Tony was always out.

  The depression that nagged her more and more often these days threatened to swamp her now. She had a wonderful home, a loving husband, but resentment built day after day, until sometimes she couldn't deal with it. Sometimes it was easier to let things slide.

  This wasn't one of those times. Deciding action was better than letting resentment tumble her into misery, she pulled out the telephone directory. There had to be some logical explanation for the stranger's name on the tickets. Who was she, anyway? Perhaps the agency had sent her own ticket to Sandra Shaw.

  There were dozens of Shaws in Charlotte alone. Half a dozen or so used the initials S. Tony even had an old friend named Shaw, but he was male and, as far as she knew, still lived in that small country town where Tony had grown up.

  The beautiful spring day faded to twilight and her gourmet meal went forgotten. Tony didn't come home to eat it.

  How many nights did Tony not come home?

  Biting her bottom lip to keep from screaming in fury or weeping hysterically, especially when this still could be a product of overactive imagination or resentment, Faith dug in the desk drawer until she found the combination to Tony's safe. He'd never tried to hide it from her. They had no secrets from each other. Or so she'd thought.

  She had always respected his privacy. Tonight, privacy could go to hell. She was just angry and depressed enough to believe anything.