I'm No Angel (4 page)

If she closed her eyes, she knew she'd feel those fingers floating over her skin.

The man could be trouble. Dangerous.

But, she thought, swallowing back the intensity of the emotions thundering through her insides, so could she.

Standing, Angel slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, picked up the martini and cold bottle of beer the waiter had just set on the table, and strolled toward the piano. Most everyone in
the room had already lost interest in the stranger. They were chatting among themselves again, gossiping and laughing, and Angel felt as if she now had the gorgeous hunk all to herself.

Just the way she wanted.

She set both drinks beside the Steinway's music stand and studied the stranger's strong, overwhelmingly handsome face and his darkly tanned and powerful hands as he continued to play slow and easy.

A casual passerby would have thought he hadn't even noticed Angel's presence. But she couldn't miss the way his dark brown eyes trailed from the piano keys to the slit in her white skirt, up the tailored jacket nipped and tucked at her waist, over her breasts, to her fingers, which were whispering across the nape of her neck.

“It's warm in here tonight,” she said. Her words were little more than a sexy whisper, but loud enough so he could hear her over his music. “Thought you might like something cool to drink.”

He smiled the same wicked smile Angel had seen when he knew he'd become the focal point of the crowd. “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.”

She slipped behind him and with the wall at her back and no one watching her but Emma, Angel rested her left hand gently on his shoulder. He didn't move a muscle, but something told her he wasn't completely unfazed by her I-want-to-know-you-better gesture.

Slowly, cautiously, and oh-so-suggestively, her right hand skimmed down his side. Even through
his leather jacket she could feel his power, the kind of strength a man didn't develop working as a stockbroker or corporate bigwig.

What did he do for a living? she wondered. Did he pump iron in his spare time? Was he a hit man out to get her? After all, there were some men in town who hadn't taken kindly to her spying on them and then handing over the dirty little photos she'd taken to the wives or lovers who'd paid for her discreet and expert services.

Well, speculation wasn't in her current game plan.

Seduction was.

“You play Liszt beautifully,” Angel said, the fingers of her left hand trailing over his chest, making small, sensuous circles to tease him, to distract him, only to find that she really, really liked the bulging muscles she felt, so much so that she knew she should pull her hand away. But his broad chest and the heavy beat of his heart worked on her like a magnet.

His allure was overpowering. Breathtaking.

A woman with less control could easily succumb to his charm.

She, however, would not. Falling under his spell was an impossibility, and even if there was the remotest chance of him mesmerizing her, seducing her, she'd fight tooth and nail not to tumble into his sensual trap.

“You know classical music?” he asked, his voice as deep, resonant, and enthralling as the notes he continued to play.

“I know a lot of things. Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 9 is just one of them.”

With his left hand still on the keys, he reached out for the bottle of beer Angel had brought him, took a long, cool swallow, returned it to the piano, then went back to his music without, it seemed, missing a note.

“Do you play?” he asked casually.

“All depends on what you have in mind.”

She could feel the calm beat of his heart beneath his T-shirt, but also the way his muscles seemed to tighten when she made her bold, coquettish statement.

He twisted around to give her one quick look, one wry grin. “Do you always flirt with strangers?”

She smiled mischievously. “Only ones who intrigue me.”

Again he watched the piano keys as he played. “What intrigues you about me?”

Leaning closer, she allowed both hands to traverse his rock-hard chest. “That someone who looks like he belongs in Texas—”

“The Everglades,” he corrected.

“All right, the Everglades. To be truthful, it doesn't matter where you're from. But you don't look like you belong here in Palm Beach.”

“I've never been one to follow the norm.”

She whispered against his ear, “I like that in a man.”

He tilted his head again, just the slightest bit, and her lips brushed gently across a day's growth of his dark, prickly beard. Her insides tingled but she forced herself not to dwell on the lustful sensations this stranger was making her feel.

She was working right now, trying to figure out what he was up to, and she needed to remember that.

“What else do you like in a man?” he asked.

She leaned close. Real close, sliding her hand up his side. She inhaled slowly, her breasts rising, brushing against his back as she reached artfully into the pocket of his jacket.

Exhaling slowly, she could feel her own warm breath wafting against his ear. And then she whispered, “That's an answer best left for another time.”

Standing straight, looking at ease and totally unflustered, Angel tucked the wallet she'd effortlessly picked out of his pocket into her handbag. What she'd just done wasn't legal by any stretch of the imagination, and if he found out she'd swiped his wallet he'd probably call the cops and she'd go to jail.

But she needed to know a few details about him, and something told her he wouldn't be forthcoming with straight answers if she blatantly asked him what the hell he was up to. Taking the wallet had been a necessity.

Angel stepped back to his side and took a cool, calming drink of her martini, watching his sparkling dark brown eyes over the top of her glass. After a slow perusal of his deeply tanned face, a chance to memorize the tiny little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the way the neon lights danced across his coffee-colored hair, she set her glass back on the piano.

“I need to powder my nose,” she lied, then
smiled her best I'm-going-to-charm-you-if-it's the-last-thing-I-do smile. “You will be here when I return, won't you?”

“I'm not going anywhere until I get an answer to my last question.”

“Just give me a few minutes,” Angel said, trailing candy apple red fingernails across his shoulder, “and I'll try to come up with a proper response.”

She strolled away, winding through tables and little cliques of men and women, wondering if he was watching her—hoping he wasn't, yet knowing deep down inside, in a portion of her that hadn't thought about rollicking on satin sheets in a very long time, that he was.

She didn't dare rush, although she was dying to take a quick peek inside his wallet to hopefully find a few truthful details about the stranger who'd been following her—the stranger who excited her—before hurrying back to the piano and returning the leather billfold to its proper place.

With every word he'd said in that seductive, almost hypnotizing way, and with every note he masterfully played on the piano, she longed to know more about him.

The little girl's room was almost as spiffy as the lounge, large and luxurious, with stalls nearly as big as her bathroom at home, and as luck would have it, every single one was empty.

She ducked inside the first stall. Without turning around, she slammed the door closed behind her, but it slammed right back. It smacked her in the derriere and if she hadn't thrust her hands outward to stop her forward momentum, she
would have crashed into the wall or, even worse, dove head first into the toilet.

Her heart thudded heavily inside. A lump caught in her throat. She was afraid to turn around for fear of what she might see—that the stranger had caught on to what she'd done and that he'd followed her to this lonely little place, where no one could hear her screams above the raucous music outside.

And then she heard the voice.

“Let me in. Now!”

“W
hat on earth do you think you're doing?”

Angel grabbed Emma's bare arm and tugged her into the bathroom stall, slammed the door shut and locked it. All of her nerves stood on end and she felt her eyes narrow at her friend. “I thought you were…were…Damn it, Emma! You nearly scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

Angel forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. “You know, Em, I came
this
close to pulling my knife on you. Do me a favor—next time you try to accost me in a toilet, announce yourself first.”

Emma shoved her fists into her hips. “If you hadn't been so preoccupied, you would have heard me call out your name.”

“I'm not used to people following me into the restroom.”

“Yeah, well, I want to know almost as badly as you do who the stranger is,
and,
I might add, I'm
here to protect you in case he figures out that you picked his pocket.”

“You saw me?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You used to practice the fine art of pickpocketing on me and your brothers. I know your moves.”

“I was that obvious?”

“The flirting was obvious. I noticed. The bartender noticed. I'm sure half the people in town will be talking about it over their morning mocha and I'm sure a lot of guys will be vying to be the next victim of your amorous attentions.
But,
you're good at picking pockets, Angel.
Really
good. And I don't think the Piano Man or anyone else but me has the remotest idea what you were doing in addition to fondling his abs.”

Angel sighed with the greatest relief. “Thank God.”

“That doesn't mean you should stand around here lollygagging,” Emma continued. “He could catch on at any moment and then, sweetie, he might call the cops and you'll be up shit creek.”

“Seems to me you're the one doing all the lollygagging.”

“And I'll keep right on lollygagging if you don't open up that wallet so we can find out who he is.”

Angel pulled the battered leather wallet out of her handbag and even though she felt guilty opening it up, she felt a bigger desire to get the scoop on the guy she had—to be perfectly honest—just robbed.

“Let's see,” Angel said, examining the contents.
“Florida driver's license under the name Thomas Donovan.”

“Just call him Tom for short.”

“All right,” Angel said, “Tom the hunk from your beach vacation dream lives in a post office box in Everglades City.”

“I imagine it must be terribly crowded in there, especially for a guy his size. Those P.O. boxes can be awfully small and what is he? Six-two?”

“Six-three. Two-ten,” Angel said, looking up from the wallet to smile at Emma. “And let me tell you, that two-ten, at least the part I fondled, is
all
muscle.”

“I'm beginning to think
I
should have checked him out.”

“You would have been far too blatant.”

“I can be sneaky when necessary.”

“I'll remember that the next time I need someone to go undercover with me.”

“All right, forget it. I can't be sneaky but I can be nosy. So tell me, how old is he?”

“Thirty.” Angel thumbed through the wallet's contents. “He's got four crisp hundred-dollar bills, a few twenties, a five, and a couple of ones. No business cards. No emergency information card. No photos.”

“And maybe he has nothing to hide,” Emma added.

“Maybe.” Angel closed the wallet and tucked it back into her handbag. “But when I get home, I'll see what information I can dig up on our Mr. Donovan.”

“That's
when
you get home. Right now you'd better get the wallet back into his jacket before he
realizes it's gone, puts two and two together, and you end up in the can.”

 

Angel strolled out of the bathroom, calm, composed, and trying not to look like the thief she was. Nabbing the wallet had been a cinch. Of course, when she saw Tom standing beside the piano instead of sitting at it, she realized that returning it to the pocket inside his jacket was going to be a bit more difficult.

Jorge was back at the bench and Tom was watching him do his best Scott Joplin imitation. Jorge had a unique, jazzed-up style of piano playing. He, along with the best chocolate-with-a-hint-of-mint martini in town, were the stars of the club. Angel could nurse one drink all evening, and listen to Jorge's entertaining style late into the night. Still, Jorge's talent couldn't compare with Tom's inimitable artistry.

Tom was a master pianist. His music soul-searing. Breathtaking.

He was pretty damn breathtaking, too, from the top of his long, wavy hair, to his sleek, bun-hugging black slacks and black alligator boots.

Why it popped into her head she hadn't a clue, but she couldn't help but wonder if Tom played a woman's body with the same finesse, coaxing sweet sounds out of his lady as they lay together in a sweaty tangle of legs and arms. She wondered, too, if he could coax sweet sounds out of a woman who hadn't had sex in five years because she was too afraid of being hurt.

Damn it all. She didn't want to think about sex or having sex. She needed to get Tom's wallet
back in his pocket, then get the heck out of Jazzzzz, go home, soak in a tub of hot bubbles while imbibing some mind-numbing chardonnay. After that, she'd get on the Internet and see what kind of dirt she could dig up on the Piano Man.

Tom seemed to be lost in Jorge's music when she slipped up behind him and put a light hand on his arm. “Care to dance?” she asked.

He turned and leaned against the Steinway. Downing the last of his beer, he put the empty bottle back on the edge of the piano, then gave her body a shameless and ever so deliberate perusal. “Fast isn't my style,” he said, an easy smile touching his perfectly kissable pair of lips. “I prefer slow and easy.”

She tried not to focus on his mouth. Tried not to think about sex. Unfortunately the man oozed sensuality. It was in his walk, in his talk, in his smile. Not thinking about him in a carnal way would be physically and mentally impossible. She'd fight it, but how could she, when she'd elected to flirt with him in order to accomplish her mission?

Hang on to your libido, Angel warned herself as she moved in close and put on her most charming and enticing smile. “I thought you didn't follow the norm.”

His eyes sparkled. “I don't.”

She took another step closer and his gaze trailed to her fingers as they whispered down the sleeve of his leather jacket, settled on the back of his hand, and feathered over his knuckles. “Then dance slow and easy with me in spite of the music.”

When he didn't refuse, she slipped her hand into his and drew him out to the dance floor. That, however, was the only leading Angel had to do. Once they were in the midst of the swarm of people, Tom wove his hands around her waist and tugged her against his warm, hard body.

Their hips melded. The friction of their thighs and legs rubbing together could have caused sparks to fly about the room. Angel's breasts brushed against Tom's chest, her suddenly hard nipples chafed against her lacy bra, and summoning up all the willpower known to woman, she held back the I'm-dying-to-taste-your-lips-right-this-very-instant sigh that begged to escape her nearly heaving lungs.

God, it had been a long time since anything had felt so good.

And they'd just begun to dance.

Tom moved slowly, his bristly yet ever so soft cheek caressing hers, his warm breath drifting like a downy feather over her ear. Inside, way down deep, her body pulsed and butterflies flitted around in her stomach. They were the loveliest yet almost foreign sensations.

Dancing with Tom had been a mistake. Yet everything about him felt right, as if they should have been together years ago but by some unfathomable force of nature they'd been torn apart before they'd had a chance to meet.

And since it felt so right and she knew that was oh so wrong, she figured she should push away. End this silly little tease before, heaven forbid, he should want to take her to bed.

But she couldn't back off. She still had to return
his wallet. It had been her mistake to play with fire, and she couldn't pull away from the flame until she'd finished her little game.

Somehow she gathered her wits together. Of course, that's when Tom chose to tug her even closer, something she would have thought impossible when it was already difficult to tell where her body ended and his began. With his hands pressed against the small of her back, they danced cheek to cheek, very close and very personal.

The scent of cloves drifted from his skin to her senses. It was more intoxicating than a chocolate martini, more tingly than bubbling champagne, more seductive than all the schoolgirl dreams she'd ever had of being romanced and loved by a man who'd treat her right.

Warm lips hovered over her ear, shooting a shiver of delight all the way down to her toes, then up again to quiver in that intimate place where all women love to quiver.

And then he whispered, “You know, Angel, I would have told you anything you want to know about me. You didn't have to pick my pocket.”

Anxiety tightened her chest. The shiver of delight twisted into cold, stark panic. But she was good at hiding her emotions, and she wasn't about to show them now.

Drawing her cheek from Tom's, she tilted her head back just enough for their eyes to meet. His were tinged with devilish laughter. Hers, she knew, were filled with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. She'd hit him with a questioning glare, as if she had no idea what he was talking
about, but something told her the Piano Man wouldn't buy her innocence.

Instead, she smiled. “I'd lie and tell you you've imagined things, but I doubt you'd believe me.”

The grin never left his face—not when he plucked his damnable wallet, which had borne not one bit of useful information, from her handbag; not when he waved the blasted thing before her eyes; not when he tucked it back inside his jacket. And he kept right on grinning when he said quite smugly, “I don't like liars.”

Angel shrugged, hoping she wouldn't appear the least bit vulnerable. “What about pickpockets?”

“I haven't yet made up my mind.”

In the same graceful way he played the piano, Tom waltzed her to the far side of the dance floor, guiding her with a gentle nudge of his hand in hers, his legs pressing against her legs, his entire body twisting and turning her, holding her intimately close, until they reached a quieter, more secluded place.

“Now,” he said, his brown eyes narrowing, “are you going to tell me why you felt compelled to take my wallet?”

She wove her fingers into the silky dark hair at the back of his head, not only because it felt so darn lovely, but because she wanted to claim some measure of control. “Because,” she whispered close to his lips, “I wanted to know who you are.”

“And now you know. I'm Tom Donovan and if I'm not mistaken, you're the ever-so-delightful Angel Devlin.”

“Did you pick the wallet out of my purse to find that bit of information?”

“Fortunately Jorge was very forthcoming with everything,” Tom said, swaying effortlessly with the bluesy tune Jorge had begun to play. “I asked the questions and paid him for his answers before your pretty little hands went digging into my jacket for something to steal.”

“All right, so now in addition to my name, you know I'm an expert pickpocket.”

“Not so expert.” He grinned wickedly. “I caught you.”

“But you didn't come after me.”

“I hoped you'd come back.”

“Why? So you could personally haul me off to jail?”

Tom shook his head. “Because I liked the feel of your hands on my chest and your lips on my cheek. If I hauled you off to jail we'd end up enemies. The fact that you came back means there's a chance for more.”

“You know nothing about me but my name.” And the feel of my body, Angel thought, just barely hanging on to her composure as Tom's hands glided down the curve of her spine, then flared over the sides of her waist and settled on her hips. “Why would you want more?”

“I paid Jorge for a lot more information than just your name,” he said. “I know you're a private investigator and that you cater to the ultra-rich. I know that your office-slash-home is right here on Worth Avenue in a building you share with Ma Petite Bow-Wow, the local pamper-your-pooch shop. And if Jorge knows what he's talking about, you're thirty years old, five feet eight inches tall, weigh one-thirty-two—”

“Thirty-one dripping wet.”

Tom grinned, his laughing gaze locking onto hers. “Should we get naked and dripping wet and weigh each other?”

“Not tonight.”

“It's close to midnight. It'll soon be tomorrow.”

“Are you always in such a rush to get naked and dripping wet?”

He shrugged lightly. “Depends on the woman.”

“Trust me, I'm the wrong woman.”

“I disagree.”

The music picked up tempo and so did Tom's moves. He spun around with Angel captured in his arms, the heat of his embrace, the closeness of their cheeks, and the scent of his spicy aftershave overwhelming her, making her dizzy.

And then he slowed again. His heart beat against her breasts. Warm breath whispered against her ear. “From what Jorge told me—that you wear Donna Karan's Cashmere Mist and Manolo Blahniks if you can get them on sale—you could easily be the right woman. Of course, there's also the fact that you're soft in all the right places. And going back to your original question,
that,
Angel, is why I want more of you.”

Angel laughed lightly. “Jorge was a virtual font of information.”

“I figured the soft-in-all-the-right-places part out for myself,” Tom said, his hands drifting slowly from her waist to her bottom.