I'm No Angel (17 page)

“Let who get away with what?”

Sarah Devlin walked into the kitchen wearing an old ski coat she must have dug out of the back of her closet. She was still so darn beautiful on the outside, but there was so little of the Mom everyone knew and loved left on the inside.

“It was nothing, Mom,” Trace said, giving her a kiss on the cheek and pulling out a chair for her at the table.

“Good morning, Mom.” Angel kissed her mother on the other cheek. “I'm making your favorite omelet for breakfast.”

“I don't like eggs,” Sarah said, frowning. “Do you serve Swedish pancakes here? My husband and I had them when we came here for our honeymoon.”

“Of course we have Swedish pancakes,” Jed said, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “We'll have them for you in a jiffy.”

Sarah ignored the chair Trace had pulled out for her and slowly walked across the kitchen. She stared through the window into the backyard, where an old, just-starting-to-rust swing set had been overtaken by climbing roses that needed to be pruned. Gardening had been Sarah's passion once. Now she claimed to hate the scent of roses.

Angel cut the omelet she'd made in two and slid the heavy concoction onto plates for Trace and her dad. Her own appetite ceased to exist.

She grabbed flour and sugar out of one of the cabinets, hoping by the time she figured out how to make something resembling Swedish pancakes her mom would still want to eat them.

“Aren't you going to eat, Angel?” Jed asked, as he carried the two plates to the table.

“I'm not all that hungry.”

“I'm sorry we got on the subject of Dagger,” her dad added. “Obviously you had other things on your mind this morning.”

“It's no big deal, Dad.”

Angel grabbed one of her mom's cookbooks and thumbed to the index.

“Hey, Dad?” Angel said, digging another skillet out of one of the lower shelves.

“What is it?” Jed asked, giving his wife a hug that she didn't react to before he sat down at the table.

“Did you by any chance know a man named Chase Donovan?” Angel asked.

“The cat burglar?” Jed said. “The guy who was shot by Holt Hudson?”

“That's the one.” Angel pulled a bowl down from a cabinet so she could mix up the Swedish pancake concoction. “You don't by any chance think the police could have falsified information on their report into his death, do you?”

“If I remember correctly, Chase Donovan was shot during a robbery.” Jed scratched his ear, his eyes squinted in thought. “I don't remember there being much controversy over the whole thing. It seems to me that it was all cut and dry and the evidence proved everything that Holt said.”

“Didn't that happen thirty years ago or so?” Trace asked, holding a forkful of omelet close to his mouth.

“Twenty-six,” Angel said, stirring the pancake mix.

“Why all the interest in an old case?” Jed
asked. “I'm sure the file on it was closed a long time ago.”

“Chase Donovan's son is in town,” Angel said. “He thinks there's a lot more to the story than what Holt Hudson told the police.”

“Well…” Jed laughed. “He could be right. You know those Palm Beach types. They're loaded with money, and money can buy just about anything.”

“So you think the police report could have been falsified?” Angel asked her dad.

“You know I don't like to speculate. But if it were me, I wouldn't write off Chase Donovan's son's beliefs. Personally, I wouldn't put anything past Holt Hudson.”

“He's the one having the party, isn't he?” It was Sarah who spoke, and Angel, Trace, and Jed all turned toward her as she continued to stare through the window. “I saw his picture in the paper. It was the same day as your fourth birthday party.”

Angel remembered the police report. Remembered the date of the shooting—it
was
just the day before Angel and her brothers turned four. Some days Sarah couldn't remember her husband's name; yet some days she remembered all sorts of inconsequential things from the past.

“That was a great birthday party, Mom,” Angel said. “Do you remember the cakes you decorated for us?”

Sarah's eyes narrowed. “Birthday cakes?” she asked, as if she'd completely forgotten what they'd been talking about.

“You decorated two different cakes—one that looked like Strawberry Shortcake for me,” Angel said, hoping her mom would remember everything someday, “and a G.I. Joe for Trace, Ty, and Hunt.”

“We all got bicycles that year,” Trace added.

“And Angel refused to use training wheels,” her dad said, cutting into his omelet. “If I'm not mistaken, she fell down and broke her two front teeth.”

“They were going to fall out anyway,” Angel said.

Slowly Sarah turned and tilted her head toward her daughter. “You really should try to be less like your brothers, Angel, and dress like a girl. I've bought you so many pretty dresses.”

“I know you have, Mom. In fact, why don't we go shopping later and I'll buy you something extra pretty to wear to the gala?”

“A hat?” Sarah asked. “Like the ones I used to sell.”

“Of course we could buy you a hat. Better yet, we could go to Emma's and get a pretty purse for you.”

“I like purses. I sold those, too,” Sarah said, her gaze and her mind both far away. “I had a pink one for Easter last year. And a pink dress, too.”

“And you looked awfully pretty.” Jed pushed up from the table and squeezed his wife's hand. God only knows how long ago she'd had a pink purse and shoes for Easter. It was an old memory, like so many other old memories that would crop up at the strangest of times.

They all held out hope that Sarah's memory
would return for good. That she'd be the same mom and wife that they loved. But in truth, they knew it was too late for Sarah. They'd just enjoy every minute they possibly could with her now—whether the times were good or bad.

Jed put his arm around his wife. “Why don't you sit down now and have some juice?” He ushered his wife to the table and pulled a chair out for her.

Angel lifted one of the Swedish pancakes onto a plate, filled it with apricot and pineapple preserves, her mom's favorite, rolled it up and sprinkled it with powdered sugar, then set it on the table.

“What's this?” Sarah asked.

“A Swedish pancake.”

Sarah frowned, then pushed the plate away. “I don't like Swedish pancakes.”

Angel sighed heavily. Her mom was slipping away far too fast, a torture Angel could hardly bear. And as she took her mother's plate away, tears slipped down Angel's face for all that she'd lost so far, and all that she'd lose way too soon.

T
om stood in the center of the nursery, remembering the days when he'd slept in this room. The paint was only slightly faded, and he decided that this was one room he'd have a specialist restore. His parents had worked together to make this room special, painting a chivalrous scene of fairy-tale castles, jousting knights, and damsels in distress. He might never use the room as a nursery, but it would be impossible to cover up the love that had gone into every paint stroke.

Even the ceiling was painted with cherubs floating around, and puffy white clouds dotting the sapphire sky. Hell, the sky was the same radiant color as Angel's eyes.

God, he'd sure made a mess of things this morning. Who would have thought a night of almost unending and fabulous no-holds-barred sex would end with a fight? And not just any fight. He'd pretty much told her he'd used her. A man couldn't get much stupider than that.

Damn. He didn't want to think about Angel
now. She wasn't about to help him get in to see Holt Hudson, so why should he bother trying to get back into her good graces?

It wasn't as if he wanted to have a relationship with her.

Or did he?

He plowed his fingers through his hair. He didn't need a woman messing with his mind. He had more important things to do. And right now—all he wanted to do was pour his energy and his frustration into the mansion he'd inherited.

He swept a broom across the floor, gathering up a cobweb thick with dust from a far corner. He wrapped the web around and around in the broom, stopping to pull out a piece of old construction paper that had been lying there for God knows how long.

Heading to the trash can that was filled almost to the brim, he started to throw away the paper when he noticed the childish printing on the front. And a memory smacked against him. A long-ago day when he'd lain on the floor in this room, fat crayons in hand, and made the Valentine for his dad.

So much had been cleared out of the chateau. Most everything Tom remembered had been sold at auction. He had few pictures of himself with his dad. Few mementos of their time together. But all of a sudden he had a Valentine, old and faded and covered with years of dust.

He brushed it off gently, and suddenly other memories came back to him. The pressure of his father's strong and loving hands against Tom's
back when he'd pushed him on the swing that had once been a prominent feature on the lawn that spread down to the ocean. His dad's laughter when they lay together on the floor watching cartoons on Saturday morning. His father's cold, still body as they sat together in the Everglades, his eyes wide open even though he didn't talk, didn't smile, and didn't breathe.

He didn't want to think about those days in the Glades, trapped inside an insufferably hot car. God, he wished that had all been a dream, just as Pop had told him.

Maybe some of it was a dream, because, damn it all, there were things he remembered that couldn't possibly have happened. He'd been home in bed when his dad came for him, yet…

Tom slammed his fist against the wall. Why did he remember being in the dark and all alone and afraid for what seemed an eternity? Why did he remember sitting all hunched up inside a box with nothing to drink and nothing to eat?

That part was a dream. A frightened little boy's nightmare.

“Find something interesting up here?”

Tom turned at the sound of Pop's voice, and leaned on the handle of his broom. “A lot of dirt and cobwebs.”

Pop hobbled about the room, using his cane for support. “Pretty room.”

“It will be.”

“Your dad could have been an artist, you know. He used to paint pictures for your grandma and me.”

More and more things Tom didn't know kept surfacing, as if Pop wanted to dole each little bit out slowly, afraid Tom might not be able to handle all of the details about a forgotten life all at once.

“Do you still have them?” Tom asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Pop sat on top of an old and dusty toy castle. “Your dad tried giving your grandma an emerald necklace once. He was twenty-two or twenty-three at the time. Your grandma was so dang proud of your dad and she couldn't stop smiling when Chase gave her that necklace. It was the prettiest thing she'd ever seen and it sure as hell wasn't something I could buy for her. The next day I heard about a cat burglar breaking into a home in Miami and the newspaper ran pictures of the things that were taken.”

“The necklace?” Tom asked.

Pop nodded. “I should have turned your dad in to the cops. He might have been alive now if he'd gotten arrested and served some time in jail. But no, I lectured him instead.”

“Did Grandma lecture him, too?”

“No. She just cried, 'cause her only son had broken her heart. After that I gave him back the necklace, got rid of every reminder I had of him—including the pictures he'd painted for me and your grandma—and told him I never wanted to see him again.”

“But you did.”

“I talked to him a time or two, but I didn't see him again until his funeral.” Pop's eyes had red
dened. “If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have any reminders of my son.” Pop shrugged. “I was a foolish old man.”

“You're still a foolish old man,” Tom said, using the broom to knock down cobwebs, needing something to do to tamp down his frustration over all the bitterness of what might have been. “You still think Chase stole that statue and attacked Holt Hudson's wife.”

Pop shrugged. “I've been thinking a lot about that.”

“What? You've had a change of heart?”

“No, but I don't want to die believing the worst of your dad.” Pop sighed heavily. “If you can find any proof, no matter how small, that he might have been innocent, I might be able to muster up the same kind of faith in him that you've got.”

Those were the most encouraging words he'd heard from Pop in months.

“I'm trying to find proof, Pop, but I'm sure as hell bumping into a lot of obstacles. Seems like no one wants me to learn the truth.”

“What about that girl you were gonna use?”

Tom knocked down a big cobweb. “That didn't work out.”

“Told you it wouldn't.”

“Yeah, well, you've told me a lot of things over the years and I haven't always listened.”

“Which reminds me,” Pop said. “I came up here to tell you something important.”

“And you're just now remembering?”

“It takes a heap of energy just getting up all the stairs in this monstrosity you insist on living in. I
can't be expected to huff and puff for half an hour and then remember why I came here in the first place.”

“So, what did you want to tell me, and why didn't you just call?”

“Your cell phone was turned off and you haven't bothered to install real phones in this place yet.”

“All right, I'm at fault for making you expend so much energy. Now tell me what was so important it couldn't wait.”

“You're being watched again.”

Tom grinned. “The pretty blonde?”

“Nope, the guy with the devil tattoo on his chest.”

Tom went to the window and pushed back the dusty curtains. “I see the same cabin cruiser that was out there yesterday, but I don't see anyone on board. Do you have your spotting scope with you?”

“I can't use a cane and carry a scope at the same time. Take my word for it, that's the same guy who was out there yesterday. And I don't like it one bit.”

Tom squinted, trying to get a better look, but all he saw was another boat speeding toward the one that he was watching. A black boat with red flames. Angel's boat.

What the hell was she up to, and why on earth was she pulling up close to the boat belonging to the other guy who'd been spying on him? Tom didn't have a clue what was going on, but he was damn sure going to find out.

 

Dagger Zane should have known better than to mess with Angel's family. She was livid, and as soon as she confronted Dagger, he was going to get an earful. And after she'd given him a piece of her mind, she might also give him a mouthful of broken teeth.

She tied her speedboat next to the cabin cruiser she'd given Dagger as part of their divorce settlement. That, the house and their savings should have been enough to keep him happy. But Dagger always wanted more.

Trying to tune out the annoying noise of the speedboats and Jet Skis racing by, she climbed the ladder leading to the sun deck and stepped over the railing. Dagger stood in the sunlight, grinning at her.

“Well, well, well. I hadn't expected the pleasure of seeing you again so soon.” Dagger grinned that despicable, sleazy grin she remembered from years ago. “I should tell you, Angel, that I liked the getup you were wearing last night a lot more than this preppy sundress you're wearing. You looked kind of trampy last night, and I always liked that in my women.”

“I don't give a damn what kind of women you like. This isn't a social call.”

“Then you've come to thank me for not blowing your cover at Tropical Lei?”

“I'm sure you had an ulterior motive for not giving me away.”

Dagger slapped a hand over his chest. “You wound me, Angel. Always thinking I have an ulterior motive, when the truth is, it was damn fun seeing the anger in your eyes—that touch of fear
when you saw me—and I didn't want the fun and games to come to an end.”

“Cut the crap, Dagger, I'm not here to bullshit with you. I want to know why the hell you're suing my dad, what the hell you're doing out here spying on Tom Donovan, and last but certainly not least, what the hell you're doing back in Palm Beach.”

Dagger grinned. He peeled off his shirt and stood in the sun in nothing more than a Speedo and all of his tattoos, including the blasted one that said
ANGEL
right below the devil on his chest. “That's an awful lot of questions.”

“If you have trouble remembering any of them, I'm sure I can tick them off for you one at a time.”

“I don't see any need to be so nasty. We had a good thing once upon a time.”

“That's not a subject I want to discuss, Dagger, not now, not ever.”

“From the hot and heavy look of things last night between you and Tom Donovan, you're having quite a good time now. Is he as good as me?”

Angel fought for breath. She also fought to keep her fingers from wrapping around the stiletto she wore under her sundress. Fought to keep from shoving him overboard and hoping that he'd get bumped off by a noisy Jet Ski or a speedboat. He could scream as loud as he wanted, and no one would hear him over the noise. And then, with any luck, he'd become shark bait.

Somehow she regained her composure. “Why are you back in Palm Beach? I thought you were working in Miami.”

“I was. Had a pretty decent job working for a
P.I. down there until your brother Ty got wind of it and fed my boss some shit about me not being the most upstanding guy on the face of the planet. I was pretty damn pissed, Angel. I mean, your family's done a good job screwing me over ever since you and I called it quits.”

“There's only one person who deserves any blame for your problems, Dagger, and that's you.”

The asshole laughed. “You're being awfully cruel, Angel.”

“Quit playing games and tell me why you're in town.”

Dagger shrugged. “Frederike told you. I'm a walker.”

“Why any woman in her right mind would want you as an escort is beyond me. You've got the manners of a bloodsucking hyena—”

“Frederike LeVien doesn't think so. Neither does Stephania Allardyce. In fact, I've been in town several weeks now making friends with a number of women. I treat them nice. They treat me to dinner and wine and parties. And if I'm really good, they buy me trinkets. Some quite expensive.”

“And let me guess—you've hocked them all.”

“Most of them.” Dagger grinned repulsively, then picked up a bottle of suntan lotion, poured it on his chest, and began to rub the oil into his still-hard but reprehensible body.

“So you really came here just to be a walker?”

“I've got a nice boat to live on, thanks to our divorce settlement, and the ladies I accompany are quite good to me. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner at all the best places. Leisurely afternoons lying
around their pools. All I need is a designer wardrobe and my charm. If I'd known how enjoyable it is being a walker, I would have taken up the profession a long time ago.”

“That still doesn't explain why you've been out here spying on Tom Donovan.”

“That's easy, Angel.” Dagger leaned against the cabin and cockily folded his arms over his devil tattoo. “One day while I was lounging by Stephania's pool reading the local gossip rag, I saw something quite interesting. A new, filthy rich almost-a-billionaire had moved into Mere Belle. There was a slight mention about a cat burglar who had lived there twenty-six years before, a few brief lines about
The Embrace,
a robbery, and the fact that the statue had never been found.”

“So you put two and two together and decided that Tom Donovan knows everything there is to know about
The Embrace,
that he's moved to Mere Belle because he just might have some idea where it's hidden, and you're going to watch him and take it away from him if and when he does find it—then sell it, illegally, of course, to the highest bidder.”

Dagger frowned. “You and your family have accused me of a lot of things, Angel, but I'm not a thief. If you must know, if and when it turns up, I fully intend to give it back to Holt Hudson. I'm sure he'll be quite pleased and offer me a handsome reward for my trouble.”

“I would imagine Holt Hudson is no longer interested in the piece. It disappeared twenty-six years ago and I'm sure the insurance company paid him quite handsomely for his loss.”