I'm No Angel (27 page)

“My father didn't take it,” Tom said adamantly, prepared to defend his father until the bitter end.

“No, I don't believe he did,” Holt said. “I never put in an insurance claim for it because it ceased to be important to me after that night. It could be worth a billion dollars and I wouldn't care.” Holt walked to the window and stood by Tom. “I lost my dearest friend that night. I lost my wife, first to madness and then to Alzheimer's. I lost the godson who I had loved.” Holt put a hand on Tom's shoulder. “I owe you so much. Tonight was the
first step. And right now all I can say is, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Tom shrugged away from Holt's touch. He walked to the VCR and pulled out the tape. “May I have this?”

“It's yours,” Holt said. “You may do with it what you want.”

“Personally,” Pop said, “I'd like to see it dropped in the center of the ocean and completely forgotten.”

“Are you out of your mind, Pop?” Tom said. “It proves my dad was innocent.”

“It happened twenty-six years ago,” Pop said. “The whole thing has become a distorted mishmash of truths and lies and gossip, and God knows, no one but us gives a damn whether your dad was innocent or guilty. I know the truth. You know the truth. That's all that matters to me.”

“I want the police to have this,” Tom said. “I want Carlotta held responsible for a kidnapping. For murder.”

Angel stepped in front of Tom and cradled his face in her hands. “Don't do anything rash, Tom. Think about it for a while.”

“I've thought about it constantly for far too long.”

He tugged away from Angel, walked to the library door, and threw it open.

And then he heard the music. A recording of his mother playing the piano so beautifully. He dragged in a deep breath, then turned around and shut the library door behind him.

“Why do you play my mother's music?” Tom asked Holt.

Holt smiled, a long-ago warmth touching his face. “To remind myself of the good times in my life, when Amélie and Chase and Carlotta and I were the best of friends. To remind myself of you and Chase sitting at the grand piano in my ballroom. You couldn't even play ‘Chopsticks' at the time, but your father had always hoped that you'd play like your mother someday.” A tear slipped from Holt's eye and he wiped it away. “Those really were the best of times, Tom. The absolute best.”

Tom looked across the room at Pop, standing as tall as he possibly could with the pain ravaging his joints. He looked at Angel—his angel—smiling at him, needing him. Both of them would stand by his side no matter what he decided to do.

And then he looked at Holt. Really, really looked at him—tired, aging, and hurting deep down inside. A man who'd made a mistake twenty-six years ago and had lived with the consequences ever since.

Tom could make a mistake tonight, too. He could ruin a man and the memory of his wife; or clear a man people barely remembered, a man who was loved only by three of the people standing in this room.

Tom stared at the videotape in his hands, then walked across the room. He tossed it into the fireplace.

“You don't have to do that, Tom,” Holt said. “I gave it to you so you could clear your father.”

“Let me ask you this, Holt. Did you ever once hate my dad?”

Holt frowned deeply. “He was my best friend. I
would have gone to the ends of the earth for him and he would have done the same for me. I didn't like the way he handled his money and he didn't like the fact that I worked twenty hours a day, but in all of my life, I've never known a man so generous or so loving.

“In fact,” Holt went on, “you reminded me of him when you came back here the other morning and told me you'd never again ask to know the truth about your father's death if I'd call Angel and tell her she could have the gala in my home.”

Angel's eyes narrowed as she looked at Tom. “You did that?”

Tom shrugged. “It was no big deal.”

“And you, Angel,” Holt continued, “reminded me very much of Amélie when you came here even later that morning and pretty much called me a self-centered bastard and then told me you were going to give Tom an invitation whether I wanted you to or not. Amélie would have done exactly the same thing.”

“What he's trying to tell you,” Pop said, “in case you can't figure it out, is that people will do all sorts of strange things in the name of love. Kind of crazy, but that's just the way it is.”

Every emotion known to man rumbled through Tom's insides. He had all of his answers, he just wasn't sure where to go from here.

And then Angel slipped her fingers into his hand—and he knew. It was time to start a new chapter in his life, one that could look back at the good things from his past, and forget all the bad.

He wrapped her up in his arms, not caring who was watching, and kissed her softly. Gently. Drag
ging in a warmth he'd known only with her—the woman he loved.

Letting go of her uneasily, he walked to Holt's desk, picked up the speech and the press release, and tossed them into the fireplace. “Do you have a match?” Tom asked Holt, not bothering to turn around, knowing that all eyes in the room were on what he was doing.

Behind him he heard a drawer open. Heard Holt's dress shoes cross the floor, and felt their arms brush lightly as he and Holt stood side by side.

Holt handed a lighter to Tom, and without giving it another thought, Tom set the carefully typed pages on fire, watched the flare of the flames, and the tape inside the cartridge curl and crinkle as it melted—and all of the past disappeared, became ashes.

Tom drew in a breath of air and let it out slowly. There was just one more thing he had to do.

He turned to Holt and held out his hand.

There were questions in Holt's eyes. Worry. But he grasped Tom's hand and held it tightly.

“Someday,” Tom said, “when I've got the energy to forgive you, I might let you tell me stories about my mom and dad.”

“I'd like that,” Holt said. “I really would like that.”

Tom caught a glimpse of Pop moving slowly toward Holt, his cane helping him every step of the way. His grandfather slapped Holt's shoulder. “There's a party going on outside. Why don't we go see if we can get into some mischief?”

Holt grinned, a sight Tom figured hadn't been
seen in twenty-six years. “I remember Chase telling me that you like to fish,” Holt said. “Was that just a passing fancy, or something you still do?”

“Oh, I still fish, all right,” Pop said. “Used to have me a real good fishing partner, too, but ever since he hooked up with the pretty lady in red, I've been left to my own devices.”

“I was thinking about going out tomorrow and buying a new pole or two, then heading over to the Gulf for a week or so to see what I can catch,” Holt said, walking slowly at Pop's side as they headed for the door. “Care to join me?”

“Sounds pretty damn good,” Pop said. “By the way, do you like gator? I've got a recipe for fried gator tail…”

The library door clicked shut at last, and the massive mahogany-paneled room was quiet, except for the beat of Tom's heart, and the click of kick-ass heels walking toward him.

Feathery red fabric floated around Angel, the gown he'd first seen her in a couple of weeks ago just barely covering luscious, tantalizing breasts that jiggled as she walked. Her blond hair was wrapped on top of her head in some elegant kind of 'do that begged to be let down. And her smile—oh, God, her smile—was wicked. Devilish.

She slipped into his embrace, weaving her fingers around his neck and capturing his mouth. Sweet. Tempting.

All his.

A soft purr echoed in her throat as his hands floated down to her heavenly derriere and tugged
her against him. A needy moan ripped through his body.

And then she whispered, warm breath fluttering against his lips. “Are you feeling adventurous?”

Tom's heart beat wildly. “What do you have in mind?”

“A quickie.” Angel's tongue slid deliciously across his lips. “Your place or mine?”

“What about the gala?”

An impish smile touched her mouth, sparkled in her eyes. “It's going to last until the wee hours of the morning. And really, Tom, if someone notices I'm missing, well”—she shrugged her sexy bare shoulders—“everybody knows that I'm no angel.”

“And don't ever change, sweetheart,” Tom whispered, drawing her toward the French doors and leading her out into the cool night breeze. “Don't ever change.”

Many thanks to Kate Donovan, dear friend and confidante, who spent long hours with me on the phone brainstorming this book. Although the final story bears little resemblance to that original plot, your laughter and insight helped kick-start my creativity.

Tons of heartfelt appreciation to Robin Rue, the best agent a writer could ever have. Your guidance, your support, and your encouragement mean the world to me—so do the swift kicks to the behind you dish out when I need them!

I'm more than grateful to all the Floridians who gave this Californian advice as I wrote
I'm No Angel
(whether I used the information—or not!). Private investigator Marcia Gillings, owner of Baker Street Investigations—great website; terrific English accent. Jan Jackson for insight on swamps, alligators, snakes, and pesky insects. Kyle Smith, for the fabulous information on St. Augustine past and present, even though the story that was in my head at the time didn't get written!

And to Chery, Jan, Kim, Linda, Steph, and Susan—your friendship is something I will cherish forever. Here's to great times past and fabulous times future! You're the best!