I'm No Angel (2 page)

A
ngel Devlin wasn't used to being followed, and she sure as hell didn't like the fact that a strange vehicle was dogging her trail up and down the streets of Palm Beach, its bright lights bouncing off her rearview mirror and smacking her in the eyes.

She wasn't in the mood to play games with a stalker. She wanted to hightail it to her favorite club and have a cool drink with a friend. But the conspicuous black Jeep—ragtop down, roll bar thickly padded, and four big off-road lights mounted above the windshield—had appeared out of nowhere, not long after she'd left Holt Hudson's estate. And even though she'd done her best to shake the too-close-for-comfort four-by-four, it was still hot on her tail ten minutes later.

She zipped down South County Road to Royal Palm Way, hung a right on Brazilian Avenue, a left on Cocoanut Row, and another left on Australian, wondering if or when she would lose the guy—
and it seemed a pretty good guess that the person tailing her
was
a guy.

A guy who apparently didn't want to lose her; but he obviously didn't mind being noticed.

If he was a P.I., trailing her for some unknown reason, he was pretty darn lousy at his job.

Of course,
she
was a P.I. and she couldn't escape the man. That didn't say too much about her abilities, either.

Reaching up, she adjusted her rearview mirror and tried to get a good look at the license plate. It bore the distinctive Florida orange, but she couldn't make out the letters and/or numbers. Turning the mirror a tad higher, she did her best to check out the driver, but in spite of the street-lights, it was far too dark to make out any details.

Another five minutes of playing cat and mouse flew by. It didn't seem as though she could shake the Jeep or the mystery man behind the wheel without driving like a bat out of hell, and she wasn't going to do that on the streets of Palm Beach. Besides, curiosity was getting the better of her.

What the hell did this guy want?

Making one last turn onto Worth Avenue, Angel pulled her Jag up to the curb in front of Jazzzzz, her usual Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night hangout. The classy pastel pink Mediterranean exterior and the pale lime-and white-striped awning over the entrance was a far cry from what awaited her inside. The outside of the building was understated. Inside the place was a cacophony of music, laughter, and conver
sations that went on and on until the wee hours of morning.

One of the two valets who'd been parking her car for the past couple of months was at the Jag's side in an instant, and opened the door. He was a cute young thing, who'd look as if he'd just stepped from the pages of
Town & Country
if it weren't for his lime green and passionate pink satin vest, festooned with a sequined black and white piano keyboard that swirled across the front, over one shoulder, and down the back.

Liberace would have loved it.

His name was printed on the piano-shaped name tag he wore, but Angel would have known him without the vest or the badge. Brent—a good name for a young man hoping to make it in Palm Beach—took her hand and helped her out of her car.

“Good evening, Miss Devlin,” Brent said with a smile. “We were expecting you almost half an hour ago.”

“I was tied up.”

Angel winked as she handed Brent her car keys, and let him think whatever lascivious or not-so-lascivious thing he wanted. It was good for a P.I. to have an air of mystery wafting around her. No one needed to know the truth about her sex life—or lack thereof.

“I take it Miss Claire is waiting inside?” she said, tugging the strap of her white crocodile zip bag over her shoulder.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She might have told him to call her Angel if she hadn't been scrutinizing the Jeep parked slyly—
yet visibly—near the corner of Worth Avenue and Cocoanut Row. Finally she was able to catch a shadowy glimpse of the driver, enough to see that his hair was dark, that it brushed against the collar of his leather jacket. He gripped the steering wheel, and his steely-eyed gaze was aimed at her face.

Instinct told her to march over to the guy and ask him straight out what the hell he was up to. But she wanted a cool drink far more than a confrontation.

Hell, maybe he was just a jerk who got his jollies by intimidating women.

Well, she wasn't intimidated.

Angel tucked a few crisp ones into Brent's hand, thanked him, then took her merry sweet time sauntering into the club, making sure the guy in the Jeep got an eyeful.

She'd learned a long time ago that the best way to get a man to open up while being interrogated—or to show him just how much power she wielded—was to blatantly flirt. To smile slyly. To absently touch her lips with her middle or ring finger. To dress with style but keep her skirts tight and no longer, no shorter than mid-thigh. Jackets had to be cinched at the waist. Necklines needed to plunge just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage.

Tantalize and tease—that's how she played the game with men.

Of course, she also knew how to protect herself if the come-on proved too strong.

Angel Devlin carried a stiletto. Better yet—she knew how to use it.

It was 10:27 when the doorman greeted her
with a smile and let her into the club. She expected to hear Jorge at the piano, playing Duke Ellington or George Gershwin. Instead, the thrum of a bass guitar wrapped around her, the distinctive mix of soul, rock, funk, and jazz that belonged to Blues Traveler pulsing through hidden speakers.

It made her want to dance, to let her hair down and maybe, just maybe let herself go, something she hadn't been able to do completely since…since before her miserable mistake of a marriage to the lowlife she'd divorced five years ago. But the cat-and-mouse game that had just ended, her two-hour-long meeting with Holt Hudson, and the late spring heat and humidity made her opt for nothing more than good conversation and a cold drink.

She made her way across the room, which was alight with hot pink and lime green neon letters spelling out the word
JAZZZZZ
. Some men, still dressed in their Brioni and Hugo Boss suits, tossed back champagne to dull the stress of their jobs, while others flirted with their wives, their mistresses, or their wannabe lovers. Women paraded around the lounge in Ferragamo and Manolo Blahnik stilettos and little black dresses accented with their great-grandmamma's pearls, gossiping about the day's events or who wore what to the charity ball they'd attended the night before.

It was a chance to show off, to see and be seen, or to compete with self-made millionaires and billionaires or trust fund babies to determine who could be the most uppity, obnoxious, or vulgar, or
drink the most champagne without sliding under a table.

The Palm Beach club scene was far more interesting than anything that could be found on TV. The filthy rich were definitely a breed apart.

But she liked working for them. They kept her busy, she could charge them exorbitant rates, and knowing who's who in Palm Beach was good for her fund-raising efforts on behalf of Alzheimer's research—the most important cause in her life.

If it hadn't been for her connections in this town, she wouldn't have met Holt Hudson and she'd be paying an arm and a leg and a whole lot more to rent a ballroom for the gala coming up in a little over two weeks. Of course, if she hadn't met Holt Hudson she wouldn't be so exhausted right now. That man, in spite of being suave and debonair, sure knew how to make a person jump through hoops.

Skirting around a couple who were lip-locked and pelvis-rubbing on the dance floor, Angel spotted her best friend Emma Claire, her waist-length blue-black hair pulled up in her trademark ponytail, waving at her from their regular black-lacquered table not far from the unoccupied grand piano that was unobtrusively tucked into a dimly lit corner of the room.

“Sorry I'm late,” Angel said, plopping down in the chair in a most unladylike fashion, which would have made Mrs. Alexander of Portia Alexander's Academy, the snooty school for young ladies in the English countryside where Emma and Angel had met, roll over in her grave.

“You should be.” The tiny diamond purse dan
gling from the platinum and diamond chain on Emma's wrist glistened in the neon lights as she wagged a hot pink swizzle stick at her friend. “I was hit on by a guy who smelled like a chimney, by another guy who had to be a hundred and seven if not older, and by Chatsworth Longfellow.”

“
The
Chatsworth Longfellow? As in Chatsworth I-own-my-own-island-in-the-Mediterranean-and-I-want-to-seduce-you-there Longfellow?”

“That's the one.”

“Did he ask you to hop in his jet and fly off to erotica land with him?”

“Of course he did.”

“And of course you said no.”

With a perfectly manicured yet decidedly short pale pink fingernail, Emma pushed what looked to be a freshly ordered Lady Godiva martini across the table and straight into Angel's waiting hand. “I said I'd think about it.”

Angel frowned at her friend's response. “You're not serious, are you?”

“I'm thirty years old, Angel.”

“So am I, but I wouldn't go anywhere with Chatsworth Longfellow.”

Emma shrugged, then took a sip of her Manhattan. “You know”—she sighed—“I do nothing but work all day, seven days a week, except when I'm catching a few hours of sleep or I'm here with you. I could use a trip to erotica land.”

Angel took a drink of the cool, minty chocolate martini. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course you can.”

With the stem of her glass clasped in her fingers, Angel leaned forward and whispered just loud enough to be heard over the music, “Get a vibrator.”

“I have. Five, to be exact. All shapes, all sizes, all colors.” Emma plucked one of Jazzzzz's signature pink and green flour tortilla chips from the black lacquer bowl on the table and held it close to her mouth. “Plastic. Lucite. And an unidentified fan sent me one that I swear is plated in eighteen-carat gold, and it vibrates like…well, suffice it to say it's quite enjoyable.”

“
But?
” Angel asked, knowing there had to be more to Emma's admission.

“I'm bored. A vibrator doesn't hold you or kiss you or whisper sweet nothings in your ear.”

“And men do?”

Emma took a bite of her chip and chewed on it slowly. Thoughtfully. “I know we haven't talked about this in a long time, because I know you don't like talking about it, but please don't tell me you haven't been with a man since—”

“Could we change the subject?” Angel didn't mind talking about Emma's sex life, but her own was completely off-limits.

Emma grabbed another chip. She looked over Angel's shoulder, deep in thought, then aimed her uneasy gaze directly at her friend. “I saw Dagger today.”

An icy chill raced up Angel's spine. Talking about Dagger Zane was synonymous with talking about distasteful sex, but she couldn't pretend she hadn't heard Emma's all-too-serious comment.
“You didn't have the misfortune of talking to him, did you?”

Emma nodded. “He came into the shop with Stephania Allardyce.”

“He isn't dating her, is he?”

Emma shrugged. “They looked more like friends out for a day of shopping, but who knows? Anyway, while Stephania was looking at those cute little clutches I've just put on the market, Dagger took me aside to catch up on old times, as if I care what that bastard is up to.” Emma took a sip of her Manhattan. “For what it's worth, he said to tell you he'd heard about the gala and if he could be of any help—”

“He wasn't any help when we were married, why would I want his help now?”

“Hope you don't mind”—Emma grinned—“but I said something quite similar to him. Although I think I might have thrown in a few swear words, even that four-letter one that Mrs. Alexander said no proper young lady should ever, and I mean
ever,
utter. He in turn laughed in that vile way Dagger always had of laughing.”

“What other charming things did he have to say after that?”

“That he's living on his boat, which, as you know darn well, probably means he's broke and that he's going to hit you or some of the rich ladies in town up for a so-called loan. Fortunately he didn't ask me for a penny or I would have told him he could go to hell and I'd help him get there. Instead, he just smiled that slick, greasy Dagger smile and told me his boat is moored at the ma
rina and that he'd love to see you if you want to pay him a visit.”

“I might pay him a visit if he's embalmed and stretched out in a coffin. On second thought, I doubt I'd visit him even then. As for him living on
his
boat”—Angel's muscles tensed—“I should have rigged a bomb to the thing when I handed it over to him in the divorce settlement.”

“You were better off giving it to him.”

“I gave him the house, too. The one I bought with
my
hard-earned money, and he ended up selling it to pay off the bills he wracked up because I was no longer supporting him.”

“You got another boat. Someday you'll get another house. But all that really matters is that you got rid of him.”

“I didn't get rid of him until my dad broke his nose and my brothers threatened to take their merry sweet time dismembering him bit by despicable bit.”

“Seems to me you threatened him in a similar manner.”

“What can I say?” Angel shrugged, as a slight but very sardonic smile touched her lips. “Quadruplets have a tendency to think alike.”

Emma dug around in her glass to get the cherry out of the bottom. “Speaking of your brothers, will Ty, Hunt, and Trace be coming to the gala?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Angel said, wishing she and her brothers could be together more often. “Ty said he'd show up as long as the food was good, but it's not all that difficult for him to get here from Miami. Hunt hasn't committed yet, but you
know Hunt, always on the go, always mysterious about what he's doing. And Trace—”