Samael (19 page)

But Sam’s compassion had a limit, it would seem, because just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he was doing an about-face to unrelentingly continue in his mild-mannered but hard-hitting defense. “Now where were we? Ah yes. Sending people headlong into dangerous situations that I could have prevented.” He grinned again, but this one was different, and Angel had that terrible feeling a mouse must get right before it knows the Cheshire cat is about to eat it.

“Let me ask you something, Angel. How many tornadoes and earthquakes have struck the earth since you were cast out of the angel realm?”

Countless
. But she said nothing.

“I see,” he said calmly. “How many people died in those events?”

Again, the answer was
countless
. And she was beginning to feel a touch queasy.

“But you were trying, weren’t you? Oh, I’d guarantee it. You gave it your all to save as many as possible, no doubt draining yourself to the point of danger in the process. It was simply that you could only do so much. People will always die. Even Superman could not save them all.”

It was so true, all of it, that it was like an arrow through her heart. And Angel could only look away, tear her gaze from his, and reach for her newly filled wine glass. Fuck buzzed. She was going to get full-on drunk.

“It’s a pity that when people died in those wars and disasters, there was no one there to record the history for posterity’s sake, to solidify the events as they occurred, and capture the lives and their losses in some lasting, tangible form so that generations to come might remember what had happened, might be more careful in their plans and negotiations, and might share a moment of respect and loss for all that transpired.”

She gulped down her wine.

“This is what I do, Angel.”

She closed her eyes and touched her forehead. So, he recorded history. And if he wasn’t bold-faced lying to her, then he did it for the right reasons. But that didn’t change the fact that no one had ever seen Sam helping any of the victims in those situations. And it didn’t change the fact that he was sending people into that danger to do the recording. Did they have a choice?

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” she said.

She wasn’t sure whether she really had to or not, but she needed to process everything. And she needed to get away from Sam. From his eyes. From his smooth, low voice. She needed space to breathe.

“Of course.”

She rose. Across from her, Samael stood as well. Almost at once, the maître d’ was at her side.

“Miss Angel, if you will follow me, I will be happy to show you to the facilities.”

That was fast
. Everything was moving
so
fast.

She nodded politely, and followed him through more of the play house. Around the right side of the stage, the cave continued. In this hall, stalactites that were wrapped with more miniature glowing lights clung tightly to the ceiling. Windows in the cavern hallway revealed views into even more beautiful, mystical, and impossible worlds. One was an under-water reef, ripe with vibrant colors and sea creatures she’d never before seen, probably because they didn’t exist on this planet.

Another revealed a vast horizon of nothing but space. Galaxies spun, constellations shimmered, and planets that were not nearly as far away as they were in her own solar system sported rings and moons seemingly close enough to touch.

At last, they reached a deep black polished oak door with an equally polished gold knob. The maître d’ stood beside the door and nodded. “Here we are, miss. You will find everything you need for your comfort inside. If by some chance, you do not, you need only alert the staff.”

She thanked him, feeling extremely overwhelmed by the majesty of this cave that was a play house that was also, it would seem, a mid-way point between countless realms. He nodded, smiled, and left.

Angel half expected there to be a bathroom assistant waiting inside, which was something that hadn’t been the norm for many years now. But she was alone in the enormous space. A literal pond took up the center of the cavern, which was natural, smooth carved marble just like the rest of the play house. In the pond swam fish that resembled koi, but with rainbow colors rather than the typical orange, white, and black she was accustomed to.

There were benches around the pond, and bird feeders had been set up in-between them with what she recognized as fish food to feed the fish. Along the left wall, there was a long counter with sinks of marble in the shape of clam shells. Above them were large individual mirrors bordered in ornate gold frames. Upon the marble counters were intricately woven baskets filled with all shapes, sizes, and colors of soaps. In separate bowls of glass were lotion bars, beeswax bars, and miniature tubes of varying perfumed creams. Thick, plush embroidered hand towels were folded in neat piles in between each of the sinks.

On the right were the “stalls,” which were actually individual rooms, complete with their own full-sized doors that left no space above or below. They afforded total privacy.

Above, chandeliers made of crystal –
actual
crystal stalactites that dangled from the ceiling – lit the room with a pastel glow that switched at a relaxed and gradual rate through the entirety of the rainbow’s spectrum. Angel stood in one place and took it all in as it went from blue to green to yellow to orange to red to purple and back to blue again.

Even the bathroom is perfect
, she thought.

She was losing this battle. Sam was getting to her. He’d
always
gotten to her. But now he was showing her a world she’d only dreamed of. From the “Nautilus” to the play house, there was no end to the dream-come-true sensation. He was giving her everything she’d ever wanted.

She put her forehead in her hand and thought of the Culmination… whatever it was. And she realized, with strangely ebbing fear, that if Sam kept this up, there’d be no way the Culmination wouldn’t come to pass.

Chapter Thirty-Two

When she’d finished in the restroom, Angel left the room and headed back out into the hallway. From the sounds of varying conversations and the lack of music or dramatic speaking, she could tell the play still hadn’t begun. So she was right. It wouldn’t start until Sam wanted it to.

Just how powerful is that man?

When she reached the end of the hall, she stopped. Someone had approached their table and was speaking with Sam. For some reason, covert inspiration struck Angel, and she hugged the wall, keeping to the shadows as she peeked around the corner to surreptitiously watch. They were speaking very quietly, but when she concentrated, she could more or less make out the conversation….

The man talking was one of the gargoyles she’d seen earlier. Now that she was really looking at him, he seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen him. His hands were clasped politely before him in supplication. “Mr. Lambent, I of course didn’t want to interrupt your dinner with your beautiful date, but I did want to take any opportunity that came along to tell you how grateful I and the others at the foundation are for your extremely generous donation.”

Angel blinked.

Sam shook his head. “It’s nothing, Grant. You do good work. It’s my honor to support it.”

“Grant” wore an ultimate expression of gratefulness. “You’ve always been more than supportive. How can we thank you?”

“Just keep your word.”

“Of course,” Grant said, bowing slightly. “Mum as usual.” He smiled and closed his eyes in a sort of “Namaste” farewell, and with one last bow, left the table.

What the hell?
thought Angel. What was that all about? What word was Grant keeping? And why hadn’t she ever heard of Sam donating money to anyone?
Ever
?

At that moment, the maître d’ – Charles, his nametag said – came walking down the hall from one of the back rooms. Angel gently touched his arm as he came near. “I’m sorry, Charles was it?”

Of course he turned his undivided attention to her. “Not at all, Miss Angel. Please, what may I help you with?” He seemed genuinely earnest to see to her needs, whatever they might be.

“I was just….” She glanced back at the table, where Sam was taking a slow sip of his wine. She bit her lip. “I was just wondering who that young man is right there.” She pointed at the gargoyle who was walking back to his own table.

“That is Grant Sterling, of the Sterling dynasty. Why do you ask, miss?”

“Well, I’m embarrassed to say, I….” She thought fast. “I thought I recognized him, but for the life of me, I can’t remember where from, and should we end up speaking with him, I would hate to embarrass myself.”

Charles took on a look of absolute understanding. “Ah, I see.” He chuckled softly. “Not a problem at all. Mr. Sterling is the founder and president of United Assistance International. Of course, in the mortal world, he goes by the name Allen O’Hara.”

Oh my gosh, that’s where I’ve seen him!
Allen O’Hara kept a
very
low profile. He didn’t want people to see him, but to see his
company
, so his messages to the public were always accompanied by images of those they were trying to help or those they
had
helped. Just like any charity, it was about the victims, not the saviors.

“He comes here often with potential donors and when he’s not working, he comes with family and friends.” He smiled graciously.

United Assistance International. Her mind reeled. UAI had been one of the most wide-spread and successful charities helping people and animals world-wide in crises since the early nineteen-seventies. And Sam was a supporter. Apparently, a generous supporter.

And here, she’d been accusing him of callous apathy toward the disasters his media companies covered.

She felt dizzy. “Yes, I remember now,” she said uneasily, hoping the smile she plastered to her face would hide her confusion. It felt horrible to lie to such a kind man. “Thank you so much, Charles. I truly appreciate it.”

“You’re more than welcome, miss. Anything I can do.” He bowed, as everyone here seemed to do, and continued on his way to wherever he’d been going.

Angel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and attempted to compose herself. Could all of this be true? Were the rumors about Samuel Lambent’s nastiness just that? Were the articles that told how he exploited people, manipulated people, never got involved in charity work, and was heartless to his employees all actually lies? But
why
? Why would anyone say such things about the most eligible bachelor in the world?

Oh my God
, she thought, and almost slapped her forehead.
Let me count the reasons
. From Jealousy to envy to down-right hatred, there were endless possibilities as to why other companies, other businessmen, would make up lies about Sam and his corporations. Rumors were the life blood that fueled everything from the stock market to wars.

But more importantly, even if this was the case, and the rumors were just concocted revenge by the competition, why on Earth would Sam put up with it? Why didn’t he put a stop to it all?

She had no idea. But she was willing to bet five bucks that it had something to do with Sam’s cryptic reminder to Grant: “Just keep your word.”

And Grant’s response: “Mum as usual.”

Was Sam…
asking
people to keep quiet about the good things he did? Could he, maybe, just possibly, actually
want
the world to think he was an asshole? Why in the world would he want that? What could he possibly hope to gain by making everyone think he was that hard, that ruthless, that….

Oh.

The tougher a man was, the more difficult he was to beat. The less intelligent it was to cross him. The better it was to leave him alone. And Sam had more than his fair share of enemies.

Angel shook her head. She breathed. Then breathed again.

Everything she thought she’d known about Sam was being picked up in a tornado of confusing possibilities, and all the windows of her mind were open. She was going to lose it all. It was all going to go flying away.

But maybe that’s a good thing,
she thought.
Just maybe.

When she thought she had some control over herself again, she opened her eyes, straightened, and stepped out of the hall into the main room of the play house.

As she approached the table, Sam stood.

The movement was so fluid, so graceful, it almost stopped Angel in her tracks.

Oh yeah. The Culmination was definitely going to happen.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Not in two thousand fucking years had this happened. He was having trouble concentrating. Every time she looked at him, he was back in his dreams, back in the depths of that longing that was born in their recesses and grew until it had nearly consumed him. There she was – the woman he’d tracked down and hunted, the one thing he’d sought relentlessly for the last month, and unknowingly for the last two millennia.

And he could barely think straight to damn well
talk
to her. The demure drop of her eyelashes against her cheeks made him want to reach out and lift her chin. The storms in her eyes that he had never cared for in his own gaze, and the slight hint of clean, fresh rain drifting toward him, were a constant draw on his soul. He felt like a child presented with a rain puddle, and all he wanted to do was play in it. Nothing else mattered!

She’s where angels came from.

Her hair looked like star dust woven into locks like comet tails. It shimmered with impossible dimension every time she moved. Her skin was so fair, it was nearly translucent. Alien and perfect, she looked like a China doll.

His mind reeled at her beauty. She was so very obviously not human, despite the loss of her powers. He could understand how she’d felt the need to hide her true self over the years. She was Helen, ready to start a war with nothing more than a wayward glance.

Sam waited until he was sure she wasn’t looking, then took the opportunity to loosen his tie. It was getting harder for him to breathe.