I'm No Angel (9 page)

H
e liked her. He hadn't wanted to. Hell, Angel Devlin was nothing more to him than an easy way to get to Holt Hudson. But he'd made the mistake of dancing with her and found himself transfixed by her smile, challenged by her bravado, and wanting to do nothing more than sit here in the suffocatingly small car and talk with her.

Well, that wasn't a hundred percent true. He wanted to do a lot more than talk. Sex sounded good. Hot, no-holds-barred sex, the kind he hadn't had in a long time. But something told him Angel Devlin wasn't the kind of woman who'd take kindly to being rushed.

Then there was the stiletto strapped to her thigh. He might want to feel every sexy and smooth inch of her skin, inside and out, but he didn't want to feel the point of her knife.

He'd wrestled an angry alligator before. Tangling with an angry woman was bound to be far more dangerous.

Leaning against the passenger door inside An
gel's Jag, letting a hint of breeze blow in through the open window, and wishing the car wasn't so damn confining, Tom tossed a spear of the pineapple he'd bought from the bartender at Jazzzzz into his mouth and chewed slowly. He saw Angel cast him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. Her jaw tightened. Eating in the car seemed to irritate her. And, hell, she sure was pretty when she was irritated.

With nothing better to do while they sat crowded together in Angel's car, which was parked across the street from the gated entry to Frederike LeVien's lavish Greek Revival mansion, Tom licked juice from his fingers and studied Angel's curves—her long and slender neck, more-than-a-mouthful breasts he hungered to taste, and luscious hips and thighs that his hands had already lingered on.

The woman was a knockout—so were her short and sleek black strapless dress and her kick-ass stilettos.

“Do you always dress to thrill when you're on stakeout,” he asked, determined to break the silence that had cropped up between them a good ten or fifteen minutes ago, “or did you wear that outfit just for me?”

“I never dress for a man, Mr. Donovan.” She didn't turn around. She merely stared across the street, but he could hear the disgruntled tone in her voice. “I dress strictly for me, and I rather like high heels and sexy dresses.”

“Well, just so you know, I haven't got any complaints.”

“Thank you, Mr. Donovan. The evening would
have been a huge disappointment for me if you hadn't told me that.”

Angel was sure proving to be a challenge, and damned if he didn't relish challenges.

“Doesn't it drive you crazy sitting in a car all night with nothing more to do than stare into the dark, wondering if and when a woman who may or may not be having an affair is going to come out of her house?”

“I never get bored. And just so you know, I rarely follow women. Normally it's women who pay me to follow their cheating husbands or boyfriends or lovers. Slick, sleazy, good-for-nothing men who think with their penis instead of their brain.”

“Are you lumping me into that category?”

“Should I?”

“I may not be at the top of the food chain but I don't think I've hit rock bottom yet. I can even carry on an intelligent conversation when the mood strikes.”

“Does it strike very often?”

“When the company I'm keeping is willing to be civil and polite.”

Tom grabbed another spear of pineapple, licked off the juice that threatened to drip from the end, then sucked it into his mouth, just to see Angel's reaction. He got exactly what he expected. Her eyes flared with annoyance when she swung her sweet, curvy body away from the driver's-side window.

“Could you be a little more careful with that pineapple?”

“I'm licking my fingers after every bite.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd stop doing that, too.”

Tom couldn't help but grin. “Is there a handbook for private investigators stating that it's a sin or a crime or even the least bit unorthodox to eat inside a car while you're on stakeout?”

Angel's eyes narrowed. “It takes just one little accident for greasy food or slimy food or sugary food to go sailing onto the leather upholstery or the floor or God knows where else. And the last thing I want when I have to sit in my car for hours on end is to smell a mixture of noxious odors.”

Tom licked the tip of his thumb. Slowly.

“Is the thought of an accidental spill what's really bothering you? Or—”

“Look, Tom”—Angel's sapphire eyes darkened to the color of a stormy midnight sky—“I'm trying to concentrate on my job. I need to stay focused, and having you beside me, sucking on pineapple and on your fingers and making all sorts of squishy noises, is driving me insane.”

“I like licking fingers.” His grin widened. “And, hell, live in the swamp as long as I have and you get used to squishy noises. But if it'll make you happy, I won't eat another bite.”

“Thank you.”

She glared out the window again.

“And if you find anything sticky on the seats tomorrow, just give me a holler and I'll personally take your car in to have it detailed.”

Angel heaved a sigh. He'd irritated her, and God, she was pretty when she was irritated.

Slowly she turned and leaned back in her seat, gripping the steering wheel. It was damned obvious that she didn't want to look at him, but she
did cast him a quick glance. “Are you always so free with money?”

“I've got a lot to be free with.”

“I haven't seen a penny of the thirty thousand you owe me.”

“Are you worried I'll back out of the deal?”

“No.”

Tom reached into the pocket of his Levi's and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here you go. One check in the amount of twenty-five grand. I still owe you an extra five thousand for giving me the pleasure of touching your chest.”

Angel plucked the check from his fingers, opened the purse that had been resting on the console between them, and shoved it inside.

“You know,” she said, a hint of worry in her voice, “something tells me you expect far more from me in return for that twenty-five thousand.”

“Thirty before we're finished.”

“All right, thirty.” Angel breathed deeply, her luscious breasts rising and falling and his insides fighting every instinct to reach out and caress her.

“So,” she said, “what are you really hoping to get in return for your generous donation to Alzheimer's research?”

“A chance to sit here with you to see how an ace private investigator handles a stakeout. If your surveillance lasts only one hour, fine, but we're not parting company until the sun comes up. We can talk; we can be quiet. I'm not making any demands or expecting anything other than spending time with you.”

“How very chivalrous.”

“Not chivalrous; just patient.”

“Care to explain that?”

“Want an honest answer or an out-and-out lie?”

“I'll go for honest, thank you.”

“I want to make love to you, but you haven't yet decided what your feelings are on that subject. Until you do, I'll bide my time getting to know you better.”

“Biding your time isn't going to get you a thing, Mr. Donovan.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“You're cocky, brash, and too damn good looking. That's a lethal combination a girl like me should stay away from.”

“And what kind of girl are you?”

“I'm no angel, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I never thought that for a moment. Besides, I'm not into sweet and docile.”

The breeze blew lightly through the open windows, stirring the wisps of hair that had fallen out of Angel's no-longer-perfect, swept-off-her-neck hairdo. God, she was beautiful.

Reaching across her seat, he curled a lock of windblown hair behind her ear. A smart man would have withdrawn his hand. Tom wasn't feeling smart right now.

He slipped his fingers behind her neck, into soft, errant curls. She resisted his touch…for not much more than a second. Her eyes weren't midnight blue any longer, they were back to sapphire again. Dreamy.

She licked her lower lip.

A sigh escaped from somewhere deep in her throat.

Her tantalizing mouth parted slightly. And Tom leaned forward, drew her pretty face close…and kissed her. A tender, unthreatening kiss. She tasted damn good. A hint of lime, maybe lemon. He dragged in a deep breath that carried her scent. Soft. Sweet.

All of his senses fought for restraint.

But he wanted everything.

Damn moderation and self-control.

His right hand swept under her arm and around her back. Pressing a palm against the curve of her spine, he pulled her into him. Close. Real close.

Her mouth opened a little more beneath his and, sweet Jesus, she licked his lips. Slowly. Seductively.

He let her take control. Let her taste him while he listened to the purr in her throat, felt the warmth of her sigh against his lips, against his tongue.

Long slender fingers dove into his hair just as her seductive tongue dove into his mouth and tangled with his.

The hell with the stakeout. The hell with restraint.

Tom twisted in his seat, maneuvered around in the restrictive Jag so he could get up close and real personal with the devilish beauty who made him ache.

And then he heard the yap of a couple of dogs, loud and piercing, breaking through the silence, through his senses.

Shit.

Angel tore away from him. Her lips were wet. Swollen. Her lipstick smudged. Her eyes wide.

Tom's chest ached. His groin burned. Hell, he'd been on the verge of tasting her breasts for the very first time—and they'd been forced to stop because a couple of blasted dogs were barking.

Angel's long blond hair had tumbled out of its classy 'do and smacked his face as she swung away, just barely slapping some sense back into him.

“Put your seat belt on,” Angel ordered, as the white wrought-iron gates leading to Frederike LeVien's mansion automatically opened and an antique yellow and green Deusenberg sailed out of the drive.

“You don't mean to tell me we're going somewhere
now,
do you?”

“In spite of what just happened, I'm working, Mr. Donovan.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. I've seen Frederike's chauffeur in action. He drives like a bat out of hell and if I don't want to lose her, I've got to keep up. So put your seat belt on. Now.”

Tom tried to be rational as he latched his seat belt. “You know, Angel, whether you're working or not, we had a really good thing going there for a couple of minutes. So why don't we just forget Frederike and go back to my place?”

“I don't think so.” The tires on Angel's Jag screeched as she whipped away from the curb and hung a death-defying U-turn right in the middle of South Ocean Boulevard. “Besides, you seem to have forgotten something vitally important.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Donovan. Surely you know what I'm talking about.”

“If you mean condoms, I've got a hell of a lot of them at home.”

“Don't be silly.” Angel hit him with a devilish laugh. “You've forgotten that you paid for a stakeout and as I told you before, that's all you're getting from me tonight.”

 

Angel raced through town, driving just under fifty in a thirty-five when the Deusenberg she was tailing crossed the double yellow line and passed a doing-the-speed-limit pearly white Rolls-Royce without once touching the brakes. She was going to lose the Countess if she didn't follow suit. On the other hand, if she zipped around the Rolls, she could get stopped by the cops, have a head-on collision, or be spotted.

Since none of those options fit into her current agenda, she slowed to a snail's pace and stayed behind the Rolls, but kept her gaze glued on the classic yellow and green car.

Her plans for this evening hadn't included going on a stakeout with a brash, cocky, and far-too-good-looking-for-words male, especially one who was sucking on pineapple and licking his fingers. Nor had she planned on being kissed, but God knows she couldn't get rid of the memory of Tom's incredibly divine lips or the taste of pineapple on his tantalizing tongue, a delicious experience that made her long for an intimate night on the beach sharing a cold and intoxicating mai-tai and a whole lot more with her dream man—if such a guy existed.

Remembering that kiss made the simple act of driving nearly impossible. The lights all around her were a blur. Her muscles were tense and if she wasn't careful, a cop might pull her over and give her a sobriety test, even though she was stone-cold sober.

She really had to snap out of this ridiculous infatuation with Tom Donovan because she knew where it would lead, and she knew exactly what would happen if they ripped off their clothes.

She'd panic, he'd yell at her for being a tease, call her a frigid bitch, and she'd end up running home and using a blown-up photo of Dagger as a target, hitting him in the crotch every time she tossed her knife.

Maybe she needed a shrink.

Maybe she just needed a damn good man, and she sure as hell didn't think the sexy guy sucking on pineapple in the seat next to her was going to be the one.

“You know, Angel, you might want to keep your mind on your driving.” Tom's deep, enthralling voice was one more intoxicant-slash-irritant she didn't need right now.

“That's exactly where my mind is, thank you very much,” Angel snapped. Tom didn't deserve it, but it wasn't just her nerves that were prickly, it was her tongue, her fingertips, her heart, her mind, and her soul.

Tom Donovan was driving her insane.

“Be that as it may,” Tom said calmly, a smug grin on his face as he relaxed against the passenger door, “you came damn close to wiping out a palm tree on that last turn.”