I'm No Angel (3 page)

“Would rather be plunged in boiling oil than get dressed up.” Emma popped the cherry into her mouth and chewed slowly. “You know, Trace could be knock-down, drag-out gorgeous and a great catch for someone—”

“Like you?” Angel interrupted. She took a sip of her martini and watched a frown furrow Emma's brow.

“God, no. Trace and I have never agreed on anything. We're as different as night and day. And I seriously doubt he'll ever forgive me for that jock strap incident.”

“You did dye his underwear and jock straps pink.”

Emma laughed. “Don't forget that I hand-sewed white lace to everything, too.”

“You could have warned him before he headed off to baseball camp.”

“He didn't warn me before he tossed me into the mud and ruined my favorite white sundress.”

“I don't think he tosses women into the mud anymore.”

“Maybe not, but you know darn good and well I prefer sophisticated men to jocks. Which means Trace isn't even in my line of vision. On the other hand, I'm dying to know more about Holt Hudson.” Emma's ever-present smile widened. “Is he still as dreamy as all the older women in this town remember?”

“If you like a guy with black hair that's graying at the temples, flat abs in spite of being sixty-four years old, a complete perfectionist who wants
things done his way or not at all, plus an air of mystery surrounding him.”

“Except for the control freak thing, he sounds divine.”

Angel shrugged. “To each his own.”

“Did you get him to open up about why he hasn't been out from behind the gates of Palazzo Paradiso for God knows how long? Why he's the only filthy rich person in Palm Beach who doesn't retreat to a twenty-million-dollar
cottage
up north when the season is over?”

“You don't retreat to
your
twenty-million-dollar cottage up north when the season is over.”

“That's beside the point. We're talking about Holt Hudson's problems, not mine, and I'm dying to know all the nitty-gritty details about why he's walled himself up inside his estate.”

“You know I couldn't ask him anything personal, but my best guess is that part of it has to do with the thief he shot. What was his name? Chase?” Angel frowned. “I know it was Chase something.”

“Well, yes, there was that incident, but that's old news. I doubt anyone in Palm Beach even remembers it.”

“Holt remembers it and I've heard gossip about it off and on for years.”

“You're a P.I. You're supposed to know all the gruesome details about people.”

“Only the people I work for. Unfortunately I don't know much more about Holt now than I knew before I met him. He doesn't talk about himself, he doesn't let down his guard, so all I can do is guess at his reasons for being a recluse.”

“But you think it has to do with that killing?”

“The killing, his late wife's Alzheimer's, and the fact that he wouldn't leave her side.”

“Your mother has suffered for years but your father hasn't shut himself away. Neither have you or your brothers. And you've all done a damn good job taking care of your mom.”

“I'm just guessing, Em. Maybe Holt had other reasons for shutting out the world for twenty-some-odd years, but I'm not about to pry.”

“I suppose you're right. Stirring up bad memories could make him change his mind about holding the gala in his ballroom.”

“Don't even think those words, Em. It's like walking on pins and needles around him, making sure I don't breathe incorrectly or smile at the wrong things, just to make sure he doesn't renege on his offer.”

“Is it really that awful?”

“It's not awful. He's just picky. The flower arrangements must all be tropical because he detests roses. Cristal is the only champagne we're allowed to serve. No red wine, only white. And he not only had to approve the guest list, but he insists on seeing an updated RSVP list every other day just to make sure one of the invited guests isn't going to be accompanied by someone he doesn't approve of.”

“And you're going along with this? I mean, really, Angel. Isn't he being a bit unreasonable?”

“Of course he is, but I've worked too long and too hard to pull off this gala. Getting Holt to open up his estate was a miracle. Getting him to make an appearance is a godsend. And he's also donat
ing some of his wife's jewels for the auction. I'll bend over backwards to make him happy.”

Emma waved her swizzle stick again. “Holt's actually going to bring those jewels out of the safe for all the world to see?”

“Not exactly. He's going to have fakes on display, but they'll look almost as perfect as the real thing. In fact, I get to see them in a few days.”

“Well, I'll be on hand ready and willing to bid on whatever strikes my fancy that night. And…you're going to love this”—Emma's eyes widened in delight—“I've created a new evening bag especially for the auction. It's stunning, Angel. The most fabulous purse I've ever designed.”

Emma Claire purses were hotter than Kate Spade. More fun that Lulu Guinness or Isabella Fiore. And they cost a pretty penny, exactly the kind of froufrou stuff Angel wanted to auction off at the gala.

“How much do you think we can get for it?” Angel asked.

“At a minimum…twelve grand.”

Now it was time for Angel's eyes to widen, but in absolute shock. “You don't really think we can start the bidding high enough to get up to twelve grand, do you?”

“Angel, darling, I said a
minimum
of twelve thousand. That's where I'm going to suggest the bidding start.”

“But—”

“You just don't understand marketing. I've already spread word about the purse. I've got posters in the most fashionable boutiques in town and women are clamoring to learn more about it.
They'll all want to own it by the night of the gala and they'll be willing to pay just about anything.”

“It's just a purse.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “It's an Emma Claire original. A one-of-a-kind, not unlike that crocodile bag you're carrying and
all
the other purses you own.”

“I'm not saying you don't design fabulous purses, but—”

“Trust me on this, Angel. The purse will—” Emma's gaze darted across the lounge and her words came to a dead halt.

“The purse will what?” Angel asked.

“Forget the purse. Oh, my God, Angel. You should see what just walked in the door.”

Angel twisted in her chair. It took less than a heartbeat to see what Emma was gawking at—a tall guy whose broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway. His hair was long and dark and brushed the collar of his leather jacket. He was absolutely gorgeous, with mesmerizing eyes and—“Oh, my God.” The words rushed out of Angel's mouth. “I'd completely forgotten about him.”

“You know him?” Emma asked without turning around.

“No. He followed me around town for a good fifteen minutes before I got here. In a big black Jeep, if you can believe that.”

“Well…he does have that rugged look to him.” Emma twisted around and flashed a smile at Angel. “Any idea who he is?”

“Haven't a clue.”

“Which means you don't know why he was following you.”

“Exactly.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Very.”

Angel turned her attention from Emma and concentrated solely on the stranger. He stepped out of the door way and into the lounge, looking about the crowded room as if he were trying to find someone.

Sipping her martini, she studied him over the top of her glass, taking in his long, slightly wavy hair, his black T-shirt, and tan leather jacket, all that she could see of his attire through the horde of expensive designer suits and dresses. “I have to admit, he is rather gorgeous,” she said offhandedly to Emma.

“Sadly he's not my type,” Emma tossed back. “But he is the kind of sinful hunk I'd indulge in if I ever had the chance to take a vacation. Can't you see him stretched out on the beach in a Speedo, all bronzed and buff and dusted with specks of sand—in all the right spots, of course?
And
”—Emma fanned herself with an elegant hand—“it just so happens you've got nothing better to do than get really close to his body so you can blow the sand off all those not-so-little spots.”

“Calm down, Emma.” Angel was always the voice of reason. “We don't know the first thing about him, least of all why he was following me.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Then why don't you go and ask him who he is and what he's up to?”

Angel crossed her legs and leaned back casually in her chair. “All in good time.”

Angel wanted to study him first. Needed to check out his actions in the lounge. That was always a great place to analyze a person's character. If a man acted like a jerk in a bar, you could bet your last dollar he'd be a jerk ninety-nine percent of the time.

As he strolled through the room, he ignored the men who glared at him out of the corners of their eyes, hoping the stranger wouldn't catch on that they were gawking. How easy it was to read their little minds. They definitely weren't thinking, This guy doesn't belong here. Oh, no. They were thinking, This guy could be a threat. If anyone can get the girls, he can.

But he didn't seem all that interested in the girls. Not that he didn't look. He just didn't ogle. He seemed far more focused on the black Steinway grand tucked into the corner not far from where Emma and Angel sat. He approached it slowly, then ran tanned fingers over the tops of the keys, as if he longed to play it but didn't know how.

“Could I get you another drink?” the waiter asked, blocking Angel's view. “An appetizer?”

Angel hated to tear her concentration away from the stranger, but an idea suddenly struck.

“Could you bring another Manhattan for my friend? And I'll take two more Lady Godiva martinis.”

“Two?” Emma spun around to face Angel. Her eyes narrowed. “You'll get drunk.”

“Ignore her,” Angel said to the waiter. “But on
second thought, make one of those martinis a bottle of beer.”

“Any kind in particular?” the waiter asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Something strong and dark and masculine. And if there's any way you could get me those drinks in a hurry, I'd appreciate it.”

“I'd be happy to, Miss Devlin.”

The moment the waiter walked away, Emma confronted Angel. “Mind telling me what you're up to?”

“You told me I should get the goods on the guy who just walked in, and I plan to.”

“What? You plan to get him drunk?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, don't do anything dangerous.”

Angel smiled wryly. “I wouldn't think of it.”

Emma shook her head in utter disbelief. “I've heard those words before.”

Sipping on her martini again, Angel concentrated once more on the man at the piano. He wasn't alone now. Jorge, the regular pianist, leaned a tuxedo-clad elbow on the Steinway and was having what appeared to be a heart-to-heart with the stranger.

The man in leather pulled a bill out of his pocket and tucked it into Jorge's hand, then sat down on the piano bench, while Jorge took a seat with his friend Lorenzo, who came every night to listen to Jorge play.

The stranger tinkled the ivories with the fingers of his right hand. The notes sounded very amateurish, but that was nothing new. A lot of regulars tried their hand at the piano when they
were drunk, and most often they all played lousy renditions of “Heart and Soul” or “Chopsticks.”

Angel wasn't big on making snap judgments about people and she hated to stereotype anyone, but the man who'd been following her looked as if he should be on stage with a band of bad boys, holding a mike and belting out “Light My Fire” while ogling the sweet young things tossing their panties at him.

The last thing she expected was for him to take a deep breath, close his eyes for a long moment as if in prayer, then open them again and reposition his strong tanned fingers on the black and white keys.

Suddenly he looked more like a concert pianist than Jim Morrison.

He couldn't really play, could he?

A moment later she had her answer.

The deep and dark tones he played resonated through the lounge, sounding as if the Phantom of the Opera was playing a funeral dirge, a mournful lament, or as if the stranger was taking years of heartache out on the keys.

The voices in the lounge grew silent, and Angel watched as nearly every eye turned toward the dimly lit piano. The stranger had their attention and he knew it.

A somewhat wicked smile touched his lips and the sorrowful tune eased. Without warning, the fingers of his right hand traipsed up the keyboard. Lightly. Expertly.

The melody echoed through the room. He wasn't playing Scott Joplin or blues or jazz, he was playing something classical, a refrain that
was one moment light and airy, the next mind-numbingly erotic, then heart-poundingly savage.

The music transported her to another place. To the beach, where two lovers frolicked on the shore as foam and cool water lapped at their feet. Then the sky darkened. Lightning struck. Wind tore at the lovers' hair. Powerful waves crashed against them. They grasped on to each other, the fear that they would be torn apart so strong that they locked themselves in each others' embrace. They kissed, as if there would be no tomorrow for them, and then the sun came again, brighter than ever before, and right there on the beach, in the sand and foam, they made love.

Long moments passed before Angel realized she had gotten so caught up in the music, in the stranger's masterful playing, that she was barely breathing.

He intrigued her, fascinated her, more than she ever imagined a man could.

Far worse. His music and the way his fingers floated over the keys as if he were making love to each one, tenderly one instant, with great passion the next, set her on fire.