Nobody's Angel (43 page)

“She's moving,” Annie stated flatly. “She didn't think this was a good place to—” She cut herself off. “Anyway, I don't know if she's at the old place or the new. She'll be here later, if you want to leave it.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Adrian remembered the loneliness of snowflakes and the warmth of laughter and the flash of naked admiration he'd once seen in Faith's eyes, and he gathered the courage to crawl.

“Please, if you would, give me her new address, and I'll check both places.” Faith had called him an arrogant ass and an insufferable prick, and she was dead-on on both counts, but he was prepared to eat humble pie and beg on his knees right now. She could throw him out on his face, but he had to see her one more time.

Annie narrowed her eyes and thought about it.

“I only want what's best for her,” he promised. “It's Christmas, Annie. Please.”

“I'm probably making the worst mistake of my life,” she grumbled, reaching into her desk.

“If this is the only mistake you make, you're a saint,” he said fervently as she handed over a piece of notepaper with the address scribbled on it. He scanned it quickly, committing it to memory so nothing could part him from it.

“If Faith lets you through the door, she's the saint,” Annie corrected dryly. “Or a bloody fool.”

“If she lets me through the door, she's both.”

As Adrian turned to walk out, a pigtailed toddler ran squealing down the hall, and terror and excitement exploded
in his chest. Faith would want children. He ought to turn around right now and head for the hills.

With the prize of Faith's happiness firmly in mind, he climbed into the derelict old truck and steered it onto the highway in the direction Annie had given him.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, wrapping the final package for the men at the shelter, Faith looked up in surprise at the sound of her doorbell. She glanced at the oven clock—it wasn't even ten in the morning on the day before Christmas. She wasn't officially moved in yet. Who in the world could it be?

Rising, she brushed snippets of ribbon and paper from her red cashmere sweater and tucked a straying hank of hair behind her ear.

This wasn't the inner city, and she didn't need a peephole, she decided as she reached for the knob. She refused to live in fear and paranoia. She had a sturdy storm door between her and the visitor, should she need it.

At the sight of Adrian on the other side of the glass, she grabbed the door frame for support.

She drank in every inch of him, the windblown raven hair, the tense, harsh line of his jaw, the glitter of silver at his ear, the way his eyes glowed with dark fires as his gaze swept over her. Suddenly nervous, she focused on the muscles straining against his flannel shirt—he wasn't wearing a coat.

She opened the door and wordlessly gestured for him to enter. His gaze never left her as he crossed the threshold carrying a cardboard box.

“You're more beautiful than I remembered,” he whispered hoarsely. “You look radiant enough to light entire rows of Christmas trees.”

His words could have melted stone, and she wasn't made of stone. She wanted to weep with joy, but she'd learned her
lessons well. Pretty words couldn't mend the bridges he had burned.

He smelled of damp flannel and spicy aftershave and of the man she remembered much too clearly, naked and sweating beside her in bed. She closed her eyes as her head spun at the image. Desire clawed at her insides.

“Are you all right?”

His hand instinctively cupped her elbow, and she opened her eyes to read the concern etching his brow, the concern she knew was genuine and made her want to weep for all the months of missing it.

“I'm fine. I just never thought to see you …” She gestured helplessly and looked around for someplace to put him. The carpet was littered with boxes and odds and ends the guys had moved on their days off, but the only significant piece of furniture was the newly delivered mattress set in the bedroom. She didn't think she should offer him a seat there. “I can fix you some coffee,” she said tentatively, “but we'll have to sit on the floor.”

“It's a nice neighborhood,” he said approvingly, not releasing her arm. She felt as if he were gobbling her up.

Nervously, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms and turned toward the kitchen. She wanted to be free and dependent on no man, but she loved him so much she thought she'd die of wanting him.

“The government has a fund for first time home buyers. Since Tony bought our house through the corporation, I apparently qualified.” She chattered as she searched for mugs and measured coffee into the machine. “The loan required perfect credit. The truck loan hurt me, but some head honcho agreed the truck was worth more than the loan, so it was okay.” He probably didn't want to hear any of this, but she was terrified of why he'd come here. Her hopes couldn't bear any more dashing.

He skirted around the stacks of cheerfully wrapped packages on the gleaming vinyl floor and gazed out the wide windows to the backyard. “Nice yard, room enough for a garden.

The fence ought to keep the dogs and kids out. Or in. You should like it here.”

Adrian wasn't very good at hiding his feelings. He didn't sound happy for her. The mention of kids startled her, but she figured he was being pragmatic.

He'd set his box on the counter, and she eyed it speculatively. Juan had promised her a shipment, but this was the wrong size.

“Dolores sent me a Christmas card,” she said politely. “She said you'd taken the pictures of her in the red cheerleading outfit, but you made her look as fat as Mrs. Claus.”

He laughed shortly. “I wouldn't wish Dolores on any man, not even Santa. She thinks she wants to be a social worker. Can you believe it? It will cost fortunes to send her to school so she can be poor for the rest of her life. The girl has no sense, just like Belinda.”

“She'll be all right, just like Belinda,” she corrected, pouring the coffee and coming up behind him to hand it over. She didn't want to sound sharp. She wanted to touch him, wished she had the right to ease his anxiety, but she didn't. “Happiness comes from the heart, not from the pocket.”

“Fat lot you know,” he grumbled, absently taking the mug and sipping without looking at her. “Go ahead, open the package. I've already made a fool of myself by coming here. I might as well complete the job.”

Tears stung her eyes at his gruffness because she knew it came from some inner conflict and not from anger at her. She ought to take a bite out of his shoulder and wake him up. Instead she obediently reached for the box.

“You've always been a fool, Quinn,” she chided. “But when it can be found, your heart is in the right place, too. Your mother raised all her children well, and you're no exception.” She used scissors to slice the packing tape.

He swung around and leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee as he watched her. Against her pretty terra cotta kitchen, he looked masculine and dangerous, but he exuded pain and warmth, and she desperately wanted to hug him and make him smile again. Why had he come here?

“Hearts are fairly unreliable, worthless bits of tissue,” he scoffed. “They don't put a roof over our heads or food in our stomachs.”

“No, that's why we have brains, and if yours is smart enough to deflate your massive ego on occasion, it can figure out how to feed you.” She lifted the bubble-wrapped contents from the box. Juan had sent her a present, she guessed with a twinge of disappointment. “But your brain hasn't learned to listen to your heart often enough.”

“Oh, it listens,” he said reluctantly. “It just doesn't believe.”

Faith was the one no longer listening. Her fingers trembled as the wrapping fell away, revealing the stunningly impossible porcelain within. “Clair de lune?” she whispered in disbelief. Then, as the final piece of plastic came off and she held the heart-shaped piece in her hands, she gave a tear-filled cry of joy.

“It's yours to do with as you will. You can heave it at my head if you like.” Adrian remained frozen against the window, watching her warily.

“My God,” she whispered worshipfully. “
You
made this. This isn't Juan's. He's good, but …” She swung around, clutching the precious vase to her chest, her eyes widening in comprehension. “You made the other! You're my lost artist!”

Adrian shrugged uncomfortably and looked down at his coffee. “I wanted to see if I could replicate clair de lune. It was a challenge.”

She wanted to hit him, throw something at him, smack some sense into that damnably thick—brilliant—head of his. She could only clutch his gift more fiercely to her heart while tears gathered in her eyes. “You're a gifted genius,” she cried incoherently. That wasn't what she wanted to say, but how could she tell him what he already knew?

Something bright and appreciative flashed across his expression as he lifted his head and their gazes met, but that didn't change his opinion.

“Creative genius doesn't pay the bills,” he argued. “I just wanted to show you—” He flung up his hands in disgust, splashing coffee across his cuff. “Oh, hell, I don't know what
I wanted to show you. I've been out of my mind for months, maybe years, for all I know. You're the only one who can make me see sense.”

His glare defied her to contradict him. She loved the man so much she could read him like a book when he opened up like this. Her heart did a silly Snoopy dance inside her rib cage as she clung to his offering of love, such as it was. For a lawyer, he seemed to have lost his magical gift for words.

She lifted the vase to study the burst of crystal before she melted beneath his heated gaze and forgot all the lessons she'd learned. They had problems so deep they would need far more than pretty words to cross them, and more rode on this than he understood. She might as well dash all her foolish hopes at once.

Very gently, almost reluctantly, she set the vase down, brushing loving fingers over the impossibly beautiful surface. But the man waiting for her reply was more important than this piece of genius. She wanted to throw caution to the winds, fling herself into his arms and plead with him to stay despite all his scruples. She would promise him the moon and stupidly try to give it to him because that was the way her heart worked.

This time there was more at stake than her dumb heart.

Relinquishing the vase, she crossed her arms and met Adrian's anxious gaze. She loved that he didn't try to hide his uncertainty. He could be macho man when protecting those he loved, but he suffered just as anyone else did, and wasn't afraid to show it.

“I love you,” she stated simply, searching his face for understanding. He twitched and quickly shuttered a flash of hope, waiting for the “but” that would surely follow. Smart man.

“I know it's a silly thing to say,” she admitted. “We never properly dated, and we were only together a few weeks, and I was certain it was just desperation on both our parts.” She threw an apprehensive glance to the vase, seeking reassurance that she hadn't misunderstood his intent. The brilliant porcelain sparkled and winked with promise in the sunlight, and she drew a deep breath for strength. “But whatever we
had together, it doesn't go away, and I can't stop thinking about you. I'll never stop thinking about you.”

He relaxed fractionally, still looking for the “but,” the reason this wouldn't work, as he had every right to do. They had huge barriers to cross, as they'd already proved.

“I thought I could drive you out of my head if I worked on that vase,” he admitted, not moving toward her. “But everything I did reminded me of you. I could capture the translucent beauty of your skin, but I decided clair de lune didn't suit it. I wanted to throw out the glaze and develop another, one with the golden glow of sunshine. You're driving me
insane
,” he said, before his jaw locked tight.

Faith smiled at his frustration, but if he thought sexual frustration drove him insane, wait until she hit him with the rest. His pretty words couldn't even begin to overcome that.

Adrian didn't give her the opportunity to break her news. Instead he dragged her into his arms and held her so tightly she thought he'd crack her ribs. She breathed deeply of his familiar scent, clutched the soft flannel of his shirt, and did her best to burrow through his hard chest and into the heart thumping against her ear.

“I have thanked God at least a thousand times for sending the miracle of you to prove I hadn't been forgotten,” he said hoarsely. “I've tried to believe it was best not to tamper with miracles, but I'm afraid you've taught me how human I really am. I want to hold that miracle in my arms for a lifetime. Give me a chance, Faith.”

She couldn't move, could hardly breathe, at such an admission from the grimly practical Adrian Quinn Raphael.

His arms tightened around her. “I don't know how to show you what I feel. You can even buy a damned
house
without me. You don't need anything I have to offer. Worse, I can't offer you anything but a lifetime of crises. I don't want to lay that burden on you, but dammit, Faith, I love you, and I can't see how I'll exist without you.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks and she shook her head in desperation. They could so easily destroy each other like this. She had one too many experiences in self-destruction. She
wanted this perfectly clear now, and to hell with him and his male pride.