I'm No Angel (6 page)

Pop shrugged. “I did the crime and I served my time. I went straight after that. Your father, unfortunately, couldn't bring himself to give up the life.”

Tom's eyes narrowed. “Why can't you believe he was framed?”

“Because I know the thrill that comes from stealing something worth a lot of money and not getting caught. Because after I married your grandmother, I had to fight tooth and nail not to turn to robbery when times were rough. Because
your father had it all. A beautiful home, a loving wife, good friends, and all the money he could possibly want, but when your mother died giving birth to you, a part of him died, too. And I know that's why he chose to steal again. He didn't need or want another woman to excite him, so he got high on being a thief.”

“That's not true, and I'm going to prove it.”

Pop's pale brown eyes flashed fury at Tom. “This obsession of yours has brought you nothing but heartache.”

“And your refusal to believe that your son was a changed man has made you old and crotchety.”

“I don't think about my son unless you bring him up. As far as I'm concerned, for the past twenty-six years you've been my son. You grew up in my house. You've worked beside me, listened to me go on and on about your grandmother, and you've seen me through three heart attacks. But for the past few months, ever since you inherited that godforsaken fortune, you've been a different man. Someone I don't always like.”

Pop sighed heavily, and the tenseness that had drawn up his shoulders seemed to disappear. “It saddens me to watch you pour all your energy into the past, when you could have a promising future.”

“I can't move on until I learn the truth.”

“Even if Holt Hudson has a different story to tell, why would he tell you after all this time?”

“Because he owes me. And because something tells me he'd like to move on with his life, too, but he hasn't been able to do it because the real events of that night are weighing too heavy on his conscience. And his heart—if he has one.”

T
he dressing room inside Morganna's on Worth Avenue was cooled to a perfect sixty-eight degrees. Crystal wall sconces and a matching chandelier cast just the right amount of light on the apricot-colored taffeta walls and sparkled in the myriad mirrors scattered here and there.

Champagne cooled in a sterling silver ice bucket. Bottles of Perrier sat on a Waterford crystal tray along with fine glassware, cheese, crackers, fruit, and Godivas. And Morganna herself, dressed as always in a knee-length black shift and rope upon rope of pearls, flitted around as Angel tried on the designer's latest fashions.

“That's not you at all,” Emma said, seated on a pillow-strewn sofa, sipping Perrier as Angel paraded the floor in a lacy pink gown that looked an awful lot like lingerie. “You know you look hideous in Easter egg pastels. You need something shockingly bright. Fuchsia, maybe, or neon green.”

“I thought I'd try to look a little more demure
for the gala,” Angel said, checking the saggy behind and overly tight bodice of the gown in one of the full-length mirrors.

“There's nothing demure about you,” Emma quipped. “And the earrings Cartier is donating for the auction—you know, those dangly diamonds you'll be wearing the night of the gala—won't go with baby bottom pink. They're far too extravagant.”

In the mirror Angel could see Emma cast an all-knowing smile at the ever-patient owner of the boutique. “We'd like to see everything you have in red,” Emma said. “Scarlet. Crimson. Ruby. The brighter and more glitzy the better.”

“I believe I have two or three gowns in back that will be just what you're looking for,” Morganna said, twirling one pearl-encrusted hand in the air as if she could make the gowns magically appear in the dressing room. “Please, have some champagne while I get them ready for Miss Devlin to try on.”

Morganna literally breezed through the glossy apricot-painted door and closed it behind her, while Emma took a sip of Perrier, studied the god-awful pink lace gown, then crossed her legs and settled in for what was bound to be a lengthy dress-buying process.

“What's with you this morning?” Emma asked. “You're usually so decisive when we're clothes shopping. And good heavens, Angel, you know how much you hate pastels. But here you stand, making dreadful decisions about your attire. Where on earth is your mind?”

“Totally and completely preoccupied, I'm
afraid,” Angel said, struggling to get out of the gown on her own. “There's so much left to do for the gala. Checks to collect and meetings with the caterer and the florist. And Mom was having a bad morning when I stopped by to fix breakfast for her and Dad.

“And then”—Angel swept a wayward strand of her long, wavy blond hair behind her ear—“Mitzi Christafaro called me on my cell right in the middle of eating my first piece of bacon to tell me that her not-so-discreet husband Oliver had been out all night and she found lavender lipstick on Oliver's white silk boxers.
And
—now, this is a quote direct from Mitzi's lips—‘My God, can you believe that any woman with any class would wear lavender lipstick
or
for that matter put her lips
there
? I mean,
there,
right in the middle of his shorts?'”

Angel grinned in spite of her struggle to get out of the itchy pink gown. “And then, before I could even swallow the piece of bacon I'd been chewing while Mitzi went on and on, the woman insisted I drop everything and pop over to her home—not the twenty-eight-room mansion on South Ocean Boulevard but the smaller, fourteen-room cottage in town—and search Oliver's Bentley—not the black and white one but the new burgundy one—for signs of, dare I repeat Mitzi's words”—Angel whispered—“‘fornication of the most perverse kind.'”

“Did you?”

“Did I go to Mitzi's or did I find signs of ‘fornication of the most perverse kind'?”

“Both.”

“Of course I went. Mitzi might be a kook but she's more than willing to donate whatever I suggest to
my
favorite charity, she pays her bills on time, and she has an Oliver emergency at least once a week and she insists that I'm the only one she trusts to check into her personal matters.”

With the bodice of the ugly pink gown dangling around her waist, Angel adjusted her flesh-colored satin and lace push-up bra as she headed for the table laden with goodies. She poured a speck of champagne into a glass and took a sip, something she rarely did before four
P.M
.

“If it weren't for Mitzi and some of the other ladies in town who know I handle their domestic matters with the utmost discretion,” Angel went on, “I wouldn't be able to buy a Morganna gown and Manolo Blahniks for the gala or be able to drive a Jag, and I wouldn't have as much time for the other things I need to take care of, like throwing a yearly charity gala.”

“You're digressing, Angel. You were very discreetly telling me about Oliver's
perverse fornication
, which is far more interesting than your budget or your time management. So…did you find any signs?”

“I've already said far too much.” Angel stepped out of the gown and, standing in only her matching lace bikini and bra, took another sip of champagne.

“You've said just enough to pique my curiosity,” Emma said, twirling the end of her ponytail. “I love tales of perversity. So spill.”

She shouldn't tell a soul, but Emma was the height of discretion and Angel just had to share
some of the zany stories about the things she'd done for many of the socialites in Palm Beach.

“Well,” Angel said, “I found a tube of lavender lipstick under the front seat and, don't you dare repeat this to a soul, but Mitzi gasped with utter shock when she saw the lipstick and noticed that it was, God forbid, one of those drugstore varieties.”

Emma clapped a hand to her chest and giggled. “Oh, my heavens! How could anybody be so unrefined?”

“I was wondering the same thing myself. Of course, I forgot all about the lavender lipstick when I found fuzzy purple handcuffs, a satin blindfold in the same shade of purple, and, of course, a handy-dandy whip.”

Emma's nose wrinkled. “You didn't touch any of that stuff with your bare hands, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“So what did you tell Mitzi?”

“I didn't have to tell her a thing. She was peeking over my shoulder as I was going through the car with gloved hands, and when she saw all the bondage equipment her face turned redder than my Jag and she ever so discreetly told me that she'd been after Oliver for years to do something to spice up their behind-closed-doors life, and she'd completely forgotten that he'd taken her out in the Bentley and parked in a lonely swamp, someplace, Mitzi said, where frogs croaked and moss dripped from trees and mosquitoes the size of Cora Lee Noble's five-hundred-and-sixty-three-thousand-dollar engagement ring kept crashing into the windows.
Then
he plied her
with champagne and, once she was drunker than a skunk, bound her up, stripped her naked—”

“Please. Stop.” Emma threw up her hands. “I can't possibly listen to any more of this.”

“Well, let me tell you, I didn't want to listen to any more of it, either, but I heard every sordid little detail, and then”—Angel grinned—“I was given quite a lovely check for my services
and
my discretion. So you can't repeat any of this to a soul.”

“You know I only talk about sex with you.”

“And speaking of sordid stuff,” Angel said, then took a quick sip of champagne, “Frederike LeVien's butler called to tell me he thinks the Countess is having an affair with a much younger man, someone he's sure is out to screw her.”

“Isn't that the purpose of an affair?”

Angel rolled her eyes. “
Screw
her as in take her for all her money.”

“The Countess has oodles of money,” Emma said. “That's how she managed to buy her title, and I'm sure one little affair couldn't possibly break her bank account.
And
…now, this is going to sound vicious…but I really have no sympathy for a woman who lost her husband at the very beginning of the Palm Beach season and put him on ice in some lonely mortuary so she wouldn't have to deal with the intricacies of a funeral until the season is over. Heaven forbid that she should miss one or two balls or polo games or tea parties.”

“She
is
a little eccentric,” Angel admitted, “but that's neither here nor there. Tonight I'll be keeping an eye on her place and if she goes out, I'll tail her.”

“And what are you supposed to do if you find out she
is
having an affair? I mean, it's not like she's underage.”

“I won't do anything but report my findings back to her butler. It's up to him if he wants to have a little tête-à-tête with the Countess, or let her children know she might be squandering their inheritance.”

Emma leaned back in the chair and hit Angel with a questioning frown. “Don't you get bored spying on the ultra-rich?”

“Boredom is spying on people who may or may not be guilty of worker's compensation fraud, or serving subpoenas on deadbeat drunks living in squalor. And you know, Emma dear, if I got bored around the ultra-rich or, as in your case, the far more classy blue-blooded filthy rich”—Angel grinned—“I wouldn't spend most all of my free time with you.”

“God, we're beginning to sound like old maids who can't get a date on Friday night.” Emma took a sip of her Perrier. “Perhaps we should work on our sex appeal.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your sex appeal,” Morganna said, breezing back into the room after she'd obviously been listening to part of Emma's and Angel's conversation through the closed door. “And that sex appeal will be completely enhanced when you slip into one of my creations.”

Morganna swept an elegant hand toward the door. “Just take a look at what I've found for Miss Devlin,” she said, as two of her assistants floated
into the room with not three but five gowns for Angel to try on.

“Oooh,” Emma cooed, after the assistants hung the flamboyant dresses for all to see, then exited the plush room. “The feathery one is
so
you, Angel.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” Morganna said, slipping the knock-your-socks-off crimson gown off its hanger. “Come, Miss Devlin. Let me help you try it on.”

“It is rather…unique.” Angel smiled as Morganna slipped the shreds of gauzy silk over Angel's head.

“It's absolutely scandalous.” Emma's eyes were wide and bright with delight. “Everyone in the ballroom at Palazzo Paradiso will be concentrating on you, thinking you're the loveliest creature they've ever seen.”

Angel twirled around, the tendrils of dazzling fabric whipping about in the air she'd stirred up. “It's fabulous, but…”

“But what?” Emma said, her eyes narrowed as if she couldn't believe Angel could possibly have any complaints.

“I want the auction to be the center of attention, not me.”

“You could always put yourself up for auction.”

The all-too-familiar male voice took Angel by surprise, jerking her around to see Tom Donovan silhouetted against the bright April sunlight streaming through the windows that faced Worth Avenue.

She wasn't, however, surprised by his thorough
perusal of her body and the sexy crimson gown. But his overt scrutiny
did
annoy her, as did his suggestion that she might be for sale.

“
I
won't be on the auction block,” Angel stated.

“How about that dress? I'd pay a pretty penny to—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Morganna interrupted, her tone contemptuous to say the least. But a smile touched her dark red lips when Tom stepped out of the glaring light and into the dressing room. “Ah, it's you, Mr. Donovan. I didn't recognize you at first.”

“That's quite all right, Morganna.”

The ageless designer flitted across the room and touched Tom's darkly tanned forearm. “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Donovan, but this is a private dressing room and even though you're one of my most favorite people on this whole entire planet, I'm afraid I must ask you to step out of the room, that is, of course, unless Miss Devlin invites you to stay.”

Actually she'd love to have him leave, but she had the feeling Tom was up to something, and she wanted to know what.

“He's more than welcome to stay,” Angel said, examining him just as thoroughly as he'd studied her, fastening her gaze on Tom's crocodile cowboy boots, the slim cut of his faded Levi's, the snug fit of his white T-shirt, and the muscles that threatened to burst through the fabric. Slowly she inclined her head toward Emma and Morganna. “But would you mind terribly if I asked the two of you to leave so I can share a few private words with Mr. Donovan?”

Emma's eyes narrowed. “Sure. No problem. Keep me in the dark about what the two of you have to say.”

Ever the good and proper albeit nosy business-woman, Morganna smiled and moved to the door. “I'll take Miss Claire into another dressing room. I have several items I'm sure she'd love to try on.”

Emma bounced out of her chair, her raven-colored ponytail swishing to and fro. “You wouldn't by any chance have something in lime green, would you?”

“Of course I do, Miss Claire. Please follow me.”

When the room was empty, Angel turned her full attention to Tom. “Mind if I ask what you're doing here?”

“Last night ended on a rather sour note. I was thinking maybe we should try again.”

Angel ignored his statement and strolled across the room, more than aware of his eyes on the feathery red dress that revealed an awful lot of her chest and nearly every speck of her back, right down to her tailbone. In a gracious-host gesture that would have made Mrs. Alexander of Portia Alexander's Academy proud, she filled one of the delicate pieces of crystal stemware with champagne and offered the glass to Tom.