I'm No Angel (24 page)

T
hey sat almost side by side on the drive to Mere Belle, but there might as well have been a million miles between Angel and Tom. She was silent; he was, too, his right elbow propped on the open window, his fingers plowed into dark hair that blew in the cool night air.

Angel stared through the windshield at her headlights flashing on palm trees as she sped through the night. There were no other cars on South Ocean Boulevard. It was quiet out, except for the sound of the tires on the road and the breeze whipping through her hair, through the car.

Pulling to a stop at the gates in front of Mere Belle, she pressed the code Tom had given her into the security box recessed into a tall marble column. When the intricate white wrought-iron gates swung open, she drove up the circular drive and stopped in front of the chateau, leaving the car's engine running.

Tom turned slowly. “You're going to come inside, aren't you?”

“No. I thought we should say goodbye here.”

Tom reached across the car with his right arm and switched off the engine. “I told you before, I didn't go into Holt's home to look for
The Embrace
. Yeah, I know I broke my promise about staying out of that place, but—”

“It doesn't matter anymore.”

“If it doesn't matter, then why won't you talk to me? Why won't you let me touch you?”

Angel gripped the steering wheel and looked out the driver's-side window. “My ex-husband was just killed.”

“I'm sorry about that, Angel.” She heard Tom's heavy sigh. “If I hadn't followed him into the house, he'd still be alive.”

“And you wouldn't have come close to getting killed—first by Dagger throwing a knife into you and second by falling out of a tree.”

“Wait a minute.” Tom pivoted in the seat and cradled her cheek in his right palm. “Are you giving me the silent treatment because I almost got killed?”

“Because you almost got killed. Because Holt backed out of his agreement. Because all of my plans for the gala have just been shot to hell.”

“I'm sorry about the gala.”

Angel dragged in a deep breath. “I spent an entire year trying to make that a success. A whole year doing everything right. Bending over backwards to make Holt happy. It was all going so perfectly—”

“Until I screwed it up.”

Angel shook her head. “You didn't screw it up. I did.”

“I'm the one that went into Holt's place when I wasn't supposed to.”

“I would have done the same thing if I'd seen Dagger. Well, maybe I would have gone in through the front door. But I know you did it for all the right reasons. I know you did it to try and protect me.”

“So why the hell are you telling me goodbye?”

“Because I've spent the past five years learning how to keep my emotions under control. Five years learning that I can be in charge of any situation and that I don't have to kowtow to anyone else. But you walk into my life and completely mesmerize me—”

“It's called love, Angel.”

“It's called giving up everything I am for the sake of someone else. I don't want to do that, Tom.”

He laughed, but she heard the hurt mixed with his cynicism. “You'd rather spend the rest of your life alone? Without me?”

“I don't know what I want right now. I just know that the gala fell completely apart because I lost control. How many other things in my life will fall apart if I let my guard down?”

“You've got to take chances, Angel.”

“I know my limits, Tom. I know what I'm good at, and right now I want to crawl back into the safety of that cocoon I've lived in for the last five years.”

“You know what, Angel?” Tom said, his eyes cold, filled with frustration. “You're feeling goddamned sorry for yourself. Pure and simple. When you decide you want to crawl out of that co
coon, when you decide you're willing to take chances, and be willing to get hurt, you can come looking for me. I may be around. Then again,” Tom said, climbing out of the car, “I might not.”

He slammed the door. He didn't look back, he merely walked away, up the stairs of Mere Belle, and disappeared inside.

She'd lost him. She knew it. And for the first time in her life, she realized what utter and complete pain felt like.

T
om tore off his sling and sat down at the piano, the only thing he could face at the moment. The pain in his arm was almost unbearable, but it was minor compared to the ache in his heart.

He slammed his fingers down on the keys and the deep, vibrating thrum echoed through the nearly empty room. For long minutes he played, bits and pieces of one mind-numbing masterpiece blending into another, every sound dark and haunting.

“Do you plan on pounding that piano through the floor?”

Tom's fingers stilled on the keys, and through the remnants of the music still reverberating through the room, he heard Pop's cane and the shuffling of his feet as he walked toward the piano.

“I heard something on the news tonight that sent shivers down my spine.”

“What?” Tom asked, although he had the distinct feeling Pop already knew some details about Dagger's death.

Pop sat on the bench beside Tom. He touched the bandages on his arm. “The reporters said Dagger Zane was dead. They didn't mention anyone else being injured.”

“There's no reason for the press to know about it. And knowing Holt Hudson the way I do, I imagine very few details will ever be released to the public.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

Tom sucked in a deep breath and played the piano again, lightly this time.

“I expected Angel to be here with you.”

“She won't be back again.”

Pop scratched his head. “That's too bad. I liked her.”

“Me, too.”

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“You ready to head back to the Glades now and forget all about this town?”

“No.”

“You gonna forget about Angel?”

“No.”

“You gonna forget about learning the truth about your dad?”

“No, Pop, I'm not.”

“Then what the hell are you gonna do? Sit here until you wear out those piano keys, or fight whatever it is that's got you so pissed off right now?”

Tom's eyes narrowed. And then he slung his arm over Pop's shoulder. “Shit.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Pop, I got stabbed tonight and it hurts like
hell. But what hurts even more than that is that I walked away from Angel when I should have kept on fighting and I walked away from Holt Hudson when I should have made that bastard talk to me.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Tom laughed. “I'm going to go have a talk with Holt Hudson.”

“What about Angel?”

“With any luck, she'll come to her senses and realize just how much she loves me.”

 

Tom knew the code to Holt's security gate. He'd memorized it after watching Angel punch it in earlier tonight. There'd be no more climbing trees and sneaking through windows. It might be four o'clock in the morning, but Tom was going to walk through the front door, walk straight up to Holt Hudson, and give him a piece of his mind.

And this time Holt had damn well better listen.

He slammed the car door, not caring who heard him, and raced up the circular stairs leading to Palazzo Paradiso's grand entry. He knocked hard.

He waited.

He took a few deep breaths and continued to wait.

He knocked again. Harder this time.

The massive door opened and the butler, dressed in slippers and a blue silk robe, stood between Tom and the rest of the house.

“May I help you?” the tousled old gentleman asked.

“I need to see Mr. Hudson.”

“I'm afraid that isn't possible, sir. Mr. Hudson is asleep and has asked not to be disturbed.”

“Unfortunately, disturbing Mr. Hudson is something I need to do.”

“Please leave, Mr. Donovan. If you don't, I will be forced to call the police.”

Tom grinned. “Mr. Hudson could have turned me in to the police earlier tonight, but he didn't. The way I see it, Mr. Hudson doesn't want the world—or the police—knowing that he bears any animosity against me. So…I seriously doubt you'll be calling anyone.”

The butler tried to shove the door in Tom's face, but Tom slammed a hand against the wood and pushed. He stepped inside, skirting around the butler. “You can go back to bed now.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“All right.” Tom winked and headed for the stairs. “I know where Mr. Hudson's bedroom is. You're more than welcome to follow me if you want.”

Tom's boots echoed on the marble floor as he beat a path through the elaborate and enormous gallery where Angel's gala
would
be held. Holt may have thought he could put a stop to it, but Holt had another think coming.

He bounded up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The pain in his arm was gut-wrenching, but he pushed the agony aside.

Twisting the knob that led into Holt's quarters, Tom slung open the door and went inside. There was no need to be quiet. Something told him Holt already knew Tom was in the house and that he couldn't be stopped.

Holt wasn't in the bedroom. He was sitting in an easy chair staring through an open window that looked out toward the Atlantic. Smoke curled over his head, and when Tom stood in front of the man he'd learned to despise, he saw a fat cigar resting between Holt's lips.

“We need to talk.” Tom shoved a chair close to Holt and sat down, facing him.

“You're wasting your time. I can't be threatened. I can't be intimidated. And I will not discuss what happened the night your father was shot.”

Tom crossed a booted ankle over his knee and leaned back casually, trying to look calm and in control, when he was seething inside. “I know what the police report says. I know my dad's fingerprints were on your safe, on your wife's headboard, and that he was shot in your wife's bed. But I will never believe that he did anything wrong that night. And if it's the last thing I do, I will find out the truth, not just for me, but for my grandfather, because his heart broke the day my dad died, and I won't rest easy until he believes his son was innocent.”

“As I said, that is not a subject I wish to discuss.”

“Contrary to what you may think, that's not why I'm here tonight. I want to talk about the gala.”

“That's as much history as that incident twenty-six years ago.”

“I'll tell you what, Mr. Hudson. You get on the phone first thing tomorrow morning and call Angel Devlin. Tell her you've had second thoughts,
that she can hold the gala here after all, and that you're still going to donate your wife's jewelry. It's to be your idea and your idea only. Do this, and I will never again try to talk with you about my father or that night. If you don't throw the gala, I will make your life a living hell until the day you die.”

“I don't like people giving me ultimatums.”

Tom shoved out of the chair and headed for the door. “And I don't like liars.”

 

Angel's hand shook as she poured orange juice into a glass. It was five
A.M
. and she'd done nothing but pace the floor of her parents' kitchen since three in the morning.

She'd made such a mess of things. Tom. The gala.

Tom.

The kitchen door swung open and her dad walked into the room in boxers and a wrinkled T-shirt, his hair mussed, sleep in the corners of his eyes, and a day's growth of beard on his face.

“You know, Angel,” he said, “this kitchen floor is getting old. It squeaks. And if you don't stop that pacing you're going to wake your mom the same way you woke me.”

“Sorry.”

He patted her cheek, then plucked the glass of orange juice from her shaky hand and slugged it down. “You going to tell me why you spent the night here instead of going home—or to Tom's place?”

“Tom's history.”

“I see.”

“You really don't see, Dad, but I'm not going to get into a long discussion about that now.”

“Pretty bad night, huh?”

Angel sighed. “Dagger's dead.”

Jed's face went blank. “What happened?”

“He fell on my knife.”

“Fitting end for an asshole.”

Jed put the glass on the counter and pulled his daughter into his arms. His chest was warm and solid and comforting, and she rested her cheek against him.

“You okay?” Jed asked softly.

“I don't know why I feel bad, but I do.”

“Because he was young. Because in spite of all he did to hurt you, you spent seven years hoping that he'd make something of his life, praying that he'd love you, that…” Jed hugged her tightly. “Some people don't want to change, honey. Some people feel they're perfect and that everyone else has problems. That was Dagger in a nutshell.”

Angel allowed herself to cry for all the years of pain and suffering Dagger had put her through. There was no telling how long she stood there with her dad. He just held her tight, and let her get rid of the anguish she had thought would never go away.

At long last, she took a deep breath and wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes. “You've got mascara all over you,” she said, tugging on her dad's T-shirt.

“It'll wash out.” He kissed her forehead. “Now, is there somebody else you want to cry over? Tom, maybe?”

Cry?
Hell, no. Because it wasn't over between them. Not by a long shot.

“Actually, Dad, I think I need to go see Holt Hudson.”

Jed glanced at the old kitchen clock on the wall. “It's five-thirty. Something tells me those Palm Beach types don't get up this early.”

“Something tells me he hasn't gone to sleep yet,” Angel said. “And even if he is in bed, I plan to give him a piece of my mind.”

 

Angel strolled into Palazzo Paradiso, head high, in spite of the bruised and swollen eye she hadn't been able to camouflage with makeup. After her crying jag in her dad's arms, she'd headed for home, hopped into a cold shower, and painfully washed away blood and tears and anguish.

She didn't have time to grieve or feel sorry for herself. Once again, she had to retake control of her life.

Now, dressed in a crimson silk suit, an Emma Claire original slung over her shoulder, four-inch red crocodile slingbacks, and her hair twisted into a chic French roll that reeked of professionalism, she allowed Holt's butler to usher her into the mansion.

“Mr. Hudson is waiting in the library.”

She'd ask the butler how he and Holt Hudson had known she was coming, since she hadn't called, but she preferred showing off an air of self-confidence, after doing such a damn good job of losing all control a few hours ago.

The mansion was silent except for the click of her heels on stone cold floors. The ever-present piano melodies were missing, as light from the crack
of dawn filtered through the windows and skittered across the remnants of nighttime shadows.

They walked briskly through a maze of corridors, and at last the butler opened the massive door leading into a mahogany-paneled library.

The butler stepped inside the room. “Miss Devlin is here to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, George.”

Holt, dressed in a charcoal suit, not one strand of his silver hair out of place, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on his formal gardens. He puffed on a cigar, and the smoke wafted around him.

“Come in, Miss Devlin. George has put coffee out if you'd like to help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

It was all too polite in the room, considering that a fight had recently taken place upstairs and a man had died on the lawn not far from the main entry. It would be easy to apologize to Holt right now, but apologies weren't in her game plan.

Crossing the room, exuding poise and confidence, she poured coffee into a delicate porcelain cup, spooned in a few heaping spoons of sugar for energy, and, holding the saucer in one hand, turned toward Holt, taking a sip of the sweet, steaming brew.

Holt turned. He watched her drinking her coffee. Looked at the pot and the empty second cup, as if he couldn't understand why she hadn't played the role of subservient or even refined young woman and poured him a cup, too.

But she hadn't come here to be refined or sub
servient. She marched across the room, sat gracefully on a white brocade sofa, and crossed her legs. “I'm here to discuss Tom Donovan.”

“That's a closed subject. Let's talk about the gala instead.”

Angel took a sip of coffee, realizing that getting and keeping the upper hand with Holt Hudson would not be easy. But if he wanted to discuss the gala first, fine, she'd go there. And then she'd get back to the more important matter.

“I assume you've had a change of heart.” She issued the words as a statement, with no hint of a question in her tone.

Holt walked powerfully across the room but leaned casually against his desk. She'd never seen anything casual in his stance, and couldn't help but wonder what he was up to now.

“I made a promise to you many months ago, Miss Devlin. I told you I would open my estate to you as a contribution to your gala. I offered to donate many extremely valuable pieces of jewelry. You in turn assured me that there would be no trouble, no mishaps. You did not live up to your part of the bargain.”

If he thought she was going to get all wimpy and whiny when he'd spoken the truth, he was wrong. She could take criticism. She wondered if he could take it, too, because when he was finished with his diatribe, she was going to launch into him with one of her own.

Taking a slow, calculated sip of her coffee, she kept her gaze on Holt and waited for him to continue.

“Contrary to what you might believe, I rarely
go back on my word. I realize that invitations have been issued and all of the arrangements have been made. Therefore, I have decided you may go ahead and hold your gala here.”

Angel smiled inside. Hell, she was bubbling over with sheer, unadulterated joy. But she refused to let Holt see her excitement.