I'm No Angel (8 page)

“He's living in town?” Emma asked, almost choking on the Godiva she'd just popped into her mouth.

“At Mere Belle. He inherited the mansion after his French grandparents died.” Morganna smiled with great delight. “He also inherited a sizable fortune. In fact, I believe he might now be one of the richest men in Palm Beach and, Miss Devlin, if he weren't so interested in you, I dare say I'd make a play for him myself.”

Angel sipped the last of her champagne, watching Morganna stick pins between her teeth and come after her and the red gown with tape measure in hand. And as Morganna worked on the alterations, Angel couldn't help but wonder how many other women in town were falling prey to Tom Donovan's charms. And wonder, too, how many other women he was willing to pay for the pleasure of their company.

She also wondered if it was the women—herself included—that he was interested in, or if his dastardly charm was all a ruse, part of a carefully hatched scheme to gain access to Holt.

There was only one way to find out. She had to follow through with the threat she'd hit Tom with last night. She had to spy on him.

T
om tugged his sweat-drenched T-shirt over his head, tossed it across a patio chair, then went back to work with a saw and clippers, cutting back the purple and orange bougainvillea that had invaded nearly every inch of Mere Belle's courtyard during the twenty-six years the chateau sat unoccupied.

Even now, a couple of months after he'd inherited everything that had belonged to his French grandparents, he found it difficult to believe that they sold most everything inside the chateau after Chase had been killed. Found it even harder to believe that they'd had the mansion boarded up. They'd paid the taxes. They'd hired a gardener to come in a few times a year to hack down the weeds.

But they'd neglected the place, ignored it—just as they had Tom.

They'd died a few months apart, of old age, Tom had been told. The will Tom had first heard about two and a half months ago left everything
to their only grandchild. Every penny. Not one cent left to charity. Nothing given to friends or devoted servants. Maybe they'd had none.

Tom laughed to himself as he whacked away at a long dead royal Poinciana. He'd probably been damn lucky to have gone to live with Pop instead of getting saddled with his mother's parents. They'd pretty much disowned their daughter, hadn't bothered to come to her funeral or her husband's, and had never set eyes on their grandson.

Had they been completely cold? he often wondered. Totally without emotion? Someday he'd try to find out. Someday he'd visit the other houses that were now his. Someday he'd start doling out some of his millions to people who needed it far more than he did.

But for now, he had to learn the truth about his father's death.

And turn this mansion back into a home.

Of course, a hell of a lot of other people had their own ideas on what should be done with Mere Belle.

Half a dozen landscapers had called or stopped by the mansion in the last few days to tell Tom that in just a matter of weeks they could have the estate looking better than ever. They'd even brought pictures with them, showing him how it had looked in its heyday and how they envisioned it looking after they put a few hundred thousand dollars' worth of work into it.

Snooty interior designers had knocked on his door, too, each one telling him they had the ideal plan for turning his palatial home into a show-place. Most felt contemporary would be his style.
Black and white leather with chrome everywhere. Two wanted to create an African theme, with zebra stripes and leopard prints everywhere, and a massive bed in the master bedroom, draped, of course, in netting to go with the overall look.

No one seemed to understand why he turned them away, but he understood perfectly. Exhausting himself doing yard work and stripping and painting walls was a way of working through the anger that threatened to consume him. At least that's how it had started. But it hadn't taken more than a couple of days of toil and sweat for him to realize that making the mansion and surrounding grounds a home had become a labor of love.

Each time he walked through the nearly empty chateau he remembered long-ago days when he and his father had played hide and seek in the ornately decorated rooms, and when he was outside, images of his dad teaching him to swim in the pool or of them building sand castles on the beach came to mind.

And when he played the grand piano that had been left behind, the one that had belonged to his mom and that he'd had completely refurbished and tuned, he remembered his dad and the strength of his arms as they'd sat together on the piano bench listening to audiotapes of his mother playing Mozart and Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Gershwin.

How he could possibly have blocked out those memories for nearly twenty-six years amazed him, because they were all so clear now.

Tom ripped a brittle brown vine away from the dead Poinciana and other memories returned. Vi
cious, haunting recollections of being tugged from his comfortable bed and carried out of the house.

His muscles tensed and a chill raced up his spine as he remembered his father's face, his pain-filled and loving smile, as they huddled together in the front seat of the car. He saw his dad's tie hanging loose, his always immaculate suit coat crumpled and torn, and the dark stains on his white shirt. And he felt the ever-weakening hugs of a man who hummed to him and told him everything would be all right.

But everything hadn't been all right. Everything had gone damn wrong.

His dad died in his arms.

He remembered being questioned by the police and child psychologists about the shooting. They wanted to know where he and his father had driven when they'd left Mere Belle, and over and over again they asked him where Chase had hidden that damned piece of artwork.

He remembered crying for hours on end. He remembered one face after another staring at him, sizing him up, dying to know everything he had locked up inside of his head.

In the end he'd told them nothing they didn't already know. And when they were finished with him, he'd been shuttled off to live in the Everglades with a man he'd never seen before, a grandfather who, over the course of time, convinced him that his former life had been nothing but a dream. Who'd told him that his parents had been killed in a plane crash, and never again spoke of the past.

Until a few months ago, when the attorneys showed up in the Everglades to tell Tom he was a very rich man.

Details were coming back to him now. Little by little. But there were still too damn many questions hanging over his head.

The musical peal of his cell phone jerked Tom out of the past and back to the present. He thought about ignoring the annoying ring because God knows no one called him except guys dying to invest his money and make him richer. Hell, he was already richer than sin. How much more could a man possibly want or need?

Hating the sound of the incessant ringing, he dropped the clippers he'd been gripping in his right hand, strode to the marble-topped patio table, and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“You're being watched.”

Tom frowned, troubled by the worry he heard in his grandfather's voice. “What are you talking about?”

“There's a boat out on the water and for the last half hour now, someone has been standing on the deck watching you.”

Tom looked out across the vast expanse of lawn he'd mowed earlier that afternoon and saw little more than the sleek white and black
Adagio
resting at the dock.

“Are you inside the boat, Pop?”

“Figured that was the smartest place to be if I was going to watch the person watching you.”

“Well, stay put.”

“That was my plan,” Pop said, as Tom looked for a better vantage point. “I'm half dead already
and if someone's out to get you, I'm not about to put myself in harm's way and rush the inevitable.”

That was a lie, of course. Pop would lay down his life for Tom. The feeling was mutual.

With his gaze focused on the ocean, Tom made his way to a life-size statue of a naked goddess standing tall and beautiful while she surveyed the gardens. Hiding behind the marble sculpture, he stared off into the distance, past the palms, the
Adagio,
and across the sparkling and exceedingly calm Atlantic.

“See it?” Pop asked. “The black ski boat with red flames painted on the side?”

“I see it, but I can't see anyone in it.”

“Take my word for it, 'cause I've got my best spotting telescope zoomed in on a pretty blonde standing at the wheel. And she's got a pair of binoculars trained on you.”

Tom folded his arms atop the goddess's marble breasts and smiled as he stared over her shoulder. “Is my not-so-secretive spy curvy?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Well, well, well, was the captivating Miss Devlin watching him to make sure he didn't do anything to mess up the plans for her gala? Or was she just checking him out? Maybe he should wave at her. Maybe he should strip down to nothing and stroll around the grounds.

Of course, maybe it wasn't Angel Devlin.

“Look at her really close, Pop. Does she have a nice tan, great legs, and sapphire eyes?”

“Tell you what,” Pop said, his words tinged with annoyance, “why don't I pull my fishing
boat away from the dock, motor out to the young lady, and ask her over for drinks and casual conversation so you can check those not-so-important details for yourself?”

“Sarcasm doesn't become you, Pop.”

Tom heard his grandfather sigh through the phone. “Look, Tom. You're being watched and I don't like it.”

“I don't have anything to hide.”

“Your father did. God knows how many people thought that statue he stole—”

“He didn't steal it.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of people were sure that he did. They were also sure he hid it in the yard you're standing in now, or in that house you're living in. Hell, the police searched every inch of the place. They searched my place. And they spent days questioning you and me. Now we're back in this godforsaken town and all of that crap is being stirred up again. I don't like it one bit.”

“If my dad stole
The Embrace
and hid it here, it would have been found by now. But no one has found it and no one has tried to fence it—”

“That you know of.”

“Damn it, Pop, let's not argue.”

“Fine by me. We hardly ever argued when we lived in the Glades and you were wrestling gators. If you ask me, we should go back. Open up another gator farm with you running the entire show this time around.”

“You know I never liked wrestling gators and I sure as hell hated to charm snakes.”

“I suppose you'd prefer wrestling and then charming pretty blond spies?”

“Yeah, I suppose I would.”

Again Pop sighed heavily. “Look, son, I've got this god-awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that if we don't get away from this town you're going to end up in a heap of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, I've already come to the conclusion that with enough money you can buy yourself out of any trouble you could possibly get into, especially here in Palm Beach. And I've got money to burn.”

“I don't like hearing that kind of talk. Maybe I should just go back to the Glades by myself so I don't have to watch you become just another slick-as-swamp-scum rich guy who's too big for his britches.”

“If you want to go back—” Tom bit back his words but the silence on the other end of the phone was so deafening that Tom knew Pop understood perfectly well what had been on the tip of his grandson's tongue.

“You want me to go back?” Pop asked, his voice a mixture of choked-back hurt and frustration.

“No, Pop.” Tom shoved his fingers through sweat-soaked hair. “I don't want you going back any more than
I
want to go back. I can't explain it, Pop, but I get the feeling I was meant to be here.”

“Well, hell, if you want to stay, stay.”

“You, too?” Tom asked softly.

“I suppose. Besides…”

Tom heard Pop muttering under his breath.

“What is it, Pop? Is everything okay?”

“Let's just say that it's a good thing I'm sticking around because someone's got to keep an eye on all the people spying on you.”

“It's
one
person spying on me, Pop, and if I'm not mistaken, that pretty blonde is the woman I'm getting together with tonight.”

“I'm not referring to the pretty blonde. I'm talking about the other boat on the water and the other pair of binoculars trained on you all of a sudden.”

“What? You mean I have more than one female admirer trying to check me out?”

“It's not a woman, Tom. It's a man…and if I'm not mistaken, he's got a devil tattooed on his chest.”

S
parks of light glinted off Emma's emerald-studded hoop earrings as she plucked one of Jazzzzz's signature pink and green tortilla chips out of the bowl sitting in the center of the table she shared with Angel. “You didn't really go out on your boat to spy on the Piano Man, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Angel crossed her legs, adjusting the gentle folds of her black silk sundress so they covered her always-present stiletto. “But I'm not the only one who was spying on him.”

Emma frowned. “No?”

“Dagger was out there, too, in what
used
to be my boat.”

“Maybe he was spying on you. God knows the bastard told you more than once that if he couldn't have you—”

“He wasn't spying on me,” Angel said, cutting off Emma's words. She didn't want to think about the threats Dagger used to wave around as often as he waved his knife. “He had his binoculars trained on Tom, and when I headed my boat over
to his to find out what the hell he was up to, he took off.”

“Don't tell me he managed to lose you.”

“I didn't bother keeping up with him. Besides, I had other things to do and I figure I'll have the misfortune of bumping into him soon enough.” She took a sip of Perrier with a twist of lime. “I'll find out what he's up to then.”

Emma nibbled the edge off of her chip. “Did you have any better luck figuring out what Tom Donovan is up to?”

Angel laughed lightly. “Yard work.”

Emma's frown deepened. “Run that by me again.”

“I spent nearly an hour watching him work in his courtyard, ripping up weeds, trimming trees, and drinking beer.”

“As I've said before,” Emma said, shaking her head, “P.I. work sounds dreadfully boring.”

“It wasn't that boring.” Angel took another sip of her Perrier, the image of Tom's nearly naked body flashing before her eyes. “He took his shirt off while I was watching him.”

Emma's eyes sparkled as she folded her arms on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “Let me guess. He was bronzed and buff?”

A wide smile touched Angel's face. “Think Hugh Jackman.”

“As Wolverine with claws? Or Wolverine nearly naked? Or in that movie with Meg Ryan? Or…Oh, never mind.” Emma patted her heart in extreme delight. “Hugh Jackman is Hugh Jackman and most women would take him any way they could possibly get him. So, now that you've
seen the Piano Man stripped down to almost nothing, what's next?”

“The lovely lady with the angel wings tattooed on her shoulder explains why she was spying on me.”

Lightning streaked through Angel's insides when she heard
that
voice. When she felt
those
warm, callused fingers swirling around her crimson tattoo. Her eyes narrowed. She tried to spin around, but the Piano Man's closely shaved and intoxicatingly spice-scented cheek pressed against hers and the pressure of his fingers on her shoulders kept her still.

Trapped.

Speechless.

God, he smelled good.

His touch felt even better.

For sanity's sake, she had to tell him touching her was off limits. Of course how she would say that without sounding weak and out of control was anybody's guess.

As she did so often, she just jumped right in, tossing out the first words that came to mind. “Would you do me a big favor, Mr. Donovan?”

His face was too close to get a good look at his expression, but she could feel the brush of his lips against her cheek, felt them tilt into what she knew was an insufferable grin. “If you're going to ask me to pay you more money for the privilege of having you bestow your favors on me tonight, you're going to have to sweeten the pot.”

“Getting more money from you is a delightful idea.” Angel twisted out of Tom's embrace and hit him with her best I'm-in-control-tonight-and-
don't-you-forget-it smile. “Why don't you have a seat and we'll discuss your ever-growing charitable contribution?”

Tom flipped a chair around, set it right close to Angel's, and straddled it. His arm brushed her shoulder and lightning struck her again.

Damn it.

He flashed his ever-so-charming smile at far-too-gullible Emma. “Before we talk about money, Miss Devlin, why don't you introduce me to your friend? We didn't have the pleasure of being properly introduced at Morganna's this morning.”

Emma stretched her elegant hand across the table in the polite, sophisticated manner they'd been taught at Mrs. Alexander's. Her emerald bracelet glistened. So did her smile. “It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Donovan. I'm Emma Claire.”

Tom took Emma's hand and held it tightly and far too long. Was he trying to seduce Emma now? Was he just being nice? Polite?

Or was he trying to make Angel jealous?

Ha!
Like that could ever happen.

“You're the purse designer, right?” Tom said, his index finger toying with the emerald charms dangling from Emma's bracelet.

“I started with purses.” Emma's eyes sparkled as brightly as her jewels. “I've recently added luggage and sunglasses to my product line, and I'll soon be dabbling in watches and perfume.”

“I love a woman with many talents,” Tom said, turning his dastardly charisma on Emma.

“Angel is loaded with talent,” Emma cooed,
her allure just as dastardly as Tom's. “Did you know she's an expert knife thrower?”

“So she told me.”

“Did you know she carries a stiletto with her at all times?”

“I discovered that just last night.”

“In fact, Mr. Donovan”—Emma smiled brightly—“I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has her hand on her stiletto right this very minute.”

Tom grinned wickedly. “Do you think she wishes to use it on me?”

“Not at the moment,” Angel said, casually leaning back in her chair, “but the evening's still young.”

Tom's undeniably sexy gaze shifted to Angel. “It would be a shame for you to slice my throat before we discuss how much more money you want from me and what you're willing to do to get it. And we still need to discuss the reason you
and
the guy with the devil tattooed on his chest were spying on me.”

So much for being sneaky. Obviously she needed to try another method of operation with such a perceptive man. Maybe flat-out honesty would have to be the best policy when dealing with Tom Donovan.

Angel lifted her glass of Perrier and touched the cold and damp ice-filled glass to her chest, drawing it lightly toward the hint of cleavage visible over her strapless black dress. “My reasons were quite simple, I assure you.” Angel smiled coquettishly, as Tom's gaze followed the movement of her glass. “First, as I told you last night, I'll be
keeping an eye on you to make sure you don't do anything to bother Holt Hudson. Second…I wanted to see you with your shirt off and my efforts were well rewarded.” She winked. “Your chest is quite impressive.”

Tom plucked the glass from her hand and took a cold swallow of mineral water. “If I decide to bother Holt Hudson, you won't be able to stop me. As for your second reason for spying on me…anytime you want me to take off my shirt, just ask.”

“It's far more fun watching someone strip when they're totally unaware of your presence.”

“Perhaps. But”—Tom reached across the table with her drink and skimmed the cold and wet glass over her chest—“you had no way of knowing I'd be outside, nor did you know I'd take off my shirt.”

Angel covered his hand with hers to keep the glass from moving, to keep his fingers from whispering over her skin. To keep that damned lightning from streaking through her insides.

“Speculation,” Angel said, “is all part of a P.I.'s life. You learn a little bit here and a little bit there about a person, you add two and two together, and then you act accordingly. Sometimes your instincts pay off; sometimes they don't.”

“Did your instincts about me pay off?”

“As I said, you look rather fine without your shirt on.”

“Are you always so open and honest?”

“Not always.”

“Is that the reason you're not telling me why someone else was watching me?”

“I can honestly say I don't know why the guy in the other boat was watching you.” She
could
tell Tom who that other guy was, but she saw no reason to tell him anything about Dagger without first knowing what her ex—the bastard—was up to.

“I take it he doesn't work for you?”

“No.”

“I watched you go after him in your boat. Obviously you want to know what he was up to just as much as I do.”

“I admit I'm curious and I'm sure I'll find out soon.”

“And then you'll tell me—won't you?”

“Perhaps.”

Tom set Angel's glass on the table, then dragged the tips of his fingers lightly over her chest. “Now,” he said, as Angel's heart began a rapid and far-too-heavy beat, “I believe we were going to discuss an addition to my charitable contribution. Do you have an amount in mind?”

She swallowed hard. Took a deep breath. His fingertips continued to float over her flesh, heating it, making it tingle, setting her entire body afire. Yet somehow she managed to keep a cool and calm countenance about her.

Angel smiled confidently and answered, “Five grand.”

Tom didn't even blink at her words. He seemed totally unruffled. And his fingers continued to work their magic spell. “What do I get in return?”

Angel teased his cheek with the tips of her fingernails. “You're already getting all you're going to get, Mr. Donovan.” Don't lose control, she
warned herself. Don't let him get the upper hand. “It's not often that I let a man touch me.”

“You're worth every penny.” Tom traced the edge of her black silk bodice with his middle finger. Slowly, seductively, while his dark brown eyes held hers captive. “How much more can I have for
another
five thousand?”

“You're up to thirty already. It wouldn't be fair to take anything more from you—or to give you hope for anything more from me.”

Emma cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but have you both forgotten that you're in a public place and that
I'm
here with you?”

Angel tore her gaze from Tom's bewitching eyes and realized that she
had
forgotten where she was. She
had
forgotten that Emma was sitting at the same table.

And if she wasn't careful, if she didn't get up right this very minute and head off to her stakeout, if she didn't stay focused, she was going to lose not only her senses but her ability to do her job.

Far more important than that—if she didn't get away from Tom's wildly hot touch, he might mesmerize her completely, and then she just might lose her soul.