I'm No Angel (7 page)

As he took it from her, she watched his gaze trail lazily over her barely hidden breasts.

“Very nice.” Tom took a swallow of champagne, his eyes sparkling at her over the glass. “Is that what you plan to wear to your gala?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

Angel took a sip from her own champagne
glass. “So, Mr. Donovan, how did you find me this morning? Did you follow me here?”

“It's Tom, remember. And no, I wasn't following you or anyone else. As a matter of fact, I was across the street talking with an antiques dealer when I saw you come in here with your friend.” He wandered about the room, taking in every speck of Angel's anatomy, trying, she assumed, to make her nervous and failing miserably. “Since I never saw you come out, I thought I'd drop by and see if you were still here.”

Angel turned. She smacked him with a radiant smile, eyes bright and alluring. She didn't bat her lashes. That was for amateurs. She just made damn sure he saw the twinkle in her eyes and got him to focus on her face instead of her body. “So now that you know I'm here, what do you want to discuss?”

“How I can buy the dress you're going to wear to the gala, since you won't be putting yourself on the auction block.”

“You can't buy me
or
my gown. And why you'd want to is beyond me.”

“My reasons are quite easily explained. If I own it, I'll have the right to take it off of you whenever I want.”

Angel felt one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows raise. “Don't forget I carry a stiletto, Mr. Donovan.”

“I haven't forgotten a thing about you.”

Angel picked a chocolate-dipped strawberry from a plate and bit off the very end. She chewed it slowly, watching Tom as he sat in one of the
easy chairs and crossed a crocodile-booted ankle over his knee.

“Since we both know you didn't come here to try and buy me or my dress, why don't you tell me your real reason for interrupting my shopping.”

“I took a look at my social calendar this morning and noticed that the date of your gala wasn't marked.” He took a sip of champagne. “Then I went through my stack of invitations and, what do you know? Someone must have left me off your guest list.”

Angel smiled, knowing where this line of conversation was leading. “You're new in town. I imagine your name hasn't shown up on a lot of guest lists.”

“But now that you know about this oversight, you
will
send me an invitation. Right?”

“I could. Unfortunately, Mr. Hudson has the final say on who's invited and”—Angel shrugged—“you've already told me that Holt refuses to see you. If I'm not mistaken, he wouldn't want you at the gala, either.”

Tom's eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression that you were running the show, but obviously Holt's the one in control.”

“Holt has donated his home for the night. He's contributing a lot of high-priced items to the auction and he's asked for very little in return.” That last part was one whopper of a lie, but Tom didn't need to know just how much power Holt was actually wielding.

“In other words, giving me an invitation is out of the question?”

“You're very perceptive.”

“I can be quite devious, too, if I have to be.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“Why don't you sneak me in through the back door?”

Angel shook her head. “No.”

“Wouldn't you like to know how much I'd be willing to donate to your charity, if you'll just get me into your little party and then share a dance or two with me?”

“No.”

Tom took another swallow of champagne, emptying his glass. “Your interest isn't the least bit piqued?”

“All right.” Angel shrugged, curiosity getting the better of her. “How much?”

“Ten grand.”

A lump settled in Angel's throat at the stunning amount of money he'd just suggested. Unfortunately, no amount of money would be enough, because she knew damn good and well that Holt would throw a fit if she sneaked Tom or anyone else who hadn't been invited into the mansion.

“Ten thousand is quite generous, but as I said before, I can't accommodate your wishes.”

“Fifteen.”

“No.”

“Twenty.”

Angel's eyes narrowed. Could that offer possibly be sincere? Or was he merely teasing?

“Am I to believe you have that kind of money burning a hole in your pocket?” Angel asked.

“It's in the bank. Want to check out my account, or have you done that already?”

“I planned to do that later this afternoon or tomorrow.”

“I told you before,” Tom said, shoving out of the chair and crossing the room to pour himself more champagne, “if you want to know something about me, just ask.”

“All right,” she said, wondering if she could get a donation from him and still not allow him into the gala, “do you have twenty thousand to spare?”

Tom twisted around to face her. His eyebrow rose. “I have far more than that.”

“Do you have twenty-five?”

“You're getting greedy.” He raised his glass as if to salute her bravery. “But tell you what. Have dinner with me tonight and let me dance at least every other dance with you at the gala, and we have a deal.”

“Your offer is tempting, Mr. Donovan. But you haven't been invited to the gala and even if you were, my dance card is pretty full. On top of that…I'm working tonight.”

“What? A stakeout?”

“Possibly.”

His lips tilted into a smile. “Then I'll give your charity twenty-five thousand if you'll let me spend the night with you.” He walked toward her and extended a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Angel studied his hand, then concentrated on his devilish brown eyes. “You're still not getting an invitation to the gala.”

“I didn't mention the gala in my last proposal.”

“Twenty-five thousand is a lot of money,” Angel said, wondering what sinister plot was being hatched behind his wicked grin.

“You're worth it, aren't you?”

“I'm worth a hell of a lot more than twenty-five grand, Mr. Donovan.”

“I'll give you my opinion on that after I've gotten my twenty-five thousand worth.”

Tom winked. His comment was so damn smug that Angel considered striking him with a hard right hook. Instead, Tom captured her hand and shook it as if they'd just made a corporate business deal. “I'll pick you up at eight.”

Angel shook her head. No way was she going to let him be in control. “Meet me at Jazzzzz at eight. If you're one minute late, I'll leave without you and you can send a check to my office.”

“I'm never late.” He winked again. “Especially when I get to spend the night with a pretty girl.”

Angel's eyes narrowed. “Let's get one thing cleared up right this very minute, Mr. Donovan. You paid for me to take you on a stakeout, not to spend the night with you.”

“Obviously you weren't listening or you heard what you wanted to hear.” Tom's insufferable grin widened. “Our deal was for you to let me spend the night with you, and let me tell you, sweetheart, that's exactly what I plan to do.”

 

“I thought you said Tom Donovan was lascivious and irritating, not to mention arrogant and cocky.” Emma plopped onto the sofa as Angel stalked back and forth across the dressing room. “And if I'm not mistaken, after he ran out on you at Jazzzzz last night, you heartily disagreed with me when I told you the man was a divine dancer, had fabulous hair, a to-die-for body, and the
cutest dimple ever to dent the face of a devilishly handsome male. But now you tell me you're going to sleep with him?”

Angel stopped dead in her tracks, the feathery red dress continuing to swirl about her. “I never once mentioned anything about
sleeping
with him. What I said is that I'm spending the night with him.”

“And we all know where that can lead.”

“It's going to lead to him giving me twenty-five thousand, which is what he's paying for the privilege of going on a stakeout with me, nothing more. However, and this is a really big however, in making the deal I must have had little more than dollar signs operating my brain because apparently I told him that for twenty-five thousand he could spend the night with me, not just go on a stakeout. But let me tell you this, Emma, that sure as hell doesn't mean I'm hopping into his bed or taking off my clothes or even kissing the man. As far as I'm concerned, he can sit on one side of the car all night long and get cramps in his legs. But I am not, I repeat
not
, going to sleep with him.”

“It seems to me that you're protesting far too much,” Emma said, not even bothering to look at Angel. Instead, she was busy smoothing the folds out in her bright yellow and teal Lilly Pullitzer sundress.

“Give me a break, Em. The man's father was a thief.”

“And a gorgeous thief he was,” Morganna quipped, breezing into the room with pins, tailoring chalk, and a tape measure draped around her neck. “Why, the moment Chase Donovan set foot
in this town he had all the women swooning. It didn't matter if he was a thief or an ax murderer, women wanted him. But I'm sure you already know all the details.”

“Only bits and pieces,” Angel said, dying to hear more. “Do you know the whole story?”

“Only the parts that interested me.” Morganna smiled and, instead of working on the alterations to the fabulous red gown, poured herself a glass of champagne and took a sip. “Gossip is always so interesting—but only timely gossip. I could easily wager a guess that no one in town remembers all the details. What is done is done and best forgotten, because there is always something new to talk about.”

“But you knew Chase Donovan?” Emma asked, kicking off her lemon yellow mules and curling her legs beneath her on the couch.

“I met him a time or two when he'd come here with his wife Amélie. Beautiful woman. French, if I remember correctly, and quite petite.” Morganna plucked a Godiva from the crystal tray and took a tiny bite. “Poor woman died in childbirth. It was terribly sad to see Chase at the funeral, holding his newborn son in his arms, the tears flowing freely down his handsome face.”

Morganna licked her lips, then patted her mouth with a linen napkin. “Carlotta and Holt Hudson—they were the best of friends with Chase and Amélie, but I'm sure you know that—stood at Chase's side through the entire service. So sad. So sad. And poor, poor Chase. He never did get over the loss of his wife.”

Morganna took another sip of champagne
while twisting the ropes of pearls she wore around her neck. Her mind seemed to drift back in time, as a wistful smile touched her face.

“I visited Chase when I could get away from my business. In fact, I gave him the most darling little outfits that I'd handmade for his son and”—Morganna sighed deeply—“I tried to ease Chase's pain—you know, a massage here, a kiss there—but, sadly, he could not be consoled.”

“You don't know anything about the theft of
The Embrace,
do you?” Angel asked, filling Morganna's champagne glass to keep the woman talking.

“One heard stories that Chase had been a famous cat burglar. It was all very romantic and ever so glamorous—like Cary Grant in
To Catch a Thief
—and I suppose it was thrilling to have Chase in our midst. But there was never any proof that he'd stolen anything—until that night when he broke into Holt's home. He didn't need to steal
The Embrace
because he already had more money than he could possibly spend in a lifetime. All I can assume is that his grief drove him out of his mind and he didn't know what he was doing.”

“Is it true that Chase tried to attack Carlotta Hudson?” Angel asked, shifting the conversation just a bit, not wanting to dwell on any one thing too long, for fear Morganna might end her gossiping for the day and get back to business.

“As I said,” Morganna explained, “it all happened a very long time ago. But as I recall, Chase's blood was all over Carlotta's bed. There were photos in the paper and of course the police had Holt's statement.”

Morganna shook her head in dismay. “It is easy to make assumptions. Perhaps Chase was out of his mind and thought Carlotta was his long-dead wife come back to life. Perhaps…. Well…I suppose one can speculate about any number of reasons why Chase Donovan stole that statue or tried to assault Carlotta in her bed. But Carlotta was too traumatized after that night to ever speak of the incident and Holt, bless his heart, grieved for his wife as well as the man he shot. It was such a tragedy and, sad to say, with Tom Donovan in town, some of us are being forced to remember those horrible days.”

“Do you know Tom Donovan very well?” Angel asked.

“No, no, not that well, although we are fast becoming reacquainted. He's been living in the swamps or some other detestable place for heaven only knows how long. I believe he said he'd only recently learned about the events of twenty-six years ago. Can you believe he forgot everything and that no one, not the grandfather who raised him or his grandparents in France, had the decency to tell him the truth about his parents until just a few months ago?”

“That's awful,” Emma said. “Absolutely awful.”

“So how did he find you?” Angel asked.

“Apparently he was doing research on his father and mother when he saw a picture of me taken with them at a charity function—so he looked me up.” Morganna smiled and took another drink of champagne. “I told him about the clothing I made for him when he was a baby and, needless to say, he was quite touched.”

“Did you actually talk about his mother and father?” Angel wanted to know.

“Yes, of course we did. Tom took me out for the loveliest lunch at Bice and we talked for hours on end. In spite of his ghastly attire, he's quite a gentleman and the loveliest man to settle in Palm Beach since his father came here all those years ago.”